Читать книгу The Exodus Quest - Will Adams - Страница 15

FOUR

I

Lily Auster stared bleakly out the window of the Discovery as Gaille drove them slowly through the narrow wending alleys of the Assiut bazaar. Two days into her first proper overseas assignment, already a train wreck. She clenched her fist until her nails dug pale crescents in her palm. Get a grip, girl, she told herself. A setback, that’s all. It was her job to deal with setbacks and then move on. If she couldn’t deal with such things, she should find a new career. She forced a smile first onto her lips and then up into her eyes and leaned forwards between the front seats. ‘So you’re Gaille Bonnard, yes?’ she asked with all the brightness she could muster.

‘Yes,’ agreed Gaille.

‘I rang Fatima while we were on the train,’ nodded Lily. ‘She said you’d be meeting us. Thanks so much for helping out back there. I thought we were toast.’

‘Forget it,’ said Gaille.

‘I’m Lily, by the way. Lily Auster. And of course you recognize our star, Charles Stafford.’

‘Of course,’ agreed Gaille. ‘Pleased to meet you both.’

‘Bloody maniacs!’ muttered Stafford. ‘What was wrong with those people?’

‘Things are very tense around here at the moment. Two young girls have been raped and murdered. And they were both Copts. Egyptian Christians, that is.’

‘I know what a Copt is, thank you,’ said Stafford.

‘Those poor girls,’ said Lily, checking herself in the rear-view mirror, her eyes flicking instinctively to her cheek. The laser treatments had done exactly what the brochure had promised, reducing her vivid port-wine birthmark to a reddish-brown glow that people barely even noticed any more. But she’d discovered an unwelcome truth about disfigurement: suffer it long enough, and it became a part of who you were, your personality. She still felt ugly, no matter what the mirror tried to tell her. ‘But why is it significant they were Copts?’

‘The last time anything like this happened – a murder – the police simply rounded up hundreds of other Copts. It caused an awful lot of friction with the West. People assumed it was religious discrimination, you see – Muslim on Christian; though it wasn’t, really. It’s just how the police investigate around here. They grab all the nearest people and beat them until one of them talks. But this time, instead of rounding up Copts, they’ve used it as an excuse to grab all the local Islamic firebrands and beat them instead. And their friends and families blame people like us. There’s a big march on through the city this afternoon.’

‘Charming,’ nodded Stafford, his interest fading fast. He turned to Lily. ‘What luggage did we lose?’

‘Just clothes, I think,’ said Lily. ‘I saved our equipment.’

‘My clothes, I suppose.’

‘Both our clothes.’

‘What the hell am I supposed to wear on camera?’

‘We’ll find you something. Don’t worry.’ Her smile had become strained these past few days. Working for Stafford would do that to you, particularly if your colleagues had jumped ship, as hers had. Last night over dinner he’d gone on about his recent trip to Delphi. Gnothi Seauton, the Oracle had advised. Know thyself. Stafford had sat back in his chair and claimed it as his prescription for a fulfilled life. Her unintentional snort had sprayed atomized droplets of white wine across the tablecloth. She’d never met a man with such little self-awareness, yet he’d done absurdly well, was both successful and happy. Oh, to be a narcissist, with unshakeable faith in your own beauty and wonderfulness. And to have people admire you for it too! Because they did: people were such fools, they took others at their own estimate. She turned back to Gaille. ‘Fatima said you’d come with us tomorrow. That’s so kind of you.’

‘Tomorrow?’ frowned Gaille. ‘How do you mean?’

‘Didn’t she mention it?’

‘No,’ said Gaille. ‘She didn’t. Why? What’s happening?’

‘We’re filming in Amarna. Our guide went AWOL.’

‘Good riddance to him,’ muttered Stafford. ‘Man had an attitude.’

‘That’s why we had to take the train,’ said Lily. ‘Your professor said she’d come with us. But now apparently something’s come up. So we’re really stuck. It’s not just that we need an expert to talk to camera, though that would be great. It’s that neither of us speak Arabic. I mean, our documentation’s in order and everything, but I don’t know how things work around here. Every country has its own ways, you know?’

‘I’ll have a word with Fatima when we get back,’ sighed Gaille. ‘I’m sure we’ll be able to sort something out.’

‘Thanks,’ said Lily, squeezing Gaille’s shoulder. ‘That’s brilliant of you.’ A pang of shame, quickly suppressed. It was one of the hidden penalties of ugliness that no one ever volunteered their help; you had to find other ways to get what you needed: flattery, bargaining, bribery, throwing yourself on their mercy.

