The Hidden Oasis (37 page)

She came back into the living room with two steaming mugs, handed one to Flin and again perched herself on the arm of the sofa. There was silence. Freya stared down at the floor, processing everything Kiernan had just told her. Then, looking up again, right into Kiernan’s eyes, she put the question she had been on the point of asking five minutes earlier.

‘I don’t understand what any of this has to do with my sister. With this hidden oasis thing?’

‘Well now we come to it,’ said Kiernan. ‘We’d got wind of the whole operation pretty early on, from informants in both Girgis’s and Kanunin’s organizations. But it was all broad-brush stuff. We knew what was being planned, who was involved – what we couldn’t get hold of were precise dates, places, times. It was literally only a couple of hours
before the Albanian rendezvous that we were finally able to nail down details of how the uranium was being moved, and where it was being moved to.

‘By that point it was way too late in the day to intercept the Antonov before it took off. There was a slim possibility we could have caught it when it came down to refuel in Benghazi, but given our relations with Gaddafi at the time that would have presented a lot of complications. Better to keep a close track on the plane and catch it in Khartoum, before it started its final run up to Baghdad. We had a Special Forces unit stationed just across the Red Sea in Saudi, the Israelis were primed to help out. It should have been textbook. Would have been textbook if nature in her wisdom hadn’t intervened.’

‘Nature?’ Freya shook her head, not understanding.

‘The one thing we could never have planned for,’ said Kiernan with a sigh. ‘The Antonov got hit by a sandstorm as it was flying over the Sahara, lost both its engines. One of our listening stations picked up a Mayday from somewhere over the Gilf Kebir Plateau and then the plane dropped off the radar screens and disappeared.’

For the first time Freya caught a faint glimpse of light, of understanding.

‘It crashed into the oasis, didn’t it? That’s what this is all about. Why Girgis wanted the photos. The plane crashed into the Hidden Oasis.’

Kiernan smiled although there was no humour in the expression.

‘We didn’t find that out immediately,’ she said. ‘All we knew was that the Antonov had come down somewhere in the vicinity of the Gilf, which is a pretty big area, 5,000
square kilometres of rock and desert. But about six hours after the first Mayday we picked up a second radio message, this one sent by the plane’s co-pilot, a guy named Rudi Schmidt, who seems to have been the only survivor of the crash. The transmission was garbled and only lasted about thirty seconds, but in that time Schmidt was able to give a rough description of where the plane had crashed. In a tree-filled gorge, he said, with ruins everywhere. Ancient ruins, including some sort of enormous temple with a strange obelisk-shaped symbol carved all over it.’

‘The Benben,’ murmured Freya. Although the room was warm she felt goosebumps prickling her arms.

‘Even without that little titbit it couldn’t have been anywhere
but
the
wehat seshtat
,’ said Flin, taking up the story. ‘There are no other known or reputed ancient sites within two hundred miles of the Gilf Kebir, and certainly none inside the sort of gorge he was describing. It’s just about conceivable it was some unknown site, but the Benben motif put it beyond any doubt.’

He shook his head and bent forward, picking up the photographs he had dropped on the floor.

‘A million-to-one chance,’ he said, leafing through the images. ‘A billion to one. With the whole Sahara to crash in, the Antonov comes down slap bang in the middle of the Hidden Oasis. Like dropping a piece of cotton over New York and it just happening to thread itself through the eye of a needle. You couldn’t make it up, you just couldn’t make it up.’

On the sofa-arm beside him Kiernan was also staring at the photos. It was the first time she had seen them, and her eyes were gleaming.

‘We’ve been looking for that plane for nigh on twenty-three years,’ she said, her head angled to one side to get a better view of the pictures. ‘Sandfire – that was the operational name we used for the search. It was highly classified of course – even within the Agency there was only a small group of us who knew anything about it – and from the outset a decision was taken to not involve the Egyptian authorities for fear of someone tipping off Girgis we were on to him. Even so, given the available technology – satellite imaging, surveillance aircraft, UAVs – we should have been able to track the thing down in a matter of days.’

She sat up straight again, looking over at Freya.

