by Will Adams
"Hosni spotted him," said Nessim. "He's staying in a friend's apartment. I drove up here as soon as I got the call. He came out fifteen minutes ago, not a care in the world. He must think we've stopped looking. But it's him, all right."
"Where's he now?"
"In a taxi. Heading towards Ramla."
"You're following?"
"Of course. You want him picked up?"
That silence again. Then, "Listen to me: this is what I want."
Knox was surprised and gratified by the warmth with which Gaille greeted him that evening. "Perfect timing," she enthused. "Ibrahim's asked me to do a show-and-tell on the antechamber paintings tomorrow. I need a victim to practice on." She led him back to her room, defying the toxic glare of her concierge. Her balcony doors were open to a cacophony on the street below: youngsters talking and laughing excitedly in anticipation of their evening, a distant tram clanking on its rails like an overworked kitchen. Her laptop was open on her desk, her screen saver painting weird patterns on the monitor. She nudged her mouse, and a colorful wall painting of two men sprang up.
He leaned in, frowning. "What the hell? Is this from the site?"
"The side walls in the antechamber."
"But… they're just plaster. How did you get them to look like this?"
She grinned with pleasure. "Your friend Augustin. He told me to use water. Lots of water. Not quite as much as you pumped in this morning, maybe, but…"
He laughed and softly smacked her shoulder in reproach, triggering an unexpected spark of contact that gave them both a little jolt. "You've done a great job," he said, pulling himself together. "It looks fantastic."
"Thanks."
"You know who these guys are?"
"The one on the left is Akylos. The occupant of the tomb."
Knox frowned. The name Akylos was strangely familiar. But why wouldn't it be? It had been common enough among Greeks. "And the other?" he asked.
"Apolles or Apelles of Cos."
"Apelles of Cos?" asked Knox incredulously. "You don't mean the painter?"
"Is that who he is?"
Knox nodded. "Alexander the Great's favorite. Wouldn't have his portrait made by any other artist. He often dropped by his studio to bore everyone silly with his views on art, until finally Apelles told him to shut up, as even the boys grinding the colors were making fun of him."
Gaille laughed. "That took some courage."
"Alexander liked people with a bit of brass. Besides, Apelles knew how to flatter as well as mock. He painted Alexander with a bolt of lightning in his hand, just like Zeus. Where is this? Does it say?"
"Ephesus, as far as I can make out, but you can see the lacunae for yourself."
"It would make sense," said Knox. "Alexander went there after his first victory over the Persians." He reached past her, closed the file, and brought up another: soldiers wading through water. "Perga," he said. He glanced at her. "You know about this?"
"No."
"It's on the Turkish coast, opposite Rhodes. If you want to head south from there, you can hike over the hills, which is hard work, or you can go along the coast. Trouble is, you can only manage this route when a northerly is blowing, because it pushes the sea back far enough for you to get through. There was a southerly when Alexander set out, but you know Alexander-he just kept on going, and the wind switched just in time, lasting just long enough for him and his men to get through. Some people say that it was the seed for the story of Moses parting the Red Sea. Alexander passed through Palestine shortly afterwards, after all, while the Bible was still a work in progress."
Gaille pulled a face. "That's a little fanciful, isn't it?"
"You shouldn't underestimate the impact of Greek culture on the Jews," said Knox. "They wouldn't have been human if they hadn't been a little dazzled by Alexander." Many Jews had tried to assimilate, but it hadn't been easy, not least because a centerpiece of Greek social life had been the gymnasium, and "gymnos" was Greek for naked, so everything, by definition, had been on show. The Greeks had prized the foreskin as a fine piece of divine design and had considered circumcision barbaric. Many Jews had therefore tried to reverse the mohel's work by cutting free the skin around the base of their glans or by hanging metal weights from what little they had.
"I don't mean fanciful like that," said Gaille. "I'm only saying that bodies of water miraculously drying up to enable the hero to get through aren't exactly unknown in ancient myth. Nor are floods sent to destroy enemies. If I had to put my money on a historical precursor, I'd bet on King Sargon."
