by Will Adams
"Ras el-Sudr?"
"You mean that dump south of Suez?"
"That's the one," said Knox. "There's a hotel there called the Beach Inn. When do you think you can make it?"
"Give me four hours. Maybe five."
"Perfect. Will you come in your Subaru?"
"Unless there's a reason not to."
"You might want to check it for tracking devices first. And make sure you're not followed. These guys are serious."
"So am I, mate," Rick assured him. "So am I."
Mohammed and Nur clutched hands as they waited for the phone call to tell them the results of the bone marrow tests. They had used a private health care group with medical centers in Alexandria, Cairo, Assiut, and Port Said to make it easier for far-flung friends and family. Especially family. Bone marrow compatibility was heritable, so the chances of finding a match was significantly higher among kin. They had tested another sixty-seven people, using up all the funds Ibrahim had made available. Dr. Serag-Al-Din had promised to call with the results an hour ago. Waiting for the phone to ring was about the most grueling experience of Mohammed's life. Nur winced as he squeezed her hand too tightly. He apologized and let go. But she needed the contact as badly as he did, and within moments their hands found each other again.
Layla was in bed. They had decided not to inform her of this process until it was done. But she was a sharp child, sensitive to atmosphere. Mohammed suspected that she knew all too well what was going on: the sentence of life or death that would shortly be passed on her.
The phone rang. They looked at each other. Nur made a face and started to weep. Mohammed's heart started pattering as he picked up the receiver. "Yes?" he asked. But it was only Nur's mother, anxious to learn if they had heard. He bit his lip in frustration and passed her across. Nur got rid of her with promises to call the moment they knew. Mohammed crossed his legs. His bowels felt loose and watery, but he dare not go to the toilet.
The phone rang again. Mohammed breathed deeply and picked it up. This time it was Dr. Serag-Al-Din. He said: "Mr. el-Dahab. I hope you and your wife are both well."
"We're fine, thank you. Do you have our results?"
"Of course I have your results," he said genially. "Why else do you think I'd call?"
"Well?"
"Bear with me a moment. I seem to have lost my place in your file."
Mohammed closed his eyes and clenched his fists. Come on, you son of a dog. Say something. Anything. "Please," he begged.
There was a rustling of paper. Dr. Serag-Al-Din cleared his throat. "Yes," he said. "Here we are."
It was dusk when Ibrahim and Elena arrived in Cairo for their meeting with Yusuf Abbas, secretary general of the Supreme Council for Antiquities. The great man was waiting for them in an ornate conference room, talking on the phone. He looked up sourly, then waved them vaguely at chairs. Ibrahim set up his laptop while he waited for Yusuf to finish discussing mathematics homework with his son. He found dealing with his boss immensely trying, not the least because he himself was a fastidious man, and Yusuf had grown grotesquely fat since orchestrating his palace coup and unseating his energetic, popular, and highly respected predecessor. Even watching Yusuf wrest himself from his chair was a mesmerizing sight, like seeing some ancient ship of war setting sail. He would prepare for the feat moments ahead of time, readying his muscles as if wind were filling the unfurling sails, and the rigging would creak and the anchor would haul and, yes, yes, yes, movement! Right now his forearms rested like giant slugs on the polished walnut table, but every so often he would lift a finger to his throat, as though his glands and not his incessant consumption of rich foods were to blame for his obesity. And when people addressed him from the side, he would move his eyes rather than his head to look at them, his pupils sliding to the corners-the very caricature of shadiness. Finally, he ended his call and turned to Ibrahim. "Such urgency," he said. "I trust it has a purpose."
"Yes," said Ibrahim. "It does." And he turned his laptop to show his boss Gaille's pictures of the lower chamber, while explaining how they had been found.
Yusuf's eyes lit up when he saw the burial caskets. "Are those… gold?" he asked.
"We haven't had time for analysis yet," said Ibrahim. "My priority was to seal the site and inform you."
"Quite right. Quite right. You've done well. Very well." He licked his lips. "This is a remarkable discovery. I see I will have to supervise the excavation personally."
Elena leaned forward-not much, just enough to catch his eye.
