Chapter Eight
ABLUE TRUCK CUT IN FRONT OF ELENA as she drove back south to the Delta, forcing her to slam on her brakes. She blasted her horn until the truck moved aside; then she wound down her window, shook her fist, and yelled some choice Arabic phrases at the bewildered driver. She was in a troubled mood. It was speaking to Nicolas that had done it. That, and that damned Frenchman. So smug. Between them, they’d stirred memories of her late husband, Pavlos, and Elena hated that, because it just reminded her of her loss.
She’d known of Pavlos long before she’d ever met him, had been infuriated and entertained in equal measure by the tone, anger, and wit of his articles ridiculing Macedonian nationalism. She’d been intrigued, too, by the gossip of besotted women throwing themselves at him. She was a proud and independent woman herself, and like so many of her kind, she had yearned to fall helplessly in love. They had finally met on either side of a radio debate in Thessalonike, and he had surprised her from the start. She had expected someone sharp, assertive, dressy, plausible, but Pavlos hadn’t been like that at all. Though he wasn’t exactly arrogant, she had never met a man so confident of himself. She knew from their first handshake that she was in trouble. He had an unsettling way of looking at her, then and later, as though she were completely exposed to him, as though he understood not just everything she said but all its subtext, too. He had watched her as though she were a movie, one he had seen before.
He had trodden all over her in their debate, defusing her best arguments with humor, hammering relentlessly at her weakest points. Disconcerted, she tried to press him back by citing Keramopoullos on the idiosyncratic style of Macedonian ceramics, before remembering that the words had come from Kallipolitis. She glanced up fearfully to see him grin, and for a terrible moment her scholarly reputation had been at his mercy. That moment—the moment of being at his mercy—had changed her life.
For two days after the debate, Elena had wandered her museum from room to room, hugging herself like an addict. Each time she tried to work, a craving like hunger would disturb her. She had never needed to call men, but she called Pavlos. Scared he would mock her, she introduced herself brusquely, remarked that he had raised interesting points in the debate. He thanked her. Then her nerve had failed. She held the phone against her cheek, wanting to say something clever or hurtful but not knowing what. When he asked her to have dinner with him, she could have cried.
How had it been? It had been everything. She remembered little of the detail, as though the intensity of her love had simply been too much for her memory. But she could remember the joy of it. Even now sometimes, she could experience an exquisite moment of bliss, catching sight of his double on the street, smelling his brand of cigarette in some passerby’s hand, or having some man look at her in the way Pavlos had—as that arrogant Frenchman had, certain he could take her to bed whenever he damned well chose.
Pavlos’s death had devastated Elena. Of course it had. She still hadn’t recovered from it. How could she? Grief hadn’t been as she imagined, any more than love had been. She had imagined grief as a great sea swell that lifted you into wretchedness for a while before setting you back down again much where you’d been before. But it hadn’t been like that. Grief had changed the fabric of who she was as completely as blown carbon changes molten pig iron.
Yes, she thought, the metaphor worked: grief had turned her into steel.
art
THE WOMAN DROPPED THE MANILA ENVELOPE through the open rear window of Nessim’s Saab as he paused to buy a packet of cigarettes from a vendor. He drove off in a flurry of dust back to his hotel’s underground parking lot, then took it up to his room to read. It was disappointingly thin, as files went, but then, he hadn’t expected Knox to have a file at all. He flipped through the pages, the print barely legible from being photocopied too often, the photographs almost completely black.
It quickly became clear that the Security Service hadn’t really been interested in Knox at all. They had been interested in another man, a Richard Mitchell, with whom Knox had worked for several years. Mitchell, it seemed, had a big mouth; he had accused the extremely well connected head of the SCA of selling papyri on the black market. A piece of recklessness that had achieved precisely what one would expect: his isolation from the Egyptological community and the refusal of any further permissions to excavate.
That at least explained what Knox had been doing in Sharm: killing time until the dust settled, dreaming of treasure on the seafloor. But it wasn’t much help when it came to tracking him down. The last sheet in the file, however, was a different matter. It was a list of all Knox’s known friends and associates, and it gave their home addresses, too.
art
NUR GREETED MOHAMMED AT THE DOOR. She looked haggard, which meant Layla had had a bad day. “You look beautiful,” he said, kissing her cheek and handing her a small bouquet of tired blooms.
“How can you afford these?” she protested tearfully.
“They’re a gift,” he said gently. “Sharif wanted you to have them.” He looked past her, down the hallway, to Layla’s room. “Is she awake?”
Nur nodded. “But tired.”
“I won’t be long.” He knocked gently on Layla’s door, opened it, and walked in. His daughter smiled to see him. He knelt beside her bed, reached into his pocket, and produced a black queen he’d carved and varnished. He liked to whittle. In the rare lulls on-site, he would scour the bins for ends of wood that he could attack with his linoleum knife. It was good therapy. When you could do nothing for your child’s health, you could at least do something for her happiness.
Her eyes went wide with wonder and delight. She took the varnished mahogany, licked it with the very tip of her tongue, clutched it tight against her chest, like a doll. For some reason, Layla had turned against real dolls since learning of her disease, making do with these carved figures instead. He couldn’t even tempt her with sweets any more. It was as though her life had become too serious for childish distractions. “You’ll read for me tonight?” she asked.
