by Will Adams
TWENTY-NINE
I
The camera was still lying where Lily had dropped it. Its lens and display were intact, but its battery pack had come away from its housing and wouldn't slot back in, however Khaled twisted and pushed. He handed it to Faisal, who was good with such things. 'Fix it,' he scowled.
But it took Faisal only a moment's examination to shake his head. 'I'll need proper tools,' he grunted. He checked through the pouches of the camera bag, found an electrical lead instead. 'This might work,' he said. 'We could try one of the power-points in the Royal Tomb.'
Khaled nodded. It was a good idea, though they'd need to cover up the wall paintings or they'd give themselves away. 'Nasser,' he said. 'Go fetch the blankets and sheets from the other tomb. Abdullah, you turn on the generator.' He walked back over to the foreigners. 'Your possessions, please. Phones, wallets, watches, car keys, jewellery. Everything. On the rocks.' He gave them a cuff or two to keep them compliant, scooped it all up, put it away in the camera bag. 'On your feet,' he ordered.
'What are you going to do with us?' whined Stafford.
'Just move, will you?'
The generator started up just as they reached the Royal Tomb, so that the floor-lights glowed and then grew bright. They herded the foreigners down into the burial chamber. Faisal plugged in and tested the camera. Its operating light came on. About time something went their way. Abdullah arrived, then Nasser with his arms full of dustsheets. There was a crudely cut niche high up in the wall in the far right corner of the chamber. They hung a sheet like a curtain from it, obscuring the murals behind. They spread another on the floor.
Satisfied, Khaled patted his pocket for something to write with, then sat on the floor to compose his message.
II
The policemen put Knox in a small dank holding cell with two other detainees: a tall thin straggle-bearded youth in a tan galabaya who fingered beads and muttered incessantly, and a sallow forty-something man in a mussed white suit who lay restlessly on the bench opposite, sitting up every so often, rubbing his hands and cheeks like a deprived addict.
The stone walls, softened by damp, were everywhere scratched with graffiti. Knox read them while he waited. He brooded too. Only Augustin had known he was with Kostas. And the photographs Augustin kept in that folder gave him a motive. But he was also his closest friend, and Knox had never met a man more loyal to his friends than Augustin. No way would he deliberately betray him. There had to be another explanation.
It was a good hour before the door scraped open again and a policeman beckoned. He was led through a recreation room full with off-duty policemen watching the football on a flickering TV screen high up on the wall, then along a narrow corridor to an interview room, where he took a seat at a bare pine table. An overweight policeman arrived a minute later, a notepad in one hand, a carton of juice in the other.
'What's going on?' demanded Knox.
The man sat as if he hadn't heard a word, jotted down Knox's name, checked his watch for the time. He had surprisingly elegant handwriting. 'My name is Farooq,' he said. Knox gave the faintest of snorts, for the name Farooq meant one who could tell truth from falsehood. Farooq looked up sharply. 'You speak Arabic, then?' he said.
'I get by.' It was only then that he realized how he'd been tracked down. 'And you speak French, yes?'
Farooq grinned wickedly. 'I get by,' he acknowledged. 'You've lived in Egypt long?'
'Ten years.'
'May I see your papers?'
'Not on me.'
'If you've lived here ten years, you should have learned to carry your papers at all times.'
'I'll go get them if you like.'
Farooq tapped his pen on his pad, thinking how best to approach this. 'Tell me something, Mister Knox,' he said. 'You were in a serious car crash last night. You were knocked unconscious. You were taken to hospital, seemingly a sensible place for a man who's been in a serious accident. Yet this morning you ran away. Why?'
'I don't have insurance. Those places cost a fortune.'
'A man died last night, Mister Knox. Do you think this is funny?'
'No.'
'Then I ask again: why run away?'
Knox hesitated. The truth would sound implausible, but maybe it was worth trying. 'A man came into my room,' he said. 'He tried to kill me.'
'With one of my officers stationed outside?'
'He put a pillow over my face.'
'You expect me to believe that? You think I'm a fool?'
'Why else would I have run away?'
