The Exodus Quest (30 page)

FIFTY-SEVEN

I

Knox shone the torch beneath the still-rising electrum curtain, illuminating the artefacts spilled across the floor behind, dulled by thick coats of sand and dust, yet still glowing brightly enough to give an idea of their material. Ivory, faïence, alabaster, leopard skin, shells, semiprecious stones. And gold. Everywhere, the lustre of gold.

The curtain was now high enough for Lily to squeeze beneath. ‘Come on, then,’ she said, reaching back for the torch. Knox grabbed Gaille’s arms, dragged her after him beneath the curtain into the crowded chamber, a narrow aisle wending between high stacks of artefacts. He picked her up, his mind swimming, trying to take everything in. Bronze candlesticks, an ebony staff, a model sailboat, a copper snake, a wooden headrest, an ankh of green jade. Two life-sized black-and-gold sentries on eternal guard, lapis lazuli eyes staring belligerently in challenge. Lily hurried by, taking the fading torchlight with her. The artefacts grew more regal. An embossed gold chariot rested upon its yoke-pole next to a double throne. A golden statue in a niche. An ornate couch with a single wooden oar fallen against it. Bowls of rubies and emeralds. He bumped against Lily; she stepped to one side and pointed the torch so that he could see for himself what had made her stop. A flight of electrum-covered steps on which stood two massive gold sarcophagi. He looked at them in quiet awe, aware the world would never be quite the same again. Akhenaten and Nefertiti. Adam and Eve.

But there was no time to dwell upon the discovery. Torchlight behind; a burst of automatic gunfire. Knox dived in search of cover, trying to heave Gaille over a gold couch, but he slipped and Gaille fell from his arms. He reached back for her just as Khaled arrived, torch clamped beneath his armpit, firing from his hip, forcing Knox to retreat into the darkness, abandoning Gaille to his mercy.

Khaled approached slowly, the Aladdin’s cave of treasures blooming and fading as he turned this way and that, Knox searching desperately among the ornaments, gemstones and furniture for something he could wield. It went dark again as Khaled turned away. Eighteenth Dynasty grave-goods were ritual in nature, Knox knew, designed to equip the pharaoh for the trials of the afterlife. Howard Carter and Lord Carnarvon had found a composite bow in Tutankhamun’s tomb. They’d found a dagger of hardened gold. What he’d give for that!

He reached out blindly, trying not to make any noise. His hand lighted on a statuette of some kind. He took hold of it, but it was made of worm-eaten wood, too light for his purpose. He set it back down, continued his exploration. His fingertips brushed something colder and heavier. His spirits soared as he realized what it was: a mace, the kind that pharaohs had used to smite their enemies. His lips tightened almost into a smile. That was more like it.

II

Once Nasser had started to talk, he wouldn’t stop. He wanted to tell Naguib everything, blaming it all on Khaled.

‘The path?’ cried Naguib. ‘Where’s this damned path?’

Nasser pointed it out to him. Naguib hurried off, shining his torch over the edge; his heart leapt into his throat at the fall that awaited any misstep. But he held his nerve and his footing too, made it at last along the precarious slick limestone to the ledge and the mouth and inside, then ran headlong down the passage to the rim of the shaft. Automatic gunfire echoed from below, sounding a great distance away.

A rope was slung around a metal peg in the floor. He grabbed it, lowered himself over the edge. Another burst of gunfire. At least it wasn’t over yet; he still had time. A hole in the wall, chest-deep water, wading through it as fast as he could, his gun held out ahead, yelling exhortation to keep himself going even though he half expected at every moment to encounter a blaze of gunfire from ahead; sick with fear, wondering how Yasmine and Husniyah would take the news if anything should happen, yet not letting it slow him either, for he’d given Knox his word, and this was his nature, and he’d rather have his loved ones grieve for him than be ashamed.

III

Khaled advanced slowly into the treasure chamber, artefacts glowing as his torch ran over them, before dying back down to a reddish smoulder. He couldn’t believe his eyes. More gold than he’d ever dreamed of; and he’d dreamed a lot. He’d be the wealthiest man in Egypt with all this, the wealthiest in all the world. Houses, yachts, planes, women, power: everything he’d ever coveted, that he’d always believed his due. But how to make it his? How to get out of here and make it his?

‘Guard my back,’ he ordered Faisal. ‘No one comes through. Understand?’

