by Will Adams
Augustin had brought down all the diving equipment before collecting Knox. They didn't waste any time sightseeing but hurried straight down to the water table and suited up, inspecting each other's gear with great care. People who had dived as often as they had were sometimes cursory with their safety checks. But in an enclosed labyrinth like this, you couldn't simply dump your weight belt and kick for the surface if things went wrong. There was no surface.
Augustin held up a reel of red nylon cord, borrowing a trick from Theseus. But there was nothing to anchor it to. "Stay here," he said, and vanished briefly, returning with an excavation basket weighted with rubble. He tied the cord to it and gave it a couple of tugs. They hooked themselves together with a lifeline, turned on their dive lamps, and made their way down into the water, Augustin feeding out the cord behind him. Neither man wore fins. They had weighted themselves to walk. They kicked up more sediment that way, but it made it easier to keep one's bearings. Almost at once, they found the entrance to a chamber, most of its loculi still sealed. On one of them, Augustin's underwater flashlight picked out a haunting portrait of a large-eyed man staring directly back at them. The mouth of the neighboring loculus had rotted away, and their flashlights glinted on something metallic inside. Augustin carefully pulled out a funerary lamp, which he tucked into his pouch.
They visited three more chambers, the connecting corridor kinking this way and that. The cord snagged on something, and Augustin had to tug it loose. The water grew murkier and murkier, sometimes swirling so badly they could barely see each other. Knox checked his air: down to just a 130 bar. They had agreed to dive in thirds: one-third out, one-third back, one-third for safety. He showed Augustin, who nodded and pointed back the way they had come. There was evidently some slack in the cord, for he began to reel it in and kept on reeling. He turned to Knox with a look of alarm perceptible even inside his mask. Knox frowned and spread his hands, and Augustin held up the loose end of the red cord, which should have been tied around the handles of the excavation basket, but which had somehow come free.
Children made Ibrahim uncomfortable. An only child himself, he had neither nieces nor nephews, nor any prospects of fatherhood. But Mohammed had bent over backward to accommodate him and his team on this excavation, so Ibrahim could scarcely refuse his daughter a tour, though he thought it crazy to bring a sick child into such a dusty, death-filled place.
One of Mohammed's construction crew tracked them down in a tomb chamber. "A call for you," he grunted. "Head office."
Mohammed pulled a face. "Forgive me," he told Ibrahim. "I must deal with this. But I'll be straight back. Could you hold Layla a minute?"
"Of course." Ibrahim braced himself as Mohammed passed him the bundle of blankets and swaddling, but the poor girl, ravaged by her disease, was light as air. He smiled nervously down. She smiled back. She looked terrified of him, painfully aware that he must consider her a nuisance. She pointed to the skull in the loculus: "This man was not Egyptian, then?" Mouth ulcers made her slurp and wince with every word.
Ibrahim winced with her. "That's right," he replied. "He was Greek, from north across the sea. Your father is a very clever man; he knew this man was Greek, because he found a coin called an obol in his mouth. The Greeks believed that spirits needed this to pay a ferryman called Charon to row them across the River Styx into the next world."
"The next world?" asked Layla. Her eyes were large with wonder, as though her skin had been pulled back around them. Ibrahim swallowed and looked away. For a moment, he felt the threat of tears. So young a girl; so harsh a fate.
His arms were aching badly by the time Mohammed finally returned. He beamed at Layla with such affection as he took her back that Ibrahim felt lost, shamed, as though he had no right to his place in the world, to the air and space he consumed, to his easy life. He felt overcome by the need to do something to help Layla. "Those tests we were able to help you with," he murmured to Mohammed. "Where might I get one done myself?"
Knox and Augustin looked at each other with concern, but they were experienced divers; they didn't panic. They checked their air; they each had twenty minutes, twenty-five if they didn't waste it. Augustin pointed ahead, and Knox nodded. They needed to find their way out, or at least a pocket of air where they could wait until the sediment resettled and they could see again.
