The Exodus Quest dk-2

by Will Adams

  THIRTY-TWO

  I

  Knox's mouth was sore and sticky. He wiped it with the back of his hand. It came back smeared red. He sat up on the hard bench, suffered a dizzying rush of blood to his head; had to give himself a few seconds to adjust. But that was nothing compared to the visual memory that came next.

  Gaille, kneeling, terrified, hostage of terrorists.

  He leaned forward, fearful he was going to be sick, but somehow held it in. He stood, walked woozily to the door, peered through the glass. The television was still tuned to the news, though someone had finally turned down the volume. There she was, reading out her statement, the words already imprinted on his mind. The Assiut Islamic Brotherhood. Treating us well. Unless efforts are made to find us. Released unharmed when the men are released. If not released within fourteen days…

  That look on her face. Her shaking hands. She was fighting dread, terrified of something imminent, not fourteen days away. He wasn't a parent, Knox, but he felt then how a parent must feel, that desperation to help, that powerlessness. A savage sensation. Unbearable, except that he had no option but to bear it.

  'Your friend is one of the hostages?'

  Knox blinked and looked around. The man in the rumpled white suit was talking to him. 'I beg your pardon?'

  'Your friend is one of the hostages?'

  'Yes.'

  'Which one?'

  'The girl.'

  'The red-headed girl or the dark-headed girl?'

  'The dark-headed girl.' A sudden flicker of memory. Talking to two men, one in a dog collar, the other portly like this.

  'She looks nice.'

  'She is nice.'

  'Your girlfriend, is she?'

  Knox shook his head. 'I just work with her.'

  'Sure,' smiled the man. 'That's how I react when my colleagues get into trouble. I go crazy and pick fights with policemen.'

  'She's a friend too.'

  He nodded. 'Anyway. I wanted to say how sorry I am that countrymen of mine could do this to her. If there's anything I can do…'

  'Thank you.' He looked back at the screen. Something about the footage was whispering to him.

  'I'm not a good man. I wouldn't be here if I was. But I can't understand how men who claim to be of Allah could think that Allah would approve of that.'

  'Please,' said Knox, begging for silence.

  He focused back on the screen. The footage started over. Gaille kneeling on the floor, then adopting the lotus position, raising her right hand for extra emphasis. He'd seen that posture somewhere else recently. But where? He dug fingernails into his palm in an effort to force his mind to focus. Then he had it. That mosaic. The figure in the centre of the seven-pointed star.

  Yes. His skin prickled.

  Gaille was sending him a message.

  II

  The phone was ringing. It wouldn't bloody stop. Augustin did his best to ignore it until finally it went away again. But the damage had been done. He was awake. His mouth was dry and glued; a demolition crew was at work inside his skull. Morning, then. He turned onto his side, protected his eyes from the slanted sunlight, checked his bedside clock with a groan. Hangovers weren't the fun they'd once been. He pushed himself up, unnameable things sloshing and lurching inside. Not for the first time, he resolved to change his habits. But perhaps for the first, a little flutter of panic accompanied the thought, the teenager on the lilo who suddenly realizes how far out he's drifted.

  He staggered to the loo, relieved himself in an unending dark-yellow stream. Ants had congregated around the porcelain bowl, a trail of them leading across the floor up the wall and out through the half-open window. Christ! Maybe he had diabetes. That was one of the signs, wasn't it? Sweetness in your urine? Maybe that was why he felt so tired all the time. Or maybe the little bastards had just developed a taste for the hard stuff. They certainly seemed to be veering all over the place. The phone rang again, allowing him to put the unwelcome thought from his mind. 'Yes?' he asked.

  'Have you seen?' demanded Mansoor.

  'Seen what?'

  'Gaille. On the news.' Augustin's chest tightened as he turned on his TV. He knew it would be bad, but he still wasn't prepared. He sat numbly in his armchair until he heard Mansoor shouting his name. 'Augustin? Are you still there?'

  'Yes.'

  'I've been trying to get hold of Knox. He's not at his hotel. He's not answering his mobile.'

  'I know where he is.'

  'Someone needs to tell him. It should be a friend.'

