by Will Adams
'That's rubbish.'
Farooq nodded to himself. 'You know what I had to do this morning, Mister Knox? Visit Mister Tawfiq's family; inform them of his death. The very worst part of my job, as I'm sure you'll appreciate. You know much about his family?'
Knox shook his head. 'He never talked about them.'
'Can't say I'm surprised. A respected academic like him.'
'What are you getting at?'
'His father is a very powerful man, Mister Knox,' grunted Farooq. 'His brothers are all very powerful men.'
Knox felt sick. 'You don't mean…?'
'I'm afraid I do. And they're not happy, believe me. They want explanations. I had to tell them you were driving. I had to tell them your Jeep had no passenger-side seat belt.'
'Oh, Christ.'
'They hold you responsible for his death, Mister Knox. And they're dangerous men, I assure you. Not the kind of men to let the death of a son and brother pass without taking certain steps.'
'They're coming after me?'
'You asked why I had you brought in,' said Farooq. 'I wanted to talk to you, yes. But I was also concerned for your safety. This is my city, Mister Knox. I won't have people murdered here. Not even foreigners. Not even killers. But I'll tell you this: I wouldn't be in your shoes, not for anything.'
'I didn't do it,' said Knox weakly.
'You'd do well to get your memory back as soon as possible,' advised Farooq, pushing himself to his feet. 'We'll meet again tomorrow morning. I'd use tonight wisely, if I were you.'
III
Khaled drove the Discovery cautiously along the wadi, only opening up at all once he was out in the open desert. The moon was low on the horizon, making the sand gleam like tarnished pewter. Chill night air blew in through the broken driver's-side window, turning his fingers to ice. He kept his headlights on; the risk of meeting anyone way out here was far less than of hitting one of the rocks that lay hidden like unexploded mines in the sand. He felt strangely calm, the situation out of his control. But luck was with him; he reached the desert track without incident, headed south towards Assiut, began to encounter other people. A farmer on his donkey. A pick-up truck. Then the traffic grew thick, cloaking him in anonymity. He crossed the bridge into Assiut. Nasser was waiting on the west bank, astride his motorbike; his route down had been far quicker, even with a Nile crossing to take into account. He waved at Khaled, fell in behind. They drove west, looking for suitable sites, found a derelict factory with an enclosed courtyard. Perfect. He scattered the belongings he'd taken earlier among the front and back seats, then doused the whole lot with fuel from the Discovery's own spare can. It went up with such a fierce blaze that it seared his skin. He climbed on the back of Nasser's bike and they drove back into town.
The Discovery would be found soon enough, but he couldn't deliver the DVD just yet. Enough time needed to pass for terrorists to snatch hostages, take them to a safe house, make the recording. Three hours, say. Then back to Amarna. They found a bench overlooking the Nile where he brooded on their situation.
A young couple walked by in the darkness. He could hear their doting voices but not make out what they were saying, and it reminded him how he'd heard Stafford's voice from inside the tomb. He went cold suddenly. What if it worked both ways? The police were sure to visit Amarna during their investigation. What if the hostages were to yell for help while they were nearby? He'd intended to keep them alive to mitigate their punishment should they be caught, but now he realized this was a risk they couldn't afford. He pulled out his mobile, called Abdullah. 'Everything okay?' he asked.
'Yes, sir,' said Abdullah. 'You want us to close the place up now?'
'I need you to do something first. I need you to silence them.'
'What?'
'You heard me.'
A moment's hesitation, then: 'But I thought we were going to-'
'We need them silenced,' snapped Khaled. 'That's an order. Am I clear?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Good. Then take care of it before I get back.'
IV
A second football match had taken the place of the first on the recreation room TV, and now was reaching its climax. Knox's two cell-mates were fans, taking it in turns to stand by the door and squint through the viewing window, wincing and cheering, chatting animatedly with the policemen outside.
