The Alexander Cipher dk-1

by Will Adams

  He scratched away the dead mortar, then pulled out a single brick and rested it ever so gently on the floor. He listened intently for half a minute. There was complete silence. He tried to peer through, but the hole was too small for both his eyes and his flashlight together. He reached the flashlight through the gap instead, then squinted as best he could along the line of his arm. But the flashlight was now pointed in the wrong direction, so he couldn't make out a thing. Trying to twist his hand around, his fingers involuntarily opened a fraction and the flashlight slipped agonizingly from his grasp. He tried to grab it back but it fell in spirals and landed with a splashy thump in shallow water, its beam making ghostly white ripples on the facing wall.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Knox had no choice but to retrieve the flashlight. Ibrahim, Mansoor, and others were about to raise the plinth, and if they found it, he was certain to be discovered. Besides, he had time. The place was still quiet. He began dismantling the wall, brick by brick, placing them precisely on the ground, the old mortar still resting on them, so that he would be able to rebuild the wall exactly as he'd found it. When he had created enough space, he poked his head through, catching a pungent whiff of ammonia. It was a low, arched corridor with a watery floor, like some Victorian sewer. Its walls were even scratched with lines to make it look as though it had been built of bricks rather than excavated, perhaps to disguise the passage he had just broken through, but possibly because the ancients had simply considered construction more prestigious than excavation.

  He stretched down for his flashlight but couldn't quite reach it, not without leaning on the wall, which he didn't trust to hold his weight. He removed another two rows of bricks, then straddled what remained. The water felt sharp on his bare foot as he stooped to retrieve the light. He listened intently. Nothing but silence. He was here now. It would be criminal not to take a quick look.

  He splashed along the corridor, brushing aside cobwebs, his imagination sensing eels and nocturnal creatures around his bare ankles. He came to a compact chamber beneath a chimney shaft, its mouth blocked by some kind of slab. The plinth, no doubt. He went back the other way and came to a marble portal with an Ancient Greek inscription cut into its architrave:

  Together in life; together in death. Kelonymus.

  Kelonymus. The name was familiar, as Akylos had been. But the memory wouldn't come and time was short, so he passed beneath it, reaching the foot of a broad flight of stone steps that spread out like a fan as it rose. And at the top…

  "Jesus Christ!" muttered Knox.

  "What's going on?" demanded Nicolas, as a large crowd of senior excavators and other guests descended the stairwell to the rotunda.

  "How do you mean?" frowned Ibrahim.

  "All these people?" said Nicolas. "You can't seriously be inviting them all."

  "Just to watch. From the antechamber. This is a big moment for us."

  "No," said Nicolas. "You, me, your archaeologist, Elena. That's all."

  "But I've already-"

  "I mean it. If you want the remainder of your Dragoumis sponsorship money, you'll kick these people out now."

  "It's not that simple," protested Ibrahim. "We need Mohammed to lift the plinth. We need the girl to take photographs. Moments like these don't come often, you know."

  "Fine. Those two. No others."

  "But I-"

  "No others," said Nicolas emphatically. "This isn't a circus. This is supposed to be a serious excavation."

  "Fine," sighed Ibrahim. And he turned with a sagging heart to disappoint the crowd of excited excavators

  Knox's mouth hung open as he played his flashlight over the chamber like a searchlight over a bombarded city. He struggled to believe his eyes. To his right, a terrace had been hewn in the limestone. Sixteen golden larnaxes, or burial caskets, stood on each of two shelves, making thirty-two in all. Glass bowls had toppled and fallen both over the shelves and the floor, scattering their contents of precious and semiprecious stones. Also on the floor were countless precious artifacts: swords and spears and shields and amphorae of silver and clay. White marble had been inlaid into the far wall, a lengthy inscription carved into it, though too distant for him to make out what it said.

  But it was the left-hand wall that mesmerized Knox. It was a huge mosaic, framed at the top by turquoise-painted plaster that represented the sky, and which contoured the main subject matter like a chalk mark around a corpse. Thirty-three men, clearly soldiers, though not all armed, were gathered into two overlapping clusters, one in the foreground, the other farther back. They looked remarkably relaxed and cheerful. Some talked among themselves, arms around each other's shoulders. Others wrestled on the sand or played dice. But kneeling at the center was the mosaic's focal point and the group's clear leader: a slight, handsome man with russet hair, who looked out of the wall with a purposeful gaze. Both his hands were clasped on the hilt of his sword, plunged deep into the sand. Knox blinked. No one could study Greco-Roman history without developing a knowledge of mosaic. Yet he'd never seen anything like this.

