Will Adams - The Alexander Cipher

Nicolas watched with gratification as people turned to look at one another, murmuring in astonishment. This was indeed their time, he reflected, and it wasn't a fluke. He'd been working toward it for fifteen years now, his father for forty. They had operatives in every hamlet, town, and village. Vast caches of weapons and food were waiting in the mountains. Veterans of the Yugoslavian wars had trained them in ordnance and guerrilla campaigns. They had sleepers in local and national government, spies in the armed services, friends in the international community and among the Macedonian diaspora. And the propaganda war was in full swing, too. The schedules of Dragoumis TV and radio were crammed with programs designed to stir Macedonian fervor, their newspapers filled with stories of Macedonian heroism and sacrifice, alongside tales of the opulent lifestyles and unthinking cruelty of their Athenian overlords. And it was working. Anger and hatred were building across northern Greece, even among those who had little sympathy with the separatist cause. Civil disturbance, riots, increasing incidents of ethnic assaults. All the telltale trembling of an imminent earthquake. But they weren't there yet. Much as Nicolas craved it, they weren't quite there. A revolution needed people so worked up they wanted martyrdom. Break out the guns now, and it would look promising for a while, but then everything would fizzle. The backlash would come. The Greek army would deploy on the streets; families would be menaced, and businesses investigated. There would be arbitrary arrests, beatings, and counterpropaganda. Their cause would be set back years, might even be irreversibly crippled. No. They still needed something more before it could begin. Something particular. A symbol that the Macedonian people would be prepared to fight to the death for.

And it was just possible that his recent phone call from Egypt might provide it. THE EGYPTIAN ARMY OFFICER was still speaking on the phone. He seemed to be talking for a very long time. He came out with a pen and a pad of paper and crouched to jot down the license number of Knox's Jeep. Then he went back inside and read it out to whoever was at the other end of the phone.

The Jeep's keys were in the ignition. For a crazy moment, Knox contemplated driving for it-if Hassan caught him, he was finished anyway. But though the Egyptian soldiers looked cheerful and relaxed enough, that would change in a heartbeat if he fled. The threat of suicide bombers was simply too high around here for them to take risks; he'd be shot dead before he made it fifty yards. So he forced himself to relax, to accept that his fate was out of his hands.

The officer replaced the handset carefully, composed himself, then walked over. He wasn't swaggering anymore. He looked thoughtful, even apprehensive. He gestured to his men. Immediately, they became alert. He stooped a little to talk through the Jeep's open window, tapping the spine of Knox's passport against the knuckles of his left hand as he did so. He said, "I am hearing whispers of a most remarkable story."

Knox's stomach squeezed. "What whispers?"

"Of an incident involving Hassan al-Assyuti and some young American man."

"I know nothing about that," said Knox.

"I'm glad," said the officer, squinting down the road to Sharm as though expecting a vehicle to appear at any moment. "Because, if the rumors are true, the young foreigner in question has a very bleak future."

Knox swallowed. "He was raping a girl," he blurted out. "What was I supposed to do?"

"Contact the authorities."

"We were in the middle of the fucking sea."

"I'm sure you'll have your chance to tell your side."

"Ballocks," said Knox. "I'll be dead within an hour."

The officer flushed. "You should have thought of that before, shouldn't you?"

"I should have covered my arse, you mean? Like you're doing now?"

"This isn't my fight," growled the officer.

Knox nodded. "People in my country, they think that all Egyptian men are cowards and thieves. I tell them they're wrong. I tell them that Egyptian men are honorable and brave. But maybe I've been wrong."

There was an angry muttering. One of the soldiers reached in the open window. The officer clamped his hand around his wrist. "No," he said.

"But he-"

"No."

The soldier retreated, a little shamefaced, while the officer looked down thoughtfully at Knox, clearly uncertain what to do. A pair of headlights crested a hill behind. "Please," begged Knox. "Just give me a chance."

The officer had noticed the approaching headlights, too. His jaw tightened as he came to his decision. He tossed the passport onto the passenger seat, then signaled his men to stand aside. "Get out of Egypt," he advised. "It's no longer safe for you."

Knox let out a long breath. "I'm leaving tonight."

"Good. Now go before I change my mind."

Knox put the Jeep into gear, accelerated away. His hands began shaking wildly as his body flooded with the euphoria of escape. He held himself back until he was a distance down the road, then he whooped and punched the air. He'd done a stupid, reckless thing, but it looked as though he'd got away with it.

Nessim, Hassan Il-Assyuti's head of security, arrived in Knox's Sharm backpacker hotel to find the middle-aged concierge snoring raucously behind his desk. He came awake with a strangled shriek when Nessim slammed down the wooden access hatch. "Knox," said Nessim. "I'm looking for Daniel Knox."

"He's not here," said the concierge, breathing heavily.

"I know he's not here," said Nessim coldly. "I want to see his room."

"But it's his room!" protested the concierge. "I can't just show it to you."

Nessim reached into his jacket pocket for his wallet, making sure that the concierge caught a glimpse of his shoulder holster while he was at it. He took out fifty Egyptian pounds and set them down on the counter. "This is me asking nicely," he said.

The concierge licked his lips. "Just this once, I suppose."

Nessim followed the fat man upstairs, still brooding on what had happened on the boat, the humiliation of being bested by some beach bum foreigner. At first, he had thought that Knox would be easy to track down, but it wasn't proving that simple. He had word back from a contact in the army that Knox had somehow bluffed his way through a checkpoint. When he heard about that, he had felt a spike of intense anger and frustration. How simple it might have been! But he knew better than to make waves. Only a fool took on the army in Egypt, and Nessim wasn't a fool.

The concierge unlocked and opened Knox's door, looking around nervously lest other guests see what was happening. Nessim went inside. He had one night to capture Knox, and he had that only because Hassan was on morphine to manage his pain. When he woke in the morning, he would demand to know what progress had been made.

He would want Knox.

Nessim fingered the shabby clothes hanging in the wardrobe, checked the side pockets of the red canvas bag in the bottom, crouched to inspect the books lined up on the floor against the walls-a few comic novels and thrillers, but mostly academic works on Egypt and archaeology. There were CDs, too-some music, others for his laptop. He picked up a comb-bound document. The front page, in both English and Arabic, read: Mallawi Excavation First Season Notes Richard Mitchell and Daniel Knox

He flipped through it. Text and photographs of an excavation near an ancient Ptolemaic settlement a few kilometers from Mallawi in Middle Egypt. He put it back thoughtfully. Why would an Egyptologist be working as a dive instructor in Sharm? He checked a few more documents. Maps and photographs of reef systems, as best he could make out. He took the canvas bag from the wardrobe and packed all Knox's documents inside. Then he packed up Knox's laptop, too, and his work-related CDs and floppy disks. In the top drawer of Knox's desk, he found photocopies of his passport and driver's license, presumably in case he lost the originals, and a strip of color passport-size photographs, no doubt for one of the myriad documents foreigners needed to work in Sinai. He scooped these up and tucked them away in his jacket pocket. Then he picked up the canvas bag and laptop to take away with him. The concierge gave a little whimper. "Yes?" asked Nessim. "Is something the matter?"