Omar was dead. Finally, it was sinking in. He and Knox hadn't been old friends, but they'd grown close quickly, in that way you do. Kindred spirits. Such a gentle, thoughtful and diffident young man; it was hard to credit that he came from a family of Egyptian gangsters, though maybe that was why he'd turned out the way he had, why he'd turned to archaeology. An effort to distance himself from his own roots. Although, thinking about it, maybe it had had something to do with his recent promotion too.
The worst of it was, Farooq was right: Omar's death was his fault. He'd been driving his Jeep for years with a broken seat belt, aware that such an accident was possible, yet he'd done nothing about it. Such things somehow seemed to matter less in Egypt. Until they had consequences, at least.
A great cheer went up. Someone had scored.
He buried his head in his hands as he grieved for his friend, striving to regain his lost memory. He owed it to Omar to remember precisely what had happened, how badly to blame he'd been. But the minutes passed, slow as pouring treacle, and still nothing came.
V
Faisal followed Abdullah along the tomb corridor with a heavy tread, his AK-47 held out in front of him, as though to fend off demons. He was a quiet man by nature; he wanted only to complete his three years' conscription and go home. He believed in hard work, in Allah, in doing right by others, in marrying a good woman and having many, many children. His uncle had assured him that the army would be the making of him. Who on earth could have dreamed it would make him into this? But Khaled had given his orders, and you didn't disobey Khaled. Not more than once.
They reached the lip of the shaft, stopped. 'Who's up there?' called out the girl Gaille. 'What's going on?' Her voice was plaintive, it tugged at his heart, reminded him of how she'd given him chocolate just that same morning, how they'd laughed and joked together. How in hell had it all gone so wrong so quickly?
'I'll shine down the torch,' murmured Abdullah. 'You do it.'
'Why should I do it?'
'Are you going to let us go?' asked the girl. 'Please. We're begging you.'
'What do you think I mean?' scowled Abdullah. 'I'll shine down the torch. You do… you know.'
'How about I shine down the torch and you do it?' retorted Faisal. He peered over the edge, as though that would somehow resolve the issue. Gaille lit a match from a book they must have left down there, the sudden bright flare illuminating her face in the darkness, staring pleadingly up at them.
'I wish we had one of the captain's grenades,' muttered Abdullah. 'So much easier.'
'For us, you mean?'
Down below, the second woman started sobbing piteously. Faisal struggled to block her cries and wails from his head.
'We'll do it together,' said Abdullah finally. 'Then we'll check with the torch. Agreed?'
'I don't like this,' said Faisal.
'You think I do?' scowled Abdullah. 'But it's this or explain to Khaled.'
Faisal breathed deep. He'd slaughtered livestock on his farm ever since he could remember. That was all this was. Livestock ready for slaughter. 'Okay,' he said. He readied his gun; the shrieking started down below.
'On the count of three,' said Abdullah.
'On the count of three,' agreed Faisal.
'One…' said Abdullah. 'Two…'
THIRTY-ONE
I
Augustin arrived home weary and apprehensive. Farooq had treated him with such contempt since he'd decked him with his right hand that the spirit had gone completely out of him. He'd asked to visit Knox at the police station. Farooq had laughed in his face. He was normally an ebullient man, Augustin, but not tonight. He couldn't remember ev
er feeling this low.
A madwoman leaned over the banisters to bark at him about his rapist house guests. He lacked the energy even to yell back.
He half filled a tumbler with ice, opened a new bottle of single malt, took both glass and bottle through to his bedroom, set them down on his bedside table. Then he opened his wardrobe and lifted his stack of T-shirts. The folder had moved. No question. No surprise, either. Knox hadn't said anything on the phone earlier; of course he hadn't, he was a man; men discuss such things, thank Christ. But Augustin had heard that slight hesitation in his voice. At the time, he'd put it down to his predicament. Only later had he realized that Knox would have needed a clean shirt, that of course he'd have seen the folder. It was the way fate worked. It gave you the punishments you deserved.
