Chapter Twenty-seven
KNOX AND RICK fled headlong into the trees, forearms up to protect their faces from slapping branches. “Stop!” cried the guard. “Stop or I shoot.” A shot cracked out. “Stop!” he shouted again. But they kept running, bulling their way through the woods until they reached a tilled field, then running across it in the direction of the Subaru, their feet plunging deep into the moist soil, their boots growing heavy with accreted mud. Behind them, the German shepherd was barking crazily with excitement. A stitch began in Knox’s side. He wasn’t as fit as Rick, and began to fall behind. He glanced back. They’d gained good distance on the pursuers, but that damned German shepherd had their scent. “Keep going,” called out Rick from ahead, sensing that Knox was flagging. “The car’s not far.”
They ran on for another minute before he looked around again. The night had grown overcast, but he could just make out the guards silhouetted upon a low ridge. One of them stopped to aim at Knox, snapping off a couple of rounds that cracked past, making him stumble on the heavy soil, his thighs protesting as he pushed himself back up, finding the running really hard labor now, fighting for every breath, the stitch stabbing brutally in his side, Rick getting farther and farther ahead of him.
The guards must have realized they wouldn’t catch him themselves, so they unleashed the German shepherd instead, then stood and urged it on. It came bounding over the soft earth, panting as it raced up behind him, snarling and snapping at his leg. Knox twisted to kick it away, but he tripped and fell, and immediately the dog sprang on top of him, going for his throat, saliva drooling, sharp teeth snapping an inch from his face. The two guards were closing, wheezing heavily after their long chase. Knox thought he was done for, but then he heard the roar of an engine, headlights flashed on, and the Subaru raced up beside him. Rick jumped out and charged screaming at the bewildered dog, which leaped off Knox and cowered away just long enough for both men to scramble back into the car. The dog regained its nerve quickly, however, jumping up at Knox’s door, barking furiously. The guards were almost on them. Rick thrust the Subaru into reverse and stomped on the gas. They zipped backward, turning in a crescent out onto the field; then Rick threw it into first and accelerated up through the gears. Gunfire cracked. Knox’s side-window shattered, and the windshield turned opaque. Rick punched out a viewing hole as he raced toward the track, then toward the Tanta road. Knox looked around, but their pursuers were finally lost in the darkness. Private security guards firing off guns would scarcely be keen to contact the authorities, but maybe they had colleagues who would come out looking for the Subaru. “We’d better go for the Jeep,” panted Knox.
“You think that’s wise? Shouldn’t we just lie low for a bit?”
Knox shook his head. “Kelonymus was constantly referred to as the holder of the secret. I want to know what that secret is. Five will get you fifty that the answer’s in that damned inscription from the lower chamber in Alexandria. The one in Demotic.”
“But I thought you didn’t know Demotic.”
“I don’t,” admitted Knox. “Which is why we need to go see a friend.”
“Ah! And where’s he, then?”
“Ever been to Farafra?”
“Farafra!” protested Rick. “But that’s halfway across Egypt!”
“Then we’ve no time to lose, have we?”
art
KAREEM’S EYES BULGED when Nessim unzipped his money belt and drew out a brick of fifty-dollar bills. He had never seen so much cash. He had never even imagined it possible. He watched, entranced, as Nessim counted out fifteen notes for Abdullah, then another fifteen, which he held tantalizingly out to Kareem. “Take us to the Jeep,” he said.
Kareem climbed in the back of the Freelander, whose smashed rear window was patched with plastic sheeting. It had started raining, making it harder for Kareem to give coherent directions in the unfamiliar landscape. He had never felt so scared in his life, or so excited. He was terrified that he had somehow made a gigantic mistake or that the Jeep’s owner might have returned for it in the past hour. And it wasn’t just the reward that Kareem stood to lose, he knew. One look was all it took to know that Nessim and his men would want someone to vent their frustrations on.
They reached the track and drove up it to the yard. They parked and trudged through the mud to the outbuilding’s steel door, then swung it open on its hinges. For a moment, Kareem saw nothing inside, and his heart bolted crazily, but then the tarp-covered Jeep came into view, and he swallowed convulsively with relief.
