Operation: Sahara

-Banks-

The first thing Banks did was to examine the blood at the camel’s neck, a long, crescent-shaped splash, drying now but only a few hours old at a guess. If it was human, it meant that there might be hope that the research team weren’t too far distant, but might be injured. He itched to be on the move; every minute might be important. But traveling too far, too fast, in too much heat, was only going to sap their strength, and their will come to that. The squad would be no use to the researchers if they themselves needed rescuing. They’d all, Banks included, be better off resting now in case tough action was needed later.

After giving the camel some water from his canteen, Banks studied the contents of the packs it had been carrying, emptying them out and laying them on the ground like the pieces of a puzzle he might be able to solve.

There was a large goatskin of water, three bedding rolls, changes of underwear for both men and women and a smaller canvas rucksack containing an expensive digital camera and lenses, a laptop, several notebooks and pens and several pages, obviously torn from an old journal that looked out of place among the modernity.

The camera was full of images of the trip up to that point. Scrolling backwards through them was like seeing the journey they’d taken in reverse; scenic views of the same canyon they were now in, gear being packed onto camels at the old Egyptian’s shack and finally fresh-faced smiling faces at railway stations and airports. He went forward through the photos again, looking for any clue as to what might have befallen the research team. The last photograph was an open view out of a canyon across desert dunes to a shimmering oasis in the distance. He searched the camera’s internal memory in vain, but there were no more clues.

At least I know they got this far, and a wee bit further.

The laptop was no help either; the machine was password protected and Banks didn’t have a clue where to start unlocking it. Davies or Wilkins would be able to hack into it but they needed their sleep. It would have to wait.

By this time the camel had settled down onto the ground and appeared to be contentedly asleep. Banks walked out to the end of the box canyon and looked out. Daylight filled the main ravine and heat washed through it in waves that set the whole scene in front of him rippling. He retreated back into the shade, sat beside the camel and lit a smoke before turning to the notebooks.

Again they didn’t tell him anything he didn’t know; they were written in a neat hand, by one of the female research team and were a diary of the trip. Once again he went forward in time with them, from organization at Edinburgh Uni then via trains and airplanes to a meeting with the old Egyptian at the airstrip; the diarist had been charmed by him, and was especially appreciative of his tea. The last entry mentioned a stop in one of these box canyons and spoke of her excitement for the days ahead and her hopes of marvels to be seen when they reached the lost city, of which she did not seem to have any doubt. It was dated more than a week ago and there were no more recent entries.

In desperation for any clue at all as to the team’s fate Banks finally turned to the old journal pages, although he did not hold out hope for much enlightenment. It was pages from a diary of a British Army sergeant over a hundred and thirty years ago and despite himself, Banks was immediately riveted.