‘As it is we have scoured every inch of the Gilf Kebir and a hundred and fifty miles out into the desert 360 degrees around it, and we haven’t found a bean. We’ve looked from the air, we’ve looked from space, we’ve looked on the ground, we’ve turned over what feels like every piece of rock from Abu Ballas and the Great Sand Sea down to Jebel Uweinat and Yerguehda Hill. And after all that …’

She gave a helpless snort.

‘Nada. Nothing. An eighty-foot, twenty-ton aeroplane just upped and vanished. Believe me, I don’t go in for occult superstition, but even I’ve started to think all that stuff in the Imti-Khentika papyrus about curses and spells of concealment might have some truth to it. I sure as goodness can’t come up with any other explanation.’

Outside a car alarm started blaring, stopping almost immediately. Kiernan stood and took another peek through the curtains before turning back, folding her arms.

‘For the first few years we threw everything we had at the problem. After that we started to scale back. If we couldn’t
find the oasis, we figured, it was highly unlikely Girgis or anyone else was going to. We obviously kept an eye on things, especially after 9/11 – it doesn’t bear thinking about what would happen if a group like al-Qaeda got wind there was fifty kilos of highly enriched uranium sitting unprotected out in the middle of the desert. We still carry out regular satellite and U-2 surveillance sweeps, have a Special Ops unit on permanent standby down in Kharga in case something does turn up. But for the most part we’ve been relying on what we call ANOs, Amenable Non-Operatives: civilians who for whatever reason have a particular knowledge of, or involvement, with the geographical area we’re interested in, and might conceivably stumble on something we’ve missed.’

She nodded towards the sofa.

‘Flin I’d got to know back in the nineties, when he was with MI6. After he …’

A fractional hesitation, as if she was choosing the right words.

‘… ended his association with British Intelligence and went back into Egyptology, moved out here, I got in touch, asked for his help. An obvious choice given the work he was doing.’

‘And Alex?’ asked Freya.

‘Again, your sister was an obvious choice. Our paths had crossed back in Langley when she was temping in the CIA cartographic department. When I heard she’d settled in Dakhla I looked her up and outlined the situation. With the exception of Zahir al-Sabri I’ve never met anyone who knew the Gilf as well as Alex did. She agreed to get involved, in return for which we channelled some money
into her research. Although to be honest, I think it was more the challenge that attracted her than the funding or a desire to protect the free world. Alex being Alex, I got the impression she looked on it all as a bit of a colourful adventure.’

Freya shook her head sadly. That was exactly why Alex would have got involved, she thought – because it was something different, something intriguing. She’d never been able to resist a mystery. And this one had got her killed. Poor Alex. Poor darling Alex.

‘… kept everything as simple as we could,’ Kiernan was saying. ‘They reported to me and that was it, they had no involvement with the Agency
per se.
We’d just about convinced ourselves the plane was never going to be found. That it was just one of those inexplicable, Bermuda Triangle-type mysteries. And then suddenly after twenty-three years, Rudi Schmidt’s body appears out of nowhere and the whole thing’s blown wide open again.’

She sighed and rubbed her temples. She looked, thought Freya, even more careworn than when they’d first arrived in the flat.

‘Unbelievable,’ she said. ‘And, obviously, extremely worrying. Saddam might be gone but there are plenty of others who’d be more than happy to pick up his end of the deal. And Romani Girgis is not the sort of man to quibble about who he does business with.’

She swivelled round and took yet another look out of the window, head craning back and forth before she turned back again. Silence.

‘So what now?’ asked Freya. ‘What are you going to do?’

Kiernan shrugged.

‘There’s not really a whole lot we can do. We’ll get those computer-analysed’ – she indicated the photos in Flin’s hand – ‘ramp up our surveillance of the Gilf and Girgis. Aside from that …’

She threw up her hands.

‘Watch, wait, twiddle our thumbs. That’s about it.’

‘But Girgis murdered my sister,’ said Freya. ‘He killed Alex.’

Kiernan’s brow furrowed at this, her eyes flicking across to Flin, who gave a barely perceptible shake of the head as if to say ‘Let it go.’

‘Girgis killed my sister,’ Freya repeated, her face flushing. ‘I’m not just going to sit around doing nothing. Do you understand? I’m not just going to let it go.’

Her voice was starting to rise. Kiernan came over and squatted down in front of her. Reaching out, she squeezed her arm.

