Keystone

by Talbot, Luke

  When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Gail gathered her senses and looked around, immediately spotting the circular hole cut into the wall of the chamber a decade earlier, beyond which lay the Library itself.

  “We made it!” Patterson exclaimed, searching himself for bullet wounds.

  Ben was listening intently at the bottom of the steps, a worried look on his face.

  “Ben?” Gail asked.

  He hushed her with his hand and craned his ear upwards.

  After a moment of silence the muffled sound of Walker and his men’s automatic rifles echoed down the stairs. But this time, instead of being followed by the odd return shot, a salvo of gunshots and ricochets came back. Even from underground they could hear glass windows breaking, metal being punctured and the thuds of bullets hitting the dirt.

  “Yes!” Ben shouted, punching the air. “There must be at least three of them left.” He slapped Gail on the back, grinning. “We’ll be –”

  The rest of his sentence was cut off by a massive explosion which made the whole room shake. Dust fell from the ceiling and poured down the steps into the chamber. Seconds later another explosion shook the room, followed almost instantly by another, final blast.

  Gail instinctively clasped her hands over her ears and crouched down, closing her eyes. The rumbling from above continued for a while, eventually replaced by a loud, painful ringing. She opened her eyes cautiously and in the dust-filled air saw a pair of army boots on the floor in front of her. As the dust began to clear she could make out the uniformed legs they were attached to, then the utility belt with empty holster and spare clips of ammunition, followed by the shirt with the walkie-talkie in the breast pocket, and finally the bloodied face of Walker.

  He was lying on the floor, his back and head propped up against the last three steps. His eyes were open and he looked disoriented, blinking heavily and lolling his head from side to side.

  Ben was standing over him with Walker’s pistol in his hand, pointed directly at the soldier’s head.

  “I knew I should’ve killed you,” Walker shouted, slurring his words. “Should’ve put a bullet in you when I had the chance.”

  “Yes, you should have,” Ben replied. “What was that explosion?”

  “Did the cars blow up?” Gail asked.

  Ben shook his head. “Maybe afterwards, yes, but that first explosion sounded too big to just be cars blowing up.”

  Walker grinned, his teeth and gums full of blood. It bubbled out of his mouth as he talked. “Not heard one of those before, tough guy?” His eyes had steadied now as he trained his eyes on the Egyptian. His head still bobbed up and down slightly, but it looked like he was regaining his strength. He shifted his position and grunted, holding his ribcage as he pulled away from the steps to sit forwards.

  Ben took a step back and brought his other hand up to steady the pistol on the man’s head. “What was it?”

  “Goddamn it,” he grimaced as he removed his shirt and started to unfasten the body armour he was wearing underneath. “It was a HICUP Grenade.”

  “Hiccup?” Gail mused.

  He looked at her sarcastically. “Yeah, sweetheart. High Impact Concussion grenade. The UP stands for Under Pressure, or pressurized. When it explodes, it’s like you packed a ton of TNT into a baseball.”

  Ben looked at him with a confused look on his face. “We don’t have anything like that to throw at you, so where did it come from?”

  Walker held up his body armour to display three star-shaped impacts across the chest. “Me,” he said simply. “I pulled the pin, reached back to throw it, and then got shot. The impact of the bullets threw me back and I dropped the little bastard. Once you’ve lit a firework, you just don’t go back to it, so I had to jump for cover.” He looked at them one by one, and shook his head. “Which is how I ended up joining your little party you’ve got going on down here.”

  “OK, enough of the story. Get up,” Ben gestured with the pistol and Walker followed him to the other corner of the room. Standing a couple of metres away from him, he called over his shoulder, “Peterson, check what’s going on up there, it’s gone very quiet.”

  “Patterson,” he corrected. “Call me Henry.”

  “Oh aren’t you all just best of buddies now,” Walker said.

  They ignored him.

  Patterson left the room and Ben called over to Gail. “Don’t worry about George, Gail. I’m sure he’s fine. I left him in very good hands.”

