‘There they are,’ said Mahmoud, turning the car onto the canal road.
The early-morning traffic had started to build. Cars with headlights still burning, a few long-haul trucks trundling along the two-lane trunk road. Up ahead, the car they’d seen the woman leave the mosque in, a white Nissan sedan, ubiquitous here, kept a steady pace, heading north.
‘Where are they going?’ said Rania, desperation in her voice.
Mahmoud was keeping well back, behind a big lorry, occasionally inching out as if thinking of passing. ‘Perhaps the Western Desert Road.’
Clay told Rania about the men they’d seen getting into the van. ‘Do you think they’re together?’
‘If the Directorate’s information is correct, yes.’
Soon they were approaching West Luxor. Hatshepsut’s temple glowed on the hillside, bathed in the sun’s first blush. Cut into the mountain rock, it looked, even from this distance, impossibly huge. The car containing Eugène and the woman approached the turnoff for the temple, then kept going north towards the highway.
‘Not a sightseeing trip, then,’ said Clay.
Rania shot him a stare. ‘Perhaps they are going back to Cairo.’
As she said it, the car made a sharp turn to the left and started along an unpaved road that led away west into the hills, trailing a cloud of sun-shot dust.
Mahmoud slowed and pulled to the side of the paved road. ‘Not Cairo.’
‘Where does this road go?’ said Clay.
‘Into the desert,’ said Mahmoud. ‘It follows the valley into the hills and eventually to the plateau and then into the desert.’ He pointed further north. ‘Up there, over that ridge, is the Valley of the Kings. But here, there is nothing. Some old quarries. A few archaeological sites, but nothing of importance.’
‘We must follow them,’ said Rania.
Mahmoud eased the car onto the gravel and started up the valley. The road was poorly maintained and the car groaned through potholes and rattled over the washboard as it wound its way up into the hills. Mahmoud was very careful, backing off at corners, using the other car’s dust trail as a gauge of separation. After about ten minutes, Mahmoud slowed the car and rolled it to a stop.
‘Look at the dust,’ he said. ‘They have stopped, around this next bend.’
Clay jumped out of the car and started up the hill on foot. Rania followed. He crouched as he approached the lip of a crumbled ridge of weathered sandstone. From here he could see up along the length of the next bend in the valley. The rear of the white Nissan was just visible, tucked into a notch in the rock on the south side of the road. He went prone, pulled out his binoculars.
‘What are they doing?’ whispered Rania. He could feel the warmth of her breath on his neck.
‘He’s opening the boot,’ said Clay. ‘Jesus.’
‘What?’
‘He’s got an AK.’ Clay watched the man heft a pack onto his back, sling the weapon, then throw a cloak over his shoulders, covering it over. The woman strapped the child across her chest and the pair started off into the hills, moving south, back towards the temple. He handed Rania the glasses. She followed the pair until they disappeared over a ridge.
‘Looks like they’re planning to be out here a while,’ said Clay. ‘That’s a big pack he’s carrying.’
‘Come on,’ said Rania, starting down the hill towards the car.
‘Wait,’ said Clay. ‘We have to tell Mahmoud and Parveen.’
Clay grabbed her by the elbow. ‘No Rania, wait. Whatever they are doing out here, it isn’t good.’
Rania said nothing, stood staring in the direction of her son.
Clay started pulling her back to where Mahmoud was waiting. Rania tried to wrench herself away, but could not break his grip. ‘Let me go,’ she hissed. ‘You wanted to leave him.’
Clay released her arm. ‘Please, Rania. I’m sorry. You were right.’
She glared at him.
‘Please, wait here. I’ll only be a minute.’
Rania said nothing, stood staring towards the hills.
Clay breathed in and started scrambling back down the hill. When he reached the car, Mahmoud was waiting for him, standing by the open driver’s-side door. Clay looked back. Rania was gone.
‘Go, Mahmoud,’ said Clay. ‘As fast as you can. Call the police. Tell them about those men in the van. Do you have a pen?’
