by Peter James
‘In many other countries, too, Hadidy.’
He drove in silence for some minutes, then he said, ‘Now I take you to hotel. Tomorrow we go to the Valley of the Kings. The funerary site of the pharaohs. To visit Queen Hatshepsut’s Temple, that is correct?’
‘Correct.’
‘I will be at your service. So long as you remain in my country, you are my guest. Tonight you rest. Tomorrow we begin your purpose. That is good?’
‘Sounds like a plan.’
46
Tuesday, 7 March
Ross had checked in to the Steigenberger Hotel. After a largely sleepless night, and with Egypt being two hours ahead of the UK, he struggled with his body clock to get up after the alarm woke him at 6.30 a.m. It was only 4.30 a.m. UK time.
When he opened the blinds, he had a view across the almost magically blue water of the Nile, to the far bank and hilly desert beyond. The whole landscape seemed washed in a different, much more intense light than England’s. It reminded him of the hues of a Hockney painting. He took a photograph on his phone and texted it to Imogen, knowing she’d probably be up, because she wasn’t sleeping well.
The view from my hotel window! X
He ate a room-service breakfast, then dressed in lightweight summer trousers, a white T-shirt, linen jacket and trainers, with his sunglasses in his pocket, packed his few things into his overnight bag, and met the ever-smiling Hadidy downstairs, as arranged.
A text pinged back from Imogen.
Lucky you. Pissing with rain here. Take care. X
Ross checked out and paid the bill. He had a seat booked on the late-afternoon flight back to London, although he was unsure what the day might bring.
As they drove away from the hotel in the constant blare of horns, he yawned, feeling sleepy. He watched a man in white robes astride a donkey, with panniers on both sides laden with long-stalked green vegetables. He receded into the distance as they drove along a modern road busy with cars, buses, motorbikes, mopeds – many with two people on them – and bicycles. They passed a line of horse-drawn calèches with black canopies, headed along a winding road past the port and negotiated a hectic roundabout with a fountain in the middle.
‘You know the history of Queen Hatshepsut?’ Hadidy said above the din of the music in the car.
‘Only a little.’ Ross yawned again.
‘She was debatably our first woman pharaoh. She is come to the throne in 1478 BC – and ruled with Thutmose III. She was a good pharaoh, she did much building throughout Egypt. She was the fifth pharaoh of the Eighteenth Dynasty of Egypt!’
‘OK.’
‘You have a special interest in her, Mr Ross?’
They were heading through the outskirts of the town now. The traffic was thinning. To his right, he saw a decrepit row of single-storey shops that were little more than covered market stalls. Two men in dark robes sat on the crumbling sidewalk drinking what looked like coffee. A motorcycle swerved dangerously past, pulling in front of their car, causing Hadidy to brake sharply. He shouted angrily at it, through the windscreen, then raised both hands off the steering wheel in a gesture of despair.
‘Crazy drivers here!’ he said.
‘We have them in England, too.’ Ross, with the window lowered, was busy taking photographs of his journey.
‘Why the hurry, you know? You are where you are! Enjoy!’
‘My sentiments exactly,’ Ross said, glad that Hadidy seemed a far more sensible driver than most of the others here. He could see the Nile. He closed the window and sat back.
After a short while the comfortable rear seat and the motion of the car was making him feel very sleepy.
Just as he lapsed into a doze, he was woken by a ping from his phone.
It was another text from Imogen.
Say hi to your dead pharaoh buddies! XX
He sent her back a smiley.
They were on a bridge, crossing the Nile.
Ahead of him was starkly barren, mountainous terrain, with steep escarpments.
‘The pharaohs,’ Hadidy said, giving him an unprompted history lesson. ‘They wanted to be buried with all their wealth and jewels, food and weapons for their journey through to the underworld. But because they were worried about grave robbers, they created this valley, here on the west bank of the Nile, away from Thebes – Luxor – where their tombs could be guarded.’
‘Very smart of them. I’d be pretty upset if someone robbed me after I was dead,’ Ross replied.
‘That’s why some tombs are still hidden today. So many centuries later. Maybe forever.’
