The Alexander Cipher

by Will Adams

It was late afternoon when Nessim’s phone rang. It was Badr, his contact from the phone company, who had been waiting for Knox to use his cell phone. “He’s turned it on,” he said excitedly. “He’s making a call.”

  “Who to?”

  “No one—he’s sending pictures to an e-mail account.”

  “Where?”

  “Near the railway station.”

  “Stay on the line,” said Nessim. “Tell me if he moves.” Hosni, Ratib, and Sami had already risen to their feet. He nodded at them. “We’ve got a trace,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  “WELL?” SAID IBRAHIM EXCITEDLY. “Don’t keep us in suspense.”

  Gaille nodded. She cleared her throat and began to read aloud: “I, Kelonymus, son of Hermias, brother of Akylos, builder, scribe, architect, sculptor, lover of knowledge, traveler in numerous lands, give homage to you, great gods, for allowing me to bring to this place below the earth these thirty-two shield bearers, heroes of the great victor, Alexander of Macedonia, son of Ammon. I now make good my pledge to bring together in one place the thirty-three who died carrying out the last wish of Alexander, that a tomb be built for him in sight of the place of his father. And to fulfill his wish, Akylos and these thirty-two built such a tomb and appointed it with goods fit for the son of Ammon.”

  Gaille hadn’t properly registered the text until now—she’d been too busy translating it. But even as she read it out, she realized how explosive it was. She glanced up and saw on everyone’s faces the same astonishment that she knew must be on her own.

  “Go on,” said Elena hungrily.

  “And to fulfill his wish, they seized his body from the White Wall to take it through the red land of great dryness to the mouth of the place prepared below the earth. And near that place, Ptolemy, who is styled Savior, trapped these men so that they took their lives rather than be subjected to his torture. And so Ptolemy crucified them in vengeance and left them crucified for the carrion to feed on. Akylos and the thirty-two gave their lives to honor the wishes of Alexander, son of Ammon, in defiance of Ptolemy, son of nothing. I, Kelonymus, man of Macedonia, brother of Akylos, beseech you, great gods, to welcome these heroes into your kingdom as you welcomed Alexander.”

  She looked up again to indicate that she had finished. The looks of excitement had given way to a kind of stunned disbelief. No one spoke for a good five seconds.

  It was Nicolas who finally broke the silence. “Does that… ,” he began hesitantly. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

  “Yes,” said Ibrahim. “I believe it does.”

  THE MOMENT HIS PHOTOGRAPHS WERE SENT, Knox deleted the images from his cell phone, then turned it off altogether and roared away in his Jeep before Nessim had a chance to get to him. Just one more phone call, and he’d be in business. He parked near Pompey’s Pillar, bought himself a ticket, and went inside. The site was a walled enclosure of about a hectare, surrounded by high-density housing. The pillar itself occupied pride of place on the small hillock at its center, but in fact the whole enclosed area was historic as the onetime site of the famous Temple of Serapis.

  Knox had always felt a great fondness for Serapis, a benign and intelligent deity who had somehow fused Egyptian, Greek, and Asian religious myths into a single theology. According to one thesis, he was a Babylonian god; in fact, when Alexander had lain dying in Babylon, a delegation of his men went to the Temple of Serapis to ask whether Alexander should be brought to the temple or left where he was. Serapis replied that it would be better for him to be left where he was. The delegation obeyed, and Alexander died shortly afterward, that being the better thing. Other scholars, however, asserted that Serapis had its roots in the Black Sea city of Sinope, while still others claimed that Serapis was Egyptian, because Apis bulls had been sacrificed for centuries and buried in huge vaults known to the Greeks as the Sarapeion, a contraction of “Osiris-Apis” or “dead Apis bull.”

  Knox glanced around to make sure no one was looking, then hid himself from view behind the base of Pompey’s Pillar. He checked his watch, took two deep breaths, turned on his cell phone, and began pressing numbers.

  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, you’ve lost him?” yelled Nessim.

  “He’s turned off his phone.”

  Nessim punched his dashboard so hard, he scraped skin from a knuckle. “What was his last location?”

  “I told you: near the railway station.”

