Sphinx (56 page)

Later I drove back to the site where I’d buried the astrarium. It was mid-morning by the time I reached the dune and the sun was radiating waves of heat that pushed against my eyes and dried my throat and nostrils. As I began to climb the ridge, I tried to distract myself from the fear of finding something extraordinary by visualising the sedimentary structure I was walking on, the consoling thought of all that black gold beneath my feet. It didn’t work and by the time I could see the gaping hole where I’d buried the rucksack my whole body thudded in time with my heart.

Rubble lay strewn around the hole, as if whoever or whatever had dug up the astrarium had done so in a frenetic manner. I kneeled down. Bird prints ran in a hectic pattern around the edges of the vacant grave, the unmistakable claw marks of the sparrowhawk. I looked up at the sky. It was a void of blue.

When I got back to camp the hut was empty, and according to the astrarium I had only two days to live.

 

Later that day, with me disguised once more as a Coptic monk, Moustafa and I left for the safe house he’d organised in Alexandria. I knew I was driving straight into the face of danger and the very real possibility that Mosry would be waiting for me. But with the political situation reaching a climax and potentially only twenty-four hours to go until my death, I needed to force some kind of confrontation - and that wasn’t going to happen with me hiding out in the desert.

The drive took twelve hours and we arrived not long before dawn. Our meeting with Mr Imenand was scheduled for that morning. Judging by the crowing roosters and braying donkeys I could hear as we approached the safe house, I suspected it was situated near or above a livestock market.

It was a neoclassical apartment that had seen grander days. Decorated in a glitzy mock Louis XVI style, it looked like the kind of place a government official would procure for his downtown mistress. Moustafa assured me that we had the apartment for the whole day, after which he’d drive me back to Wadi El-Natrun. I hadn’t told him I might not need the ride back.

At nine a.m. four of us gathered around the long glass-topped dining table below a large black-and-silver glass chandelier. Mr Waalif, the official representing the Egyptian Government Oil Agency, sat opposite Moustafa and myself, staring at the spreadsheets and surveillance maps that Moustafa had supplied. A cadaverous man in his late fifties, whose flat features were covered in an inordinate number of large sunspots, Waalif had mentioned nothing about the clandestine nature of the meeting, but that didn’t really surprise me. Waalif was famous for two things - discretion and his own clandestine deals. His approval was essential if we were to get the licensing agreement.

Sitting at the other end of the table was Mr Eminites, Mr Imenand’s representative, a short Jordanian dressed in a pale blue jellaba with an expensive tie and shirt underneath. He wore large black-framed glasses wrapped around his wide face. Initially he’d seemed friendly, but had frosted up when I demanded an explanation why Mr Imenand wasn’t there himself. My insistence had shocked my polite companions, but after Moustafa had murmured something into Mr Eminites’s ear the representative had assured me that Mr Imenand would be at the meeting but in his own time, and that we should begin without him. None of which I had found reassuring.

Waalif cleared his throat. ‘So, Mr Warnock, I understand that you and Moustafa Saheer, in partnership with Mr Imenand, wish to lease the land for an initial exploration period of three years, followed by a production period of twenty-five years at our standard terms. That will mean an annual land fee as set out in schedule four, production bonuses as set out in schedule five, a government royalty as set out in schedule six, and a share of production as set out in schedule seven. I gather the initial work programme is already agreed.’

Mr Eminites glanced at the draft contract in front of him. I found his expression impossible to interpret and without the presence of our enigmatic benefactor it all felt very risky.

‘We obviously can’t predict the eventual production,’ I said. ‘But we are confident that the reservoir is there and that we can get the best from it.’

‘And who will be the other oil company partnering us?’ Waalif went on.

Moustafa and I exchanged glances. Mr Eminites adjusted his tie knot before speaking in polite but heavily accented English.

‘There will be no other partners. This is one of the conditions of Mr Imenand’s commitment, which, as you can see, is considerable. He also insists that the exploration programme should begin within the month.’

‘That quickly?’ I interjected, wondering silently if I would myself live long enough to see the work begin.

‘Mr Imenand is not a young man and he is keen to see the fruits of his investment.’

‘This is unusual,’ Waalif said. ‘But the Egyptian government is respectful of Mr Imenand’s eminence and the significant capital he is offering this project, and we trust our friend Mr Warnock. So we are happy to proceed on this basis.’

Waalif, a pedantic negotiator famous for exhausting his colleagues with endless minutiae, was smiling; his usual arrogance seemed to have been replaced by what I could only describe as reverence. I sat back, trying to conceal my astonishment. Who exactly was this Mr Imenand? The only information I’d gleaned from Moustafa was that he had extensive investments right across the Mediterranean, from Spain to Turkey, as well as in North Africa, and that he’d had been based in Greece for most of his working life. His holdings were complete and, more interestingly, he had no heirs. It wasn’t much to go on, but without the backing of GeoConsultancy I knew it would be hard to raise the funds by ourselves for even the most basic exploration, and never on the terms that he was offering. I had no choice but to trust him.

Suddenly I was aware of a change of atmosphere in the room. Mr Eminites had risen to his feet, bowing his head reverently. The others followed suit. I swung around. Behind me, silhouetted in the doorway, was a thin figure.

‘Oliver Warnock. It is a delight to meet such a legendary individual in person.’

