The Alexander Cipher

Chapter Twenty-nine

The oracle of Ammon proved to be a hump of rock some four kilometers out of Siwa Town. Despite its onetime fame, there was no parking lot, no concession stand, and no entry charge. When Gaille, Elena, and their guides arrived early the next morning, they were alone except for a wizened old man sitting against a wall opposite the entrance, holding out a trembling hand in hope of alms. Gaille reached for her purse. "You'll only encourage them," warned Elena. Gaille hesitated, then gave him a banknote anyway. He smiled gratefully.

Two young girls with plaited waist-length black hair came forward, hoping to sell them some of the homemade bracelets around their wrists. Zayn scowled at them and they ran away giggling.

Gaille had been a little uncertain at first of Mustafa and Zayn, but she quickly warmed to them. Their knowledge of Siwa was impressive. And there was something touching about their friendship: an ancient tradition of homosexual marriage was dying hard in Siwa; local song and poetry still celebrated such close relationships, and she couldn't help but wonder.

Mustafa was big, with bark-rough skin darkened by sun as much as genetics, to judge from the paler bands around his neck and beneath his watchband. He was absurdly fit and nimble despite smoking incessantly. He had a special relationship with his ancient and temperamental truck. No gauges or dials worked anymore, and every frill was long gone, from the ball of the gearshift to the rubber of the pedals and the carpet beneath, but he could still make it run.

Zayn was a whip of a man, no more than forty, though his hair and beard were streaked with silver. While Mustafa drove, Zayn obsessively oiled and polished a thin-bladed ivory-handled knife that he kept folded beneath his robes. Each time he put it away, the slick and spotless blade would scrape against the sheath, so that instantly it needed cleaning again, and he'd draw it back out and examine it and mutter Siwan obscenities.

A short but steep flight of steps led up beneath a lintel into the main body of the oracle, a skeleton of walls like a wooden ship that had rotted in estuary mud and later dried out. Gaille felt a moment's quiet awe as she stood there. There weren't many places in the world where you could be certain that Alexander himself had once occupied that exact space, but this was one of them. The oracle had been esteemed throughout the Mediterranean during Alexander's time-a rival to Delphi, perhaps even its superior. Legend had it that Heracles had visited, and Alexander had claimed Heracles as his direct ancestor. Perseus was reputed to have made the trek, too, and Perseus had been associated with the Persian Empire, which Alexander intended to make his own. Cimon, an Athenian general, had famously sent a deputation to Siwa to ask whether his siege of Cyprus would succeed. The oracle had refused to answer, except to say that the person who asked the question was already with him. And when his emissaries had returned to the fleet, they learned that Cimon had died on that exact day. Pindar had written a hymn of praise to the oracle and, upon asking it for the greatest luck available to humans, had promptly died. But perhaps the incident that had the greatest impact was the invasion of Egypt by the Persian king Cambyses. He sent out three armies: one to Ethiopia, the second to Carthage, and the third across the desert to Siwa. This third army had vanished without a trace, and the oracle had gained a certain awed respect as a result. "How did the oracle work?" asked Gaille.

"The priests carried the physical manifestation of Zeus-Ammon in a golden boat decorated with precious stones, while young virgins chanted," said Elena. "The chief priest read out the questions of supplicants, and Ammon answered them by dancing forward or backward. Unfortunately, Alexander was granted a private audience, so we don't know for sure what he asked or was told."

"I thought he asked about his father's murderers."

"That's one tradition," acknowledged Elena. "The story goes that he asked whether all his father's murderers had been dealt with, and that the Oracle replied that the question was meaningless because his father was divine and therefore couldn't be murdered; but all the murderers of Philip II had been appropriately dealt with, if that was what he meant. Probably apocryphal, of course. All we know for sure is that Zeus-Ammon became Alexander's favorite God, that he sent emissaries here when Hephaiston died, and that he asked to be buried here, too." She picked up a pinch of soil, examined it momentarily, and threw it away.

