The Alexander Cipher. Will Adams

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       THREE

      I

      Knox reached the dive boat quickly. He took off his flippers, tossed them aboard, 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, carried it 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 enjoy and seek out violence. Not Knox. He had a sudden disembodied 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 towards 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 small gesture triggered something utterly unexpected in Knox, something like rage. He swung his scuba tank like a wrecking ball into Hassan’s solar plexus, doubling him up. Then he clubbed him on the side of his jaw, and sent him reeling backwards. Now that he’d started, he couldn’t help himself. He hit Hassan again and again until he collapsed on the ground. 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 kneeled and was relieved to find a pulse in his throat.

      ‘Quick,’ said Fiona, tugging his hand. ‘The others are coming back.’

      They ran together out of the cabin. Max and Nessim were swimming towards the boat. They shouted furiously when they saw Knox. He ran to the bridge, ripped wiring from beneath the two-way radio and ignition. All the keys were kept in a plastic tub on the floor. He grabbed the lot. The speedboat was tied by a single rope to their stern. He hurried down the ladder, hauled the speedboat towards them, helped Fiona onto its bow, followed himself, untying the towrope, jumping into the driver’s seat, slipping the key into the ignition just as Max and Nessim reached them and started to climb aboard. Knox spun the boat in a tight circle and roared away; the wash of water ripped Max free, but Nessim held on, pulled himself aboard, stood. He was a tough bastard, Nessim, angry as hell, but he was hampered by his wetsuit and his tank. Knox threw the boat into another tight spin and sent him flailing over the side.

      Knox straightened out and roared off towards Sharm. He shook his head at himself. He’d done it now. He’d fucking done it. He needed to reach his Jeep before Hassan or Nessim could put the word out. If they caught him … Christ! He felt sick at the prospect of what they’d do. He needed out of Sharm, out of Sinai, out of Egypt altogether. He needed out tonight. He glanced around. Fiona was sitting on the bench seat at the back, head bowed, teeth chattering, a blue towel wrapped tight around her trembling shoulders. For the life of him, he couldn’t think how she’d reminded him of Bee. He slammed the heel of his hand against the control panel in anger at himself. If there was one thing he hated, it was memory. You worked your balls off to build a life in a place like this that had no links whatsoever with your past; no friends, no family, nothing to weigh you down. But it wasn’t enough. You took your memory with you wherever you went, and it’d fuck you up in a heartbeat.

      II

      Ibrahim Beyumi walked Mohammed down to the street to wish him farewell, then thanked him and watched him disappear round the corner. He could have followed him, of course, and found the location of his site that way. But the big man’s story had touched him, not least because he’d effectively put his career and freedom in Ibrahim’s hands, and Ibrahim always liked to repay such trust. Besides, he’d left a telephone number to call when he had news, so he’d be easy enough to track down, if necessary.

      Maha, Ibrahim’s assistant, started to rise when he walked over to her desk, but he settled her with a palm, then went to consult the vast street map of Alexandria pinned to the wall behind her. As ever, it filled him with wistful pride, marked as it was with every antiquity in his beloved city, including Pompey’s Pillar, Ras el-Tin, the Latin Cemeteries, the Roman theatre, Fort Qait Bey. There were some fine sites among them, and he boosted them vigorously, but he knew in his heart that none of them was in the first rank of Egyptian antiquities. Alexandria boasted no pyramids, no Karnak or Abu Simbel, no Valley of the Kings. And yet, two thousand years ago, its buildings had been something to marvel at. The Pharos lighthouse had been one of the Seven Wonders. The Mouseion had led the world in learning and culture. The Temple of Serapis had awed worshippers with its splendour and the trickery of its flying statues. The Royal Palaces of Cleopatra were imbued with extraordinary romance. And, most of all, it had boasted the mausoleum of the city’s patriarch, Alexander the Great himself. If just one of these great marvels had survived, Alexandria would surely now rival Luxor or Giza on the tourist trail. But none had.

      ‘That man,’ said Ibrahim.

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘He’s found a necropolis.’

      Maha looked around. ‘Did he say where?’

      ‘In the old Royal Quarter.’ Ibrahim traced out the approximate area with his finger, then tapped its heart. Remarkably, it was impossible to be sure even of the broad outlines of the ancient city, let alone streets or buildings. They’d all been victims of Alexandria’s particular location. With the Mediterranean to the north, Lake Mariut to the south and west, and the marshy Nile Delta to the east, there’d been no room to expand. When new buildings had been needed, old ones had been torn down to make way for them. Fort Qait Bey was built on the ruined foundations of the Pharos lighthouse. And the limestone blocks of Ptolemaic palaces had been reused for Roman temples, Christian churches and Islamic mosques, mirroring the various ages of the city.

      He turned to Maha with a storyteller’s smile. ‘Did you know that Alexander marked out our city’s walls himself?’

      ‘Yes, sir,’ she replied dutifully, but without looking СКАЧАТЬ