“Of course.”
She snuggled down, seemingly content. Now that Ibrahim had promised funding, he had called everyone he could think of and begged them to take the tests. That had felt good, as though he was contributing. But now he was dependent on others again. Now he was waiting. It was the hardest thing in the world for a parent, waiting.
He felt wretched when he left Layla’s room. Nur bit her lip, but she couldn’t hold back her tears. She spent her life weeping, drying herself out from the inside. Mohammed took her in his arms, held her tight to comfort her. Sometimes he felt so close to despair, he almost craved for the worst to happen, just so it would be over. His fine career, his beautiful wife and daughter. Everything that had once seemed so perfect. He murmured tentatively, “Is she well enough to go out?”
“Out?” There was an edge of hysteria in Nur’s tone. “Where?”
“The site.”
Nur pushed him away. “Are you crazy?” she cried.
Mohammed embraced her again. “Listen to me,” he said. “This archaeologist Ibrahim I told you about, the one with the Mercedes who’s paying for our tests. He has money; he has influence. He moves in a different world from ours. Layla needs all the friends she can get in that world.”
“He can help?”
Mohammed hesitated. Nur had a habit of punishing him for promises he made to soothe her through the harder times. “Who can say?” he murmured. “But he’s a kind man, a gentle man. Once he knows Layla for himself, who knows what Allah would have him do?”
art
“LOOK WHAT I HAVE!” said Augustin cheerfully, hoisting up two plastic bags. “Falafel baguettes and beer, yes? Just like the old days.”
“Great.”
Augustin frowned. “You don’t sound too happy.”
“A little stir-crazy,” admitted Knox.
“One day? You can’t even survive one day?”
“It’s all these bloody Tintin books of yours,” said Knox, helping him unpack. “Can’t you get me something decent to read?”
“Such as?”
“Something archaeological. How about your excavation reports from the harbor? I’d love to know what you’ve been finding.”
“Sure,” nodded Augustin. “No problem. I’ll bring them back tomorrow night. But if you’re suffering . . .”
“Yes?”
“This site I visit today. A necropolis. It goes all the way down to the water table and then some, but Ibrahim doesn’t want to pump. He wants me to explore. I was going to take Sophia, but if you’re really going crazy . . .”
A little tremor of fear and anticipation ran through Knox. “Are you serious?”
“Why not? She’s prettier than you, yes, but not so good a diver. You know how dangerous enclosed spaces can be.”
“How would I even get to the site?”
“On the back of my bike,” said Augustin, passing Knox a cold bottle of Stella. “You can wear my helmet; someone should. No one will stop us, I promise. The police in the city are a disgrace. Ten years I am here, I am never once stopped. And if we are, tant pis! I still have my papers from my last visit to Cyrene. Those Libyan bastards refused me entry under my real name! Me! Just because of some letter I wrote about that mad fop Gadhafi. So I had to go in as Omar Malik. A truck driver from Marsa Matruh, would you believe? If I can pass for a truck driver from Marsa Matruh, so can you.”
Knox shook his head. He couldn’t believe he was even considering this. But Augustin had an admirable lack of respect for the ordinary rules of behavior, and his attitude was infectious. “And inside the site?”
“No problem. Leave any talking to me. Not that there’ll be much. Up top there’s a working building site, remember. Down below there are God knows how many chambers, a hundred loculi in each, every one stuffed with bones and artifacts, all of which Mansoor wants in the museum inside two weeks. It’s chaos. Excavators from the museum, from the university, from along the coast. Just one security guard at the mouth of the stairwell, but all you need to get past him is a standard SCA pass, and I can issue you one of those myself. Some forgettable name. John Smith. Charles Russell. Mark Edwards. Yes! Perfect. Mark Edwards. You look exactly how a Mark Edwards should look.”
Knox shook his head uncertainly. “You know what Cairo thinks of me. If I’m found out, it could mean trouble for you.”
“F*ck Cairo,” scowled Augustin. “I still feel sick at what that bastard Yusuf did to you and Richard. Believe me, helping you will be a pleasure. Besides, how will anyone find out? I’m not going to talk. Are you?”
“Someone might recognize me.”
“I don’t think so. Ibrahim, maybe, but he’s a good man; he wouldn’t take it any further. Anyway, he never visits sites anymore; he might get his suit dirty. Other than that, there’s no one you know. And they’re all friends, except for this gorgeous angry Greek woman called Elena and her—”
“Elena?” Knox put a hand to his brow. “Elena Koloktronis?”
Augustin pulled a face. “You know her?”
“No,” snorted Knox. “Just a lucky guess.”
“How do you know her?”
“You remember what happened to my parents and my sister?”
“Of course. Why? She had something to do with that?”
“It was her husband who was driving.”
“Oh. And he… ? He also… ?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry,” said Augustin. “I’m sorry both for you and for her. But it won’t matter; she’s not there tomorrow.”
“You’re certain?”
“She runs an excavation in the Delta. She only came today to bring in her French photographer girl. Gaille Dumas, something like that. You know her?”
“A photographer?” Knox shook his head. “No.”
“Then we’re fine,” said Augustin. He grinned and held out his beer bottle to clink in a toast. “What could possibly go wrong?”