Sphinx (34 page)

A hand was suddenly placed over the camera lens and the screen went black. Robin Day appeared again, but I didn’t have a chance to hear his comment on the footage. The night nurse rushed into the room.

‘Your brother’s regained consciousness, Mr Warnock.’

 

Gareth was still lying flat in his bed but now his face was turned to one side, staring out through the hospital window to the black sky beyond. I was terrified that he might have woken mentally impaired, his mind broken.

‘Gareth? It’s Oliver.’

‘So I’m back on the planet?’

His voice was little more than a whisper. A great wave of emotion rattled through my body and, losing all inhibition, I finally cried - for Isabella, for Barry, for the lost innocence of my marriage.

Gareth, aghast at seeing me so undone, clutched my hand.

 

Incredulous at the speed of my brother’s recovery, the doctors nonetheless reassured me that Gareth’s brain patterns appeared normal. At four-thirty in the morning, in the narrow pea-green hospital corridor that smelled of disinfectant, I slipped coins into a payphone and rang the squat. Zoë answered. I told her the news and left her weeping with relief.

As I put the receiver down I glanced along the passage. There was no one except a hospital cleaner pushing a mop across the tiled floor.

 

Before I went home, I drove to Primrose Hill and climbed to the top. The sunrise that morning was the most inspiring I’d ever witnessed: a huge crimson sphere ascending over London; the streaking clouds catching coral, blue, mauve. Up there I had a sense of absolute power. I felt as though I could dictate who woke and who slept on in the city. It was intoxicating, as if I lived above and beyond the lives spread out before me. Was this how Nectanebo felt? That he had control over people’s lives and deaths - a living god? And what of Moses himself, as he stood before the towering walls of water? Was it possible?

I arrived at the flat exhilarated but exhausted. I collapsed onto the couch. On the table next to me, the answering machine blinked. I pressed the button and Johannes Du Voor’s voice boomed into the room, demanding that I meet him at the Ritz at ten - a nasty reminder that I was still on the payroll. I hadn’t known the South African was in London, but that was typical of Du Voor - he was always showing up at the most inopportune moments. I checked my watch: I had an hour to get there.

 

Built in 1910, the Ritz was one of those last bastions of old-fashioned service in London. During my first years in the job, as a working-class northerner, I’d always felt distinctly uncomfortable in the large and luxurious arched reception hall with its huge crystal chandeliers and marble pedestals, as if the hotel staff could sense that I was an impostor. But, after studying my clients, I soon learned to adopt the nuances of class, how to at least feign a relaxed indifference, accepting it as natural to be served and waited upon. The CEO of GeoConsultancy, my employer - Johannes Du Voor - was under the impression that such venues still made me uneasy, which was exactly why he insisted on meeting me at the Ritz every time he visited London. It gave me a psychological edge to maintain his illusion. What he didn’t know was that over the years I’d stayed at the hotel for the occasional retreat - with and without Isabella.

Johannes shifted uncomfortably, his vast bulk squeezed into the Louis XVI chair, dwarfing the table with its linen cloth, silver tea set and delicate china. He lifted his cup to his lips, then put it down in disgust.

‘Jesus, weak as bloody piss. You’d think that here of all bloody places they’d get the tea right. That’s the trouble with the English - arrogant and complacent. You should be careful - I sometimes feel the same about your bloody hunches.’

‘What does it matter if I get the results?’

A waiter holding a tray of scones had hesitated at the sound of Johannes’s booming voice. I beckoned him over.

‘Have a scone,’ I told my boss. ‘You know that eating calms you down.’

‘Fuck you, Oliver. If you weren’t a recent widower, and the best geophysicist I know, I’d have fired you yesterday. My condolences, by the way.’

Johannes’s huge paw of a hand swept several scones off the tray and onto his plate.

‘Thank you, and thanks too for the wreath.’

‘Proteas. Bloody difficult to find in Egypt. I wept, you know, when I heard about Isabella. She was a great girl, strong, fierce, bloody gorgeous - too good for you.’

