by Will Adams
“Yes.”
“She just called up one afternoon. I was really flattered, and I had nothing I couldn’t get out of. Besides, it’s all very well reading about Egypt in books, but it’s not the same, is it?”
“No,” agreed Knox. “So is this your first excavation?”
She shook her head. “No, but I hate talking about myself. It’s your turn. You’re an underwater archaeologist, yes?”
“An archaeologist who knows how to dive.”
“And an intellectual snob, too?”
He laughed. “Raging.”
“Where did you study?”
“Yale.”
“Oh!” She pulled a face.
“You don’t like Yale?” protested Knox. “How can you not like Yale?”
“It’s not Yale exactly. Just someone who used to study there.”
“An archaeologist?” he grinned. “Excellent! Who?”
“Oh, I’m sure you won’t know him,” she said. “His name’s Daniel Knox.”
Chapter Eleven
MARVELOUS!” LAUGHED AUGUSTIN, clapping his hands, when Knox reported back later that evening. “But that’s just marvelous. What did you do?”
“What the fuck could I do?” grumbled Knox. “I told her I’d never heard of him, and changed the subject.”
“And you’ve no idea why she dislikes you so much? You didn’t perhaps fuck her one time, then never call?”
“No.”
“You’re sure? That’s what it usually is with me.”
Knox scowled. “I’m certain.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugged helplessly. “I can’t think. Unless . . .”
“What?”
“Oh, no,” said Knox, his cheeks suddenly ablaze. He put his hand on his forehead. “Oh, Christ!”
“What?”
“Her name’s not Gaille Dumas, you idiot. It’s Gaille Bonnard.”
“Dumas, Bonnard.” He shrugged indifferently. “I knew it was something to do with the arts. And who is she anyway, this Gaille Bonnard?”
“She’s Richard’s daughter,” answered Knox. “That’s who she is.” Then he added bleakly, “No wonder she hates me.”
IT WAS STICKY IN GAILLE’S ROOM, even with her balcony doors wide open. That flicker on Mark’s face when she’d mentioned Daniel Knox, his hurried change of subject, the way he was so ill-at-ease afterward. She cursed herself for her big mouth; she had been having a really good time until then. Of course they would have known each other. Frankly, it would have been astonishing if two Yale-educated archaeologists of similar age hadn’t been friends.
Some hatreds were based on principle; others were personal. Whenever Gaille thought of Knox, though she’d never even met him, she felt a fusion of the two, snakes writhing in her chest. Her mother, a nightclub singer, had had a brief fling with her father and gotten pregnant, coercing him into a marriage that never stood a chance, not least because he finally realized that he preferred men. Gaille had been just four when her father finally gave up and fled to Egypt. Her mother, struggling to come to terms with a homosexual husband and a career on the skids, had taken it out on Gaille. She had also found solace in abusing every substance she could lay her hands on until, finally, on the eve of her fiftieth birthday, she had misjudged one of her periodic cries for help and taken her own life.
As a child, Gaille had done what she could to cope with her mother’s self-hatred, anger, and violence, but it had never been enough. She might have gone crazy from the strain of it, except that she had a safety-valve, a way to relieve the building pressure. It had been the one month every year when she joined her father on one of his excavations in North Africa or the Levant, and she’d loved every second.
When she was seventeen, Gaille had been due to join his second season near Mallawi in Middle Egypt. For eleven months, she’d been studying Coptic, hieroglyphics, and Hieratic in a desperate effort to prove her value so conclusively that her father would take her on full-time. But three days before she was due to fly out, he had arrived unexpectedly at their Paris apartment. Mama had thrown one of her tantrums and refused to let him see Gaille. She’d had to kneel outside the cramped sitting room door and listen through its plywood panels. A nearby television had been loud with sporadic canned laughter, so she hadn’t heard everything—but enough. He was postponing Mallawi to deal with an urgent personal situation. Now it wouldn’t take place until after Gaille was back at school.