"It must have been a terrible blow to the oracle's priests," said Gaille. "Thinking they were going to get Alexander's body, then learning it was going to Alexandria."

Elena nodded. "Ptolemy soothed their pain. According to Pausanias, he sent them a stele of apology and handsome gifts."

Gaille climbed as high as she could safely go, then gazed all around. The landscape here wasn't like Europe, where the hills and mountains had been thrust upward by geological pressure and time. This entire region had once been a sandstone plain high above, but most of it had collapsed. The hills that remained were simply the last men standing. She oriented herself north, Al-Dakrur to her right, the great salt lake and Siwa Town to her left. Ahead, the air was so clear, she could see dark ridge lines through her field glasses, many kilometers away. The sand in between was punctured by thrusts of nicotine-brown rock, some no bigger than small cars, others like tower blocks. "Where the hell will we even start?" she asked.

"All great tasks are just a large number of small tasks," observed Elena primly. She spread a chart out on flat ground and rested a stone on each corner. Then she set up a tripod, screwed in a camera and telephoto lens, and began a rigorous study, taking a line from the Siwan Hill of the Dead, sweeping her camera to the horizon, then back again before adjusting it a hairsbreadth to her right. Each time she found a new rock or hill, she photographed it, then invited Mustafa and Zayn to study it through the lens. They squabbled for a while before making a mark on the chart. Each mark would mean a visit and a survey.

Gaille sat on a hump of rock and stared out over the desert, the breeze buffeting her back, whipping strands of hair forward into her eyes. It was unexpected, coming to an alien land yet feeling so at home. And she realized, almost to her surprise, that she was happy.

Nicolas needed somewhere private to make the kind of phone calls that would secure Layla her medical treatment, so he asked Ibrahim if he wouldn't mind his borrowing Ibrahim's villa for the afternoon. Ibrahim was so eager to help that he drove him there himself. "You couldn't excuse me for a few minutes?" asked Nicolas when they arrived.

"Of course."

As ever, he first rang his father.

"Well?" asked Philip Dragoumis.

"I've found it."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure I've found the place. Whether there's anything inside…" He explained what had happened, how he had seen the pictures in the books Gaille had asked Ibrahim to send down to her, and their significance.

"I told you she'd be the one," said Dragoumis.

"Yes, Father, you did."

"Well? What's our plan?"

Nicolas told his father how far he had gotten. They discussed and refined his ideas, decided on the team, the equipment they would need, the weapons and logistical supplies. "I'll take operational charge, of course," said Nicolas.

"No," said Dragoumis. "I will."

"Are you sure?" asked Nicolas anxiously. "You know we can't guarantee your safety away from-"

"You think I'd miss this?" asked Dragoumis. "I've spent my whole life striving for this."

"As you wish."

"And good work, Nicolas. This is well done. This is very well done."

"Thank you." Nicolas had to wipe his eyes. It wasn't often that his father congratulated him, but that only made it all the more special when he did. He ended the call and sat there in a glow. Then he shook his head sternly to refocus himself; this was no time to wallow. Nothing had been achieved yet, and it wouldn't be unless he got busy. He rang his Cairo fixer, Gabbar Mounim, first.

"Yes?" asked Mounim. "I trust everything is to your satisfaction."

"As always," agreed Nicolas. "But there's something else I'd like you to do for me. Two things, actually."

"A pleasure."

"Our mutual friend. I'd like him to summon his colleague Dr. Aly Sayed of Siwa Oasis to an emergency meeting." If Sayed had deliberately hidden these books from Gaille, as Nicolas suspected, he must have made the connection, too, which meant they needed him out of Siwa while they went to work.

"How much of an emergency, exactly?"

"Tomorrow, if possible."

Mounim sucked in a breath. "It won't be easy, but I'll see what I can do. And the other?"

"I don't suppose you have influence at Alexandria's Medical Center, do you?"

Elena was driving back into town when Nicolas called on her cell phone. "We need to meet," he said. "How soon can you get to Alexandria?"

