‘The Lear is coming to pick me up tomorrow morning, Ben. I’ve been here two weeks already, and I just cannot stay another day. God, when I think of how I’ve neglected my responsibilities since we started on this dig!’
We stopped at the door of my hut and Louren lit a cigar.
‘What is it about this place that makes us all act so strangely, Ben? Do you feel it also? This strange sense of,’ he hesitated, ‘of destiny.’
I nodded, and Louren was encouraged.
‘That axe. It did something to you, Ben. You weren’t yourself for a few minutes there today ’
‘I know.’
‘I am desperate to discover the contents of the scrolls, Ben We must start on that as soon as possible.’
‘There is ten years’ work there, Lo. You will have to be patient.’
‘Patience is not one of my virtues, Ben. I was reading of the discovery of Tutankhamen’s tomb last night. Lord Carnarvon made the discovery possible, and yet he died before he could look on the sarcophagus of the dead Pharaoh.’
‘Don’t be morbid, Lo.’
‘All right,’ Louren agreed. ‘But don’t waste time, Ben.’
‘You get Hamilton for me,’ I said ‘We can’t do a thing without him.’
‘I’ll be in London on Friday,’ Louren told me ‘I’ll see him myself.’
‘He is a difficult old codger,’ I warned him.
Louren grinned. ‘Leave him to me. Now, listen to me, Benjamin my boy, if you find anything else here, you let me know immediately, you understand? I want to be here when it happens.’
‘When what happens?’
‘I don’t know - something. There is something else here, Ben. I know it.’
‘I hope you are right, Lo.’ And he clapped my shoulder and walked away into the night towards his own hut.
While we worked on in the archives, lifting the human remains and the piles of weapons, a construction crew arrived on the site by Dakota to erect a repository for the scrolls. This was another large prefabricated warehouse, fitted with airtight doors and a powerful air-conditioning unit to maintain the scrolls in an atmosphere of optimum temperature and humidity. A high barbed-wire fence was erected around the building for security reasons, and every precaution for the safety of the scrolls was taken.
At the same time the construction crew erected another half-dozen living quarters for the expanded team, and the first inhabitants of these were four high officials of the Botswana Government. It was the Government who had forbidden the removal of the scrolls from the territory and made the erection of the new buildings necessary. The Government deputation stayed for two days, and left satisfied that their interests in the discovery would be adequately protected, but not before I had exacted a solemn promise of secrecy. The announcement of the site would be at my signal only.
We began labelling and removing the pottery jars from their shelves, taking the greatest pains to record, both photographically and by written notes, the exact position of each. It seemed likely that they had been stacked in chronological order, and this would assist the work of interpretation.
On the Monday I received a crippling blow to my plans in the form of a laconic message from Louren.
‘Hamilton unavailable. Please suggest alternative.’
I was disappointed, hurt and angry. Disappointed because Hamilton was the best in the world, and his presence would have immediately given weight and authenticity to my site. I was hurt because Hamilton obviously believed my claims were spurious, my reputation had been damaged by the vicious attacks of my critics and scientific opponents. Hamilton had clearly been influenced by this. He did not want to be party to some mistaken or blatantly fraudulent discovery of mine. Finally, I was angry because Hamilton’s refusal to undertake the work was a direct insult. He had put the mark of the pariah on me and it would discourage others from giving the assistance I desperately needed. I might find myself discredited before I had even started.
‘He didn’t even give me a chance,’ I protested to Sally. ‘He didn’t even want to listen to me. Christ, I didn’t realize I was such a professional leper. Even talking to me can ruin a reputation!’
‘He’s a skinny, bald-headed old goat!’ Sally agreed. ‘He’s a lecherous old feeler of bottoms, and—’
‘And the greatest living authority on ancient writings in the world,’ I told her bitterly. There was no reply to that, and we sat in forlorn silence for a while.
Then Sally perked up. ‘Let’s go and fetch him!’ she suggested.
‘He might refuse to see us,’ I gloomed.
‘He won’t refuse to see me,’ Sally assured me, and behind the words was an untold story that set my jealousy coursing corrosively through my veins. Sally had worked for him three years, and I could only console myself that her standards were high enough to exclude Eldridge Hamilton.
Seventy-two hours later I sat in the front lounge of the Bell at Hurley with a pint of good English bitter in front of me, and watched the car park anxiously. It was only a fifteen-minute drive from Oxford and Sally should have been here long ago.
I felt tired, irritable and depressed from that soul-destroying overnight flight from Johannesburg to Heathrow. Sally had phoned Hamilton from the airport.
‘Professor Hamilton, I do hope you don’t mind me phoning you,’ she had cooed.
‘Sally Senator, do you remember I worked under you in 1966. That’s right, Sally Green-Eyes.’ And she giggled coyly.
‘Well, I am on my way through England. Just here for a day or two. I felt so lonely and nostalgic - those were
