The Alexander Cipher. Will Adams
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Forces. Working in Sharm had allowed him to keep diving, but he’d missed that sense of mission. Their quest had restored it to him to such an extent that he’d determined to make a new career in underwater archaeology, studying hard, borrowing Knox’s books and other materials, pestering him with questions …
Roland’s booties were 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 now.’ He beckoned behind him and Fiona came reluctantly into view. She’d 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. Her moist bikini top had made her T-shirt pearly, and her nipples showed through, pebble-dashed with fear. When Hassan caught Knox staring, he grinned wolfishly and put his arm around her shoulders, almost daring Knox to do something about it.
They said on the streets of Sharm that Hassan had slit the throat of a second cousin for sleeping with a woman he’d put his mark on. They said that he’d beaten an American tourist into a coma for protesting when he’d 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, savouring 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. You didn’t achieve that by being soft. Now they said he was bored, looking to extend his empire every which way he could, including 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 kneeled to pass him his fins to pull on in the water. The big German spun backwards like a waterwheel, then splashed to the surface again, guffawing maniacally, slapping the water.
‘Hold on,’ said Knox tightly. ‘I’ll be with you in a second.’ He kitted himself up, shrugged on and clasped his BCD and tank, goggles loose around his neck, fins in his hand. He started down the ladder and was about to let go when he glanced up at the bridge one final time. Hassan was still staring down at him, shaking his head in mock disappointment. Beside him, Fiona had crossed her arms anxiously over her chest. Her hair was straggled, her shoulders hunched and miserable. She looked her age suddenly, or lack of it; a child who’d 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 basically people were nice.
Just for a moment, Knox imagined it was his sister, Bee, standing there.
He shook his head angrily. The girl was nothing like Bee. She was an adult. She made her own choices. Next time she’d know better. That was all. 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 backwards to explode like fireworks into the womb-warm waters of the Red Sea. He resolutely didn’t look back as he led Roland towards the reef, staying a modest four metres deep, in easy reach of the surface should anything go wrong. A masque 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 exceptional. 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 dull, precarious pulse of monitors, the respectful, funeral-home whispering of staff and visitors. The doctor had tried her best to prepare him, but he’d still been too numb from his trip to the morgue, where he’d just had to identify his parents, and so it had come as a shock to see Bee on the business end of a feeding tube and all the other attachments. He’d felt dislocated, as though he’d been watching a play rather than real events. Her head had been unnaturally swollen, and her skin had been pale and blue. He could remember its waxy pallor still, its uncharacteristic flabbiness. And he’d never before realised how freckled she was around her eyes and in the crook of her elbow. He hadn’t known what to do. He’d looked round at her doctor, who’d gestured for him to sit down beside her. He’d felt awkward putting his hand on hers; they’d never been a physically demonstrative family. He’d pressed her cool hand beneath his own, had felt intense and startling anguish, something like parenthood. He’d squeezed her fingers between his own, held them to his lips, and remembered how he’d joked to friends about what a curse it was to have a younger sister to look after.
He didn’t any longer.
He tapped Roland on the arm and pointed upwards. They surfaced together. The boat was perhaps sixty metres away. There was no sign of anyone on deck. Knox felt a flutter of nerves in his chest as his heart realised his decision before his head. He spat the regulator from his mouth. ‘Stay here,’ he warned Roland. Then he set out in strong strokes across the crystal water.
III
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 upon his door then pushed it open, beckoned him through. A dapper and rather effeminate-looking man was sitting behind a pine desk. He looked up from his work.
‘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-panelled 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’d 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. He settled his hands primly in his lap, and 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. There was something kindly about Ibrahim, however. He looked like a man who could be trusted. Mohammed set his case on the table, opened it, withdrew his framed photograph of Layla, laid it facing Ibrahim. Touching and seeing her image restored his courage.