The Exodus Quest. Will Adams

that on you,’ she said. ‘But my doctor came today. He’s not happy with my … prognosis.’

      ‘Oh, no,’ said Gaille wretchedly. ‘Oh, Fatima.’

      ‘I’m not looking for sympathy,’ she said sharply. ‘I’m explaining the situation. He’s ordered me to hospital tomorrow for tests. So I won’t be able to accompany Stafford as I’d promised. Someone must take my place. I’ve already banked my fee and I assure you I’m not paying it back.’

      ‘Why not one of the others?’ asked Gaille. ‘They know more than I do.’

      ‘No they don’t. You spent two seasons excavating Amarna with your father, didn’t you?’

      ‘I was only a teenager. It was over a decade ago.’

      ‘So? None of my people have spent anything like that much time there. And you studied the Eighteenth Dynasty at the Sorbonne, didn’t you? And haven’t you just been back there with Knox? Besides, we both know that Western audiences will respond more positively to a Western face, a Western voice.’

      ‘He’ll make it seem like I’m endorsing his ideas.’

      ‘You won’t be.’

      ‘I know I won’t be. But that’s how he’ll make it look. He’ll take what he needs and ignore everything else. He’ll make me a laughing stock.’

      ‘Please.’ Fatima touched her wrist. ‘You don’t know how tight our budget is. Once I’m gone—’

      Gaille winced. ‘Don’t talk like that.’

      ‘It’s the truth, my dear. I need to leave this project in good financial health. It’s my legacy. And that means raising the profile of this region. I’m asking you to help. If you feel you can’t, I suppose I could always postpone my tests.’

      Gaille blinked and clenched her jaw. ‘That’s unfair, Fatima.’

      ‘Yes,’ she agreed.

      The wall-clock ticked away the seconds. Gaille finally let out her breath. ‘Fine,’ she sighed. ‘You win. What exactly do you want me to do?’

      ‘Just be helpful. That’s all. Help them make a good programme. And I want you to show them the talatat too.’

      ‘No!’ cried Gaille. ‘You can’t be serious.’

      ‘Can you think of a better way to generate publicity?’

      ‘It’s too early. We can’t be anything like sure. If it turns out we’re wrong—’

      Fatima nodded. ‘Just show them the place, then. Explain how your image software works, how you recreate those old scenes after all these centuries. Leave everything else to me. My doctor insists I eat, after all. I’ll join you for dinner tonight. That way, if anyone’s made a laughing stock over this, it’ll be me.’

       SEVEN

      I

      Night fell as Knox and Omar headed back towards the excavation site, avoiding the route they’d taken before, wary of being spotted. They took farm tracks instead, crossing a wooden bridge over another irrigation channel into a field, then navigating by moonlight until their further progress was balked by a high stone wall. By his reckoning, the Texas Society site lay across a lane just the other side. He trundled on a short distance until he spotted a padlocked steel gate, rolled to a stop.

      His white shirt glowed treacherously in the moonlight when he got out of the Jeep, so he rummaged in the back for a dark polo-neck jersey for himself, found a jacket for Omar too. Then he patted his pockets to make sure he had his camera-phone, and set off. A bird hooted and flapped lazily away as they climbed the gate. They crossed the lane, reached the irrigation channel. Knox grinned at Omar, enjoying himself, but Omar only grimaced in response, his discomfort clear.

      Knox clambered down the near bank, taking a cascade of earth and stone with him, stepped across the dank ribbon of water at its foot, scrambled up the far bank on his palms and knees, peered cautiously over the top. The landscape was flat and featureless, making it hard to get a fix. He waited for Omar to arrive then crouched low and headed on in. He’d barely gone fifty metres before he trod on a fat stone and turned his ankle, stumbling to the ground. There were many such stones, he now saw, pale-grey and rounded, some even arranged in rough cairns, all aligned in the same direction. He came across a tent of translucent plastic sheeting, pulled it back to expose a pit beneath, a crumbled wall of ancient bricks at its foot, filtered moonlight glowing on a domed skull, thin curved ribs and long bones. ‘Neat rows of white stones,’ he murmured, taking a photograph, though without his flash attachment he wasn’t sure quite what would show up. ‘Just like the cemetery at Qumran. Skeletons pointing south, their faces turned to the rising sun. And see how the bones are tinted slightly purple?’

      ‘So?’

      ‘The Essenes used to drink a juice made from madder root. It stains bones red, if you drink enough of it. And didn’t Griffin say they used to grow madder around here?’

      ‘You think your lid came from one of these graves?’

      ‘It’s possible.’

      ‘Then can we leave now?’

      ‘Not yet. We still need to see—’

      A snarl behind them. Knox whirled around to see a mangy dog, ribs showing through its flanks, moonlight reflecting brightly from its black eyes and silvery slobber. Ancient Egyptian cemeteries had typically been sited on desert fringes; good quality farmland had been too valuable to waste. They’d consequently become the haunts of scavengers, one reason why the jackal-god Anubis had been so closely associated with death. Knox hissed and waved. But it only growled louder, bared its fangs, its territory infringed.

      ‘Make it go away,’ said Omar.

      ‘I’m trying,’ said Knox.

      Torchlight flared away to their left, vanished then came back, stronger and nearer. A security guard on his rounds, swinging his torch back and forth, painting yellow ellipses on the ground that came perilously close. They ducked down behind the plastic tent, allowing the dog to approach to within a few feet, snarling and sniffing. Omar jabbed a finger back the way they’d come, but it was too late, the security guard was almost upon them. Knox gestured for Omar to crouch low, hold his nerve.

      The guard heard the dog, picked it out with his torch, then stooped for a stone that he hurled hard. It missed its target but provoked a furious barking. The guard came closer. Knox could see dots of moonlight gleaming on his polished black boots. His second shot caught the dog a glancing blow on its hind leg. It yelped and bounded away. The guard laughed heartily then turned and walked off.

      ‘Let’s get out of here,’ pleaded Omar, once he’d vanished from sight.

      ‘Just a little further,’ said Knox, dusting himself down. He hated playing the bully, but this place needed checking out. They soon came to a sandy embankment, a yellow glow on the other side. Knox crawled up on his elbows and knees, that familiar metallic tang at the back of his mouth as he peered over the top. Griffin and a young man with buzz-cut blond hair were standing by the rear of a pick-up backed against the open door of a squat brick building, its interior light on. Two more young men emerged with a crate that they lugged onto the flatbed. Their hair was cropped short too, and they were wearing identical cornflower blue shirts and khaki trousers.

      ‘That’ll do for now,’ said Griffin. ‘We’ll have to come back anyhow.’ He locked up the building, got into the pick-up, the three young men climbing up onto the back.

      ‘What are they doing?’ whispered Omar as the truck drove off.

      ‘Clearing out their magazine. So that we won’t find anything