by Will Adams
“You’re dreaming.”
“Am I? You showed me the painting yourself.”
“What painting?”
“In the antechamber of the Macedonian tomb, of Akylos with Apelles of Cos. Tell me this: why would Alexander’s personal portrait painter waste time on a humble shield bearer? Could it be because Akylos was sitting in as Alexander’s model? I mean, we never found his body in Alexandria, did we? And you saw the mosaic. Akylos was short and slight with reddish hair. Now, describe Alexander.”
“No,” said Gaille weakly. “It can’t be.”
Knox read it on her face. “What?” he asked. “Tell me.”
“It’s just,” she said, “it seemed odd that Kelonymus buried the shield bearers in the Royal Quarter. I mean, that was the absolute heart of Ptolemy’s power. Taking them there would have been suicidal.”
“Unless?”
“Kelonymus wrote in the Alexander Cipher that he’d pledged to reunite the thirty-three in death as in life. If you’re right—I mean, if it really was Akylos buried as Alexander in Alexandria—then the necropolis would have been as close as Kelonymus could possibly have got the other shield bearers to him. This was his effort to reunite them.”
Knox stomped on the gas pedal. They roared across the sand.
ELENA WATCHED RAPTLY as Mohammed cleared the marble slab of sand and set the teeth of his scoop between the top of the marble and the limestone lintel, then toppled it forward. She flinched as it fell, professionally appalled by such cavalier vandalism, but the sand was soft and it didn’t shatter. She was still as determined as ever on her vendetta, but she also had to see what lay inside. In every way possible, this was the climax of her career.
They each took flashlights, shining them down into the black mouth. A flight of steps almost entirely submerged beneath a slant of sand led down to a rough-hewn corridor just tall and wide enough for two men to stand shoulder to shoulder. Elena followed Nicolas and his father fifty paces into the hill before the corridor opened out into a cavernous chamber. But as they shone their flashlights eagerly around, they soon realized it was empty except of dust and detritus: a broken drinking vessel, an earthenware amphora, the hilt of a dagger, the bones and feathers of a bird, presumably trapped here centuries before. Only the walls repaid in any way the efforts they had made to find this place, for the raw sandstone was handsomely sculpted like the stations of the cross, with scenes from Alexander’s life in deep relief, furnished with real artifacts.
In the first, to their left, Alexander was a gurgling infant in his cot, strangling snakes like Hercules—and evidently there had once been real snakes there, though time had disintegrated them, leaving only wafer-thin translucent skins. In the second, he was leading his famed horse Bucephalus away from his own shadow, the better to tame him. The third showed him with other young men around the feet of an elderly man, perhaps Aristotle himself, reading from what would once have been a parchment scroll but which had long since crumbled into fragments that lay at his feet. The fourth showed Alexander on horseback, exhorting his men to battle. The fifth had him plunging a wooden-shafted javelin through the chest of a Persian soldier with a bronze ax. Then came the celebrated Gordian knot. Legend had promised sovereignty over all Asia to the person who could untie it, even though untying it was impossible—a conundrum that Alexander resolved with his customary directness by cutting straight through the rope, represented here by a carved trunk of wood, one end looped around the metal yoke of a chariot, the other anchored inside a slot in the rock wall. The next scene showed him consulting the oracle of Siwa itself, the chief priest assuring him of his divinity. And so it went on, his victories, his setbacks, and his deathbed, all beautifully recorded. The final scene showed his spirit ascending a mountain to join the other gods, being welcomed as an equal.
Their flashlights played among these mesmerizing sculptures, creating shadows that stretched and danced and ducked and darted with life after twenty-three hundred years of utter stillness. No one dared speak. For though this was a remarkable find, Elena knew that it wasn’t what Philip and Nicolas Dragoumis had come for, it wasn’t what they needed for their mission. Either the shield bearers had never made it this far with Alexander’s body or someone had been here before them.
“I don’t believe this,” muttered Nicolas, balling his fist. “I don’t fucking believe this. All our work! All our work!” He gave an inarticulate cry of frustration and kicked the rock wall.
