Sphinx (45 page)

The memory of Mosry staring into the interrogation room at police headquarters shot through me. Then Mosry smiling at me through a dimly lit lecture hall. I shuddered.

‘But what do they want to do with it?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know,’ replied Rachel. ‘Assume control? Total power? Revert the country back to a kind of feudal state with Majeed as ruler? To be honest, Oliver, Majeed is ruthless. You might want to take some safety precautions,’ she said grimly, nodding for emphasis. ‘Like get yourself some body armour, a gun, maybe even disappear for a while.’

She turned back to the astrarium, which I’d wrapped up again as she’d been talking. ‘But this . . . this is totally amazing: history incarnate. To think the Ancient Egyptians were so advanced in astronomy. I would have liked to have met Isabella - she must have been fascinating.’ Our gazes met. Rachel smiled, then looked away quickly.

‘But what are we going to do about the astrarium?’ she asked. To my surprise I found myself warmed by the inclusiveness of the word ‘we’, but a shiver of fear passed over me nonetheless. Almost everyone who got involved with the astrarium got hurt.

I sighed. ‘Isabella mentioned that the astrarium had a destiny, a resting place. But there are a few pieces I still need to connect. For example, I also need to find out where Isabella’s missing organs are and what exactly Giovanni and the group of archaeologists were up to. Then there is the mystery of the actual meaning of the cipher. I’m hoping it will lead to where the astrarium truly belongs, whether that’s a temple or a tomb or wherever. I owe Isabella that much. How about strategising over breakfast?’

‘Sounds like a good plan,’ Rachel said. ‘I’ll take a quick shower and then we can go.’ She stretched, then stood. ‘See you in ten.’ She disappeared into the bathroom.

The early morning sun had begun to filter through the thin curtains. I glanced at the clock radio beside the bed. It showed 6.30 a.m. I got up and walked out onto the balcony. A strange bird call pierced the early-morning chorus. For some reason it reminded me of London and the sparrowhawk crashing into my windscreen when I’d driven away from the flat. The memory brought with it an increased sense of foreboding, a sudden nervousness. Trying to distract myself, I glanced over at the balcony of the apartment next to us. The curtains were open and the room looked vacant. The sound of a van pulling up drew my gaze down to the front driveway of the hotel. The security guard, looking oddly nervous, stepped out of his sentry box and walked to the van’s window. I could see money being exchanged, then, to my amazement, the guard walked away from the hotel. The van pulled up at the main entrance and two men in white uniforms jumped out. Something about the urgency of their movements made me squint, trying to see more clearly where they were headed.

As if sensing my gaze, one of them looked up towards the balcony, staring right into my face before I had a chance to duck down. By the time I’d stood up again, they had disappeared. With mounting uneasiness I went back inside. Rachel stood in the centre of the room, towelling her damp, curling hair. I hesitated, then said ‘Maybe we should leave now, I don’t know—’ Suddenly, outside in the corridor, I could hear the sound of running footsteps. I gestured to Rachel to keep quiet, then went to the door and opened it as gently as I could, peering through the crack carefully. At the end of the corridor were the two men I’d seen outside, now with guns in their hands. I shut the door softly, then grabbed Rachel’s arm and pulled her up, away from the door.

‘Out - now!’ I hissed, sweeping up the astrarium with my other hand.

Rachel looked towards the door, grabbed her travel bag, swept the things on top of the nightstand into her pocket and ran after me to the balcony. We climbed over the low wall onto the balcony of the room next door. The glass doors were unlocked and we slipped inside quickly.

Pressed against the dividing wall I could hear the sound of my own pounding heart and feel Rachel trembling beside me as we both held our breath. Through the thin wall we heard pounding on Rachel’s door, then the sound of it being kicked in, followed by footsteps running into the room. They were right next to us and I could hear an exclamation, furious and frustrated. Rachel turned to me in bewilderment. We both looked at the door at the same time. In seconds we reached it. The corridor was empty. We slipped out swiftly, then bolted down the hallway. As we turned the corner we collided with a bellboy carrying a set of towels. He turned and stared at us.