  “Thanks, Ben,” she managed to say.

  Patterson came back down the steps with a grim look on his face. “We have a problem,” he said.

  Gail’s face dropped even further. “Are they still fighting?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so, can’t hear anything, that’s for sure.”

  “So?”

  “The entrance is blocked with rock and sand in the first flight of steps and I couldn’t make it more than ten steps up. It’s a job for proper mechanical diggers, we’re not getting out of here in a hurry.”

  They stood in silence for a few moments before Patterson continued.

  “I’m sorry, Gail, but it looks like we’re going to have to find the other entrance to the Library now, because it might be our only exit before the oxygen runs out.”

  Gail cursed under her breath.

  Ben raised an eyebrow. Looking from the steps to Gail, and then across to the hole in the wall that led to the Amarna Library, his gaze fell on Patterson, who was beating the dust from his shorts and tucking his sweat-stained shirt back under the beltline. “What other way in?”

  Chapter 69

  George sucked air into his lungs in short wheezing breaths as he slowed to a walk before finally stopping completely and bending over, his hands pressed against the insides of his thighs. It didn’t help with the rifle he’d slung awkwardly over his shoulder banging against his ribcage with every step.

  Pain seared through his chest, and he winced as he looked up to see Tariq stopping some twenty yards ahead, seemingly unaffected by the gruelling pace that he had set down the rocky terrain.

  It took all of his effort to lift an arm and motion him to wait. Tariq squatted down and used the spring in his legs to bounce impatiently up and down as he waited for the Englishman to catch his breath, never once taking his eyes off the road ahead for any sign of danger.

  From having accompanied Gail on trips back to Egypt since the discovery of the Library, George knew that they were only one turn away from the foot of the cliff. It wouldn’t do him any good to turn up for what he assumed would be a fierce gun fight if he could hardly breathe. He grunted in amusement as the mental image of him turning up to a battle and having to ask for a quick timeout popped up. It was quickly replaced by fear at the realisation that he was about to turn up to a battle.

  The pain in his ribcage had subsided, only to be replaced by a heavy ache that seemed to fill his legs, from the calf up to the thigh, spreading across his groin. He remembered the feeling from school many years earlier, when the PE teacher had forced them to run cross-country in the middle of winter. He had never been a sporty person, and he had always found himself among the stragglers who walked the final couple of miles back to the changing rooms. Arriving late had its drawbacks, especially when it meant missing the first half of the next lesson and being reprimanded by the teacher.

  He shook his head and looked up at Tariq. From behind the coloured spots that filled his vision, he could just about make out the Egyptian, who was looking over his weapon, occasionally glancing back at him, while always keeping an eye out for the road ahead.

  They couldn’t have been running for more than five minutes, but the relentless pace of the man had been too much for George, and he fought the almost overwhelming desire to topple onto his back and close his eyes. He’d stopped in the shade of the rocky slope to his right, the gentle incline to his left dropping off to what looked like a dried up river bed a dozen or so yards wide before rising up on the other side, c
reating a U-shaped valley his secondary education told him was formed by glacial displacement, not rivers.

  But he couldn’t imagine glaciers round here; maybe the school’s textbook rule didn’t apply to this hot, arid place.

  Straightening up, he pulled the AK-47 against his chest with both arms and let his legs propel him gently down the slope until he was standing next to Tariq.

  “One more corner,” he said, gesturing towards the track ahead.

  Tariq nodded and started walking forwards, covering the final yards at a more cautious pace.

  The sound of the gunfight got louder as they neared the bend, and George noted that the predominant sound was the muffled popping of the American weapons, not the harsh crackle of their own AK-47s. His heart sank noticeably, and he stood expectantly a few feet back from Tariq, who took barely two seconds to look round the corner, take stock of the situation, and return to cover.

  “Three,” he said with his fingers. He then held up just the index finger. “One of them looks dead, or dying.”