Imenand’s voice was resonant; the bass notes seemed to reverberate right down into my feet. He stepped out of the sunlight and I could see him properly. Lean and around five feet eight inches tall, he was dark-skinned, almost Libyan in appearance, with a finely honed face that had high cheekbones and a long curved nose. His age was hard to guess: I estimated he was somewhere between fifty and seventy - his skin had the well-preserved sheen of wealth. His posture was upright and regal, and he exuded a charisma that I had witnessed only once before - on the one occasion I had met Prince Faisal. He was immaculately dressed in what looked like a Savile Row black suit, with a lavishly patterned cravat and matching handkerchief. The cravat was held in place by a gold tiepin modelled in the shape of an ostrich feather; it was an eccentric detail that suggested a man capable of unconventional behaviour.

Mr Eminites pulled out a chair for the new arrival. ‘Mr Warnock, it is my honour to introduce you to Mr Imenand,’ he said.

The entrepreneur held out his hand and I shook it. To my astonishment, although the skin on his hand appeared youthful, it felt like that of a far older man.

‘Nice to put a face to the enigma, Mr Imenand,’ I said.

‘And for me to meet the Diviner. Your reputation precedes you - I have been following your career for a while now. You have a very successful exploration record, one of the most impressive on the globe.’

‘You exaggerate,’ I replied modestly. To my surprise, Imenand seemed to take offence.

‘I never exaggerate. Perhaps you are unaware of the full extent of your powers. At your age that is not merely foolhardy, it is also culpable.’

‘I am a scientist, Mr Imenand, no more, no less. I am thorough in my research.’

‘We shall see. But I must extend my condolences for the loss of your wife. She was a great archaeologist.’

‘You knew of her too?’ I felt uncomfortable. I knew so little about this man and yet his familiarity seemed to create an odd intimacy between us.

‘I have read several of her papers. I am a collector of antiquities and, one could say, a little of an archaeologist myself - amateur, of course.’ He laughed, and the others followed him politely. ‘But now, to business. You are satisfied with the terms of the contract?’

Cornered, I became flustered. ‘Yes, they are fine.’

‘Do not be deceived, Mr Warnock - or may I call you Oliver?’

I nodded.

‘Oliver, I shall be taking a strong personal interest in the exploration. I have decided to make you my hobby.’

Again he laughed, and again, like a chorus, the others joined in. I didn’t; something in me wanted to resist the allure of that charisma spreading like perfume throughout the room.

‘So we have a deal?’ I said bluntly, refusing to play along. Immediately the laughter was cut short.

Moustafa glanced at me, his expression pensive as if I had overstepped the mark. Mr Eminites coughed, while Waalif adjusted his wide silk tie. The tension built until finally Mr Imenand broke into a smile, to the others’ visible relief.

‘We have a deal, and now I have a plane to catch. But we will be seeing a lot of each other in the future, Oliver - that much is certain.’

We shook hands again.

Mr Eminites gathered up our presentation material and placed it in his briefcase. As he moved to open the door, I noticed that he manoeuvred himself so his back was never presented to his employer. Mr Imenand paused in the doorway, and to my astonishment, he winked at me before walking out the door.

While Moustafa was out buying supplies for the long drive back to the monastery, I unwrapped the astrarium. Nothing had changed: the mechanism was still whirring away and the tiny pointer with the head of Seth was now only one degree away from my death date.

Carefully, I wrapped the device up again. The meeting with Mr Imenand had disturbed me. Was he just interested in the exploration or did he have other intentions? I needed to get out of Alexandria as soon as possible - but there was one encounter I had to have before leaving.

I waited until Moustafa returned. After asking him to guard the bag containing the astrarium, I stepped once more onto the streets disguised as a Coptic priest.

 

The prison guard slipped the fifty Egyptian pounds into the back pocket of his uniform and beckoned me into a narrow corridor reeking of urine and disinfectant.

‘Mr Hermes, he special friend, maybe?’

Ignoring the guard’s grin, I followed him, fighting disorientation and fear as I recognised the peeling plaster and old metal doors from my own interrogation only a week before. We walked past cell after cell - some of them empty and unlit; some with men curled in the corners, abandoned knots of despairing humanity. Some called out for help; others chanted in prayer, rocking themselves backwards and forwards.

At the end of the corridor was a slightly larger cell with a wooden bench and a latrine bucket in the corner. Hermes Hemiedes lay on the bench, wrapped in a grey blanket that he had pulled all the way over his face, almost as if in shame. His old man’s legs - pale, with twisting veins encircling the thin ankles - stuck out from underneath, the feet, gnarled with bunions, thrust into a pair of battered oversized sandals.

‘Thirty minutes,’ the prison guard informed me, unlocking the barred door with a large iron key. ‘Normally fifteen, but for you,’ he tapped the money in his back pocket, ‘thirty.’

He left, locking me in behind him.

‘Oliver?’ Hermes threw the blanket off his head and sat up. I was relieved to notice that his face didn’t appear to be bruised. ‘Thank God you’ve come. I cannot stay here - I will not come out alive!’

‘Hermes, please, let’s not panic. Tell me first, what have they charged you with?’

‘I have been charged with conspiracy to undermine the state. It is a trumped-up lie. And they have attacked me.’

‘The prison guards?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous - the prisoners! They ambushed me in the yard and . . . humiliated me.’

‘Really? You look unmarked.’

‘You don’t understand. For an individual such as myself, with differences . . .’

‘Your sexual orientation?’

‘My sexual orientation?’ He laughed bitterly. ‘If only it were that simple.’

Noticing my expression, Hermes slowly lifted his stained prison shirt to reveal pendulous shrivelled breasts - female breasts.

‘You’re a hermaphrodite?’ I struggled to keep the astonishment out of my voice.

Suddenly all the oddities I’d noticed about the Egyptologist made sense: the hairlessness of his skin, the narrow shoulders, the wide hips, the curiously wavering tone of his voice, which now reminded me of the alto voice of an older woman. He covered himself up. ‘In this life I have chosen to live as a man.’