"The Akkadian?"
Gaille nodded. "A thousand years before Moses, two thousand before Alexander. There's a source describing how the Tigris and the Euphrates dried up for him. And he already has an established point of similarity with Moses."
Knox frowned. "How do you mean?"
"His mother put him in a basket of rushes and set him on the river," said Gaille. "Just like with Moses. He was found by a man called Akki and raised as his son. Mind you, changelings were a common enough motif. It gave the poets a way to show a kind of cosmic justice at work. Take Oedipus, left out by his father to die from exposure, only to return to kill him."
Knox nodded. "It's amazing how the same stories keep cropping up again and again across the entire Eastern Mediterranean."
"Not that amazing," replied Gaille. "It was a massive trading block, after all, and merchants have always loved trading tall tales."
"And the region was infested by minstrels, of course. And you know what minstrels have always been famous for."
"Wandering," grinned Gaille, glancing up and around. Their eyes met and held for a moment, and Knox felt unsettling flutters in his chest. It had been too long since he'd had a woman to share his life and passions with, not just his bed. Far too long. He turned in mild confusion back to the screen. "So this is a map of Alexander's campaigns?" he asked.
"Not exactly," said Gaille, a little flustered herself. "Of Akylos's life. The two just happen to be the same." Without looking his way, she brought up another picture: a walled city surrounded by water being menaced by an outsize satyr, an anthropomorphic Greek god, part man, part goat. "This one has me puzzled. I thought it might be Tyre, looking at the walls and water, but-"
"It's Tyre, all right," said Knox.
"How can you be so sure?"
"Tyre was famously impregnable," he told her. "Even Alexander had problems with it. One night during his siege he dreamed that a satyr was mocking him. He chased and chased it, but it kept eluding him, until finally he caught it and woke up. His seers interpreted it by pointing out that 'satyros' was made up of two words, 'sa' and 'Tyros,' meaning 'yours' and 'Tyre.' Tyre will be yours. It'll just take time and effort. And so it proved."
"Unhappily for the inhabitants."
"He spared everyone who took sanctuary in temples."
"Yes," said Gaille tightly. "But he slaughtered two thousand of their fellow citizens by nailing them to crosses."
"Maybe."
"There's no maybe about it. Read your sources."
"The Macedonians often crucified criminals after they were dead," replied Knox calmly. "Like the British hanging them on gibbets. To discourage others."
"Oh," frowned Gaille. "But why would Alexander consider the Tyrians criminals? They'd only been defending their homes."
"Alexander sent in heralds to discuss terms before laying the siege. The Tyrians murdered them and hurled their bodies from the ramparts. That was an absolute no-no back then." He glanced at Gaille again, puzzled by something. "This is one hell of a tomb for a shield bearer, don't you think? I mean, a forecourt, an antechamber, and a main chamber. Not to mention Ionic columns, a sculpted facade, bronze doors, and all these paintings. It must have cost an incredible amount of money."
"Alexander paid well."
"Not that well. Besides, this is how Macedonian kings were buried. It feels, I don't know, presumptuous, doesn't it?"
Gaille nodded. "They're raising the
plinth tomorrow afternoon. Maybe that'll give us some answers. You're going to be there, aren't you?"
"I doubt it, I'm afraid."
"But you must come," she said earnestly. "We wouldn't have discovered it without you."
"Even so."
"I don't understand," she complained. "What's going on?"
There was pain in her eyes, as well as confusion. Knox knew he couldn't prevaricate any longer. He pulled a face to let her know he had a difficult subject to broach, then stood up straight, putting distance between them. "You know how I said earlier there was something I needed to tell you?"
"It's that damned Knox, isn't it," scowled Gaille. "He's your best bloody friend or something."
"Not exactly."
"Let's not let him come between us," she begged. "I was just shooting my mouth off last night. Honestly. He means nothing to me. I've never even met the man."
Knox looked steadfastly into her eyes, until realization began to dawn. Then he nodded. "Yes, you have," he told her.
Chapter Fourteen
It took Gaille a moment to assimilate fully what Knox was saying. Then her expression went cold. "Get out," she said.