One of the men lifted up the tarpaulin to check the license plate. “It’s his, all right,” he announced.
“Good.” Nessim unzipped his belt again and counted out Kareem’s cash. “Now, get out of here,” he admonished him. “And don’t come back.”
Kareem nodded vigorously. He clutched the banknotes tight as he splashed off back down the track, the devil on his heels. He glanced around once to see Nessim passing out flashlights and handguns, then again to see him deploying the Freelander and his men for an ambush. Someone was clearly in mortal danger, but Kareem didn’t care. He felt exultant, his life finally about to begin.
art
IT HAD STARTED TO RAIN. Flurries swept through the broken windows and punctured windshield as Knox and Rick approached Tanta. “You want to wait it out?” asked Knox.
“Nah,” replied Rick, squinting ahead. “Shouldn’t last long.” He evidently knew his weather, for the squall passed quickly. They turned the heaters on full blast, deliciously warm against their sodden trousers. They cut south of Tanta and turned off the main road. “Where the hell is this place?” muttered Rick as they searched for the derelict farm.
“Just ahead,” said Knox, with more confidence than he felt. Their headlights lit up a young man tramping along the road toward them, a strange look on his face as he stared at Rick and Knox through the windshield. The visibility was so poor that they drove past the mouth of the track and had to reverse a little way to turn up it. Rainwater had filled the potholes; they kept lurching violently into them, their suspension creaking, headlights dancing on the trees and barns. Rick hunched forward over the wheel, peering intently ahead, crawling along.
Knox glanced at his friend. “What is it, mate?” he asked.
“That kid we passed,” muttered Rick. “He gave me a bad feeling.”
“Want to turn back?”
He shook his head. “We won’t get ten miles with the windshield like this; not once we get on the main roads.”
“Take it slow, then.”
“The f*ck do you think I’m doing?”
Nerves taut, eyes skinned, they lumbered on down the track to the yard. Rainwater had gathered in shallow puddles on the concrete, reflecting their beams brightly. There was a muddy patch ahead. They both saw the fresh footprints in it together. “Shit!” swore Rick. He stamped on the accelerator and roared into a violent U-turn, tires screeching, flinging Knox hard against his door.
Nessim’s white Freelander surged out from the trees, headlights springing on high beam, dazzling them both. Rick tried to swerve around it, but he lost traction in the wet and slithered head-on into it instead, hoods crumpling, glass shattering, airbags deploying, pinning them in their seats. It took Knox a moment to gather himself—a moment he didn’t have. His door was hauled open, and something cracked him on the temple, leaving him stunned. He was hauled out by his collar and dragged roughly along the concrete, too dazed to resist, his ears ringing like a bell tower, until he was inside the outbuilding—and Rick, too—the steel door closing like a trap behind them both. Nessim kicked him onto his back, and stood astride him, aiming down at his chest. “Who’s your friend?” he asked, pointing his flashlight at Rick, who was groaning and rubbing his forehead, mussing a trickle of blood into his hair. He tried to push himself up onto his knees but promptly collapsed again, vomiting hard, making the Egyptians laugh.
“Not friend,” mumbled Knox, still hopelessly disoriented. “Driver. Knows nothing about this. Let him go.”
“Sure,” snorted Nessim.
“I swear,” said Knox. “He knows nothing.”
“Then it’s his unlucky day, isn’t it?”
Knox pushed himself up onto an elbow, his scattered senses beginning to return. “Good money, is it?” he asked. “Working for a gangster like al-Assyuti?”
Spots of red flared momentarily on Nessim’s cheeks. “You know nothing about my life,” he said.
“And you know enough about mine to end it, do you?”
“You brought this on yourself,” spat Nessim. “You must have known what would happen.”
Rick pushed himself up, successfully this time. “What’s going on?” he slurred. “Who are these people?”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Knox.
“They’ve got guns,” said Rick, sounding fearful and bewildered. “Why have they got guns?”
