The Exodus Quest

by Will Adams

  He opened the wardrobe. Bloody hell! Jackets and crisply ironed shirts on wooden hangers. Shelves of neatly folded underclothes. He flipped through a stack of T-shirts, spied the corner of a purple folder. His heartbeat instantly began to accelerate. He knew instinctively that this was why Augustin had come in here, to hide this. He knew too that he shouldn’t look, yet also that he was going to. He took the folder to the window, opened the flap. There were photographs inside. He pulled them out, leafed through them in gathering disbelief, a knot tugging tight in the pit of his stomach as he wondered what it meant. But it was obvious what it meant, and there was nothing to be done about it, not now at least, except to return the photographs to the folder, replace them as he’d found them.

  He still needed a fresh shirt, so he peeled one from its hanger, hurried out, closed the door behind him. Then he sat at the kitchen table, brooding on what he’d just discovered, the uncomfortable realization that perhaps he couldn’t entirely trust his closest friend any more.

  II

  Farooq arrived at his desk to find Salem standing there, bleary-eyed from his night’s sentry-duty outside Knox’s hospital room. ‘Yes?’ asked Farooq.

  ‘He escaped, boss,’ mumbled Salem.

  ‘Escaped?’ said Farooq icily. ‘What do you mean, escaped?’

  ‘He left his room. He jumped out a window. He got into a taxi.’

  ‘And you just let him?’

  Salem pulled a face, as if he was about to cry. ‘How could I know he’d jump out a window?’

  Farooq waved his hand angrily to dismiss him. But in truth, he felt excited rather than dismayed. Vindicated. His instincts had proved right. Car-crash victims didn’t flee hospitals for no reason, not even Egyptian ones. They certainly didn’t leap out of windows. Only a man with blood on his hands would go to such lengths.

  He sat back in his chair, joints creaking beneath the strain, considered what he knew. An archaeological dig. An unannounced visit by the SCA. A return visit under cover of darkness. A Jeep crashed in a ditch. One man dead. An important man too. He bit a knuckle in thought. Was it possible there was something on Peterson’s site? Something valuable? It would certainly help explain things, including his strong sense that it wasn’t just Knox who was up to no good, but Peterson too.

  He pushed himself to his feet, grabbed his car keys. He needed to go check out this site for himself. But then he hesitated. He had no idea what to look for, after all. And if Peterson did have anything to hide, he’d no doubt try to bury it beneath mounds of jargon. Farooq loathed jargon. It always made him feel uneducated.

  He checked his watch. He should go visit the SCA anyway, notify them of the crash, try to find out more about Tawfiq and Knox, why they’d gone to Borg el-Arab in the first place. And maybe, if he asked nicely, they’d lend him an archaeologist to go out there with him.

  III

  The high sandstone walls of the Royal Wadi made little impression on Captain Khaled Osman as Nasser drove them out along the new road to Akhenaten’s Royal Tomb. He’d escorted dozens of tourists this way these past few months, but he’d never felt anything like this nervous before. Perhaps it was because these were TV people, and he knew to his own cost what damage TV people could do.

  They reached the generator building. Half a million Egyptian pounds they’d just spent on the new generator! Half a million! He felt slightly queasy at the thought of all that money as Nasser drove the short distance down the side-spur that housed the tomb and parked next to the Discovery. He opened his door, jumped down. The sun was still low enough that the spur was in shade. He gave a little shiver. There were ghosts in this place. He put a hand on the holster of his Walther and felt a little better.

  His childhood friends had bitterly resented the prospect of conscription into the army, being ripped away from home and family. Only Khaled had looked forward to it. He’d never envisaged any other life for himself. He liked the discipline, relished the cold authority of a weapon, savoured the way women looked at a handsome man in uniform. He’d breezed through basic training, had volunteered for Special Forces. Officers had murmured of him as the coming man.

  He walked over to the tomb entrance, unlocked the door, pushed it open, revealing the sloped shaft of steps leading down to the burial chamber below, floor-lamps glowing either side with their soft insect buzzing. He watched sourly as the TV people made their way inside and then down.