  'Leave it to me.'

  'Thanks. And let me know when you've spoken to him. Let me know what I can do.' The phone clicked dead. Augustin replaced it in its cradle, stunned and nauseous, yet now at least with a purpose. He splashed water on his face and body, threw on some fresh clothes, hurried downstairs to his bike.

  III

  'We're going to die down here,' sobbed Lily. 'We are, aren't we?'

  'People will find us,' said Gaille.

  'No one will find us.'

  'Yes, they will.'

  'How can you say that?'

  Gaille hesitated. She hadn't mentioned Knox yet, the message she'd tried to send him. It was such a long shot, it seemed unfair to place the burden of expectation on his shoulders. Yet Lily was on the verge of breakdown; she needed hope. 'I have a friend,' she said.

  'Oh, you have a friend!' scoffed Lily. 'We're going to be saved because you have a friend!'

  'Yes,' said Gaille.

  Something in her calmness seemed to soothe Lily, but she wasn't about to let herself be comforted so easily, not while she sensed she could get more. 'And just how is this friend of yours going to help?' she asked. 'Is he psychic or something?'

  'I told him where we were.'

  'You what?' asked Stafford from the darkness.

  'When we were being filmed, I let him know we were in Amarna, not Assiut.'

  'How?'

  'It's complex.'

  Stafford gave a grunt, almost of amusement. 'And you've somewhere else you need to be, have you?'

  'There's a portrait of Akhenaten we're both familiar with,' sighed Gaille. 'The way he's sitting is very distinctive.'

  'So that's why you shifted position when you were reading out the message?'

  'Yes.'

  'I don't remember Akhenaten ever being portrayed that way.'

  'No?' replied Gaille.

  A brief silence fell. Gaille could imagine Stafford's stony expression. 'You really think your friend will deduce our whereabouts from that?' he said. 'From the way you were sitting?'

  'Yes. I do.'

  Lily touched her arm. 'What's his name, this friend of yours?'

  Gaille breathed in deep. It felt strange saying it out loud. Like committing to something. 'Daniel Knox,' she said.

  'And people will listen to him, will they? I mean, it's not much use him realizing where we are unless he can convince the authorities? So they know who he is, do they?'

  'Oh, yes,' asserted Gaille, glad to be able to say something with absolute conviction. 'They know who he is, all right.'

  THIRTY-THREE

  I

  The metal door of the interview room squealed on its hinges as Farooq backed in, carrying a tray with two cups of coffee, a pad of paper and a tape recorder that he set down on the table. 'I hear you've been making quite a nuisance of yourself,' he said.

  'My friend's been taken hostage,' said Knox. 'She's sending me a message.'

  'Yes, yes,' said Farooq. 'This famous message of yours. My colleagues have been discussing it all morning.'

  'You have to tell the investigating team. It could be important.'

  'Tell them what, exactly? That you think she's trying to send you a message, but you don't know what it is? What use is that?'

  'Let me out of here. I'll find out what it is.'

  'Sure. I'll let all our killers out, shall I? They can help you look.'

  'Please. I'm begging you. At least notify the people running the kidnap investiga
tion-'

  'Mister Knox. Calm down. One of my colleagues has already contacted Assiut, I assure you. They'll call back if they want to know more. They haven't yet. I doubt they will. But if they do, I'll let you know. You have my word. Now, can we please concentrate on the matter in hand?'

  'The matter in hand?'

  Farooq rolled his eyes. 'Last night I warned you I intended to charge you with the murder of Omar Tawfiq. Or have you forgotten?'

  'No.'

  'Well, then. Has your memory returned yet? Are you prepared to tell us what truly happened? Why you drove into that ditch?'

  'I didn't drive into it.'

  'Yes, you did. And I want to know why.' He leaned forwards a fraction, a look in his eye almost like greed. 'There's something on Peterson's site, isn't there?'

  Knox hesitated. Under other circumstances, he'd have resisted Farooq's clumsy efforts to make him incriminate himself. But Gaille was in danger, and she needed his help. And the key to her message lay in the mosaic on Peterson's site. 'Yes,' he said. 'There is.'

