Chapter Twenty-three
KNOX CUT CROSS-COUNTRY to get to Ras el-Sudr, his route taking him through Tanta, the largest town of the Delta. Something about Tanta niggled in his brain; someone had mentioned it to him recently, but he couldn’t think who. Then he remembered Gaille’s offhand remark about her Tanta concierge, and he pulled the Jeep to the side to think. He hadn’t given much thought to Elena’s Delta excavation; too much else had been going on. But maybe that had been a mistake. Especially now that Nicolas Dragoumis had appeared on the scene.
It was no secret that Elena’s Macedonian Archaeological Foundation was sponsored by the Dragoumis Group. And the Dragoumises had no interest in Egypt, Knox knew—only in Macedonia. If they were financing an excavation in the Delta, therefore, they were after something Macedonian. And just maybe it was connected with that site they had just found in Alexandria. It certainly couldn’t hurt to find out more.
He found a Tanta bar with a phone directory, then rang local hotels asking for Elena. He got a hit on his fifth attempt. “She not here,” the night clerk told him. “Alexandria.”
“What about her team?”
“Who you want to speak to?”
Knox ended the call, jotted down the hotel’s address, and hurried back to his Jeep.
art
PHILIP DRAGOUMIS LED GAILLE through arches and across polished mosaic floors to a drawing room with gorgeous oils and tapestries on the walls. “A drink,” he said. “Then we eat. Red wine? It’s from my estate.”
“Thank you.” She looked around as he opened a bottle and poured two glasses. An oil portrait of a fierce-looking black-bearded man with a mess of scar tissue around his left eye had pride of place above the huge fireplace. A portrait of Philip II, father of Alexander the Great. Her eyes flickered back and forth between the picture and Dragoumis, and she realized with a slight shock that the portrait was intended to draw some kind of subliminal parallel between the two, implying that the birthmark around Dragoumis’s own left eye was some kind of stigmata, as though he were Philip reborn. “You don’t really believe in reincarnation, do you?” she asked.
He laughed loudly and unaffectedly, pleased by her boldness. “There is a saying: ‘When a wise man does business with the Chinese, he speaks Mandarin.’ ”
“And when he does business with the superstitious?” suggested Gaille.
His smile broadened. He nodded at a second painting: a beautiful young dark woman in ragged peasant clothes. “My wife,” he said. “I painted her myself. From memory.” He gave a sharp little nod. “She’s buried outside. She loved the view from this hill. We used to walk up here. That is why I bought this land and built my home here.”
“I’m sorry.”
“When I was a young man, I was a troublemaker. I used to go from village to village preaching the Macedonian cause, so the Athens secret police wanted to speak with me. You can imagine, it was not a desire I shared. When they couldn’t find me, they visited my wife instead and demanded she tell them where I was. She refused. They poured petrol on her stomach, breasts, and arms, but she told them nothing. Then they lit it. Still she wouldn’t talk. They poured petrol onto our baby son. Finally she talked. My wife was left with terrible burns, yet she could perhaps have survived with proper treatment, but I had no money for such treatment. My wife died because I had chosen to preach rather than to work, Ms. Bonnard. The day I buried her was the day I decided to stop playing at politics and become rich.”
“I’m sorry,” said Gaille helplessly.
Dragoumis grunted, as if to acknowledge the inadequacy of words. Then he said, “I knew your father.”
“So your son told me. But I wasn’t that close to him, you know.”
“Yes, I do know. I have always felt bad about that.”
Gaille frowned. “Why should you feel bad about it?”
Dragoumis sighed. “You were due to go to Mallawi with him, were you not?”
“Yes.”
“But then he postponed?”
“He had urgent personal business.”
“Yes,” agreed Dragoumis. “With me.”
“No,” said Gaille. “With a young man called Daniel Knox.”
Dragoumis made a vague gesture, as if to imply it came to the same thing. “Do you know much about Knox?” he asked.
“No.”
“His parents were archaeologists themselves. Macedonian specialists. So they often visited this part of the world. A charming couple, who also had a delightful daughter. They worked closely with Elena, you know. Ten years ago they went to visit one of her excavations in the mountains. Elena’s husband collected them from the airport. Unfortunately, on the drive up to the site . . .”
Gaille looked at him numbly. “All of them?” she asked.
Dragoumis nodded. “All of them.”
“But… what’s that got to do with my father?”
“It was an accident. A terrible accident. But not everyone believed this.”
