Chapter Eighteen
BASTIAAN AND THREE burly Egyptian security guards kept the disgruntled excavators out of the Macedonian tomb while Mohammed and Mansoor attacked the plinth as they had on the day before, working the tips of their crowbars beneath one end and levering it up. It came more easily this time. They raised it a few inches, just enough for Ibrahim to slide in a hydraulic jack, which they pumped high enough to slide a pallet-trolley beneath. Then they repeated the process at the other end and simply wheeled the plinth back against the wall.
There was a fat black shaft in the floor, just as Ibrahim had glimpsed. They all gathered around. Mansoor directed his flashlight down. Light glinted brightly from five yards below.
“Water,” said Mansoor. “I’ll go first.” He turned to Mohammed. “Tie a noose in a rope. You’ll lower me, yes?”
“Yes,” agreed Mohammed.
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KNOX HAD NO TIME FOR FINESSE. He clutched his hand over the bulb of his flashlight to dim it yet allow him just enough light to see what he was doing; then he stripped off his T-shirt so that he could use it to erase his footprints in the dust as he backed out of the chamber and down the steps. But Mansoor was already being lowered on a rope, flashing his light all around him and down the passage, so that Knox had to duck back out of sight. “There’s a corridor!” shouted Mansoor as he splashed into the shallow water and stepped off the stirrup. “I’ll take a look.”
“No!” said Ibrahim. “Wait.”
“But I’ll just—”
“Wait for us.”
The light vanished momentarily. Knox risked another glance, saw the stirrup slithering back up. But then Mansoor shone his flashlight again down the corridor, his frustration evident, giving Knox no chance to escape. Someone else was being lowered now: Gaille, twisting this way and that on the rope. Mansoor turned to help her down. It was Knox’s only chance. He ran along the corridor to his dismantled wall, trying hard not to make waves. But Gaille gave a shriek of alarm. “There’s someone there!” she cried.
Knox stepped through the hole in the wall as Mansoor blazed his flashlight down the corridor. “There’s no one,” he laughed. “How could there be?”
“I could have sworn,” said Gaille.
“Just your imagination,” said Mansoor. “Places like this will do that.”
Knox was only half listening, his heart still hammering, frantically rebuilding his wall from within, taking care to keep as silent as possible. He couldn’t risk his flashlight, so he had to work by feel and what little light reached him from Mansoor, Gaille, and the others as they gathered one by one. But by the time they were all down, his wall was still only three-quarters rebuilt.
“Okay,” said Ibrahim. “Lead on.”
Knox froze. He couldn’t do any more now except press himself back into the shadows and pray. Light flickered and flashed and then grew almost blinding. There was still a great, gaping hole in his wall. They had to spot it. But somehow, first one then the next walked past with heads bowed, watching the floor to make certain of their footing. Ibrahim, Mansoor, Elena, Gaille, and then, shockingly, Nicolas Dragoumis. Nicolas Dragoumis! Last night’s mock execution suddenly had a completely new suspect.
They paused, as he had, to illuminate and read the inscription on the architrave. “Look!” said Elena excitedly, nudging Nicolas. “Kelonymus!” Her tone, and the presence of Nicolas Dragoumis, triggered recognition in Knox, so that he remembered at last why the names Kelonymus and Akylos were so familiar.
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IBRAHIM ENTERED THE CHAMBER FIRST. He stood there in silent awe as the others arrived behind him and took their own places on the bottom step. He gazed almost drunkenly around the chamber. It was only when Nicolas made to step up into the chamber that he came back to his senses. “Stop!” he said. “No one goes in.”
“But—”
“No one goes in,” he repeated. He felt, suddenly, a surge of authority. He was the senior representative here of the Supreme Council for Antiquities, and this—as no one could for a moment doubt—was a find of historic importance. He beckoned for Mansoor. “We have to inform Cairo at once,” he said.
“Cairo?” winced Nicolas. “Is that really necessary? Surely this isn’t a matter for—”
“It’s a matter for whoever I say it is.”
“But—”
“You’re our sponsor and we appreciate your support. This is no longer a matter for you. Is that clear?”
Nicolas had to force his smile. “Whatever you say.”
“Gaille. You will take photographs, yes?”
“Of course.”
“Mansoor, you stay with her.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll instruct Mohammed and the security guards not to let anyone else down. I’ll arrange for the necropolis to be cleared. When you’re satisfied that Gaille has enough photographs, replace the plinth over the shaft. Then make sure the site is empty and seal off the mouth of the stairwell. I’m sure Mohammed can find a way. Sealed tight, mind. No one is to get in or out. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll have Maha arrange around-the-clock security. You’re not to leave until they arrive. Then bring Gaille to my villa. Drive her yourself. And don’t let her camera out of your sight.”
“Yes, sir.”
“As for me, I’m going to notify the Supreme Council that we’ve just discovered the most important antiquity in the modern history of Alexandria.”
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KNOX QUIETLY FINISHED rebuilding the wall before Ibrahim and the others left. Since Gaille and Mansoor remained behind taking photographs, he didn’t dare move, scared the noise would give him away. Cramps built agonizingly in his thighs and calves until Mansoor was finally satisfied, and they left.
There was no time to waste. If he didn’t get out quick, he’d be sealed in with all the other corpses. He cleared the area of traces of his presence, then squeezed back into the chamber beneath the rotunda, replacing the blocks as he’d found them. He stripped naked and stuffed everything into his bag, dropped down into the water, breathed deeply, then navigated his way back to the steps, pulling the bag behind him. He was lucky, there was no one waiting. In fact, the whole necropolis was eerily dark and silent. He brushed himself dry, pulled on his trousers and T-shirt, filled his pockets with everything of value, then stuffed the rest deep into an empty loculus. Then he hurried for the rotunda. Metal screeched and banged as he reached it. He looked up to see daylight already partially eclipsed by the bottom of a blue container, with a second already being positioned next to it to complete the seal. Knox pounded up the steps, his thighs protesting, diving out just as the container was maneuvered into place. Everyone stared incredulously as he rolled up onto his feet and ran for the gates. “Stop him!” yelled Mansoor. “Someone stop him!”
At the site exit, two security guards blocked his way. He dropped a shoulder, feinted right, sidestepped left, spinning one of the guards around, bursting out into the street, across traffic, dodging a minibus, putting distance between himself and the chasing pack, shouting at people to stop him, yelling into their phones. He cut down an alley toward his Jeep, three men chasing hard. A shopkeeper jumped out to block his path, but he broke through the halfhearted tackle, glancing around to see the three getting closer. And now two soldiers appeared ahead, reaching for their guns. This was turning ugly fast, but it was too late to stop now. He ducked left, his chest aching, a stitch burning in his side, his legs on fire with lactic acid. He vaulted a wall, crawled beneath a gate, then ran to the dark alley where he’d left the Jeep. He pulled the tarpaulin back just far enough for him to sneak beneath, unlock and open his door, and climb inside, where he sprawled across the front seats, keening for breath while simultaneously struggling for silence, listening to frantic footsteps hurrying up the alley behind him, praying he hadn’t been seen.