Will Adams - The Alexander Cipher

The soldier opened the back door and leaned inside. "What's this?" he asked, putting his hand on the bundle.

"Just some clothes," said Knox, trying his best to sound relaxed.

The soldier pulled back the flaps to rummage inside. He pulled out a jacket and held it up against himself to check his reflection in the glass before throwing it back and taking a couple of shirts instead, then a pair of trousers, checking the pockets, pulling out an expensive cell phone, and grinning ingratiatingly at Knox, as if to suggest that a gift wouldn't go astray. Knox's mouth was dry. If this prick found any of the guns, they'd have one hell of a lot of explaining to do. He said: "Excuse me, but those are our belongings."

The soldier grunted irritably and threw the trousers and the phone back into the tarpaulin, then slammed the door unnecessarily hard. His comrade inside the cabin had finished his call and was coming back out. Knox's heart was banging violently in apprehension, but the soldier handed back their passports without a flicker, then waved them through. They kept the smiles off their faces until they were well away. "What do you know," said Rick. "Maybe Hassan's given up on you."

"I doubt it, mate," said Knox. "I reckon he just doesn't want the authorities knowing he's on the hunt."

"That's something, at least."

"Yeah," agreed Knox. "It is." He glanced around at the bundle in the back. "But I reckon we should dump this shit before it gets us into grief. What do you say?"

"I reckon you're right," nodded Rick.

Nicolas arrived at Ibrahim's office with delicate business to discuss. His father had charged him with acquiring certain artifacts from the Macedonian tomb for his private collection: at least one golden burial casket, plus a selection of weapons. Now that Yusuf had taken personal control, it was just a matter of creating convincing replicas and arranging a switch. But Ibrahim was still involved in the excavation and would need to be dealt with, not least because Yusuf insisted on having a plausible scapegoat in place should their switch be discovered. "I'm not disturbing you, am I?" Nicolas asked.

"Nothing that can't wait," smiled Ibrahim. "Just sending some books on Siwa to Gaille. Though I can't believe Dr. Sayed doesn't have copies."

Nicolas settled himself at the corner table. "I'm sure you must be aware how pleased we are at the Dragoumis Group at the outcome of our partnership," he began.

"We're pleased, too."

Nicolas nodded and drew a thick envelope from his jacket pocket. "My family makes it a policy to reward success." He set the envelope down on the table midway between them and smiled at Ibrahim to indicate that he should take it.

Ibrahim frowned at the wad of banknotes inside. "For me?" he asked.

"As a token of our appreciation and gratitude."

Ibrahim squinted suspiciously. "And what do you want for this money?"

"Nothing. Just a continuation of our partnership." Nicolas was, in fact, wearing a miniature camera on his chest, its lens disguised as his second button. Everyone in the SCA accepted bribes, but that didn't make it legal. If Ibrahim took this baksheesh like a good little boy, the film would be used to coerce him, step-by-step, until he was completely compromised. If he didn't, Nicolas had many other avenues to explore and exploit.

Ibrahim hesitated, then pushed the envelope back across the table. "If you wish to contribute further to our partnership," he said, "we have a bank account set up for the purpose, as I'm sure you already know."

Nicolas smiled tightly and took back the money. "Whatever you think best."

"Is there anything else? Or may I return to-"

There was noise outside. The door burst open, and Mohammed rushed in. "I'm sorry, sir," said Maha, hanging gamely on to his arm. "I couldn't stop him."

"It's all right, Maha," said Ibrahim. He frowned at Mohammed. "What do you mean by this?"

"It's Layla," said Mohammed, tears streaming down his face. "They've said no. They've said no. They won't give her the treatment."

"My dear friend," winced Ibrahim, standing awkwardly, "I'm so sorry."

"She doesn't need sympathy; she needs help."

"I'm sorry. I don't see what more I can do."

"Please. I've asked everyone else. You're her last hope."

Nicolas stood and backed away. Talk of disease was always uncomfortable to him. The books Ibrahim had collected for Gaille were perched on the corner of his desk. He picked one up and flipped idly through the pages.

"I suppose I can ask around," Ibrahim was saying. "But I don't know anyone at the hospital."