“You mean… murder? I don’t understand. Why would anyone want to kill Knox’s parents?”
“Not Knox’s parents. Elena’s husband. Pavlos.”
“But who would want to kill him?”
Dragoumis smiled. “Me, Ms. Bonnard,” he said. “Me.”
art
KNOX ARRIVED IN RAS EL-SUDR FIRST and loitered near the Beach Inn’s parking lot so he could watch out for Rick and then make sure he hadn’t been tailed. When he was satisfied, he went to meet him. “Good to see you, mate,” grinned Rick.
“You, too.”
“Interesting times, eh?” He nodded at a nearby bar. “You want a drink? You can tell me all.”
“Sure.” They took a table in the shadows, where Knox filled him in on everything that had happened since he fled Sharm.
“I don’t believe it,” said Rick. “That bastard Hassan had a noose put around your neck and attached it to a car? I’ll kill him.”
“Actually,” said Knox, “I don’t think it was Hassan. Hassan wouldn’t have had the rope cut.”
“Then who?”
“Have I ever told you about what happened in Greece?”
“You mean with your parents? You just told me there’d been a road accident. You never said there was a story to it.”
“A winding road, an old car, a misty night in the mountains. The kind of tragedy that happens all the time, right? The only trouble was, the driver was a guy called Pavlos. The husband of that woman Elena I was telling you about. A journalist, very outspoken. A muckraker. He was running a campaign against a very powerful and rich family called the Dragoumises, demanding an inquiry into their businesses—that kind of thing.”
“And you figured he was killed to shut him up?”
“I did at the time,” nodded Knox.
“So what did you do about it?”
art
GAILLE LOOKED AT PHILIP DRAGOUMIS IN HORROR. “You murdered Pavlos?”
“No,” he assured her. “I swear to you on my wife’s grave that I had nothing to do with his death—or the deaths of Knox’s family. All I meant was that certain people believed I had the motive to do it.”
“Why? What motive?”
“You must understand something, Ms. Bonnard. I am a Macedonian patriot. This whole region used to be Macedonia, but then it was cut up by the Treaty of Bucharest and handed out to Serbia, Bulgaria, and Greece. I have made it my life’s work to undo that gross injustice. But others, men like Pavlos, believe this region rightly belongs to Greece, and they try to stop me. Pavlos was skilled at insinuation. He wanted an inquiry into my life and businesses not because he thought me corrupt, but because he knew it would leave an indelible smear. When he died, the pressure for an inquiry died with him. So you can understand why people believed I was responsible. But I was not responsible, I assure you. I never even considered Pavlos my enemy, only my opponent, and there is a world of difference between the two. Even if I were a man of violence, which I am not, I would never have sanctioned it against Pavlos. And the truth is, I had no need.” He leaned closer. “Can I trust you never to tell Elena what I am about to reveal to you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Pavlos had been indiscreet, and I had irrefutable evidence of this. The release of this information would have been … problematic for him. We had spoken together about it. I assure you, he was no longer a threat to me.”
“So you say.”
“Yes. So I say.” There was a trace of impatience in his manner. “Tell me something, Ms. Bonnard. You have been working closely with Elena Koloktronis these past three weeks. Do you really believe that she’d work for me if she thought me guilty of murdering her husband?”
Gaille thought about it for a moment, but there was only one answer. “No.”
“And you should understand, Ms. Bonnard, Pavlos was everything to Elena. Trust me: If she believed me responsible for Pavlos’s death, she would make sure the whole world knew about it.”
“She would have spoken out?”
“Oh, no,” Dragoumis grunted. “She’d have killed me.” He smiled at Gaille’s startled reaction. “It’s a fact,” he said. “It would have been a blood matter, which is still a powerful force in this region. But when you consider how intensely she loved him . . .” He shook his head. “I was half fearing she’d do something. So much grief needs venting. But, you see, she knew the truth of it. Her husband was a wild and reckless driver who never serviced his car. No. Elena was brokenhearted, but not a problem. It was your father’s young friend, Knox, who was the problem.”
“Knox? In what way?”
“He believed I’d murdered his whole family to silence Pavlos,” said Dragoumis. “He didn’t think I should get away with that. It isn’t hard to understand his point of view. So he took up Pavlos’s campaign himself. He wrote endlessly to local politicians, newspapers, TV stations. He picketed government buildings and police stations. He spray-painted ‘Dragoumis Inquiry’ in huge letters outside my head office. He printed it on helium balloons, threw leaflets from tall buildings, draped banners over railings at televised sporting events, rang radio shows and—”
“Knox? Knox did all this?”