I watched him pile a huge spoonful of clotted cream onto the scones, followed by a large blob of strawberry jam. There was a rumour at GeoConsultancy that Johannes had become so fat he no longer fitted into a first-class seat and was now looking to buy a private jet with custom-built furniture.

‘Why are we here?’ I asked him. ‘I thought I’d made it clear I was taking a few weeks off.’

‘Does it look like we’re working?’ A rivulet of jam travelled down his chin. Undeterred, he continued to demolish the scones. ‘For example, this last job - I looked at the geology, the maps, the seismic but could see nothing at that depth. And yet you insisted on drilling.’

‘You’re wrong. There
was
something. The data was clear to me.’

‘Maybe to you, but to nobody else. You’re becoming a real wildcatter, Oliver, reading signs the rest of us just don’t bloody see. Even the Dutch are beginning to think you’re a mystic. You’ve begun to rely too much on your gut and not enough on the science.’

‘I disagree.’

I knew I didn’t sound convincing. Johannes continued his tirade, oblivious to my self-doubt.

‘I’ll give you another example - that job in Nigeria you were calculating. You sent through the depth and size of the reservoir before the survey was even completed. Explain that!’

‘That was just a mix-up in the post. You received my calculations before you received the survey results. You’re just confused.’

‘Oliver, you telexed your calculations.’

I fell silent. Johannes was right: I had sent in my approximations of the depth and size of the reservoir before the survey had been completed. It wasn’t hubris on my part; it was I who’d got the dates confused.

‘Look, I’m not complaining,’ he went on. ‘How can I? You’re the best there is. And right now I’m looking down the barrel of a gun and in need of a few miracles myself . . .’ He pressed a hand to his chest.

I’d heard rumours Johannes was ill but this was the first time he’d actually mentioned it.

‘Heart?’ I guessed.

‘The good news is that, despite what the ex-wives say, I do actually have one. The bad news is that it’s more than a little tricky. So I need a fuck-up on my watch like I need a hole in my head. Oliver, when you get it wrong I’m the one responsible; and the way you’re going, you’ll get it spectacularly wrong one day - it’s inevitable.’

‘Is it?’

I didn’t want to explain myself. And, as I reflected on all the explorations I’d initiated, I knew I didn’t have the language to describe that moment when speculation transmuted into certainty - a gut sense that began as a small knot in my stomach, then flowed through my fingers and feet as I literally felt the hidden folds and ripples of the earth beneath me.

Johannes peered at me, searching my face. It was as if he was looking for some glimmer of understanding - of illumination, something to hope for. I’d never seen him so vulnerable before - it was unnerving: all his confidence had collapsed into a bewildered perplexity.

‘How do you do it, Oliver? C’mon, rattle the bars of this old sceptic’s cage. Because I’m staring into the void, my friend, and I need something to believe in. Throw the old sinner a bone.’

It was one of those confronting moments when someone I had held at a distance had stepped across the boundary with a genuine need for help - Johannes wanted me to turn him into a believer. But I couldn’t answer him. There simply wasn’t enough trust between us; or at least that was what I told myself at the time. The truth was, I didn’t want to expose myself to what I thought could be ridicule.

‘So you want me to be more orthodox in my methodology? ’ I asked.

A fleeting expression of crushed expectation ran across Johannes’s features before he slipped back into his characteristic aggressiveness.

‘Do I?’ He buttered another scone. ‘I suppose I do, yes. I suppose we’re all asking for explanations and the nice neat rational ones are the easiest to sell. And, after all, that’s what I am, Oliver, isn’t it? A salesman who’s running out of time. And now you’re taking a bloody month off. But in case you’re thinking of doing something stupid, remember I have you under contract for at least another year.’

Bill Anderson’s warning came back to me: that Johannes was paranoid that I might break away and start my own company. Wasn’t it obvious I just needed some time out? A police car screeched past, heading down Piccadilly - another IRA bomb scare, I couldn’t help thinking.

‘Oliver?’ The South African’s nasal tones drew me back to the point.