That season had proved her father’s crowning triumph. Just eight weeks later he had found a Ptolemaic archive so important that Yusuf Abbas, the future secretary general of the Supreme Council for Antiquities, had taken personal control. Gaille should have been there, but no. A precocious young Yale Egyptologist called Daniel Knox had been recruited in her place. That was her father’s urgent personal situation! An itch in his pants. The betrayal had been so hurtful, Gaille had shunned him from that moment on. Though he had tried to contact her and apologize, she never gave him a chance. And though she was too committed to Egyptology to see merit in any other way of life, she had avoided Egypt until he was long dead and Elena’s offer had taken her by surprise.
She had never met Knox, had never wanted to. But he had written her a letter of condolence that included a moving account of her father’s last years. He claimed that her father had thought and spoken constantly of her, that when he fell to his death rock climbing in the Western Desert, there was nothing anyone could do to save him, and that his last thoughts had been of her, that his dying request had been of her, asking Knox to contact her himself and tell her so. She had found this, perversely, both deeply upsetting and immensely consoling. Then a parcel had arrived from Siwa Oasis, containing all her father’s belongings and papers. It included the police report into the accident, and transcripts of statements made by the two guides who had been on that fateful climb. Both testified that Knox could have pulled her father to safety had he acted quickly enough, but that he had stood there watching instead. They both stated, too, that the fall had been instantly fatal, that his body was already cold by the time they or Knox or anyone reached him. That there was no way, therefore, that he could have communicated any last wishes. It had all been a lie.
Before she received and read that report, she had hated Knox only on principle. Since then, it had become personal as well.
NESSIM HAD LEARNED as a soldier to be aware of the physiology of fear. Knowing what was happening inside your body was a good way to control it. Your heart beat faster, making your breath hot in your mouth; that metallic tang in the back of your mouth was nothing but your glands flooding your system with adrenaline in preparation for fight or flight; the tingling in your fingers and toes and the looseness of your bladder and bowels was blood being reallocated to places that needed it more.
He stood by his hotel window to dial Hassan’s number, looking down at the river ten stories below. “Have you found him?” asked Hassan when he was put through.
“Not yet, sir. But we’re making progress.”
“Progress?” enquired Hassan acidly. “Is this the same progress you told me about yesterday?”
“I’ve put together a strong team, sir.”
“Oh, good. A team.”
“Yes, sir.” It was true, too, for all Hassan’s scorn. Old comrades, keen for the work, who had proved themselves both reliable and discreet. He’d given them each Knox’s name, his license plate, copies of his photograph, and the few other details he had, then he set some to watch the homes of Knox’s known associates, others to tour hotels and stations. He had arranged a trace on Knox’s cell phone, too, so that if he ever turned it on, they’d be able to triangulate his position to within a hundred meters. He had put a trace on Knox’s various bank accounts and credit cards, too. Anything was possible in Egypt if you had money.
“Listen,” said Hassan, who had no interest in such operational details. “I don’t want progress. I want Knox.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Call tomorrow. Have good news for me.”
“Yes, sir.” Nessim replaced the handset with a slightly trembling hand and sat down on his hotel bed, shoulders sagging. He wiped his forehead. His wrist came back with the hairs slicked with sweat. Another of the symptoms. A full house. For a moment, he contemplated pillaging his bank account and simply vanishing. But Hassan knew too much about him. He knew about his sister. He knew about Fatima and their son. Besides, Nessim’s sense of honor balked at running from a professional duty just because it was difficult or dangerous. So instead he got out Knox’s Secret Service file and stared at the old, blackened text some more. It hadn’t been updated for years. Several of the people on it had moved or had left Egypt altogether. Others they couldn’t track at all. But it was Nessim’s best hope of success all the same.
