She didn’t have an answer for that. He saw her hands go tight on the steering wheel. The little convoy closed in, then passed and kept going. No hesitation at all. The cloud of dust behind them began to recede. Davis watched until it disappeared completely.
Antonelli heaved a sigh of relief. “They seemed in a hurry,” she said. “Do you think—”
“No,” he said quickly. “What I did last night was nothing in a place like this. They’ll send out the police to ask a few questions, maybe add a squad of soldiers at the checkpoint. But nobody’s going to bother with a country-wide manhunt.”
The cab went quiet and Davis looked ahead, watching for anything else coming their way. All he saw was heat shimmering on an empty road, mirage-like waves that disassembled the horizon.
“You want me to drive for a while?” he asked.
She smiled appreciatively. “Yes, perhaps soon.”
The smile captured Davis. He studied her features and decided that she could never be anything but Italian. Straight nose and olive skin. Roman eyes, dark and lively. There was a regalness about her.
“Contessa,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You look like a contessa.”
“Have you ever seen one before?”
“Not that I know of. But if I did, she’d look like you. I’m sure of it.”
She nodded. “I suppose that is a compliment.”
“I suppose. I’m starting to like you more and more, Contessa, in spite of the fact that the first time we met you took a swing at me.”
Another smile, this one starting slowly at one corner of her mouth, then spreading until lines came creased at the corners of her eyes. Antonelli’s olive gaze came alight as she said, “And I am starting to dislike you less and less.”
Rafiq Khoury had never been to Egypt, so as the helicopter made its final approach he was glued to the window. The landscape looked no different from Sudan, flat and brown and arid. The only landscape he had ever known. He could see the city of Giza in the distance, low earthen buildings arranged in no particular scheme. Khoury heard lively chatter from the two pilots, and shifted his gaze forward. In the front windscreen, framed by their shoulders, he saw a view that took his breath away.
It was a vision of legends, of pharaohs and ancient civilizations. The impression of size was heightened by the motion of the helicopter — the pyramid of Giza seemed to rise as their aircraft descended, the massive tomb reaching up to almost touch the blue sky. It was the same impression people had likely been having for thousands of years, but for Rafiq Khoury the effect was doubly inspiring. This was not only an ancient treasure to behold. This was their objective. After six months of hard work, Khoury had arrived at the site where his metamorphosis would be finalized — from wretched prisoner to member of the ruling elite.
The helicopter touched down, and Khoury saw a contingent of Egyptian soldiers outside turn their heads aside to avoid the wave of dust. They were not enlisted men, but rather officers in dress uniform. There was even a red carpet laid out across the sand. As this was an official government visit, the Egyptians had dispensed with any kind of customs inspection. Khoury imagined he could get used to such conveniences. No, he would get used to them.
A crewman opened the side door of the helicopter. Being nearest the opening, Khoury started to move, but was immediately pulled back and driven into his seat by what felt like giant hook. The long arm of Hassan.
General Ali pushed by him and whispered harshly, “Say nothing!”
Their first half hour was spent enduring a tour of the pyramids, no doubt the same trivia that impaled millions of tourists every year. Khoury thought General Ali looked impatient. But then, he always did. Khoury and Hassan kept to the rear, and if the Egyptian colonel leading the way had any reservations about General Ali’s unusual entourage — a lone civilian bodyguard and an imam — he made no mention of it. Sudan was, after all, a fundamentalist Muslim state. Khoury toyed with that thought — a cleric with full diplomatic standing. The established imams of Sudan, those who had earned their religious reputations the old-fashioned way, might not approve. But Khoury would answer to none of them. He decided to bring it up with General Ali in the near future. Imam of State. Khoury rather liked the sound of it.
After what seemed an eternity, the colonel led them outside to the stage where the ceremony would take place. Finally, he began to address security matters.
“The crowd will be small,” he said, “and very thoroughly screened. No fewer than six hundred soldiers and police will be committed to the immediate area.”
General Ali said, “That puts a great many weapons within reach of the stage.”
The colonel bristled at this naked reference to the assassination of Anwar Sadat, when a group of rogue soldiers in a parade had opened fire. “We have learned our lesson,” their guide said acidly. “Those with critical access have been carefully screened. The rest are here for intimidation, and will have no ammunition.” The colonel quickly launched into a detailed description of security measures, things like transportation to and from the event, and coordination among the various state security details. It was the same briefing he had likely given yesterday to generals from Jordan and Algeria.
When he seemed done, General Ali asked, “How long will our president be exposed?”
The colonel handed over a timetable. “The heads of state are to arrive at the preparatory area behind the stage no later than nine forty-five that morning. They will be in place on stage at precisely ten, and the ceremony will be complete by ten thirty-five.”
Khoury thought, A thirty-five minute window. More than enough.
“What about other contingencies?” General Ali asked.
“Such as?”
“Such as air defenses.”
The colonel grinned smugly. “If you refer to an Israeli air strike, I doubt the Zionists would be so bold. Even so, our Air Force will have twelve fighters airborne. All of our air defense radar and missile systems will be active.”
Every one of them looking north, toward Israel, Khoury thought but didn’t say.
General Ali nodded approvingly. He asked a few more questions, and everyone turned almost jovial as they headed back to the helicopter. The colonel saw them off, and as the Sudanese chopper began its ascent, the Egyptian saluted smartly. General Ali snapped a hand to his visor in return.
Khoury remained in character. He issued his most pious wave. As he did, he regarded the scene, an odd mix of the ancient and contemporary that seemed delicate, almost precarious. On this morning, all was serene. In three days’ time, however, the mood would be different.
Very different indeed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Nearing al-Asmat, they left the main road. The path that led to the village was narrow and rutted, winding carelessly across the region known as the Red Sea Hills. If there were any hills, Davis didn’t see them. Perhaps some mild bumps on the far horizon, but otherwise just a gradual flat plain that sloped down to the sea. The vegetation had almost completely disappeared, giving way to rutted soil that was crusty and cratered. If there was a road to the moon, this was what it would look like.
Davis was driving now, Antonelli navigating. The kid was still in back, using his good arm to hold steady against the pitching truck. They could have squeezed him in the cab, and Davis had offered when they’d stopped to switch drivers, but the kid insisted on staying where he was. Davis figured it for some kind of self-deprivation thing, a Bedouin gene that insisted he suffer the desert in the same manner as his ancestors.