ear.
‘Hang on, darling, it’s just a cave and a few miserable bats. Lazy little buggers, they ought to have been out before this.’
‘Oh, God,’ I whipered. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I hurt you.’
‘No, you didn’t.’ That was a lie if I’d ever heard one, and I had heard plenty of them from John. ‘Listen to me, Vicky. I doubt they know about this place but the dog may be able to lead them here. If that happens, there’s another way out. A tunnel.’
‘I can’t – ’
‘Yes, you can.’ We had both been whispering; he was barely breathing the words now, his lips against my ear. ‘Rest a minute. Catch your breath.’
I tried to pull away from him, so my weight wouldn’t press against his chest, but he tightened his grip. His lips moved across my cheek.
‘Show me where the tunnel is,’ I murmured.
‘In a minute.’
It seemed to go on longer than a minute. Then he said softly, ‘This way,’ and drew me with him towards the back of the cave. ‘Here. See it?’
‘I can’t see a damned thing.’
‘Feel it, then.’ He guided my hand.
‘Got it. How did you know about this place?’
‘There’s an old family . . .’
He didn’t have to warn me to stop talking. Sound carries a long way in the quiet desert night. The footsteps were still some distance away, but they were coming closer.
His hand moved to my shoulder. I resisted the pressure. It wasn’t difficult.
‘You first,’ I said.
‘I’ll follow.’
Another lie. Adrenaline and a mix of other hormones had given him a temporary burst of strength, but I doubted he could stand erect without the support of the wall against which he was leaning.
Sometimes my instincts work better than my so-called brain. The one that gripped me now superseded fear and even self-preservation. My hands were icy-cold but absolutely steady. His were neither. I got the gun out of his pocket while he was still fumbling for my wrist.
The dog was right outside. I heard its quick, excited panting, then a slither of rock and a muffled expletive. The uneven contours of the entrance brightened.
I got my finger around the trigger and aimed, bracing my wrist with the other hand.
The dog let out a sharp, peremptory bark. The man with it cleared his throat.
‘Uh – Dr Bliss? Mr Tregarth? Are you there?’
It wasn’t Max’s voice. It was a voice I had never heard before – slow and hesitant, with a pleasant Southern accent.
John’s hand closed over mine and pushed my arm down. The voice went on, ‘Uh – I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you, Dr Bliss, but – uh – if you’re there, you, uh – Damn it, Fido, are you sure this is the right place? Stupid dog . . .’
Fido (Fido?) barked indignantly. ‘Oh, well, then,’ the voice said. ‘I feel like a jackass, but if you say so . . . Uh. You remember me, Mr Tregarth – Keith Kendrick, from UCal? Uh – how are you?’
I started to laugh.
‘Do come in,’ John said. ‘You’ll have to excuse Dr Bliss; she does this sometimes.’
Giggling maniacally, I shielded my eyes against the brilliance of the light. Behind it was a tall, thin man with sandy hair and an embarrassed smile. The dog at his heels looked like one of the pariah dogs that hang around the villages, but it had a collar and its tail was flailing furiously.
John cleared his throat. ‘Dr Bliss, may I present Dr Kendrick?’
‘Vicky,’ I gasped. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Call me Keith.’
I made an effort and managed to stop laughing. ‘How did you know we were here?’
‘He told me, of course. He’s been expecting you.’
‘Feisal?’ I asked doubtfully.
‘Not Feisal,’ John muttered. ‘I’m afraid it wasn’t Feisal. I’m afraid . . . I don’t think I can stand this.’
‘We did run into Feisal,’ Kendrick said. ‘While we were looking for you. He expected you’d be here before this, and he was getting worried, so we went out – ’
‘He?’ I began waving my arms. ‘I don’t think I can stand this either. He who?’
Kendrick shied back. I’d forgotten I was still holding the gun. ‘Uh – Dr Bliss, if you wouldn’t mind putting that away . . . He’s coming. Don’t get excited. I think I hear him now.’
There was no ‘think’ about it He was coming at full speed, tripping over and running into things. When he burst into the cave he was too out of breath to speak; he grabbed me and hung on, wheezing.
‘Schmidt,’ I gasped. ‘Schmidt, is that you? Thank God you’re all right! What are you doing here?’
‘But why should you be so surprised?’ Schmidt let me go. ‘I told you I would be here. Guten Abend, Sir – John, I am so very happy to see you again!’
He rushed at John, grabbed his hand, and began pumping it up and down. John gave him a bemused smile. ‘Amarna,’ he mumbled. ‘You left those clues. The brochure and the – the – ’
‘The bag, yes, I knew you clever ones would know what they meant. What else could they mean?’
‘Amarna,’ John repeated. ‘Right. Clever ones.’
‘Stop shaking him that way, Schmidt,’ I said. ‘He’s not . . . he’s not feeling well.’
‘Ach, my poor friend! You have a fever, ja? We will return at once to the house. Here, I will support you.’ He turned and yanked John’s arm over his shoulder.
It was too much for poor John. I don’t know whether he was shaking with chills or with laughter, but he managed to make it back to the jeep, where Feisal was waiting, before he keeled over.
Our arrival at Keith’s house wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. He and Feisal had to carry John in, and Schmidt wouldn’t shut up. But nobody came out of the neighbouring houses to ask what was going on. Sometimes it’s safer not to know what is going on.
The house had only two rooms. The one into which Keith led us was obviously his bedroom. It contained a camp cot, a few boxes, a table and chair – both draped with miscellaneous male garments – and a lamp. ‘I wouldn’t have been able to afford such comfortable quarters if it hadn’t been for Mr Tregarth’s generosity,’ Keith said. ‘I hope he’s not seriously ill. What can I do?’
The place didn’t look comfortable to me. It didn’t even look sanitary. But it was a lot better than we had any reason to expect. I asked for water, and was pleased to learn that John’s generosity had also provided plenty of the bottled variety. Feisal went off to deal with the jeep and Keith went for more water, and Schmidt hunkered down beside me and watched while I unbuttoned John’s shirt and started peeling back the tape.
‘He has been wounded?’ He was genuinely concerned, but I detected an underlying note of enjoyment. Wounds are so romantic. In Schmidt’s favourite form of fiction they are usually in the arm or the shoulder and after biting his lip and muttering, ‘It’s only a scratch,’ the hero goes back to fighting four or five opponents barehanded.
‘You could say that.’ I lifted the cloth.
‘Lieber Gott,’ Schmidt whispered. ‘Who has done this?’
‘I’ll tell you later. It’s not as bad as it looks, Schmidt,’ I added, as tears of sympathy rolled down Schmidt’s sunburned cheeks. ‘Something else must be causing the fever. Maybe . . . Maybe a good night’s sleep is all he needs.’
John opened one eye. ‘Was that . . .’ The eye rolled towards Schmidt and then closed. ‘It was. I thought I was dreaming. I hoped I was dreaming. Schmidt, what have you – ’
‘Ruhig sein, my poor friend,’ Schmidt said. ‘All is well. You are safe with – ’
‘All is not well.’ John raised himself on one elbow. ‘What have – ’
‘Rest and sleep,’ Schmidt insisted, trying to push him back down.
‘No, have something to drink. You’re probably dehydrated.’ I shoved Schmidt away and held a glass to John’s