"Please," he begged. "Just let me-"
"Get out. Get out now."
"Look. I know how you must feel, but-"
She went to her door and threw it open. "Out!" she said.
"Gaille," he pleaded. "Just let me explain."
"You had your chance. You sent me that letter, remember."
"It wasn't what you think. Please just let me-"
But the concierge had overheard the commotion. Now he arrived outside Gaille's room, grabbed Knox's arm, and dragged him out. "You leave," he said. "I call police." Knox tried to shake him off, but he had surprisingly strong fingers, which he dug vengefully into Knox's flesh, giving him no choice but to go with him or start a fight. They reached the lobby. The concierge bundled him into the elevator, punched the button for the ground floor, then slammed the mesh door closed. "No come back," he warned, wagging his finger.
The elevator juddered downward. Knox was still in a daze when he stepped out into the ground-floor lobby and down the front steps. The look of anger on Gaille's face had not only shocked him, it had made him realize just how hard he was falling for her. He turned right and right again, heading down the alley at the rear of her hotel, converted, like so many alleys in Alexandria, into an improvised parking lot, so that he had to wend his way between tightly packed cars.
He remembered, suddenly, the letter he'd sent her, all the deceits he'd filled it with. His face burned hot; he stopped dead in the alley so abruptly that a man walking behind him barged into his back. Knox held up his hand in apology, started to say sorry, but then he caught a whiff of something chemical, and suddenly a damp, burning cloth was clamped over his nose and mouth, and the darkness began closing in. Too late, he realized that he'd allowed himself to stop worrying about Sinai, about Hassan. He tried to fight, to pull away, but the chloroform was already in his system, and he collapsed tamely into the arms of his assailant.
tT was barely eleven thirty when Augustin brought Elena back to the Cecil Hotel. He had invited her on to a nightclub; she pleaded weight of work. He insisted on escorting her into the lobby all the same. "There's no need to come up," she said drily when they reached the elevators. "I'm sure I'll be safe from here."
"I see you to your room," he announced gallantly. "I would never forgive myself if anything happened."
She sighed and shook her head but didn't make a point of it. There was a mirror in the elevator. They each checked themselves out in it and then each other, their eyes meeting in the glass, smiling at their own vanity. She had to admit that they made a striking pair. He walked her right to her door. "Thank you," she said, shaking his hand. "I had fun."
"I'm glad."
Elena took her key from her purse. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."
"No doubt." But he made no move to leave.
"You haven't forgotten where the elevators are already?" she asked pointedly.
He smiled wryly. "I think you're the kind of woman not to be afraid of what she wants. I'm right about this, yes?"
"Yes."
"Good. Then let me make this clear. If you ask me to leave once more, I truly will leave."
There was silence for a few moments. Elena nodded thoughtfully to herself as she unlocked her door and went inside. "Well?" she asked, leaving the door open behind her. "Are you coming in or not?"
Knox slowly returned to consciousness, aware of his lips, nostrils, and throat burning, of nausea in his gut. He tried to open his eyes. They were glued shut. He tried to lift a hand to his face, but his wrists were bound behind his back. He tried to cry out, but his mouth was taped. When he recalled what had happened, his heart plunged into panicked tachycardia and his body shuddered in a great spasm, arching him off the floor. Something clumped him hard behind the ear, and he slumped back into darkness.
He was more circumspect when he came around again. He let his senses gather information. He was lying on his front. Some kind of soft carpet with a lump in the middle that pressed against his ribs. His ankles and wrists were so tightly bound that his fingers and toes tingled. His mouth was coppery and tacky from a cut on the inside of his cheek. The air smelled thickly of cigarette smoke and hair oil. He felt the soft vibration of an expensive engine. A vehicle passed at speed, its sound warped by Doppler. He was on the floor of a car, and he was probably being taken to Hassan. That lurch of panic. Vomit welled in his throat, stopping only at the back of his mouth. He inhaled deeply through his nose until the nausea subsided. He reached for a calm thought. It wasn't necessarily Hassan's men who had snatched him. Maybe it was freelancers after blood money. If he could just get them to talk, he could establish rapport, negotiate, outbid. He tried to sit up and was again thumped brutally on the back of his head.
