The Exodus Quest

III

Knox ached from head to toe as he struggled to sleep. Bone-weary, they called it, and they knew what they were talking about. His cell was cold, his bench hard, his companions noisy sleepers, taking it in shifts to snore. The television was still on in the recreation room, volume cranked up high. It didn't seem to bother Egyptians at all – they were born with mute buttons in their heads – but it was an aspect of life here that Knox had never quite got used to.

It was the small hours before he finally drifted off, if not to sleep exactly, then to a state of inertia near enough to it. He wasn't sure how long he'd been dozing that way when he heard a familiar voice. Gaille's voice. At first he thought he was dreaming; it made him smile. But then he realized it wasn't a dream. He realized it because of her choice of words, the strain in her tone. A jolt ran through him. He sat up, hurried to the cell door. Through the viewing window, he could just make out on the television screen the nightmare iconography of modern terrorism, Gaille and two others on the floor, two masked paramilitaries standing behind them, weapons across their chests.

'Gaille!' he muttered, disbelieving. He pounded his fist against the door. 'Gaille!'

'Quiet, damn you,' grunted one of his cell-mates.

'Gaille!' he yelled. 'Gaille!'

'I said be quiet!'

'Gaille!'

A door banged, footsteps approached, a bleary-eyed policeman peered in. He glowered at Knox, kicked the door. Knox barely even noticed, squinting past him at the TV screen. It was Gaille for sure. He called out her name again, feeling utterly helpless, bewildered. The policeman unlocked and opened the cell door, tapped his cane menacingly against his thigh. But Knox simply barged past him, out into the recreation room, staring numbly upwards, listening to her words.

The policeman grabbed his shoulder. 'Back in your cell,' he warned. 'Or I'll have to-'

'She's my friend,' snarled Knox. 'Let me watch.'

The policeman took a step back; Knox focused once more on the TV. The footage finished. The scene changed. A soberly dressed man and a woman in a news studio. No one had heard of the Assiut Islamic Brotherhood, but the authorities were confident of resolving this crisis peacefully. An inset screen appeared playing the hostage footage. Knox stared transfixed as Gaille adjusted her position, raised her right hand for emphasis. His skin prickled, though he wasn't sure why.

A door clanged behind him. He glanced around. Two more policemen were approaching, faces scrunched and mean. 'My friend,' he explained, gesturing at the screen. 'She's been taken hostage. Please. I need to-'

The first blow caught him on his thigh. He hadn't seen it coming at all, hadn't had time to brace himself. Pain spiked up his hip; he slumped onto one knee. The second blow glanced off his shoulder blade onto the back of his scalp, stars and amoebae dancing in front of his eyes as his face rushed at the floor. A sudden shudder of memory, driving the Jeep, Omar beside him, laughing together at some joke. The sharp tang of diesel. Then his hair was grabbed and someone muttered in his ear, though there was such a ringing in his ears he couldn't make out the words. His head was dropped again, his cheek banged cold stone. They dragged him by his legs across the rough floor back to his cell.