Chapter Twelve
AUGUSTIN AND KNOX headed into the site first thing, eager to get started, hopeful that the pump would have won them enough headroom to explore. They both knew all too well that pumping out an antiquity in Alexandria wasn’t easy. The limestone bedrock was extremely porous, holding water like a giant sponge. As soon as they started pumping, this sponge would start releasing its reservoir, replacing what they were taking out until equilibrium was restored. They couldn’t hope to beat it, not with the resources they had available. They could only buy a little time.
It was obvious from the moment they arrived on-site, however, that something was seriously wrong. The pump engine was wheezing like a chronic smoker chasing after a bus. They hurried down to find that a seal had evidently failed. Water spilled and sprayed down the camber of the rotunda floor into the Macedonian tomb, where lamps gleamed like pool lights beneath the murky water.
Augustin sprinted back up the stairwell to kill the pump engine. Knox unplugged the power cables, plunging the place into temporary darkness, then turned on his flashlight, removed his shoes and trousers, and collected all the lamps and coiled them up on the steps, safely out of the water. The electrical equipment was supposedly waterproof, because flooding and humidity were always a risk on Alexandrian sites, but better to be safe than sorry.
Augustin had evidently turned off the pump engine, for the contents of the pipes were gurgling and retreating. Knox waited for silence, then plugged the power cables back in and shed light on the mess. Augustin joined him on the top step, shaking his head in dismay. “Merde! Mansoor will have my testicles.”
“Can we bring the pump in here?”
“I only arranged for the beast,” grumbled Augustin. “I don’t know how it works.” But a look of inspiration then crossed his face. He vanished and returned with four excavation baskets, tossing two to Knox, then used the others to scoop up water.
“You can’t be serious!” protested Knox.
“You have a better idea?” retorted Augustin, already hustling off down the corridor to the water table. Knox did likewise. The heavy baskets strained his shoulder and elbow joints and left red welts across his fingers. They grinned at each other as they dumped the loads and jogged back up. After a few trips, other excavators began trickling in. They saw what had happened, and grabbed baskets for themselves. Soon, a whole crew of them were at it.
After a dozen trips, Knox’s legs were like rubber. He took a breather in the main chamber, out of the way of the ongoing effort. Despite his initial skepticism, Augustin’s idea was working well. The water level had already fallen so far that the high steps between the forecourt and the antechamber, and between the antechamber and the main chamber, were now acting as dam walls, creating three separate reservoirs. Down on his haunches to bathe his throbbing palms and fingers in the cool water, he noticed something curious. The water level in the main chamber was lower than in the antechamber—and lower than the step that separated them, too.
He frowned, his weariness forgotten, then went out into the forecourt. “Has anyone got any matches?” he asked.
GAILLE ARRIVED TO FIND THE SITE IN BEDLAM. She hadn’t finished photographing the main chamber, yet, so her first reaction was anxiety that she might have missed her chance. She kicked off her shoes, rolled up her trousers, and waded in to take a closer look. Her dinner companion from the night before was already in there, throwing broken matchsticks into the corners. “Avoiding the heavy lifting, huh?” she asked.
“Look!” he said, pointing at the antechamber. “See how the water level’s higher in there?”
Gaille got the significance at once. “So where’s it draining to?”
“Exactly,” agreed Knox keenly. “This place is supposed to be quarried out of solid rock.” He threw the last of his matchsticks into the corners; then they watched raptly together as they slowly converged.
“I had a really good time last night,” murmured Gaille.
“I did, too.”
“Maybe we could do it again some time.”
“I’d like that,” he said. But then he pulled a face. “Listen, Gaille, there’s something I need to tell you first.”
“It’s about Knox, isn’t it?” she said. “He’s your friend, isn’t he?”
“This really isn’t the place to discuss it. Can I come by the Vicomte later?”
She smiled eagerly. “We’ll go out afterwards. My treat this time.”
There was splashing in the antechamber; then Mansoor appeared, bringing Elena with him. “What’s going on?” demanded Mansoor angrily. Gaille turned to her companion, expecting him to explain, but he only ducked his head, grabbed his baskets, and fled, leaving Elena and Mansoor staring openmouthed after him. “Who the hell was that?” asked Mansoor.
