Epilogue
SO THIS IS WHAT FAME FEELS LIKE, thought Knox, roasting beneath the arc lights as he gazed out over the bank of microphones to the squatted rows of photographers and the TV crews and the press journalists perching forward on their chairs, taking notes with one hand while straining to be noticed with the other, eager to pose their questions, if only to show their bosses they were doing their jobs, because they must realize by now that they wouldn’t get any answers worth a damn.
“I’m sorry,” declared Yusuf Abbas for the umpteenth time. “It’s far too early to know exactly what we’ve found. Archaeology doesn’t work that way. We need time to secure and examine the sites. We need time to retrieve and study what we find. In a year or two, perhaps, we’ll know a little more. Now, just three more questions, I think. Who wants to—”
“Daniel!” shouted out a young redheaded woman. “Daniel! Over here!” Knox turned toward her and was momentarily dazzled by the flash of a camera bulb. “How can you be sure it was Alexander?” she yelled.
“Is it true there’s more gold?” called out a Japanese journalist.
“Gaille! Gaille!” cried a gray-haired man. “Did you think you were going to die?”
“Please,” begged Yusuf, holding up both hands, loving every moment. “One at a time.”
Knox scratched his cheek, itching with fatigue and several days’ stubble. How bizarre this all was. To think that at this very moment, people around the world were watching him on TV. A few would almost certainly be old acquaintances. They’d squint at the screen in disbelief, maybe mutter an obscenity beneath their breath, or hoot with laughter and pick up the phone to alert mutual friends. Have you seen the TV? Remember that guy Knox? I swear to God, it’s him!
He glanced across at Gaille. She smiled and raised an eyebrow back at him, as though she understood exactly what was going through his mind. The past twenty-four hours had been bewildering. Their police debriefing in Suez had initially been conducted in a jubilant, self-congratulatory mood: jokes cracked, hands shaken, him and Gaille treated as heroes. Mohammed’s story seemed to have captured the popular imagination. And to make things even sweeter, they had watched Yusuf Abbas on live TV struggling haplessly to explain his relationship with the Dragoumises, and why he had given the MAF permission to excavate in the Delta and conduct a survey in Siwa, and why Elena Koloktronis had visited him in Cairo.
But then, suddenly, the tone had changed. A new investigator, called Umar, had arrived at the police station. His first act had been to have Knox and Gaille locked up in separate cells; then he proceeded to interrogate them unrelentingly. He had scimitar sideburns and sharp eyes, and he seemed absurdly suspicious of their story. He had tried to trick Knox into contradicting himself, and to twist his words against him, and he had shown no interest at all in Nicolas Dragoumis and his men, as though robbery and multiple murder were unimportant to him. He had focused on Knox’s own movements, pressing him particularly on the SCA sites in Alexandria and the Delta, trying to force him to admit that he had broken into them.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Knox had insisted. “I know nothing about those sites.”
“Really,” Umar had said, frowning theatrically. “Then perhaps you can explain how photographs of them were found on a laptop and a digital camera in your Jeep.” Knox’s heart had plummeted. He had forgotten completely about those. To clam up now or ask for a lawyer would be tantamount to admitting he had something to hide. To lie to a man like this would be madness, but so would coming clean. And he had Rick’s reputation to worry about, too. In no way could he allow his friend’s good name to be tarnished as a tomb robber, not after the sacrifice he had made. Umar had smiled with infuriating smugness. “I’m waiting,” he said.
“I’ve done nothing wrong,” Knox had protested.
“That may be your opinion. In my country, we consider breaking into historic sites a very serious crime—especially for a man already known to have sold antiquities on the black market.”
“That’s bullshit!” Knox had protested furiously. “You know that’s bullshit.”
“Explain the photographs, Mr. Knox.”
Knox had scowled and sat back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. “What photographs?”
Umar had snorted. “Do you know the penalties for antiquities theft? Even for attempted theft, you could serve ten years.”
“This is ridiculous. I’ve just helped save a great treasure for Egypt.”
“Nevertheless,” said Umar, “a wise man would be aware of the seriousness of his position. Are you a wise man, Mr. Knox?”
Knox had narrowed his eyes, sensing subtext in Umar’s words. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that there is one explanation for your presence in these sites that I would gladly accept.”
“And that is?”
“That you were there with the authority of the SCA—specifically, with the knowledge and blessing of the secretary general, Yusuf Abbas.”
Knox had closed his eyes as he finally caught on. “So that’s it,” he laughed. “I say I was working undercover for Yusuf, and suddenly he wasn’t best friends with the Dragoumises anymore; he was investigating them. Tell me: what do you get out of it?”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Umar had replied primly. “But perhaps we should go through your statement one more time. The media are clamoring for the full story, as I’m sure you appreciate. Only this time, why don’t you start by describing the phone call you made to Yusuf Abbas to alert him to your suspicions about the Dragoumises, and the authority he granted you to act covertly on his behalf.”
“Or?”
“Or everyone loses: Yusuf, you, the girl.”
Knox had felt sick. “The girl?”
“Egypt needs someone to punish, Mr. Knox, and the Greeks are all dead. But your friend Gaille was working for them. She was flown to Thessalonike on a private jet just days ago to meet Philip Dragoumis, and she was with Elena Koloktronis in Siwa. Trust me, I can make her look guilty as the devil with far less material than this. Such a sweet young thing, too! Can you imagine what even a month in an Egyptian prison would do to her?”
“I don’t believe this.”
Umar had leaned forward. “And think of this, too. If you agree, you’ll be a hero. I’ve been authorized to tell you that the SCA will welcome you back into the fold with open arms and look favorably upon any future excavation applications you might choose to make.”
