The Exodus Quest dk-2

by Will Adams

  Knox hurried forwards in out of the rain, shoes squelching on the terracotta tiles. Her laptop was open on her desk. He yanked out its leads, packed it into its case, slung it over his shoulder, was making for the French windows when he heard footsteps, saw the beam of a flashlight. He dropped to the floor, rolled beneath the desk. Two policemen came in, stomping their feet. 'Tonight it rains,' grumbled the first. 'Nothing but sun for six damned months, and tonight it rains like the world's on fire.'

  'I'd better call our friend in Alexandria,' grunted his companion. 'He'll want news.'

  'Not this news,' muttered the other. 'I think he'll…' He trailed off. Knox noticed the glazed slug's trail of mud he'd laid on the floor, leading directly to him. He sprang out from beneath the desk, startling the policemen, barging between them, out through the French windows into the courtyard. Other policemen were returning bedraggled and empty-handed from their chase. Knox ran the other way, towards the rear of the compound. The back gate was bolted top and bottom. The top bolt slid easily but the bottom one was stiff. He had to jiggle it before it would open. Footsteps splashed behind him. Torch-beams picked him out. He hauled the door towards him but it clogged on the bloated earth. He squeezed through but it snapped closed again, snagging the laptop so that he had to twist it sideways to pull it free. But then he was out in the desert, laptop slapping his backside as he ran.

  The rain continued to hammer. He glanced back. Torches flashing, people shouting. A low fence ahead, he hurdled it in one stride, but his feet slid from beneath him on landing. Lightning illuminated an SCA sign as he picked himself up, trousers sticking wetly to his legs. He headed towards it, looking for anything familiar; conditions had been very different on his last visit. He heard gates open. An engine roared, headlights sprang on full-beam, casting his shadow out ahead, making the fat raindrops glint like jewels. He foolishly glanced around, ruining his night vision, then clattered headlong into a protective railing, tumbled over it, clinging on to avoid falling into a pit, hauled himself to safety. A ladder was tied to the wall. He climbed down into darkness, fumbling in vain for some way out.

  A vehicle pulled up above. Doors slammed, people shouted. A torch shone down, briefly illuminating a corridor to his left. He hurried down it, blindly feeling the walls, the ancient windows and niches in them informing him he was in the animal catacombs. He twisted and turned, looking upwards for a glimpse of the sky, a ventilation shaft through which he could escape. Torchlight ahead. He turned back. Light that way too.

  He felt the walls, found a window, climbed through it into a cell, half-filled with debris and sand. An eerie place, made all the more so by the fluttering approach of a torch. A mummified baboon stared glassily from a niche in the far wall. Baboons had been revered around here as the personification of Thoth, Egyptian god of writing, associated by the Greeks with Hermes, which was how Hermopolis had got its name. Hundreds of thousands of baboons had been buried in these catacombs, which stretched for miles.

  Heavy wheezing outside, the rasp of a lighter, the orange pulse of a cigarette. Knox pressed himself against the wall. A man's backside appeared in the mouth of the cell as he sat down to enjoy a smoke.

  II

  Augustin had just about given up hope of being released that night when he heard footsteps approaching and then a tentative knock on the magazine door. 'Mister Pascal? Are you in there?'

  'Claire?' He pushed himself aching to his feet. 'Is that you?'

  'Yes.'

  'I thought you'd left.'

  'I came back.' A pause, an intake of breath. 'Listen, you are telling me the truth, aren't you? I mean, that your friend's a hostage; that finding the mosaic might help her?'

  'Yes.'

  'Only I'm likely to get in a lot of trouble for-'

  'I'm telling you the truth, Claire. I swear it. And my name's Augustin.'

  A key turned in the lock. The door opened. Claire was standing there in the moonlight, her hands clasped in front, looking very scared and very young, for all her height. 'I'm in a foreign country,' she said. 'I've broken the law. At least, the law's been broken, and I'm going to be the only person the authorities have available to punish. I don't have any family back home to make a fuss. I don't have any friends here. Mister Griffin as good as told me that he'll disown me once he gets everyone back to America. It's not that he wants to, you understand, it's just that he'll have no choice. So I'm scared. I'm really scared. I'm not good at being on my own. I'm not good under pressure. If I tell you where this thing is, I'll need someone to help me through what happens next. Someone who'll fight for me the way you've been fighting for your friend.'