‘Romani Girgis will get what’s coming to him,’ she said. ‘If you trust me on nothing else, trust me on this.’

There was a pause, Kiernan holding Freya’s eyes. Then, with a nod, she rose again.

‘Right now, though, I think we’ve talked enough and you should go get that shower. Because from where I’m standing you don’t smell so good.’

She smiled and despite herself Freya did too. Exhausted suddenly, she stood.

‘You said there were clean clothes.’

‘First bedroom on the right,’ said Kiernan. ‘On the bed. You’ll find towels there as well. And do watch the temperature control on the shower – it’s got a will of its own.’

Freya crossed to the door, stepping out into the corridor,
only to turn and put her head back into the room again.

‘I’m sorry about the gun thing,’ she said to Flin. ‘In the taxi. I was never going to shoot you.’

He waved a hand.

‘I know. You’d left the safety catch on. Try not to use all the hot water.’

After she’d left, Kiernan eased herself into the armchair Freya had just vacated. The hiss of the shower echoed from the far end of the flat.

‘She’s just like Alex, don’t you think?’

Flin was working through the photographs again, still in his filthy shirt and jeans.

‘Different as well,’ he said, not looking up. ‘Darker. She’s definitely got baggage.’

He held one photo above his head, squinted at it.

‘Alex never did tell me what happened between them,’ he added, almost as an afterthought. ‘It was the one thing she’d never talk about.’

He lowered the photo and held up another. Kiernan watched him, drumming her fingers on the arm of the chair.

‘See anything?’

Flin shook his head.

‘Although this one’s interesting.’

He handed her the picture he’d been examining – a statue of a human figure with the head of a crocodile. It stood on a large, cube-shaped plinth on whose face – clearly visible – was a hieroglyphic text framed within the coils of a serpent.

‘Sobek and Apep?’ asked Kiernan.

Flin nodded.

‘The same curse formula as in the Imti-Khentika papyrus. May evildoers be crushed in the jaws of Sobek, and swallowed into the belly of the serpent Apep. Except here there’s something more. See.’

He leant forward and tapped a finger on the bottom of the picture.

‘And inside the serpent’s belly,’ he translated, ‘may their fears become real, their
resut binu –
that’s evil dreams – a living torment. Not exactly revelatory, but intriguing from an academic point of view. Another tiny fragment of the mosaic.’

‘Does it get us any closer to the actual oasis?’

He grunted.

‘Not even a millimetre.’

He took the photo back, flipped through the rest of the pile one more time, then dropped them on the sofa and stood.

‘By all means get them enhanced, but I can tell you now there’s nothing here,’ he said. ‘You’re wasting your time, Molly. They’re useless.’

He rolled his neck and walked across to a wooden cabinet on the far side of the room. Opening it, he pulled out a three-quarters-empty bottle of Bell’s whisky and a small tumbler.

‘Medicinal,’ he said, noting the disapproving look on Kiernan’s face.

He filled the tumbler, knocked it back in one slug and refilled it, replacing the bottle in the cabinet and returning to the sofa. For a while he just sat there, swirling the whisky around, the liquid lapping the inside of the glass like a dirty gold tongue. The hiss of streaming water could still be heard
from the bathroom. Then, downing half the drink, Flin fixed his eyes on Kiernan. ‘There’s something else, Molly.’

She raised her eyebrows, tilted her head slightly.

‘I think someone might be hacking into your mobile.’

Kiernan said nothing, although the way her fingers suddenly stopped drumming suggested Flin’s comment had taken her by surprise.

‘When Freya arrived in Cairo she left a message on your voicemail,’ he went on. ‘Letting you know she was coming to see me at the university. Thirty minutes later a bunch of goons turn up and make straight for my office. It’s conceivable someone on campus was looking out for her and tipped Girgis off, but then when we were at the museum I also left a message on your voicemail. Result: the same bunch of goons appear out of nowhere and a good friend of mine gets his throat slit. It’s too much of a coincidence. Girgis has to be accessing your phone.’

Flin had known Kiernan for the best part of fifteen years, and in all of that time he had never once seen her look agitated. Until now.

‘That’s not possible,’ she said, standing. ‘That’s simply not possible.’

‘I can’t see any other explanation. Unless Freya’s lying or you’re working for Girgis, both of which I somehow doubt.’