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her now?’

      ‘I’m afraid she’s not on site. And this season may not be easy. Rush of work. So much to do. So little time.’ He waved vaguely at the desert behind him, as though they could see for themselves. But of course they could see nothing.

      ‘We wouldn’t get in your way,’ said Knox.

      ‘I think I’m the best judge of that, don’t you?’

      ‘No,’ said Omar tersely. ‘I think I’m the best judge.’

      ‘We report to Cairo, not you,’ said Peterson, speaking for the first time. ‘I’m not quite clear what your jurisdiction here is.’

      ‘Do you have an SCA representative here?’ asked Omar.

      ‘Of course,’ nodded Griffin. ‘Abdel Lateef.’

      ‘May I speak with him?’

      ‘Ah. He’s in Cairo today.’

      ‘Tomorrow, then?’

      ‘I’m not sure when he’ll be back.’

      Knox and Omar shared a glance. The SCA representative was supposed to be on site full time. ‘You have an Egyptian crew, I assume. May I speak with your reis?’

      ‘By all means,’ said Peterson. ‘Just show us your authorization.’ He waited a moment for Omar to produce it, then shook his head in theatrical disappointment. ‘No? Well do come back when you have it.’

      ‘But I’m head of the Supreme Council in Alexandria,’ protested Omar.

      ‘Interim head,’ retorted Peterson. ‘Drive safely, now.’ And he turned his back on them and strode away, leaving Griffin to hurry after him.

      II

      Gaille was waved to a stop at a checkpoint a couple of kilometres north of Assiut, assigned two police cars for the return journey north. It was like that round here. In her headscarf, driving alone, Gaille was effectively invisible; but once she had such obvious Westerners as Stafford and Lily for passengers, there was little chance of avoiding an escort. Gaille hated driving in convoy like this; the police here drove at breakneck pace, wending wildly through traffic, forcing her to drive frighteningly fast just to keep up. But they reached the end of the police jurisdiction without incident and the two cars vanished as quickly as they’d appeared.

      ‘So what’s your programme about, then?’ asked Gaille, slowing with relief to a more comfortable speed.

      ‘I’ve a copy of the synopsis for this segment, if you’d like,’ said Lily from the back, unzipping her bag.

      ‘That’s confidential,’ snapped Stafford.

      ‘We’re asking Gaille to help,’ observed Lily. ‘How can she if she doesn’t know what we’re working on?’

      ‘Very well,’ sighed Stafford. He took the synopsis from Lily, glanced through it to make sure it contained no state secrets, then rested it on his knee and cleared his throat. ‘In 1714,’ he began sonorously, as if for a voice-over, ‘Claude Sicard, a French Jesuit scholar, came across an inscription cut into the cliffs at a desolate site near the Nile in the heart of Egypt. It turned out to be a boundary marker for one of the most remarkable cities of the ancient world, the capital city of a previously unknown pharaoh, a pharaoh who’d inspired the birth of a new philosophy, a new style of art, and – most of all – of bold new ideas about the nature of God that had shattered the status quo and irreversibly altered the history of the world.’

      As opposed to reversibly altering it, you mean? thought Gaille, struggling not to smile.

      Stafford squinted at her. ‘Did you say something?’

      ‘No.’

      He pursed his lips, but then let it go, picked up where he’d left off. ‘The new ways had proved too much for the Egyptian establishment, however. Extraordinarily, it would transpire, this city hadn’t just been abandoned, it had been deliberately dismantled, brick by brick, to remove any evidence of its existence. And all across Egypt, every mention of this man and his reign had been meticulously erased so that the seas of time closed over his head without a trace. Who was he, this heretic pharaoh? What crime had he committed that was so monstrous, it had had to be expunged from history? In his latest groundbreaking book and companion documentary, iconoclastic historian Charles Stafford explores the astonishing multiple mysteries of the Amarna era, and puts forward a revolutionary new theory that not only shatters the way we think about Akhenaten, but will also rewrite our notions of the history of the ancient Near East.’ He folded the sheet back up, tucked it away in his inside jacket pocket, looking rather pleased with himself.

      A donkey was standing in the middle of the road ahead, its front legs hobbled so that it could move only in feeble bunny-hops. Gaille put her foot on the brakes, slowing right down, trying to give it time to reach the verge, but it didn’t move, it just stood there, terrified and bewildered, so that she had to cut into the other lane to drive around it, provoking angry bursts of horn from other traffic. ‘Your programme’s really going to do all that?’ she asked, checking anxiously in her rear-view until the donkey had vanished from sight.

      ‘And more. Much more.’

      ‘How?’

      ‘He’s suggesting Akhenaten had a disease,’ volunteered Lily from the back.

      ‘Oh,’ said Gaille, disappointed, as she turned left off the main Nile road onto a narrow country lane. The grotesque images of Akhenaten and his family were one of the most fiercely debated aspects of the Amarna era. He himself had often been portrayed with a swollen skull, protruding jaw, slanted eyes, fleshy lips, narrow shoulders, wide hips, pronounced breasts, a potbelly, fat thighs and spindly calves. Hardly the heroic picture of manhood that most pharaohs had aspired to. His daughters, too, were typically shown with almond skulls, elongated limbs, spidery fingers and toes. Some believed that this had simply been the prevailing artistic style. But others, like Stafford it seemed, argued that it portrayed the ravages of some vicious disease. ‘Which are you going with?’ she asked. ‘Marfan’s Syndrome? Frohlich’s?’

      ‘Scarcely Frohlich’s,’ sniffed Stafford. ‘It causes sterility. And Akhenaten had six daughters, you know.’

      ‘Yes,’ said Gaille, who’d worked on her father’s excavation in Amarna for two seasons while still a teenager, and who’d studied the Eighteenth Dynasty for three years at the Sorbonne. ‘I did.’ Even so, there was only so much of the relentless ‘child of his loins, his alone, no one else’s, just his’ inscriptions that you could read before wondering whether someone wasn’t protesting a mite too much.

      ‘We spoke to a specialist before coming out,’ said Lily. ‘He reckoned Marfan’s Syndrome was the most likely candidate. But he did suggest others too. Ehler’s-Danlos. Klinefelter’s.’

      ‘It was Marfan’s,’ asserted Stafford. ‘It’s autosomal dominant, you see. That’s to say, if a child inherits the relevant gene from either parent, they’ll inherit the syndrome, too. Look at the daughters; all portrayed with classic Marfan’s symptoms. The odds against that happening unless the condition was autosomal dominant are enormous.’

      ‘What do you think, Gaille?’ asked Lily.

      She slowed to bump her way across a thick carpet of sugar-cane husks laid out to dry in the sun, fuel for the furnaces of the black-honey factories, their thick black smoke still visible despite the growing late-afternoon gloom. ‘It’s certainly plausible,’ she agreed. ‘But it’s not exactly new.’

      ‘Yes,’ smiled Stafford. ‘But then you haven’t heard the groundbreaking bit yet.’

      III

      ‘This is bad,’ muttered Griffin, whey-faced, hurrying after Peterson.

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