Elena ignored his tantrum and crouched down instead by the foothills of the mountain up which Alexander’s spirit was ascending. “There’s an inscription,” she told Dragoumis.
“What does it say?”
She wiped away the dust and held her flashlight at an angle to accentuate the shadows and make it easier to see. “ ‘Go up into the secret skies, Alexander,’ ” she translated aloud, “ ‘while your people here mourn.’ ”
“There’s another one there,” said Costis, pointing his flashlight at the base of the relief of the infant Alexander strangling the snakes.
Dragoumis translated this one himself: “You do not know your strength, Alexander. You do not know what or who you are.” He glanced doubtfully at Elena. “Does it mean anything to you?”
“It’s from the Iliad, isn’t it?”
Dragoumis nodded. “They both are. But what are they for?”
Elena went down on her haunches by a third scene, a depiction of fierce fighting. “ ‘Shield clashed against shield, and spear with spear. The clamor was mighty as the earth turned red with blood.’ ”
Dragoumis was by the Gordion Knot, he and Costis working their flashlights in tandem, the better to see. “ ‘Whichever man undoes the knot that fixes this yoke will find himself the Lord of all Asia.’ ”
“ ‘Talk not of running, nor of fear,’ ” said Elena, “ ‘for I know of neither.’ ”
They went on around the walls, deciphering the inscriptions. When they were done, Elena looked at Dragoumis. “What do you think?”
“I think we need more—”
A heavy thump reverberated from up the passage at that moment. The floor shook; dust shivered from the walls. Nicolas looked around, then closed his eyes in anger as he realized what it was. “Mohammed,” he muttered.
OPPORTUNITY HAD TAKEN MOHAMMED BY SURPRISE. The Greeks, every last one of them, had gone inside the hill. Curiosity had gotten the better of them. He had waited a minute or two, half expecting one or another of them to realize their mistake and come back out. When they didn’t, his courage began to mount. If he could block them in, he could go into Siwa and bring back the police. They would all go to jail for years, unable to affect Layla or exact revenge.
His first idea was to ram the mouth of the passage with one of the vehicles, but they were all the wrong shape. He decided instead to reseal the passage with the marble slab, then swamp it beneath sand. He slid the teeth of his hydraulic scoop beneath it and tried to lift it, but it was so heavy, his rear wheels left the ground, his hydraulic mechanism screeched and stalled, and the slab slipped sideways and clapped loudly on the sand. He cursed himself. They were bound to have heard that. Shouts of alarm came from within, so it was too late to back down now. He reversed a little way, then accelerated forward, using momentum to pick up the marble slab. A Greek arrived at the mouth just as it tipped back neatly into its slot. Mohammed felt jubilant as he scooped sand and more sand onto it. He exulted as the pink marble quickly disappeared, imprisoning them all inside. He could hardly believe how simple it had been. Nur was right: she always said that if you faced your demons, you could conquer any—
A muffled burst of gunfire. A second burst.
Mohammed watched numbly as a cone was sucked out of the sand in front of him, as it widened and deepened. A small black hole appeared. A man clambered through. Mohammed swung the scoop at him, but he ducked it easily and aimed his AK-47 at Mohammed’s face. Mohammed took his hands off the controls and raised them numbly. A second man crawled out, and a third.
He thought of Layla, what would happen to her now, and felt despair. More Greeks scrambled out, like so many rats. Costis opened the cab door, switched off the ignition, and took away the keys. Nicolas appeared, brushing down his sleeves and trousers. He said, “If any of my people knew how to work this machine, you would be dead now. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“You have a daughter,” he said. “Her life depends upon our goodwill. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“You will cooperate?”
“Yes.”
He nodded at Costis, who had returned with a pair of handcuffs. He closed one cuff around the steering wheel and the other around Mohammed’s left wrist, allowing him enough movement to work the controls but not enough to escape. He added the key to a key ring on his belt. Then he frowned and looked over his shoulder, out over the dunes. It was a moment before Mohammed heard what had distracted him: the faint growl of an engine coming from the direction of Siwa. Costis glanced at Nicolas, who held up his hand for silence. The noise died away momentarily, then returned even louder. Nicolas grimaced with foreboding. It was the early hours of the morning. No one should be out driving in the desert, not unless they had a very specific purpose.