  He had no camera with him except for the one in his mobile phone. He hadn't even turned it on since Sinai, worried that it would lead Hassan straight to him, but there was no chance of it transmitting a signal this deep underground. He tiptoed carefully into the chamber, photographing the mosaic, the burial caskets, the grave goods scattered on the floor, the inscription. He became so completely absorbed in this work that it was only when he heard a grinding, ripping noise from way behind him that he belatedly remembered the raising of the plinth.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Bastiaan and three burly Egyptian security guards kept the disgruntled excavators out of the Macedonian tomb while Mohammed and Mansoor attacked the plinth as they had on the day before, working the tips of their crowbars beneath one end and levering it up. It came more easily this time. They raised it a few inches, just enough for Ibrahim to slide in a hydraulic jack, which they pumped high enough to slide a pallet-trolley beneath. Then they repeated the process at the other end and simply wheeled the plinth back against the wall.

  There was a fat black shaft in the floor, just as Ibrahim had glimpsed. They all gathered around. Mansoor directed his flashlight down. Light glinted brightly from five yards below.

  "Water," said Mansoor. "I'll go first." He turned to Mohammed. "Tie a noose in a rope. You'll lower me, yes?"

  "Yes," agreed Mohammed.

  Knox had no time for finesse. He clutched his hand over the bulb of his flashlight to dim it yet allow him just enough light to see what he was doing; then he stripped off his T-shirt so that he could use it to erase his footprints in the dust as he backed out of the chamber and down the steps. But Mansoor was already being lowered on a rope, flashing his light all around him and down the passage, so that Knox had to duck back out of sight. "There's a corridor!" shouted Mansoor as he splashed into the shallow water and stepped off the stirrup. "I'll take a look."

  "No!" said Ibrahim. "Wait."

  "But I'll just-"

  "Wait for us."

  The light vanished momentarily. Knox risked another glance, saw the stirrup slithering back up. But then Mansoor shone his flashlight again down the corridor, his frustration evident, giving Knox no chance to escape. Someone else was being lowered now: Gaille, twisting this way and that on the rope. Mansoor turned to help her down. It was Knox's only chance. He ran along the corridor to his dismantled wall, trying hard not to make waves. But Gaille gave a shriek of alarm. "There's someone there!" she cried.

  Knox stepped through the hole in the wall as Mansoor blazed his flashlight down the corridor. "There's no one," he laughed. "How could there be?"

  "I could have sworn," said Gaille.

  "Just your imagination," said Mansoor. "Places like this will do that."

  Knox was only half listening, his heart still hammering, frantically rebuilding his wall from within, taking care to keep as silent as possible. He couldn't risk his flashlight, so he had to work by feel a
nd what little light reached him from Mansoor, Gaille, and the others as they gathered one by one. But by the time they were all down, his wall was still only three-quarters rebuilt.

  "Okay," said Ibrahim. "Lead on."

  Knox froze. He couldn't do any more now except press himself back into the shadows and pray. Light flickered and flashed and then grew almost blinding. There was still a great, gaping hole in his wall. They had to spot it. But somehow, first one then the next walked past with heads bowed, watching the floor to make certain of their footing. Ibrahim, Mansoor, Elena, Gaille, and then, shockingly, Nicolas Dragoumis. Nicolas Dragoumis! Last night's mock execution suddenly had a completely new suspect.

  They paused, as he had, to illuminate and read the inscription on the architrave. "Look!" said Elena excitedly, nudging Nicolas. "Kelonymus!" Her tone, and the presence of Nicolas Dragoumis, triggered recognition in Knox, so that he remembered at last why the names Kelonymus and Akylos were so familiar.

  Ibrahim entered the chamber first. He stood there in silent awe as the others arrived behind him and took their own places on the bottom step. He gazed almost drunkenly around the chamber. It was only when Nicolas made to step up into the chamber that he came back to his senses. "Stop!" he said. "No one goes in."

