The Alexander Cipher

by Will Adams

  “Don’t talk like that!” The distress in Nur’s voice shocked him.

  He breathed in to calm himself and assured her that he was fine; he’d see her tomorrow evening. He hung up, switched off the cell phone before she could call back, and checked his watch. He had made excellent time. He jumped down and walked back along the side of the road, crouched. He scooped up a handful of sand, let it trickle away, and watched the peaks that remained on his fingers, the valleys between them. The sand was so hot from a day of baking in the sun that it left his skin reddened. He scooped up another handful, as though he believed that by punishing himself now, he might avoid more grievous punishment later.

  A Bedouin in a dusty white truck honked his horn and leaned out of his window to ask cheerfully if he needed help. Mohammed thanked him but waved him on. He was so tired, time seemed to move at half its usual speed. The sun lowered to the horizon and finally set, and it quickly grew dark. He kept glancing up and along the road to the coast, which was so straight and flat, it would have made a Roman weep for joy. When he saw two four-by-fours and a container truck approaching, he stood, brushed the sand from his trousers, and climbed back into his cab. The vehicles slowed as they drew alongside. An interior light came on in the four-by-four, and Nicolas leaned out its window and motioned for Mohammed to fall in behind them. Mohammed gave him the thumbs-up and pulled out behind them. He followed the convoy a few more kilometers along the road to Siwa, then across the sands and deep into the desert.

  GAILLE WAS OUT WALKING when she saw Knox and another man glugging bottles of ice-cold water under the awning of a café. It was a profound shock to see him, not least because she had been thinking of him all day, about his role in her father’s death and the letter he had sent her afterward. She hesitated but then walked over. He looked up, startled to see her. “Gaille,” he said awkwardly.

  “Daniel.” She nodded.

  “This is Rick,” said Knox, nodding at his companion.

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise.”

  She turned back to Knox. “Can we talk? In private?”

  “Sure.” He gestured at the road. “Want to take a walk?” When she nodded, he turned to Rick. “You don’t mind, do you, mate?”

  “Take your time. I’ll get something to eat.”

  Knox and Gaille walked off side by side. “Well?” he asked.

  “I went out there today.”

  “Out where?”

  “To where my father died. Mustafa and Zayn took me.”

  “Ah.”

  She turned to face him. “I want to know what happened, Daniel. I want the truth.”

  “I’m sure they told you the truth.”

  “I think they told me what they saw,” replied Gaille, walking on again. “But that’s not quite the same, is it?”

  He gave her a sideways glance. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You stuck with my father when no one else did. You wouldn’t have done that unless you cared about him. So why did you let him fall?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Yes, you did. And you must have had a reason. And I think I know what it was. He was already dying, wasn’t he?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “What was it? AIDS?”

  “It was an accident,” said Knox.

  She shook her head. “Mustafa and Zayn told me you snarled at them when they offered to help you with his body. All that blood. That’s why I’m thinking AIDS.”

  “It was an accident.”

  “And then, of course, you had him cremated so quickly.”

  “I told you, it was an accident.”

  “You’d have to say that, wouldn’t you, or you’d be complicit in insurance fraud.” Knox opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. In the darkness of the back street, it was tough to read his expression, but she persevered anyway. “He made you promise to write to me, didn’t he? To tell me he’d been thinking of me? Please. I just need to know.”

  Knox was silent for a while. “Yes.”

  She nodded several times. Although she had known it in her heart, it still took some effort to assimilate. “Tell me,” she said. “Tell me everything.”

  “It wasn’t just AIDS,” sighed Knox. “His whole body was in meltdown. He had cancer; his organs were failing. It was just a matter of time. Time and pain. He was never the kind of man to eke things out in a hospital or be a burden. You should know that. He wanted to go on his own terms, in a place he loved. And he wanted to do something for you, to make up for being a bad father.”

  “A bad father?” asked Gaille bleakly. “Is that what he said?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you just let him… go ahead with it?”