They swung left and began to jolt over rough terrain. It was all Knox could do to buffer himself. His ribs were banged and bruised. They drove for what seemed an age, then stopped abruptly. Doors opened. Someone grabbed him beneath his arms and hauled him out, dumping him on sandy ground. He was kicked onto his back; fingernails picked at the tape on his cheek. It was ripped from his eyes, taking some lashes with it, leaving his skin tender. Three men stood above him, dressed in black sweaters and balaclavas, and the sight of them turned Knox's guts to water. He tried to tell himself they wouldn't be hiding their faces unless they thought he'd live. It didn't help. One of the men dragged Knox by the legs to a wooden post hammered into the ground. He gathered together several loose strands of barbed wire and wrapped them around Knox's ankles.
Though their car was parked obliquely, Knox could just make out its rear license plate. He burned it into his memory. A second man popped the trunk and pulled out a coil of rope, which he dumped on the sand. He tied a knot in one end, looped it around the tow bar, and tugged it hard to make sure it would hold. He made a hangman's noose in the other end, came over to Knox, slipped it around his neck, and tightened it until it bit into the soft skin of his throat.
Knox had lost sight of the third man. Now he saw him ten paces away, recording everything on the camera phone. It took Knox a moment to see the significance. He was filming a snuff movie to send to Hassan. That explained the balaclavas, too. They didn't want footage of themselves committing murder. It was then that Knox knew he was going to die. He kicked and struggled, but he was too tightly bound. The driver revved his engine like a young biker throwing down a challenge. Its back wheels spat sand. Then it began speeding away, rope hissing as it paid out. Knox braced himself; he screamed into his gag. The man with the camera phone moved closer to frame his climactic shot as the rope lifted, shivered and went taut.
Chapter Fifteen
I trust you have good news for me," said Hassan.
Nessim, even though talking to a phone, closed his eyes as if in prayer. "We've had a setback, sir."
"A setback?"
"Someo
ne else got to him first."
"Someone else?"
"Yes, sir."
"I don't understand."
"Nor do we, sir. He went into a hotel. He came out again. He walked around to the back and down an alley. Another man followed him. We thought nothing of it until a black car pulled up and he was bundled into the back."
"You mean you just let them take him away?"
"We were across the street. There was a tram."
"A tram?" asked Hassan icily.
"Yes, sir."
"Where did they go?"
"We don't know, sir. Like I say, there was a tram. We couldn't get past." The damned thing had just sat there as he tooted at it, the fat driver smirking at them, enjoying their frustration.
"Who was it? Who took him?"
"We don't know, sir. We're working on it now. If we're lucky, it's someone who heard what he did to you and thinks they can sell him to us at a price."
"And if we're not?"
"According to his file, he has plenty of enemies. Maybe one of them spotted him."
Silence. One beat. Two beats. Three. "I want him found," said Hassan. "I want him found as a matter of urgency. Do I make myself clear?"
Nessim swallowed. "Yes, sir. Crystal clear."
Knox felt incomparably older as he trudged north, following tire tracks in the sand. When the rope had paid out and stretched taut, he knew he was going to die. It was a qualitatively different thing, knowing you were going to die as opposed to fearing you might die. It did strange things to your heart. It made you think differently about time, the world, and your place in it.
Apparently the rope had been cut clean through, then fixed back together again with duct tape. The tape had ripped free as soon as the rope went taut, so that the two sections of rope had pulled apart, and Knox had flopped down on the sand, his bladder venting, his heart bucking like a terrified steer, bewildered by his reprieve. The driver had come around in a great loop over the sand to collect his comrades, who had been squatting there all the time, filming his reaction, the way he pissed himself. They had all laughed uproariously at that, as though it was the funniest thing they had ever seen. One of them had thrown an envelope out the window, and then they drove off, leaving him tied there to the stake, his trousers soaked, his throat raw with burns from the rope.
