The Alexander Cipher dk-1

by Will Adams

  Dragoumis made a vague gesture, as if to imply it came to the same thing. "Do you know much about Knox?" he asked.

  "No."

  "His parents were archaeologists themselves. Macedonian specialists. So they often visited this part of the world. A charming couple, who also had a delightful daughter. They worked closely with Elena, you know. Ten years ago they went to visit one of her excavations in the mountains. Elena's husband collected them from the airport. Unfortunately, on the drive up to the site…"

  Gaille looked at him numbly. "All of them?" she asked.

  Dragoumis nodded. "All of them."

  "But… what's that got to do with my father?"

  "It was an accident. A terrible accident. But not everyone believed this."

  "You mean… murder? I don't understand. Why would anyone want to kill Knox's parents?"

  "Not Knox's parents. Elena's husband. Pavlos."

  "But who would want to kill him?"

  Dragoumis smiled. "Me, Ms. Bonnard," he said. "Me."

  Knox arrived in Ras El-Sudr first and loitered near the Beach Inn's parking lot so he could watch out for Rick and then make sure he hadn't been tailed. When he was satisfied, he went to meet him. "Good to see you, mate," grinned Rick.

  "You, too."

  "Interesting times, eh?" He nodded at a nearby bar. "You want a drink? You can tell me all."

  "Sure." They took a table in the shadows, where Knox filled him in on everything that had happened since he fled Sharm.

  "I don't believe it," said Rick. "That bastard Hassan had a noose put around your neck and attached it to a car? I'll kill him."

  "Actually," said Knox, "I don't think it was Hassan. Hassan wouldn't have had the rope cut."

  "Then who?"

  "Have I ever told you about what happened in Greece?"

  "You mean with your parents? You just told me there'd been a road accident. You never said there was a story to it."

  "A winding road, an old car, a misty night in the mountains. The kind of tragedy that happens all the time, right? The only trouble was, the driver was a guy called Pavlos. The husband of that woman Elena I was telling you about. A journalist, very outspoken. A muckraker. He was running a campaign against a very powerful and rich family called the Dragoumises, demanding an inquiry into their businesses-that kind of thing."

  "And you figured he was killed to shut him up?"

  "I did at the time," nodded Knox.

  "So what did you do about it?"

  Gaille looked at Philip Dragoumis in horror. "You murdered Pavlos?"

  "No," he assured her. "I swear to you on my wife's grave that I had nothing to do with his death-or the deaths of Knox's family. All I meant was that certain people believed I had the motive to do it."

  "Why? What motive?"

  "You must understand something, Ms. Bonnard. I am a Macedonian patriot. This whole region used to be Macedonia, but then it was cut up by the Treaty of Bucharest and handed out to Serbia, Bulgaria, and Greece. I have made it my life's work to undo that gross injustice. But others, men like Pavlos, believe this region rightly belongs to Greece, and they try to stop me. Pavlos was skilled at insinuation. He wanted an inquiry into my life and businesses not because he thought me corrupt, but because he knew it would leave an indelible smear. When he died, the pressure for an inquiry died with him. So you can understand why people believed I was responsible. But I was not responsible, I assure you. I never even considered Pavlos my enemy, only my opponent, and there is a world of difference between the two. Even if I were a man of violence, which I am not, I would never have sanctioned it against Pavlos. And the truth is, I had no need." He leaned closer. "Can I trust you never to tell Elena what I am about to reveal to you?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. Pavlos had been indiscreet, and I had irrefutable evidence of this. The release of this information would have been… problematic for him. We had spoken together about it. I assure you, he was no longer a threat to me."

  "So you say."

  "Yes. So I say." There was a trace of impatience in his manner. "Tell me something, Ms. Bonnard. You have been working closely with Elena Koloktronis these past three weeks. Do you really believe that she'd work for me if she thought me guilty of murdering her husband?"

  Gaille thought about it for a moment, but there was only one answer. "No."

  "And you should understand, Ms. Bonnard, Pavlos was everything to Elena. Trust me: If she believed me responsible for Pavlos's death, she would make sure the whole world knew about it."

  "She would have spoken out?"