"For crying out loud, Nicolas, I've only just arrived here."

"This can't wait, Elena. Something's happened. My father wants to discuss it with you."

"Your father? He's coming to Alexandria?"

"Yes."

Elena breathed deep. Philip Dragoumis didn't leave Northern Greece on a whim. If he was coming here, it had to mean something truly significant. "Fine," she said. "Where?"

"Ibrahim's villa."

"When?"

"Tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock."

"I'll be there." She snapped her phone shut, already making plans. Leave now and she could be there in time for a night with Augustin. "I'm needed back in Alexandria," she told Gaille.

"Alexandria?" frowned Gaille. "Will you… be gone long?"

"How am I supposed to know that?"

"You want me and the guys to start looking?"

Elena frowned. Gaille had a distressing habit of finding things without her help. "No," she said. "Do nothing until I come back."

"As you wish."

"You mean to tell ME that Knox escaped you again?" asked Hassan incredulously when Nessim had completed his telephone report.

"He had a friend with him," said Nessim.

"A friend?"

"We'll find them," said Nessim, striving to sound more bullish than he felt. His confidence had been shot by what happened. Having the tables turned so completely would do that to a man, as would a night spent struggling to escape from an outbuilding, or wandering half-naked across farmland with a wounded comrade. But, to Nessim's surprise, the thing that had struck him deepest about the entire fiasco were Knox's words about his lack of honor. Nessim was old enough and wise enough to know that insults didn't hurt unless they rang true, and so now he couldn't stop asking painful questions of himself: How had it come to this? What was he doing working for a man like Hassan? Was money really that important to him? "We'll watch all his friends and associates," he said. "We'll put out another reward. It's just a matter of time before we find him again."

"So you keep telling me," said Hassan.

"I'm sorry," said Nessim. "He's better at this than we imagined possible. But now we know. Now we're prepared. Next time we'll have him."

"Next time? How can I be sure there'll be a next time?"

"Another week. That's all I ask."

"Can you give me one good reason why I shouldn't fire you and hire him instead?"

"You'd have to find him first," muttered Nessim beneath his breath.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing."

There was a stony silence. Then, "I think it's time we discussed this face-to-face, don't you?"

"Face-to-face?" asked Nessim bleakly.

"Yes," said Hassan. "Face-to-face."

Mohammed was astonished to see Professor Rafai step out of the taxi and slam its door behind him. He had not expected to see Layla's oncologist again, certainly not on his building site. "There is somewhere private?" demanded Rafai, trembling with anger.

"Private?"

"To talk."

Mohammed frowned in bewilderment. "Now?"

"Of course now! You think I'm here to book an appointment?"

Mohammed shrugged and led Rafai to his cabin office.

"I don't know how you do this!" shouted Rafai as the door closed. He removed his half-moon glasses and jabbed them like a scalpel at Mohammed's face. "Who do you think you are? I base my decisions on clinical evidence. Clinical evidence! You think you can bully me into changing my mind?"

"I'm sorry for my behavior in your office," frowned Mohammed. "But I've already apologized. I was under immense strain. I don't know what else-"

"You think this is about that?" cried Rafai. "This isn't about that."

"Then what?"

"Only your daughter!" yelled Rafai. "Only ever your daughter! You think she's the only one sick. A young boy called Saad Gama waits for bone marrow. A true scholar of Islam. You want to explain to him that we must postpone his treatment because you have more influential friends? You want to tell his parents he must die so that your daughter might live? You think they don't care for him?"

"Professor Rafai, in the name of Allah, what are you talking about?"

"Don't deny it! Don't insult me by denying it! I know you've done this, though how you have the power… Well, let me tell you, Saad's blood is on your hands! Your hands, not mine."

Mohammed went cold. He asked dizzily, "What are you saying? Are you saying you'll give Layla her transplant?"

Rafai glared furiously. "I'm saying I won't risk my department over this."

"But her transplant?" insisted Mohammed. "Layla will receive her transplant?"