He drew out the photographs; spread them on his duvet. His favourite was the first, not least because Gaille had given it to him herself. It showed the three of them out in the desert late one afternoon, arms around each other's shoulders, grinning happily, against a backdrop of red-gold dunes, lengthening shadows, low slivers of mauve and orange cloud in a blue-wash sky. A grizzled Bedouin had taken it; they'd happened across him trudging the sands between nowhere and nowhere with the gloomiest-looking camel he'd ever seen. Augustin, Gaille, Knox. Something had happened to him that day. When Gaille had given him the photograph, he'd found it impossible to put away. He'd added to it, photos of her and Knox; others just of her.
His tumbler had somehow emptied. He refilled it.
Why have one woman when you could have twenty? In his heart, he'd always scorned fidelity. Every man would behave like he did if only they could. Monogamy was for losers. Maybe he was just getting old, but evenings with Knox and Gaille had made him aware of the shabbiness of this life. He'd found it increasingly hard to pick up women. He'd lost his nerve, or perhaps his hunger. He'd developed a different hankering. He couldn't say what for, just that it was there, that it kept growing more severe, that it wouldn't be sated by his usual conquests. One morning, a couple of months back, he'd woken up effervescent with purpose, had leapt out of bed and had torn down a great strip of wallpaper, satisfying as a gigantic scab. He'd called in the builders that same day, had had his apartment gutted and redecorated.
The nesting instinct! Good grief! How had it come to this?
And yet it didn't feel like love. That was what Knox wouldn't understand. He was fond of Gaille, sure, but he didn't covet her or plot ways to win her. It didn't stab him in the heart when she looked at Knox in that way she had. Because it wasn't Gaille who'd got beneath his skin. It was the two of them together, the thing that had happened between them without them even knowing.
One of the unexpected hazards of archaeology was how you were constantly reproached by the lives of others. Ancient Alexandrians had had a life expectancy of some thirty-five years, less time on earth than he'd already spent. Yet so many of them had achieved so much. And he'd achieved so little.
His life was shit. He'd started buying whisky by the crate.
He lay back on his bed, his hands clasped beneath his head. He stared up at his freshly whitewashed ceiling, aware it was going to be a long night.
II
'I can't do this,' muttered Faisal, taking a step back from the edge of the sump. 'I can't. I won't.'
'Fine,' scowled Abdullah. 'Then I'll do it. But I won't have you pointing the finger at me later if it all goes to shit.'
'No,' said Faisal. 'Neither of us are doing it. It's wrong. It's just wrong. You know it is.'
'And you're going to tell Captain Khaled that, are you?' snorted Abdullah.
Faisal grimaced. Abdullah had a point. He'd suffered only one of that man's proper beatings, but it had put him in hospital for a week. He didn't fancy a repeat. 'What were his orders, exactly?' he asked.
'Like I told you. To silence them.'
'To silence them!' snorted Faisal. 'And why did he use that particular word, do you think? So that if all this is found out, he can blame us for misinterpreting his orders. We'll be hung while he'll be let off with a slap on his wrist.'
'You think he'd do that?'
'Of course he would,' said Faisal. 'Do you honestly believe everything we've found here has been worthless, like he's been telling us? Bullshit. He's just keeping it all for himself. It's only ever him, him, him.'
Abdullah grunted. It was a suspicion they all shared. 'Then what do you suggest?'
'We do precisely as he told you. We silence them.'
'I don't understand.'
'These two planks. We put one either side of the shaft. Then we stretch out the sheets and blankets between them, pin them down with rocks. That'll muffle any sound, especially once we've sealed the mouth up.'
'I don't know.' Abdullah gave a shudder. 'If he finds out…'
'How's he going to do that? I'm not going to tell him. Are you?'
'Even so.'
'So you'd rather kill them, would you?'
Abdullah glanced down, considered the options then grimaced. 'Very well,' he nodded. 'Let's do it.'
III
Knox ached from head to toe as he struggled to sleep. Bone-weary, they called it, and they knew what they were talking about. His cell was cold, his bench hard, his companions noisy sleepers, taking it in shifts to snore. The television was still on in the recreation room, volume cranked up high. It didn't seem to bother Egyptians at all – they were born with mute buttons in their heads – but it was an aspect of life here that Knox had never quite got used to.
