The Hidden Oasis (31 page)

Re-entering the museum’s administrative section, they climbed the spiral staircase up to the photographic department. The darkroom door was still closed.

‘How’s it going, Majdi?’ Flin called, knocking.

No response. He knocked again, harder.

‘Majdi? You in there?’

Still nothing. He gave one final knock, then grasped the handle and opened the door. There was a fractional pause as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, then:

‘Oh God! Oh no!’

Freya was behind Flin, her view blocked by his tall frame. Stepping forward, she looked around him. Her hand shot up to her mouth as she realized what he was looking at, and a horrified gagging sound issued from deep within her throat. Majdi was crumpled on the darkroom floor, his eyes wide open, his throat slit from ear to ear. There was blood everywhere, a viscous black wash of it – on the
Egyptian’s face, his shirt, his hands, pooled all around his head like a halo.

‘Oh Majdi,’ Flin groaned, thumping a fist against the doorframe. ‘Oh my friend, what have I done?’

‘
Salaam
.’

Flin and Freya spun. The twins were sitting on a sofa on the far side of the room. One of them was holding a strip of developed film, the other a blood-smeared flick-knife. Both were blank-faced and unperturbed, as if the scene in the darkroom was no more shocking to them than the sight of someone sipping tea or playing ping-pong. A thud of feet and four more men appeared at the top of the spiral staircase, blocking off any escape. One had a black eye and a grotesquely swollen nose and lip – the heavy Flin had punched in the lift back at the American University. He shouted something to the twins and they nodded. Coming forward, he squared up to Flin, leering at him, then slammed his huge hands down on the Englishman’s shoulders and drove a knee viciously into his groin.

‘
Ta’ala mus zobry, ya-ibn el-wiskha
,’ he growled as Flin slumped to the floor, gasping in agony. ‘Suck my cock, you son-of-a-bitch.’

For a moment Freya was too shocked to react. Then, balling her fist, she swung for the man. Her punch didn’t get close to connecting as her arm was seized from behind and yanked up her back. The photograph was ripped out of her hand. She struggled and kicked and swore, but they were too strong for her and when a pistol muzzle was pressed against her temple she knew it was pointless trying to resist and gave up. Still groaning in
pain, Flin was hoisted to his feet and frisked, his mobile phone pulled from his pocket and crushed underfoot. He and Freya were pushed towards the staircase, the twins following on behind, the one with the flick-knife wiping the blade clean on a handkerchief as he went. As they started down the stairs Freya craned her neck, looking back first at Majdi’s blood-drenched corpse, and then at Flin.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her voice hoarse with shock, her face grey. ‘I should never have got you involved. Either of you.’

Flin shook his head.

‘I’m sorry,’ he croaked, barely able to get the words out he was in so much pain. ‘Should never have got
you
involved.’

Before she could ask what he meant one of the thugs growled something and pushed the pistol harder into her neck, forcing her to look forward again. After that the only sound was the clatter of their feet on the metal stairs and the agonized rasp of Flin’s breathing.

Outside the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities Cy Angleton sat on a plinth in a corner of the sculpture garden, watching as Flin and Freya were hustled out of a side door. Although Brodie was hobbling badly, and the men around them were pressing in slightly closer than was strictly necessary, there was nothing obviously untoward about the group of which they were a part, and no one – neither the tourists thronging the garden nor the white-uniformed police sentries stationed at intervals around its perimeter – gave them a second look.

Angleton alone stared at them, gazing intently as they passed through the gardens and out of the museum’s main gate. He gave it a moment, then followed, tracking them as they turned right along the pedestrianized street in front of the museum, moving away from Midan Tahrir. Taxi touts and trinket sellers buzzed around him, offering postcards, carvings and the inevitable ‘special trip no one else offer to Pyramid and papyrus factory’. Angleton waved them away, trailing the group past the Hilton Hotel and down to the Corniche el-Nil, where two cars – a black BMW and a silver Hyundai people carrier – were waiting, engines running. The twins climbed into the BMW while the two westerners were jostled into the Hyundai and the door was slammed behind them. As it did, Brodie happened to glance up, his eye momentarily catching Angleton’s before the convoy moved off into the evening traffic.

‘You want antiquity, mister?’

A young boy, no more than six or seven years old, had come up beside the American, proffering a crude and obviously modern carving of a cat.

‘Twenty Egyptian pound,’ said the boy. ‘Very ancient. You want?’

Angleton said nothing, his eyes locked on the cars as they sped away down the Corniche.

‘Ten Egyptian pound. Very good carving. You want, mister?’

‘What I want,’ murmured Angleton, ‘are some goddam answers.’

He watched until the cars were out of sight. Then, reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a wad of notes and thrust
them at the boy before turning and lumbering back in the direction of the museum.

‘You want go Pyramid, mister? You want go perfume shop? Real Egypt perfume. Very cheap, very good for wife.’

Angleton just waved a hand over his shoulder and continued walking.

In the grounds of the American Embassy Molly Kiernan paced anxiously up and down, her ID card flapping on its chain around her neck, her eyes flicking between her mobile phone and the Embassy’s north gate. All staff and visitors had to pass through here and occasionally the door of the gate’s security lobby would swing open and someone would emerge. Every time they did Kiernan stopped and stared, only to shake her head and resume her pacing, patting her phone against her thigh as if trying to force it to ring. Twice it did, Kiernan answering before the phone had even finished its first chime. The calls weren’t what she was hoping for, and, politely but firmly, she cut them short.

