Will Adams: The Alexander Cipher

"So he left it behind, like I said?"

"Possibly. But the catafalque represented an enormous amount of raw wealth. I mean, put yourself in Ptolemy's shoes. What would you have done?"

Rick considered a few moments. "I'd have split up," he said. "One lot scoots ahead with the body. The other takes a different route with the catafalque."

Knox grinned. "That's what I'd have done, too. There's no proof, of course. But it makes sense. The next question is how. Syria's on the Mediterranean, so he might have sailed down. But the Med was notoriously infested with pirates, and he'd have needed ships on hand; and if he felt it was possible, he'd surely have taken Alexander's body that way-and we're pretty certain he didn't."

"What were his alternatives?"

"Well, assuming that he couldn't move the catafalque as it was, he could have had it chopped up into manageable pieces and taken southwest along the coast through Israel to Sinai; but that was the route he almost certainly took himself with Alexander's body, and there's not much point splitting up if you're going to go the same way. So there's a third possibility: that he sent it due south to the Gulf of Aqaba, then by boat around the Sinai Peninsula to the Red Sea coast."

"The Sinai Peninsula," grinned Rick. "You mean past these reefs here?"

"These very dangerous reefs," agreed Knox.

Rick laughed and raised his glass in a toast toward the sea. "So all that gold might just be sitting out there waiting for us?" he said. "What say we go find it, eh?"

And that was exactly what they had been trying to do ever since, though without success. On the other hand, the more they searched, the more Rick had learned, and the more he had caught the archaeological bug. He had originally been a Clearance Diver in the Australian Navy-the closest they had to Special Forces-and working in Sharm had allowed him to keep diving, though he missed that sense of mission. Their quest had restored it to him, so much so that he determined to make a new career in underwater archaeology. So he was studying hard, borrowing Knox's books and other materials, pestering him with questions.

Roland's booties were now on. Knox stood and helped strap him into his buoyancy control device, then ran through his safety checks. He heard footsteps on the bridge above him and glanced up as Hassan sauntered into view, leaning on the railing and looking down. "You guys have fun, now," he said.

"Oh, yes," enthused Roland, giving the thumbs-up. "We have great fun."

"And don't hurry back." He beckoned behind him, and Fiona came reluctantly into view. She had put on long cotton trousers and a thin white T-shirt, as though more modest clothing could somehow protect her, yet still she was shivering visibly. When Hassan caught Knox staring at her, he grinned wolfishly and put his arm around her shoulders, almost daring Knox to do something about it.

It was said on the streets of Sharm that Hassan had slit the throat of a second cousin for sleeping with a woman he had put his mark on. Another story held that he had beaten an American tourist into a coma for protesting when Hassan propositioned his wife.

Knox lowered his eyes and looked around, hoping to share the burden of responsibility. Max and Nessim, Hassan's ex-paratrooper head of security, were checking out each other's dive gear. He'd get no joy there. Ingrid and Birgit, two Scandinavians Max had brought along to keep Roland company, were already suited and waiting by the stern ladder. Knox tried to catch Ingrid's eye, but she knew what he was up to, and kept her eyes firmly averted. He glanced back up at the bridge. Hassan was still grinning down at him, aware of exactly what was going through Knox's mind. An alpha male in his prime, savoring the challenge. He ran his hand slowly down Fiona's flank to her backside, cupping and squeezing her buttock. The man had risen from nothing to make himself the most powerful shipping agent on the Suez Canal by the age of thirty, and you didn't achieve that by being soft. Now they said he was bored, looking to extend his empire every way he could, including through tourism, buying up waterfront properties in the slump that had followed recent terrorist outrages.

Roland was ready at last. Knox helped him down the ladder into the Red Sea, then knelt to pass him his fins. The big German kept losing his balance as he tried to pull them on, splashing around wildly, guffawing maniacally, slapping the water.

"Hold on," said Knox tightly. "I'll be with you in a second." He geared up, shrugged on his BCD and tank, goggles loose around his neck, fins in his hand, and started down the ladder. He was about to let go when he glanced up at the bridge one last time. Hassan was still staring down at him, while beside him, Fiona had her arms crossed anxiously over her chest. Her hair was tousled, her shoulders hunched and forlorn. She looked her age suddenly, or lack of it-a child who had met a friendly Egyptian man in a bar and thought she'd worked herself a freebie for the day, confident she could wriggle and flirt her way out of any expectations he might have. Her eyes were wide, lost, and frightened, yet somehow still hopeful, as though she believed that everything would work out fine, because people were basically nice.

Just for a moment, he imagined it was his sister, Bee, standing there.

Knox shook his head angrily. This girl was nothing like Bee. She was an adult. She made her own choices. Next time she would know better. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure the sea was clear behind him, put his regulator into his mouth, bit down hard, and threw himself backward to explode like fireworks into the Red Sea. He resolutely didn't look back as he led Roland toward the reef, staying a modest four meters deep, in easy reach of the surface should anything go wrong. A pageant of tropical fish watched their progress intently but without alarm. Sometimes it was difficult to know which was the show and which the audience. A Napoleon fish, surrounded by a shoal of angels and wrasse, turned regally, effortlessly away. He pointed it out to Roland with exaggerated diving gestures-beginners always enjoyed feeling like initiates.

They reached the coral shelf, a wall of ochre and purple that fell dizzily away into blackness. The waters were still and unclouded; visibility was extraordinary. He glanced around unthinkingly and saw the dark hull of the boat and the menacing blurs of distant big fish in the deeper, cooler waters, and he felt a sharp twinge as he suddenly remembered the worst day of his life, visiting his sister in an intensive care unit in Thessalonike after the car crash. The place had been oppressive with the sounds of life support: the steady wheeze of ventilators, the low yet precarious pulse of monitors, the respectful, funeral home whispering of staff and visitors. The doctor had tried her best to prepare him, but he had still been too numb from his trip to the morgue, where he had to identify his parents, and so it had come as a shock to see Bee on the business end of a respirator and all the other attachments. He had felt dislocated, as though watching a play rather than real events. Her head had been unnaturally swollen, her skin pale and blue. He could still remember its waxy pallor, its uncharacteristic flabbiness. And he had never before realized how freckled she was around her eyes and in the crook of her elbow. He hadn't known what to do. He had looked around at her doctor, who gestured for him to sit down beside her. He had felt awkward putting his hand on hers; they'd never been a physically demonstrative family. He pressed her cool hand beneath his own, felt intense and startling anguish, something like parenthood. He squeezed her fingers between his own, held them to his lips, and remembered how he had joked to friends about what a curse it was to have a younger sister to look after. But having a younger sister wasn't something he had to worry about any longer.