SEVEN

      I

      It was Gaille’s first visit to Alexandria. There was congestion along the Corniche. The masts of fishing boats and yachts in the Eastern Harbour jangled like flamenco in a light breeze that brought with it a faint, acidic tang. She rested her head back, shielded her eyes from the early morning sun as it flickered between tall, rectangular, sun-bleached hotels, apartment blocks and offices, pocked with satellite dishes. The place was coming to life like a gigantic yawn. Alexandria had always been the late-riser of Egyptian cities. Shops were raising steel shutters, lowering canopies. Groups of portly men sipped coffees at pastry cafés and watched benignly as ragged boys and girls wended the traffic, selling packs of napkins and cigarettes. The alleys leading away from the front were tight, dark and faintly menacing. A tram already crammed with passengers paused to take on more. A policeman in a dazzling white uniform and flat cap held up his hand to divert them right. An ancient commuter train clanked and rattled with taunting slowness across a junction. Young boys played chase in the open cattle-carts.

      Elena glanced pointedly at her watch. ‘You’re sure this is the right way?’

      Gaille shrugged helplessly. Her only map was a crude photocopy from an outdated backpacker guidebook. Even so, she had a nagging suspicion that she must already have gone badly wrong to have ended up here, though she’d learned enough about her new boss not to admit it. ‘I think so,’ she equivocated.

      Elena sighed loudly. ‘At least you could try.’

      ‘I am trying.’ Gaille couldn’t shake off the suspicion that she was being punished for her trespass yesterday, or was at least being opportunistically expelled from the Delta dig because of it.

      They were approaching a large junction. Elena looked at her expectantly for directions. ‘Turn right,’ said Gaille.

      ‘Are you sure?’

      ‘It should be somewhere along here on the left or right.’

      ‘Somewhere along here on the left or right?’ snorted Elena. ‘That’s really helpful.’

      Gaille leaned out her window, her brain aching from lack of sleep and coffee. There was a construction site ahead, a huge concrete high-rise with steel bars waggling like spider legs from the top. She said in desperation: ‘I think this must be it.’

      ‘You think this must be it; or this is actually it?’

      ‘I’ve never been to Alexandria before,’ protested Gaille. ‘How should I know?’

      Elena huffed noisily and shook her head, but she indicated left and swung through double gates, then bumped along a rutted track. Three Egyptian men were conferring animatedly at the far end.

      ‘That’s Ibrahim,’ muttered Elena, with such obvious chagrin that Gaille had to fight back a smile. If Elena thought she was gloating … ! They parked. Gaille quickly opened her door and jumped down, suffering a momentary, debilitating flutter of shyness. Normally she was confident in professional situations, but she had no faith in her skills as a photographer and consequently felt a fraud. She went around to the back of the flatbed, ostensibly to check her belongings and equipment, but in truth to hide.

      Elena yelled out for her. She took a deep breath to compose herself, fixed a smile to her lips, then walked around to meet them. ‘Ibrahim,’ said Elena, indicating the elegant man in the centre of the group. ‘I’d like you to meet Gaille.’

      ‘Our esteemed photographer! We are truly grateful.’

      ‘I’m not really a—’

      ‘Gaille’s an excellent photographer,’ said Elena, with a sharp glance. ‘What’s more, she’s an ancient languages expert too.’

      ‘Splendid! Splendid!’ He gestured to his two companions, who were spreading out a site map on the ground. ‘Mansoor and Mohammed,’ he said. ‘Mansoor is my right hand. He runs all our excavations in Alexandria. I couldn’t survive without him. And Mohammed is construction manager for this hotel.’

      ‘Pleased to meet you both,’ said Gaille.

      They glanced up from their map, nodded politely. Ibrahim smiled distractedly, glanced at his watch. ‘Just one more to come. You know Augustin Pascal?’

      Elena snorted. ‘Only by reputation.’

      ‘Yes,’ nodded Ibrahim seriously. ‘He’s a fine underwater archaeologist.’

      ‘That wasn’t what I meant,’ said Elena.

      ‘Oh.’

      It was a few more minutes before an engine roared at the mouth of the site. ‘Ah!’ said Ibrahim. ‘Here he is.’

      A thirty-something man cruised up the approach on a gleaming black and chrome chopper, wending potholes, bare-headed, allowing his long dark hair to flow free. He was wearing mirror shades, two days’ worth of stubble, a leather jacket, jeans, calf-high black biker boots. He rode the chopper up onto its stands, stepped off, fetched a cigarette and a brass Zippo from his shirt pocket.

      ‘You’re late,’ said Ibrahim.

      ‘Desolé,’ he grunted, shielding the flame. ‘Something came up.’

      Mansoor asked wryly: ‘Sophia, I suppose?’

      Augustin grinned wolfishly. ‘You know I’d never take advantage of my students like that.’

      Elena clucked her tongue and muttered a Greek obscenity beneath her breath. Augustin grinned and turned to her, spreading his hands. ‘Yes?’ he asked. ‘You see something you like, perhaps?’

      ‘How could I?’ retorted Elena. ‘You’re standing in the way.’

      Mansoor laughed and slapped Augustin on the shoulder. But Augustin himself looked unruffled. He gazed Elena up and down, then gave her a grin of frank approval, perhaps even of intent, for she was a striking-looking woman, Elena, and anger added a certain something to her colouring. Gaille winced and took half a step back, waiting for the inevitable eruption, but Ibrahim stepped between them just in time.

      ‘Well,’ he said, with nervous jauntiness. ‘Let’s start, shall we?’

      The ancient spiral steps looked precarious. Gaille descended warily. But they all reached the bottom without alarm and gathered in the rotunda. The corner of a black and white pebble mosaic showed beneath the rubble. Gaille pointed it out in a murmur to Elena.

      ‘Ptolemaic,’ declared Elena loudly, going down on her haunches to brush away the dust. ‘Two fifty BC, give or take.’

      Augustin pointed to the sculpted walls. ‘Those are Roman,’ he said.

      ‘Are you suggesting I can’t tell a Macedonian mosaic when I see one?’

      ‘I’m suggesting that the carvings are Roman.’

      Ibrahim held up his palms. ‘How about this?’ he suggested. ‘It started as a private tomb for some wealthy Macedonian. Then some Romans discovered it three hundred years later and turned it into a necropolis.’

      ‘That would explain the staircase,’ admitted Elena grudgingly. ‘Macedonians