Knox frowned at his friend. Somehow his tone didn’t ring quite true. Maybe it was simply a concussion, but maybe he was trying to lull Nessim and these others into taking him lightly. They’d have no idea of his background, after all. If that was so, then it was down to Knox to buy him some time to go to work. Time and perhaps darkness. The only light in this place was from the various flashlights, after all, and if he could get them all pointed at him . . .
He glared up at Nessim. “I overheard you tell that girl in Sharm you used to be a paratrooper,” he said. “You f*cking liar.”
“It wasn’t a lie.”
“Paratroops have honor,” sneered Knox. “Men of honor don’t sell themselves to rapists and murderers.”
Nessim slapped Knox hard across the cheek with the barrel of his gun, sending him sprawling. “Men of honor don’t refuse duties just because they dislike them,” he said tightly.
“Honor!” snorted Knox, pushing himself back up onto his knees. “You don’t know what the word means. You’re just a whore, selling yourself for—”
Nessim slapped Knox even harder this time, so that he collapsed, dazed, to the floor, his cheek scraping like stubble on the rough concrete. And it was lying there, in a daze, that he watched Rick blur into action. A single punch sent the first man sprawling. An elbow doubled up the second, Rick wresting his gun from him as he went down, shooting the third through his thigh before turning the gun on Nessim, who was still standing frozen over Knox.
“Drop it!” yelled Rick. “F*cking drop it!” Nessim’s gun and flashlight both clattered to the concrete. “On your knees!” he shouted. “All of you. On your f*cking knees. Now!” The Egyptians complied, even the wounded man, whimpering piteously with shock, his cream trousers staining red. “Hands behind your f*cking heads!” roared Rick, enraged partly by their treatment of Knox, but more by having been made to fear that he was going to die. The Egyptians must have read their fate in his expression, because the color drained from their faces. Nessim alone showed defiance, bracing himself as Rick aimed down at the bridge of his nose. Knox remembered the shame on his cheeks earlier, how he had bridled at the accusation of lacking honor. “No,” he said, grabbing Rick’s arm just before he could pull the trigger. “We’re not like that.”
“You may not f*cking be,” retorted Rick, trying to shake him off, “but I am.”
“Please, mate,” said Knox.
“And what the f*ck do you suggest we do?” yelled Rick. “Let them go, they’ll come straight after us. This is self-f*cking-defense, mate. Nothing more.”
Knox looked again at Nessim. His expression gave nothing away, yet Knox was certain Rick was wrong. Let Nessim go, and his personal code wouldn’t allow him to come after them. But as for the others… He stooped to pick up Nessim’s handgun, then looked around for inspiration. The outbuilding was small and windowless and built of concrete blocks. Its door was solid steel with strong hinges. He grabbed the tarpaulin from the Jeep, threw it on the floor in front of Nessim, then aimed down at his chest. “Off with your clothes,” he ordered. “All of you.”
“No,” scowled Nessim.
“Do it,” said Knox. “If not for yourself, then for your men.”
Nessim’s jaw tightened, but he looked around at his men and seemed to deflate a little. He began reluctantly to undress, as did his men, throwing their discarded clothes into the tarpaulin. When they were down to their underpants, Knox made a bundle of the tarpaulin and tossed it in the back of the Jeep.
“Can you handle them on your own?” he asked.
Rick snorted. “Weren’t you watching?”
Knox drove the Jeep over to the Subaru and Freelander. The Subaru was dead, but the Freelander started up on the third try, its engine clattering with terminal damage. He wrestled it into reverse and bunny-hopped over to the outbuilding. Rick came out backward, swinging the steel door closed with his foot, allowing Knox to drive tight up alongside it and put on the hand brake. Not perfect, maybe, but it should hold them for a few hours, by which time they’d be halfway across Egypt.
They hurried to the Jeep. Rick took the wheel, roaring off unnecessarily fast as if to burn off his residual anger, not once looking Knox’s way. As for Knox, he stared out the windshield, badly shaken by the revelation that his friend had been prepared to execute those men. The silence between them grew distinctly uncomfortable, so that Knox began to fear that things between them might never be quite the same.
It was Rick who finally spoke. “I thought you said those guys were serious,” he muttered.
“What can I tell you, mate,” grinned Knox. “I thought they were.”