"Yes?" he asked.
"We're both aware of our exceptional good fortune that you could spare time from your other commitments for this meeting, Mr. Secretary General, for we know you are a man with extraordinary demands upon your time." Her Arabic was stilted and clumsy, noted Ibrahim, but her posture and use of flattery were impeccable. "We're glad that you, like us, consider this find to be of historic importance, and are delighted that you'll be involved in its ongoing excavation. However, sharing this exciting news with you wasn't the only reason Mr. Beyumi and I were anxious for this meeting. There's something else that needs your wisdom and urgent consideration."
"Something else?" asked Yusuf.
"The inscription," said Elena.
"Inscription? What inscription?" He glared at Ibrahim. "Why haven't you told me about this inscription?"
"I believe I did, Secretary General."
"Are you contradicting me?"
"Of course not, Secretary General. Forgive me." He reopened his photograph of the inscription.
"Oh, this," said Yusuf. "Why didn't you say you were talking about this?"
"Forgive me, Secretary General. The fault is mine. You'll note that the characters are Demotic, but the inscription is actually in Greek." He nodded at Elena. "A colleague of Ms. Koloktronis's deciphered it. I can explain how it works, if you're interested. Otherwise, here is a copy of the translation."
Yusuf's mouth worked as he read the text, his eyes going wide as he assimilated the implications. It wasn't surprising, reflected Ibrahim. Memphis had been known to ancient Egyptians as White Wall. The word desert came originally from Desh Ret: the Red Land. Kelonymus referred to Alexander as the "Son of Ammon," so the place of his father, it followed, was the Oracle of Ammon in Siwa Oasis, where old sources suggested Alexander had asked to be buried. The inscription, therefore, asserted that a group of shield bearers had stolen Alexander's body from under Ptolemy's nose in Memphis and had taken it across the Western Desert to a tomb they'd prepared within sight of the oracle of Ammon in Siwa Oasis. Ptolemy, however, had pursued them, and they had killed themselves rather than fall into his hands. All except Kelonymus, Akylos's brother, who had avoided capture and who had later brought all his comrades' remains back to Alexandria for burial, in fulfillment of his vow.
When Yusuf had finished he blinked twice. "Is this… is this to be believed?" he asked.
"The translation is correct," answered Ibrahim carefully. "I've checked it myself. And we believe it to be sincere as well. After all, as you've seen from the photographs of the underground chamber, this man Kelonymus went to extraordinary lengths to honor these men. He wouldn't have done it for a hoax."
"But it would have been madness," frowned Yusuf. "Why would these men throw their lives away on such a venture?"
"Because they believed that Alexander's dying wish had been to be buried in Siwa," answered Elena. "Ptolemy betrayed that wish when he started to build a tomb in Alexandria. You must remember, Alexander was a god to these people. They would have risked anything to carry out his orders."
"Please, you're not asking me to believe that Alexander is buried in Siwa, Ms. Koloktronis," sighed Yusuf. Ibrahim knew what was on his boss's mind. In the early 1990s, another Greek archaeologist had announced to the world's media that she had found the tomb of Alexander in Siwa Oasis. Her claim was universally rejected, but not before Siwa and Alexander had become something of a joke in the archaeological community.
"No," a
cknowledged Elena. "Alexander's embalmed body was on display in Alexandria centuries after this inscription was made. No one's denying that. However, surely it's possible that they seized his body and set off towards Siwa, where they had a tomb ready and waiting."
Yusuf sat back in his chair and looked sternly at Elena. "So," he remarked, "the true purpose for your presence at this meeting becomes clear. You're not here out of concern for the proper excavation of this Alexandria find. Oh, no. You're here because you believe that somewhere in Siwa there is a tomb appointed with-how does this… Alexander cipher of yours put it, again?-yes, with 'goods fit for the Son of Ammon.' And you want my permission to look for them, no doubt."
"Alexander was the most successful conqueror in history," said Elena. "One of Egypt's greatest pharaohs. Imagine what finding this tomb of his would mean for this country. Imagine what honors would befall the secretary general whose enlightened leadership made it possible. Your name would rightly be venerated along with the great patriots of this nation."