  “Stay on the line,” ordered Nessim, hurtling through the streets. “If he makes another call, I want to know at once.” It was five minutes before they reached the station. Nessim drove around for a while, but there was no sign of Knox or his Jeep. Then Badr spoke again. “He’s turned it back on. He’s making another call.”

  “Where?”

  “South of you,” said Badr. “He must be right next to Pompey’s Pillar.”

  Nessim and his men ducked to look out the windows as they drove. Passing a side street, he glimpsed the marble pillar thrusting upward just a kilometer away. “We’re on our way,” he said. He roared down the road, cut across traffic to Sharia Yousef, then headed along a wide boulevard with a brownstone wall to his right, Pompey’s Pillar on the left. He pulled a U-turn and swerved up onto the pavement, and the four of them jumped out and hurried inside to the ticket booth. “Is this the only entrance?” he asked the woman, pushing some bills through the window.

  “Yes.”

  “Stay here,” he ordered Hosni, as he and the other two men went into the site. Then he asked Badr on his phone, “Is he still on the line?”

  “Yes,” confirmed Badr. “You’re right on top of him.”

  “Then we’ve got him!” exulted Nessim.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  NICOLAS TOOK IBRAHIM TO ONE SIDE. “Do you have an upstairs bathroom?” he asked, patting his stomach. “All this excitement seems to have done strange things to my digestion.”

  “Of course,” said Ibrahim, pointing him to the stairs. “First on your left.”

  “Thank you.” He hurried up and locked himself in. Then he took out his cell phone to call and brief his father on the blizzard of events and relay the gist of the inscription, too.

  “What did I tell you?” said the elder Dragoumis.

  “You’ve been right at every step,” acknowledged his son.

  “And it was the girl who broke it? Mitchell’s daughter?”

  “Yes. You were right about her, too.”

  “I want to meet her.”

  “I’ll arrange for it once we’re done,” said Nicolas.

  “No. Now. Tonight.”

  “Tonight. You’re sure?”

  “She worked out that there was a lower chamber in the Macedonian tomb,” said Dragoumis. “She realized the inscription was a cipher, and broke it, too. She’ll be the one to find what we’re looking for; I feel it in my heart. She must be on our side when that happens. You understand?”

  “Yes, Father. I’ll take care of it.” He took further instructions, then finished the call and rang Gabbar Mounim in Cairo.

  “My dear Nicolas,” enthused Mounim. “I trust you were satisfied with—”

  “More than satisfied,” said Nicolas. “Listen. I need something done right now.”

  “Of course. Whatever you wish.”

  “I believe our friend Yusuf at the SCA is in a meeting,” said Nicolas. “When he comes out, he’ll have a message on his desk to call Ibrahim Beyumi in Alexandria. Mr. Beyumi is going to ask him for an urgent meeting. I want our friend to invite a third party to that meeting and to look favorably upon what she asks. Her name is Elena Koloktronis.” He spelled it out. “You may let our friend know that he’ll be very generously rewarded, as you will be, too. You know I’m a man of my word.”

  A chuckle rolled down the phone line. “I do, indeed. Consider it done.”

  “Thank you.” He made another few phone calls to get things under way, then flushed the toilet, washed his hands, and went back downstairs.

  “Any better?” asked Ibrahim solici
tously, meeting him at the bottom.

  Nicolas smiled. “Much better, thank you.”

  “You’ll never guess what’s happened. Yusuf Abbas, my secretary general, just called from the SCA. He’s invited me to Cairo for an immediate meeting.”

  “What’s surprising about that?” frowned Nicolas. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  “Yes, but he’s invited Elena, too. And none of us can work out how he even knew she was in the country.”

  NESSIM COULD SEE no immediate sign of Knox inside the Sarapeion—little sign of anyone, indeed, except for two Korean tourists taking pictures of each other in front of Pompey’s Pillar, and a young family enjoying a modest picnic. He motioned for Ratib and Sami to spread out and comb the site. They went slowly, checking each of the various pits, cisterns, and chambers. But they reached the red-brick wall at the far end without a trace of him.

  Badr was still on the line. “Are you quite sure he’s here?” Nessim asked icily.