For a moment, Knox had felt the urge to hurl the offer back in Umar’s face. Five years ago, younger and more headstrong, he would have done so. But the wilderness was a good teacher. “If I agree,” he said, “it’ll be on one condition.”
“And that is?”
“A new SCA award. The Richard Mitchell Award, presented annually to a promising young archaeologist by the secretary general himself. The first to go posthumously to my friend Rick Hannah.”
Umar had allowed himself a small smile. “You will excuse me one minute?”
Knox had stretched out his leg as he’d waited for Umar to return; the bullet wound felt pleasantly tight and sore. Nothing but flesh, he had been assured. In a week, it would be only a scar and a memory. Umar had come back in. “Not the Richard Mitchell Award,” he had said. “Just the Mitchell Award. A recognition of the contribution the whole family has made, including your friend Gaille. My contact assures me that any more would be impossible. I believe him.”
Knox had agreed. Frankly, he’d been surprised that Yusuf buckled even that far. It was effectively an acknowledgment that Richard had been innocent of selling antiquities on the black market; and if he was innocent, then who but Yusuf could be guilty? Yusuf had to be really feeling the heat. For a moment, for precisely that reason, Knox had considered rejecting the deal, but it hadn’t been just his own skin at stake. “Fine,” he had said. “But you’ll need the girl’s agreement, too.”
“I already have it,” Umar had told him, patting his pocket. “It seems she didn’t want you in jail any more than you wanted her there.”
“May I see her?”
“Not yet. Once we’ve rewritten your statement, we’ll hold a press conference. You, the girl, and Yusuf will tell the world how you worked together with Hassan to foil those dastardly Greeks. After that, you and she can do as you please.”
“Once we’re irretrievably compromised, you mean.”
Umar had only smiled.
And so here they all were, Yusuf Abbas wrapping up the press conference, thanking the journalists for coming, and insisting they contact him directly, not Knox or Gaille, with any further questions. Then he rested his palms flat on the table, clenched his jaw, braced his hams, and launched himself up out of his chair onto his feet before beaming around the room as if expecting applause. When it didn’t come, he beckoned Gaille and Knox to stand beside him for a few final group photographs, an arm around the shoulders of each, as though they were the best and oldest of friends. The cameras clicked their fill; then the arc lights started going out. Journalists called friends and offices on their cell phones as they filed out in a muted hubbub. The world’s attention moved on, leaving Knox feeling oddly deflated. He had never sought the spotlight, yet there was something undeniably intoxicating about it.
Yusuf kept his arms around their shoulders as he steered them through the rear doors of the conference hall, inquiring solicitously about their plans. The moment the doors shut behind them, however, he scowled and stepped back and rubbed his hands with distaste, as though he suspected Knox and Gaille of carrying diseases. “Don’t even think about talking to the press without my permission,” he warned them.
“We gave our word.”
Yusuf nodded sourly, as though he knew how much the word of such people was worth. Then he turned his back emphatically on them and lumbered away.
Knox gave a little shudder as he turned to Gaille. “Want to get out of here? I arranged for a taxi.”
“What are we waiting for?”
They made their way along a maze of corridors. “I can’t believe Yusuf’s going to get away with it,” muttered Knox.
“We had no choice,” Gaille reassured him. “There’s no evidence against him, but there is against us. And it’s not our fault Egypt appointed him secretary general.”
“Your father would never have agreed.”
“Yes, he would. He made a deal with Dragoumis, didn’t he?” She smiled and took his arm. “Anyway, it’s done now. Please let’s talk about something else.”
“Such as?”
“Such as, what are you going to do now?”
He thought bleakly of Rick. “I’ve got a funeral to attend.”
“Oh, Christ. Of course.” She bowed her head a moment, then asked, “And afterwards?”
“I haven’t thought about it,” said Knox, though this was a lie. The prospect of excavating again had been in his nostrils ever since Umar made the offer. “And you?”
“I’m off to Paris, first flight I can get.”
“Oh.” He stopped dead. “Really?”
“I’ve decided to leave the Sorbonne,” she said. “I owe it to them to tell them in person, don’t you think? They’ve been very good to me.”
Knox couldn’t prevent a smile from spreading across his face. “And then?”
“I’m planning to come back here. Find myself some excavating work and learn the ropes, you know. I understand that Augustin is always looking for new assistants. Maybe I could—”
“Augustin!” protested Knox appalled. “That old goat! You can’t be serious!”
“I thought he was your friend.”
“He is my friend. That’s precisely why I don’t want you working for him.”
“I need a job,” insisted Gaille. “Do you have a better suggestion?”
They reached the back doors, pushed through them, and went down the steps to the waiting taxi. Knox opened the back door for Gaille, then climbed in beside her, giving directions to the driver. He rolled down his window as they pulled away, allowing in the scents of Egypt: the spices, the fumes, and the sweat. This was more like it—away from the politics, the ambition, the bargaining, the corruption, the deceit. In pursuit of the raw truth once more. He turned to Gaille. “I’ll be needing a partner myself, as soon as all this has blown over,” he told her.
“Really?”
“Yes. Someone who’ll work for a pittance, just for the love of it. Someone with the right skills to complement my own. A languages expert, ideally. Preferably one who can take a half-decent photograph, too. Two employees for the price of one, you know. I’m cheap like that.”
Gaille laughed, her eyes sparkling. “And may I ask what the two of you will be going in search of?”
He grinned at her. “Don’t you mean, what will the two of us be going in search of?”
“Yes,” she said happily. “That’s exactly what I mean.”