“You want us to check it out?” asked Costis.
“Yes,” said Nicolas.
Costis signaled to Leonidas, Bastiaan, Vasileios, and Dimitris to go with him. They grabbed weapons and sprinted for their four-by-fours.
Chapter Thirty-five
ThERE WERE OLD RUTS and tire tracks in the sand. Knox used them as a water-skier uses wake, jolting all three of them, so that they bounced in their seats. It was a point of pride for Gaille that she wouldn’t remark on it, even though the passenger-side seat belt had broken years ago and Knox had to fling out his arm every so often to hold her in her seat. The Jeep’s antique suspension squeaked, squealed, and banged. Knox downshifted, turned, and roared up a dune, straining the old engine the last few yards. As they crested the dune, she could see the now-familiar silhouette of Bir al-Hammam ahead. Then they were on the downslope, taking it at such an oblique angle that the right wheels left the ground for a moment, hanging in space. Knox pinned Gaille in her seat until they bounced back onto all four. She threw him a grin, but then he glanced in the mirror and frowned in obvious concern. Gaille turned to see a four-by-four coming up fast behind them, headlights off, evidently not wanting to give itself away.
“What the hell?” muttered Rick.
“It’s those bloody Greeks,” said Knox. He raced down a dune, gaining speed to climb its far bank. They flew over the top and bounded down the other side, roaring away along the compact valley sand.
“There’s a second one,” said Rick, as another four-by-four appeared over the dune to their left, plunging down the bank, forcing Knox into an evasive skid, his wheels throwing up sprays of sand and bringing them almost to a stop. He shifted up through the gears, turning back the way he had come, but the Jeep was no match for the four-by-fours. They gained inexorably, pulling up alongside on either flank, motioning for him to stop. Knox spun hard and cut left, forcing the driver to slam on his brakes. He roared up another dune, but the gradient was steep and the sand soft, and the balding tires lost traction and began to churn.
Knox stopped fighting, let gravity roll them back down, then swung the Jeep around. A four-by-four nosed into his right side so that both his right wheels left the sand. It nudged them again, harder this time, tipping them up onto their side, so that they plowed a short furrow in the sand before crashing onto their roof. Gaille shrieked and threw up her hands to protect her head as Knox tried to hold her in her seat, but the momentum was too much for him, and she smacked the windshield hard.
They came to a stop. Gaille felt dizzy and sick. The passenger door opened and a man stood above her aiming an AK-47 at her face. She looked numbly up at him. He motioned for her to get out. She tried to obey, but her limbs wouldn’t function, so he grabbed her by a hank of hair and hauled her viciously out, ignoring her shriek of pain. Knox crawled out after her, bracing himself to spring at the man, but another of the Greeks was waiting in ambush and clubbed Knox on the back of the head with the butt of his gun, so that he collapsed face-first on the sand.
Rick came out next, hands over his head, looking cowed. But it was only an act. His first punch knocked the first Greek onto his backside. He wrenched the AK-47 from him and twisted it around at the second man, his finger already pulling the trigger. But he didn’t quite make it. A yellow burst of flame spat from the second man’s muzzle, accompanied by the percussive noise of automatic gunfire, and Rick’s chest exploded red. He was thrown backward onto the sand, the AK-47 falling from his grasp.
“Rick!” cried Knox, crawling over to his friend. “Oh, Christ! Rick!”
“Jesus, mate,” slurred Rick, trying to raise his head. “What the fuck… ?”
“Don’t talk,” pleaded Knox. “Just hold on.” But it was already too late. The tension went from his neck, and his head slumped lifelessly. Knox turned around, hatred in his heart, purpose in his eye, but the Greek gunman was watching him with perfect self-assurance. He spat nonchalantly onto the sand, as if to indicate that was all Rick’s death meant to him, then pointed his weapon at Knox’s chest. “Hands behind your head,” he said. “Or it’s the same for you and the girl.”
