by Will Adams
The hours passed with grinding slowness for Nicolas as his four-by-four and the container truck crawled east along the Mediterranean coast. He kept thinking that Bastiaan and his crew must have reached Alexandria by now, but it wasn't until they neared El Alamein that his phone finally rang. "Yes?"
"Bastiaan here. We're at the villa."
"And?"
"It's burned out. No sign of the guys. But there are uniforms everywhere-fire, police, medical."
Nicolas fell silent as he realized the extent of this disaster. The alibis that had been meant to protect them were now going to hang them. They had all been filmed entering the villa on the security cameras. Even if the fire had by some miracle destroyed the tape, the rental cars outside would still lead the police inexorably to the airport, to their immigration details, to their plane. Going for it now would be like salmon leaping for the net. He ordered Bastiaan to head back and meet them outside Alexandria. Then he called Katerina in Thessalonike again. She answered this time, but he had barely said a word when she cut in and told him primly that she wasn't at liberty to discuss company policy on that matter, but she could get someone to-
"There are people with you?"
"Yes."
"Police?"
"Yes."
"They're listening in?"
"No."
"Recording calls?"
"Not yet."
"You can get somewhere and call back?"
"Not immediately."
"As soon as you can."
Nicolas chewed his knuckles while he waited. Twenty minutes passed before she rang back. "I'm sorry, sir," she said breathlessly. "There are police everywhere. They have warrants. Apparently, the Egyptians asked them to-"
"You've heard from Manolis and Sofronio?"
"Not directly, sir, but I overheard a policeman. I think there's been a fight with the Egyptian police, and I think Manolis is hurt. He had to go to the hospital. Sir, they're saying he killed a man. What's going on? They're accusing us all of terrible things. Everything's going crazy. People are terrified. They're searching our files. They're freezing our accounts. I heard two of them talking about ordering our ships back to port."
"They can't do that," protested Nicolas. "Put Mando on it."
"I already have. He says it's going to take him a couple of days to-"
"I don't have two days!" yelled Nicolas. "Sort it out now."
"Yes, sir."
"And call me the moment you learn anything."
"Yes, sir."
"And I need Gabbar Mounim's phone number again. Quick as you can."
"Yes, sir."
The dread was building in Knox. He had been pounding the poor Jeep for seven hours and still hadn't caught up with the truck, and Alexandria was now only thirty kilometers ahead. Was it possible he had miscalculated? Was it possible Nicolas had got here already, or found another route out? A plane from Marsa Matruh? Across the border into Libya? No. Both of those would be madness, let alone impossible to organize on such short notice. This had to be their route. He just had to keep on going.
Five kilometers shy of the first main road junction, he glimpsed a container truck ahead. He speeded up. Yes. And one of the SUVs in front of it. He took his foot off the gas at once, dropped back to a discreet distance, and followed.
Chapter Forty
Themoment Bastiaan and his crew rejoined the convoy after their Alexandria sortie, Nicolas ordered everyone off the road. They took a sandy track to the edge of a lake: mist rising from the water, shabby fishermen poling their weather-beaten punts along narrow channels between reed-covered islets. He had intended to explain the situation to them all, canvass their ideas, discuss plans, but their nerves were so strained by fear as they realized the extent of their predicament that they quickly began shouting, jostling, and blaming one another. It was just as well that Katerina called at that moment, giving everyone a chance to calm down.
She had Gabbar Mounim's number for him, so he called it at once. A woman answered, and Nicolas asked for Mounim, giving his own name. Without even checking, she told him politely that Mr. Mounim couldn't come to the phone right now. He asked her more forcefully, but she just repeated her message. When he screamed at her, she repeated it once more, completely unperturbed. Nicolas breathed deep, then asked as politely as he could when Mr. Mounim might be able to call him back. Mr. Mounim was very busy all this week, apparently. Perhaps next week or the week after. Nicolas ended the call, suddenly fearful that they might run a trace. News of leprosy traveled so fast in his world, it defied Einstein. He slammed the heel of his hand against the side of the container, which rang dully. Their plane was tainted, their ship. Their names, descriptions, passport numbers, and license plates would already be spreading like disease along the wires. He closed his eyes. Dismay curdled to anger.
