The Alexander Cipher

‘Oh bollocks, mate,’ protested Rick, sitting back in his chair, shaking his head angrily. ‘You really had me going.’

‘You want me to tell you what we know?’

‘Sure,’ he said, still annoyed. ‘Why not?’

‘OK,’ said Knox. ‘The first thing you need to understand is that our sources are very unreliable. We don’t have any eyewitness accounts of Alexander’s life or campaigns. Everything we have, we have from later historians citing earlier ones. Second-, third-, even fourth-hand accounts.’

‘Chinese whispers,’ suggested Rick.

‘Exactly. But it’s worse even than that. When Alexander’s empire split up, each of the various factions wanted to paint themselves in the best light, and all the others in the worst, so there was a lot of propaganda written. Then the Romans came along. The Caesars worshipped Alexander. The Republicans loathed him. Historians were consequently extremely selective in their stories, depending on which camp they belonged to. One way or another, most of what we have is very badly slanted. Working out the truth is a nightmare.’

‘Duly noted.’

‘But we’re pretty sure that the catafalque travelled along the Euphrates from Babylon to Opis, then north-west along the Tigris. A magnificent procession, as you can imagine. People trekked hundreds of miles just to see it. And, sometime in 322 or 321 cV, it reached Syria. After that, it’s hard to know. Bear in mind that we’re talking about two things here. The first is Alexander’s embalmed body, lying in its coffin. The second is the funeral carriage and all the rest of the gold. OK?’

‘Yes.’

‘Now we know pretty much what happened to Alexander’s body and coffin. Ptolemy hijacked it and took it to Memphis, probably with the collaboration of the escort commander. But we don’t know what happened to the rest of the catafalque. Diodorus says that Alexander’s body was eventually taken to Alexandria in it, but his story is confused, and it seems clear he’s actually talking about the coffin, not the catafalque. And the most vivid description comes from a guy called Aelian. He says that Ptolemy was so fearful that Perdiccas would try to seize Alexander back that he dressed a likeness of his body in royal robes and a shroud, then laid it on a carriage of silver, gold and ivory, so that Perdiccas would charge off in pursuit of this decoy while Ptolemy took Alexander’s body on into Egypt by another route.’

Rick squinted. ‘You mean Ptolemy left the catafalque behind?’

‘That’s what Aelian suggests,’ said Knox. ‘You’ve got to remember, the main prize was Alexander. Ptolemy needed to get him back to Egypt quick, and you couldn’t travel quickly with the catafalque. Estimates suggest that it moved a maximum of ten kilometres a day, and that was with a large team of sappers preparing the road. It would have taken months to reach Memphis. And it couldn’t exactly have travelled discreetly either. Yet I’ve never come across any account of it being seen travelling the obvious route south from Syria through Lebanon and Israel to Sinai and the Nile; and surely someone would have seen it.’

‘So he left it behind, like I said?’

‘Possibly. But the catafalque represented an enormous amount of raw wealth. I mean, put yourself in Ptolemy’s shoes. What would you have done?’

Rick considered a few moments. ‘I’d have split up,’ he said. ‘One lot scoots ahead with the body. The other takes a different route with the catafalque.’

Knox grinned. ‘That’s what I’d have done too. There’s no proof, of course. But it makes sense. The next question is how. Syria’s on the Mediterranean, so he might have sailed down. But the Med was notoriously infested with pirates, and he’d have needed ships on hand; and if he’d felt it possible, he’d surely have taken Alexander’s body that way, and we’re pretty certain he didn’t.’

‘What were his alternatives?’

‘Well, assuming that he couldn’t move the catafalque as it was, he could have had it chopped up into manageable pieces and taken them southwest along the coast through Israel to Sinai; but that was the route he almost certainly took himself with Alexander’s body, and there’s not much point splitting up if you’re going to go the same way. So there’s a third possibility: that he sent it due south to the Gulf of Aqaba, then by boat around the Sinai Peninsula to the Red Sea coast.’

‘The Sinai Peninsula,’ grinned Rick. ‘You mean past these reefs here?’

‘These very dangerous reefs,’ agreed Knox.

Rick laughed and raised his glass in a toast. ‘Then let’s go find the bugger,’ he said.

And that’s exactly what they’d been trying to do ever since, though without success. At least, Knox had had a success of sorts. Initially, Rick had only been interested in finding treasure. But the more they’d searched, the more he’d learned, the more he’d caught the archaeological bug. He’d originally been a Clearance Diver in the Australian Navy, the closest they had to Special 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. ‘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, under-equipped. 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 forwards, 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 programme 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 programme.’

‘Surely that makes it impossible—’

‘It’s their way of choosing without having to choose. But 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 organise 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, bowed his head to prevent Ibrahim 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 realise you’re legally obliged to inform me anyway.’

‘Yes.’

‘That you could go to gaol if you don’t.’

Mohammed lifted his face, 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?’

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 up.

‘He leaked a trail of flour from a sack, only for birds of all colours and sizes to come feast upon it. Some people might have been put off by such an omen. Not Alexander.’

‘No, sir.’

‘He knew that it meant our city would provide shelter and sustenance for people from all nations. And he was right. Yes. He was right.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’m boring you.’

‘You said you wanted these letters out today, sir.’

‘I do, Maha. Indeed I do.’

Alexander hadn’t lived to see his city built. It had been Ptolemy and his progeny who’d benefited, ruling Egypt with gradually diminishing authority until the Romans had taken over, themselves displaced by the Arab conquest of AD 641. The administrative capital had been transferred south, first to Fustat, then to Cairo. Trade with Europe had fallen off; there’d no longer been such need for a Mediterranean port. The Nile Delta had silted up; the freshwater canals had fallen into disuse. Alexandria’s decline had continued inexorably after the Turks had taken control, and by the time Napoleon had invaded at the turn of the nineteenth century, barely six thousand people had lived here. But the city had since proved its resilience, and today some four million were packed together into high-density housing that rendered systematic excavation impossible. Archaeologists like Ibrahim, therefore, were at the mercy of developers, still tearing down old buildings to erect new ones in their place. And every time they did so, there was just a glimmer of a chance that they’d uncover something extraordinary.