The Exodus Quest. Will Adams

Daniel. I hate this kind of business.’

      Knox took out the keys to his Jeep, closed Omar’s hand around them. ‘Go wait for me,’ he said. ‘If I’m not back in an hour, go get the police.’

      Omar pulled a face. ‘Please come with me.’

      ‘We need to find out where they’re putting this stuff, Omar. You must see that.’ And before Omar could protest, Knox got to his feet and jogged across the broken ground after the pick-up, its rear lights shining like a demon’s eyes in the darkness.

      II

      Lily felt a little sheepish as she emerged from Stafford’s room. ‘He has some urgent phone calls to make,’ she told Gaille, waiting outside. ‘Is it essential that he comes with us?’

      ‘It’s your documentary,’ shrugged Gaille. ‘Fatima just thought you might be interested, that’s all.’

      ‘And we are. Don’t think we don’t appreciate it. It’s just …’

      ‘He has phone calls to make,’ suggested Gaille.

      ‘Yes,’ said Lily, dropping her eyes. Stafford had discovered the Internet connection in his room, was now happily catching up with his email, checking out his latest sales figures and running searches of his own name to see if anyone had written anything nice about him recently.

      She followed Gaille out of the compound’s back gate straight into the desert. Her feet sank into the soft dry sand, making her camera equipment feel twice as heavy.

      ‘You want help with that?’ asked Gaille.

      ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

      ‘So you’re Stafford’s camera-woman, are you?’ said Gaille, taking a bag.

      ‘And producer,’ nodded Lily ruefully. ‘As well as sound engineer, gofer, runner – everything else you can think of.’ Stafford had apparently been all for luxury and large crews while he’d been working on someone else’s dime. But he’d grown increasingly affronted at the thought of anyone else making money from his work, so he’d set up his own production company, intending to hawk the finished product to broadcasters. He’d duly cut costs to the bone, hiring inexperienced staff like herself and bullying them so mercilessly that her three colleagues had walked out just a week before, landing this whole nightmare of a trip on her shoulders. She’d hoped to be able to rely on local help, but Stafford’s high-handed manner had driven even those away. ‘Not that I get to do as much camerawork as I’d like. Charles does his own whenever he can.’ She allowed herself a small smile. ‘I think he has this image of himself as an intrepid solo desert adventurer. He likes to keep adjusting the settings while talking to camera, so that viewers will think him out here on his own. I just film when he’s interviewing people, or if we need a pan or zoom.’ They reached the entrance to the site. Gaille unlocked the wooden door, turned on the generator, gave it a few moments to warm up before flipping switches and leading Lily down eerie corridors of crumbling sandstone to a cavernous new space. ‘Wow!’ murmured Lily. ‘What is this place?’

      ‘The inside of a pylon of a Nineteenth Dynasty Temple of Amun.’ She pointed to a mound of bricks in the far corner. ‘And these are what I brought you to see. They’re Ancient Egyptian bricks called talatat. They were used by—’

      ‘Whoa, whoa,’ interjected Lily. ‘I can film this, yes?’

      ‘If it’s light enough in here, sure.’

      Lily patted the side of her Sony VX2000. ‘This thing’s a marvel, believe me. It’ll look wonderfully atmospheric.’ She’d grown to love cameras. It hadn’t always been that way. When she’d first encountered them, at children’s parties and at school, she’d feared and hated them. It was bad enough having other children stare at her birthmark in her presence, but at least she’d been there to make sure they didn’t say anything too cruel. Cameras had allowed them to take her ugliness away with them, to look at it whenever they chose, to poke fun at her and laugh and insult her to their heart’s content, with no way for her to defend herself against it.

      She’d been cursed with a runaway imagination, Lily. At times the thought of what the other children were saying about her had tormented her so severely that her only way of soothing it had been to imagine the moment of her own death, the sweetness of release. She’d started deliberately hurting herself, slapping herself across her cheek, jabbing scissors into her arm. But then one day her uncle had almost negligently given her his cast-off camcorder. She still shivered at the memory. Just holding the viewfinder to her eye concealed her birthmark, which had been wonderful in itself. But it was the power that it had given her that had been transforming. The power to make others look good or bad as she chose. The power to make them look gracious or sullen, ugly or beautiful. And she’d used that power too. She’d discovered a real talent in herself. It had given her identity and self-esteem. Most of all, it had given her a path.

      She unpacked and set up the equipment, plugged in and put on her headphones, checked sound and light levels, hoisted the camera to her shoulder, turned it on Gaille. ‘You were saying?’ she asked.

      ‘Oh,’ said Gaille, taken aback. ‘I thought you’d be filming the talatat, not me.’

      ‘I want both,’ said Lily, well accustomed to soothing stage fright. ‘But don’t worry. Charles already has his script. He’s highly unlikely to make changes this late, believe me. And you’d need to sign a release anyway, so if you don’t like it …’

      ‘Okay.’

      ‘Thanks. Now crouch down. That’s it. Straighten your back and look up at me. No, not like that. Lift your chin. A little more. That’s it. Perfect. Now rest your right hand on the bricks.’

      ‘Are you sure? It feels very odd.’

      ‘But it looks great,’ smiled Lily. ‘Trust me. I’m good at this. Now start at the beginning. Assume I know nothing. Which is, I’m afraid, shamefully close to the truth. So, then. What is this place? And what exactly are talatat?’

      III

      The pick-up’s brake lights flared red and then vanished over a ridge. Knox kept his eyes fixed upon the spot and slowed to a gentler jog to gather his breath. He reached the ridge, crouched down to peer over it, but there was nothing the other side. He wandered the darkness for a while, was beginning to give up hope, when he heard a clang away to his right. He climbed another ridge to find the pick-up parked in a slight hollow on the other side, its engine off, lights out, no sign of life except for a gentle yellow glow emanating from a pit next to it.

      With any kind of GPS, he’d simply have logged the coordinates and headed off to fetch the police. But without GPS, getting a fix was virtually impossible. The skyline was featureless except for the distant orange flame of natural gas burn off, the dark outline of twin power-station chimneys. He crept forwards. The pit proved to be a flight of steps leading down through a hatchway to some kind of atrium, a generator muttering away inside. He went over to the pick-up, just three boxes left on the flatbed. There was an earthenware statue inside the first, a young boy with a finger to his lips. Harpocrates, a deity popular among Egyptians, Greeks and Romans. He photographed it, was about to open the second box when he heard footsteps. He dropped instantly to the ground, slithered beneath the pick-up. The three young men emerged, came over, their boots by Knox’s face, kicking up dry dust that made his throat tickle. They picked up the last boxes and went back down. But they passed Griffin on the steps, and he emerged a moment later, breathing hard. He came over and sat heavily on the flatbed, making its suspension creak, trapping Knox underneath. A minute passed. Two. The young men reappeared.

      ‘Let’s get that last load then,’ muttered Griffin. They all climbed aboard and set off, leaving Knox exposed. He tucked his hands beneath his stomach, pressed his face into the hard earth, expecting to be spotted at any moment. But they vanished over the ridge without incident. Knox