Knox. It could only be Knox. Knox had blabbed.
He went to the rear of the container. It wasn't his fault now; he had made the penalty for interference clear. If you wanted people to take you seriously in this world, you had to be prepared to execute your threats. The container door was open, and it was still hot and stifling inside. The girl was lying gagged on the floor, her wrists bound around the interior handrail, her lips dry and chapped. Nicolas untied her and dragged her by one ankle to the mouth of the container. She struggled limply, weak with dehydration. He dumped her onto the sandy earth. Surplus baggage. Dangerous baggage-baggage with a mouth. He had left the Walther in the four-by-four. He held out his hand to Leonidas. "The AK, please."
Leonidas blinked. "She's just a girl."
"Are you stupid?" shouted Nicolas. "She's seen everything. You want to spend your life in a Gippo fucking jail?"
The girl spat out her gag so that it hung like a noose around her neck. "Please," she sobbed. "Please." Her face was ugly with tears and mucus. Nicolas couldn't bear to look at her. "Don't kill me," she wailed, shuffling toward him on her knees. "Oh, God, I won't talk. I swear. Don't kill me. Please don't kill me. I don't want to die. I don't want to die."
"Your father rejected violence," said Leonidas. "Your father-"
"My father is dead," snapped Nicolas, his hand trembling. Weaken now, and he'd be a joke. "Give me your fucking gun." He snatched it from Leonidas's grip. Looking nauseated, Leonidas turned his back. It was just as well to know who had the stomach for the hard tasks.
The girl was still mewling, clawing at his trousers. He clubbed her with the butt, took a step back, and raised the rifle to his shoulder. He had never killed anyone before. He'd given orders, sure, and they had brought a few corpses from the morgues up into the mountains for training purposes. Puncturing human flesh helped harden you, even if it was lifeless. He had come almost to enjoy the sensation of plunging a bayonet into a belly. You had to attack it with commitment, or the blade would push back rather than penetrate the skin. But this was different. He had thought it would feel clean and sharp and fine to kill; in truth, it felt squalid and deformed.
She was kneeling, hugging and kissing his feet. It was better now that he couldn't see her face. He filled his sights with the dark hair on the top of her skull, but then her face bobbed up. Again he balked. The thought of shooting her through the eyes or forehead made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. Why couldn't she just keep her face down? Didn't she have any consideration? He menaced her again with the gun. She fell onto her back, wailing, her face gray and contorted with terror. He gestured for her to roll onto her front, but she wouldn't. She lay there, squirming perversely, as though she knew the turmoil she was putting him through. He gritted his teeth. This was the price of leadership. This was the price of Macedonian liberation. He steeled himself by imagining all the accolades and glory that would be his due. Then he pressed the butt to his shoulder and filled his sights with her face once more.
Knox had followed the convoy off the road at a safe distance, concealing the Jeep behind a rocky bank, then watching the Greeks argue and panic. Though he was too far away to hear their exact words
, it was clear from their confrontation that their plans had gone seriously awry and they were scared.
Nicolas vanished purposefully into the container. A minute later, he dragged Gaille out, then demanded the AK-47 from one of his men. Knox watched miserably, but there was nothing he could do. He had no cell phone to summon the police or army, and he was unarmed and alone. Trying to save her now would be suicide. His only sane option was to go and fetch help. He had done his best, after all, and now it was someone else's turn. No one would blame him.
He crouched over to the Jeep and started it up, the highway traffic close enough to muffle the sound. Then he just sat there a moment, because he knew in his heart that to go for help was to condemn Gaille to death. He couldn't accept that; he just couldn't. It wasn't simply the debt he owed her father, though that was part of it. It was Gaille herself. It was the way he had come to feel about her.
His skin prickled with fear as he realized what he was going to do. Don't be a fool, he told himself. It did no good. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, almost in prayer. Then he stamped his foot to the floor, like some knight of old spurring on his faithful steed, and charged.