They reached a dead end. Knox brought his gauge up to his goggles to check air pressure, which was dropping relentlessly. They kept their hands to the walls to steer through the blinding haze. On night dives in Sharm, his colleagues had talked glibly of zero visibility, but with all the muck he and Augustin had stirred, this was indescribably worse. Knox could barely see his gauges even when he held them in front of his mask. They hit another dead end, maybe the same one. They could all too easily be going around in circles. Fifteen bar. They began swimming, completely turned around now, their sense of direction gone, the fear building, breathing faster, burning up their precious air, so little of it left-just five bar, deep into the red hazard zone-and then Augustin seizing his shoulder and thrusting his face into his, tearing out his regulator, pointing desperately at his mouth. Knox passed him his spare, but he was down to the last few gasps himself. They reached another fork; Augustin pointed right, but Knox was sure they had gone right last time, so he tugged left, fighting over it. Augustin insisted on going right, however, and Knox decided to trust him, both men now swimming flat out, hitting and kicking each other, scraping rough wall and ceiling, Knox gagging as his tank ran dry, pressure on his lungs, hitting another wall, Augustin wrenching him upward against steps and then bursting up into open air.
Knox spat out his regulator and breathed in gratefully, lying alongside Augustin, their chests pumping like frantic bellows. Augustin laid his head sideways to look at Knox, a glint already in his eye, as though he'd thought of something funny but couldn't yet get it out. "There are old divers," he panted finally. "There are bold divers."
Laughter hurt Knox's lungs. "I reckon you should get a pump, mate."
"I think you're right," agreed Augustin. "And we tell no one about this, okay? Not for a year or two, anyway. I'm supposed to be professional."
"Mum's the word," nodded Knox. He pushed himself tiredly up, unbuckled his BCD, and dropped it and the empty tank onto the stone floor.
"Look!" said Augustin. "The basket's disappeared."
Knox frowned. Augustin was right. In his relief at getting out alive, he had forgotten what triggered the trouble in the first place. "What the hell?" He crouched down where the excavation basket had been. He had assumed that Augustin's knot had just come loose. "You don't think this was Hassan's doing, do you?"
A rueful expression spread over Augustin's face. "No," he said. "I fear it was simpler than that."
"What?"
"It was an excavation basket full of rubble," observed Augustin. "And what is Mansoor's number one priority?"
Knox winced and closed his eyes. "Clearing the site of rubble."
"This is our lucky day, my friend."
Soft footsteps approached down the corridor. Knox looked up as a slender, dark-haired, attractive young woman appeared out of the shadows, a digital camera on a strap around her neck. "Your lucky day?" she asked. "Have you found something?"
Augustin jumped up and walked over, interposing himself between her and Knox. "Look!" he said, taking out his funerary lamp, waving a hand at the water. "Chamber after chamber of sealed loculi!"
"Fantastic." She glanced past Augustin at Knox. "I'm Gaille," she said.
He had no option but to stand. "Mark," he replied.
"Nice to meet you, Mark."
"Likewise."
"How's the photography going?" Augustin asked her, touching her shoulder.
"Fine," said Gaille. "Mansoor's brought down all his lighting from the museum so I can photograph the antechamber, but it gets too hot to keep on long. The plaster, you know-we don't want it cracking."
"Indeed no." He put an arm around her shoulder
, tried to turn her away from Knox. "Listen," he said. "I understand you're alone in town, yes? Perhaps we could have dinner together? I can show you old Alexandria."
Her eyes lit up. "That would be great, yes." She sounded so enthusiastic, she blushed and felt compelled to explain herself. "It's just, there's nowhere to eat in my hotel, and they won't let guests take food back to their rooms, and I really hate eating alone in restaurants. I feel so conspicuous, you know. As though everyone's watching."
"And why wouldn't they watch?" asked Augustin gallantly. "A pretty girl like you. Which hotel are you staying at?"
"The Vicomte."
"That terrible place! But why?"
She shrugged sheepishly. "I asked my taxi driver for somewhere central and cheap."
"He took you at your word, then," laughed Augustin. "Tonight, then. Eight o'clock, yes? I'll pick you up."
"Great." She looked past him to Knox, standing in the shadows. "You'll come, too, yes?" she asked.
