Will Adams - The Alexander Cipher

"Can you give me one good reason why I shouldn't fire you and hire him instead?"

"You'd have to find him first," muttered Nessim beneath his breath.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing."

There was a stony silence. Then, "I think it's time we discussed this face-to-face, don't you?"

"Face-to-face?" asked Nessim bleakly.

"Yes," said Hassan. "Face-to-face."

Mohammed was astonished to see Professor Rafai step out of the taxi and slam its door behind him. He had not expected to see Layla's oncologist again, certainly not on his building site. "There is somewhere private?" demanded Rafai, trembling with anger.

"Private?"

"To talk."

Mohammed frowned in bewilderment. "Now?"

"Of course now! You think I'm here to book an appointment?"

Mohammed shrugged and led Rafai to his cabin office.

"I don't know how you do this!" shouted Rafai as the door closed. He removed his half-moon glasses and jabbed them like a scalpel at Mohammed's face. "Who do you think you are? I base my decisions on clinical evidence. Clinical evidence! You think you can bully me into changing my mind?"

"I'm sorry for my behavior in your office," frowned Mohammed. "But I've already apologized. I was under immense strain. I don't know what else-"

"You think this is about that?" cried Rafai. "This isn't about that."

"Then what?"

"Only your daughter!" yelled Rafai. "Only ever your daughter! You think she's the only one sick. A young boy called Saad Gama waits for bone marrow. A true scholar of Islam. You want to explain to him that we must postpone his treatment because you have more influential friends? You want to tell his parents he must die so that your daughter might live? You think they don't care for him?"

"Professor Rafai, in the name of Allah, what are you talking about?"

"Don't deny it! Don't insult me by denying it! I know you've done this, though how you have the power… Well, let me tell you, Saad's blood is on your hands! Your hands, not mine."

Mohammed went cold. He asked dizzily, "What are you saying? Are you saying you'll give Layla her transplant?"

Rafai glared furiously. "I'm saying I won't risk my department over this."

"But her transplant?" insisted Mohammed. "Layla will receive her transplant?"

"Tell your friends in Cairo to stay away from me and my staff. If the procedure goes wrong, we'll not be held accountable, you hear? Tell your people that. Tell your people!" He stormed out of the office. Mohammed's hands were shaking as if from palsy, so that he couldn't even hold his phone steady when he tried to dial Nur.

Nicolas was on the phone with his bodyguard, Bastiaan, when Ibrahim knocked and entered, bringing with him a cup of coffee and a plate of cakes, which he set down on the corner of his desk. Nicolas didn't bother to stop talking, but he slipped into euphemism and turned his back. "You've arranged for the purchases?"

"Vasileios is flying in with your father. He's been briefed on what we need."

"And when will you be at the villa?"

"I'm on my way now. Shouldn't be more than fifteen minutes."

"Good. And make sure…"

Behind him, Ibrahim gave a little gasp. Nicolas turned to see him holding open one of Gaille's books, staring in shock at a picture of Bir al-Hammam. Nicolas closed his eyes in irritation with himself. "Make it ten minutes," he told Bastiaan in his coarsest Greek. "We've got a problem." He killed the call and plucked the book from Ibrahim's hand. "There's something I need to tell you," he said.

"What? But have you seen this picture of-"

"Quickly," said Nicolas, grabbing Ibrahim's arm and hustling him through to the kitchen.

"What is it?" asked Ibrahim, bemused. "What's going on?" Nicolas opened and shut all the drawers until he found a kitchen knife, and he held it up so that its blade glinted. Ibrahim paled. "What… what are you doing with that?"

Nicolas held the knife out wide in his left hand, so that Ibrahim's eyes followed its glittery menace. Then he punched the archaeologist with his right, sending him flailing onto his back. He knelt down and pressed the sharp steel against Ibrahim's throat before he could recover. "My colleague Bastiaan is on his way," he said. "You're going to be nice and quiet until he arrives, aren't you?"

"Yes," agreed Ibrahim.

Knox had taken over the wheel while Rick caught up on his sleep. It was midafternoon when he reached Farafra, where his friend and Demotic expert Ishaq lived. He nudged Rick awake. "We're here, mate."

"Always the way," grunted Rick irritably. "Loveliest bloody dream."

Knox hadn't been to Ishaq's home in several years, but Farafra was small, and the house wasn't hard to find. He was looking forward to seeing his old friend. They went back a long way, to Knox's first season at Mallawi. A small and ridiculously intelligent man, Ishaq had spent most of his leisure time in his hammock, staring lazily up at the sky. But give him some Demotic to translate, and there was no one better in Egypt.

Unfortunately, when they parked outside his home, everything was shuttered. They banged on his front door, but there was no response. They went a couple of doors down the road to the information center, which doubled as his office, but there was no one there, either. "He must be out on excavation," said Knox, checking the time. "He'll be back soon."

"Let's have a look at the bloody photos of this inscription of yours, then," muttered Rick.

"I don't have them with me."

"You what?"

Knox gave him a look. "You don't really think I'm stupid enough to travel halfway across Egypt with enough incriminating evidence on my laptop to get me ten years?"

"So how the hell's your mate going to translate them?"

"I e-mailed them to myself. Ishaq's wired."

They sat in the shade of a date palm to wait. Torpor set in. When flies settled on them, they lacked even the energy to swat them away. A young boy in robes pushing an old bicycle much too big for him approached tentatively. "You look for Ishaq?" he asked.

"Yes. Why? Do you know where he is?"

"He leave for Cairo. A meeting. A big meeting. All the desert archaeologists are to be there."

"Did he say when he'd be back?"

"Tomorrow," shrugged the boy. "The day after."

"Ballocks," muttered Rick. "What now?"

"I don't know," said Knox. "Let me think."

"I don't believe this Kelonymus bastard. Everything else was in Greek. Why the hell did he have to switch to Demotic for this bloody inscription?"

Knox's jaw dropped; he turned to look at his friend.

"What?" asked Rick. "What did I say?"

"I think you've just gone and cracked it," said Knox.

Mohammed was still in a daze from his good fortune when his phone rang. "Yes?" he asked.

"This is Nicolas Dragoumis. You remember, I helped finance the tests for-"

"Of course I remember, Mr. Dragoumis. What can I do for you?"

"I believe you should have heard some good news."

"That was you? You are my friend in Cairo?"

"Yes."

"Thank you! Thank you! I am in your debt, Mr. Dragoumis. I am forever in your debt. I swear, anything you ever want…"

"Anything?" asked Nicolas dryly. "Do you really mean that?"

"On my life."

"I hope it won't come to that," said Nicolas. "But tell me: do you have a mechanical digger on your site?"

There had been little for Gaille to do that afternoon. Although they had recruited Mustafa and Zayn for the next fortnight, she gave them the day off, then went to Aly's house, hoping to do some more research, only to find it locked, and a note on his door saying he'd been summoned to Cairo. She went back to her hotel and lazed away the afternoon in a hammock before reviving herself beneath a cold shower and hiring a rickety bicycle that she was now pedaling down to a local freshwater spring. Coasting along one short stretch, she passed a donkey cart carrying three Siwan wives enshrouded in their dark blue embroidered cotton tarfottet. One lifted her cowl and gave Gaille a shy yet radiant smile. She couldn't have been more than fourteen.