  His army career had died one afternoon in Cairo. A street urchin had spat at his driver window as he’d been escorting his commanding officer to a meeting at the Ministry. It was a level of disrespect that simply couldn’t be tolerated, not with his CO watching. A passing tourist had filmed what had happened next, then passed on the footage to some do-gooder journalist who’d tracked the kid down, had filmed him lying wrapped up like some mummy in his bed. His CO had stepped in, saved him from the courts. But he’d had to agree to a transfer out of the army. He’d had to agree to join these wretched tourist police, be stationed here in the arse-end of nowhere. Six months, he’d been promised. Just until the dust settled.

  That had been eighteen months ago.

  The TV people reached the foot of the steps, crossed the wooden walkway over the sump into the burial chamber. Khaled turned his back on them. What they got up to down there meant nothing to him. It was only up here they needed watching.

  Six months ago, Amarna had been struck by the fiercest of storms, as if the end of the world had come. He and his men had driven around the site the morning after. It had been Faisal who’d spotted her, lying face-down on the rocks a little way from here, one arm flung out above her head, the other bent grotesquely back, her matted hair glued with congealed blood to a blue tarpaulin.

  Khaled had knelt beside her, touched her cheek. Her skin had been waxy and cool, speckled with sand and grit. He’d heard stories about local kids scouring the wadis after storms, hoping that the rains had broken open some undiscovered tomb, or more realistically looking for fragments of pottery in the sand, the characteristic Amarna-blue gleaming brightly after the spray-clean of violent rain. Poor stupid thing. To risk so much for so little.

  ‘Captain!’ Nasser had said. ‘Look!’

  He’d glanced up to see Nasser pointing at a narrow black slash in the sandstone wall high above their heads. His heart had clenched tight as a fist as he’d realized that the girl hadn’t died in pursuit of mere pottery fragments after all. She’d been after bigger quarry.

  Men chose their destiny in such moments. Or perhaps they simply learned who they truly were. Khaled had known his duty, that he should report this at once to his superiors. It might even win him a reprieve, a return to soldiering. But not for a moment had he considered it. No. He’d walked straight over to the cliff-face and begun to climb.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I

  There was a thin gap between Augustin Pascal’s front door and its jamb, enough for Peterson to see it was locked only on the latch, a trivial challenge to anyone with a past like his.

  A door slammed below. He took a step back, stood with his hands clasped respectfully in front, as though he’d just knocked and was waiting for an answer. Elevator cables cranked. Doors opened and closed. The lift disgorged its occupant. The block fell silent again.

  He put his ear against the door. Nothing. He quietly released the latch with a credit card, slipped inside. The bathroom door was half-closed; he could hear the splash of a man relieving himself. A laptop was set up on the kitchen table, a photograph of the mosaic from his site displayed upon it. He stared stunned at it. No wonder the Lord had brought him here.

  The loo flushed. Peterson hurried across to the bedroom, leaving the door a fraction open so that he could see. Knox came out a moment later, wiped his hands on his trousers. He went into the kitchen, sat down with his back to Peterson, clicked the laptop’s mouse, brought up an Internet browser.

  He was a naturally powerful man, Peterson, and he kept himself fit. He despised people who let any of God’s
gifts go to waste. He’d been an accomplished wrestler as a young man too. He’d enjoyed pitting his strength and technique against others, the mutual respect of close combat, the way you had to wear down your opponent like a constrictor its prey, the tautness and ache of stretched muscle, the slick sheen of pressed flesh, faces just inches apart, how that other man became your entire world for those few intense minutes of the bout. Best of all, he’d loved that delicious moment of succumbing, that almost inaudible exhalation when his opponent had known and then accepted his defeat. So he knew he had the raw attributes for the task that faced him now. Yet still he felt nervous. The Devil was a powerful adversary, not one to be taken lightly, and rarely had he sensed his presence so strongly in anyone as in Knox. Besides, even if everything went perfectly, he’d risk at least one moment of exposure. He needed to make sure that should he be seen, he couldn’t be recognized.