"Go on."
"And you have nothing to lose. I know the chances of finding anything are extremely thin. I know the resources of the Supreme Council are inexcusably tight. But something should be done. Something small. A low-level epigraphic survey of antiquities, say, conducted with the permission of the SCA. Just me and one colleague. Anything more substantial will only provoke rumors. You know what it is with Siwa and rumors."
Yusuf frowned. "Every hill in the Oasis has been searched and searched again," he observed. "If this tomb does exist and has lain hidden for twenty-three centuries, do you truly expect to find it in a matter of weeks? Do you know how wide the Siwa Depression is?"
"It won't be easy," admitted Elena. "But it has to be worth a try. Think of the alternative. When the contents of the Alexander cipher leak, every treasure hunter in the world will converge on Siwa. If we find the tomb first, we can preempt that, or at least announce that there's nothing to it. Either would be preferable to a gold rush."
"There'll be a gold rush only if word gets out," pointed out Yusuf.
"But it will get out," insisted Elena. "We all know it will. That's the nature of these things."
Yusuf nodded to himself. "Siwa is the territory of Dr. Sayed," he said sourly, as though he rather resented his colleague. "And Dr. Sayed has his own ways. You'll need his permission, too."
"Of course," nodded Elena. "Apart from anything else, I understand he has an outstanding collection of reference materials. Perhaps you might speak to him yourself-ask him to give us access. I know, of course, that it will make no difference whatever to your decision, which will be taken solely for the greater benefit of Egypt, but you might perhaps let him know that our backers have set aside very significant fees for all our SCA consultants, including yourself, naturally."
"I cannot agree to an open-ended expedition," said Yusuf. "Siwa may be a large oasis, but it is a small community. Whatever your cover story, people will eventually note what you are doing. Your presence will trigger the very result you seek to avoid."
"Six weeks," suggested Elena. "That's all we ask."
Yusuf rested his hands on his belly. He liked to have the last word on everything. "Two weeks," he declared. "Two weeks from tomorrow. Then we'll talk again, and I'll decide whether to give you another fortnight or not."
Nessim paced back and forth in his hotel room, willing his phone to ring, for one of his sentinels to spot Knox before he could drop out of sight once more. There had to be a good chance. The simple fact that Knox had broken cover to get his belongings back suggested he was after something, that he had a purpose and was prepared to take risks in its pursuit. Yet, for all that, there was something about Knox that made Nessim feel inadequate, almost fatalistic.
He stopped in mid pace, daunted suddenly by the prospect of confessing another failure to Hassan. He needed to show he was doing something. He needed to demonstrate that he was active. He had kept the hunt largely in-house up till now, but the time for discretion had passed. He unzipped his money belt, checked his cash, and turned to Hosni, Ratib, and Sami. "Get on your phones," he told them. "A thousand dollars to whoever finds Knox's Jeep. Two if he's in it."
Ratib pulled a face. "But everyone will know it was us," he protested. "When Knox turns up dead, I mean."
"Do you have a better suggestion?" snapped Nessim. "Or perhaps you'd like to tell Hassan yourself this time why we haven't found Knox yet."
Ratib dropped his gaze. "No."
Nessim sighed. The stress was getting to him. And Ratib had a point. "Okay," he said. "Only people you trust. One in each town. And tell them not to blab, or they'll be answering to Hassan themselves."
His men nodded and reached for their cell phones.
By the time the Dragoumis Group's Lear jet touched down in Thessalonike that night, Gaille had decided that she could get used to traveling like this, despite the twinge of guilt she felt at all these carbon emissions for so whimsical a trip. White leather seats so comfortable they made her groan with pleasure, a window the size of a widescreen TV, a butler on hand to prepare meals and drinks, the copilot coming back to talk her through her preferred arrangements for flying back in the morning. An immigration officer came out to greet her with cloying politeness ("any friend of Mr. Dragoumis, Ms. Bonnard…"), and a chauffeur-driven blue Bentley that whisked her away up into the hills above Thessalonike just so she could sit back and admire the night sky.