Farooq tapped his pen some more. 'Describe this man to me.'
'It was dark. I had concussion.'
'Why not call for help?'
'I tried to. I had no voice. But I did pull my IV stand over. It was all I could manage. Your officer came running in. He fetched a nurse. The nurse righted the stand. I tried to tell him…' He gestured helplessly at his throat. 'Ask your officer if you don't believe me.'
Farooq glared at Knox, trying to intimidate him into buckling and retracting, but Knox held his gaze. 'Wait here,' said Farooq finally, pushing to his feet. 'I'll be back in one minute.'
III
Fear was like ulcers in Gaille's gut as she watched Khaled and his men go about their work. She'd seen murder in Khaled's eyes earlier. She had no doubt that he'd have killed them all without a qualm had Stafford's phone not rung. She knew for sure that her life depended on his say-so.
Nasser and Abdullah tore a cotton sheet into strips, wrapped them around their faces, leaving thin slits for their eyes and nostrils, anonymous yet terrifying. Faisal unwrapped a new DVD, slid it into Lily's camera. Khaled finished writing his note, came across. 'Kneel,' he said. They all knelt compliantly on the dustsheet. He thrust his note at Gaille. 'Read,' he told her.
She glanced at his Arabic scrawl, looked up in alarm. 'I don't understand.'
Khaled aimed his Walther at the bridge of her nose. 'Read.'
'Don't do it,' said Stafford.
Khaled whipped Stafford across the cheek with his Walther so hard that he cried out and fell onto his side. He put a hand to his face; it came back bloodied. He looked at it in disbelief, welling up with tears of shock. Khaled aimed down at him, but it was Gaille he looked at. 'You'll read,' he told her.
'Yes,' she agreed, feeling faint with terror. He retreated behind Faisal, arms folded, for all the world like the producer of some cheap flick, while Nasser and Abdullah, faces concealed behind their makeshift masks, stood behind them, their weapons held aslant across their chests.
Stafford pushed himself back up onto his knees, blood still trickling from his cheek. Khaled tapped Faisal's shoulder. The camera's operating light came on. He nodded at Gaille to read. It was her chance to communicate with the outside world. She might never get another. She adjusted her posture, tucking her legs beneath her, sitting up straight, throwing back her shoulders. Then she transferred the note to her left hand and raised her right hand for emphasis. 'We are prisoners of the Assiut Islamic Brotherhood,' she began. 'Our captors are treating us well. They promise to continue to treat us well unless efforts are made to find us. They assure us we will be released unharmed when our brothers, falsely imprisoned for the murder of the two girls, are released without charge. If they are not released without charge within fourteen days, the Assiut Islamic Brotherhood will not be responsible for what then happens. God is great.'
The recording light went out. Khaled reviewed the footage, nodded in satisfaction. Faisal popped out the DVD, passed it to him. He took it by its edges, careful not to leave fingerprints, then put it away in its case. Gaille's heart began to race wildly with fear. Because she understood Khaled's plan well enough to realize that if he still intended on killing them all, now would be the time.
IV
'Well?' asked Yasmine, greeting Naguib at the door. 'How was your day?'
Naguib knew what his wife was really asking. She was asking him whether he'd found his killer yet, whether their daughter was safe. He
said: 'Not bad.'
Yasmine dropped a kiss on Husniyah's crown. 'Run along, beloved,' she said. 'Your father and I have something to discuss.'
Husniyah took her doll next door, though something in her eye made Naguib suspect she'd have her ear against the wall. 'Well?' asked Yasmine.
'There's no connection between the girl I found and those two in Assiut,' said Naguib. 'I'm sure of it.'
'How can you be?'
'I don't even think this girl was murdered. I think it was an accident. I think she was just a poor girl out hunting for ancient artefacts in a storm. I think perhaps something fell on her and knocked her unconscious and then she drowned. Or maybe she was climbing when she fell.'
'And then she just picked herself up and walked out into the desert and buried herself in a tarpaulin beneath the sand?'
'No,' admitted Naguib.
'Then what?'