‘We have an expression in my country, Hadidy. That you can’t take it with you when you die.’
Hadidy lifted his hands off the steering wheel. ‘Maybe not. But if you can, think of the party you could have!’
Ross smiled, unsure of his driver’s beliefs and not wanting to risk offending him. Then he stared in awe at the sight of the elevated, colonnaded building ahead of them. Three storeys high, with sharp angles, tall, thin windows all evenly spaced, and a wide ramp rising up to the second storey. It looked like something that had been designed by one of the great modern architects, Frank Lloyd Wright, Frank Gehry or Le Corbusier. Behind it was a backdrop of dramatic cliffs.
‘Is that it, Hadidy?’ he asked.
‘That,’ Hadidy said, his voice filled with pride, ‘is Queen Hat-shepsut’s Temple!’
Around the bottom of the ramp dozens of tourists milled about, some in groups with guides, some solo, almost all of them snapping away.
Hadidy drove into a car park, passing several tourist buses, and pulled into a bay. ‘We have to walk from here. You like me to come with you and negotiate a good deal for a guide? It’s better. Many are no good. I know the best ones, they are all my friends.’
‘I’d like you to come with me, Hadidy. I have to meet someone. Can you come and make sure no one pesters me?’
‘Sure. OK. But you want a tour, yes?’
‘Maybe. It depends.’
As they left the car, he stopped and took another photograph, then put on his sunglasses. Walking towards the bottom of the ramp, they were besieged by men and women, some in traditional dress and some in suits, all holding up tourist tat. Plastic models of the temple, of the pyramids, and jewellery bearing Egyptian symbols.
Ross was glad about his decision to ask Hadidy to accompany him, because the Egyptian did a sterling job of keeping the hawkers at bay, speaking to some politely and to many others quite ferociously in their native tongue.
They walked past a group of Japanese tourists, all circled around a guide with a loudhailer, then another group around a man in a djellaba who was standing on a box, and arrived at the foot of the ramp.
A robed man, arms laden with scarves, spotting his chance, hurried towards them. Hadidy brushed him away.
Feeling very self-conscious, and ignoring whatever Hadidy might think of him, Ross stood still, staring around.
Hadidy looked at him strangely. ‘We go inside?’
‘No.’
The group of Japanese tourists filed past him, following their guide.
He continued to stand still, mindful that it was right here, in 1997, that fifty-eight tourists and four locals were massacred by an Islamic organization.
Then a wiry, elderly man in white robes and a red-and-white cotton headscarf, similar to Hadidy’s, appeared out of the mêlée heading towards him. He had a wrinkled, dark-skinned face and just two crooked teeth in his mouth, like tombstones in a forgotten graveyard. He spoke in broken English and looked very nervous.
‘Excuse me. You Mr Ross Hunter, yes?’
Ross looked at him warily. ‘I am – who are you?’
‘Hatem Rasul.’ His nut-brown eyes darted everywhere. ‘I have been waiting for you for a long time.’
Hadidy stepped forward and spoke to the man for a couple of minutes in Arabic, before turning to Ross.
‘This is the man you are here to meet, Mr Hunter. He says he will take us to
his sister. He wishes us to follow him into the mountains. It will be a long journey. Two hours, perhaps. You are OK with this?’
Ross frowned. ‘Did he say who asked him to meet me, Hadidy?’
‘He said it is your friend in England. Mr Dr Harry. Yes?’
‘Dr Cook?’
‘Dr Harry Cook, yes.’
47
Tuesday, 7 March
In a daze, Ross followed the two men back up to the car park. Despite his apparent age, Hatem Rasul strode energetically and purposefully.
Harry Cook.
His insides were jangling. Was any of this real? Where were they going to be taken? He looked at the barren, sandy, mountainous terrain beyond them.
How did this strange old man know Harry Cook?
As they reached the car park, Rasul headed over to an ancient khaki-coloured motorcycle, climbed astride and kick-started it into life. For a moment, Ross was reminded of the movie Lawrence of Arabia.
Hadidy opened the rear door of the Land Cruiser and ushered Ross to climb in.