An engine roared behind Nicolas. He whirled around to see an old Jeep hurtling directly at him. Knox! He was standing there in numb disbelief when Leonidas snatched back his AK-47 and sprayed a burst at the Jeep's hood, which sprang up open. The engine spouted geysers of steam, and flames licked up from below. He could hear Knox revving futilely, but the Jeep rolled slowly to a stop in front of them, and the hood clanged back down. Knox opened the door and fled, but a round scorched his leg, and he cried out with pain and fell headlong, only to have Bastiaan and Eneas on him a moment later.
Nicolas wrested back the gun from Leonidas. Killing the girl was one thing, killing Knox another. He walked over, lifted the gun to his shoulder, and aimed down. "Wait!" cried Knox desperately, turning onto his back, holding up his arms as if that could protect him. "Listen! I can get you out. I can get you out of Egypt."
"Of course you can," mocked Nicolas, his finger on the trigger. "You can sprout wings and fly us, no doubt."
But Leonidas pushed down the muzzle of Nicolas's gun. "How?" he asked.
"I'll ask the questions," snapped Nicolas. He turned back to Knox, raising the gun once more. He felt ridiculous suddenly. "How?" he asked.
"I know people," said Knox.
"Oh, you know people?" sneered Nicolas. "We all know people."
"I know Hassan al-Assyuti," said Knox.
Nicolas frowned. "The shipping agent?"
"I saved his life," nodded Knox. "A diving accident. I gave him mouth-to-mouth. He said if I ever needed a favor-"
Nicolas squinted at him. "You're lying."
"Take me to see him. He's in Suez. Ask him yourself. He'll tell you."
"Take you to see him?" snorted Nicolas. "He's your best fucking friend and you don't even know his phone number?"
"I never had to call in the favor before."
Nicolas hesitated. Knox was up to something, he was sure of it. But if there was any truth whatever to his claim… He opened his cell phone again, called Katerina, and asked her to find a number for Hassan al-Assyuti. He walked in circles as he waited for her to call back, stamping his feet. When she finally did, he dialed it himself. He didn't trust Knox one bit. He asked for Hassan al-Assyuti and was put on hold. He kept his eyes on Knox all the time, waiting for him to blink, to back down and admit that this was bullshit. A woman picked up and tried to fob him off with the practiced spiel about Hassan being in a meeting, and could she please take a message that she would make sure he received at the very first-
"I need to speak to him now," said Nicolas. "Tell him it's Daniel Knox."
"Daniel Knox?" She was clearly taken aback. "Oh. Yes. Right. I… I'll put you straight through."
Nicolas couldn't hide his astonishment. He held the phone in such a way that Knox could talk, but so that he could listen in as well. Hassan came on. "Knox?" he demanded. "Is that really you?"
"That's right," said Knox quickly. "Listen, I want to come see you."
There was a pause. Then Hassan asked incredulously: "You want to come to see me?"
"That's right. I need something shipped out of Egypt. If I come to see you, will you take care of it for me?"
There was silence. "You'll come yourself? In person?"
"If you agree to help me get this shipment out."
"What kind of shipment? Where headed?"
"I'll tell you when I see you."
"Very well. Can you get to Suez?"
"Sure. Give me six hours."
"Six hours, then. At my container terminal." He snapped off directions, which Nicolas jotted down. The line went dead. Nicolas closed his phone.
"Well?" asked Leonidas.
"He agreed to help," admitted Nicolas reluctantly. Something stank, though he wasn't sure what. Still, it was a lifeline, and he had no option but to grab it. "You'll stay in the container until Suez," he told Knox. "One sound and you're dead. Understand?"
"Yes."
"Get us out of Egypt and you and the girl can go. You have my word." He looked directly into Knox's eyes. Nicolas couldn't afford to have him realize there was no way on earth he would let two witnesses to all this mayhem simply walk away.
Chapter Forty-one
Knox and Gaille were gagged and tied to the handrail at the cab end of the container. One of the Greeks, a burly man they called Eneas, was handed a flashlight and ordered to watch over them. Knox's thigh throbbed from the gunshot wound, but from the quick examination he had been allowed, it looked worse than it was, plowing a furrow along his skin, but missing the muscle and bone.
The container was stiflingly hot once the rear doors were closed, and stuffy, too, particularly when Eneas lit a cigarette. After he finished and stubbed it out, he drank great gulps from a water bottle, then splashed it prodigally over his hair and forehead. Just the sound of it was torment. Knox closed his eyes and dreamed of waterfalls and crushed ice.
