by Will Adams
Knox drove the Jeep over to the Subaru and Freelander. The Subaru was dead, but the Freelander started up on the third try, its engine clattering with terminal damage. He wrestled it into reverse and bunny-hopped over to the outbuilding. Rick came out backward, swinging the steel door closed with his foot, allowing Knox to drive tight up alongside it and put on the hand brake. Not perfect, maybe, but it should hold them for a few hours, by which time they'd be halfway across Egypt.
They hurried to the Jeep. Rick took the wheel, roaring off unnecessarily fast as if to burn off his residual anger, not once looking Knox's way. As for Knox, he stared out the windshield, badly shaken by the revelation that his friend had been prepared to execute those men. The silence between them grew distinctly uncomfortable, so that Knox began to fear that things between them might never be quite the same.
It was Rick who finally spoke. "I thought you said those guys were serious," he muttered.
"What can I tell you, mate," grinned Knox. "I thought they were."
Chapter Twenty-eight
Gaille and Elena took Aly at his word, arriving at his house at seven sharp to find him already at work outside, his papers pinned down with a pot of Siwan tea and some glasses, as though he'd been expecting them. He greeted them warmly, poured them each a glass, then showed them into his library and left them to it.
Elena started with the aerial photographs; Gaille, with the books. When she pulled down her first volume, it came more easily than the night before, as though the bookshelf was less tightly packed. She looked more closely. Yes. She distinctly remembered a red-leather-bound volume that had left stains on her fingers. She pulled out a modern academic text and checked the bibliography against his shelves. Two of the best-known books on Siwa were missing. Yet this was supposed to be a definitive collection. Then she remembered that strange look on his face the night before, when he was looking through her photographs. "Elena," she murmured hesitantly.
Elena looked up crossly. "Yes?"
"Nothing," said Gaille. "Sorry." Knowing Elena, she would go straight out to confront Aly, and bang would go their cooperation. Instead she made a note of the missing titles. She would call Ibrahim at her first opportunity and ask him to send copies directly to her hotel.
Knox was fast asleep in the passenger seat of the Jeep when Rick shook him awake. "What?" he asked blearily.
"Checkpoint," muttered Rick.
"Damn it," said Knox. Checkpoints were so rare in Alexandria and the Delta that he had stopped worrying about them, but in Middle and Southern Egypt, and in the desert regions, they became commonplace. The Jeep drifted to a halt. Two weary-looking soldiers wearing thick uniforms against the morning chill trudged across. One of them rapped the driver's-side window. "Passports," he said in English when Rick lowered it, evidently figuring them both for foreigners. Knox still had Augustin's papers for Omar Malik, but to use them now would only raise suspicions. He fetched out his American passport and handed it across. The soldier yawned as he took it and Rick's to his cabin to check.
The second soldier, meanwhile, remained standing beside the Jeep. He lit a cigarette, stamped his feet, then glanced in the rear window. Too late, Knox remembered the tarpaulin bundle containing the clothes and other belongings of Nessim and his men, including their handguns.
The soldier opened the back door and leaned inside. "What's this?" he asked, putting his hand on the bundle.
"Just some clothes," said Knox, trying his best to sound relaxed.
The soldier pulled back the flaps to rummage inside. He pulled out a jacket and held it up against himself to check his reflection in the glass before throwing it back and taking a couple of shirts instead, then a pair of trousers, checking the pockets, pulling out an expensive cell phone, and grinning ingratiatingly at Knox, as if to suggest that a gift wouldn't go astray. Knox's mouth was dry. If this prick found any of the guns, they'd have one hell of a lot of explaining to do. He said: "Excuse me, but those are our belongings."
The soldier grunted irritably and threw the trousers and the phone back into the tarpaulin, then slammed the door unnecessarily hard. His comrade inside the cabin had finished his call and was coming back out. Knox's heart was banging violently in apprehension, but the soldier handed back their passports without a flicker, then waved them through. They kept the smiles off their faces until they were well away. "What do you know," said Rick. "Maybe Hassan's given up on you."
"I doubt it, mate," said Knox. "I reckon he just doesn't want the authorities knowing he's on the hunt."