  On the top shelf of the wardrobe, he found a motorcycle helmet. Perfect. He put it on, tightened its chinstrap. The way it reflected his breath sounded strangely like fear. Knox was still absorbed in his laptop. Peterson pushed the door slowly open and crept up quietly behind him.

  II

  ‘Was this burial chamber truly built for the man we know as Moses?’ Stafford asked rhetorically, as Lily filmed. ‘I believe it was.’

  Gaille stood quietly outside the burial chamber as he talked, well out of shot and Stafford’s eye-line. He had a low tolerance for distraction, a low tolerance for everything.

  ‘No trace of Akhenaten’s body was ever found here,’ he continued. ‘No trace of any body. Think about that. This wonderful burial chamber, yet no one buried here.’

  Gaille pursed her lips. Traces of human remains had been found here, according to reports, though none had been preserved for analysis. And fragments of a sarcophagus built for Akhenaten had certainly been found, along with numerous shabtis, miniature Akhenaten figurines designed to do the menial work in the afterlife so that Akhenaten’s own spirit wouldn’t have to. Even should Stafford be right about the Jews coming from Amarna, it was hard to accept Akhenaten as Moses. Egyptian society had been fiercely hierarchical. Pharaohs had been obeyed, even heretic pharaohs. While Akhenaten lived, he’d have remained in charge and he’d have had no reason to leave Amarna. On the other hand, she could easily believe he hadn’t been buried in this chamber. It would have been too easy a target for vindictive enemies. So maybe they’d taken his body with them, or moved it to the Valley of the Kings, or maybe even somewhere close by.

  ‘So what did happen to Akhenaten?’ asked Stafford. ‘Where did he go? And what about all his followers, his fellow Atenists? Come with me on a marvellous journey, as I reveal for the first time ever the true story of Moses and the birth of the Jewish nation. Join me on my extraordinary Exodus quest.’

  A few seconds’ silence as Lily panned around the burial chamber, filming the faded gypsum murals. Then she lowered the camera, passed Stafford the headphones, enabling him to review the footage. ‘I preferred the first take,’ he grunted.

  ‘I told you it was fine.’

  ‘Then let’s go back up. Scout our sunset shot.’

  ‘Sunset shot?’ asked Gaille.

  ‘From the hill opposite,’ nodded Stafford. ‘We’ll pan around from the tomb mouth to the Royal Wadi. It’ll finish this segment off nicely. We start with the sun rising over Amarna, you see.’

  ‘And end with the sun setting on it?’

  ‘Exactly,’ nodded Stafford, leading the way up the steps. ‘The symbolism, you see.’

  ‘Quite.’

  He smiled sourly at her. ‘You academics,’ he said. ‘You’re all the same. You’d sell your soul for what I have.’ They emerged back out into daylight. He strode across the road to the far side of the wadi without a backward glance, surveyed it for a place to climb.

  ‘Hey! You! Stop!’

  Gaille looked around. Captain Khaled Osman was striding belligerently towards Stafford, anger and something like fear in his expression. Stafford decided to ignore him, began to climb, but Khaled grabbed his leg and violently tugged him back. Stafford fell tumbling onto rock, scraping his palms. He stood up, turned incredulously to Gaille. ‘Did you see that?’ he demanded. ‘He put his hands on me.’

  ‘You finish here,’ said Khaled. ‘Leave.’

  ‘Leave? I’ll leave when I’m good and ready.’

  ‘Leave now.’

  ‘You can’t do this. We have permission.’ He turned to Lily, emerging from the tomb. ‘Show him our paperwork.’

  Lily glanced at Gaille for some clue of what was going on, but Gaille only shrugged in bewilderment. Lily opened her folder, pulled out several paper-clipped sheets of paper. ‘There!’ said Stafford, snatching them from her, thrusting them in Khaled’s face. ‘See?’

  Khaled slapped Stafford’s hand away. The pages fluttered to the ground like a wounded bird. ‘Leave,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ muttered Stafford. ‘I don’t fucking believe this.’

  Lily picked up the pages, flipped through for the authorization to film at the Royal Tomb, and found a wide and deferential smile as she pulled the single sheet out. ‘We really do have permission, you know,’ she said, offering it back to him.