  “He didn’t give me a choice. At least, my choice was to be there or not to be there. He was my friend. I chose to be there.” Then he added mulishly: “I’m sorry if you think that was wrong.”

  “I don’t,” she said. “I just wish I could have been there, too.”

  “You had your chance. He tried often enough to mend fences with you.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “You don’t need to tell me I’ve behaved badly. I know that. And I’m sorry.”

  They had looped around in a circle. Rick saw them and waved, so they went to join him. “Cracking chicken and fries,” he said. “So you’re this famous Gaille, then?”

  “Gaille, yes,” she acknowledged. “I don’t know about famous.”

  “You are to me. Your man Knox here talks about you nonstop.”

  “Shut it, Rick,” said Knox.

  Rick laughed. “So how you getting on with your search?”

  “What search?”

  “Come on, love. Goods fit for the son of Ammon. ”

  She looked back and forth between them. “How do you guys know about that?”

  Knox shrugged and smiled. “You’re not the only one who’s been behaving badly.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Remember when you got lowered beneath the plinth?” He pulled a face and mimicked her voice outrageously: “There’s someone there!” he cried.

  Her eyes went wide. “That was you!” she laughed. “Daniel, that’s awful!”

  “I know,” he grinned. “So have you had any luck?”

  “I can’t talk about it. I gave my word.”

  “Who to?” scoffed Knox. “Elena? Nicolas Dragoumis?”

  “No. Yusuf Abbas.”

  Knox laughed out loud. “That crook? The man’s corrupt, Gaille.”

  “He’s the head of the SCA.”

  “He destroyed your father.”

  “I don’t know,” sighed Gaille, putting her hands on her head. “I don’t know who to trust anymore.”

  “You can trust me,” said Knox. “Your father did. Or if you want to talk to someone in authority, try Dr. Sayed. You can trust him with your life.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “How do you mean?”

  She hesitated, then said, “He saw something in my photographs of the lower chamber. I’ll swear he did. And then some books went missing from his shelves.”

  Knox frowned. “And you think he took them to stop you making some kind of connection?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Believe me, Gaille, if that’s the case, it wouldn’t have been to stop you. It would have been to stop Yusuf. Let’s go see him.”

  She shook her head. “He’s not here. He’s been called to Cairo. And his house is locked.”

  “Then it’s just as well we’ve got Rick,” grinned Knox. “He’s got a talent we can use.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  IBRAHIM’S NERVE, never particularly strong, had completely failed him since Nicolas pressed that sharp blade against his throat. Courage was easier in daydreams. He had let himself be bullied into calling in sick, then writing out and signing multiple authorizations on SCA paper for an excavation in the Western Desert, even though the Western Desert was completely o
utside his jurisdiction. Since then, he had been forced to stay by his phone in case Nicolas was challenged and he was called to verify his signature.

  He hadn’t been left alone. Manolis and Sofronio, Nicolas’s pilot and copilot, were with him. They had locked all the exterior doors and windows, pocketed the keys, and confiscated his cell phone. Now they followed him everywhere: to his bedroom, even to the bathroom. And Sofronio spoke enough Arabic to listen in on his conversations whenever the telephone rang, his finger poised to disconnect should Ibrahim try anything.

  Nicolas and his men were clearly intent on looting a priceless historical treasure from Siwa. Ibrahim had dedicated his life to Egypt’s heritage, yet now he was helping these gangsters pillage it. He turned abruptly and walked toward his office. Manolis followed. “I’m only fetching my work,” he sighed. Manolis came with him all the same. Ibrahim pulled some papers from his top drawer and glanced at the lock as he left. The key was on the inside, as he had thought. He walked back out with Manolis, then tutted at himself. “My pen,” he said.

