Will Adams: The Alexander Cipher

When his anger finally cooled, Kelonymus was a different man, a man of purpose. Fixed and certain. He had betrayed his oath to these men once already, but he wouldn't betray it again. Together in life, together in death. Yes. He owed them that much, whatever it took.

The Ras Mohammed Reefs, Sinai, Egypt

Daniel Knox was dozing happily on the bow of the dive boat when the girl came to stand with deliberate provocation, blocking the afternoon sun. He opened his eyes and looked up a little warily, because Max had made it clear that she was Hassan al-Assyuti's for the day, and Hassan had a proud and thoroughly warranted reputation for violence, especially against anyone who dared tread on his turf. "Yes?" Knox asked.

"So are you really a Bedouin?" she gushed. "I mean that guy Max said like you were a Bedouin, but I mean you don't look it. I mean, don't get me wrong, you kind of look it, I mean your complexion and your hair and eyebrows, but-"

It was no surprise she'd caught Hassan's eye, thought Knox, as she rambled on. He was a sucker for young blondes, and this one had a charming smile and startling turquoise eyes, as well as an attractive complexion, with its smattering of pale freckles and pinkish hints of acne, and a slender figure perfectly showcased by her lime-green and lemon-yellow bikini. "My father's mother was Bedouin," he said to help her out of her labyrinth. "That's all."

"Wow! A Bedouin gran!" She took this as an invitation to sit. "What was she like?"

Knox pushed himself up onto an elbow, squinting from the sunlight. "She died before I was born."

"Oh, I'm sorry." A damp blond lock fell onto her cheek. She swept her hair back with both hands, holding it there in a makeshift ponytail so that her chest jutted out at him. "Were you brought up here, then? In the desert?"

He looked around. They were on the deck of Max Strati's dive boat, tethered to a fixed mooring way out in the Red Sea. "Desert?" he asked.

"Tch!" She slapped him playfully on the chest. "You know what I mean!"

"I'm American," he said.

"I like your tattoo." She traced a fingertip over the blue-and-gold sixteen-pointed star on his right biceps. "What is it?"

"The Star of Vergina," answered Knox. "A symbol of the Argeads."

"The who?"

"The old royal family of Macedonia."

"What? You mean like Alexander the Great?"

"Very good."

She wrinkled her nose. "You a fan, then? I always heard he was just a drunken brute."

"Then you heard wrong."

She smiled, pleased to be put down. "Go on, then. Tell me."

Knox frowned. Where did you even start with a man like Alexander? "He was besieging this town called Multan," he told her. "This was towards the end of his campaigns. His men were fed up with fighting; they just wanted to go home. But Alexander wasn't having that. He was first up the battlements. The defenders pushed away all the assault ladders except his, stranding him up there alone. Any normal man would have leaped for safety, right? You know what Alexander did?"

"What?"

"He jumped down inside the walls. All on his own. It was the one sure way to make his men come after him. And they did, too. They tore the citadel apart to save him, and they only just got to him in time. The wounds he took that day probably contributed to his eventual death, but they added to his legend, too. He used to boast that he carried scars on every part of his body-except his back."

She laughed. "He sounds like a psycho."

"Different times," said Knox. "You know, when he captured the mother of the Persian emperor, he put her under his personal protection. After he died, she was so upset, she starved herself to death-not when her own son died, mind, but when Alexander died. You don't do that for a psychopath."

"Huh," she said. It was clear that she'd had enough talk of Alexander. She rose onto her knees, placed her left palm flat on the deck on the far side of Knox, then reached across him for the red-and-white icebox. She threw off its lid and tested each of the bottles and cans inside for coldness, taking her time, her breasts swinging free within her dangling bikini-top as she did so, the nipples pink as rose petals. Knox's mouth felt a little dry suddenly-knowing you were being worked didn't make it ineffective. But it reminded him forcibly of Hassan, too, so he scowled and looked away. She sat back down with a thump, an open bottle in her hand, a mischievous smile on her lips. "Want some?" she asked.

"No, thanks."

She shrugged and took a swallow. "So have you known Hassan long?"

"No."

"But you're a friend of his, right?"

"I'm on the payroll, love. That's all."

"But he's kosher, right?"

"That's hardly the smartest way to describe a Muslim."

"You know what I mean."

Knox shrugged. It was too late for her to be getting cold feet. Hassan had picked her up in a nightclub, not a Sunday school. If she didn't fancy him, she should have said no, simple as that. There was naive and there was stupid. It wasn't as though she didn't know what she was doing with her body.

At that moment, Max Strati appeared around the line of cabins. He walked briskly over. "What happens here, then?" he asked frostily. He had come to Sharm el-Sheikh on vacation twenty years ago and had never gone home. Egypt had been good to Max, and he wouldn't risk that by pissing off Hassan.

"Just talking," said Knox.

"On your own time, please, not mine," said Max. "Mr. al-Assyuti wishes his guests to have a final dive."

Knox pushed himself up. "I'll get things ready."

The girl jumped up, too, clapping with false enthusiasm. "Great! I didn't think we'd be going down again."

"You will not join us, I think, Fiona," Max told her flatly. "We have not enough tanks. You'll stay here with Mr. al-Assyuti."

"Oh." She looked suddenly scared, childlike. She put her hand tentatively on Knox's forearm. He shook her off and walked angrily toward the stern, where the wet suits, fins, masks, and snorkels were stored in plastic crates next to the steel rack of air tanks. A swift glance confirmed what Knox already knew: there were plenty of full tanks. He felt a sudden tightness in the nape of his neck. He could feel Max's eyes burning into his back, so he forced himself not to look around. The girl wasn't his problem, and she was old enough to look after herself. He had no connection to her, no obligation. He had worked his balls off to establish himself in this town, and he wasn't going to throw that away just because some brat had misjudged the price of her lunch. Of course, his self-justifications did little good. He felt sick in the pit of his stomach as he squatted down by the crates and started checking equipment.

The MAF Nile Delta excavation, Northern Egypt

"Hello!" Called out gaille bonnard. "Is there anyone here?"

She listened patiently for an answer, but none came. How odd. Kristos had been clear that Elena, who needed her help translating an ostracon, would be waiting for her in the magazine, where they stored and documented all their finds. But there was no sign of her or her truck, and the magazine was closed. Gaille felt a rare flicker of irritation. She didn't mind making the fifteen-minute walk from the cemetery site, but she did mind having her time wasted. Then she noticed that the door of the hut was hanging ajar-something she had never seen before. She knocked, pulled it open and looked within, allowing in a little sunlight. The interior walls were lined with shelves stacked with battery lamps, hammers, mattocks, baskets, rope, and other archaeological equipment. There was a dark square hole in the floor, too, from which protruded the top of a wooden ladder.

She crouched, cupped her hands around her mouth, and called down, but there was no answer. She waited a few seconds, then called down again. Still hearing nothing, she stood with her hands on her hips, brooded. Elena Koloktronis, head of this Macedonian Archaeological Foundation excavation, was one of those leaders who believed all her team incompetent and who therefore tried to do everything herself. She was constantly running off in the middle of one task to see to another. Maybe that was what had happened here. Or maybe there had just been a mix-up with the message. The trouble was, with Elena it was impossible to do the right thing. If you went looking for her, you should have stayed where you were. If you stayed, she was furious that you hadn't come looking.