you do this!” shouted Rafai as the door closed. He removed his half-moon glasses and jabbed them like a scalpel at Mohammed’s face. “Who do you think you are? I base my decisions on clinical evidence. Clinical evidence! You think you can bully me into changing my mind?”
“I’m sorry for my behavior in your office,” frowned Mohammed. “But I’ve already apologized. I was under immense strain. I don’t know what else—”
“You think this is about that?” cried Rafai. “This isn’t about that.”
“Then what?”
“Only your daughter!” yelled Rafai. “Only ever your daughter! You think she’s the only one sick. A young boy called Saad Gama waits for bone marrow. A true scholar of Islam. You want to explain to him that we must postpone his treatment because you have more influential friends? You want to tell his parents he must die so that your daughter might live? You think they don’t care for him?”
“Professor Rafai, in the name of Allah, what are you talking about?”
“Don’t deny it! Don’t insult me by denying it! I know you’ve done this, though how you have the power… Well, let me tell you, Saad’s blood is on your hands! Your hands, not mine.”
Mohammed went cold. He asked dizzily, “What are you saying? Are you saying you’ll give Layla her transplant?”
Rafai glared furiously. “I’m saying I won’t risk my department over this.”
“But her transplant?” insisted Mohammed. “Layla will receive her transplant?”
“Tell your friends in Cairo to stay away from me and my staff. If the procedure goes wrong, we’ll not be held accountable, you hear? Tell your people that. Tell your people!” He stormed out of the office. Mohammed’s hands were shaking as if from palsy, so that he couldn’t even hold his phone steady when he tried to dial Nur.
NICOLAS WAS ON THE PHONE with his bodyguard, Bastiaan, when Ibrahim knocked and entered, bringing with him a cup of coffee and a plate of cakes, which he set down on the corner of his desk. Nicolas didn’t bother to stop talking, but he slipped into euphemism and turned his back. “You’ve arranged for the purchases?”
“Vasileios is flying in with your father. He’s been briefed on what we need.”
“And when will you be at the villa?”
“I’m on my way now. Shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes.”
“Good. And make sure . . .”
Behind him, Ibrahim gave a little gasp. Nicolas turned to see him holding open one of Gaille’s books, staring in shock at a picture of Bir al-Hammam. Nicolas closed his eyes in irritation with himself. “Make it ten minutes,” he told Bastiaan in his coarsest Greek. “We’ve got a problem.” He killed the call and plucked the book from Ibrahim’s hand. “There’s something I need to tell you,” he said.
“What? But have you seen this picture of—”
“Quickly,” said Nicolas, grabbing Ibrahim’s arm and hustling him through to the kitchen.
“What is it?” asked Ibrahim, bemused. “What’s going on?” Nicolas opened and shut all the drawers until he found a kitchen knife, and he held it up so that its blade glinted. Ibrahim paled. “What… what are you doing with that?”
Nicolas held the knife out wide in his left hand, so that Ibrahim’s eyes followed its glittery menace. Then he punched the archaeologist with his right, sending him flailing onto his back. He knelt down and pressed the sharp steel against Ibrahim’s throat before he could recover. “My colleague Bastiaan is on his way,” he said. “You’re going to be nice and quiet until he arrives, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” agreed Ibrahim.
KNOX HAD TAKEN OVER THE WHEEL while Rick caught up on his sleep. It was midafternoon when he reached Farafra, where his friend and Demotic expert Ishaq lived. He nudged Rick awake. “We’re here, mate.”
“Always the way,” grunted Rick irritably. “Loveliest bloody dream.”
Knox hadn’t been to Ishaq’s home in several years, but Farafra was small, and the house wasn’t hard to find. He was looking forward to seeing his old friend. They went back a long way, to Knox’s first season at Mallawi. A small and ridiculously intelligent man, Ishaq had spent most of his leisure time in his hammock, staring lazily up at the sky. But give him some Demotic to translate, and there was no one better in Egypt.
Unfortunately, when they parked outside his home, everything was shuttered. They banged on his front door, but there was no response. They went a couple of doors down the road to the information center, which doubled as his office, but there was no one there, either. “He must