Sphinx

Table of Contents

 

 

 

 
 
 

 
Sphinx

 

 
T.S. LEARNER

 
 
Hachette Digital

 
Published by Hachette Digital 2010

 
Copyright © Tobsha Learner 2010

 

 
Hieroglyphs © Stephen Raw 2010

 

 
The moral right of the author has been asserted.

 

 
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a
retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without
the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated
in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published
and without a similar condition including this condition being
imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

 

 
All characters and events in this publication, other than those
clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

 

 
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.

 

eISBN : 978 0 7481 1500 6

 

 
This ebook produced by JOUVE, FRANCE

 

 
Hachette Digital
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Little, Brown Book Group
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This is a work of fiction written to entertain, inspire and intrigue and should be read as such. Any similarity to a living person or actual institution is entirely coincidental.

Many of the historical characters and their back stories are factual. For example, Nectanebo II did disappear mysteriously at the end of his reign. The character of Banafrit, however, is a literary device. The Antikythera mechanism - the oldest piece of machinery in existence, dating back two thousand years - is authentic, therefore the hypothesis that it might have had predecessors is logical.

Finally, the author would like to make it clear to her readers that she strongly condemns the illegal removal of antiquities from Egypt and any unauthorised exploration, commercial or otherwise.

Now, when I look at the desert, I am reminded of the year I spent in Egypt - the most definitive of my life. I never fail to be amazed by how sand resembles granules of glass, orbs made by grains colliding with each other as they shift, trickle and blow in invisible clouds across the horizon.

And I am reminded of how, if I’d had the eye of God that year, if I’d had some omnipresent aerial vision that could have wrapped itself around all the deserts of the world, I would have seen that when sandstorms settle they settle in patterns and those patterns make a cipher - a hidden prophecy.

In the distance a dust devil skimmed along the horizon, its trajectory zigzagging with uncanny intelligence. The Bedouin believed such dust storms to be the restless spirits of those who lay unburied, bone-naked, lost in the harsh desert. Was this a bad omen? Worried that the roughnecks might think so, I glanced over. The fieldworkers, big fearless men, their overalls blackened with grime and oil, were paused in awe, tools in hand, staring at the phenomenon.

The rumble of the generators rolled out over the sand like the growling of some colossal animal, across the patch of ground where the pump jacks and rigs of the Abu Rudeis oilfield stood, the derricks sentries against the bleached sky. Captured by Israel in the 1967 war, the oilfield had been returned to Egyptian control only two years before - in November 1975 - and army tanks still patrolled its perimeters. I could see one now, slowly cruising in the distance. With the Israeli border not far away this was a combustive landscape. Despite recent attempts by Egypt’s President Sadat to normalise relations between the two countries, the atmosphere was tense, the whole area a tinderbox. It felt as if any sudden movement - a jeep careering off course, a bout of careless yelling - might trigger another jaw-rattling exchange of fire.

Over at the control tower, the rest of the crew were hovering, waiting for me to give the final command to start drilling. A jeep was parked nearby with its door open, the driver tuning his car radio, the bulge of his pistol rippling under his jacket as he moved. Country and western music collided with the melancholic voice of singer Mohamed Abdel Wahab, the plaintive Arabic ballad blasting out with the heat across the blindingly white plains.

‘Mr Warnock!’ the driver shouted, pointing to the fake Rolex watch that had appeared from under the sleeve of his jellaba. I nodded and swung around to face the newly constructed rig. The derrick hung suspended over the rocky ground; the crew gathered by the control panel stared at me, tense with anticipation, watching for the thumbs-down: the signal to begin drilling. My assistant, Moustafa Saheer, catching my eye, grinned and nodded.

In the same instant I lifted my hand to signal ‘go’ there was a huge explosion. I threw myself to the ground, a burst of gunfire followed.

An image of Isabella, my wife, shot through my mind - she was stepping out of the shower, her wet hair hanging down to her waist, her smile enticing, wry. It was eight weeks earlier - the last time I’d seen her.

Lifting my head carefully I glanced over my shoulder. Just a few metres away, spewing oil had ignited into a single blazing pillar. ‘Blowout!’ I shouted, frightened that the fire would spread to our own well. Already the crew were clambering down, frantic, limbs tumbling over limbs. Nearby, a panicked soldier sprinted towards the inferno, firing his automatic rifle uselessly into the air.

‘Get in! Get in!’ the driver screamed to me. Running for my life, I bolted for the jeep.

 

We drove back to the camp in silence as black smoke billowed alongside the road. Moustafa stared out of the back window at the blazing oil well, now a flaming tower receding into the distance.

He had trained in Budapest and spoke perfect English with a private-school accent, but it had been his methodical analysis of data as well as his easygoing camaraderie with the roughnecks - an asset in politically anxious times - that had impressed me. This was the third project I’d hired him for, and we had developed a concise communication based on an understanding of each other’s personalities and boundaries; essential out in the field where it was often too noisy to hear anyone speak.

‘All those months of calculation gone.’ Moustafa’s expression was lugubrious.

‘C’mon, at least it’s not the new well burning. The company will cap the fire and we’ll start our drilling a few weeks late.’

‘A few weeks is still a great deal of money. This is bad for my country.’

After President Nasser nationalised the Egyptian oil industry in 1956, he insisted that local men replace the mainly Italian, French and Greek fieldworkers. But when Nasser died of a sudden heart attack in 1970, his heir, Anwar El Sadat, had introduced an open-door policy again. The consultancy company I worked for - GeoConsultancy - was part of that policy. I’d been brought in by the Alexandrian Oil Company to assess whether they should drill south of the existing oilfield and develop a deeper, as yet untested, reservoir. This landscape was second nature to me, a place where my soul sprang into thirsty agitation. I read terrain like the blind read Braille. Known as The Diviner, I had a reputation as the best geophysicist in the industry, famous for my ability to discover oil. But the moniker made me uncomfortable: it seemed to suggest that I had some mystical talent. In reality, I was meticulous in my scientific research but also prepared to take the extra gamble many others were frightened to.

After six months, with the help of Moustafa, we’d finally convinced them that the new field was worth the risk.

The sound of the explosion still rang in my ears but my heartbeat steadied slowly. I turned back towards the skyline; dusk had reduced the sea to an inky charcoal and the rippling waves glittered randomly. The sky was a burnt orange; the offshore oil rigs were silhouetted on the horizon like marooned ships with bizarrely oversized masks, islands of industry. It was a sight that never failed to inspire me. I sniffed my fingers; they smelled of smoke and burning oil. The blowout had thrown some things into perspective. Isabella, for one. The last time I’d seen her we’d fought and we hadn’t spoken since. When I threw myself on the sand to save myself from the billowing flames, I was suddenly convinced that we would never get the chance to be reconciled. The thought that I might never see her again was devastating.

Oil geologists spend a lot of time by themselves, analysing seismic data or studying core samples on site. You develop a certain self-sufficiency, the roar of your own blood filling your head until you find yourself deaf to other people. But after five years of marriage I had become welded to Isabella. We were the same animal, both of us fascinated by the way history folded itself into the ground, the trail of clues left by previous civilisations.