  "Oh, no," Dragoumis grunted. "She'd have killed me." He smiled at Gaille's startled reaction. "It's a fact," he said. "It would have been a blood matter, which is still a powerful force in this region. But when you consider how intensely she loved him…" He shook his head. "I was half fearing she'd do something. So much grief needs venting. But, you see, she knew the truth of it. Her husband was a wild and reckless driver who never serviced his car. No. Elena was brokenhearted, but not a problem. It was your father's young friend, Knox, who was the problem."

  "Knox? In what way?"

  "He believed I'd murdered his whole family to silence Pavlos," said Dragoumis. "He didn't think I should get away with that. It isn't hard to understand his point of view. So he took up Pavlos's campaign himself. He wrote endlessly to local politicians, newspapers, TV stations. He picketed government buildings and police stations. He spray-painted 'Dragoumis Inquiry' in huge letters outside my head office. He printed it on helium balloons, threw leaflets from tall buildings, draped banners over railings at televised sporting events, rang radio shows and-"

  "Knox? Knox did all this?"

  "Oh, yes," nodded Dragoumis. "It was impressive, especially when you consider that he believed me quite capable of murder. And damaging, too. He cut a sympathetic figure, as you can imagine. He got people talking. I asked him to stop, but he refused. He was deliberately trying to goad me into doing something rash, as though that would prove his case. I grew worried for him; he was only doing this because he was sick with grief. And there were people, sympathetic with my cause, who wanted to silence him. It reached a point where I couldn't guarantee his safety anymore. And if anything happened to him… you can imagine. I needed him gone, but he refused to listen to me. So I looked to someone he would listen to."

  "My father," said Gaille numbly.

  "He was a close friend of the Knoxes, and I knew him, too. I asked him to come speak with me. He was reluctant at first, since Mallawi had been about to start, as you know. But I assured him it was a matter of life and death. He flew in and we struck a deal: he'd take Knox away and keep him quiet, while I'd put out the word that Knox wasn't to be touched. Your father visited Knox's hotel, where Knox apparently gave him a speech about standing up to tyrants. Your father listened politely and slipped knockout drops into his retsina. By the time he woke, they were both captive on a slow boat to Port Said, and your father had time to talk sense into him. And that, Ms. Bonnard, is why I feel badly about your falling-out with your father. It would never have happened, you see, had I not asked him to intervene for me."

  In the Ras El-Sudr bar, Rick nodded slowly as he digested Knox's account of his feud with the Dragoumises and how he'd come to Egypt with Richard Mitchell. "And here I was thinking you were just another quiet Yank," he said. "Do you have any other international gangsters on your trail, or is that the lot?"

  "That's the lot-as far as I know, at least. But guess who I saw this afternoon?"

  "This man Dragoumis?"

  "His son. Nicolas."

  "And he's as bad?"

  "Worse. Much worse. I don't much like the father, but you've got to admire what he's achieved. And he has principles, too. When he gives his word, he keeps it. The son's just a wanker with an inheritance, you know?"

  "All too well. So you figure this desert 'lynching' was the son getting his own back?"

  "Probably."

  "And you're not going to take th
at lying down, are you?"

  "No."

  Rick grinned. "Cracking. So what's our plan?"

  "Our plan?"

  "Come on, mate, you're outnumbered. You could use some help. And Sharm's dead, like I say."

  Knox nodded. "If you're serious, it would be fantastic."

  "Absolutely. So what's our first move?"

  "We head up to Tanta."

  "Tanta?"

  "Yes," said Knox, checking his watch. "And we're on a bit of a deadline, too, so how about I explain when we get there?" Dragoumis led Gaille through to his dining room. It was a vast space, with a long walnut table running down its middle. Two places had been set at one end, lit by candles. A servant was waiting by a trolley to serve their food, a dark and meaty stew swimming with unfamiliar spices.

  "Forgive my simple tastes," said Dragoumis as he began to eat. "I have never developed a refined palate. If it's haute cuisine you enjoy, you must dine with my son."

  "I'm sure it'll be delicious," said Gaille, prodding at her meal uncertainly with her fork. "Excuse me, Mr. Dragoumis, but I'm curious. Did you fly me all this way just to talk about my father?"

  "No," said Dragoumis. "I flew you here to ask for your help."

  "My help?" she frowned. "With what?"

  Dragoumis leaned forward. Candlelight struck his eyes obliquely, making his dark-brown irises appear flecked with gold. "This so-called Alexander cipher talks of a tomb in Siwa filled with goods fit for the son of Ammon."

