Will Adams - The Alexander Cipher

"Great." She looked past him to Knox, standing in the shadows. "You'll come, too, yes?" she asked.

He shook his head. "I don't think I'll be able to make it, I'm afraid."

"Oh." She patted her hips and made a shrugging kind of face. "Well, then," she nodded. "Until later." And she retreated up the corridor away from them with a slightly stilted walk, as though she sensed-quite correctly-that she was being watched.

Back at Augustin's apartment, Knox sat on the couch and tried to kill time. It wasn't easy. Tintin was bad enough once. He paced around the sitting room, went out onto the balcony. It seemed forever before the sun set. And still no sign of Augustin. The phone rang at seven thirty, but Knox dared not answer, letting the answering machine chug out its message. "It's me," shouted Augustin, loud music thumping in the background along with raucous laughter and the clinking of glasses and bottles. "Pick up, will you."

Knox did so. "Where the hell are you? You said you'd be back hours ago."

"Listen, my friend," replied Augustin. "A difficult situation at work."

"Work?" asked Knox dryly.

"I need you to call that photographer girl for me. Gaille Dumas. The one from the Vicomte. Explain to her that I'm in the middle of a crisis; I'm putting out fires."

"She's in town all on her own," protested Knox. "You can't stand her up."

"Exactly," agreed Augustin. "That's why I need you to do it for me. After all, if she hears this noise, maybe she'll wonder if I'm telling her the complete truth."

"Why don't you ask her to join you?"

"I have plans. You know that Beatrice I mentioned?"

"For Christ's sake! Do your own dirty work."

"I'm asking as a friend, Daniel. How was it you put it? Yes. I'm in trouble. I need help."

"Okay," sighed Knox. "Leave it to me."

"Thanks."

"And good luck with your crisis," said Knox venomously. He picked up the phone directory and flipped through it for the Vicomte Hotel. He felt bad for the girl, and vicariously guilty. He was puritanical about such things, he supposed. When you asked a girl out, particularly one who so evidently hankered for company, you showed up. The shadow of a long evening stretched out ahead of him. No one to talk to, nothing to read, nothing to watch on TV. Sod it, he thought. Sod Hassan and his thugs. He needed to stay hidden, but Alexandria was a vast city, and its streets offered the cover of crowds. He went into Augustin's room for a clean shirt and a baseball cap. Then he went down to the street and hailed a cab.

Ibrahim couldn't get comfortable at home that evening. His upper arm itched from where the nurse had taken blood for his HLA test, and he kept thinking of that poor girl's wide brown eyes. He kept thinking of her predicament, her courage. In the end, he couldn't sit at home anymore. He went through to his study and plucked a book down from the shelves, one from which his father had read to him as a child. Then he went out to his car.

Mohammed's apartment was on the ninth floor, but the elevators were broken. When Ibrahim finally made it up the stairs, he had to put his hands on his knees a minute, and wheezed for breath. What an effort it must be with an invalid child! It made him think about his own privileged childhood and education, everything made easy by his father's wealth. He heard, inside, the suppressed rancor of a married couple on whom too much strain has been placed, trying not to let their beloved child overhear. He felt embarrassed suddenly, an intruder. He was about to walk away again when the door opened unexpectedly and a woman emerged, a scarf over her hair, dressed formally as if off on a visit. She looked as startled to see him as he was to see her. "Who are you?" she demanded. "What are you doing here?"

"Excuse me," he said, flustered. "I have something for Mohammed."

"What?"

"Just a book." He pulled it from the bag. "For his daughter. Your daughter."

The woman looked at Ibrahim in bewilderment. "This is for Layla?"

"Yes."

"But… who are you?"

"My name is Ibrahim."

"The archaeologist?"

"Yes."

She bit her lower lip thoughtfully. Then she went back inside her flat. "Mohammed," she said. "Come here. Your archaeologist friend is visiting."

Mohammed appeared from a side room, ducking his head beneath the low lintel. "Yes?" he asked anxiously. "Is there a problem at the site?"

"No," said Ibrahim, showing a bit more of the book. "It's just… my father used to read to me from this. I thought maybe you and your daughter…" He opened the book and flipped through the pages, showing off the gorgeous illustrations inside: pictures of Alexander from history and myth.

"It's beautiful," gaped Mohammed. He glanced at his wife, who hesitated then nodded. "Layla's been talking about you all evening," said Mohammed, coming to grasp Ibrahim by the elbow. "I know it would mean a great deal to her if you gave it to her yourself."

Alexandria was usually one of the most welcoming of Egyptian cities, but the tensions between the West and the Arab world had reached here, too, and Knox took a cool nod from a young Egyptian man out with his woman as he paid his taxi driver on the street outside Gaille's hotel. Normally, he would have shrugged it off, but with Hassan to worry about, it preyed on his mind. All these people. How could he tell which ones were dangerous? The ones who smiled, the ones who scowled?

Like many of the city's cheaper hotels, Gaille's was on the top two floors. The old lift rattled and shook as it ascended past floors of gloom and darkness. He pulled back the mesh door and stepped out. Behind the reception desk, the balding middle-aged concierge was talking with a young bearded man. They both looked at Knox without even trying to hide their disdain. "Yes?" asked the concierge.

"Gaille, please," said Knox.

"The Frenchwoman?"

"Yes."

"And you are?"

Knox had to think for a moment to remember the name Augustin had given him. "Mark," he said. "Mark Edwards."

"Sit, please." The concierge turned back to his friend, picking up their conversation again. Knox sat in a blue armchair, white fluff leaking from the tattered upholstery. A minute went by. Still the concierge made no effort to alert Gaille. Another minute passed. The two men were chatting away, not looking his way, their contempt clear. Knox had no wish to make himself conspicuous, but there came a point when doing nothing would be more memorable than doing something, so he stood up, brushed fluff from his trousers, went back over to reception. "Call her for me," he said.

"In a minute."

He put his hand on the counter. "Call her," he said. "Now."

The concierge scowled but picked up his phone and dialed her extension. A phone tinkled dully down the hall. "You have a visitor," he told her. He put the phone back down and resumed his conversation with his friend without a word to Knox.

Another minute passed. A door opened and closed. Footsteps hurried on the hard wooden floorboards. Gaille appeared around a corner, wearing sneakers, faded jeans, and a baggy black sweatshirt. "Mark," she frowned. "What are you doing here?"

"Augustin couldn't make it, I'm afraid. Crisis at work. I hope you don't mind a last-minute substitute."

"Not at all." She looked down at her dowdy clothes, pulled a face. "Are we going anywhere fancy?" she asked.

"You look fine," Knox assured her. "You look gorgeous."

"Thanks." She smiled shyly. "Then shall we just go? I'm starving."

He ushered her inside the elevator. The concierge and his bearded friend glared as he slammed closed the mesh door a little more vehemently than necessary. It was dim and tight inside; two people was all it could comfortably take. They stood shoulder to shoulder as it clanked slowly down six floors. "Charming man," he muttered once they were out of earshot.