Will Adams - The Alexander Cipher

Five kilometers shy of the first main road junction, he glimpsed a container truck ahead. He speeded up. Yes. And one of the SUVs in front of it. He took his foot off the gas at once, dropped back to a discreet distance, and followed.

Themoment Bastiaan and his crew rejoined the convoy after their Alexandria sortie, Nicolas ordered everyone off the road. They took a sandy track to the edge of a lake: mist rising from the water, shabby fishermen poling their weather-beaten punts along narrow channels between reed-covered islets. He had intended to explain the situation to them all, canvass their ideas, discuss plans, but their nerves were so strained by fear as they realized the extent of their predicament that they quickly began shouting, jostling, and blaming one another. It was just as well that Katerina called at that moment, giving everyone a chance to calm down.

She had Gabbar Mounim's number for him, so he called it at once. A woman answered, and Nicolas asked for Mounim, giving his own name. Without even checking, she told him politely that Mr. Mounim couldn't come to the phone right now. He asked her more forcefully, but she just repeated her message. When he screamed at her, she repeated it once more, completely unperturbed. Nicolas breathed deep, then asked as politely as he could when Mr. Mounim might be able to call him back. Mr. Mounim was very busy all this week, apparently. Perhaps next week or the week after. Nicolas ended the call, suddenly fearful that they might run a trace. News of leprosy traveled so fast in his world, it defied Einstein. He slammed the heel of his hand against the side of the container, which rang dully. Their plane was tainted, their ship. Their names, descriptions, passport numbers, and license plates would already be spreading like disease along the wires. He closed his eyes. Dismay curdled to anger.

Knox. It could only be Knox. Knox had blabbed.

He went to the rear of the container. It wasn't his fault now; he had made the penalty for interference clear. If you wanted people to take you seriously in this world, you had to be prepared to execute your threats. The container door was open, and it was still hot and stifling inside. The girl was lying gagged on the floor, her wrists bound around the interior handrail, her lips dry and chapped. Nicolas untied her and dragged her by one ankle to the mouth of the container. She struggled limply, weak with dehydration. He dumped her onto the sandy earth. Surplus baggage. Dangerous baggage-baggage with a mouth. He had left the Walther in the four-by-four. He held out his hand to Leonidas. "The AK, please."

Leonidas blinked. "She's just a girl."

"Are you stupid?" shouted Nicolas. "She's seen everything. You want to spend your life in a Gippo fucking jail?"

The girl spat out her gag so that it hung like a noose around her neck. "Please," she sobbed. "Please." Her face was ugly with tears and mucus. Nicolas couldn't bear to look at her. "Don't kill me," she wailed, shuffling toward him on her knees. "Oh, God, I won't talk. I swear. Don't kill me. Please don't kill me. I don't want to die. I don't want to die."

"Your father rejected violence," said Leonidas. "Your father-"

"My father is dead," snapped Nicolas, his hand trembling. Weaken now, and he'd be a joke. "Give me your fucking gun." He snatched it from Leonidas's grip. Looking nauseated, Leonidas turned his back. It was just as well to know who had the stomach for the hard tasks.

The girl was still mewling, clawing at his trousers. He clubbed her with the butt, took a step back, and raised the rifle to his shoulder. He had never killed anyone before. He'd given orders, sure, and they had brought a few corpses from the morgues up into the mountains for training purposes. Puncturing human flesh helped harden you, even if it was lifeless. He had come almost to enjoy the sensation of plunging a bayonet into a belly. You had to attack it with commitment, or the blade would push back rather than penetrate the skin. But this was different. He had thought it would feel clean and sharp and fine to kill; in truth, it felt squalid and deformed.

She was kneeling, hugging and kissing his feet. It was better now that he couldn't see her face. He filled his sights with the dark hair on the top of her skull, but then her face bobbed up. Again he balked. The thought of shooting her through the eyes or forehead made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. Why couldn't she just keep her face down? Didn't she have any consideration? He menaced her again with the gun. She fell onto her back, wailing, her face gray and contorted with terror. He gestured for her to roll onto her front, but she wouldn't. She lay there, squirming perversely, as though she knew the turmoil she was putting him through. He gritted his teeth. This was the price of leadership. This was the price of Macedonian liberation. He steeled himself by imagining all the accolades and glory that would be his due. Then he pressed the butt to his shoulder and filled his sights with her face once more.

Knox had followed the convoy off the road at a safe distance, concealing the Jeep behind a rocky bank, then watching the Greeks argue and panic. Though he was too far away to hear their exact words, it was clear from their confrontation that their plans had gone seriously awry and they were scared.

Nicolas vanished purposefully into the container. A minute later, he dragged Gaille out, then demanded the AK-47 from one of his men. Knox watched miserably, but there was nothing he could do. He had no cell phone to summon the police or army, and he was unarmed and alone. Trying to save her now would be suicide. His only sane option was to go and fetch help. He had done his best, after all, and now it was someone else's turn. No one would blame him.

He crouched over to the Jeep and started it up, the highway traffic close enough to muffle the sound. Then he just sat there a moment, because he knew in his heart that to go for help was to condemn Gaille to death. He couldn't accept that; he just couldn't. It wasn't simply the debt he owed her father, though that was part of it. It was Gaille herself. It was the way he had come to feel about her.

His skin prickled with fear as he realized what he was going to do. Don't be a fool, he told himself. It did no good. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, almost in prayer. Then he stamped his foot to the floor, like some knight of old spurring on his faithful steed, and charged.

An engine roared behind Nicolas. He whirled around to see an old Jeep hurtling directly at him. Knox! He was standing there in numb disbelief when Leonidas snatched back his AK-47 and sprayed a burst at the Jeep's hood, which sprang up open. The engine spouted geysers of steam, and flames licked up from below. He could hear Knox revving futilely, but the Jeep rolled slowly to a stop in front of them, and the hood clanged back down. Knox opened the door and fled, but a round scorched his leg, and he cried out with pain and fell headlong, only to have Bastiaan and Eneas on him a moment later.

Nicolas wrested back the gun from Leonidas. Killing the girl was one thing, killing Knox another. He walked over, lifted the gun to his shoulder, and aimed down. "Wait!" cried Knox desperately, turning onto his back, holding up his arms as if that could protect him. "Listen! I can get you out. I can get you out of Egypt."

"Of course you can," mocked Nicolas, his finger on the trigger. "You can sprout wings and fly us, no doubt."

But Leonidas pushed down the muzzle of Nicolas's gun. "How?" he asked.

"I'll ask the questions," snapped Nicolas. He turned back to Knox, raising the gun once more. He felt ridiculous suddenly. "How?" he asked.

"I know people," said Knox.

"Oh, you know people?" sneered Nicolas. "We all know people."