  Manolis waited while Ibrahim returned into his office, picked up a bulbous red fountain pen from his desk, and held it up for Manolis to see. His heart began pounding unhealthily fast, and his mouth went dry. He regretted his sedentary life, which had rendered him hopelessly unfit for heroics. Still, he put his hand on his office door and told himself this was the moment. His mind urged his hand to slam the door and twist the key, buy himself some time, allow him to redeem himself… but his hand didn’t obey. Then he lost his nerve and walked on out. His heart rate slowed. The adrenaline ebbed, and he felt an urgent need to urinate. He bowed his head in shame at the truth of himself: a coward, a failure, a nothing. A man’s life was the gift of Allah; what a waste he had made of his.

  BIR AL-HAMMAM PROVED to be twin peaks of rock connected by a low ridge, with steep slopes of sand that fell away like a pyramid on every side. There was a freshwater lake at its southern foot, bounded by reeds and vegetation, and the moonlight shimmered off its waters, rippled by the skipping of insects and the fish that hunted them. Fruit bats shrieked as they left their caves in the worn limestone to gorge themselves on the nearby orchards.

  In order to hide their activity, Nicolas arranged all the vehicles in a semicircle around the precise spot at the base of the hill where he intended to dig, where Kelonymus had marked the spot all those millennia ago. Not that anyone was likely to be passing. They were ten kilometers north of Siwa, after all, and three from the nearest road or settlement. He supervised the unloading of equipment, distributing shovels, picks, flashlights, and weapons. He ordered Leonidas to take one of the AK-47s and climb onto the container to keep lookout.

  Moonlight gave Mohammed enough light to work by. He munched great scoops out of the desert with his mechanical digger and dumped them behind him, his vehicle gradually tipping forward so that he had to reverse out and then dig himself an approach trench. The hill was an iceberg, most of its mass hidden beneath the sand. After three hours, his entire digger had been swallowed by the pit he had created, but still he found nothing. Nicolas and his men had watched eagerly at first, but their interest ebbed as the hours passed without success. Still, every so often Nicolas asked him to pause while he inspected the newly uncovered rock. During these intervals, Mohammed took the chance to look around. The dunes were so cold and white, one would think them snowdrifts. Leonidas came down from his sentry duty on top of the container, moaning about how bitterly cold it was, and no one went up to replace him. They stood together with their shoulders hunched, and cupped cigarettes.

  Mohammed filled another scoop, dumping it behind him. The sand cascaded hard down the slopes; it sounded like rain. His mind fizzed and blurred with fatigue. He was by now so deep in his own pit that he couldn’t help but imagine that he was digging his way down to hell. Nicolas held up a hand to ask him to idle his engine once more, then went forward with his father to inspect the sandstone. He shook his head in frustration and kicked the rock angrily. Mohammed tried not to show gladness. His best hope was to obey orders and pray he found nothing. Nicolas trudged out of the pit and came over to him. Mohammed lowered his window.

  “Enough,” said Nicolas. “There’s nothing. We must leave.”

  Mohammed nodded at the vast trench he had created. “Do we fill it in?”

  Nicolas shook his head. “The first wind will take care of it for us.”

  “As you wish.” Mohammed looked over his shoulder to back out of the trench. He was so tired, he forgot to change gear and jumped forward instead, clattering against the rock of the hill with his scoop. A sheet of solidified sand cracked and fell away. He shook his head in annoyance, but as he shifted gears and reversed there was a shout of excitement, then a chorus. The Greeks all clustered around the rock, shining flashlights. Mohammed stood up in his cab. He could just make out a smooth piece of pink marble the size of an outspread hand. His heart sank. Whatever it was these men were looking for, he had just found it for them.

  IT WAS DARK AND QUIET at Aly’s house. The windows were shuttered and the front door locked. Rick produced his steel wire, and soon they were inside.

  “I don’t like this,” said Gaille nervously.

  “Trust me. Aly’s a friend. He’ll understand. Let’s just find these books.”

  It was Rick who did so, beneath Aly’s mattress. There were five volumes, all told. They took one each and flipped through the pages. It was Gaille who spotted the line drawing of Bir al-Hammam. “Look!” she said, setting it on the bed. “The silhouette of the hills. It’s exactly the same as the mosaic.”