  "But-"

  "No one goes in," he repeated. He felt, suddenly, a surge of authority. He was the senior representative here of the Supreme Council for Antiquities, and this-as no one could for a moment doubt-was a find of historic importance. He beckoned for Mansoor. "We have to inform Cairo at once," he said.

  "Cairo?" winced Nicolas. "Is that really necessary? Surely this isn't a matter for-"

  "It's a matter for whoever I say it is."

  "But-"

  "You're our sponsor and we appreciate your support. This is no longer a matter for you. Is that clear?"

  Nicolas had to force his smile. "Whatever you say."

  "Gaille. You will take photographs, yes?"

  "Of course."

  "Mansoor, you stay with her."

  "Yes."

  "I'll instruct Mohammed and the security guards not to let anyone else down. I'll arrange for the necropolis to be cleared. When you're satisfied that Gaille has enough photographs, replace the plinth over the shaft. Then make sure the site is empty and seal off the mouth of the stairwell. I'm sure Mohammed can find a way. Sealed tight, mind. No one is to get in or out. Understood?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "I'll have Maha arrange around-the-clock security. You're not to leave until they arrive. Then bring Gaille to my villa. Drive her yourself. And don't let her camera out of your sight."

  "Yes, sir."

  "As for me, I'm going to notify the Supreme Council that we've just discovered the most important antiquity in the modern history of Alexandria."

  Knox quietly finished rebuilding the wall before Ibrahim and the others left. Since Gaille and Mansoor remained behind taking photographs, he didn't dare move, scared the noise would give him away. Cramps built agonizingly in his thighs and calves until Mansoor was finally satisfied, and they left.

  There was no time to waste. If he didn't get out quick, he'd be sealed in with all the other corpses. He cleared the area of traces of his presence, then squeezed back into the chamber beneath the rotunda, replacing the blocks as he'd found them. He stripped naked and stuffed everything into his bag, dropped down into the water, breathed deeply, then navigated his way back to the steps, pulling the bag behind him. He was lucky, there was no one waiting. In fact, the whole necropolis was eerily dark and silent. He brushed himself dry, pulled on his trousers and T-shirt, filled his pockets with everything of value, then stuffed the rest deep into an empty loculus. Then he hurried for the rotunda. Metal screeched and banged as he reached it. He looked up to see daylight already partially eclipsed by the bottom of a blue container, with a second already being positioned next to it to complete the seal. Knox pounded up the steps, his thighs protesting, diving out just as the container was maneuvered into place. Everyone stared incredulously as he rolled up onto his feet and ran for the gates. "Stop him!" yelled Mansoor. "Someone stop him!"

  At the site exit, two security guards blocked his way. He dropped a shoulder, feinted right, sidestepped left, spinning one of the guards around, bursting out into the street, across traffic, dodging a minibus, putting distance between himself and the chasing pack, shouting at people to stop him, yelling into their phones. He cut down an alley toward his Jeep, three men chasing hard. A shopkeeper jumped out to block his path, but he broke through the halfhearted tackle, glancing around to see the three getting closer. And now two soldiers appeared ahead, reaching for their guns. This was turning ugly fast, but it was too late to stop now. He ducked left, his chest aching, a stitch burning in his side, his legs on fire with lactic acid. He vaulted a wall, crawled beneath a gate, then ran to the dark alley where he'd left the Jeep. He pulled the tarpaulin back just far enough for him to sneak beneath, unlock and open his door, and climb inside, where he sprawled across the front seats, keening for breath while simultaneously struggling for silence, listening to frantic footsteps hurrying up the alley behind him, praying he hadn't been seen.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Ibrahim greeted Gaille and Mansoor impatiently when finally they arrived at his villa. "There was a problem at the site," explained Mansoor. "An intruder."

  "An intruder?"

  "Don't worry. Nowhere near the Macedonian tomb."

  "Did you get him?"

  "They're still looking. He won't get far." He held up his cell phone. "They'll call when they have news."

  "Good. And the site?"

  "Sealed. The guards are in place, too. It'll be fine for the moment. How about our secretary general? Have you notified him yet?"

  "He's in a meeting," said Ibrahim.