  'I knew it!' exulted Farooq, clenching a fist. 'I knew it! What is it?'

  'An underground network. Chambers, corridors, catacombs.'

  'And that's why you drove Omar into the ditch, isn't it?'

  'I didn't drive Omar into the ditch.'

  'Sure!' scoffed Farooq. He grabbed his pen. 'Right, then. Tell me how to find this thing. Believe me, it'll go easier with you if you cooperate.'

  'I'll do better than that,' said Knox, with as much assurance as he could muster. 'Take me out there and I'll show you.'

  II

  Augustin got little joy at the police station. No visits allowed for Knox; even after an offer of baksheesh. In interview, apparently. Come back in an hour. He went out onto the station steps, fretful, feeling the need to do something – anything – that might help. A clear blue sky, the sun still too low to offer much warmth. He rubbed his cheeks, massaged his temples, his mind leaden and fuzzy. Sometimes, in the middle of conversations, he'd start slurring slightly for no reason whatsoever. He'd stop speaking at once, limit himself to grunts and nods. People thought him rude.

  Perhaps Kostas would know something. Knox had been arrested at his apartment, after all. He got onto his bike, sped through the morning traffic, parked down a narrow alley, hurried up the front steps. The elderly Greek grimaced at the sight of him, the smell of whisky on his breath.

  'Last night's,' grunted Augustin, as he went inside.

  'If you say so.'

  'You've heard about Knox?'

  Kostas nodded. 'They arrested him here, you know,' he said, his hands trembling, his eyes watery. 'It was awful. Is it true what they said about Omar?'

  'That he's dead, yes. That Knox was responsible, no. Listen, I don't have much time. I need to know what you and Knox talked about.'

  'All kinds of things. The Therapeutae. The Carpocratians.'

  'The Carpocratians?' A bell rang distantly in Augustin's mind. 'What about them?'

  'Among other things, that they used to identify each other by tattooing the lobes of their right ears.'

  'Ah!'

  'Quite. That was Knox's reaction too. He asked me why biblical archaeologists might be hunting them down. That's when those policemen arrived. I think I've found the answer, though.'

  'And?'

  'They were quite the aesthetes, the Carpocratians. They didn't just admire the philosophy of people like Plato, Aristotle and Pythagoras, they decorated their temples with their portraits and busts.'

  'So?' frowned Augustin. 'Why would a biblical archaeologist be interested in a bust of Plato or Pythagoras?'

  'Oh, no,' chuckled Kostas. 'You misunderstand me. Not a bust. A painting. And not of Plato or Pythagoras.'

  'Then who?'

  'According to our ancient sources, the Carpocratians possessed the only portrait ever made of Our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.'

  III

  'Tell us about him,' said Lily.

  'About who?' asked Gaille.

  'This friend of yours. Daniel Knox, wasn't it? The one who's going to save us.'

  'Oh, him,' said Gaille.

  'Yes,' agreed Lily dryly. 'Him.'

  Gaille swept her hair back from her brow, held it there in a bunch. 'He's just this guy I work with, that's all. But he has a knack of making things happen, you know.'

  'A knack,' said Stafford. 'Oh, good.'

  'I can't explain it better. But if anyone can find us, he will.'

  'Are you two…?' asked Lily.

  'No.' She sensed how thin that sounded, so she added: 'It's complex. We have history.'

  'Please, Gaille.'

  She sighed. 'My father meant a great deal to me when I was young. He meant everything. All I ever wanted was to please him. I became an Egyptologist because that's what he was, because it meant I could go away on excavation with him. That's when I first came on excavation at Amarna, even though I was still at school at the time. Then he started a new dig in Mallawi, just across the river from here. I was to be his assistant. But he postponed at the last minute, so that it didn't get underway until after my school term had started, and I couldn't go with him. Then I found out that he'd taken this man Daniel Knox in my place.' She took a deep breath. 'The thing is, my father was… that's to say, he preferred men to women.'

  'Ah.'