"That's something, at least."
"Yeah," agreed Knox. "It is." He glanced around at the bundle in the back. "But I reckon we should dump this shit before it gets us into grief. What do you say?"
"I reckon you're right," nodded Rick.
Nicolas arrived at Ibrahim's office with delicate business to discuss. His father had charged him with acquiring certain artifacts from the Macedonian tomb for his private collection: at least one golden burial casket, plus a selection of weapons. Now that Yusuf had taken personal control, it was just a matter of creating convincing replicas and arranging a switch. But Ibrahim was still involved in the excavation and would need to be dealt with, not least because Yusuf insisted on having a plausible scapegoat in place should their switch be discovered. "I'm not disturbing you, am I?" Nicolas asked.
"Nothing that can't wait," smiled Ibrahim. "Just sending some books on Siwa to Gaille. Though I can't believe Dr. Sayed doesn't have copies."
Nicolas settled himself at the corner table. "I'm sure you must be aware how pleased we are at the Dragoumis Group at the outcome of our partnership," he began.
"We're pleased, too."
Nicolas nodded and drew a thick envelope from his jacket pocket. "My family makes it a policy to reward success." He set the envelope down on the table midway between them and smiled at Ibrahim to indicate that he should take it.
Ibrahim frowned at the wad of banknotes inside. "For me?" he asked.
"As a token of our appreciation and gratitude."
Ibrahim squinted suspiciously. "And what do you want for this money?"
"Nothing. Just a continuation of our partnership." Nicolas was, in fact, wearing a miniature camera on his chest, its lens disguised as his second button. Everyone in the SCA accepted bribes, but that didn't make it legal. If Ibrahim took this baksheesh like a good little boy, the film would be used to coerce him, step-by-step, until he was completely compromised. If he didn't, Nicolas had many other avenues to explore and exploit.
Ibrahim hesitated, then pushed the envelope back across the table. "If you wish to contribute further to our partnership," he said, "we have a bank account set up for the purpose, as I'm sure you already know."
Nicolas smiled tightly and took back the money. "Whatever you think best."
"Is there anything else? Or may I return to-"
There was noise outside. The door burst open, and Mohammed rushed in. "I'm sorry, sir," said Maha, hanging gamely on to his arm. "I couldn't stop him."
"It's all right, Maha," said Ibrahim. He frowned at Mohammed. "What do you mean by this?"
"It's Layla," said Mohammed, tears streaming down his face. "They've said no. They've said no. They won't give her the treatment."
"My dear friend," winced Ibrahim, standing awkwardly, "I'm so sorry."
"She doesn't need sympathy; she needs help."
"I'm sorry. I don't see what more I can do."
"Please. I've asked everyone else. You're her last hope."
Nicolas stood and backed away. Talk of disease was always uncomfortable to him. The books Ibrahim had collected for Gaille were perched on the corner of his desk. He picked one up and flipped idly through the pages.
"I suppose I can ask around," Ibrahim was saying. "But I don't know anyone at the hospital."
"I beg you. You must do something."
The book was filled with black-and-white sketches. Nicolas turned to one of a hill and a lake called Bir al-Hammam. There
was something strangely familiar about it. He put the book down and picked up another. It, too, had a picture of Bir al-Hammam, a photograph this time. He stared and stared at it, and finally he realized why the images were familiar, and a great orgasmic shudder ran through him.
"Nicolas? Nicolas?" asked Ibrahim anxiously. "Are you all right?"
Nicolas shook himself back to his senses. Ibrahim was looking strangely at him. He smiled and said, "Forgive me. Miles away, that's all." He looked around to see that Mohammed had gone. "Where's your friend?" he asked.
"He had to leave," said Ibrahim. "His wife's in a dreadful state, apparently. I promised to do what I could. But what can I do? That poor girl!"
Nicolas frowned thoughtfully. "If I could help her, you'd be grateful, yes?"
"Of course," said Ibrahim. "But I really-"
"Good," said Nicolas, tucking Gaille's books under his arm. "Then come with me. Let's see what we can arrange."