  "A meeting?" frowned Mansoor. "Didn't you have him called out?"

  Ibrahim's cheeks flamed. "You know what he's like. I'm sure he'll call back soon." He turned to Gaille. "May we see your pictures?"

  "Of course."

  She transferred her pictures to her laptop and opened them one by one. Nicolas and Elena joined them as they gathered around the kitchen table to look. "Demotic," muttered Ibrahim gloomily when she showed him the inscription. "Why did it have to be Demotic?"

  "Gaille knows Demotic," volunteered Elena. "She's working on the Sorbonne dictionary project."

  "Excellent," beamed Ibrahim. "So you can translate this for us?"

  Gaille gave a dry laugh. Demotic was a brute, as Ibrahim had to know full well. Asking her if she could translate this was like asking someone if they spoke English, then jabbering at them in coarse Anglo-Saxon.

  Ancient Egypt had had just the one main spoken language, but that language had been written down with a number of different alphabets. The first was hieroglyphics, the stylized pictographs familiar from temples, tombs, and Hollywood movies. These had first appeared around 3100 BC. Pioneering Egyptologists had assumed the language to be pictorial, each symbol representing a single concept. But after the Rosetta Stone was found, with identical text inscribed in hieroglyphics, Demotic, and ancient Greek, Thomas Young and then Jean-Francois Champollion had deduced that these pictographs had had phonetic as well as symbolic value-that they were, in short, letters that could be combined in multiple ways to form words and thus a broad vocabulary, and that this language had its own syntax and grammar, too.

  Hieroglyphics, while they looked fantastic on the walls of temples and palaces and formal documents, had been far too elaborate to be practical for everyday use. Almost from the start, therefore, a simpler and quicker alphabet had developed alongside. This was known as Hieratic, and it had become the language of literature, business, and administration in ancient Egypt, which was why it was usually found on cheaper materials like wood, papyrus, and ostraka. Then, around 600 BC, a third written language, called Demotic, had evolved, reducing Hieratic to a series of strokes, dashes, and dots, like Egyptian shorthand. To make matters worse,
it had neither vowels nor breaks between words, its vocabulary had been large and vernacular, its alphabet had varied significantly from region to region, and it had evolved massively over the centuries, so that it was really a family of related languages, not just one. Mastery took years of dedication and a set of dictionaries the size of a Volkswagen Beetle. Depending on how mainstream this inscription was, and what resources would be available to her, decipherment could take hours or days, or even weeks. She summed this all up with a wry glance at Ibrahim.

  "Yes, I know," he said, having the grace to blush. "But still."

  Gaille sighed, though in truth she felt exhilarated by the challenge. It had been too dark in the chamber to make much of the inscription earlier. But her camera had astonishing resolution and her photographs had come out crisply, despite the dust and cobwebs, making the Demotic characters clearly legible. She zoomed out again. Something about the inscription was bothering her, but she couldn't figure out what.

  "Well?" asked Ibrahim.

  "May I have a minute by myself?"

  "Of course." And he ushered everyone out to give her some peace.

  Knox lay absolutely still across the Jeep's front seats. The chasing pack had gathered directly outside and now were discussing plans and catching their breath. Sweat was cooling all over his body, giving him chills despite the warmth of the day. The Jeep lurched as someone sat on its hood. He heard the rasp of a lighter, cigarettes being lit, people gossiping and bantering, chiding each other for being too slow, too old. The Jeep creaked as someone else leaned against it. Christ! How long before one of them thought to check beneath the covers? But there was nothing he could do but lie still. Nothing except make plans. Yet what plans? Hassan, Nessim, the Dragoumises, the police, and the army were all after him, and Christ knew who else. He couldn't risk turning on his cell phone to review his photographs lest Nessim trace the signal. Besides, he'd barely be able to see anything on the tiny screen, and anyway he needed them deleted as soon as possible, because if they were found, they would prove he'd been inside the lower chamber and earn him ten years in jail. Ideally, he would have liked to transfer them to his laptop, but that was in the back of Nessim's Freelander along with the rest of his stuff, and anyway it didn't have a USB port, so his only way of getting the photos to it was by e-mailing them to himself, then downloading them. But none of that was going to happen while he was lying in his Jeep with his pursuers on his hood.