  'I'll fight for you,' said Augustin.

  She dropped her eyes. 'You'd say anything to get out of here. I can't blame you for that, but it's true.'

  He made his way slowly across to her, not wanting to spook her. He put one hand on her shoulder, lifted her chin with his other, until she finally met his gaze. 'I'm not a good man, Claire,' he told her, looking deep into her eyes. 'I'm the first to admit it. I have all kinds of vices. But I have one virtue. I stand by my friends, whatever it takes. Help me now, you'll be my friend for life. I swear this to you. And you can believe it.'

  Her expression clouded for a moment. But then a smile spread radiantly across her face. She handed him his wallet and phone. 'Then come with me,' she said. 'I'll show you what you're looking for.'

  III

  The sump was filling quickly, water snaking down the walls, soaking into the floor, puddles growing into pools, mirroring the acid anxiety eating away inside Gaille. 'Light a match,' grunted Stafford. 'I got something.'

  It sputtered when she struck it; the moisture had got everywhere. She nursed it carefully into life, held it down low. Stafford paddled away water so that they could all see. A carved brick at the foot of the wall. A talatat. They all looked at it a moment, then at each other, wondering what it signified. The burning match scorched Gaille's fingers, she yelped and let it go, the darkness returned.

  'Dig it out,' suggested Lily. 'Maybe there's something behind.'

  They went at it in shifts, their progress thwarted by a large stone buried in the rubble immediately in front of it. But they kept going, and soon were able to jiggle it back and forth like a loose tooth, feel its outline. There was another brick to its left, a third below. Perhaps a whole wall. It was Gaille who at last gouged out enough of the sodden ancient mortar to lever out the brick. They'd all hoped the water would start draining away at once, but it stayed obstinately where it was.

  She reached into the hole where the talatat had been, encountered solid wall behind. But when she scratched at it, it came away beneath her fingernails like plaster.

  They took it in turns to dig, but the water level was rising all the time. It wasn't long before they had to take deep breaths and duck their heads underwater even to get at it at all. 'It's no good,' wailed Lily. 'We're getting nowhere.'

  'We have to keep going,' insisted Gaille. 'We just have to.' And the alternative was clear in the strained cracking of her voice.

  FORTY-FOUR

  I

  Smoke from the policeman's cigarette put a tickle in Knox's throat; he had to fight his urge to cough. More footsteps approached outside. 'Get up, you lazy so-and-so. We're to do a full search.'

  'Yes, and I'm searching this bit.'

  'That's what you want me to tell Gamal?'

  'Very well,' he sighed. He pinched out his half-smoked cigarette, replaced it in his pack, lumbered away.

  Knox waited for silence before he emerged from hiding. He was barely out when he saw the flashlight return. 'I told you it was the other way,' said one, turning the corner. A moment of complete stillness as they stared at each other. Then one yelled for backup while his colleague grabbed for his gun.

  Knox fled into the dark, guessing at every junction, left, right, right, the sounds of chase all around, managing to avoid it until he reached a dead end, the passage ahead choked with sand. Torches coming up fas
t behind. No going back. He clambered the mound, a few inches of headroom between the top and the ceiling, enough to wriggle through, the laptop dragging like an anchor. A strobe of light ahead, followed by a crash of thunder. A ventilation shaft.

  The sand grew waterlogged as he squeezed towards it, then up and out into the storm once more, straddling a safety rope, splashing across the sand, his breath coming fast. A flutter of distant lightning illuminated the landscape; he looked for cover, saw only a white-painted bench in a ring of date palms. He ran towards it, glancing around as the first policeman emerged from the shaft, waving his torch the wrong way, chasing off after shadows.

  Knox's spirits lifted, he was going to get away. But then a branch snapped in front of him, he looked ahead, saw a man standing there, flung up his hands. Too late. A fist smacked his cheek, dazzling stars from his eyes, sending him staggering onto his backside. Peterson, fists bunched, teeth bared, mucus trailing from his left nostril, mania in his eyes. 'You!' he muttered in disbelief. 'How did you get here? Satan brought you, didn't he?'