He did so, as if in a dream.
As they followed the motorcycle out of the car park Ross leaned forward and asked, ‘What else did he say to you, Hadidy?’
‘He’s OK,’ he replied, reassuringly. ‘We can trust him. He has been sent here to guide us by your friend. Mr Dr Harry Cook.’
Ross thought before replying. ‘Is that what he said?’
‘He said that God will protect us on our journey.’
‘Good to know that.’
‘God has His purpose, Mr Ross.’
‘Let’s hope so.’
‘It is written.’
Soon after leaving the car park, the motorcycle turned off the main road onto a track, kicking up a trail of sand behind it. They followed, climbing a winding, unmade and barren mountain pass, heading deeper into the hills. After half an hour they drove through a village with a row of open-fronted shops, and swerved past a man, in the middle of the road, tugging a goat on a tether.
They climbed higher, Ross taking pictures constantly. And wondering. He was feeling nervous and curious in equal proportions.
Then they descended a tortuous track down into a valley. Once they reached the bottom, they began to climb again. They passed a farmer, or a shepherd, with a flock of around sixty sheep, then abruptly turned off the track into pure desert. Through the windscreen Ross watched the agile old man ahead, sliding his motorcycle up a dune and down the far side, and they followed.
They climbed an escarpment that seemed almost impossibly steep, between two tall, rock promontories.
‘Did you come alone to Egypt, Mr Ross?’ Hadidy asked, anxiously, concentrating hard on his driving to keep the car pointing forward and maintaining traction on the loose sand.
‘Yes.’
‘Someone is following us.’
Ross turned and looked through the rear windscreen. And saw a plume of sand.
A slick of fear slid through him.
‘There’s a wadi in a few kilometres. Maybe supplies being delivered. Maybe is nothing.’
‘You’ve been here before?’
‘No, never. But it shows on the map.’
Ross felt relieved. ‘OK, good.’ He turned and peered through the rear window. At the cloud of sand from a vehicle some way behind them.
They descended into another valley, where he could see the wadi, a mile or so to his left. A bunch of tents and several camels around a watering hole. They began to climb again. Ross pulled up the compass app on his iPhone. Saw the tiny blue dot moving through a wilderness. They were heading north-east. The landscape, beautiful and desolate though it was, became monotonous. Climb and descend. Climb and descend. He really had no idea, now, where they were. Nor what they would find at their destination.
He looked behind him again. To his relief, there was nothing. No longer any plume of sand.
As bidden by Hadidy, he helped himself to first one bottle of mineral water from a compartment beneath the armrest, then a second.
Almost exactly two hours after they had left the temple car park, they passed an ancient, faded Coca-Cola sign. He saw an elderly man in Arab robes ahead of them, seated on the side of the track, engaged in conversation with another man, with a camel standing close by. A small strip of ramshackle, open-fronted shops. A kid ran out in front of them, excitedly. An almost biblical scene of a man walking a donkey on which sat a woman cradling a baby. Then, ahead, the motorcycle came to a halt outside a primitive-looking shack. Their guide dismounted and went inside.
He came back out, a few minutes later, accompanied by an elderly-looking woman in black garb and sandals, with a grey headscarf. With some difficulty, Hatem Rasul helped her onto the motorcycle’s pillion, remounted himself, started the machine and rode on.
‘Any idea who she is, Hadidy? His sister that he spoke of?’
‘Perhaps. I think she must be important lady.’
‘Important?’
They followed the motorcycle up an increasingly steep track, negotiating the mountain. After some minutes, as the track levelled out, the motorcycle halted and the pair dismounted. Rasul kicked down the stand as Hadidy pulled up the Land Cruiser beside them. They climbed out into the searing, dry, midday heat, then Ross ducked back in, took out another small bottle of water – the last in the rear compartment – and jammed it in his jacket pocket.
‘Mr Hunter,’ Hatem Rasul said. ‘This is my sister, Sitra.’
Close up he could see just how ancient and wizened she looked. She gave Ross a toothless smile and nodded, ignoring his proffered hand. Then she beckoned with a gnarled finger for him to follow.
