Will Adams - The Alexander Cipher

There was a pay phone on the corner. He didn't dare telephone Rick directly. Instead, he called a mutual friend who worked next door at the water-sports center in Sharm, and asked her to fetch him. He came on the line a minute later. "Hey, mate," he said. "You forgotten my number or something?"

"It may be tapped."

"Ah. Hassan, huh?"

"Yes. Listen, you haven't borrowed some of my photographic CDs, have you?"

"Christ, mate, I'm sorry. I was just practicing my Greek."

"Not a problem. But I need them. Any way you can get them to me?"

"No sweat. There's nothing happening here. Where do you want to meet?"

"Ras el-Sudr?"

"You mean that dump south of Suez?"

"That's the one," said Knox. "There's a hotel there called the Beach Inn. When do you think you can make it?"

"Give me four hours. Maybe five."

"Perfect. Will you come in your Subaru?"

"Unless there's a reason not to."

"You might want to check it for tracking devices first. And make sure you're not followed. These guys are serious."

"So am I, mate," Rick assured him. "So am I."

Mohammed and Nur clutched hands as they waited for the phone call to tell them the results of the bone marrow tests. They had used a private health care group with medical centers in Alexandria, Cairo, Assiut, and Port Said to make it easier for far-flung friends and family. Especially family. Bone marrow compatibility was heritable, so the chances of finding a match was significantly higher among kin. They had tested another sixty-seven people, using up all the funds Ibrahim had made available. Dr. Serag-Al-Din had promised to call with the results an hour ago. Waiting for the phone to ring was about the most grueling experience of Mohammed's life. Nur winced as he squeezed her hand too tightly. He apologized and let go. But she needed the contact as badly as he did, and within moments their hands found each other again.

Layla was in bed. They had decided not to inform her of this process until it was done. But she was a sharp child, sensitive to atmosphere. Mohammed suspected that she knew all too well what was going on: the sentence of life or death that would shortly be passed on her.

The phone rang. They looked at each other. Nur made a face and started to weep. Mohammed's heart started pattering as he picked up the receiver. "Yes?" he asked. But it was only Nur's mother, anxious to learn if they had heard. He bit his lip in frustration and passed her across. Nur got rid of her with promises to call the moment they knew. Mohammed crossed his legs. His bowels felt loose and watery, but he dare not go to the toilet.

The phone rang again. Mohammed breathed deeply and picked it up. This time it was Dr. Serag-Al-Din. He said: "Mr. el-Dahab. I hope you and your wife are both well."

"We're fine, thank you. Do you have our results?"

"Of course I have your results," he said genially. "Why else do you think I'd call?"

"Well?"

"Bear with me a moment. I seem to have lost my place in your file."

Mohammed closed his eyes and clenched his fists. Come on, you son of a dog. Say something. Anything. "Please," he begged.

There was a rustling of paper. Dr. Serag-Al-Din cleared his throat. "Yes," he said. "Here we are."

It was dusk when Ibrahim and Elena arrived in Cairo for their meeting with Yusuf Abbas, secretary general of the Supreme Council for Antiquities. The great man was waiting for them in an ornate conference room, talking on the phone. He looked up sourly, then waved them vaguely at chairs. Ibrahim set up his laptop while he waited for Yusuf to finish discussing mathematics homework with his son. He found dealing with his boss immensely trying, not the least because he himself was a fastidious man, and Yusuf had grown grotesquely fat since orchestrating his palace coup and unseating his energetic, popular, and highly respected predecessor. Even watching Yusuf wrest himself from his chair was a mesmerizing sight, like seeing some ancient ship of war setting sail. He would prepare for the feat moments ahead of time, readying his muscles as if wind were filling the unfurling sails, and the rigging would creak and the anchor would haul and, yes, yes, yes, movement! Right now his forearms rested like giant slugs on the polished walnut table, but every so often he would lift a finger to his throat, as though his glands and not his incessant consumption of rich foods were to blame for his obesity. And when people addressed him from the side, he would move his eyes rather than his head to look at them, his pupils sliding to the corners-the very caricature of shadiness. Finally, he ended his call and turned to Ibrahim. "Such urgency," he said. "I trust it has a purpose."

"Yes," said Ibrahim. "It does." And he turned his laptop to show his boss Gaille's pictures of the lower chamber, while explaining how they had been found.

Yusuf's eyes lit up when he saw the burial caskets. "Are those… gold?" he asked.

"We haven't had time for analysis yet," said Ibrahim. "My priority was to seal the site and inform you."

"Quite right. Quite right. You've done well. Very well." He licked his lips. "This is a remarkable discovery. I see I will have to supervise the excavation personally."

Elena leaned forward-not much, just enough to catch his eye.

"Yes?" he asked.

"We're both aware of our exceptional good fortune that you could spare time from your other commitments for this meeting, Mr. Secretary General, for we know you are a man with extraordinary demands upon your time." Her Arabic was stilted and clumsy, noted Ibrahim, but her posture and use of flattery were impeccable. "We're glad that you, like us, consider this find to be of historic importance, and are delighted that you'll be involved in its ongoing excavation. However, sharing this exciting news with you wasn't the only reason Mr. Beyumi and I were anxious for this meeting. There's something else that needs your wisdom and urgent consideration."

"Something else?" asked Yusuf.

"The inscription," said Elena.

"Inscription? What inscription?" He glared at Ibrahim. "Why haven't you told me about this inscription?"

"I believe I did, Secretary General."

"Are you contradicting me?"

"Of course not, Secretary General. Forgive me." He reopened his photograph of the inscription.

"Oh, this," said Yusuf. "Why didn't you say you were talking about this?"

"Forgive me, Secretary General. The fault is mine. You'll note that the characters are Demotic, but the inscription is actually in Greek." He nodded at Elena. "A colleague of Ms. Koloktronis's deciphered it. I can explain how it works, if you're interested. Otherwise, here is a copy of the translation."

Yusuf's mouth worked as he read the text, his eyes going wide as he assimilated the implications. It wasn't surprising, reflected Ibrahim. Memphis had been known to ancient Egyptians as White Wall. The word desert came originally from Desh Ret: the Red Land. Kelonymus referred to Alexander as the "Son of Ammon," so the place of his father, it followed, was the Oracle of Ammon in Siwa Oasis, where old sources suggested Alexander had asked to be buried. The inscription, therefore, asserted that a group of shield bearers had stolen Alexander's body from under Ptolemy's nose in Memphis and had taken it across the Western Desert to a tomb they'd prepared within sight of the oracle of Ammon in Siwa Oasis. Ptolemy, however, had pursued them, and they had killed themselves rather than fall into his hands. All except Kelonymus, Akylos's brother, who had avoided capture and who had later brought all his comrades' remains back to Alexandria for burial, in fulfillment of his vow.

When Yusuf had finished he blinked twice. "Is this… is this to be believed?" he asked.

"The translation is correct," answered Ibrahim carefully. "I've checked it myself. And we believe it to be sincere as well. After all, as you've seen from the photographs of the underground chamber, this man Kelonymus went to extraordinary lengths to honor these men. He wouldn't have done it for a hoax."