‘Come on,’ she whispered. ‘What’s happening here? Where are you? Come on!’

‘And how exactly will you get them out of the country, Mr Girgis?’

‘I believe that is what you call a trade secret, Monsieur
Colombelle. All you need to know is that the sculptures will arrive in Beirut at the agreed time on the agreed date. And for the agreed sum of money.’

‘And they’re 18th Dynasty? You can confirm that absolutely?’

‘I deliver what I promise to deliver. You have been told the pieces are 18th Dynasty and that is exactly what they are. I do not deal in fakes or reproductions.’

‘With the Akhenaten cartouche?’

‘With the Akhenaten cartouche, the Nefertiti cartouche and everything else that was described to you by my antiquities expert. Unfortunately Mr Usman is engaged on other business this evening and unable to join us, but rest assured the goods will more than live up to your expectations, if not exceed them.’

Monsieur Colombelle – a small, dapper Frenchman with unnaturally black hair – let out a satisfied chuckle.

‘We’re going to make a lot of money, here, Mr Girgis. A lot of money.’

Girgis opened his hands.

‘That is the only reason I do business. If I might recommend, the lobster ravioli is particularly good.’

The Frenchman peered at his menu while Girgis sipped at a glass of water and glanced across the table at his two colleagues. Boutros Salah, a jowelly, thickset man with a bristling moustache and a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, and Mohammed Kasri – tall, bearded, hook-nosed – met his gaze and all three gave a faint nod to acknowledge the deal was in the bag.

The dinner was an unwelcome distraction for Girgis, but Colombelle had flown into Cairo specially and with his
clients waiting for delivery of the stolen sculptures it couldn’t very well be put off. The sum involved – $2 million – was not enormous – negligible when compared with the whole Zerzura thing – but business was business and so the meeting had gone ahead. The four of them had worked through the details of the deal while underneath the table Girgis had tapped his foot impatiently, waiting for news of what was on the camera film, whether it would lead them to the oasis. He had hoped for a result sooner than this – his people had been looking at the negatives for over an hour now – but was trying to stay calm. At least they had the negatives, and Brodie and the girl as well, which was a step in the right direction. He took another sip of water, checked his mobile and started to peruse his own menu, trying to take his mind off things. As he did so a waiter approached and, leaning down, whispered into his ear. Girgis nodded. Pushing his chair back, he stood.

‘You must forgive me, Monsieur Colombelle, but something unexpected has come up and I am required elsewhere. My colleagues will answer any further questions you might have and, should you wish it, arrange entertainment once the meal is over. It has been a pleasure doing business with you.’

He shook hands with the Frenchman, who looked slightly nonplussed by the abruptness of his host’s departure, and, without further ado, turned and left the restaurant. Outside his limousine was waiting. The driver held open the rear door and a plump, dishevelled man with a pudding-bowl haircut and thick-lensed plastic spectacles shifted along the back seat to make room for Girgis: Ahmed Usman, his antiquities specialist.

‘So?’ asked Girgis once the door was closed.

Usman drummed the tips of his fingers together. There was something curiously mole-like in the action.

‘Nothing, I’m afraid, Mr Girgis. Half the film was spoilt, and the other half …’

He handed over a sheaf of A4 photographic prints.

‘Useless, completely useless. See, all the images are from inside the oasis – nothing to help identify the location. It’s like trying to find a house in the middle of a city when all you’ve got to go on is a picture of the bathroom. Completely useless.’

Girgis flicked through the shots, his mouth curled into something midway between a grimace and a snarl.

‘Could you have missed something?’

Usman shrugged, patted the tips of his fingers together again.

‘I’ve gone through them extremely carefully, so I’d say not. Then again …’ He gave a nervous laugh.

‘… I’m not a world authority on the subject.’

‘Brodie?’

‘Professor Brodie is
the
world authority.’

‘Then I think it’s time to go and have a discussion with him,’ said Girgis, handing the photographs back. Picking up the limousine’s intercom phone, he issued instructions to the driver.

‘I really can’t see him helping,’ said Usman as they started to move away. ‘Even if he managed to spot something. From what I’ve heard he’s a rather …’

Another nervous laugh.

‘… stubborn character.’

Girgis adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, brushed something off his jacket.

‘Believe me, once Manshiet Nasser’s finished with Professor Brodie there’s nothing he won’t do for us. He’ll be pleading to help. Begging.’

‘Gotcha,’ murmured Freya, trapping the cockroach under the toe of her trainer. Its exoskeleton made a moist, crunching sound as she slowly ground it into the floor, smearing it across the dusty concrete, its yellowy-brown innards joining those of the other roaches she’d dispatched over the last hour.

‘You OK?’ asked Flin.

She shrugged.

‘Not really. How’s the … ?’ She nodded towards his crotch.

‘I’ll live. Although I don’t think I’ll be doing any cycling for a while.’

She gave a weak smile.

‘What do you think they’re going to do to us?’

It was Flin’s turn to shrug.

‘On recent evidence, nothing particularly pleasant. They’d know better than me.’

He nodded towards the three men sitting silently opposite, sub machine-guns balanced in their laps.