Will Adams - The Alexander Cipher

"Forget about it," he said curtly. "I need to be in Alexandria tomorrow afternoon. Is our plane free?"

"I believe so. I'll check."

"Thank you. And that Egyptian man we bought those papyri through-he arranges other kinds of business, too, doesn't he?" He didn't need to spell out for Katerina what kinds of business he was referring to.

"Mr. Mounim? Yes."

"Good. Get me his number, please. I have a job for him."

Ibrahim gathered his top team in the rotunda to announce their sponsor's visit. He tried to sound enthusiastic about it. He tried to make out that it had been his idea. He asked people to be available to do show-and-tells, if needed, and promised tea and coffee and cakes and a buffet lunch afterward in the museum, then reminded them all subtly that this man was paying their wages. He suggested they make an event of it. In short, he did everything he could to spin it into a good thing. When he was done, he invited questions. No one said a word. They were archaeologists; they detested sponsors. The meeting broke up and everyone returned to work.

It was late afternoon, and Hosni was beginning to regret saying yes to Nessim's offer of a job looking for some fugitive Westerner. He'd forgotten how boring surveillance work could be.

He was half asleep in the driver's seat of his battered green Citroen when the black-and-chrome chopper pulled up outside the apartment block, two men riding on it. The driver was in jeans, a white T-shirt, and a leather jacket; the pillion passenger in pale cotton trousers, a blue sweatshirt, and a red crash helmet, which he removed to talk to the driver. Hosni grabbed his photograph of Knox, but he couldn't tell for sure at such a distance, not from such a small photograph. The two men shook hands. The passenger went inside while the driver turned in a tight circle and roared off. Hosni counted floors. Augustin Pascal lived on the sixth. About twenty seconds later, through his field glasses, he saw the balcony doors open and the pillion passenger step out, stretching his arms wide. Hosni fumbled for his cell phone, then speed-dialed Nessim's number.

"Yes?" asked Nessim.

"It's Hosni, boss. I think I've found him."

Nessim sucked in breath eagerly. "You're sure?"

"Not one hundred percent," said Hosni, who knew Nessim too well to give false hope. "I've only got this photograph. But yes, I'm pretty sure."

"Where are you?"

"Alexandria. Augustin Pascal's place. You know? The marine archaeologist."

"Good work," said Nessim. "Don't lose him. And don't let him know you're onto him. I'll be with you as soon as I can."

Elena Koloktronis had no appetite to drive back to her Delta excavation for the night, just to come back to Alexandria first thing in the morning, so she'd booked herself a room in the famous Cecil Hotel. It was only a ten minutes' walk from Gaille's fleabag, but in every other way it was a different world. She could scarcely waste precious excavation funds pampering a mere languages expert, after all, but for herself it was different. She was here as the senior representative of the Macedonian Archaeological Foundation. She owed it to the dignity of that institution to travel in a certain style.

She spent the early evening catching up on her paperwork. It was extraordinary how bureaucratic running an excavation in Egypt could be. She was beginning to weary of it when she heard a knock on her door. "Come in," she said. It opened and closed behind her. She finished adding up a column of figures, then half turned in her chair to see, with a disturbing little thrill, the Frenchman from the necropolis standing there in his jeans and leather jacket. "What the hell are you doing here?" she demanded.

Augustin walked to her window as though he owned the place. He pulled back a curtain to gaze out over the harbor. "Very nice," he nodded. "All I have is other people's laundry."

"I asked you a question."

He turned his back on the window and leaned against her air-conditioner. "I've been thinking about you," he said.

"What!"

"Yes. Just like you've been thinking about me."

"I assure you," she said, "I haven't given you a moment's thought."

"Is that right?" he mocked.

"Yes," said Elena. "That's right." But something trembled in her voice, and Augustin's insolent smile grew even broader. Elena scowled. She was an attractive, successful, and wealthy woman, well accustomed to being hit on by womanizers like this. She normally dealt with them without even thinking, by deploying a scornful electric flytrap of a glare that incinerated their interest so efficiently that she didn't even notice anymore the sharp spark of death as these little flies tumbled to the floor. But when she now threw this glare at Augustin, there was no spark, and he didn't fall. He simply absorbed it with that offensive smirk of his and carried on staring at her. "Please leave," she said. "I have work."

But he didn't leave. He just stood there, his back to the window. "I've booked a table," he said. "I wouldn't want to hurry you, but-"

"If you don't leave," she said coldly, "I'll call security."

He nodded. "You must, of course, do whatever you think best."

She felt flutters in her stomach as she pulled the phone toward her. It was one of those old analogs. She dialed the first number, expecting that would be enough for him. But he made no move. He just stood there with that same damned conceited smile on his face. The dial made that low metallic purr as it returned to its starting position. She dialed the second number. The handset felt cool against her cheek. She put her finger in the hole to dial the third number, but then her arm just seemed to die on her, as though all her muscles had atrophied at once.

He walked across and plucked the handset from her, resting it back in its cradle. "You'll want to freshen up," he said. "I'll be downstairs."

"We've found him," said Nessim.

There was a moment's silence on the other end of the phone. After so many disappointments, Hassan seemed rather thrown. "Are you sure?"

"Hosni spotted him," said Nessim. "He's staying in a friend's apartment. I drove up here as soon as I got the call. He came out fifteen minutes ago, not a care in the world. He must think we've stopped looking. But it's him, all right."

"Where's he now?"

"In a taxi. Heading towards Ramla."

"You're following?"

"Of course. You want him picked up?"

That silence again. Then, "Listen to me: this is what I want."

Knox was surprised and gratified by the warmth with which Gaille greeted him that evening. "Perfect timing," she enthused. "Ibrahim's asked me to do a show-and-tell on the antechamber paintings tomorrow. I need a victim to practice on." She led him back to her room, defying the toxic glare of her concierge. Her balcony doors were open to a cacophony on the street below: youngsters talking and laughing excitedly in anticipation of their evening, a distant tram clanking on its rails like an overworked kitchen. Her laptop was open on her desk, her screen saver painting weird patterns on the monitor. She nudged her mouse, and a colorful wall painting of two men sprang up.

He leaned in, frowning. "What the hell? Is this from the site?"

"The side walls in the antechamber."

"But… they're just plaster. How did you get them to look like this?"

She grinned with pleasure. "Your friend Augustin. He told me to use water. Lots of water. Not quite as much as you pumped in this morning, maybe, but…"

He laughed and softly smacked her shoulder in reproach, triggering an unexpected spark of contact that gave them both a little jolt. "You've done a great job," he said, pulling himself together. "It looks fantastic."

"Thanks."

"You know who these guys are?"