We were already halfway through the empty lobby when we heard shouting behind us. In amazement, the desk staff watched us fly past.

‘What the hell, Oliver!’ Rachel yelled as she ran beside me.

‘Just keep running! They’re right behind us!’

We pushed through the main glass doors and bolted into the grounds and beyond, on to the sleeping streets. We ran past a row of parked cars, then ducked into a side lane. Behind us we could hear the sound of running feet.

Desperate, I glanced around. By a market stall a covered cart stood, the thin horse harnessed to it chewing on a wad of hay in the gutter. I pulled up the tarpaulin: the cart was half empty, a layer of dry cement dust covering the bottom. There was room to hide.

‘In here!’ I whispered but Rachel shook her head, looking around wildly. Opposite us, a clothes stall was just opening up and the old clothes seller was hanging up the long dresses and caftans with a hook. Rachel pointed towards the stall.

After slipping the stallholder a hefty bribe we were soon both hidden between rows of hanging clothes. Nearby we could hear the sound of running and shouting. We both cowered deeper into the dresses, desperately trying to quieten our panting breath. Minutes later we heard the men entering the lane.

‘You sure it was him?’ one asked in a gruff voice. He spoke in Arabic with a Saudi accent.

‘Absolutely. Mosry had a photo,’ the other replied.

Rachel’s nails dug into my wrist at the mention of the name. We waited, motionless, not daring to breathe as they approached the clothes seller.

‘You seen two Europeans?’ one of them asked the seller aggressively. Frozen, I tried to repress the overwhelming desire to run, praying that the old man would prove trustworthy. Next to me, I saw Rachel blanch.

‘I have seen nothing. It’s been quiet as a grave,’ the old man answered calmly.

‘Over here!’ the other thug shouted. I peered through a gap in the clothes. I could see both of them frantically searching the cart, the tarpaulin thrown back.

‘Must have run on,’ the heavier one concluded and they moved off. We stayed hidden for another five minutes. I could feel the pounding of Rachel’s heart through her fingers, and the smell of our fear cut through the perfumed fabric of the caftans. Tentatively, I looked out - the lane was empty. We emerged from the layers of hung dresses.

‘He said the name Mosry, didn’t he?’ Rachel said in a low voice.

Her terrified whisper was drowned out by a boom, a flash of light and a shudder that seemed to travel in a wave underneath our feet. Thrown to the ground, we lay there as plaster and debris showered around us. I waited for my senses to be sucked back into the present. Lying on the ground next to us, the old clothes seller sat up, his face bleeding, and immediately broke into prayer.

‘What the fuck was that?’ Rachel sat up. There were a few tiny scratches on her face, but she seemed unharmed. I checked my arms and face, my fingers touching a couple of bleeding scratches where I’d been hit by debris, then stood and helped the old clothes seller to his feet. Over his wailing I could hear the scream of ambulances coming closer. I sat him down on the edge of his cart and then turned towards the hotel, visible at the end of the lane. One side appeared to be completely demolished, the plaster walls falling away in a heap of rubble and mangled iron girders. Patches of sky showed through shattered windows and door frames. Rachel looked at me, speechless.

‘I think they killed two birds with one stone,’ I said slowly. ‘They were after me and the astrarium but failing that they decided to leave a token. I suspect that was one of Mosry’s attempts to ruin Sadat’s peace initiatives. They were after the journalists, the foreign press - people like you.’

‘Oh Jesus, no.’ Rachel froze in horror.