"Tell your friends in Cairo to stay away from me and my staff. If the procedure goes wrong, we'll not be held accountable, you hear? Tell your people that. Tell your people!" He stormed out of the office. Mohammed's hands were shaking as if from palsy, so that he couldn't even hold his phone steady when he tried to dial Nur.

Nicolas was on the phone with his bodyguard, Bastiaan, when Ibrahim knocked and entered, bringing with him a cup of coffee and a plate of cakes, which he set down on the corner of his desk. Nicolas didn't bother to stop talking, but he slipped into euphemism and turned his back. "You've arranged for the purchases?"

"Vasileios is flying in with your father. He's been briefed on what we need."

"And when will you be at the villa?"

"I'm on my way now. Shouldn't be more than fifteen minutes."

"Good. And make sure…"

Behind him, Ibrahim gave a little gasp. Nicolas turned to see him holding open one of Gaille's books, staring in shock at a picture of Bir al-Hammam. Nicolas closed his eyes in irritation with himself. "Make it ten minutes," he told Bastiaan in his coarsest Greek. "We've got a problem." He killed the call and plucked the book from Ibrahim's hand. "There's something I need to tell you," he said.

"What? But have you seen this picture of-"

"Quickly," said Nicolas, grabbing Ibrahim's arm and hustling him through to the kitchen.

"What is it?" asked Ibrahim, bemused. "What's going on?" Nicolas opened and shut all the drawers until he found a kitchen knife, and he held it up so that its blade glinted. Ibrahim paled. "What… what are you doing with that?"

Nicolas held the knife out wide in his left hand, so that Ibrahim's eyes followed its glittery menace. Then he punched the archaeologist with his right, sending him flailing onto his back. He knelt down and pressed the sharp steel against Ibrahim's throat before he could recover. "My colleague Bastiaan is on his way," he said. "You're going to be nice and quiet until he arrives, aren't you?"

"Yes," agreed Ibrahim.

Knox had taken over the wheel while Rick caught up on his sleep. It was midafternoon when he reached Farafra, where his friend and Demotic expert Ishaq lived. He nudged Rick awake. "We're here, mate."

"Always the way," grunted Rick irritably. "Loveliest bloody dream."

Knox hadn't been to Ishaq's home in several years, but Farafra was small, and the house wasn't hard to find. He was looking forward to seeing his old friend. They went back a long way, to Knox's first season at Mallawi. A small and ridiculously intelligent man, Ishaq had spent most of his leisure time in his hammock, staring lazily up at the sky. But give him some Demotic to translate, and there was no one better in Egypt.

Unfortunately, when they parked outside his home, everything was shuttered. They banged on his front door, but there was no response. They went a couple of doors down the road to the information center, which doubled as his office, but there was no one there, either. "He must be out on excavation," said Knox, checking the time. "He'll be back soon."

"Let's have a look at the bloody photos of this inscription of yours, then," muttered Rick.

"I don't have them with me."

"You what?"

Knox gave him a look. "You don't really think I'm stupid enough to travel halfway across Egypt with enough incriminating evidence on my laptop to get me ten years?"

"So how the hell's your mate going to translate them?"

"I e-mailed them to myself. Ishaq's wired."

They sat in the shade of a date palm to wait. Torpor set in. When flies settled on them, they lacked even the energy to swat them away. A young boy in robes pushing an old bicycle much too big for him approached tentatively. "You look for Ishaq?" he asked.

"Yes. Why? Do you know where he is?"

"He leave for Cairo. A meeting. A big meeting. All the desert archaeologists are to be there."

"Did he say when he'd be back?"

"Tomorrow," shrugged the boy. "The day after."

"Ballocks," muttered Rick. "What now?"

"I don't know," said Knox. "Let me think."

"I don't believe this Kelonymus bastard. Everything else was in Greek. Why the hell did he have to switch to Demotic for this bloody inscription?"

Knox's jaw dropped; he turned to look at his friend.

"What?" asked Rick. "What did I say?"

"I think you've just gone and cracked it," said Knox.