It was the small hours before he finally drifted off, if not to sleep exactly, then to a state of inertia near enough to it. He wasn't sure how long he'd been dozing that way when he heard a familiar voice. Gaille's voice. At first he thought he was dreaming; it made him smile. But then he realized it wasn't a dream. He realized it because of her choice of words, the strain in her tone. A jolt ran through him. He sat up, hurried to the cell door. Through the viewing window, he could just make out on the television screen the nightmare iconography of modern terrorism, Gaille and two others on the floor, two masked paramilitaries standing behind them, weapons across their chests.
'Gaille!' he muttered, disbelieving. He pounded his fist against the door. 'Gaille!'
'Quiet, damn you,' grunted one of his cell-mates.
'Gaille!' he yelled. 'Gaille!'
'I said be quiet!'
'Gaille!'
A door banged, footsteps approached, a bleary-eyed policeman peered in. He glowered at Knox, kicked the door. Knox barely even noticed, squinting past him at the TV screen. It was Gaille for sure. He called out her name again, feeling utterly helpless, bewildered. The policeman unlocked and opened the cell door, tapped his cane menacingly against his thigh. But Knox simply barged past him, out into the recreation room, staring numbly upwards, listening to her words.
The policeman grabbed his shoulder. 'Back in your cell,' he warned. 'Or I'll have to-'
'She's my friend,' snarled Knox. 'Let me watch.'
The policeman took a step back; Knox focused once more on the TV. The footage finished. The scene changed. A soberly dressed man and a woman in a news studio. No one had heard of the Assiut Islamic Brotherhood, but the authorities were confident of resolving this crisis peacefully. An inset screen appeared playing the hostage footage. Knox stared transfixed as Gaille adjusted her position, raised her right hand for emphasis. His skin prickled, though he wasn't sure why.
A door clanged behind him. He glanced around. Two more policemen were approaching, faces scrunched and mean. 'My friend,' he explained, gesturing at the screen. 'She's been taken hostage. Please. I need to-'
The first blow caught him on his thigh. He hadn't seen it coming at all, hadn't had time to brace himself. Pain spiked up his hip; he slumped onto one knee. The second blow glanced off his shoulder blade onto the back of his scalp, stars and amoebae dancing in front of his eyes as his face rushed at the floor. A sudden shudder of memory, driving the Jeep, Omar beside him, laughing together at
some joke. The sharp tang of diesel. Then his hair was grabbed and someone muttered in his ear, though there was such a ringing in his ears he couldn't make out the words. His head was dropped again, his cheek banged cold stone. They dragged him by his legs across the rough floor back to his cell.
IV
Naguib went yawning into the kitchen, mouth dry, eyes gluey, eager for his first glass of morning chai. His wife didn't even look around, she was so riveted by her TV.
'What is it?' he asked.
'Some Westerners were kidnapped in Assiut last night. Television people. They say they were filming in Amarna yesterday. Did you see them?'
'No.'
'Apparently this woman is the one who helped find Alexander's tomb. Remember that press conference with the secretary general and that other man?'
'The one you thought so handsome?'
Yasmine blushed. 'I only said he looked nice.'
'What have they been saying?'
'Just that their car was found burned out in Assiut, that some poor half-blind man was paid to take this DVD into the television station. They've been playing it non-stop. Apparently the kidnappers are demanding the release of those people arrested for the rape and murder of those two girls.'
Naguib frowned. 'Terrorists want rapists and murderers released?'
'They say they're not guilty.'
'Even so.'
'That poor young woman!' said Yasmine. 'How is she holding herself together?'
Naguib put a hand on his wife's shoulder. The video was playing in a loop, screen-in-screen, so he could see the hostages' terrible anxiety, the freely bleeding cut on the man's cheek, the uplighting making strange shadows from their features, while the commentators took turns to deplore the ignominy this brought upon their nation, debating the steps their government would take. He too found it difficult to look away, despite his need to get to the office, clear his paperwork, buy himself some time to go see the local ghaffirs. But unlike his wife, it wasn't fellow feeling that kept him riveted. It was something else. His policeman's instincts were quivering deep inside. He just couldn't work out why.