The Exodus Quest. Will Adams

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      Torchlight flared away to their left, vanished then came back, stronger and nearer. A security guard on his rounds, swinging his torch back and forth, painting yellow ellipses on the ground that came perilously close. They ducked down behind the plastic tent, allowing the dog to approach to within a few feet, snarling and sniffing. Omar jabbed a finger back the way they’d come, but it was too late, the security guard was almost upon them. Knox gestured for Omar to crouch low, hold his nerve.

      The guard heard the dog, picked it out with his torch, then stooped for a stone that he hurled hard. It missed its target but provoked a furious barking. The guard came closer. Knox could see dots of moonlight gleaming on his polished black boots. His second shot caught the dog a glancing blow on its hind leg. It yelped and bounded away. The guard laughed heartily then turned and walked off.

      ‘Let’s get out of here,’ pleaded Omar, once he’d vanished from sight.

      ‘Just a little further,’ said Knox, dusting himself down. He hated playing the bully, but this place needed checking out. They soon came to a sandy embankment, a yellow glow on the other side. Knox crawled up on his elbows and knees, that familiar metallic tang at the back of his mouth as he peered over the top. Griffin and a young man with buzz-cut blond hair were standing by the rear of a pick-up backed against the open door of a squat brick building, its interior light on. Two more young men emerged with a crate that they lugged onto the flatbed. Their hair was cropped short too, and they were wearing identical cornflower blue shirts and khaki trousers.

      ‘That’ll do for now,’ said Griffin. ‘We’ll have to come back anyhow.’ He locked up the building, got into the pick-up, the three young men climbing up onto the back.

      ‘What are they doing?’ whispered Omar as the truck drove off.

      ‘Clearing out their magazine. So that we won’t find anything incriminating tomorrow.’

      ‘Let’s go to the police. We’ll tell them everything.’

      ‘They’ll have hidden it all by the time we get back.’

      ‘Please, Daniel. I hate this kind of business.’

      Knox took out the keys to his Jeep, closed Omar’s hand around them. ‘Go wait for me,’ he said. ‘If I’m not back in an hour, go get the police.’

      Omar pulled a face. ‘Please come with me.’

      ‘We need to find out where they’re putting this stuff, Omar. You must see that.’ And before Omar could protest, Knox got to his feet and jogged across the broken ground after the pick-up, its rear lights shining like a demon’s eyes in the darkness.

      II

      Lily felt a little sheepish as she emerged from Stafford’s room. ‘He has some urgent phone calls to make,’ she told Gaille, waiting outside. ‘Is it essential that he comes with us?’

      ‘It’s your documentary,’ shrugged Gaille. ‘Fatima just thought you might be interested, that’s all.’

      ‘And we are. Don’t think we don’t appreciate it. It’s just …’

      ‘He has phone calls to make,’ suggested Gaille.

      ‘Yes,’ said Lily, dropping her eyes. Stafford had discovered the Internet connection in his room, was now happily catching up with his email, checking out his latest sales figures and running searches of his own name to see if anyone had written anything nice about him recently.

      She followed Gaille out of the compound’s back gate straight into the desert. Her feet sank into the soft dry sand, making her camera equipment feel twice as heavy.

      ‘You want help with that?’ asked Gaille.

      ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

      ‘So you’re Stafford’s camera-woman, are you?’ said Gaille, taking a bag.

      ‘And producer,’ nodded Lily ruefully. ‘As well as sound engineer, gofer, runner – everything else you can think of.’ Stafford had apparently been all for luxury and large crews while he’d been working on someone else’s dime. But he’d grown increasingly affronted at the thought of anyone else making money from his work, so he’d set up his own production company, intending to hawk the finished product to broadcasters. He’d duly cut costs to the bone, hiring inexperienced staff like herself and bullying them so mercilessly that her three colleagues had walked out just a week before, landing this whole nightmare of a trip on her shoulders. She’d hoped to be able to rely on local help, but Stafford’s high-handed manner had driven even those away. ‘Not that I get to do as much camerawork as I’d like. Charles does his own whenever he can.’ She allowed herself a small smile. ‘I think he has this image of himself as an intrepid solo desert adventurer. He likes to keep adjusting the settings while talking to camera, so that viewers will think him out here on his own. I just film when he’s interviewing people, or if we need a pan or zoom.’ They reached the entrance to the site. Gaille unlocked the wooden door, turned on the generator, gave it a few moments to warm up before flipping switches and leading Lily down eerie corridors of crumbling sandstone to a cavernous new space. ‘Wow!’ murmured Lily. ‘What is this place?’

      ‘The inside of a pylon of a Nineteenth Dynasty Temple of Amun.’ She pointed to a mound of bricks in the far corner. ‘And these are what I brought you to see. They’re Ancient Egyptian bricks called talatat. They were used by—’

      ‘Whoa, whoa,’ interjected Lily. ‘I can film this, yes?’

      ‘If it’s light enough in here, sure.’

      Lily patted the side of her Sony VX2000. ‘This thing’s a marvel, believe me. It’ll look wonderfully atmospheric.’ She’d grown to love cameras. It hadn’t always been that way. When she’d first encountered them, at children’s parties and at school, she’d feared and hated them. It was bad enough having other children stare at her birthmark in her presence, but at least she’d been there to make sure they didn’t say anything too cruel. Cameras had allowed them to take her ugliness away with them, to look at it whenever they chose, to poke fun at her and laugh and insult her to their heart’s content, with no way for her to defend herself against it.

      She’d been cursed with a runaway imagination, Lily. At times the thought of what the other children were saying about her had tormented her so severely that her only way of soothing it had been to imagine the moment of her own death, the sweetness of release. She’d started deliberately hurting herself, slapping herself across her cheek, jabbing scissors into her arm. But then one day her uncle had almost negligently given her his cast-off camcorder. She still shivered at the memory. Just holding the viewfinder to her eye concealed her birthmark, which had been wonderful in itself. But it was the power that it had given her that had been transforming. The power to make others look good or bad as she chose. The power to make them look gracious or sullen, ugly or beautiful. And she’d used that power too. She’d discovered a real talent in herself. It had given her identity and self-esteem. Most of all, it had given her a path.

      She unpacked and set up the equipment, plugged in and put on her headphones, checked sound and light levels, hoisted the camera to her shoulder, turned it on Gaille. ‘You were saying?’ she asked.

      ‘Oh,’ said Gaille, taken aback. ‘I thought you’d be filming the talatat, not me.’

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