The Exodus Quest

II

Knox hauled himself exhausted and dripping onto the craggy southern shore of Lake Mariut. He kept low as he hurried across the exposed rocky fringe, up a slight rise and into the shadow of one of the ubiquitous Bedouin pigeon houses that stood like huge, tar-covered bells.

He felt drained from his long swim, but he didn't have time to recuperate. By panicking and running, he'd certainly quashed any lingering doubts Farooq might have had over his guilt. He'd humiliated him too. The word would already be out: a killer was on the loose. Egyptian police didn't carry their guns as fashion accessories. They'd shoot on sight. And if he handed himself in, they'd simply go to work on him with their canes, and he was quite sore enough already.

He kicked off his shoes, stripped off his shirt and trousers, laid them against the shimmering hot surface of the birdhouse. Water vapour instantly began smouldering from the cotton. When they'd dried sufficiently on one side, he turned them over.

A sixth sense made him look around. A grizzled Bedouin farmer was standing a hundred metres or so away, leaning on his staff, watching him curiously. Knox shrugged his shoulders, not unduly alarmed. No self-respecting Bedouin would willingly talk to the police. But he needed to get moving.

His clothes were already dry enough to pull back on. The twin chimneys of the power station were a two-fingered salute in the western skyline. Peterson's dig lay beyond them. He nodded to the shepherd as he began to jog.