The plane shot down the runway and lifted gently into the evening sky, leaving Heathrow and England behind.

And had she known for one second that she would never return, she would have given them more than just a fleeting glance as they disappeared beneath the clouds.

Chapter 40

Five hours later, the wheels hit the runway with a screech at Cairo International Airport.  She glanced out of the small window and smiled. Arriving in Egypt always brought back memories of her first flight all those years ago, when George had done so well in taking her mind off her irrational fear of landing. By now, after dozens of trips, travelling by plane was as mundane to her as travelling by train or car.

As usual, no one was waiting for her inside the terminal. Instead, she went straight to a line of yellow taxis and quickly negotiated a price with the driver in the first one.

Travelling in Egypt was also something that Gail had grown accustomed to quite fast following that first trip. Their decision to rent a car on that occasion had come from inexperience; certainly the distances looked great enough to warrant renting one. But now, Gail wouldn’t have dreamed of driving herself. Taxis were far more convenient, arguably safer and definitely cheaper.

More convenient because parking spaces were virtually non-existent in the city, particularly near the Museum where Gail normally went.

Safer, because the law of the roads in Cairo was survival of the fastest, where even the traffic police had difficulty controlling drivers.

And cheaper because once you knew how to and had built up the guts to do it, bartering with a taxi driver was as natural in Egypt as asking for the time. Within minutes, Gail was sitting in the first taxi, having agreed to half of the first suggested price.

It was already eight o’clock, six in the UK. She tapped the phone link on her earpiece and called her home number. George picked up after one ring.

“Hello?” he said. “Gail, why can’t I see you?”

“I’m in a taxi, my phone is in my pocket and it’s dark,” she replied, holding onto the door handle as the driver negotiating his way past an oncoming lorry.

“Cairo Taxi, eh? Better than Alton Towers. How was the flight?”

“Good, gave me time to think about everything. Thought about you on landing, as always. And thanks for the sheepish rabbit.”

He laughed. “Glad I could help, and glad you liked the bunny, Bunny. How about your work? You sound much better.”

She felt much better, she thought to herself. “Well, I know Mamdouh pretty well. I trust he would only have done what he thought was best for everyone concerned. I still feel betrayed, like he could have confided in me, but I don’t know the ins-and-outs of all this.”

“I’m sure everything will be fine. Oh, before I forget. Some guy called Martín Atony, or Antonass, or something like that, rang for you about half an hour ago. He sounded quite insistent and said he needed to meet up with you. He sounded Spanish or South American or something. He was from the European Space Agency.”

“What did he want?” she asked. She had already deflected a dozen reporters wanting her to comment on the Mars finds, but had made a firm decision to say nothing until she knew something. She imagined that this Martín was no different.

“He didn’t say exactly. I gave him Mamdouh’s details so if he hasn’t already he’ll probably be calling you at the museum.”

“Bloody hell, George! You know I don’t want to talk to the press or anything like that, and I’m guessing Mamdouh doesn’t either.”

There was a short silence.

“I’m sorry, Gail, but he didn’t sound like he was after a story. I have his number here; I’ll give him a call and tell him you’re not interested.”

“Hang on a second.”

Her taxi was apparently racing with another through a junction and despite her experience she couldn’t help wincing as her driver swerved in front of the other to cut him up. He was rewarded with three short beeps, and he waved cheerily out of his window in reply.

 “No,” she said bluntly, her mind back on their conversation. “I’ll deal with him when I get there. We’re only a few minutes away at this speed, anyway.”

“I’m sorry, honey. I love you,” he added the last three words almost as an afterthought.

“Me too, George. I’ll call you later.”

“Oh, and Gail?”

“Yes?” She heard the sound of cutlery on a plate and grinned.

“I’ve eaten your portion, OK?” He spoke with his mouth full of what she assumed was her Fish and Chips.

“Whatever, George.” She pressed a button on the earpiece and ended the call.

Five minutes later, the car came to a stop in a street round the back of the museum. The driver turned round to face her with a wide grin.

She wondered briefly if the fact that she always haggled down to half the original price meant the driver always drove at twice the required speed, but then dismissed the thought. The look on this man’s face told her he probably drove like that all the time. She paid the agreed fare, added fifty Egyptian pounds of baksheesh, and stepped out into the relatively cool Egyptian-winter evening.

Professor Mamdouh al-Misri had always been proud of his office at the Egyptian Museum. It had a decidedly ‘Old World’ feel about it: dark oak shelves covered every wall from floor to ceiling, while an imposing solid mahogany desk filled the centre of the room. The shelves were mostly stocked with academic publications. The entire bottom shelf, running along three walls of the office, was filled with over a century of National Geographic magazines. A small shelf at head height nearest the Professor’s chair contained a selection of old archaeological books from the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. All three volumes of Carter’s The Tomb of Tut-Ankh-Amen were present in the irreplaceable collection, and were themselves alone insured for over a hundred thousand British pounds.

Of course, in his few years as the General Director of the museum, the Professor had not yet had the time to furnish such a lavish office all by himself. Such a collection of books belonged not to him, but to the museum itself, and had been accumulated over the last century by dozens of General Directors, each one leaving their mark.

Professor al-Misri was more concerned with the safety of the collection, in particular the earlier works, than of adding anything specific to it himself. For that reason, he had been working with the museum planners to modify certain shelves in the office. Soon, for instance, Carter’s works would be protected by a thick layer of Plexiglas and steel that could only be opened by entering a six-digit code.

He sat in his chair and looked up at the books. They seemed so old and fragile, their spines mostly bent and frayed at the edges. The dust jackets of some were torn and partially missing. These were books that had been used countless times; thumbed-through by his predecessors, left on bedside tables at night, or lying on a desk under a pile of paperwork for weeks and months on end, and they showed their age with pride.

He thought about the Amarna Library, sealed tight against the elements, its contents immaculately preserved for millennia. Thousands of books and scrolls, more than a man could read in a lifetime, in better condition than the small collection he saw in front of him now.

He shook his head. Books were meant to be read, not hidden.

Gail knocked and entered without waiting. She found him sitting at his desk, which had been cleared of all paperwork, revealing in full its leather surface to her for the first time. The Professor looked at her blankly.

“Hello?” she ventured.

His face suddenly lit up. “Gail! Sorry, I was miles away. How was the flight?” He stood up and rounded the desk to welcome her, holding her right hand firmly and kissing her lightly on each cheek – a vestige of his Western education.