  George followed Tariq’s jerky hand signals accompanied by the odd word of English, and understood what they were about to do; Tariq would dart from cover towards the Toyota truck, which was a mere fifteen yards away. George would offer covering fire from his hiding place if required, but if they didn’t turn around, Tariq would fire a warning shot into the rocks when he reached the vehicle. Finally, all being well, George would use his command of the English language to demand and then accept the American surrender.

  It seemed like a good enough idea, so he nodded his approval. He particularly liked the fact that if all went according to the plan, he wouldn’t need to fire a single shot. He still didn’t know if his earlier vomiting had damaged the firing mechanism, so he offered the gun to Tariq to check over.

  The Egyptian glanced at it briefly and gave a quick thumbs-up.

  He checked round the corner one last time, then gave a brief nod towards George and made for the Toyota. George brought his AK-47 up and swung it round the rocks.

  They were much higher up than he had imagined, despite Tariq’s best efforts to explain the layout. The two men who were firing over the cliff’s edge were about thirty feet above him, and the third lay motionless on a small ledge a few feet further away. In his peripheral vision, he saw Tariq slide behind the front end of Ben’s Toyota. He regained his footing and took aim at the men, who were still unaware of what was going on behind them.

  George could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins as Tariq completed the outflanking manoeuvre. Without a shot fired, they were now in a winning position behind enemy lines, and he waited for Tariq to fire his warning shot before announcing their demands for surrender.

  When the shot didn’t come, he looked quizzically towards Tariq and saw him grappling with his gun. George could only imagine it was jammed, and so making sure he kept Tariq in his line of sight, moved back under cover while he waited for him to un-jam it. As he watched him feverishly taking his rifle apart, it suddenly occurred to him that he was dangerously exposed to the Americans. Despite the cover of the Toyota, he would still be visible if any of the men on the cliff happened to turn round to face the car, due to their elevated position.

  Which meant that he would have to provide cover for him.

  He felt an odd reluctance to emerge from his hiding place; while he realised it was clearly the right thing to do, the wall of rocks he was leaning against offered him some protection against the raging battle. The internal debate was short lived, and he sucked his gut in before swinging out and aiming directly at the Americans.

  “Hey!” he tried to say as he pointed the barrel of the gun at the two men. Unfortunately, his having not said anything loudly for some time together with the effects of the dry atmosphere made the word come out as a croak, like a teetotaller knocking back a shot of whisky. Somehow his voice failed to carry far enough to be heard above the noise of the battle, so he summed up his courage, cleared his throat and tried again.

  “Hey, hands –” he was about to say up when the thundering sound of an explosion tore through the air. Moments later, a couple more loud bangs came from the plateau, and he saw a cloud of dust and grit pour over the cliff’s edge and fall down towards him. “Don’t move!” he shouted to the two Americans, who had turned to face him more to shield their eyes from the fallout of the explosion than to question his ‘Hey, hands -’ challenge. “Throw down your weapons!” he added, his voice shaking as he realised the fragility of his position: two heavily armed professionals against him – a quiet Englishman with an antiquated rifle he hadn’t even fired a shot in anger from yet.

  The look of surprise on the men’s faces was evident. Standing on the track below was what looked like a tourist, covered in dust. It was only after a second take that they realised he was carrying a weapon, and that it was being pointed straight at them.

  “You wanna think real hard about what you’re doing,” the man on the left said. He sported a thick moustache, and an even thicker Texan accent. To show what he thought about George’s ‘ambush’, he levelled his gun at him, and very deliberately took aim. The second man nodded to his colleague before returning to the fight over the top of the cliff, effectively ignoring them both.

  Oddly, it wasn’t the thought of Gail needing to be rescued that made him see red, but the wonton disregard for what should have been an unassailable position of authority: him pointing a loaded weapon at two men should have been met by humble resignation, when instead it had been met by pure indifference.

  He snarled, aimed for the chest of the Texan, and squeezed his trigger finger to let out a volley of bullets.