‘But we can still—’

He thrust his face into Faisal’s, jammed the muzzle of the AK-47 into his belly. ‘That was an order,’ he yelled. ‘Are you going to obey it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

He turned face front again, searching the golden nooks and crannies with his torch. The woman Gaille was lying on the floor. At first he assumed her dead, but there was little sign of blood or trauma. He stooped, checked her throat, found a flutter of pulse. Still alive. Maybe he could use her. He stood up, aimed down at her face. ‘Come out,’ he shouted, his voice ringing around the chamber. ‘I’ll shoot her if you don’t. I mean it. Come out.’

Nothing happened. Not so dumb. He considered executing his threat, but decided against it. Killing her would only show the others for sure what fate awaited them, encourage them to fight all the harder. He advanced further, jagging his torch sharply this way and that, hoping to catch them by surprise. An intake of breath to his left, he turned towards it, his torch lighting up Lily cowering behind her forearms in the narrow gap between a throne and a painted wooden chest. She gave a soft whimper when she realized he’d seen her, began to shriek and carried on shrieking. He slammed the butt of his AK-47 into her forehead, if only to shut her up. Her temple smacked against the chest, she slumped unconscious at his feet. With two women now captive, the dynamic had changed. He could shoot one simply to show he was in earnest, then threaten the other to force the man to reveal himself. He aimed down at Gaille once more. ‘You’ve got five seconds,’ he said. ‘Four. Three. Tw—’

A blur in the reflection of one of the golden sarcophagi; the man launching himself from the stacked treasures, swinging a mace in both hands. Khaled ducked, but not quickly enough. It caught his shoulder, leaving his left arm dangling numbly, his torch clattering to the floor. He swung the AK-47 around, catching the man across his cheek, the mace spilling from his grasp. He grabbed for it but Khaled clubbed the AK-47 on the back of his head and he went down hard.

Noise way back down the passage. A man yelling out and splashing through water. He recognized his voice too. That damned policeman Naguib! And he’d be here in a minute, no doubt bringing others with him. Hatred twisted Khaled’s heart like a towel being wrung dry. He’d only wanted to make a half-decent life for himself. What had he done to these damned people, that they insisted on ruining it?

The man groaned and turned onto his side. Khaled’s left arm was still too numb to use, but he didn’t need it to fire the AK-47. He aimed down, was about to pull the trigger when he had a better idea. He turned the gun on Gaille instead, wanting the man to watch these two women die, to know that all his efforts had been in vain. He felt a gloating sensation in his belly as his finger tightened on the trigger. The loudness of the shot in the confined space took him by surprise. The way it echoed, the orange glow of muzzle flash reflected in all this fabulous gold. The AK-47 dropped from his grasp, clattered to the ground. He was surprised to find himself falling then lying on his side, saliva leaking from his mouth, the salty taste of it. The second shot punctured high on his ribcage, kicking him onto his back. He looked up to see Faisal standing above him,
Faisal
of all people, pointing his own beloved Walther down at his chest, a look of perfect calmness on his face.

He tried to ask the question, but for some reason his mouth wasn’t working any more. He had to ask it with his eyes instead.

‘She gave me chocolate,’ answered Faisal. ‘What did you ever give me?’ Then he raised the muzzle to Khaled’s face and pulled the trigger a third and final time.

EPILOGUE

It was the worst part of Knox’s day, arriving at the hospital without knowing whether Gaille’s night had gone well or badly. His heart began to pound as he pushed through the double doors into reception, his mouth drying unpleasantly. But a nurse leaning against the counter saw him and nodded genially. ‘She’s awake,’ he said.

‘Awake?’

‘Just after you left last night.’

‘What?’ he protested. ‘Why didn’t someone call me?’

The nurse gave a ‘not-my-business’ kind of shrug. Knox had to hide his exasperation. There were times when Egypt drove him crazy. But then relief took over; he was too glad to be indignant. He took the steps three at a time as he hurried up to the second floor, bumped into a doctor coming out of her room.

‘How is she?’

‘She’s fine,’ he smiled. ‘She’s going to be just fine. She’s been asking for you.’

He went inside, half expecting to find her sitting up in bed, smiling brightly, bruises healed, bandages removed. It wasn’t like that, of course. Her black-ringed eyes slid to the side to see who’d just entered, she managed a smile. He showed her the flowers and fruit he’d bought, made space for them on the windowsill. Then he kissed her forehead and sat down. ‘You look terrific,’ he told her.

‘They told me what you did,’ she slurred. ‘I can’t believe it.’

‘Nor should you,’ he agreed. ‘I paid them a fortune.’