‘Johannes, I’m not going anywhere, I promise.’

‘Good, but we need you back in Egypt within two weeks - that’s the best I can do. Maybe I should get you a decent shrink who specialises in bereavement - you look like shit. Two weeks. No-show after that and you’re fired.’

‘I’m coping,’ I said. ‘Isabella left some loose ends and they’re a little preoccupying.’ A classic English understatement that hung in the air a bit little longer than I’d anticipated.

‘Yeah? Well, I just hope it isn’t the kind of loose end that’s going to upset the Egyptian government. You know how much time, effort and diplomacy it took to set up that relationship, not to mention the money. Destroy that and I’ll happily destroy
you
.’

Shifting uncomfortably, I tried to guess whether Bill Anderson had told Johannes about me smuggling an artefact into Britain. Keeping my expression neutral, I answered as innocently as I could: ‘Now, why would I do anything like that?’

I stood and picked up my rucksack. Johannes stayed seated and I didn’t bother shaking hands with him.

‘Don’t worry, I’ve got the bill,’ he said, and reached for another scone.

‘Have a good flight home, Johannes.’

As I walked away, I heard him bellowing at the waiter for some decent tea.

As I turned along my street a police car and an ambulance came into view. I slowed down, not sure whether I should continue driving. Raj’s wife Aisha stood by the gate, talking to a policewoman who was scribbling diligently in a notepad. I could see Raj sitting in the back of the ambulance while an attendant wrapped a bandage around his arm. I pulled over quickly.

Aisha, looking tearful and pale, ran up to me as I got out of my car. ‘Oliver, a shocking thing has happened. Thieves and no-gooders have desecrated your property! My Raj, he was a hero!’

‘I was not a hero,’ Raj yelled from the ambulance. ‘I just behaved as a good citizen should. But, Oliver, what they have done! It is terrible!’

‘What’s happened?’

Before Raj could answer, a detective stepped up behind me. ‘Mr Warnock?’

 

The front door of my apartment was ajar, several books and a camera case jammed between it and the door frame. Even from where I stood I could see the extent of the devastation. I hesitated at the doorway, a sense of violation flooding through me.

‘We believe the break-in occurred around ten in the morning, sir. It was a professional job, no fingerprints, and they’ve taken some care to search the premises in an efficient but ruthless manner.’

The detective, in his late thirties, was coolly professional but I found the conciliatory tone of his voice instantly irritating. We stepped over a smashed photograph - Isabella in her wedding dress stared out of the cracked glass.

‘Sorry about that, sir.’ He picked up the photo. ‘Your wife is recently deceased, isn’t she?’

‘She drowned in a diving accident, six weeks ago in Egypt.’

‘That must be difficult. And now this, and you’ve only been back in the country . . . what, a few days, sir?’

‘About a week.’ I could hear myself sounding defensive.

We went through into the lounge. The curtains had been ripped from the windows, several pillows lay disembowelled, and the cover of the couch had been slashed, making the white stuffing protrude obscenely. Books had been tumbled from the shelves, an antique clock - the only thing I’d inherited from my grandfather - lay on its side, the wooden back torn from the casing. The invasion of privacy was nauseating. It felt like a kind of rape.

‘We believe there was more than one intruder. It was a very thorough job. Your neighbour . . .’ he glanced down at his notebook ‘. . . Mr Raj Ahuja tried to prevent the second man escaping over the back fence. He was kicked rather violently in the arm for his trouble. According to Mr Ahuja, the thief was brandishing a small handgun with a silencer attached. Mr Ahuja thinks he recognised the gun from a James Bond film.’ He smiled patronisingly. ‘Interesting, that - the fact that it had a silencer. It would suggest that the intruders had more than theft on their minds.’ He looked right at me. ‘The odd thing is, sir, even if they have actually stolen anything, they’ve left behind a lot of objects of evident value, such as your telescope, sir, over there - interesting thing to own, a telescope - and your gold cufflinks on the dresser, and the television. It looks like they were after something specific. Any idea what that might have been?’