LITMIR.BIZ

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headscarf and local clothes gave her anonymity if she wanted it. She could drive away and no one would ever know. Only that wasn’t quite true. She’d know.

      She grabbed her camera from the glove compartment, hurried out and back through the ticket hall where the police were still hiding, her heart pounding, chills fluttering across her skin. Stafford and his companions were still hemmed in on the platform, wrestling for their luggage with two youths. She stepped up onto a bench, wielded her camera like a weapon. ‘CNN!’ she cried out. ‘Al Jazeera!’ Attention shifted instantly to her, a wave of hostility, quickly replaced by fear, people instinctively ducking their faces, not wanting to be captured on film. She panned around to the men from the Central Security Forces. The officer scowled and snapped out orders. His men hurried out, opened a precarious corridor with their batons that Stafford, the redhead and Gaille all hurried down, out to the Discovery.

      ‘What are you waiting for?’ yelled Stafford, slamming the passenger door behind him. ‘Get us out of here.’

      ‘What about your porter?’

      ‘Fuck him,’ snapped Stafford. ‘Just get us out of here, will you?’

      ‘But—’

      ‘He’s one of them, isn’t he? He can look after himself.’

      The CSF men were waving them away, as though they couldn’t guarantee them protection much longer. Gaille thrust the Discovery into gear, surged away. Traffic was gridlocked the way she wanted to go; she turned left instead. The streets quickly narrowed, aged, turned into a bazaar, forcing her to slow right down, wend her way between irritated shoppers. With all the twists and turns, she quickly became disoriented. She leaned forwards in her seat, scanning the skyline for a familiar landmark by which to navigate.

      II

      Captain Khaled Osman kept his smile fixed to his lips as he waved off the police inspector. But it vanished when he turned to his men. ‘Time for a patrol, I think,’ he said. ‘Faisal. Nasser. Abdullah. Come with me, please.’

      Khaled sat stiffly in the passenger seat as Nasser drove and Abdullah and Faisal cowered in the back. There was silence apart from the blast of the engine. The silence of anger. The silence of fear. They reached the Northern Tombs. Khaled climbed out; his men followed, forming a desultory line, sagging like sacks of rice. He’d done his best to instil some pride of uniform in these men since being forcibly transferred into the tourist police out of the army, but it was futile, they were worthless, all they cared about was gouging baksheesh from the tourists. He walked back and forth in front of them, their heads bowed in shame like the miserable pups they were. ‘One job I give you!’ he spat. ‘One damned job! And you can’t even do that!’

      ‘But we did exactly what you—’

      Khaled slapped Faisal across the cheek, the crack echoing off the cliff walls behind. ‘How could you have done?’ he yelled, saliva spraying over Faisal’s face. ‘They found her, didn’t they?’

      A smile tweaked Abdullah’s lips, evidently relieved that Faisal was taking the brunt. Khaled grabbed his collar and clutched it so tightly that his face turned red and he started struggling for breath. ‘If this goes wrong …’ vowed Khaled. ‘If this goes wrong …’

      ‘We never wanted any part of this, sir,’ protested Faisal. ‘It was all your idea. Now look!’

      ‘Shut up!’ snarled Khaled, letting go of Abdullah, who gasped for breath, massaged his raw throat. ‘You want to spend your whole life poor? Is that what you want? This is our chance to be rich.’

      ‘Rich!’ scoffed Faisal.

      ‘Yes, rich.’

      ‘There’s nothing there, sir! Haven’t you realized that yet?’

      ‘You’re wrong,’ insisted Khaled. ‘It’s in there. I can smell it. One more week and it’ll be ours.’ He wagged a finger at them. ‘But no more mistakes. Understand? No more mistakes.’

      III

      Knox drove west out along the new Desert Road into a palette of extraordinary colours, the ice-packs of the salt farms dazzling white to his right, the chemical sheen of Lake Mariut glowing almost purple to his left, and, up above, the wisps of late-afternoon cloud making for a Jackson Pollock sky.

      ‘The Therapeutae?’ frowned Omar. ‘Weren’t they early Christians?’

      Knox shook his head. ‘They had Christian attitudes and practices, and they were claimed as Christians by certain early church fathers, and it’s even possible they became Christians. But they can’t have started out as Christians, not least because they were living in and around Alexandria before Christ started preaching. No, they were Jews, all right. Philo admired them so much he almost joined them, after all, and he was certainly Jewish. What’s more, he implied a very strong connection between them and the Essenes. The Therapeutae were his ideal of the contemplative life, the Essenes of the active life. But their beliefs and practices were otherwise virtually indistinguishable.’

      ‘In what ways?’

      ‘Both were extremely ascetic,’ said Knox, scratching the resinous scab of a mosquito bite on his forearm. ‘It’s commonplace now, but no one used to think there was much virtue in poverty before the Essenes. Their initiates had to hand over most of their worldly belongings when they joined, as did new Therapeutae. Both rejected slavery and considered it an honour to serve others. Both held their elders in great esteem. Both were vegetarian and disapproved of animal sacrifice, perhaps because both believed in reincarnation. Both dressed in white linen. Both were renowned for their medical skill. Some argue that the words Essene and Therapeutae actually derived from Aramaic and Greek for healers, though it’s more probable they both meant “servants of God”.’ He turned south onto the low causeway across Lake Mariut, where a few fishermen were idling away their day on the rocky verges. ‘Purification rituals mattered hugely to both. Both were largely or completely celibate, sustaining their numbers through recruitment rather than procreation. Both sang antiphonal chants. In fact, some Passover hymns found at Qumran might well have been composed by the Therapeutae. Both used a solar calendar, as opposed to the usual Jewish lunar calendar. And both had a ritual three hundred and sixty four days to their year, even though they knew the real figure.’

      They arrived south of the lake, a barren landscape of Bedouin farms, vast industrial complexes, expensive verdant villas and large stretches of rocky waste-ground that no one had yet found a use for. Knox pulled into the side to consult their map. A grey heron looked quizzically at him from a reed-bed. He winked at it and it flapped leisurely away.

      ‘The Essenes and the Therapeutae,’ prompted Omar.

      ‘Yes,’ nodded Knox, pulling away again, turning west, the map open on his lap, keeping as close to the lake as the roads allowed. ‘Both were keenly interested in the hidden meanings of the scriptures. Both knew secrets they couldn’t divulge to outsiders, such as the names of angels. Geometry, numerology, anagrams and word-plays held special meaning to both, as did jubilees. The Therapeutae held a feast every seven days, a more important one every fifty days. Fifty was a very special number, you see, because it was the sum of three squared plus four squared plus five squared; and any triangle with the lengths of its sides in the ratio of three, four, five is a right-angled triangle, which they held to be the building-block of the universe.’

      ‘Right-angled triangles? Isn’t that more Greek than Jewish?’

      ‘Absolutely,’ agreed Knox, turning left down a narrow lane, flat tilled fields to their right, bare limestone bedrock to their left. ‘They had an amazing amount in common with the Pythagoreans. Diet, calendar, rituals, beliefs. All the things I just mentioned. And clear traces of sun-worship too. Ancient Alexandrians actually claimed that Pythagoras derived all his knowledge from Moses, that his religion was essentially Egyptian. He did spend twenty years here, after all. So maybe he got it all from the same place as the Therapeutae.’

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