Mahmoud fumbled in the glove box, produced an old pencil and the owner’s manual. Clay thought back, visualised the van’s registration plate, the Arabic characters. Mahmoud scribbled as Clay recited the numbers.
‘They need to find that van. Tell the police you think they might be terrorists. Tourists will be the target.’
Mahmoud nodded and clasped Clay’s hand. ‘God be with you, my friend. I will return and wait for you here.’
Clay clapped Mahmoud on the shoulder. ‘But please, my friend. No police here. We must handle this ourselves.’
‘I understand.’
Clay started back up the hill at a sprint. When he reached the lip, he could see that Rania had reached the car and was already starting up into the hills, tracking her son’s captors. Clay set off, loping down the hill. When he reached the road he doubled his pace, aware that if they were spotted, they would be easy pickings for a good shot. The AK’s effective range meant that his handgun would be useless unless they could get close.
Rania was moving fast, matching the pair’s pace. By the time he caught up, she was almost at the top of a second ridge. He crouched beside her, breathing hard.
‘Look,’ she said.
The pair had stopped and installed themselves in a hollow near the top of the next ridge. They were at least two hundred metres away, maybe more, and appeared to be arranging themselves to look down into the next valley. Were they overlooking Djesr-djeseru – the temple of Hatshepsut? Was that the plan? To fire down at targets below? If so, why bring the woman and the child? He’d seen only one weapon. It made no sense. Unless, of course, he was carrying something else in the pack.
‘Come on,’ said Rania, up and moving again.
Clay followed, keeping low as they skirted the edge of a saddle. They emerged another seventy-five metres closer, looking up at the pair now from directly behind their position. Clay checked his watch. Eight-forty in the morning. Half an hour since they’d left Mahmoud. Hopefully, he’d alerted the police by now, and they would be looking for the van.
‘Eugène was living there,’ whispered Rania. ‘In the mosque.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I heard her speaking to someone. He’d been there for some time.’
‘Did she see you?’
‘Yes. But I was veiled. She did not recognise me.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘What are they doing?’ said Rania.
Clay focused the glasses. The man was staring intently down into the next valley. His elbows were raised to shoulder level. ‘He’s got binoculars. He’s scanning whatever is over that ridge.’
A pair of shots, closely spaced but distant, cut the stillness, echoed back across the hills, became four, then eight. The distinctive crack of a Kalashnikov. Something crawled up Clay’s neck, fluttered its wings inside his feet and hands, that old chill.
The man stood, his own AK still slung over his shoulder, focused his binoculars.
‘It’s coming from somewhere down the valley,’ said Clay.
Before he could finish another flurry of shots reverberated through the hills. The woman was standing, too, looking down into the valley. The man made to start down in the direction of the shots but the woman reached out and grabbed his arm, held him fast. From here they could hear her voice, high-pitched, insistent. She was shouting at him.
Rania was up now, moving quickly across the barren ground. Clay drew his G21, chambered a round, followed. With every step closer, their chances got better. Rania knew this. The pair was fixed on whatever was happening below in the valley, and seemed unaware of their approach.
Clay and Rania were fifty metres away, crossing open ground, when the firing started again. This time it was intense and sustained, dozens of detonations echoing and dying among the rocks. The man shrugged off the woman’s hold, stepped to the lip of the hollow and raised his AK in one hand above his head. Then he started shouting. He waved his arms above his head, back and forth. The shooting lulled a moment, then intensified, filling the valley. The man pointed his AK skywards, let go a burst. Spent cartridges spilled around him. They were close enough now that they could hear him.
‘Brothers,’ he screamed, almost hoarse now. ‘Brothers, stop. What are you doing? Brothers, no.’
Clay stopped, went down on one knee, raised his weapon, steadied it on his forearm. Rania was ahead of him, off to one side. The man and the woman were still looking down into the valley, their backs turned. He had a clear shot. Thirty-five metres. He sighted, took a deep breath.
Just then the woman turned, faced them. She screamed. The man pivoted, started bringing his AK down and around.