Chapter Twenty-nine
The oracle of Ammon proved to be a hump of rock some four kilometers out of Siwa Town. Despite its onetime fame, there was no parking lot, no concession stand, and no entry charge. When Gaille, Elena, and their guides arrived early the next morning, they were alone except for a wizened old man sitting against a wall opposite the entrance, holding out a trembling hand in hope of alms. Gaille reached for her purse. "You'll only encourage them," warned Elena. Gaille hesitated, then gave him a banknote anyway. He smiled gratefully.
Two young girls with plaited waist-length black hair came forward, hoping to sell them some of the homemade bracelets around their wrists. Zayn scowled at them and they ran away giggling.
Gaille had been a little uncertain at first of Mustafa and Zayn, but she quickly warmed to them. Their knowledge of Siwa was impressive. And there was something touching about their friendship: an ancient tradition of homosexual marriage was dying hard in Siwa; local song and poetry still celebrated such close relationships, and she couldn't help but wonder.
Mustafa was big, with bark-rough skin darkened by sun as much as genetics, to judge from the paler bands around his neck and beneath his watchband. He was absurdly fit and nimble despite smoking incessantly. He had a special relationship with his ancient and temperamental truck. No gauges or dials worked anymore, and every frill was long gone, from the ball of the gearshift to the rubber of the pedals and the carpet beneath, but he could still make it run.
Zayn was a whip of a man, no more than forty, though his hair and beard were streaked with silver. While Mustafa drove, Zayn obsessively oiled and polished a thin-bladed ivory-handled knife that he kept folded beneath his robes. Each time he put it away, the slick and spotless blade would scrape against the sheath, so that instantly it needed cleaning again, and he'd draw it back out and examine it and mutter Siwan obscenities.
A short but steep flight of steps led up beneath a lintel into the main body of the oracle, a skeleton of walls like a wooden ship that had rotted in estuary mud and later dried out. Gaille felt a moment's quiet awe as she stood there. There weren't many places in the world where you could be certain that Alexander himself had once occupied that exact space, but this was one of them. The oracle had been esteemed throughout the Mediterranean during Alexander's time-a rival to Delphi, perhaps even its superior. Legend had it that Heracles had visited, and Alexander had claimed Heracles as his direct ancestor. Perseus was reputed to have made the trek, too, and Perseus had been associated with the Persian Empire, which Alexander intended to make his own. Cimon, an Athenian general, had famously sent a deputation to Siwa to ask whether his siege of Cyprus would succeed. The oracle had refused to answer, except to say that the person who asked the question was already with him. And when his emissaries had returned to the fleet, they learned that Cimon had died on that exact day. Pindar had written a hymn of praise to the oracle and, upon asking it for the greatest luck available to humans, had promptly died. But perhaps the incident that had the greatest impact was the invasion of Egypt by the Persian king Cambyses. He sent out three armies: one to Ethiopia, the second to Carthage, and the third across the desert to Siwa. This third army had vanished without a trace, and the oracle had gained a certain awed respect as a result. "How did the oracle work?" asked Gaille.
"The priests carried the physical manifestation of Zeus-Ammon in a golden boat decorated with precious stones, while young virgins chanted," said Elena. "The chief priest read out the questions of supplicants, and Ammon answered them by dancing forward or backward. Unfortunately, Alexander was granted a private audience, so we don't know for sure what he asked or was told."
"I thought he asked about his father's murderers."
"That's one tradition," acknowledged Elena. "The story goes that he asked whether all his father's murderers had been dealt with, and that the Oracle replied that the question was meaningless because his father was divine and therefore couldn't be murdered; but all the murderers of Philip II had been appropriately dealt with, if that was what he meant. Probably apocryphal, of course. All we know for sure is that Zeus-Ammon became Alexander's favorite God, that he sent emissaries here when Hephaiston died, and that he asked to be buried here, too." She picked up a pinch of soil, examined it momentarily, and threw it away.
"It must have been a terrible blow to the oracle's priests," said Gaille. "Thinking they were going to get Alexander's body, then learning it was going to Alexandria."
Elena nodded. "Ptolemy soothed their pain. According to Pausanias, he sent them a stele of apology and handsome gifts."