  “And the Wepwawet painting from Lycopolis,” said Knox.

  Gaille stared at him in surprise. “You’ve been there, too?”

  “We’ve been everywhere, sweetheart,” grinned Rick.

  “The holder of the secret,” muttered Knox. “So now we know what it was: the location of the tomb the shield bearers built for Alexander, with all the grave goods still inside.”

  “The exact location,” added Rick, pointing out the two outcrops of rock that mapped exactly onto Akylos’s splayed knees and Wepwawet’s outspread feet, and between which both sword and standard were planted.

  Gaille sucked in a breath anxiously. Knox squinted at her. “What?” he asked.

  “It’s just, I asked Ibrahim to send me copies of these books. And then Elena was summoned to Alexandria. And Aly to Cairo. You don’t think someone’s… trying something, do you?”

  “I don’t know,” said Knox grimly. “But I think we should make sure.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  IT WAS THE WEE HOURS OF THE NIGHT, so Knox took it easy on his Jeep until they were out of town; then he opened it up over the rutted desert track, the old suspension groaning and squeaking as they bounced and jarred. Icy air blew through the cracks in the doors and the empty ventilator slots. Rick was in the back, leaning forward between the front seats, while Gaille clamped her hands beneath her armpits. “We must be mad!” she said, shivering. “Why don’t we come back in the morning?”

  “We can’t risk it.”

  “Risk what?” she grumbled. “Even if people know about the tomb, they can’t exactly just loot it.”

  “Trust me, the Dragoumises will do exactly that if the prize is big enough.”

  “But is it big enough? I mean, they’re certain to be found out. Would they really risk international condemnation and life in prison just for some goods fit for Alexander?”

  “Maybe that’s not what they’re after. Maybe there’s more.”

  “Like what?” asked Rick.

  “There’s only one thing they’d risk everything for.”

  “Come on, mate. Spill.”

  “Dragoumis wants an independent Macedonia. That’s only going to happen through an all-out war. He knows that. But nations don’t go to war for nothing. They need a cause, something greater than themselves that they can all believe in. The Jews followed the Ark of the Covenant into battle. Christians follow
ed the true cross. If you were Macedonian, what would you follow?”

  “The body of Alexander,” said Gaille numbly.

  “The immortal, invincible lord of the world,” agreed Knox.

  “But that’s not possible,” protested Rick. “Alexander was on display in Alexandria hundreds of years after the shield bearers all died.”

  “Was he?”

  “Of course,” said Gaille. “Julius Caesar visited him. Octavian. Caracalla.”

  Knox waved impatiently. “Think about it from a different perspective for a moment. Imagine you’re Ptolemy, just settling into Egypt. News comes that these bastard shield bearers have made off with Alexander’s body. You need that body. It’s the only thing that gives your reign legitimacy, so you set off after them, but by the time you catch them, there’s no sign of Alexander, and the shield bearers have all killed themselves. What the hell do you do now?”

  “A double?” frowned Rick. “You’re suggesting he used a double?”

  “It has to be possible, doesn’t it? I mean, Ptolemy had already used a decoy once to send Perdiccas off in the wrong direction. Surely the idea would at least have occurred to him.”

  “But Alexander had the most famous face in antiquity,” protested Gaille. “Ptolemy couldn’t just embalm a substitute and hope no one noticed.”

  “Why not? There was no TV, remember. No photography. There was memory and there was art, but all of it was idealized. Listen, Ptolemy kept Alexander’s body in Memphis for thirty or forty years before he moved him to Alexandria; archaeologists have been arguing about the reason for that for decades. Do you really believe it took that long to build an appropriate tomb? Or that Ptolemy held the transfer back deliberately so he’d have a grand state event for his son’s succession? Bullshit. Maybe this is why. Maybe Ptolemy couldn’t risk bringing the body to a Greek city because it wasn’t Alexander at all, and he had to wait until everyone who’d known Alexander well was either dead or too gaga to remember what he looked like.”