  Khaled’s complexion darkened. He took the page from her, tore it into confetti that he flung disdainfully into the air. ‘Leave,’ he said, putting his hand meaningfully upon his holster. ‘All of you. Now.’

  Gaille’s heart was thumping wildly. ‘Let’s do as he says,’ she murmured, taking Stafford’s arm. He scowled but let himself be led back to the Discovery, his bravado punctured. Gaille belted herself in, drove back down the Royal Wadi road and then across Amarna to the car ferry, Khaled and his truck looming like perdition in her rear-view mirror.

  III

  Knox felt a mild but distinctly illicit thrill as he typed in the web address of Gaille’s Digging Diary. He made the occasional visit, curious to know what she was up to. He found it strangely comforting. And this morning, with everything he’d been through, he hankered for that comfort more than usual.

  A new thumbnail photograph had been uploaded. Gaille standing outside her room with two of Fatima’s Egyptian staff, smiling happily in the sunshine, their friendship and good spirits obvious. He clicked on it; it began to download. He pulled up a second browser while he was waiting, reopened her email.

  I miss you too.

  That ‘too’ intrigued him. He’d clearly said it first. It was true enough, of course. It was just that he was surprised he’d said it. Ever since they’d become partners, he’d been scrupulous about not letting his personal feelings affect their professional relationship. Gaille’s father had been his mentor after all. His death had left Knox in a strange position. He felt a certain responsibility to her, almost as though he was in loco parentis.

  The way her hair tumbled when she turned her head. The brush of her fingertips on his forearm as she steered him across the street. There was nothing in loco parentis about that.

  The photograph finally came up. He was staring at it when he saw a shadowy reflection in the screen, a man in a motorcycle helmet creeping up behind him. He whirled around, but too late. The man grabbed him like a straitjacket, pinioning his arms down by his side. He lashed out with his heels and elbows and the back of his head, but to no effect. The man was too strong for him. He dragged Knox out through the open glass doors onto the concrete balcony, then lifted him bodily and hurled him over the rail and out screaming into space.

  TWENTY-TWO

  I

  Knox threw out his hand as he was flung from Augustin’s balcony, instinctively grabbed his assailant’s wrist, clung on for dear life, breaking his outward trajectory, falling downwards instead, swinging like a wrecking-ball on the man’s arm, crashing numbingly hard into the concrete base of the balcony. The impact knocked the wind out of him, strength from his muscles. He lost grip and tumbled down a storey to land flush on the metal railing of the balcony beneath, his
left knee buckling beneath him as he fell outwards again, scrabbling desperately for something to cling to, grabbing a cast-iron stanchion as he whirled past, skin flaying from his palm on the speckled rust, until his wrist crashed into the concrete base and ripped him free once more, yet now swinging inwards far enough to hit the rail beneath and fall onto the balcony itself, the breath once more punched out of his lungs, his whole body bruised and sore, but somehow still alive.

  He hobbled to his feet, leaned against the railing, looked up to see his helmeted attacker with his visor up, a glimpse of a compressed fraction of his face provoking a shudder of memory; but he vanished before Knox could quite grasp it, or fix his features in his mind.

  He looked around the balcony. A steel shutter stood between him and the main body of the apartment. He tried to work his fingers beneath it to prise it up, but without success. He rattled it, pounded on it, trying to attract attention. No one came. He leaned over the railing once more. The car park below was deserted. He was about to call for help when he thought again. Even if he could get someone’s attention, they’d surely only summon the police; and he didn’t fancy explaining himself to them right now, not while they still held him responsible for Omar’s death. Which left him marooned out here while a stranger in a motorcycle helmet plotted ways to kill him.

  II

  No one at the hospital was talking, so Augustin headed over to the SCA instead, arrived to find it buzzing with rumour, disoriented by grief. Omar was evidently one of those people only fully appreciated after they’re gone. Mansoor, Omar’s deputy, was in his cluttered office. ‘Terrible business,’ he said, shaking his head, looking grey and harried. ‘I can’t believe Knox had anything to do with it.’