The Exodus Quest

IV

'Well,' said Tarek. 'You asked to see us. Here we are.'

Naguib nodded at the men assembled in the room, contemplating him with a variety of expressions, from indifference through suspicion to undisguised hostility. He couldn't exactly blame them. These were Amarna's ghaffirs, informal guards and guides traditionally left to their own devices, as long as they kept a lid on things, their jobs passed down from father to son, giving them status and income. But things had begun to change, central and regional government trying to phase them out, imposing outsiders like himself on their communities. It was no wonder they'd reacted coolly to his efforts to win them over.

'My name is Inspector Naguib Hussein,' he said. 'I am new to this area. I have met some of you before, but-'

'We know who you are.'

'I was out in the desert yesterday. I found the body of a young girl.'

'My son Mahmoud found her,' grunted Tarek. 'He reported it to you, as we've been instructed.'

'Yes,' agreed Naguib. 'And I'm very grateful, believe me. But I'm having little success finding out who she was, what happened to her.'

Tarek shook his head. 'She wasn't from around here. That's all we can tell you.'

'You're certain?'

'We know our own people.'

'Any idea where she might have come from?'

'We're not as isolated as we once were, as you yourself know. People come and then they go again.'

'But you see them. You're aware of them.'

'We weren't aware of this one.'

Naguib leaned forward. 'We found a figurine on her. An Amarna artefact.'

An exchange of glances, surprise and curiosity. 'What's that to do with us?'

'I've heard that no one is as skilled at finding artefacts as you ghaffirs. I've heard that you find the sites that even the archaeologists can't find.'

'Then you've heard true enough,' nodded Tarek. 'Though naturally we always tell them straight away.'

'Naturally,' agreed Naguib, once the laughter had died down. He took the figurine from his pocket, passed it across. 'Perhaps you might have some idea where this came from?'

Tarek examined it, shook his head, passed it to his neighbour. 'Most artefacts like this are in the wadis. We're not allowed in the wadis any more.'

Naguib frowned. 'Why not?'

'Ask your friend Captain Khaled,' scowled Tarek. 'And if he tells you, I'd be grateful if you let us know. He's taken away a source of good revenue.' There were murmurs of assent from around the room.

'When did this happen?' asked Naguib.

Tarek shrugged, leaned across to confer with the man next to him. 'Six months ago,' he said.

'You're sure?'

'Yes,' said Tarek, nodding at the wall of rain outside. 'It was the day after the last great storm.'

V

It was a while since Augustin had flown a remote-controlled aircraft. But once it was up, his hands took over and he began enjoying himself. He sent the plane on several passes of Peterson's site, Hani snapping photographs at his command with the camera's remote. But then he nudged his arm, pointed to a white pick-up driving along the lane on the other side of the wall, three burly security guards on the flatbed gazing up into the sky like wise men following a star. 'I thought this was an official SCA survey,' he murmured.

'You'd better get out of here,' said Augustin.

'What about you?'

'I'll be fine.'

'I can't just leave you.'

'This isn't your fight.'

Hani shrugged but nodded, set down the remote control, slipped away.

Augustin steered the plane away along the line of the lane, teasing the pick-up after it, before putting it into a circle for long enough for Hani to reach his taxi and get away. Then he aimed it back his way, walking briskly as he worked the controls, his eyes fixed on it. He heard the pick-up's engine. A cry went up. He'd been spotted. No time for finesse now. He sent the plane into a dive, crunching into the hard ground fifty metres ahead. Its fuselage crumpled, its red foam wings sprang loose. He threw down the remote and sprinted for it. A glance around, the three men on foot closing fast. He grabbed the camera, tried to wrench it free, only succeeding in buckling the catches. He picked the whole thing up, trying to undo the clasps on the run. He legs tangled in the fuselage, he went sprawling, finally wrested the camera free. The first of his pursuers was just a few paces behind, putting in a frantic burst to catch him, diving and slapping one of his ankles against the other, sending Augustin sprawling. But he sprang straight back up to his feet again, the copse just twenty metres ahead. He reached his bike, straddled her, started her up, glanced back. His pursuers had fallen far behind, had come to a halt, were heaving for air. He revved the engine victoriously, gave them a cheerful wave as he sped out of the trees onto the lane.

The pick-up struck him side-on. He slithered along its bonnet, struck its slanted windscreen, catching a glimpse of Griffin the other side of the glass, every bit as shocked by the collision as Augustin himself. And then he was in the air, his world spinning crazily, wondering with more curiosity than fear if it would be the last thing he ever saw.