A little laugh; a wince of pain. ‘Thanks,’ she said.

‘It was nothing,’ he assured her, covering her hand with his. ‘Now close your eyes and get some rest.’

‘Tell me first.’

‘Tell you what?’

‘Everything.’

He nodded, sat back, composed his thoughts. So much had been happening, it was hard to know where to start. ‘Lily sends her love,’ he said. She’d flown back home with Stafford’s body, but there was no need to go into that just yet. ‘And we’ve been on TV a fair bit.’ A contender for understatement of the year, that. It had been pandemonium since that night, everyone wanting to take credit for the discovery of Akhenaten’s tomb, while simultaneously distancing themselves from the mayhem that had surrounded it. Knox had been happy to let them fight between themselves. All he’d cared about was getting Gaille to the nearest decent hospital. The fear had been eating at him ever since, that he’d got to her too late; a fear so intense it had forced him to acknowledge to himself how much deeper his feelings for her ran than ordinary friendship.

But once he’d seen her – and Lily too – safely into the hands of competent and motivated doctors, he’d done his best to answer the questions the police and the SCA had thrown at him. He’d told them about the Therapeutae and the Carpocratians, their Borg el-Arab site, the figure in the mosaic and the Greek letters that spelled out Akhenaten’s name. He’d told them his theories about the Exodus and, when the tiredness had got too much for him, he’d foolishly shared his wilder ideas about Amarna and the Garden of Eden.

He’d woken, the following morning, to a media firestorm. The tomb of Akhenaten and Nefertiti was by itself quite enough to draw all the world’s major networks; but someone had leaked his theories too, and that had taken the story to another level. Reputable journalists were excitably reporting as fact that Akhenaten and Nefertiti had been Adam and Eve, for how else could details of their last resting place have been described so precisely in the Book of the Cave of Treasures. And they were claiming that the riddle of the Exodus was conclusively solved too: that the Jews had been Amarna’s monotheists forced to flee Egypt by Akhenaten’s reactionary successors.

But the backlash had started at once, historians mocking the putative link between Amarna and Eden, claiming that the Book of the Cave of Treasures had been written two millennia after Akhenaten, making any connection purely coincidental. And religious scholars had weighed in too, ridiculing the notion that Adam, Abraham, Joseph and the other patriarchs had all been Akhenaten, pointing out the Creation and Flood accounts predated Amarna, insisting that Genesis wasn’t a concertina simply to be squeezed that way.

But it was Yusuf Abbas, secretary general of the Supreme Council for Antiquities, who’d had the most sobering effect. First, he’d dismissed Knox as a glory-hunting sensationalist, not a serious archaeologist. Then he’d observed that the Amarna tombs had been inhabited by pioneering Christian monks in the early centuries AD, making them a far more plausible conduit for any knowledge of Akhenaten held by the Gnostics of Borg el-Arab. And once you took their mosaic out of the equation, everything else was mere speculation. Even Knox had to acknowledge it was a plausible explanation. And, just like that, what had briefly seemed clear was opaque once more, fertile territory for academics to squabble over for the next hundred years.

As for the Reverend Ernest Peterson, one night in custody had done for him. According to Naguib, he’d not so much confessed to his crimes as boasted about them, bragging of his sacred mission to find the face of Christ and bring the world to the light. He’d admitted responsibility for Omar’s death, and told how he’d tried to kill Knox again and again. How he’d gladly do it all over. A Soldier of the Lord, he called himself. A Soldier of the Lord who was about to spend the rest of his life in an Egyptian gaol. Knox wasn’t a vindictive man, but there were times he had to laugh.

Augustin had visited the afternoon before. He hadn’t stayed long; he’d needed to get his new girlfriend Claire back to Alexandria. Knox had taken to her at once. Tall and gentle and shy, yet with an inner strength, a million miles from the glamour of Augustin’s usual conquests. Yet in all the years he’d known him, he’d never seen his French friend so obviously smitten, so proud of another person.

Gaille’s eyes had closed. He watched her for a while, thinking she’d fallen asleep. But then she suddenly opened them again and reached out a hand. ‘Don’t leave me,’ she said.

‘No.’

She closed her eyes again. She looked at peace. She looked beautiful. He checked his watch. He had a full day on. The police wanted to talk to him again. Yusuf Abbas had summoned him to the SCA’s Cairo HQ to explain himself. And rival newspaper groups from around the world had been calling non-stop, bidding eye-watering amounts for his exclusive.

Let them bid.

He pulled a paperback from his pocket and settled down to read.