Will Adams - The Alexander Cipher

He tapped Roland on the arm and pointed upward. They surfaced together to find the boat perhaps sixty meters away, with no sign of anyone on deck. He felt a flutter of nerves in his chest as he spat the regulator from his mouth. "Stay here," he warned Roland. Then he set out in strong strokes across the crystal water. MOHAMMED EL-DAHAB clasped his case protectively in front of his chest as the woman led him up to the private office of Ibrahim Beyumi, head of the Supreme Council for Antiquities in Alexandria. She knocked once on the door, then pushed it open, beckoning Mohammed through. A dapper and rather effeminate-looking man looked up from where he sat behind a pine desk. "Yes, Maha?" he asked.

"This is Mohammed el-Dahab, sir. A builder. He says he's found something on his site."

"What kind of something?"

"Perhaps he should tell you himself," she suggested.

"Very well," sighed Ibrahim. He gestured for Mohammed to sit at his corner table. Mohammed looked around, dispiritedly assessing with a builder's eye the bulging wood-paneled walls, the fractured high ceiling with its missing clumps of plaster, the mildewed drawings of Alexandria's monuments. If this was the office of the top archaeologist in Alexandria, there wasn't as much money in antiquities as he had hoped.

Ibrahim read his expression. "I know," he complained. "But what can I do? Which is more important, excavation or my comfort?" Mohammed shrugged as Ibrahim came to sit beside him. He, at least, looked expensive with his sharp suit and gold watch. Settling his hands primly in his lap, he asked: "So you've found something, then?"

"Yes."

"You care to tell me about it?"

Mohammed swallowed. He was a big man, not easily cowed by physical dangers, but educated people intimidated him. Yet there was something kindly about Ibrahim; he seemed like a man who could be trusted. Mohammed set his case on the table, opened it, withdrew his framed photograph of Layla, and laid it facing Ibrahim. Touching and seeing her image restored his courage. "This is my daughter," he said. "Her name is Layla."

Ibrahim squinted curiously at Mohammed. "Allah has indeed blessed you."

"Thank you, yes. Unfortunately, Layla is sick."

"Ah," said Ibrahim, leaning back. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"They call it Burkitt's lymphoma. It appeared in her stomach like a grape, and then a mango, beneath her skin. Her surgeons removed it; she had chemotherapy. We thought she'd conquered it."

Ibrahim rubbed his throat. "Maha said you'd found something-"

"Her doctors are good people," said Mohammed. "But they're overworked, underequipped, and they have no money. They wait for-"

"Excuse me, but Maha said you'd found-"

"They wait for her disease to progress so far that there's nothing more they can do." Mohammed leaned forward and said softly but fiercely: "That time is not yet here. My daughter still has one chance."

Ibrahim hesitated, then asked reluctantly, "And that is?"

"A bone marrow transplant."

A look of polite horror crossed Ibrahim's face. "But aren't those incredibly expensive?"

Mohammed waved that aside. "Our Medical Research Institute has a program of publicly funded transplants, but they won't consider a patient unless they've already identified a donor match. But they'll not run tests for a match unless the patient is already in the program."

"But that makes it impossible-"

"It's their way of choosing without having to choose. So unless I can finance these tests, my daughter will die."

Ibrahim said weakly: "You can't expect the SCA to-"

"These tests aren't expensive," said Mohammed urgently. "It's just that the chances of a match are low. My wife and I, our closest family, our friends-we've all taken the tests, but without success. I can persuade others, more distant cousins, friends of friends, but only if I organize and pay. I've tried everywhere to borrow money for this, but already this disease has put me so far in debt that…" He felt tears coming; he broke off, bowing his head to prevent Ibrahim from seeing.

There was silence for a while. Then Ibrahim murmured, "Maha said you'd found something on your site."

"Yes."

"Am I to understand that you want money for these tests in exchange for telling me about it."

"Yes."

"You realize you're legally obliged to inform me anyway."

"Yes."

"That you could go to jail if you don't."

Mohammed lifted his face and met Ibrahim's gaze with perfect calmness. "Yes."

Ibrahim nodded, gestured around his shabby offices. "And you understand I cannot promise anything?"

"Yes."

"Very well. Why don't you tell me what you've found."

Knox reached the dive boat quickly. He took off his fins, tossed them aboard, and climbed up. He could see no sign of Fiona or Hassan. Now that he was here, he wasn't certain what to do. He felt conspicuous and rather foolish. He unbuckled and slipped off his BCD and tank, carrying them with him as he walked quietly across the deck to the port-side cabins. He tested the doors one by one, looking inside. He finally came to one that was locked. He rattled it. There was a muffled cry inside, then silence.

Some people enjoyed and sought out violence. Not Knox. He had a sudden vision of himself standing there, and it unnerved him badly. He turned and walked away, but then the door opened behind him. "Yes?" demanded Hassan.

"I'm sorry," said Knox, without looking around. "I made a mistake."

"Come back!" said Hassan irritably. "Yes, you. Max's boy. I'm talking to you. Come here now."

Knox turned reluctantly, walked back toward Hassan, eyes submissively lowered. Hassan didn't even bother to block his view, so that Knox could see Fiona lying on the bed, forearms crossed over her exposed breasts, cotton trousers half pulled down around her clenched and lifted knees. There was a cut above her right eye; her upper lip was bleeding. A torn white T-shirt lay discarded on the floor.

"Well?" demanded Hassan. "What did you want?"

Knox glanced again at Fiona. She shook her head at him, to say it was all right, she could cope with this, he shouldn't get involved. The selfless gesture triggered a protective urge in Knox that in turn suffused him with rage. He swung his scuba tank like a wrecking ball into Hassan's solar plexus, doubling him over. Then he clubbed him on the side of his jaw, which sent him reeling backward. Now that he'd started, he couldn't help himself. He hit Hassan again and again until the man collapsed on the floor. It was only when Fiona pulled him away that his mind cleared.

Hassan was unconscious, his face and chest painted with blood. He looked so badly beaten that Knox knelt and was relieved to find a pulse in his throat.

"Quick," said Fiona, tugging his hand. "The others will be coming back."

They ran together out of the cabin. Max and Nessim were indeed swimming back toward the boat, while Roland and the two women watched from farther off. Knox ran to the bridge, where he ripped wiring from beneath the two-way radio and ignition. All the keys were kept in a plastic tub on the floor, and he grabbed the lot. The speedboat was tied by a single rope to their stern. He hurried down the ladder, hauled the speedboat toward them, helped Fiona into its bow, and followed her. Untying the towrope, he then jumped into the driver's seat and slipped the key into the ignition just as Max and Nessim reached them and started to climb aboard. When Knox spun the boat in a tight circle and roared away, the wash of water ripped Max free, but the burly security man, Nessim, held on, pulled himself aboard, and stood up. He was a tough bastard and angry as hell, but he was hampered by his wet suit and tank. Knox threw the boat into another tight spin, this time sending him flailing over the side.