  'You're mad,' said Knox, scrambling away, fearful not just of Peterson but also that the commotion would attract the police.

  'Sodomite!' spat Peterson. 'Abominator! Agent of Satan!'

  'You're fucking crazy.'

  'The day of reckoning is at hand,' he cried. 'Don't you understand? The rapture is finally upon us. The world is about to look upon the face of Christ! Upon His grace. His infinite mercy. Mankind will fall to its knees in worship. To its knees! That's what has your Master so scared, isn't it? That's why he sent you to stop me. You filthy creature of Satan. The great battle is starting, the Lord is set to triumph, there's nothing you can do. It's written! It's written!' He crawled astride Knox. Knox kicked up at his groin, but to little effect. He scrambled away, but Peterson jumped on his back, his knee on Knox's nape, grabbing the laptop strap, hauling it against his throat, choking him. 'Your Master has no power any more. You hear? The Reign of the Beast is at an end. The victory of the Lord is at hand. Can't you see it? The Lord is with me, and He's mightier than armies.' He gave another heave; the strap bit like a garrotte into Knox's windpipe. 'At the time that I visit them they shall be cast down, says the Lord,' exulted Peterson. 'I will fight them with my outstretched hand and my strong arm, even in anger and fury and great wrath.'

  Knox had both hands on the strap, but Peterson was too strong. Knox couldn't breathe, his lungs were straining for air. He pushed himself to his feet, Peterson clinging to his back, staggered over to the bench, climbed up onto the seat then hurled himself backwards so that Peterson hit the ground hard, car keys and other belongings spilling from his pockets, jogging his grip for just long enough for Knox to twist free, scramble away, heaving in high-pitched whines of air, both hands nursing his raw throat.

  'I am the Alpha and the Omega, says the Lord,' cried Peterson, getting back on to his feet. 'I am the One who comes from all eternity. My name is Vengeance. I am the Destroyer.'

  A shout across the sands, a torch-beam picked out Peterson. He turned to see four policemen splashing through the rain. Knox crouched, hurried for the thin cover of the trees, dropped flat. Behind him, Peterson seemed torn, eyes flickering between the policemen, Knox, the laptop, his scattered car keys and wallet. But finally he decided on what was most important. He unzipped the laptop from its case, opened it up, picked up a whitewashed limestone brick and crunched it down on the keyboard. Letter keys and shards of broken plastic sprang off in all directions.

  'Stop!' yelled a policeman.

  'And they shall go forth,' shouted Peterson. 'And they shall look upon the carcasses of men that have transgressed against me.' He brought the stone down again, smashing through the casing into its wired heart. 'Their worm shall not die, neither shall their fire be quenched. They shall be an abhorring unto all flesh.'

  Lightning showed his frenzied eyes, serpents of long silver hair slithering over his face, spittle on his chain, enough to persuade the first policeman to wait for his comrades. 'The time of the Lord is upon us! You hear? Get down on your knees, you filthy heathens. You are not worthy.' He brought the brick down again.

  A second and third policemen arrived. They jumped Peterson together. He stood up from the mud with them clinging to his arms, strong as Samson. He staggered a short distance, trying to shake them off. But then the fourth policeman arrived, and he clubbed Peterson on his temple with the butt of his gun until Peterson collapsed to his knees and then slumped face-first into the mud.

  The policemen stood around his prostrate form, hands on their knees, breathing hard. One gave Peterson a vengeful kick in the ribs; but another rolled him onto his side to clear his mouth away from the water, while a third cuffed his wrists behind his back.

  'There were two of them,' panted one. 'They were fighting.' He gestured vaguely towards where Knox was lying with his cheek pressed into the waterlogged sand.

  Torch-beams flared half-heartedly his way, then disappeared again. 'I vote we take this one to Gamal,' grunted one.

  'It's about time the others did something,' agreed another. They lifted Peterson up by his arms and dragged him back towards the compound.