The coffin and lid were so heavy that the container truck's brakes shrieked when they slowed to refuel. Eneas stood above Knox, menacing him with the butt of the rifle until they rumbled off again, so that he rocked back ever so slightly on his heels. Gears crunched, and the engine whined as they struggled to pick up speed. Just as well that Egypt was so flat.
Gaille began sobbing behind her gag. She had had two or three such bouts already, interspersed with long periods of calm. Terror was too intense to sustain. Knox, too, had had two periods of icy shudders when his shirt became saturated with sweat, worsening his dehydration. In between, however, his mind felt clear as he sought a way to get himself and Gaille out of their dire predicament. So far, nothing came to mind.
He stopped trying to force it. Experience had taught him that answers often appeared when he focused on something else. Their guard lit another cigarette, the flame of his lighter glowing orange off all the gold, and Knox found himself staring at Alexander's coffin. What an end for such a man, a pawn in the never-ending game of politics and personal advancement. But there was a certain appropriateness, too. Alexander's life itself had ended in anticlimax in Babylon, triggered perhaps by the horrors of the Gedrosian Desert, into which he had led forty thousand men, and out of which he had brought just fifteen thousand. Death had been in the air for months. An elderly Indian philosopher called Calanus had joined Alexander on his campaigns but had fallen sick. Unwilling to rot away, he burned himself alive instead, assuring Alexander that they would meet again soon. In a drinking contest to celebrate Calanus's life, forty-one Macedonians had died, including the winner. Then Alexander's closest friend, Hephaiston, had died, too-perhaps the greatest blow of all. But there was also a lesser-known incident, when Alexander visited the tomb of Cyrus the Great at Pasargadae. Cyrus had been the greatest conqueror and emperor before Alexander, a semidivine figure worshipped throughout Persia. Yet Alexander discovered his bones lying scattered on the floor by bandits
who had tried unsuccessfully to steal his golden sarcophagus. The inscription on Cyrus's tomb read, "O man, whoever you are and from wherever you may come-for I know that you will come-I am Cyrus, who won the Persians their empire. Therefore, do not begrudge me this little earth which covers my body." But his plea had gone unheard.
They said that when Alexander was lying on his deathbed in Babylon, aware his end was upon him, he tried to drag his failing body down to the river that ran by the palace, so that he would be swept away by the waters, and the world might believe him taken up to his rightful place among the gods. But maybe he had also sought to deny his successors the chance to treat his mortal remains with the disrespect they had shown Cyrus's. So maybe that was the fate Alexander had wanted for his body: not Siwa, not Alexandria, not Macedonia, but the oblivion of water.
The oblivion of water. Yes. And finally, the germ of an idea came to Knox.
It seemed forever before the truck stopped next. The back of the container shrieked as it was opened. Knox leaned his head back against the steel wall, fear tickling his chest like the beads of a rosary. Stars lay low on the horizon. The day was gone. Perhaps his last. Nicolas climbed up inside, one side of his hair spiky, as though he had napped against the window. He pointed the Walther at Knox. "We're in Suez," he said as Eneas untied Knox's bonds and pulled the gag from his mouth. Knox clenched and unclenched his hands to get the circulation back, then stood gingerly, grimacing at the pain in his thigh.
Nicolas gestured for Knox to go to the mouth of the container, but Knox ignored him. He picked up the guard's water bottle and found a few mouthfuls left. He removed Gaille's gag, held the bottle to her lips, tipped it up for her until it was empty, then kissed her on her crown. "I'll do my best," he promised her.
"I know you will."
"Move," said Nicolas, jabbing him with the Walther's muzzle.
Knox hobbled to the end of the container, making more of his injury than it really warranted, hoping to convince Nicolas that he was badly hurt. He helped himself gingerly down onto tarmac, giving a little cry of pain as he landed, then hopping a couple of times on his good leg. They were in the corner of a huge empty parking lot that stank of stale fumes and scorched rubber. Arabic music drifted from a distant petrol station. Over a wall of trees, the sky glowed orange.