  But none came. The trigger didn’t budge.

  The Texan grinned.

  George fumbled for the safety. Surely it had been off!

  The Texan pulled his trigger.

  A loud crackle came from the Toyota, and the Texan thumped into the cliff wall, spraying bullets as his gun-arm flew sideways. The second man turned just in time to see the barrel of his buddy’s gun pointing into his face, and a fraction of a second later the man’s trigger finger went limp.

  He slumped against the cliff, motionless, while his shooting partner cart-wheeled from the ledge and rolled down to the ground, leaving behind a trail of blood and brains.

  George clicked the safety off in time to see the two corpses settle into the dust.

  And then, almost serenely after what seemed like hours of shooting, the final echo of gunfire dissipated. His hands and forearms were numb from having held the AK-47 upright for so long, and he pulled them down till the rifle was pointing at his feet. His gaze fell on the man who had tumbled to the ground.

  The top half of his head was missing.

  Of the part that remained, only his bottom lip and chin were recognisable, the rest was covered in blood and fleshy fragments.

  He didn’t think there’d be much sick left in him after his earlier episode, but then the human body always had the capacity to catch you by surprise. After he had finished throwing up, he turned and faced the dusty plains that led to the green-belt of vegetation bordering the Nile. A cool breeze came to meet him, bringing with it the smell of the river. The smell of vegetation and oxygen. The smell of life.

  Tariq placed a hand gently on his shoulder. For a brief moment, the language barrier between them seemed to dissolve. George looked up at the Egyptian and saw complete understanding in his eyes; understanding that George had seen more death today than ever before, and understanding that for one heart-stopping moment, he had seen his own, too.

  Had it not been for the soft click of the magazine loading perfectly into Tariq’s un-jammed AK-47, the Texan would have certainly killed George.

  “Hello!” came a shout from the cliff top behind them. They turned in unison and saw Zahra waving down at them, a grim smile on her face. “Thanks for that!” She gestured for them both to come up the cliff, and Tariq helped George to his feet.

  They gathered near th
e smouldering remains of the two 4x4s and a pile of rubble which used to be the gatehouse. Leena had her arm around Manu, whose red eyes came not from the dust but the death of Haji. Tariq stood guard over the one surviving American who sat bound and motionless in the dirt, staring fixedly ahead. According to Zahra, he had run from cover moments before the explosions in an effort to outflank them. Ironically, the daring move had saved his life.

  “George,” Zahra said apologetically. “Your wife was with them, and so was Ben. They ran down the stairs just before the explosion destroyed the entrance.”

  George looked at the pile of rubble, and instead of replying started to move some of the smaller stones and fragments of breezeblock from the entrance of the Library. It looked a hopeless task.

  “George,” Zahra was about to tell him as much, but she was interrupted by a burst of Arabic from Tariq.

  Then Tariq was at George’s side, helping him lift a beam that had once been part of the tiled roof. Leena and Manu also joined in, and before long the four of them were fervently clearing rubble in search of survivors.

  Zahra took up Tariq’s place guarding the American, who looked on, unmoved.

  Chapter 70

  Mallus ordered the display off, and the satellite image of Tell el-Amarna vanished. A virtual aquarium appeared in its place, making it look like his office was underwater in some tropical paradise; colourful corals and exotic fish shimmered perfectly under the sunlight that shone down from the virtual surface above.

  He gave another command and the cityscape that had soothed his thoughts before Patterson and his men had launched their assault returned.

  The assault had failed.

  A plane soared silently through the evening sky. He’d seen it all before. He almost whispered at the screen and it switched off completely, blending seamlessly into the wall.

  The assault has failed, he thought to himself.

  He had no need to launch Plan B, as it was already in motion. On the contrary, while one word from him would call off the vans, no such communication was needed to carry on as planned. Such an act would potentially leave a trail back to him, and for Plan B to work, what was about to happen had to look like it came from outside the United States of America.