Gaille climbed as high as she could safely go, then gazed all around. The landscape here wasn't like Europe, where the hills and mountains had been thrust upward by geological pressure and time. This entire region had once been a sandstone plain high above, but most of it had collapsed. The hills that remained were simply the last men standing. She oriented herself north, Al-Dakrur to her right, the great salt lake and Siwa Town to her left. Ahead, the air was so clear, she could see dark ridge lines through her field glasses, many kilometers away. The sand in between was punctured by thrusts of nicotine-brown rock, some no bigger than small cars, others like tower blocks. "Where the hell will we even start?" she asked.
"All great tasks are just a large number of small tasks," observed Elena primly. She spread a chart out on flat ground and rested a stone on each corner. Then she set up a tripod, screwed in a camera and telephoto lens, and began a rigorous study, taking a line from the Siwan Hill of the Dead, sweeping her camera to the horizon, then back again before adjusting it a hairsbreadth to her right. Each time she found a new rock or hill, she photographed it, then invited Mustafa and Zayn to study it through the lens. They squabbled for a while before making a mark on the chart. Each mark would mean a visit and a survey.
Gaille sat on a hump of rock and stared out over the desert, the breeze buffeting her back, whipping strands of hair forward into her eyes. It was unexpected, coming to an alien land yet feeling so at home. And she realized, almost to her surprise, that she was happy.
Nicolas needed somewhere private to make the kind of phone calls that would secure Layla her medical treatment, so he asked Ibrahim if he wouldn't mind his borrowing Ibrahim's villa for the afternoon. Ibrahim was so eager to help that he drove him there himself. "You couldn't excuse me for a few minutes?" asked Nicolas when they arrived.
"Of course."
As ever, he first rang his father.
"Well?" asked Philip Dragoumis.
"I've found it."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure I've found the place. Whether there's anything inside…" He explained what had happened, how he had seen the pictures in the books Gaille had asked Ibrahim to send down to her, and their significance.
"I told you she'd be the one," said Dragoumis.
"Yes, Father, you did."
"Well? What's our plan?"
Nicolas told his father how far he had gotten. They discussed and refined his ideas, decided on the team, the equipment they would need,
the weapons and logistical supplies. "I'll take operational charge, of course," said Nicolas.
"No," said Dragoumis. "I will."
"Are you sure?" asked Nicolas anxiously. "You know we can't guarantee your safety away from-"
"You think I'd miss this?" asked Dragoumis. "I've spent my whole life striving for this."
"As you wish."
"And good work, Nicolas. This is well done. This is very well done."
"Thank you." Nicolas had to wipe his eyes. It wasn't often that his father congratulated him, but that only made it all the more special when he did. He ended the call and sat there in a glow. Then he shook his head sternly to refocus himself; this was no time to wallow. Nothing had been achieved yet, and it wouldn't be unless he got busy. He rang his Cairo fixer, Gabbar Mounim, first.
"Yes?" asked Mounim. "I trust everything is to your satisfaction."
"As always," agreed Nicolas. "But there's something else I'd like you to do for me. Two things, actually."
"A pleasure."
"Our mutual friend. I'd like him to summon his colleague Dr. Aly Sayed of Siwa Oasis to an emergency meeting." If Sayed had deliberately hidden these books from Gaille, as Nicolas suspected, he must have made the connection, too, which meant they needed him out of Siwa while they went to work.
"How much of an emergency, exactly?"
"Tomorrow, if possible."
Mounim sucked in a breath. "It won't be easy, but I'll see what I can do. And the other?"
"I don't suppose you have influence at Alexandria's Medical Center, do you?"
Elena was driving back into town when Nicolas called on her cell phone. "We need to meet," he said. "How soon can you get to Alexandria?"
"For crying out loud, Nicolas, I've only just arrived here."
"This can't wait, Elena. Something's happened. My father wants to discuss it with you."
"Your father? He's coming to Alexandria?"
"Yes."
Elena breathed deep. Philip Dragoumis didn't leave Northern Greece on a whim. If he was coming here, it had to mean something truly significant. "Fine," she said. "Where?"