  “You must have walked straight past him. I don’t understand it.”

  Nessim looked over at Ratib and then at Sami. They shrugged and shook their heads. He pointed to the pillar, suggesting they meet at its base. He reached it first. A brown paper bag rustled in the light breeze. He gave it a wary nudge with his foot, carefully pulling it open. There was a cell phone inside. He picked it up and turned it around, frowning, wondering what it signified.

  There was a crash of broken glass at the far side of the wall. It was only when his car alarm began to wail that Nessim realized that was where he had left the Freelander—with all Knox’s belongings in the back. An old engine roared and raced away before any of them could react. Nessim closed his eyes and clutched his forehead. He hated Knox. He hated him. But he couldn’t help but rather admire him, too.

  NICOLAS DREW ELENA to one side to explain how he had arranged her meeting with Yusuf Abbas, and what she should try to achieve in it. Yusuf was greedy but cautious. If Elena could provide him with an excuse to let her explore Siwa, and thus earn himself his fat commission, then he’d do so. But it would need to look legitimate. A low-level epigraphic survey, say—just her and the girl.

  “The girl?” frowned Elena. “Can we trust her?”

  “My father believes so. Well? Can you take care of Yusuf?”

  “Leave him to me.”

  Nicolas walked over to Gaille, who was transferring photographs onto Ibrahim’s laptop to show to Yusuf. When she was finished, he asked her for a word, then steered her out into Ibrahim’s small garden. “My father wants to meet you,” he told her.

  “Your father?” Gaille looked a little alarmed. “I don’t understand. I don’t even know who he is.”

  “He’s the founder and backer of the Macedonian Archaeological Foundation,” explained Nicolas. “That makes him your boss. He was also the person who suggested Elena employ you.”

  “But… why?”

  “He knew your father,” said Nicolas. “He admired him greatly. And he’s kept an eye on your career over the years. When Elena needed a replacement, he naturally thought of you.”

  “That was… very good of him.”

  “He’s a very good man,” nodded Nicolas seriously. “And he wants you to have dinner with him this evening.”

  Gaille frowned. “He’s in Alexandria?”

  “No. Thessalonike.”

  “But… I don’t understand.”

  Nicolas smiled. “Have you ever flown on a private jet before?” he asked.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  KNOX RACED THROUGH the back streets of Alexandria, his recaptured belongings piled high on the seat beside him. It had felt good putting one over on Nessim. A man can only run for so long before his pride begins to smart. He drove east toward Abu Qir, putting distance between himself and his pursuers; then he parked to see what he had.

  His laptop battery was old and had only an hour’s juice. He flicked through his photograph CDs, checking file names, but he couldn’t find a trace of Akylos or Kelonymus. He scowled in frustration. Nessim had either left them behind or removed them from his car. How unlucky was that? It was a minute or two before another possible explanation occurred to him.

  There was a pay phone on the corner. He didn’t dare telephone Rick directly. Instead, he called a mutual friend who worked next door at the water-sports center in Sharm, and asked her to fetch him. He came on the line a minute later. “Hey, mate,” he said. “You forgotten my number or something?”

  “It may be tapped.”

  “Ah. Hassan, huh?”

  “Yes. Listen, you haven’t borrowed some of my photographic CDs, have you?”

  “Christ, mate, I’m sorry. I was just practicing my Greek.”

  “Not a problem. But I need them. Any way you can get them to me?”

  “No sweat. There’s nothing happening here. Where do you want to meet?”

  “Ras el-Sudr?”

  “You mean that dump south of Suez?”

  “That’s the one,” said Knox. “There’s a hotel there called the Beach Inn. When do you think you can make it?”

  “Give me four hours. Maybe five.”

  “Perfect. Will you come in your Subaru?”

  “Unless there’s a reason not to.”

  “You might want to check it for tracking devices first. And make sure you’re not followed. These guys are serious.”

  “So am I, mate,” Rick assured him. “So am I.”