He shook his head. "I don't think I'll be able to make it, I'm afraid."
"Oh." She patted her hips and made a shrugging kind of face. "Well, then," she nodded. "Until later." And she retreated up the corridor away from them with a slightly stilted walk, as though she sensed-quite correctly-that she was being watched.
Chapter Ten
Back at Augustin's apartment, Knox sat on the couch and tried to kill time. It wasn't easy. Tintin was bad enough once. He paced around the sitting room, went out onto the balcony. It seemed forever before the sun set. And still no sign of Augustin. The phone rang at seven thirty, but Knox dared not answer, letting the answering machine chug out its message. "It's me," shouted Augustin, loud music thumping in the background along with raucous laughter and the clinking of glasses and bottles. "Pick up, will you."
Knox did so. "Where the hell are you? You said you'd be back hours ago."
"Listen, my friend," replied Augustin. "A difficult situation at work."
"Work?" asked Knox dryly.
"I need you to call that photographer girl for me. Gaille Dumas. The one from the Vicomte. Explain to her that I'm in the middle of a crisis; I'm putting out fires."
"She's in town all on her own," protested Knox. "You can't stand her up."
"Exactly," agreed Augustin. "That's why I need you to do it for me. After all, if she hears this noise, maybe she'll wonder if I'm telling her the complete truth."
"Why don't you ask her to join you?"
"I have plans. You know that Beatrice I mentioned?"
"For Christ's sake! Do your own dirty work."
"I'm asking as a friend, Daniel. How was it you put it? Yes. I'm in trouble. I need help."
"Okay," sighed Knox. "Leave it to me."
"Thanks."
"And good luck with your crisis," said Knox venomously. He picked up the phone directory and flipped through it for the Vicomte Hotel. He felt bad for the girl, and vicariously guilty. He was puritanical about such things, he supposed. When you asked a girl out, particularly one who so evidently hankered for company, you showed up. The shadow of a long evening stretched out ahead of him. No one to talk to, nothing to read, nothing to watch on TV. Sod it, he thought. Sod Hassan and his thugs. He needed to stay hidden, but Alexandria was a vast city, and its streets offered the cover of crowds. He went into Augustin's room for a clean shirt and a baseball cap. Then he went down to the street and hailed a cab.
Ibrahim couldn't get comfortable at home that evening. His upper arm itched from where the nurse had taken blood for his HLA test, and he kept thinking of that poor girl's wide brown eyes. He kept thinking of her predicament, her courage. In the end, he couldn't sit at home anymore. He went through to his study and plucked a book down from the shelves, one from which his father had read to him as a child. Then he went out to his car.
Mohammed's apartment was on the ninth floor, but the elevators were broken. When Ibrahim finally made it up the stairs, he had to put his hands on his knees a minute, and wheezed for breath. What an effort it must be with an invalid child! It made him think about his own privileged childhood and education, everything made easy by his father's wealth. He heard, inside, the suppressed rancor of a married couple on whom too much strain has been placed, trying not to let their beloved child overhear. He felt embarrassed suddenly, an intruder. He was about to walk away again when the door opened unexpectedly and a woman emerged, a scarf over her hair, dressed formally as if off on a visit. She looked as startled to see him as he was to see her. "Who are you?" she demanded. "What are you doing here?"
"Excuse me," he said, flustered. "I have something for Mohammed."
"What?"
"Just a book." He pulled it from the bag. "For his daughter. Your daughter."
The woman looked at Ibrahim in bewilderment. "This is for Layla?"
"Yes."
"But… who are you?"
"My name is Ibrahim."
"The archaeologist?"
"Yes."
She bit her lower lip thoughtfully. Then she went back inside her flat. "Mohammed," she said. "Come here. Your archaeologist friend is visiting."
Mohammed appeared from a side room, ducking his head beneath the low lintel. "Yes?" he asked anxiously. "Is there a problem at the site?"
"No," said Ibrahim, showing a bit more of the book. "It's just… my father used to read to me from this. I thought maybe you and your daughter…" He opened the book and flipped through the pages, showing off the gorgeous illustrations inside: pictures of Alexander from history and myth.