They drifted to a halt. Lily glanced through the windscreen. The way ahead was blocked by metal barricades, ranks of riot police in black uniforms and helmets, the protest march passing the other side, fervent young men in robes, the perfect oval faces of the women in their hijab, others completely veiled by their niqab. A sweet stab of longing low in Lily’s stomach. As a girl, how envious she’d been of Muslim women, able to hide behind the sanctuary of burkha. ‘I hate to ask,’ she murmured, ‘but are you sure this is the right way?’

II

Knox and Omar leaned against the Jeep as they waited for Griffin. ‘Maha said these were bullet-holes from that Alexander business,’ said Omar, fingering the patched-up bodywork. ‘They’re not really, are they?’

‘Afraid so.’

Omar laughed. ‘You do live, Daniel.’

‘Only just.’ He stooped to check the ground. The site was on a gentle hummock of limestone, almost completely bare of soil, useless for farming and untouched by industrialization or property development. If people had lived here in ancient times, there was a fair chance traces of them would have survived. He looked up at the scuff of footsteps. Two middle-aged men emerged from behind the cabin, their clothes and hair grey with dust and cobwebs. ‘Mister Tawfiq,’ said the first, thrusting out his right hand, revealing a dark crescent of sweat beneath his armpit. ‘I understand you’re the new head of the SCA in Alexandria. Congratulations.’

‘Oh,’ said Omar. ‘I’m only interim head, you know.’

‘I met your predecessor, of course. A terrible tragedy to lose such a good man so young.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Omar. He turned to Knox. ‘And this is my friend, Mister Daniel Knox.’

‘Daniel Knox?’ asked the man. ‘Of Alexander’s tomb fame?’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Knox.

‘We are honoured,’ he said, shaking his hand. ‘I’m Mortimer Griffin. Chief archaeologist of this excavation.’ He turned to his companion. ‘And this is the Reverend Ernest Peterson.’

‘An excavation with its own chaplain?’ asked Knox.

‘We’re really a training dig,’ explained Griffin. ‘Most of our crew are very young, you know. Away from home for the first time, a lot of them. Their parents feel better knowing they have moral guidance.’

‘Of course,’ said Knox. He offered to shake Peterson’s hand, but Peterson just stood there, his arms folded, staring back with a granite smile.

‘So what can we do for you gentlemen?’ asked Griffin, pretending nothing had just happened. ‘All this way without an appointment. It must be important.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Knox. ‘I’m beginning to think it might be.’

III

Stafford sighed loudly as Gaille pulled to a stop by the barriers. ‘Don’t tell me we’re lost!’

‘I had to get us away from the station,’ said Gaille defensively. She leaned forwards. Late afternoon sun blurred like a headache on her dusty windscreen. There was no indication of when the march might end and the barricades be removed. Nothing for it: she pulled an awkward five-point turn in the narrow street, headed back through the bazaar and emerged onto the square outside the crowded train station, the traffic and emerging passengers forcing her to slow almost to walking pace as she worked her way through the crowd.

Two men were laughing good-naturedly as they tussled over a straw hat. ‘That’s mine!’ scowled Stafford. He lowered his window, grabbed for his hat. The two men danced off yelling cheerful insults, bringing the Discovery to general attention. People walked in front, forcing Gaille to a stop. ‘What are you doing?’ protested Stafford, raising his window back up.

‘I thought you wanted your hat.’

‘Get us out of here.’

Gaille pressed her palm on her horn, revved her engine until the throng reluctantly parted, allowing her to squirt through a gap and away. But the traffic lights ahead turned red, a three-wheel van blocking their escape. Gaille glanced back. A tall youth was swaggering after them, swinging his shoulders, probably only wanting to impress his friends; but the seconds passed and the lights didn’t change, and he drew closer and closer, so that Gaille knew he’d have to do something or look ridiculous. She checked to make sure the doors were all locked, looked around again. The man stooped, picked up a stone the size of an egg from the edge of the kerb, threw it hard. It clanged on their roof, skittered off down the street. Others began to near. A clod of earth exploded on their back window, leaving an ugly brown smear. The lights finally turned. The three-wheeler struggled to get away. Suddenly they were surrounded, people banging on their windows. A man reached beneath his robes just as an explosion, like a firecracker, made Gaille’s hands jump on the steering wheel. A wisp of smoke leaked apologetically from the three-wheeler’s exhaust as it finally picked up speed. She stamped her foot down indignantly and accelerated away.