"I beg you. You must do something."

The book was filled with black-and-white sketches. Nicolas turned to one of a hill and a lake called Bir al-Hammam. There was something strangely familiar about it. He put the book down and picked up another. It, too, had a picture of Bir al-Hammam, a photograph this time. He stared and stared at it, and finally he realized why the images were familiar, and a great orgasmic shudder ran through him.

"Nicolas? Nicolas?" asked Ibrahim anxiously. "Are you all right?"

Nicolas shook himself back to his senses. Ibrahim was looking strangely at him. He smiled and said, "Forgive me. Miles away, that's all." He looked around to see that Mohammed had gone. "Where's your friend?" he asked.

"He had to leave," said Ibrahim. "His wife's in a dreadful state, apparently. I promised to do what I could. But what can I do? That poor girl!"

Nicolas frowned thoughtfully. "If I could help her, you'd be grateful, yes?"

"Of course," said Ibrahim. "But I really-"

"Good," said Nicolas, tucking Gaille's books under his arm. "Then come with me. Let's see what we can arrange."

The oracle of Ammon proved to be a hump of rock some four kilometers out of Siwa Town. Despite its onetime fame, there was no parking lot, no concession stand, and no entry charge. When Gaille, Elena, and their guides arrived early the next morning, they were alone except for a wizened old man sitting against a wall opposite the entrance, holding out a trembling hand in hope of alms. Gaille reached for her purse. "You'll only encourage them," warned Elena. Gaille hesitated, then gave him a banknote anyway. He smiled gratefully.

Two young girls with plaited waist-length black hair came forward, hoping to sell them some of the homemade bracelets around their wrists. Zayn scowled at them and they ran away giggling.

Gaille had been a little uncertain at first of Mustafa and Zayn, but she quickly warmed to them. Their knowledge of Siwa was impressive. And there was something touching about their friendship: an ancient tradition of homosexual marriage was dying hard in Siwa; local song and poetry still celebrated such close relationships, and she couldn't help but wonder.

Mustafa was big, with bark-rough skin darkened by sun as much as genetics, to judge from the paler bands around his neck and beneath his watchband. He was absurdly fit and nimble despite smoking incessantly. He had a special relationship with his ancient and temperamental truck. No gauges or dials worked anymore, and every frill was long gone, from the ball of the gearshift to the rubber of the pedals and the carpet beneath, but he could still make it run.

Zayn was a whip of a man, no more than forty, though his hair and beard were streaked with silver. While Mustafa drove, Zayn obsessively oiled and polished a thin-bladed ivory-handled knife that he kept folded beneath his robes. Each time he put it away, the slick and spotless blade would scrape against the sheath, so that instantly it needed cleaning again, and he'd draw it back out and examine it and mutter Siwan obscenities.

A short but steep flight of steps led up beneath a lintel into the main body of the oracle, a skeleton of walls like a wooden ship that had rotted in estuary mud and later dried out. Gaille felt a moment's quiet awe as she stood there. There weren't many places in the world where you could be certain that Alexander himself had once occupied that exact space, but this was one of them. The oracle had been esteemed throughout the Mediterranean during Alexander's time-a rival to Delphi, perhaps even its superior. Legend had it that Heracles had visited, and Alexander had claimed Heracles as his direct ancestor. Perseus was reputed to have made the trek, too, and Perseus had been associated with the Persian Empire, which Alexander intended to make his own. Cimon, an Athenian general, had famously sent a deputation to Siwa to ask whether his siege of Cyprus would succeed. The oracle had refused to answer, except to say that the person who asked the question was already with him. And when his emissaries had returned to the fleet, they learned that Cimon had died on that exact day. Pindar had written a hymn of praise to the oracle and, upon asking it for the greatest luck available to humans, had promptly died. But perhaps the incident that had the greatest impact was the invasion of Egypt by the Persian king Cambyses. He sent out three armies: one to Ethiopia, the second to Carthage, and the third across the desert to Siwa. This third army had vanished without a trace, and the oracle had gained a certain awed respect as a result. "How did the oracle work?" asked Gaille.