The Exodus Quest

II

The policemen put Knox in a small dank holding cell with two other detainees: a tall thin straggle-bearded youth in a tan galabaya who fingered beads and muttered incessantly, and a sallow forty-something man in a mussed white suit who lay restlessly on the bench opposite, sitting up every so often, rubbing his hands and cheeks like a deprived addict.

The stone walls, softened by damp, were everywhere scratched with graffiti. Knox read them while he waited. He brooded too. Only Augustin had known he was with Kostas. And the photographs Augustin kept in that folder gave him a motive. But he was also his closest friend, and Knox had never met a man more loyal to his friends than Augustin. No way would he deliberately betray him. There had to be another explanation.

It was a good hour before the door scraped open again and a policeman beckoned. He was led through a recreation room full with off-duty policemen watching the football on a flickering TV screen high up on the wall, then along a narrow corridor to an interview room, where he took a seat at a bare pine table. An overweight policeman arrived a minute later, a notepad in one hand, a carton of juice in the other.

'What's going on?' demanded Knox.

The man sat as if he hadn't heard a word, jotted down Knox's name, checked his watch for the time. He had surprisingly elegant handwriting. 'My name is Farooq,' he said. Knox gave the faintest of snorts, for the name Farooq meant one who could tell truth from falsehood. Farooq looked up sharply. 'You speak Arabic, then?' he said.

'I get by.' It was only then that he realized how he'd been tracked down. 'And you speak French, yes?'

Farooq grinned wickedly. 'I get by,' he acknowledged. 'You've lived in Egypt long?'

'Ten years.'

'May I see your papers?'

'Not on me.'

'If you've lived here ten years, you should have learned to carry your papers at all times.'

'I'll go get them if you like.'

Farooq tapped his pen on his pad, thinking how best to approach this. 'Tell me something, Mister Knox,' he said. 'You were in a serious car crash last night. You were knocked unconscious. You were taken to hospital, seemingly a sensible place for a man who's been in a serious accident. Yet this morning you ran away. Why?'

'I don't have insurance. Those places cost a fortune.'

'A man died last night, Mister Knox. Do you think this is funny?'

'No.'

'Then I ask again: why run away?'

Knox hesitated. The truth would sound implausible, but maybe it was worth trying. 'A man came into my room,' he said. 'He tried to kill me.'

'With one of my officers stationed outside?'

'He put a pillow over my face.'

'You expect me to believe that? You think I'm a fool?'

'Why else would I have run away?'

Farooq tapped his pen some more. 'Describe this man to me.'

'It was dark. I had concussion.'

'Why not call for help?'

'I tried to. I had no voice. But I did pull my IV stand over. It was all I could manage. Your officer came running in. He fetched a nurse. The nurse righted the stand. I tried to tell him…' He gestured helplessly at his throat. 'Ask your officer if you don't believe me.'

Farooq glared at Knox, trying to intimidate him into buckling and retracting, but Knox held his gaze. 'Wait here,' said Farooq finally, pushing to his feet. 'I'll be back in one minute.'