The Alexander Cipher. Will Adams

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      ‘He jumped down inside the walls. All on his own. It was the one sure way to make his men come after him.’ And they had too. They’d torn the citadel apart to save him, and they’d only just got to him in time. The wounds he’d taken that day had probably contributed to his eventual death, but they’d added to his legend too. ‘He used to boast that he carried scars on every part of his body; except his back.’

      She laughed. ‘He sounds like a psycho.’

      ‘Different times,’ said Knox. ‘You know, when he captured the mother of the Persian Emperor, he put her under his personal protection. After he died, she was so upset, she starved herself to death. Not when her own son died, mind. When Alexander died. You don’t do that for a psychopath.’

      ‘Huh,’ she said. It was clear that she’d had enough talk of Alexander.

      She rose to her knees, placed her left palm flat on the deck the far side of Knox, then reached across him for the red and white icebox. She threw off its lid, sampled each of the bottles and cans inside for cool, taking her time, her breasts swinging free within her dangling bikini-top as she did so, making the most of themselves, nipples pink as petals. Knox’s mouth felt a little dry suddenly; knowing you were being worked didn’t make it ineffective. But it reminded him forcibly of Hassan too, so he scowled and looked away.

      She sat back down with a thump, an open bottle in her hand, a mischievous smile on her lips. ‘Want some?’ she asked.

      ‘No thanks.’

      She shrugged, took a swallow. ‘So have you known Hassan long?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘But you’re a friend of his, right?’

      ‘I’m on the payroll, love. That’s all.’

      ‘But he’s kosher, right?’

      ‘That’s hardly the smartest way to describe a Muslim.’

      ‘You know what I mean.’

      Knox shrugged. It was too late for her to be getting cold feet. Hassan had picked her up in a nightclub, not Sunday school. If she didn’t fancy him, she should have said no; simple as that. There was naïve and there was stupid. It wasn’t as though she didn’t know what she was doing with her body.

      Max Strati appeared around the line of cabins at that moment. He walked briskly over. ‘What happens here, then?’ he asked frostily. He’d come to Sharm el-Sheikh on holiday twenty years before, had never gone home. Egypt had been good to him; he wouldn’t risk that by pissing off Hassan.

      ‘Just talking,’ said Knox.

      ‘On your own time, please, not mine,’ said Max. ‘Mr al-Assyuti wishes his guests to have a final dive.’

      Knox pushed himself up. ‘I’ll get things ready.’

      The girl jumped up too, clapped with false enthusiasm. ‘Great! I didn’t think we’d be going down again.’

      ‘You will not join us, I think, Fiona,’ Max told her flatly. ‘We have not enough tanks. You will stay here with Mr al-Assyuti.’

      ‘Oh.’ She looked scared, suddenly; childlike. She put her hand tentatively on Knox’s forearm. He shook her off, walked angrily towards the stern, where the wetsuits, flippers, snorkels and goggles were stored in plastic crates next to the steel rack of air tanks. A swift glance confirmed what Knox already knew; there were plenty of full tanks. He felt stress suddenly in his nape. He could feel Max’s eyes burning into his back, so he forced himself not to look round. The girl wasn’t his problem. She was old enough to look after herself. He had no connection to her; no obligation. He’d worked his balls off to establish himself in this town; he wasn’t going to throw that away just because some bratty teenager had misjudged the price of her lunch. His self-justifications did little good. He felt sick in the pit of his stomach as he squatted down by the crates and started checking equipment.

      II

      The MAF Nile Delta excavation, Northern Egypt ‘Hello!’ called out Gaille Bonnard. ‘Is there anyone here?’

      She waited patiently for an answer, but none came. How odd. Kristos had been clear that Elena wanted help translating an ostracon, but there was no sign of her or her truck; and the magazine, where she normally worked, was closed up. She felt a rare flicker of irritation. She didn’t mind making the fifteen-minute walk from the other site; but she did mind having her time wasted. But then she noticed that the hut door was hanging ajar, which it had never been before, not while Gaille had been there at least. She knocked, pulled it open, looked within, allowing in a little sunlight. The interior walls were lined with shelves, stacked with battery lamps, hammers, mattocks, baskets, rope and other archaeological equipment. There was a dark square hole in the floor too, from which protruded the top of a wooden ladder.

      She crouched, cupped her hands around her mouth, and called down, but there was no answer. She waited a few seconds, then called down again. When there was still nothing, she stood, put her hands on her hips, and brooded. Elena Koloktronis head of the Macedonian Archaeological excavation was one of those leaders who believed all her team to be incompetent, and who therefore tried to do everything herself. She was constantly running off in the middle of one task to see to another. Maybe that was what had happened here. Or maybe there’d just been a mix-up with the message. The trouble was, it was impossible with Elena to do the right thing. If you went looking for her, you should have stayed where you were. If you stayed, she was furious that you hadn’t come looking.

      She crouched again, her hams and calves aching from her long day’s work, and called down a third time, beginning to feel a little alarmed. What if Elena had fallen? She turned on a battery lamp, but the shaft was deep, and the beam was lost in its darkness. There couldn’t be any harm in checking. She had no head for heights, so she took a deep breath as she put her hand on the ladder, reached one foot tentatively onto the top rung, then the other. When she felt secure, she began a cautious descent. The ladder creaked, as did the ropes that bound it to the wall. The shaft was deeper than she’d imagined, perhaps six metres. You couldn’t normally go down so far in the Delta without reaching the water table, but the site was on the crown of a hill, safe from the annual inundation of the Nile – one reason it had been occupied in ancient times. She called out again. Still silence, except for her own breathing, magnified by her narrow confines. Displaced earth trickled past. Curiosity began to get the better of apprehension. She’d heard whispers about this place, of course, though none of her colleagues dared speak openly about it.

      She reached the bottom at last, her feet crunching on shards of basalt, granite and quartzite, as though old monuments and statues had been smashed into smithereens and tipped down. A narrow passage led left. She called out again, but more quietly this time, hoping there’d be no answer. Her lamp started flickering and stuttering, then went out altogether. She tapped it against the wall, and it sprang back on like a fist opening. Her feet crackled on the stone chips as she advanced.

      There was a painting on the left-hand wall, its colours remarkably bright. It had evidently been cleaned, perhaps even retouched. A profiled humanoid figure dressed as a soldier but with the head and mane of a grey wolf was holding a mace in his left hand, and in his right a military standard, its base planted between his feet, a scarlet flag unfurling beside his right shoulder in front of a turquoise sky.

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