  II

  Claire led Augustin across the broken ground. Two construction workers in hard hats were standing beside a yellow mechanical digger. 'They've been laying a pipeline next door,' explained Claire. 'I asked them if they wouldn't mind earning a little overtime.'

  Augustin laughed appreciatively. 'You're quite something, Claire.'

  She ducked her head to hide how pleased she was, walked on a few metres, stamped the loose earth beneath her feet. 'Here,' she told them. 'Dig here.'

  'You're sure about this?' asked Augustin.

  'I'm sure.'

  'And that this is the right place?'

  'Yes.'

  He pulled out his mobile, held it up for her to see. 'I need to make a phone call. A friend of mine at the SCA. We can trust him.'

  She hesitated, but then nodded. 'Yes.'

  He dialled Mansoor's number. 'It's me,' he said. 'I'm at Peterson's site. You need to come out here.'

  'But I'm in the middle of-'

  'Now,' said Augustin. 'And bring some security with you, if you can. We need to put this place under guard.'

  III

  'Found your killer yet?'

  Farooq scowled at his smirking colleague. 'You shut up,' he warned. 'You just shut up.'

  His face was burning as he wrote out his report. Hatred for Knox dripped like acid in his heart. He'd had people out looking all across Alexandria, but the man had simply vanished from sight. He didn't know how it was possible. A humiliation that would take years to live down. His phone began to ring. Maybe it was news. 'This is Farooq,' he said, snatching it up.

  'Gamal here. From Mallawi, remember? We spoke earlier.'

  Farooq sat up in his chair. 'You have news for me?'

  'Maybe. We think your man was here.'

  'You think? How do you mean, you think?'

  'He got away.'

  'I don't believe this! How could he get away?'

  'We'll get him, I promise you. It's just a matter of time. And he wouldn't have got away at all if you'd warned us there'd be two of them.'

  'Two of them? How do you mean?'

  'He had an accomplice. He gave us the slip, but we've got him now.'

  Farooq scowled darkly. Augustin! 'A Frenchman, yes?'

  'Can't say. He's not talking. Won't be for a while yet, either. Resisting arrest, if you know what I mean. But a foreigner, certainly. Maybe early fifties, tall and strong. Long hair with streaks of grey. And he's wearing a collar, a white collar. You know, like those Christian preachers do.'

  'A dog collar?'

  'Yes. Exactly. Does that make sense?'

  'Yes.' Not Augustin after all. Peterson.

  'What's going on, then?' asked Gamal.

  'I don't know,' said Farooq grimly, getting to his feet. 'But I promise you this. I'm going to find out.'

  FO
RTY-FIVE

  I

  Augustin watched raptly as the scoop of the mechanical digger munched great mouthfuls out of the earth. He turned to say something to Claire but she'd moved off a little way, hands clasped in front, fingers twining, nervous of her ordeals ahead. He walked across, wanting to reassure her, but not knowing quite how. 'Do you know what Peterson was after?' he asked gently.

  She shook her head. 'He never really included me in that side of things.'

  'Did he ever mention the Carpocratians?'

  'Once or twice,' she nodded. 'Why? Who were they?'

  'A Gnostic sect. Founded in Alexandria. Based here and in Cephallonia. They were reputed to own an artefact that your reverend craved. A portrait of Jesus Christ, the only one credibly attested before the relic boom of the Middle Ages.'

  Claire gave a grunt. 'I suppose it had to be something like that.' She turned to him. 'Did he find it, then? Is that what sparked all this off?'

  'No. He found something else.'

  'What?'

  'There's a text called the Secret Gospel of Mark. At least, there isn't, but some people fear there might be.' He gave her a precis of what Kostas had told him: how the letter had been repudiated as a forgery, but how Peterson had found something on the walls of this place that had made him worry that maybe the secret gospel had existed after all. A mural depicting Jesus and another man emerging from a cave, while a kneeling figure implored: 'Son of David, have mercy on me'.

  'So?' asked Claire.

  'The Secret Gospel described precisely such an incident. This mural is proof that this incident really happened, and therefore is strong evidence that the Secret Gospel is authentic after all.'