Will Adams - The Alexander Cipher

"Knox? In what way?"

"He believed I'd murdered his whole family to silence Pavlos," said Dragoumis. "He didn't think I should get away with that. It isn't hard to understand his point of view. So he took up Pavlos's campaign himself. He wrote endlessly to local politicians, newspapers, TV stations. He picketed government buildings and police stations. He spray-painted 'Dragoumis Inquiry' in huge letters outside my head office. He printed it on helium balloons, threw leaflets from tall buildings, draped banners over railings at televised sporting events, rang radio shows and-"

"Knox? Knox did all this?"

"Oh, yes," nodded Dragoumis. "It was impressive, especially when you consider that he believed me quite capable of murder. And damaging, too. He cut a sympathetic figure, as you can imagine. He got people talking. I asked him to stop, but he refused. He was deliberately trying to goad me into doing something rash, as though that would prove his case. I grew worried for him; he was only doing this because he was sick with grief. And there were people, sympathetic with my cause, who wanted to silence him. It reached a point where I couldn't guarantee his safety anymore. And if anything happened to him… you can imagine. I needed him gone, but he refused to listen to me. So I looked to someone he would listen to."

"My father," said Gaille numbly.

"He was a close friend of the Knoxes, and I knew him, too. I asked him to come speak with me. He was reluctant at first, since Mallawi had been about to start, as you know. But I assured him it was a matter of life and death. He flew in and we struck a deal: he'd take Knox away and keep him quiet, while I'd put out the word that Knox wasn't to be touched. Your father visited Knox's hotel, where Knox apparently gave him a speech about standing up to tyrants. Your father listened politely and slipped knockout drops into his retsina. By the time he woke, they were both captive on a slow boat to Port Said, and your father had time to talk sense into him. And that, Ms. Bonnard, is why I feel badly about your falling-out with your father. It would never have happened, you see, had I not asked him to intervene for me."

In the Ras El-Sudr bar, Rick nodded slowly as he digested Knox's account of his feud with the Dragoumises and how he'd come to Egypt with Richard Mitchell. "And here I was thinking you were just another quiet Yank," he said. "Do you have any other international gangsters on your trail, or is that the lot?"

"That's the lot-as far as I know, at least. But guess who I saw this afternoon?"

"This man Dragoumis?"

"His son. Nicolas."

"And he's as bad?"

"Worse. Much worse. I don't much like the father, but you've got to admire what he's achieved. And he has principles, too. When he gives his word, he keeps it. The son's just a wanker with an inheritance, you know?"

"All too well. So you figure this desert 'lynching' was the son getting his own back?"

"Probably."

"And you're not going to take that lying down, are you?"

"No."

Rick grinned. "Cracking. So what's our plan?"

"Our plan?"

"Come on, mate, you're outnumbered. You could use some help. And Sharm's dead, like I say."

Knox nodded. "If you're serious, it would be fantastic."

"Absolutely. So what's our first move?"

"We head up to Tanta."

"Tanta?"

"Yes," said Knox, checking his watch. "And we're on a bit of a deadline, too, so how about I explain when we get there?" Dragoumis led Gaille through to his dining room. It was a vast space, with a long walnut table running down its middle. Two places had been set at one end, lit by candles. A servant was waiting by a trolley to serve their food, a dark and meaty stew swimming with unfamiliar spices.

"Forgive my simple tastes," said Dragoumis as he began to eat. "I have never developed a refined palate. If it's haute cuisine you enjoy, you must dine with my son."

"I'm sure it'll be delicious," said Gaille, prodding at her meal uncertainly with her fork. "Excuse me, Mr. Dragoumis, but I'm curious. Did you fly me all this way just to talk about my father?"

"No," said Dragoumis. "I flew you here to ask for your help."

"My help?" she frowned. "With what?"

Dragoumis leaned forward. Candlelight struck his eyes obliquely, making his dark-brown irises appear flecked with gold. "This so-called Alexander cipher talks of a tomb in Siwa filled with goods fit for the son of Ammon."

"But… how do you know about that?"

Dragoumis waved her question impatiently aside. "The cipher also says that the shield bearers killed themselves before Ptolemy had a chance to… learn from them where this tomb was."

"Yes."

"Have you ever heard of such a tomb? A tomb in Siwa filled with goods fit for a man like Alexander?"

"No."

"Then it remains to be discovered?"

"If it ever existed."

"It existed," stated Dragoumis. "It exists. Tell me, Ms. Bonnard, would it not be something to discover it? Can you imagine what goods might be considered fit for such a man, the greatest conqueror in history? The weapons he was given from the Trojan wars? His personal copy of Homer, annotated by Aristotle? Be honest: do you not yearn to be the one to find it? Fame. Wealth. Admiration. You'd never again need to ask yourself in the dark hours of the morning what your purpose is upon this earth."

"You misunderstand how these things work," said Gaille. "Ibrahim Beyumi is reporting all this to the secretary general of the SCA. What happens next will be up to them. And it won't include me."

"Perhaps you have not heard. Elena was at this meeting, too."

"Yes, but-"

"And she has persuaded the secretary general that she is the best person to lead this search."

"What? But… how?"

"Elena is skilled at negotiation, believe me. However, she is not so skilled at other aspects of archaeology. That is why I asked you here. I want you to go to Siwa with Elena. I want you to find this tomb for me."

"Me?"

"Yes. You have a gift, as your father did."

"You overestimate my-"

"You discovered the lower chamber, didn't you?"

"Actually, that was-"

"And you deciphered the inscription."

"Someone else would have deciphered-"

"Humility does not impress me, Ms. Bonnard," he said. "Success impresses me. Elena has many virtues, but she lacks imagination and empathy. These are your gifts. They are gifts our cause needs."

"Your cause?"

"You think it old-fashioned to have a cause?"

"I think 'cause' is a politician's word for bloodshed," said Gaille. "I don't think archaeology should be about causes. I think it should be about the truth."

"Very well," nodded Dragoumis. "How about this truth? My grandfathers were both born in Greater Macedonia. By the time they were men, one was Serbian, the other Greek. To people like you, people without causes, it may seem an excellent thing that families like mine can be cut up and parceled out like slaves. But one group of people feels strongly that this is not acceptable. Can you guess, perhaps, who these people are?"

"I imagine you mean those people who call themselves Macedonian," answered Gaille weakly.

"I do not seek to change your mind, Ms. Bonnard," said Dragoumis. "I simply ask you this question: who, in truth, should decide who a person is-they themselves or someone else?" He paused, perhaps to give her a chance to respond, but she found she had nothing to say. "I believe that there's a legitimate nation of Greater Macedonia," he continued. "I believe that this nation has been illegally divided between Bulgaria, Serbia, and Greece. I believe that the Macedonian people have been unfairly oppressed for centuries, that they've suffered decades of ethnic cleansing, that they are persecuted still because they have no voice, no power. Hundreds of thousands in this region agree with me, as do millions more across the world. They share culture, history, religion, and language with each other, not the states to whom they've been allocated. They call themselves Macedonian, whatever world opinion tells them they're called. I believe these people deserve the same rights to liberty, religion, self-determination, and justice that you take for granted. These people are my cause. They are why I ask your help." His gaze seemed to grow in intensity as he looked at her; there was something almost triumphal about it, about his self-certainty. She tried not to meet his eyes, but she couldn't help herself. "And you will give it," he said.