They reached a walled estate patrolled by guards. They were waved through, down to a whitewashed palace lit up like son et lumiere. And then, to cap it all, Dragoumis himself emerged from his front door to meet her, his hands clasped behind his back, a vivid birthmark near his left eye. After all she had imagined of him on her journey, it was a surprise and relief to her to see how short and slight he was. He hadn't shaved; he looked rustic and very Greek. Just for a moment, she thought she would be able to handle him easily, that he was nothing to fear. Then she drew closer and realized she had been wrong.
Chapter Twenty-three
Knox cut cross-country to get to Ras el-Sudr, his route taking him through Tanta, the largest town of the Delta. Something about Tanta niggled in his brain; someone had mentioned it to him recently, but he couldn't think who. Then he remembered Gaille's offhand remark about her Tanta concierge, and he pulled the Jeep to the side to think. He hadn't given much thought to Elena's Delta excavation; too much else had been going on. But maybe that had been a mistake. Especially now that Nicolas Dragoumis had appeared on the scene.
It was no secret that Elena's Macedonian Archaeological Foundation was sponsored by the Dragoumis Group. And the Dragoumises had no interest in Egypt, Knox knew-only in Macedonia. If they were financing an excavation in the Delta, therefore, they were after something Macedonian. And just maybe it was connected with that site they had just found in Alexandria. It certainly couldn't hurt to find out more.
He found a Tanta bar with a phone directory, then rang local hotels asking for Elena. He got a hit on his fifth attempt. "She not here," the night clerk told him. "Alexandria."
"What about her team?"
"Who you want to speak to?"
Knox ended the call, jotted down the hotel's address, and hurried back to his Jeep.
Philip Dragoumis led Gaille through arches and across polished mosaic floors to a drawing room with gorgeous oils and tapestries on the walls. "A drink," he said. "Then we eat. Red wine? It's from my estate."
"Thank you." She looked around as he opened a bottle and poured two glasses. An oil portrait of a fierce-looking black-bearded man with a mess of scar tissue around his left eye had pride of place above the huge fireplace. A portrait of Philip II, father of Alexander the Great. Her eyes flickered back and forth between the picture and Dragoumis, and she realized with a slight shock that the portrait was intended to draw some kind of subliminal parallel between the two, implying that the birthmark around Dragoumis's own left eye was some kind of stigmata, as though he were Philip reborn. "You
don't really believe in reincarnation, do you?" she asked.
He laughed loudly and unaffectedly, pleased by her boldness. "There is a saying: 'When a wise man does business with the Chinese, he speaks Mandarin.' "
"And when he does business with the superstitious?" suggested Gaille.
His smile broadened. He nodded at a second painting: a beautiful young dark woman in ragged peasant clothes. "My wife," he said. "I painted her myself. From memory." He gave a sharp little nod. "She's buried outside. She loved the view from this hill. We used to walk up here. That is why I bought this land and built my home here."
"I'm sorry."
"When I was a young man, I was a troublemaker. I used to go from village to village preaching the Macedonian cause, so the Athens secret police wanted to speak with me. You can imagine, it was not a desire I shared. When they couldn't find me, they visited my wife instead and demanded she tell them where I was. She refused. They poured petrol on her stomach, breasts, and arms, but she told them nothing. Then they lit it. Still she wouldn't talk. They poured petrol onto our baby son. Finally she talked. My wife was left with terrible burns, yet she could perhaps have survived with proper treatment, but I had no money for such treatment. My wife died because I had chosen to preach rather than to work, Ms. Bonnard. The day I buried her was the day I decided to stop playing at politics and become rich."
"I'm sorry," said Gaille helplessly.
Dragoumis grunted, as if to acknowledge the inadequacy of words. Then he said, "I knew your father."
"So your son told me. But I wasn't that close to him, you know."
"Yes, I do know. I have always felt bad about that."
Gaille frowned. "Why should you feel bad about it?"
Dragoumis sighed. "You were due to go to Mallawi with him, were you not?"
"Yes."
"But then he postponed?"
"He had urgent personal business."
"Yes," agreed Dragoumis. "With me."
"No," said Gaille. "With a young man called Daniel Knox."
