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supported by a proper team of archaeologists?’
    ‘Right, and let them steal ten years of research from under my nose? Amelia Lynhurst already suspects I’m diving for the astrarium. I’ve heard a rumour that she knows I’m close to finding it. She’d do anything to get her hands on it,’ she replied grimly. By now she was dressed only in bra and pants.
    Amelia Lynhurst, Isabella’s mentor when she began at Oxford, had lost a great deal of credibility after the publication of a controversial paper about a mysterious priestess of Isis who she claimed had lived in the time of the Thirtieth Dynasty, during the reign of the Pharaoh Nectanebo II. The paper was controversial because there had been little evidence that the priestess had ever existed. Despite this, Isabella had remained close to the Englishwoman until they’d had an irreparable falling-out during Isabella’s second year of university. She had never told me why they had argued.
    ‘Will you stop worrying?’ Isabella went on impatiently. ‘Faakhir’s cousin, who owns the boat, has got friends who work for the coastguard.’
    ‘Sweetheart, if you’re caught, it’ll be prison for Faakhir and his cousin and the end of your career here.’ I was trying to tread carefully to avoid yet another row.
    ‘We’re not going to be caught. I’m not hauling up a huge statue, just a very small bronze artefact. Besides, your work is far more dangerous than mine.’
    ‘My work is authorised exploration.’
    ‘Bravo, but you’re still blasé about the risks you take.’
    She was right - I was being hypocritical. The places my company sent me to were invariably dangerous terrain or in a state of political upheaval. But at least my presence was authorised rather than clandestine - I didn’t like the idea of Isabella falling foul of the dangerously fickle labyrinth of Egyptian bureaucracy. It could endanger both our careers.
    ‘Why not cancel for a few days?’ I suggested. ‘I could try to get some extra sonar equipment through GeoConsultancy—’
    ‘Oliver,’ Isabella interrupted. ‘This is non-negotiable. The boat’s been arranged. It has to be tomorrow! There’s no more time.’
    The fatalistic tone of her voice jolted me out of my exhaustion. Tensing up, I stared at her for a moment, uncomprehending. Then a kernel of remembrance uncoiled in the back of my mind.
    ‘This isn’t about that prediction, is it? Isabella, you know it’s complete bullshit.’
    We’d had this debate many times before, dating right back to our very first meeting in Goa. Isabella had just come from seeing a mystic who, amongst other things, had given her her astrological chart, which included not only the time of her birth but also the date of her death. Through the years she remained convinced of its accuracy, despite all my arguments to the contrary. She’d never given me the exact date but it must be looming closer for her to feel this panicked.
    She broke angrily away from me. ‘You just don’t get it, do you? That Newtonian you carry around inside you refuses to believe that there might be other principles - less conventional, perhaps, but just as valid. At least I’m honest about my methodology.’
    I tried to stop myself becoming defensive; I hated it when Isabella slipped into what I perceived as irrational mysticism. Sensing my shift in attitude, she turned towards me.
    ‘Come on - I’ve seen you out there on the oilfield, in your bare feet, sniffing the air. It’s not just science you rely on, but you simply won’t admit it!’
    Now naked, Isabella threw herself down onto the bed beside me. I suddenly realised she was shaking. Horrified, I pulled her into my arms. ‘What is it?’
    There was a pause. ‘Tomorrow is the day Ahmos Khafre predicted I would die.’
    ‘You’re not going to die,’ I finally said warily. ‘It’s all superstitious nonsense. This dive is too dangerous, Isabella.’
    She stared up at me, thinking.
    ‘No,’ she finally replied.