"It's beautiful," gaped Mohammed. He glanced at his wife, who hesitated then nodded. "Layla's been talking about you all evening," said Mohammed, coming to grasp Ibrahim by the elbow. "I know it would mean a great deal to her if you gave it to her yourself."
Alexandria was usually one of the most welcoming of Egyptian cities, but the tensions between the West and the Arab world had reached here, too, and Knox took a cool nod from a young Egyptian man out with his woman as he paid his taxi driver on the street outside Gaille's hotel. Normally, he would have shrugged it off, but with Hassan to worry about, it preyed on his mind. All these people. How could he tell which ones were dangerous? The ones who smiled, the ones who scowled?
Like many of the city's cheaper hotels, Gaille's was on the top two floors. The old lift rattled and shook as it ascended past floors of gloom and darkness. He pulled back the mesh door and stepped out. Behind the reception desk, the balding middle-aged concierge was talking with a young bearded man. They both looked at Knox without even trying to hide their disdain. "Yes?" asked the concierge.
"Gaille, please," said Knox.
"The Frenchwoman?"
"Yes."
"And you are?"
Knox had to think for a moment to remember the name Augustin had given him. "Mark," he said. "Mark Edwards."
"Sit, please." The concierge turned back to his friend, picking up their conversation again. Knox sat in a blue armchair, white fluff leaking from the tattered upholstery. A minute went by. Still the concierge made no effort to alert Gaille. Another minute passed. The two men were chatting away, not looking his way, their contempt clear. Knox had no wish to make himself conspicuous, but there came a point when doing nothing would be more memorable than doing something, so he stood up, brushed fluff from his trousers, went back over to reception. "Call her for me," he said.
"In a minute."
He put his hand on the counter. "Call her," he said. "Now."
The concierge scowled but picked up his phone and dialed her extension. A phone tinkled dully down the hall. "You have a visitor," he told her. He put the phone back down and resumed his conversation with his friend without a word to Knox.
Another minute passed. A door opened and closed. Footsteps hurried on the hard wooden floorboards. Gaille appeared around a corner, wearing sneakers, faded jeans, and a baggy black sweatshirt. "Mark," she frowned. "What are you doing here?"
"Augustin couldn't make it, I'm afraid. Crisis at work. I hope you don
't mind a last-minute substitute."
"Not at all." She looked down at her dowdy clothes, pulled a face. "Are we going anywhere fancy?" she asked.
"You look fine," Knox assured her. "You look gorgeous."
"Thanks." She smiled shyly. "Then shall we just go? I'm starving."
He ushered her inside the elevator. The concierge and his bearded friend glared as he slammed closed the mesh door a little more vehemently than necessary. It was dim and tight inside; two people was all it could comfortably take. They stood shoulder to shoulder as it clanked slowly down six floors. "Charming man," he muttered once they were out of earshot.
"My guy in Tanta was even worse, would you believe?" said Gaille. "He gave me those looks-you know, as if he held women to blame for every evil in the history of the world. I felt like asking him, why run a hotel? Why not run a YMCA or something? Just nice young boys."
Knox laughed and hauled open the door again as they reached the ground floor. "You like seafood?"
"I love seafood."
"There's this restaurant I used to visit a lot. I haven't been there for a while, but I thought we might give it a try."
"That sounds great. You know Alexandria well, then?"
"I used to." Down the hotel's front steps, he steered Gaille away from the bustling and carnival-like Sharia Nabi Daniel, along a quieter road. With Hassan on his tail, he needed to stay in the shadows. He kept looking around, sensing eyes on him, people frowning, taking a second look. In the darkness behind, a man in pale blue robes was talking quietly but urgently on his cell phone, darting glances his way.
"Are you all right?" asked Gaille. "Is something the matter?"
"No," he said. "Forgive me. Just a little distracted." They came to a fork in the road, a minaret on its corner, giving him the opportunity to cover his jitters with conversation. "The Attarine Mosque," he said, pointing it out. "Did you know that that's where they found what might be the sarcophagus of Alexander the Great?"