He shook his head. 'I don't know yet. Something's clearly up. But that doesn't mean it's linked to Assiut. That doesn't make it murder.'
'But you're going to find out, yes? I have to be sure.'
'Gamal's right, my beloved. We have more pressing cases.'
'She was a young girl,' insisted Yasmine. 'I'm glad there's no murderer. I'm glad Husniyah is safe. Truly I am. But she was just a young girl, and she was from your district, and she was under your care. You owe it to her to find out.'
Naguib sighed. 'I'll speak to the ghaffirs in the morning,' he promised. 'Maybe they'll know something.'
V
'Well?' demanded Knox, when Farooq returned. 'What did your man say? He told you the IV stand fell over, didn't he?'
'Let's say it did fall over,' acknowledged Farooq grudgingly. 'So what? It could have been an accident.'
'Sure!'
'Very well. You pulled it over because of this mysterious intruder, this man no one else saw, this man who wants to kill you, yet who you've never seen before and can't identify.'
Knox hesitated. 'I think it might have been someone called Peterson.'
'The Reverend Ernest Peterson?' frowned Farooq. 'The man who saved your life?'
'I beg your pardon.'
'You heard me. He found you after your crash and risked his own life to pull you from your Jeep before the smoke got to you. Then he drove you to hospital. This is the man who tried to kill you?'
Knox went a little numb. 'I didn't know,' he said. He shook his head in confusion, baffled by this latest turn.
'You took a taxi from the hospital. Where did you go?'
'Around.'
'Around?'
'May I have something to drink, please?' asked Knox. 'A glass of water. Anything.'
'When you tell me where you went.'
'The Latin Cemeteries.'
'You went directly there?'
'You said I could have a glass of water.'
Farooq pushed himself to his feet, opened the door, shouted down the corridor. 'You went directly there from the hospital?' he asked, sitting back down.
'Yes.'
'That's strange. Because my colleagues had a call earlier. From a woman who had an intruder in her apartment.'
'So?'
'This intruder assaulted her, put her in fear for her life. And do you know the funny thing? He answered your exact description. And do you know who lives right above her? Your friend Augustin Pascal. Yes. The very same man you telephoned earlier.'
'Is this really why you brought me in? To talk about Pascal?'
Farooq tapped a cigarette from a soft-pack, clamped the filter between his lips to pull it all the way out. 'Want one?' he offered.
'No thanks.'
Farooq lit his cigarette, smoke drifting from his nostrils. 'You're quite right,' he smiled. 'I didn't bring you in to discuss Mister Pascal. I brought you in to charge you with the murder of Omar Tawfiq.'
THIRTY
I
Night had fallen while they'd been in the Royal Tomb. The rocks in the wadi gleamed like bones as Gaille picked her way across them, then up the hillside. Faisal led the way, cutting a ghostly figure with the dustsheets draped over his shoulders. He walked confidently along the cliff-face path, finding places for his feet that Gaille could barely see in the gloom until he turned and picked them out for her with his torch. She took the first step, her ankles weak with fear. Then the next. Faisal smiled at her when she finally reached the end, seeking a smile in return, some kind of forgiveness, or at least of understanding; but she remembered how she'd shared her chocolate with him earlier, and gave him such a scathing look instead that he dropped his eyes in shame.
He pulled back the sackcloth curtain, nodded her through the black gash in the rock, a tree-trunk split by lightning. With his torch pointing down, the reflected light revealed a wide, low chamber, rows of voluptuous fat pillars carved from the limestone either side, the gaps between stacked high with rubble. Everyone gathered inside. Khaled led them along the passage to a shaft. A rope ladder was moored to an iron peg hammered into the ground. 'Down,' he ordered Gaille.
'What are you going to do with us?'
'Just get down.'
She dangled her legs over the drop, turned onto her front, grabbed the rope, elbows scraping on the rough stone as she probed with her foot like a tongue at a loose tooth until she found a rung. Faisal shone his torch down for her, so that she could see the plain limestone wall as she descended, the rubble floor covered with litter. In the fluttering light, she glimpsed a candle glued by its own congealed wax to a stone and a half-used book of matches, so she grabbed them both. Stafford arrived down next, then Lily. The ladder slithered up the wall like a fugitive snake, trapping them there. A mutter of conversation above, then the fade of footsteps and silence.
