There was a large contingent of Spanish reporters, and as Jack made his way behind the table at the head of the room, he quickly shook hands with the two representatives of the Spanish Ministry of Culture who were sitting there. Beside them was James Macalister, a short, dapper man with a white beard, immaculate in his uniform with the braid of a captain on his shoulders. Space had been left for Jack between Costas and the project manager, and as he sat down Macalister leaned back and spoke to him. “We’ve done the background on the Beatrice and the sarcophagus, and run through the logistics. You’re just here for a quick meet and greet.” Jack nodded, and Macalister stood up, addressing the room.
“All of you will be familiar with Jack Howard, who has just arrived on board Seaquest with Dr. Kazantzakis. They’ll be on the seabed supervising the raising of the sarcophagus, and you’ll be getting broadcast-quality live feed from them. There’ll be plenty of opportunities after that for interviews. Right now this is just a chance to say hello.”
A woman in the front row raised her hand, waving it in the air. “What were you doing in Egypt, Jack? You were spotted at the airport at Sharm el — Sheikh.”
Jack groaned inwardly but kept his cool. The journalist who had asked the question was one of his most ardent fans, but also a blunt instrument as far as the politics were concerned. She was one of the main reasons why he preferred to avoid any kind of press conference before a project was over, but he knew that to try to deny his presence would only stoke up her interest further. “Just checking out the dive resorts. Dr. Kazantzakis tells me that with IMU it’s all work, no play, so I was looking into doing something about it.”
There was a titter of amusement from the others, but the woman persisted. “We had a round-robin in the office guessing what mystery Jack Howard would be trying to solve in the Red Sea. The best we could come up with was the biblical Exodus, the story of Pharaoh’s lost chariot army.”
Jack look at her unblinkingly and smiled broadly. “Now that would be a find. If I ever make it, you’ll be the first to know. Meanwhile, I’m delighted that you’re all here for this afternoon’s show. Captain Macalister and his team have been working around the clock to get everything ready. I’m looking forward to spending time with you later.”
Macalister held up his hand. “That’s it. There will be another briefing here with the project manager at 1430 hours, and then if all goes according to plan you will be allowed on the starboard bridge wing with your cameras to film the recovery. Meanwhile you are required to remain in this room or your quarters, with the deck strictly out-of-bounds for your own safety. Thank you for your attention.”
Jack and Costas quickly got up and followed Macalister out of the room, past the two security men stationed there to enforce the captain’s instructions. Macalister turned to Jack.
“That was close.”
“Let’s hope we can keep this operation on track to give them what they’re expecting. I won’t answer any more questions from journalists about Egypt until everything is resolved there.”
Macalister pushed open the door to his day cabin and ushered them in. The room was already occupied by IMU’s security chief, Ben Kershaw, a former Royal Marine who had also worked for MI6, the British secret intelligence service. He was standing at the window with a satellite phone, but lowered it as the others entered. He quickly shook hands with Jack and Costas and then sat down with them at the conference table at one end of the room. Jack poured himself a glass of water and leaned forward, his eyes steely. “Okay, Ben. Tell us what you’ve got.”
“I followed our plan not to involve diplomatic channels except as a last resort. I used personal contacts from my intelligence days in Egypt. I now know exactly where she’s being held, in the lower ground floor of the Ministry of Culture building in Cairo, where the conservation labs have been converted into interrogation chambers.”
“Archaeology meets the modern world,” Costas said grimly.
“Our plan was to go to the antiquities director to see if he could exert leverage to get the girl released. I couldn’t get any response, and then Professor Dillen intervened. As chair of the IMU board of directors, he was in on this from the start.”
Jack took a sip of coffee. “I know why. About ten years ago, Ibn Afar tried to obtain an archaeological qualification in Britain, when he had his eye on the top job in the Egyptian ministry. He showed up in Cambridge thinking he could bribe his way into a master’s degree by promising future excavation permits to anyone who helped him. Dillen was the only one who didn’t dismiss him outright but sat down and explained how things work in the West and then arranged for him to start off as a volunteer at the British Museum. That didn’t last long, predictably, but I know that once he was back in Egypt working his way up the greasy pole, he often contacted Dillen to ask for references and endorsement, seeing him as a kind of patron.”
“They had a phone conversation this morning,” Ben said. “Dillen told him that the offer to return the sarcophagus to Egypt still stood, and that Ibn Afar would have all the limelight. But he also told him that there would be no movement until the girl was released. Dillen and I had already agreed that we should give him a two-day ultimatum. With the sarcophagus being raised today, Ibn Afr was told that the press would be clamoring to know its destination and that the Spanish authorities would reinstate their claim to ownership if it looked as if there was uncertainty. Of course, we all know that the Spanish government, UNESCO, and IMU will no longer condone the plan to return the sarcophagus to Egypt given the present political circumstances, but Ibn Hafr is in Cairo cocooned from reality and won’t necessarily guess that. But he’s wily enough to know a veiled threat when he sees one. If he fails to come up with the goods, three days from now he suffers international humiliation and opprobrium when it’s revealed that the decision to return the sarcophagus has been revoked and his name is linked with the arrest of the girl.”
“So what was his response?” Jack said, finishing his drink.
Ben leaned forward, clasped his hands together, and stared at Jack. “There’s a trial due in two days’ time. She’ll be in the dock with a hundred or so others. The accusation is read out, and they are convicted and sentenced to death.”
“A death sentence?” Jack exclaimed. “That’s outrageous. For being accused of stealing a scrap of medieval manuscript?”
“Ibn Hafr says that he’ll try his best to get her off. My intelligence source says that as things stand he will probably succeed. Antiquities theft was of more concern to the old regime than to the extremists, and they’re more interested in cases of apostasy or adultery. If there are actually going to be executions, those will be the ones to go first. My source says that Ibn Hafr will make a big show of the difficulty and how he’s putting himself on the line, and that we should go along with that; it’s all part of the game. But we should hold him absolutely to the deadline, which stands at 1030 hours two days from now.”
“To the second,” Jack said coldly.
“There’s one big if in all this,” Costas interjected. “If things stay as they are. If there’s a meltdown and the extremists take over in two days’ time, then we’ve lost her.”