darkness. ‘That’s interesting, isn’t it?’
14
Nazlet, Egypt
They didn’t even get in a car.
The policeman just walked him five hundred metres up the road, to a large office tiled white and blue. What was happening? Why was he being arrested? Was this the police station? Ryan gazed around, repressing his panic.
The place was certainly governmental – one of the few buildings in this broiled and dusty town not made of mud brick and straw.
Inside the stuffy office were three more Egyptian cops, irritable and tired. The men were sweating in the afternoon heat and waving at the sandflies. A non-dusty oblong on the otherwise dusty wall showed where the latest portrait of the lately deposed president must have hung until very recently.
A cop invited him to sit. The police didn’t seem
that
hostile. More dutiful. But dutiful could easily turn to vengeful with the Egyptian security forces. And they weren’t averse to beating up the odd foreigner.
Ryan steeled himself.
They questioned him for two hours. What was he doing here? How did he get here? Why come to a place like Nazlet Khater? Why did he speak good Arabic? Did he have a permit to travel? Ryan knew his best hope of avoiding a much nastier complication was honesty, or something close to it. So he was honest. Almost.
‘I am an Egyptologist, an American academic. I live in Abydos; here is my passport. I am an old friend of Victor Sassoon, and I heard that his body had been found. I do not have a permit to travel, but I only travel by day …’
But it wasn’t his answers the saved him from further harassment: it was Hassan’s letter.
When he produced it, the senior policeman read the contents and broke into a wary smile.
‘Ah, Hassan Elgammal. A great friend. I know his father.’
He handed back the letter, and nodded, with a faint expression of apology. ‘We have had a lot of trouble here. Many people wanted to find this Victor Sassoon, I do not know why. Anyway, his body is already buried, in accordance with Islamic law, so you have no further need to concern yourself.’
Every part of Ryan’s soul was yearning to ask: what about the Sokar documents? What was found with the body? But he knew he couldn’t do that: this would only provoke their suspicion once again, and then their wary acceptance of his story would certainly revert to something much nastier.
Taking Egyptian antiquities unlawfully was a serious offence, in any circumstances: the Sokar documents technically belonged to the Egyptian people and the Egyptian state. The police could put him in jail for years if he confessed what he was really doing, without any kind of permission. It would be like admitting intent to steal the golden death mask of Tutankhamun.
Ryan felt defeated. The entire exercise had been valueless. Now he could go back to hodding his bricks in the Oseirion, back to the life of a Pharaonic slave. But something in him rebelled at the idea: Hassan had been right, Ryan had done enough labouring now. He wanted to be a scholar again. To be the Egyptologist he was. To think. Use his brain.
The police officer stiffly gestured: ‘You can wait in here for a while, then we will take you to the buses and you can go home
.’
A door was opened to a side room. Two other people were sitting on bare chairs therein. A white woman in her late twenties, and a light-skinned Egyptian. Both looked weary and bored; both gave him a brief glance, then looked away, staring at the floor, or at the barred and grimy window.
What was a Western woman doing here? Ryan had no time to find out, or even ask a question. Minutes later, a fifth policeman entered the room. He escorted them silently out into the blinding sun, with their bags. The woman had a hefty rucksack, like a backpacker. They were squeezed into a police car, which rattled down the muddy road, to a bare and windy square. Dented minibuses waited here. Egypt’s rural public transport. The policeman gestured at one empty
14
Nazlet, Egypt
They didn’t even get in a car.
The policeman just walked him five hundred metres up the road, to a large office tiled white and blue. What was happening? Why was he being arrested? Was this the police station? Ryan gazed around, repressing his panic.
The place was certainly governmental – one of the few buildings in this broiled and dusty town not made of mud brick and straw.
Inside the stuffy office were three more Egyptian cops, irritable and tired. The men were sweating in the afternoon heat and waving at the sandflies. A non-dusty oblong on the otherwise dusty wall showed where the latest portrait of the lately deposed president must have hung until very recently.
A cop invited him to sit. The police didn’t seem
that
hostile. More dutiful. But dutiful could easily turn to vengeful with the Egyptian security forces. And they weren’t averse to beating up the odd foreigner.
Ryan steeled himself.
They questioned him for two hours. What was he doing here? How did he get here? Why come to a place like Nazlet Khater? Why did he speak good Arabic? Did he have a permit to travel? Ryan knew his best hope of avoiding a much nastier complication was honesty, or something close to it. So he was honest. Almost.
‘I am an Egyptologist, an American academic. I live in Abydos; here is my passport. I am an old friend of Victor Sassoon, and I heard that his body had been found. I do not have a permit to travel, but I only travel by day …’
But it wasn’t his answers the saved him from further harassment: it was Hassan’s letter.
When he produced it, the senior policeman read the contents and broke into a wary smile.
‘Ah, Hassan Elgammal. A great friend. I know his father.’
He handed back the letter, and nodded, with a faint expression of apology. ‘We have had a lot of trouble here. Many people wanted to find this Victor Sassoon, I do not know why. Anyway, his body is already buried, in accordance with Islamic law, so you have no further need to concern yourself.’
Every part of Ryan’s soul was yearning to ask: what about the Sokar documents? What was found with the body? But he knew he couldn’t do that: this would only provoke their suspicion once again, and then their wary acceptance of his story would certainly revert to something much nastier.
Taking Egyptian antiquities unlawfully was a serious offence, in any circumstances: the Sokar documents technically belonged to the Egyptian people and the Egyptian state. The police could put him in jail for years if he confessed what he was really doing, without any kind of permission. It would be like admitting intent to steal the golden death mask of Tutankhamun.
Ryan felt defeated. The entire exercise had been valueless. Now he could go back to hodding his bricks in the Oseirion, back to the life of a Pharaonic slave. But something in him rebelled at the idea: Hassan had been right, Ryan had done enough labouring now. He wanted to be a scholar again. To be the Egyptologist he was. To think. Use his brain.
The police officer stiffly gestured: ‘You can wait in here for a while, then we will take you to the buses and you can go home
.’
A door was opened to a side room. Two other people were sitting on bare chairs therein. A white woman in her late twenties, and a light-skinned Egyptian. Both looked weary and bored; both gave him a brief glance, then looked away, staring at the floor, or at the barred and grimy window.
What was a Western woman doing here? Ryan had no time to find out, or even ask a question. Minutes later, a fifth policeman entered the room. He escorted them silently out into the blinding sun, with their bags. The woman had a hefty rucksack, like a backpacker. They were squeezed into a police car, which rattled down the muddy road, to a bare and windy square. Dented minibuses waited here. Egypt’s rural public transport. The policeman gestured at one empty
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