'Hey!' shouted Stafford. 'Anyone there?' Nothing but echo. 'You think they've gone?' he asked.
Gaille struck a match, lit the candle from it, took it to the walls, too sheer and high to climb, even if they'd had some tool with which to gouge holds in them.
'What are they going to do with us?' asked Lily. 'Did they say what they were going to do?'
'No.'
'They must have said something.'
'I don't think they know yet,' said Gaille. 'I think they're making this up as they go along.'
'How do you mean?'
She took a deep breath. The candle fluttered, giving the feeling of a vigil, as though someone had died. 'This is a mess, that's all. They stumbled upon this place by accident. They should have reported it, but they chose to loot it instead. That's a very serious crime. They'll go to gaol for years if they're caught.'
'Then why take the chance?'
'Because they're poor. A conscript earns maybe three hundred US dollars a year. Imagine trying to live on that. Imagine trying to marry or bring up a family. Then imagine coming across an artefact worth a thousand dollars. A single artefact. What would you do?'
'You sound almost sorry for them,' said Stafford.
'They'll let us go, won't they?' asked Lily. 'I mean they have to.'
Gaille didn't answer at once, but her silence was eloquent. 'The police will come for us,' she said.
'But they'll be looking in Assiut!'
'They'll be looking everywhere,' Gaille assured her. 'One thing the Egyptians have is manpower. We just need to keep our nerve.' The candle guttered, already burning low. They couldn't afford to waste any more. She cupped her hand around the flame to blow it out, and darkness enveloped them once more.
II
'Murder?' protested Knox. 'What do you mean, murder?'
'I mean exactly what I say,' said Farooq. 'I mean I believe you deliberately killed Omar Tawfiq and tried to make it look like an accident.'
'You must be crazy.'
'Answer me this, Mr Knox. How long have you owned your Jeep?'
'What?'
'Just answer my question, please.'
'I don't know. Ten years.'
'And tell me this. Did it have a passenger-side seat belt?'
'Oh Christ!' mu
ttered Knox. He rocked forward on his chair, looked up at Farooq. 'Is that how he died?'
'And there was a driver's-side seat belt. You knew that, not least because you were wearing it when you were found. So you'd agree, wouldn't you, that if the driver deliberately crashed into a ditch, there'd be every chance he himself would escape with light injuries while his passenger would be very severely injured, maybe even killed?'
Knox shook his head. 'You'd have to be mad to do such a thing.'
'Not mad. Only very highly motivated.'
'What motive could I possibly have had to do that?'
'That's for you to tell me, isn't it?'
'This is crazy,' protested Knox. 'Omar was my friend. I didn't murder him, I swear I didn't.'
'I thought you'd lost your memory,' said Farooq. 'How can you be so sure?'
'Because I'd never do something like that. Ask anyone.'
'We have been asking.'
'Well, then,' said Knox. But he felt a twinge. Who knew for sure what they were capable of under stress? More to the point, who knew what others would say about them?
'I hear you're quite the celebrity in archaeological circles,' said Farooq. 'I hear you can't get enough of the media spotlight.'
'I found myself in it once. That doesn't mean I enjoyed it.'
'It goes to your head, though, doesn't it?' grinned Farooq. 'It brings you alive. And then it goes away again and leaves you feeling empty.'
'Speak for yourself.'
'You know what I think happened?' said Farooq. 'I think you found something yesterday. I think you found it on Peterson's site. I think that's why you went back after dark. I further think that you and Mister Tawfiq argued about what to do next. His colleagues say he was the most scrupulous of men. He'd have insisted on going through the proper channels, reporting it to his secretary general in Cairo. But you couldn't bear that, could you? Everyone tells me you have history with the secretary general, that you can't stand each other. The thought of him getting all that glory, all that attention, when it should rightfully have been yours… It wasn't to be borne, was it? So you decided to silence Omar.'