They walked up a steep, narrow goat track, under a cloudless sky. The old woman was driven by an energy that Ross lacked, and the higher they climbed, the less he looked down at the sheer drop beneath them. If he stumbled and fell, it would be instant death. High above, Ross could see a row of caves.
He tried to blank the precipice from his mind and kept focus on the path in front of him. He was perspiring heavily, his jacket slung over his shoulder now, wishing he had left it in the car. He was grateful for his water, which he rationed carefully, taking just small sips every few minutes. His lips felt parched, the sun burning his face. He wished he’d thought to bring sun cream.
Slowly, as they climbed, the caves above loomed nearer.
Finally the old woman, followed by Rasul then Hadidy, turned right across the mouths of the caves. She walked past the first three, gave an instruction to Rasul and made a left turn into the fourth. The three men waited outside.
Several minutes later the old woman reappeared, cradling a bundle of cream-coloured cloth in her hands, which she held out to Ross. She nodded, encouragingly.
Smiling a thank you, he took it from her.
It was almost weightless.
Rasul said something to Hadidy, and his guardian turned to him.
‘You may open it, Mr Ross, with care.’
It took him some moments, unfurling one layer of cloth after another, the bundle getting increasingly smaller, before he reached the contents, visible inside a tiny muslin bag.
An ochre-coloured, enamelled object.
All three of them were staring at him.
‘A tooth?’ he queried. ‘Is this a tooth? Where’s it from?’
Rasul spoke in Arabic to Hadidy, who then turned to him.
‘Sitra says, Mr Ross, this is indeed a tooth. A very special tooth. When Jesus Christ was being taken to the cross on Calvary, along with the criminals, local people lined the road and threw insults and hard objects, including many stones, at them. One stone hit Jesus in the mouth and knocked out one of his teeth. This is that tooth.’
Ross stared down at it, then looked at Hadidy. ‘How do they know this, for sure?’
Holding the almost transparent bag in one hand, he photographed it with his phone camera.
Hadidy continued. ‘Hatem Rasul said that one of the disciples stepped forward and picked it up. Knowing it w
as a dangerous thing to possess he decided to take it out of Judea and hide it. He brought it here, to Egypt, and asked a family he trusted – who lived in a remote, rural community – to hide it. It has remained in this cave ever since. For generations this family has been in charge of guarding it. For two thousand years they have been awaiting for the chosen person to collect it. Sitra says that her brother tells her you are that chosen one.’
Ross looked down at it, staring hard, and shivered. Could this be real? Could this tiny, almost weightless object really be Christ’s tooth?
And if it was?
He trembled at the thought. The possibility. He looked back at the three of them. All were studying him, intently.
Rasul stepped over to Hadidy and spoke to him in Arabic again.
When he had finished Hadidy turned back to Ross. ‘Hatem Rasul says Dr Harry Cook has a message for you. Dr Cook says this tooth is real. Take it back to England, to his friend in Birmingham. Mr – this is a strange name – Mr Ano-Spiry. You know this man?’
Ross was transfixed by the tooth. ‘I know him,’ he said, his voice sounding distant as though it was someone else speaking.
‘Mr Hunter,’ Hadidy said. ‘Hatem Rasul is telling me. When you see Mr Ano-Spiry again, you will receive the final proof. It awaits you. The absolute proof!’
A sound in the sky made all four of them look upwards. High above them was the tiny speck of a helicopter. It was too high and too far away to identify. It flew overhead and, within moments, the sound had faded away.
Ross turned to Hadidy and gave him a quizzical look.
Hadidy shrugged. ‘Tourists.’
Ross looked back up at the sky. First a car had followed them. Now this helicopter had appeared.
It made him deeply uncomfortable.
‘Sightseeing,’ Hadidy went on. ‘You can take a heli tour over the Valley of the Kings.’
Ross nodded, still feeling very uneasy. They were a long way from the Valley of the Kings. Even for a helicopter.
Sitra remained at the cave, saying she would make her way home later, whilst the rest of them retraced their steps to where they had left their vehicles, Ross walking as fast as he could. He sensed the nervousness in the other two, also.