  MOHAMMED AND NUR clutched hands as they waited for the phone call to tell them the results of the bone marrow tests. They had used a private health care group with medical centers in Alexandria, Cairo, Assiut, and Port Said to make it easier for far-flung friends and family. Especially family. Bone marrow compatibility was heritable, so the chances of finding a match was significantly higher among kin. They had tested another sixty-seven people, using up all the funds Ibrahim had made available. Dr. Serag-Al-Din had promised to call with the results an hour ago. Waiting for the phone to ring was about the most grueling experience of Mohammed’s life. Nur winced as he squeezed her hand too tightly. He apologized and let go. But she needed the contact as badly as he did, and within moments their hands found each other again.

  Layla was in bed. They had decided not to inform her of this process until it was done. But she was a sharp child, sensitive to atmosphere. Mohammed suspected that she knew all too well what was going on: the sentence of life or death that would shortly be passed on her.

  The phone rang. They looked at each other. Nur made a face and started to weep. Mohammed’s heart started pattering as he picked up the receiver. “Yes?” he asked. But it was only Nur’s mother, anxious to learn if they had heard. He bit his lip in frustration and passed her across. Nur got rid of her with promises to call the moment they knew. Mohammed crossed his legs. His bowels felt loose and watery, but he dare not go to the toilet.

  The phone rang again. Mohammed breathed deeply and picked it up. This time it was Dr. Serag-Al-Din. He said: “Mr. el-Dahab. I hope you and your wife are both well.”

  “We’re fine, thank you. Do you have our results?”

  “Of course I have your results,” he said genially. “Why else do you think I’d call?”

  “Well?”

  “Bear with me a moment. I seem to have lost my place in your file.”

  Mohammed closed his eyes and clenched his fists. Come on, you son of a dog. Say something. Anything. “Please,” he begged.

  There was a rustling of paper. Dr. Serag-Al-Din cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said. “Here we are.”

  IT WAS DUSK when Ibrahim and Elena arrived in Cairo for their meeting with Yusuf Abbas, secretary general of the Supreme Council for Antiquities. The great man was waiting for them in an ornate conference room, talking on the phone. He looked up sourly, then waved them vaguely at chairs. Ibrahim set up his laptop while he waited for Yusuf to finish discussing mathematics homework with his son. He found dealing with his boss immensely trying, not the least because he himself was a
fastidious man, and Yusuf had grown grotesquely fat since orchestrating his palace coup and unseating his energetic, popular, and highly respected predecessor. Even watching Yusuf wrest himself from his chair was a mesmerizing sight, like seeing some ancient ship of war setting sail. He would prepare for the feat moments ahead of time, readying his muscles as if wind were filling the unfurling sails, and the rigging would creak and the anchor would haul and, yes, yes, yes, movement! Right now his forearms rested like giant slugs on the polished walnut table, but every so often he would lift a finger to his throat, as though his glands and not his incessant consumption of rich foods were to blame for his obesity. And when people addressed him from the side, he would move his eyes rather than his head to look at them, his pupils sliding to the corners—the very caricature of shadiness. Finally, he ended his call and turned to Ibrahim. “Such urgency,” he said. “I trust it has a purpose.”

  “Yes,” said Ibrahim. “It does.” And he turned his laptop to show his boss Gaille’s pictures of the lower chamber, while explaining how they had been found.

  Yusuf’s eyes lit up when he saw the burial caskets. “Are those… gold?” he asked.

  “We haven’t had time for analysis yet,” said Ibrahim. “My priority was to seal the site and inform you.”

  “Quite right. Quite right. You’ve done well. Very well.” He licked his lips. “This is a remarkable discovery. I see I will have to supervise the excavation personally.”

  Elena leaned forward—not much, just enough to catch his eye.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  “We’re both aware of our exceptional good fortune that you could spare time from your other commitments for this meeting, Mr. Secretary General, for we know you are a man with extraordinary demands upon your time.” Her Arabic was stilted and clumsy, noted Ibrahim, but her posture and use of flattery were impeccable. “We’re glad that you, like us, consider this find to be of historic importance, and are delighted that you’ll be involved in its ongoing excavation. However, sharing this exciting news with you wasn’t the only reason Mr. Beyumi and I were anxious for this meeting. There’s something else that needs your wisdom and urgent consideration.”