  "But… how do you know about that?"

  Dragoumis waved her question impatiently aside. "The cipher also says that the shield bearers killed themselves before Ptolemy had a chance to… learn from them where this tomb was."

  "Yes."

  "Have you ever heard of such a tomb? A tomb in Siwa filled with goods fit for a man like Alexander?"

  "No."

  "Then it remains to be discovered?"

  "If it ever existed."

  "It existed," stated Dragoumis. "It exists. Tell me, Ms. Bonnard, would it not be something to discover it? Can you imagine what goods might be considered fit for such a man, the greatest conqueror in history? The weapons he was given from the Trojan wars? His personal copy of Homer, annotated by Aristotle? Be honest: do you not yearn to be the one to find it? Fame. Wealth. Admiration. You'd never again need to ask yourself in the dark hours of the morning what your purpose is upon this earth."

  "You misunderstand how these things work," said Gaille. "Ibrahim Beyumi is reporting all this to the secretary general of the SCA. What happens next will be up to them. And it won't include me."

  "Perhaps you have not heard. Elena was at this meeting, too."

  "Yes, but-"

  "And she has persuaded the secretary general that she is the best person to lead this search."

  "What? But… how?"

  "Elena is skilled at negotiation, believe me. However, she is not so skilled at other aspects of archaeology. That is why I asked you here. I want you to go to Siwa with Elena. I want you to find this tomb for me."

  "Me?"

  "Yes. You have a gift, as your father did."

  "You overestimate my-"

  "You discovered the lower chamber, didn't you?"

  "Actually, that was-"

  "And you deciphered the inscription."

  "Someone else would have deciphered-"

  "Humility does not impress me, Ms. Bonnard," he said. "Success impresses me. Elena has many virtues, but she lacks imagination and empathy. These are your gifts. They are gifts our cause needs."

  "Your cause?"

  "You think it old-fashioned to have a cause?"

  "I think 'cause' is a politician's word for bloodshed," said Gaille. "I don't think archaeology should be about causes. I think it should be about the truth."

  "Very well," nodded Dragoumis. "How about this truth? My grandfathers were both born in Greater Macedonia. By the time they were men, one was Serbian, the other Greek. To people like you, people without causes, it may seem an excellent thing that families like mine can be cut up and parceled out like slaves. But one group of people feels strongly that this is not acceptable. Can you guess, perhaps, who these people are?"

  "I imagine you mean those people who call themselves Macedonian," answered Gaille weakly.

  "I do not seek to change your mind, Ms. Bonnard," said Dragoumis. "I simply ask you this question: who, in truth, should decide who a person is-they themselves or someone else?" He paused, perhaps to give her a chance to respond, but she found she had nothing to say. "I believe that there's a legitimate nation of Greater Macedonia," he continued. "I believe that this nation has been illegally divided between Bulgaria, Serbia, and Greece. I believe that the Macedonian people have been unfairly oppressed for centuries, that they've suffered decades of ethnic cleansing, that they are persecuted still because they have no voice, no power. Hundreds of thousands in this region agree with me, as do millions more across the world. They share culture, history, religion, and language with each other, not the states to whom they've been allocated. They call themselves Macedonian, whatever world opinion tells them they're called. I believe these people deserve the same rights to liberty, religion, self-determination, and justice that you take for granted. These people are my cause. They are why I ask your help." His gaze seemed to grow in intensity as he looked at her; there was something almost triumphal about it, about his self-certainty. She tried not to meet his eyes, but she couldn't help herself. "And you will give it," he said.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Knox was keen to stash his Jeep somewhere Nessim wouldn't easily find it. He turned down a narrow country lane just south of Tanta, Rick following in his Subaru. Then they drove in convoy for fifteen minutes or so, until he saw in the moonlight a line of derelict farm buildings in an overgrown field used as a makeshift dump site. Perfect. He lurched his way down a rutted earth track to a yard of broken concrete. A row of barns stood along the opposite side, open to the elements, their floors muddy, their corners filled with windblown litter, their mouths blocked by a line of drinking troughs partially filled with rainwater. To his left was a low, ugly concrete-block outbuilding with a wide steel door that screeched on the concrete when they swung it open on its hinges. The building was empty inside except for the pungent smell of spilled diesel and urine, and white splashes of bat and bird droppings on the floor. Knox parked inside, took everything he might need to the Subaru, then covered the Jeep with his tarpaulin.

