Will Adams - The Alexander Cipher

Before she received and read that report, she had hated Knox only on principle. Since then, it had become personal as well. Nessim had learned as a soldier to be aware of the physiology of fear. Knowing what was happening inside your body was a good way to control it. Your heart beat faster, making your breath hot in your mouth; that metallic tang in the back of your mouth was nothing but your glands flooding your system with adrenaline in preparation for fight or flight; the tingling in your fingers and toes and the looseness of your bladder and bowels was blood being reallocated to places that needed it more.

He stood by his hotel window to dial Hassan's number, looking down at the river ten stories below. "Have you found him?" asked Hassan when he was put through.

"Not yet, sir. But we're making progress."

"Progress?" enquired Hassan acidly. "Is this the same progress you told me about yesterday?"

"I've put together a strong team, sir."

"Oh, good. A team."

"Yes, sir." It was true, too, for all Hassan's scorn. Old comrades, keen for the work, who had proved themselves both reliable and discreet. He'd given them each Knox's name, his license plate, copies of his photograph, and the few other details he had, then he set some to watch the homes of Knox's known associates, others to tour hotels and stations. He had arranged a trace on Knox's cell phone, too, so that if he ever turned it on, they'd be able to triangulate his position to within a hundred meters. He had put a trace on Knox's various bank accounts and credit cards, too. Anything was possible in Egypt if you had money.

"Listen," said Hassan, who had no interest in such operational details. "I don't want progress. I want Knox."

"Yes, sir."

"Call tomorrow. Have good news for me."

"Yes, sir." Nessim replaced the handset with a slightly trembling hand and sat down on his hotel bed, shoulders sagging. He wiped his forehead. His wrist came back with the hairs slicked with sweat. Another of the symptoms. A full house. For a moment, he contemplated pillaging his bank account and simply vanishing. But Hassan knew too much about him. He knew about his sister. He knew about Fatima and their son. Besides, Nessim's sense of honor balked at running from a professional duty just because it was difficult or dangerous. So instead he got out Knox's Secret Service file and stared at the old, blackened text some more. It hadn't been updated for years. Several of the people on it had moved or had left Egypt altogether. Others they couldn't track at all. But it was Nessim's best hope of success all the same.

Augustin and Knox headed into the site first thing, eager to get started, hopeful that the pump would have won them enough headroom to explore. They both knew all too well that pumping out an antiquity in Alexandria wasn't easy. The limestone bedrock was extremely porous, holding water like a giant sponge. As soon as they started pumping, this sponge would start releasing its reservoir, replacing what they were taking out until equilibrium was restored. They couldn't hope to beat it, not with the resources they had available. They could only buy a little time.

It was obvious from the moment they arrived on-site, however, that something was seriously wrong. The pump engine was wheezing like a chronic smoker chasing after a bus. They hurried down to find that a seal had evidently failed. Water spilled and sprayed down the camber of the rotunda floor into the Macedonian tomb, where lamps gleamed like pool lights beneath the murky water.

Augustin sprinted back up the stairwell to kill the pump engine. Knox unplugged the power cables, plunging the place into temporary darkness, then turned on his flashlight, removed his shoes and trousers, and collected all the lamps and coiled them up on the steps, safely out of the water. The electrical equipment was supposedly waterproof, because flooding and humidity were always a risk on Alexandrian sites, but better to be safe than sorry.

Augustin had evidently turned off the pump engine, for the contents of the pipes were gurgling and retreating. Knox waited for silence, then plugged the power cables back in and shed light on the mess. Augustin joined him on the top step, shaking his head in dismay. "Merde! Mansoor will have my testicles."

"Can we bring the pump in here?"

"I only arranged for the beast," grumbled Augustin. "I don't know how it works." But a look of inspiration then crossed his face. He vanished and returned with four excavation baskets, tossing two to Knox, then used the others to scoop up water.

"You can't be serious!" protested Knox.

"You have a better idea?" retorted Augustin, already hustling off down the corridor to the water table. Knox did likewise. The heavy baskets strained his shoulder and elbow joints and left red welts across his fingers. They grinned at each other as they dumped the loads and jogged back up. After a few trips, other excavators began trickling in. They saw what had happened, and grabbed baskets for themselves. Soon, a whole crew of them were at it.

After a dozen trips, Knox's legs were like rubber. He took a breather in the main chamber, out of the way of the ongoing effort. Despite his initial skepticism, Augustin's idea was working well. The water level had already fallen so far that the high steps between the forecourt and the antechamber, and between the antechamber and the main chamber, were now acting as dam walls, creating three separate reservoirs. Down on his haunches to bathe his throbbing palms and fingers in the cool water, he noticed something curious. The water level in the main chamber was lower than in the antechamber-and lower than the step that separated them, too.

He frowned, his weariness forgotten, then went out into the forecourt. "Has anyone got any matches?" he asked.

Gaille arrived to find the site in bedlam. She hadn't finished photographing the main chamber, yet, so her first reaction was anxiety that she might have missed her chance. She kicked off her shoes, rolled up her trousers, and waded in to take a closer look. Her dinner companion from the night before was already in there, throwing broken matchsticks into the corners. "Avoiding the heavy lifting, huh?" she asked.

"Look!" he said, pointing at the antechamber. "See how the water level's higher in there?"

Gaille got the significance at once. "So where's it draining to?"

"Exactly," agreed Knox keenly. "This place is supposed to be quarried out of solid rock." He threw the last of his matchsticks into the corners; then they watched raptly together as they slowly converged.

"I had a really good time last night," murmured Gaille.

"I did, too."

"Maybe we could do it again some time."

"I'd like that," he said. But then he pulled a face. "Listen, Gaille, there's something I need to tell you first."

"It's about Knox, isn't it?" she said. "He's your friend, isn't he?"

"This really isn't the place to discuss it. Can I come by the Vicomte later?"

She smiled eagerly. "We'll go out afterwards. My treat this time."

There was splashing in the antechamber; then Mansoor appeared, bringing Elena with him. "What's going on?" demanded Mansoor angrily. Gaille turned to her companion, expecting him to explain, but he only ducked his head, grabbed his baskets, and fled, leaving Elena and Mansoor staring openmouthed after him. "Who the hell was that?" asked Mansoor.

"Augustin's dive buddy," explained Gaille. "I think the pump might have been partly his idea."

"Ah!" said Mansoor. "I hope he doesn't think I'm angry at him. It's that damned Augustin I want a word with." He shook his head with a mix of amusement and exasperation. "What are the matchsticks for?" he asked.

"No one's been emptying from here," explained Gaille, pointing out the discrepancy in water levels. "We just wanted to know where it was draining."