Will Adams - The Alexander Cipher

"But it would have been madness," frowned Yusuf. "Why would these men throw their lives away on such a venture?"

"Because they believed that Alexander's dying wish had been to be buried in Siwa," answered Elena. "Ptolemy betrayed that wish when he started to build a tomb in Alexandria. You must remember, Alexander was a god to these people. They would have risked anything to carry out his orders."

"Please, you're not asking me to believe that Alexander is buried in Siwa, Ms. Koloktronis," sighed Yusuf. Ibrahim knew what was on his boss's mind. In the early 1990s, another Greek archaeologist had announced to the world's media that she had found the tomb of Alexander in Siwa Oasis. Her claim was universally rejected, but not before Siwa and Alexander had become something of a joke in the archaeological community.

"No," acknowledged Elena. "Alexander's embalmed body was on display in Alexandria centuries after this inscription was made. No one's denying that. However, surely it's possible that they seized his body and set off towards Siwa, where they had a tomb ready and waiting."

Yusuf sat back in his chair and looked sternly at Elena. "So," he remarked, "the true purpose for your presence at this meeting becomes clear. You're not here out of concern for the proper excavation of this Alexandria find. Oh, no. You're here because you believe that somewhere in Siwa there is a tomb appointed with-how does this… Alexander cipher of yours put it, again?-yes, with 'goods fit for the Son of Ammon.' And you want my permission to look for them, no doubt."

"Alexander was the most successful conqueror in history," said Elena. "One of Egypt's greatest pharaohs. Imagine what finding this tomb of his would mean for this country. Imagine what honors would befall the secretary general whose enlightened leadership made it possible. Your name would rightly be venerated along with the great patriots of this nation."

"Go on."

"And you have nothing to lose. I know the chances of finding anything are extremely thin. I know the resources of the Supreme Council are inexcusably tight. But something should be done. Something small. A low-level epigraphic survey of antiquities, say, conducted with the permission of the SCA. Just me and one colleague. Anything more substantial will only provoke rumors. You know what it is with Siwa and rumors."

Yusuf frowned. "Every hill in the Oasis has been searched and searched again," he observed. "If this tomb does exist and has lain hidden for twenty-three centuries, do you truly expect to find it in a matter of weeks? Do you know how wide the Siwa Depression is?"

"It won't be easy," admitted Elena. "But it has to be worth a try. Think of the alternative. When the contents of the Alexander cipher leak, every treasure hunter in the world will converge on Siwa. If we find the tomb first, we can preempt that, or at least announce that there's nothing to it. Either would be preferable to a gold rush."

"There'll be a gold rush only if word gets out," pointed out Yusuf.

"But it will get out," insisted Elena. "We all know it will. That's the nature of these things."

Yusuf nodded to himself. "Siwa is the territory of Dr. Sayed," he said sourly, as though he rather resented his colleague. "And Dr. Sayed has his own ways. You'll need his permission, too."

"Of course," nodded Elena. "Apart from anything else, I understand he has an outstanding collection of reference materials. Perhaps you might speak to him yourself-ask him to give us access. I know, of course, that it will make no difference whatever to your decision, which will be taken solely for the greater benefit of Egypt, but you might perhaps let him know that our backers have set aside very significant fees for all our SCA consultants, including yourself, naturally."

"I cannot agree to an open-ended expedition," said Yusuf. "Siwa may be a large oasis, but it is a small community. Whatever your cover story, people will eventually note what you are doing. Your presence will trigger the very result you seek to avoid."

"Six weeks," suggested Elena. "That's all we ask."

Yusuf rested his hands on his belly. He liked to have the last word on everything. "Two weeks," he declared. "Two weeks from tomorrow. Then we'll talk again, and I'll decide whether to give you another fortnight or not."

Nessim paced back and forth in his hotel room, willing his phone to ring, for one of his sentinels to spot Knox before he could drop out of sight once more. There had to be a good chance. The simple fact that Knox had broken cover to get his belongings back suggested he was after something, that he had a purpose and was prepared to take risks in its pursuit. Yet, for all that, there was something about Knox that made Nessim feel inadequate, almost fatalistic.

He stopped in mid pace, daunted suddenly by the prospect of confessing another failure to Hassan. He needed to show he was doing something. He needed to demonstrate that he was active. He had kept the hunt largely in-house up till now, but the time for discretion had passed. He unzipped his money belt, checked his cash, and turned to Hosni, Ratib, and Sami. "Get on your phones," he told them. "A thousand dollars to whoever finds Knox's Jeep. Two if he's in it."

Ratib pulled a face. "But everyone will know it was us," he protested. "When Knox turns up dead, I mean."

"Do you have a better suggestion?" snapped Nessim. "Or perhaps you'd like to tell Hassan yourself this time why we haven't found Knox yet."

Ratib dropped his gaze. "No."

Nessim sighed. The stress was getting to him. And Ratib had a point. "Okay," he said. "Only people you trust. One in each town. And tell them not to blab, or they'll be answering to Hassan themselves."

His men nodded and reached for their cell phones.

By the time the Dragoumis Group's Lear jet touched down in Thessalonike that night, Gaille had decided that she could get used to traveling like this, despite the twinge of guilt she felt at all these carbon emissions for so whimsical a trip. White leather seats so comfortable they made her groan with pleasure, a window the size of a widescreen TV, a butler on hand to prepare meals and drinks, the copilot coming back to talk her through her preferred arrangements for flying back in the morning. An immigration officer came out to greet her with cloying politeness ("any friend of Mr. Dragoumis, Ms. Bonnard…"), and a chauffeur-driven blue Bentley that whisked her away up into the hills above Thessalonike just so she could sit back and admire the night sky.

They reached a walled estate patrolled by guards. They were waved through, down to a whitewashed palace lit up like son et lumiere. And then, to cap it all, Dragoumis himself emerged from his front door to meet her, his hands clasped behind his back, a vivid birthmark near his left eye. After all she had imagined of him on her journey, it was a surprise and relief to her to see how short and slight he was. He hadn't shaved; he looked rustic and very Greek. Just for a moment, she thought she would be able to handle him easily, that he was nothing to fear. Then she drew closer and realized she had been wrong.

Knox cut cross-country to get to Ras el-Sudr, his route taking him through Tanta, the largest town of the Delta. Something about Tanta niggled in his brain; someone had mentioned it to him recently, but he couldn't think who. Then he remembered Gaille's offhand remark about her Tanta concierge, and he pulled the Jeep to the side to think. He hadn't given much thought to Elena's Delta excavation; too much else had been going on. But maybe that had been a mistake. Especially now that Nicolas Dragoumis had appeared on the scene.

It was no secret that Elena's Macedonian Archaeological Foundation was sponsored by the Dragoumis Group. And the Dragoumises had no interest in Egypt, Knox knew-only in Macedonia. If they were financing an excavation in the Delta, therefore, they were after something Macedonian. And just maybe it was connected with that site they had just found in Alexandria. It certainly couldn't hurt to find out more.