  "You ready to explain now?" prompted Rick as they started for Tanta.

  "Sure," said Knox. "Did I ever tell you about my Mallawi excavation?"

  Rick snorted. "Did you ever stop?"

  "Then you'll remember the basics," said Knox, opening his laptop and checking the CDs Rick had brought. "Richard Mitchell and I found an archive of Ptolemaic papyri. We passed them for safekeeping to Yusuf Abbas, now secretary general of the SCA. He liked what he saw so much, he took over the whole excavation."

  "And then you spotted some of the papyri on the black market."

  "Exactly. Now, there isn't a wide market for Ptolemaic papyri, even with good provenance. But stolen papyri? I mean, most of the usual buyers are academic institutions, and they won't touch anything hot. But Philip Dragoumis is interested in anything Macedonian, particularly if it's got a connection with Alexander."

  "And you think these papyri do?"

  "I think there's a good chance. The names Kelonymos and Akylos cropped up in a lot of the Mallawi papyri. Look." He turned the laptop around so that Rick could see the list of file names, dominated by "Akylos" and "Kelonymus." "And we found these same two names in a necropolis in Alexandria, and there's no doubt that they're related to Alexander. Akylos was one of Alexander's shield bearers, and Kelonymus was his brother. And Nicolas and Elena recognized the name Kelonymus yesterday. I'll swear to that."

  "Okay. So there's a link between the Mallawi papyri and this Alexandrian tomb of yours. But that doesn't explain what we're doing in Tanta."
<
br />   "The Dragoumis Group is funding an excavation near here. They're not people to sponsor just any dig, not in a foreign country. They're looking for something specific." They reached the hotel that had acknowledged Elena as a guest, then parked across the street to monitor its front door. "I think it's all part of why Nicolas came personally to see the tomb in Alexandria, which means it has to be important. I want to know what it is. But I can't exactly just ring up and ask. All the excavation crew have signed confidentiality agreements, so no one's going to talk, particularly not to me."

  "Ah," said Rick, nodding at the hotel. "But they're staying there, are they?"

  "Exactly. And in an hour or two, they'll set off for their day's work, so we're going to follow."

  Elena woke early, sunlight streaming in the open window of Augustin's apartment, noises reaching them from below: cars starting, doors slamming, families bickering. She had had every intention of breaking it off with Augustin when she returned to Alexandria late last night, before their fling could grow serious. But then he had appeared at her hotel room to take her out to dinner, and he smiled that smile at her, and she suffered an exquisite cramp in her stomach, and she knew that she'd been fooling herself.

  She lay there, staring fondly at him. It was strange-and utterly unfair-how men could look beautiful even when a complete mess. His hair was a medusa of lank snakes all over his face, and a thin trail of saliva leaked from the corner of his mouth to darken the pillow. Yet still she desired him. For the first time in a decade, she found herself helpless with lust. And to think, she and Gaille were off to Siwa later this morning! She needed to make the most of their remaining time together.

  She drew back the cotton sheet, the better to look at him. She reached down and began to tickle softly the inside of his thigh from just above his knee rising all the way up to his scrotum. He swelled, unpeeled, and flopped upward onto his belly. A wicked grin spread across his face, though his eyes were still closed, and not a word was said. She kissed him on his brow, his nose, his cheek, his mouth. His breath tasted sour but not at all unpleasant. Gradually their embraces grew more intimate, both too eager to wait. He turned onto his side and fumbled in his bedside table for a condom, which he tore open with his teeth and unrolled deftly with one hand. He grimaced as he forced himself inside her, resting his weight on both hands, holding himself up high. He half withdrew, jiggled and teased, so that she ached for him and pulled him back in. She craned up her neck so that she could look down at the point of junction between them, the long, hard, dark shadow of him drawing out of her, pushing slowly back in. She'd forgotten what a mesmerizing sight fucking could be-so ruthlessly animal, so distinct from all the effete ritual of romance that surrounded it. He pushed her back down and they stared hard into each other's eyes until it was too much for her, and she twisted and cried out as she came, and they spilled together onto the floor. They lay there for half a minute or so, wrapped together, grinning, gathering breath. He jumped up easily to his feet. "Coffee?" he asked.