“Augustin’s dive buddy,” explained Gaille. “I think the pump might have been partly his idea.”
“Ah!” said Mansoor. “I hope he doesn’t think I’m angry at him. It’s that damned Augustin I want a word with.” He shook his head with a mix of amusement and exasperation. “What are the matchsticks for?” he asked.
“No one’s been emptying from here,” explained Gaille, pointing out the discrepancy in water levels. “We just wanted to know where it was draining.”
“And?”
“They seem to be converging on the plinth.” They crouched around it, their flashlights illuminating the dozens of silver trails of air bubbles escaping from beneath. “Akylos of the thirty-three,” murmured Gaille, struck by a sudden thought. “To be the best and honored above the rest.”
“The inscription from above the doorway?” frowned Mansoor. “What about it?”
“The Greeks loved their puns, you know.”
“Spit it out, girl,” said Elena.
Gaille pulled a face, worried they might think her crazy. “It’s just, you don’t think the inscription could mean that the rest—the other thirty-two, that is—are honored below Akylos.”
Mansoor laughed and squinted oddly at her. “You’re a photographer?”
She blushed, aware of Elena’s burning stare. “Languages, really.”
“I’ll get Ibrahim down here,” said Mansoor. “He needs to see this for himself.”
KNOX FOUND AUGUSTIN by the water table, putting on his wet suit. “Did Elena recognize you?” he asked Knox.
“I don’t think so. Did Mansoor catch you?”
“Not quite.” Augustin flapped his hand as though it had been scalded. “A close thing, though. Houf! I think for sure I am lobster bisque.” He nodded at the water. “A wise man would stay out of the way for a little while. You want to explore?”
“Let’s do it,” agreed Knox.
Despite the pump’s failure, it had made good progress during the night, so that the water came up only to their chins. They soon discovered what a maze it was, such an interconnected complex of passages and chambers that it made them even more aware of their luck at getting out alive the day before. In one chamber, the far wall had been painted with the outlines of loculi but hadn’t been cut. It took Knox a moment to work out why. There was a ragged hole in the ceiling, as though the workmen had accidentally broken th
rough into another space. “Hey, mate,” he said, shining up his flashlight. “Look at this.”
Augustin came to join him. “What the hell?” he frowned.
“Give me a leg up.”
Augustin made a stirrup of his hands, hoisting Knox up into the new chamber. It was just high enough for him to stand without banging his head. He put his hand on the facing wall, built of limestone blocks, the mortar between them now crumbled to dust.
“Help me up, damn you,” said Augustin. “I want to see for myself.”
Knox reached down for his companion. When they were both up, they set about exploring. A narrow lane led right. There was a narrow gap at its end into a parallel lane flanked by a second block wall, then into a third with an outer wall of solid rock. So: a single chamber, some six meters square and two meters high, divided by internal walls into three lanes connected at one end, forming a capital “E.” They went together to the end of the central aisle. A flight of five steps led upward, then turned at right angles into a second flight, which vanished into the ceiling. Dull thumps sounded from above, shaking dust from the walls. “Jesus!” muttered Knox. “What was that?”
Augustin banged his fist against the ceiling. A smile of understanding broke on his face. “The rotunda,” he said. “This must be the original staircase. Yes. The Macedonians dug too far; they reached the water table. So? They built these limestone walls for support, they laid a new floor; they covered it with a mosaic. Parfait! The builders of the necropolis simply broke in here by accident five centuries later.”
THE MAIN CHAMBER had drained completely by the time Ibrahim arrived on site. Bringing heavy-lifting equipment down here wasn’t easy, so Mansoor had recruited Mohammed instead. The two men worked the tips of crowbars beneath one end of the plinth and levered it up. It made cracking, popping sounds as it gave, protesting after all those centuries of being bonded to the floor. They raised it a few inches, their chests and arms bulging, crowbars flexing beneath the strain.