Knox glared at him, but there was nothing he could do. Vowing silently that he wouldn’t leave Rick unavenged, he clasped his hands behind his head, while another of the Greeks bound him hand and foot.
IBRAHIM COULDN’T SLEEP. He had lain awake brooding for hours. Every time he managed to soothe himself to relative peace, he would suffer another spasm of shame. He had dedicated his whole life to the study of ancient Egypt. To be complicit in the rape of a tomb—and such a tomb!—would blacken the Beyumi name forever. He couldn’t allow this further stain on his honor. He couldn’t. Yet each time he sat up, resolved to do something, his nerve wilted. He wasn’t that kind of man. He was no kind of man at all. And what could he achieve anyway? They had taken his cell phone, his bedside phone, and his modem jack. They had locked his doors and windows and taken the keys. He rose once more, went to his bedroom door, and stood there with his hand on the handle. He returned for his dressing gown, then took three deep breaths for courage before opening his door. Manolis was asleep on a mattress in the corridor outside. Ibrahim stood still, waited for his heart to calm. He reached his left leg over Manolis. A floorboard creaked beneath the carpet. Ibrahim froze.
Manolis’s eyes opened; Ibrahim could see the luminous white rings of his corneas. “What are you doing?” he grunted.
“My stomach,” said Ibrahim. “I need tablets.”
“Wait. I come with you.”
“It’s okay. I—”
“I come with you.”
THE TWO FOUR-BY-FOURS pulled up in front of Nicolas with a screech of brakes and a spray of sand. Bastiaan threw open the back door of the first and hauled two figures out. First was some lifeless stranger half wrapped in a rug, his chest a mess of blood and pulp. Then the girl, Gaille, dizzy and pale, her wrists and ankles tied with rope. She looked around, evidently terrified, and her eyes locked on someone standing behind him. “Elena!” she cried plaintively. “How could you?”
“Because she’s a patriot,” retorted Nicolas coldly when Elena didn’t speak.
Costis was hauling another man from the back of the second four-by-four. He glared up from the sand. Knox! Nicolas felt a little nauseated suddenly, as though he had eaten something that disagreed with him. There was something about the man that made him feel just that little bit helpless. Knox’s gaze slid past Nicolas to where his father was standing. “So!” he said contemptuously. “A common tomb robber.”
“Scarcely a common tomb robber,” replied Dragoumis, unruffled, “as I suspect you know full well.”
“Have you found him, then?” Knox asked despite himself.
“Not yet,” admitted Dragoumis.
“Not yet?” frowned Nicolas. “What do you mean, not yet? There’s nothing there.”
Dragoumis looked sourly at his son. “Have you learned nothing about this man Kelonymus?” he asked impatiently. “Do you really believe he’s the kind to surrender his greatest secret at the first breach?” He pointed at Gaille, then said to his men, “She understands his mind better than anyone. Bring her inside.”
“Don’t do it, Gaille,” said Knox tersely. “Don’t give them anything.”
Dragoumis turned to him. “You know I am a man of my word. So let me make you an offer. If you two help me find what we’re looking for, I vow I’ll let you both go free.”
“Sure!” scoffed Knox. “After everything we’ve seen!”
“Believe me, Daniel, if we find what we’re looking for, the more you two talk, the better it will be for us.”
“And if we refuse?”
Dragoumis gave a small, sorrowful shrug. “Do you really want to put that to the test?”
Nicolas kept his eyes on Knox while he debated his response. It was clear that he was still burning with rage for what they had just done to his friend, that he was only waiting for an opportunity to exact revenge. He turned to warn his father, but his father silenced him with a look, as though he was already five moves ahead, so he shrugged and turned back to Knox. The man was still struggling with himself, with his conscience, but then he glanced at Gaille, her face ashen with fear and streaked by tears, silently pleading with him not to do anything crazy.
He blinked and sighed. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll do what we can.”