From the street behind us the sound of men shouting came closer. We started running again. Half-dressed and covered in plaster dust, we raced through the dawn streets like ghosts. People scattered away from us, horrified. I clutched the astrarium to my chest, counting the years of my life as a way to distract myself from the thudding of my heart and the roar in my ears, damaged temporarily by the blast. I wasn’t entirely aware of where I was going, but some instinctive sense of geography must have been activated - the compass of the survivor - and we suddenly found ourselves outside the shop of a barber whom I knew well. Abdul had been cutting my hair ever since Isabella and I had arrived in Alexandria. A friendly man in his mid-sixties, he was a socialist and a poet and we’d spent many hours debating the failures and successes of various regimes and exchanging opinions on poets such as Seferis, Rilke and Lorca. I knew he would help us.

Abdul and his assistant were prostrate on the floor in the middle of morning prayer. Surprised, they peered up at us.

‘Mr Warnock! You look terrible!’ Abdul stood, dusting his knees.

‘We need a room, Abdul. Please!’ I shot him a beseeching glance.

Abdul took one look at Rachel’s terrified face and quickly ushered us to the back of the store, shouting at his assistant to close the shop. In the distance there was the wail of sirens as ambulances and fire engines converged on the Sheraton.

The room above the barber’s shop was equipped with a single iron bed, a small camp stove upon which sat a pot of mint tea, and a low wooden chair. There was a shelf holding several books, including a couple of revolutionary texts and a collection of Constantine Cavafy’s poems, and various hairdressing supplies were scattered around. There were two small windows; one looking over the street market below, the other opposite it, looking over a panorama of rooftops.

Rachel, now dressed in a plain traditional caftan that Abdul had supplied, collapsed onto the bed. ‘Are we absolutely sure those were Mosry’s men?’

‘I saw the white van drive up,’ I said. ‘That’s probably where the explosives were. They saw me on the balcony and knew where to look for the astrarium, assuming I had it with me. Then they detonated the bomb when they were sure the astrarium wasn’t in the hotel.’

‘Oliver, it could have been anyone - the Syrians, the Jordanians even the Libyans. No one wants this peace accord except Sadat.’

‘Rachel, you heard them mention Mosry’s name yourself.’

She nodded. ‘Yes, of course they did.’ Then a terrible realisation crept into her eyes. ‘Francois Paget from
Le Monde
, Eric Tullberg from
Der Spiegel
, George Del Sorro, the
Washington Times
- Christ, they were all there, Oliver.’ She looked at me, her face white with shock, bits of plaster still caught in her blonde hair. If I had had any doubts about trusting her with the whole story, they would be dispelled now. She wouldn’t betray me. I knew that now with absolute certainty - to the contrary, with her research skills and her knowledge of the political stakes involved she might be able to help me.

I glanced across at my rucksack sitting on the floor. Following my gaze, Rachel said nothing.

‘Don’t you think it’s a little miraculous?’ I ventured.

‘What, having your hotel room blown up? I’d say it was very bad luck.’

‘I mean having survived.’

‘Knowing Mosry, next time we won’t be so lucky.’ She stood up. ‘I have to get to a phone to file the story.’

‘Shouldn’t you see a doctor?’

‘It’s just a few cuts. All I need is a shower and a strong coffee. I’ll sleep later, if I can find a spare hotel room. I suppose I should be thankful that Mosry’s after you and not me.’ She smiled grimly and turned towards the small bathroom, separated from Adbul’s room by a threadbare curtain.

‘Listen,’ I said hesitantly, ‘I need a couple of favours . . .’

‘If it involves confronting two large Saudi gentlemen, count me out,’ she said wryly as she pulled aside the curtain.

‘Can you take a message to my housekeeper and collect some things for me? Then would you be able to visit the priest at St Catherine’s and ask him whether you could borrow a Coptic monk’s cassock? If you tell him it’s for me, he’ll understand. Please, Rachel? I’ll be indebted to you for life.’ I heard the water splashing, then she reappeared, perfunctorily scrubbed clean.

‘For life, huh? That’s tempting.’ Rachel picked a large piece of plaster out of my tangled hair. ‘I guess there’s a story in it eventually. Is this barber trustworthy?’

‘Completely, although we disagree on the merits of Rilke and he’s itching to shave off my beard. So you’ll do it?’