Chapter Twenty-eight
GAILLE AND ELENA took Aly at his word, arriving at his house at seven sharp to find him already at work outside, his papers pinned down with a pot of Siwan tea and some glasses, as though he’d been expecting them. He greeted them warmly, poured them each a glass, then showed them into his library and left them to it.
Elena started with the aerial photographs; Gaille, with the books. When she pulled down her first volume, it came more easily than the night before, as though the bookshelf was less tightly packed. She looked more closely. Yes. She distinctly remembered a red-leather-bound volume that had left stains on her fingers. She pulled out a modern academic text and checked the bibliography against his shelves. Two of the best-known books on Siwa were missing. Yet this was supposed to be a definitive collection. Then she remembered that strange look on his face the night before, when he was looking through her photographs. “Elena,” she murmured hesitantly.
Elena looked up crossly. “Yes?”
“Nothing,” said Gaille. “Sorry.” Knowing Elena, she would go straight out to confront Aly, and bang would go their cooperation. Instead she made a note of the missing titles. She would call Ibrahim at her first opportunity and ask him to send copies directly to her hotel.
art
KNOX WAS FAST ASLEEP in the passenger seat of the Jeep when Rick shook him awake. “What?” he asked blearily.
“Checkpoint,” muttered Rick.
“Damn it,” said Knox. Checkpoints were so rare in Alexandria and the Delta that he had stopped worrying about them, but in Middle and Southern Egypt, and in the desert regions, they became commonplace. The Jeep drifted to a halt. Two weary-looking soldiers wearing thick uniforms against the morning chill trudged across. One of them rapped the driver’s-side window. “Passports,” he said in English when Rick lowered it, evidently figuring them both for foreigners. Knox still had Augustin’s papers for Omar Malik, but to use them now would only raise suspicions. He fetched out his American passport and handed it across. The soldier yawned as he took it and Rick’s to his cabin to check.
The second soldier, meanwhile, remained standing beside the Jeep. He lit a cigarette, stamped his feet, then glanced in the rear window. Too late, Knox remembered the tarpaulin bundle containing the clothes and other belongings of Nessim and his men, including their handguns.
The soldier opened the back door and leaned inside. “What’s this?” he asked, putting his hand on the bundle.
“Just some clothes,” said Knox, trying his best to sound relaxed.
The soldier pulled back the flaps to rummage inside. He pulled out a jacket and held it up against himself to check his reflection in the glass before throwing it back and taking a couple of shirts instead, then a pair of trousers, checking the pockets, pulling out an expensive cell phone, and grinning ingratiatingly at Knox, as if to suggest that a gift wouldn’t go astray. Knox’s mouth was dry. If this prick found any of the guns, they’d have one hell of a lot of explaining to do. He said: “Excuse me, but those are our belongings.”
The soldier grunted irritably and threw the trousers and the phone back into the tarpaulin, then slammed the door unnecessarily hard. His comrade inside the cabin had finished his call and was coming back out. Knox’s heart was banging violently in apprehension, but the soldier handed back their passports without a flicker, then waved them through. They kept the smiles off their faces until they were well away. “What do you know,” said Rick. “Maybe Hassan’s given up on you.”
“I doubt it, mate,” said Knox. “I reckon he just doesn’t want the authorities knowing he’s on the hunt.”
“That’s something, at least.”
“Yeah,” agreed Knox. “It is.” He glanced around at the bundle in the back. “But I reckon we should dump this shit before it gets us into grief. What do you say?”
“I reckon you’re right,” nodded Rick.
art
NICOLAS ARRIVED AT IBRAHIM’S OFFICE with delicate business to discuss. His father had charged him with acquiring certain artifacts from the Macedonian tomb for his private collection: at least one golden burial casket, plus a selection of weapons. Now that Yusuf had taken personal control, it was just a matter of creating convincing replicas and arranging a switch. But Ibrahim was still involved in the excavation and would need to be dealt with, not least because Yusuf insisted on having a plausible scapegoat in place should their switch be discovered. “I’m not disturbing you, am I?” Nicolas asked.
“Nothing that can’t wait,” smiled Ibrahim. “Just sending some books on Siwa to Gaille. Though I can’t believe Dr. Sayed doesn’t have copies.”
Nicolas settled himself at the corner table. “I’m sure you must be aware how pleased we are at the Dragoumis Group at the outcome of our partnership,” he began.
“We’re pleased, too.”
Nicolas nodded and drew a thick envelope from his jacket pocket. “My family makes it a policy to reward success.” He set the envelope down on the table midway between them and smiled at Ibrahim to indicate that he should take it.
Ibrahim frowned at the wad of banknotes inside. “For me?” he asked.
“As a token of our appreciation and gratitude.”
Ibrahim squinted suspiciously. “And what do you want for this money?”
“Nothing. Just a continuation of our partnership.” Nicolas was, in fact, wearing a miniature camera on his chest, its lens disguised as his second button. Everyone in the SCA accepted bribes, but that didn’t make it legal. If Ibrahim took this baksheesh like a good little boy, the film would be used to coerce him, step-by-step, until he was completely compromised. If he didn’t, Nicolas had many other avenues to explore and exploit.
Ibrahim hesitated, then pushed the envelope back across the table. “If you wish to contribute further to our partnership,” he said, “we have a bank account set up for the purpose, as I’m sure you already know.”
Nicolas smiled tightly and took back the money. “Whatever you think best.”
“Is there anything else? Or may I return to—”
There was noise outside. The door burst open, and Mohammed rushed in. “I’m sorry, sir,” said Maha, hanging gamely on to his arm. “I couldn’t stop him.”
“It’s all right, Maha,” said Ibrahim. He frowned at Mohammed. “What do you mean by this?”
“It’s Layla,” said Mohammed, tears streaming down his face. “They’ve said no. They’ve said no. They won’t give her the treatment.”
“My dear friend,” winced Ibrahim, standing awkwardly, “I’m so sorry.”
“She doesn’t need sympathy; she needs help.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t see what more I can do.”
“Please. I’ve asked everyone else. You’re her last hope.”
Nicolas stood and backed away. Talk of disease was always uncomfortable to him. The books Ibrahim had collected for Gaille were perched on the corner of his desk. He picked one up and flipped idly through the pages.
“I suppose I can ask around,” Ibrahim was saying. “But I don’t know anyone at the hospital.”
“I beg you. You must do something.”
The book was filled with black-and-white sketches. Nicolas turned to one of a hill and a lake called Bir al-Hammam. There was something strangely familiar about it. He put the book down and picked up another. It, too, had a picture of Bir al-Hammam, a photograph this time. He stared and stared at it, and finally he realized why the images were familiar, and a great orgasmic shudder ran through him.
“Nicolas? Nicolas?” asked Ibrahim anxiously. “Are you all right?”
Nicolas shook himself back to his senses. Ibrahim was looking strangely at him. He smiled and said, “Forgive me. Miles away, that’s all.” He looked around to see that Mohammed had gone. “Where’s your friend?” he asked.
“He had to leave,” said Ibrahim. “His wife’s in a dreadful state, apparently. I promised to do what I could. But what can I do? That poor girl!”
Nicolas frowned thoughtfully. “If I could help her, you’d be grateful, yes?”
“Of course,” said Ibrahim. “But I really—”
“Good,” said Nicolas, tucking Gaille’s books under his arm. “Then come with me. Let’s see what we can arrange.”