  'So I got the wrong idea about all this. I thought he'd put me off because he'd fallen for Knox; or, rather, because Knox had wormed his way into his affection, you know. But it wasn't like that at all. Apart from anything else, Knox isn't like that. My father tried over and over to explain, but I'd already turned my back on him by then; I wouldn't listen. It felt too good being angry, you know? It felt righteous. But time passed. I grew up. I got over myself. I began to realize how badly I missed my father. I was just about ready to swallow my pride and mend fences when I got the letter. An accident. A climbing accident.'

  'Oh, Gaille,' said Lily. 'I'm so sorry.'

  'It shouldn't have meant anything. He'd already been out of my life for years, after all. But it wasn't like that. It knocked me all over the place. I did all the usual stupid things. I slept with everybody. I slept with nobody. I drank. I took drugs. It took me ages to pull myself together. And my anger was one of the things that helped me get through it. Not anger at my father. At Knox. Being my father's assistant had always been my job, you see. It should have been me out there with my father on that climbing trip. I'd have saved him. So it followed logically that Knox had killed him. He gave me a focus of blame, you know, so that I wouldn't have to blame myself. Christ, I used to hate him.' She shook her head ruefully, struggling to believe how violent her passion had been. 'I mean, I really used to hate him.'

  'You obviously don't hate him any more,' observed Lily. 'What happened?'

  The question took Gaille by surprise. She had to consider it for a moment. When she realized the answer, it made her laugh out loud. 'I met him,' she said.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  I

  Farooq kept his hand firmly on Knox's shoulder as he steered him through the station, more to show the world who was boss than from any fear he might run. They climbed into the back of the police car together, Hosni taking the wheel. Knox stared out through the window as they left Alexandria behind, drove west then south on the low causeway across Lake Mariut. He'd hoped the drive would jog his memory, but nothing came. His uneasiness grew. Farooq wasn't a man to mess with. Beside him, as if sensing this, Farooq folded his arms and looked out of the other window, distancing himself from Knox, preparing to blame him if the trip proved a fiasco.

  They turned down a lane, crossed an irrigation channel. Two uniformed security men were playing backgammon. A shudder of deja vu, gone almost before he was aware of it. The guard took their names and business, called in, waved them through. They bumped their way along a track and over a small ridge, coasted down the other side to the offices, parking next to a white pick-up.

  Farooq grabbed Knox's collar as if
he was a mischievous dog as he pulled him out of the back. 'Well?' he asked.

  Several young excavators appeared on the brow of a ridge, sniggering at the way Farooq was manhandling Knox. But then a man in a dog collar strode over the ridge and all humour instantly fled their faces, as though amusement were frivolous, and frivolity a sin. Peterson. It had to be. But though Knox thought he had the broad look of his balcony assailant, he couldn't be sure.

  He strode over, looking Knox up and down with disdain but no obvious anxiety. 'Detective Inspector,' he said. 'You again.'

  'Yes,' agreed Farooq. 'Me again.'

  'What brings you back?'

  Farooq threw Knox a glance. 'You remember Mister Daniel Knox?'

  'I saved his life. You think I'm likely to forget?'

  'He says you've found something here. An underground antiquity.'

  'That's ridiculous. I'd know if we had.'

  'Yes,' said Farooq. 'You would.'

  'This is the man who killed Omar Tawfiq,' glared Peterson. 'He'd say anything to shift the blame.'

  'His claims should be easy enough to prove or disprove. Unless you have a problem with that?'

  'Only that it's a waste of everyone's time, Detective Inspector.'

  'Good.' He turned to Knox. 'Well, then?'

  Knox had hoped just being here would trigger memories, but his mind remained frustratingly blank. He looked around, hoping for inspiration. Power-station towers. A cluster of industrial buildings. Two men laying pipe with a mechanical digger. The crescent of archaeologists, holding their rock-hammers and mattocks like weapons. They reminded him of a solid truth: there was an underground antiquity around here. These people had been getting in and out without being seen. Maybe they'd restricted themselves to after dark but… His eyes darted to the office, its canvas extension. Could that be hiding something? But his photographs had clearly shown the shaft out in the open, so unless they'd moved the office since yesterday… and they hadn't, he could tell from the potholed track and this parking area, not to mention the converging footpaths in the…