“Oh, yes,” nodded Dragoumis. “It was impressive, especially when you consider that he believed me quite capable of murder. And damaging, too. He cut a sympathetic figure, as you can imagine. He got people talking. I asked him to stop, but he refused. He was deliberately trying to goad me into doing something rash, as though that would prove his case. I grew worried for him; he was only doing this because he was sick with grief. And there were people, sympathetic with my cause, who wanted to silence him. It reached a point where I couldn’t guarantee his safety anymore. And if anything happened to him… you can imagine. I needed him gone, but he refused to listen to me. So I looked to someone he would listen to.”
“My father,” said Gaille numbly.
“He was a close friend of the Knoxes, and I knew him, too. I asked him to come speak with me. He was reluctant at first, since Mallawi had been about to start, as you know. But I assured him it was a matter of life and death. He flew in and we struck a deal: he’d take Knox away and keep him quiet, while I’d put out the word that Knox wasn’t to be touched. Your father visited Knox’s hotel, where Knox apparently gave him a speech about standing up to tyrants. Your father listened politely and slipped knockout drops into his retsina. By the time he woke, they were both captive on a slow boat to Port Said, and your father had time to talk sense into him. And that, Ms. Bonnard, is why I feel badly about your falling-out with your father. It would never have happened, you see, had I not asked him to intervene for me.”
art
IN THE RAS EL-SUDR BAR, Rick nodded slowly as he digested Knox’s account of his feud with the Dragoumises and how he’d come to Egypt with Richard Mitchell. “And here I was thinking you were just another quiet Yank,” he said. “Do you have any other international gangsters on your trail, or is that the lot?”
“That’s the lot—as far as I know, at least. But guess who I saw this afternoon?”
“This man Dragoumis?”
“His son. Nicolas.”
“And he’s as bad?”
“Worse. Much worse. I don’t much like the father, but you’ve got to admire what he’s achieved. And he has principles, too. When he gives his word, he keeps it. The son’s just a wanker with an inheritance, you know?”
“All too well. So you figure this desert ‘lynching’ was the son getting his own back?”
“Probably.”
“And you’re not going to take that lying down, are you?”
“No.”
Rick grinned. “Cracking. So what’s our plan?”
“Our plan?”
“Come on, mate, you’re outnumbered. You could use some help. And Sharm’s dead, like I say.”
Knox nodded. “If you’re serious, it would be fantastic.”
“Absolutely. So what’s our first move?”
“We head up to Tanta.”
“Tanta?”
“Yes,” said Knox, checking his watch. “And we’re on a bit of a deadline, too, so how about I explain when we get there?”
art
DRAGOUMIS LED GAILLE through to his dining room. It was a vast space, with a long walnut table running down its middle. Two places had been set at one end, lit by candles. A servant was waiting by a trolley to serve their food, a dark and meaty stew swimming with unfamiliar spices.
“Forgive my simple tastes,” said Dragoumis as he began to eat. “I have never developed a refined palate. If it’s haute cuisine you enjoy, you must dine with my son.”
“I’m sure it’ll be delicious,” said Gaille, prodding at her meal uncertainly with her fork. “Excuse me, Mr. Dragoumis, but I’m curious. Did you fly me all this way just to talk about my father?”
“No,” said Dragoumis. “I flew you here to ask for your help.”
“My help?” she frowned. “With what?”
Dragoumis leaned forward. Candlelight struck his eyes obliquely, making his dark-brown irises appear flecked with gold. “This so-called Alexander cipher talks of a tomb in Siwa filled with goods fit for the son of Ammon.”
“But… how do you know about that?”
Dragoumis waved her question impatiently aside. “The cipher also says that the shield bearers killed themselves before Ptolemy had a chance to… learn from them where this tomb was.”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever heard of such a tomb? A tomb in Siwa filled with goods fit for a man like Alexander?”
“No.”
“Then it remains to be discovered?”
“If it ever existed.”
“It existed,” stated Dragoumis. “It exists. Tell me, Ms. Bonnard, would it not be something to discover it? Can you imagine what goods might be considered fit for such a man, the greatest conqueror in history? The weapons he was given from the Trojan wars? His personal copy of Homer, annotated by Aristotle? Be honest: do you not yearn to be the one to find it? Fame. Wealth. Admiration. You’d never again need to ask yourself in the dark hours of the morning what your purpose is upon this earth.”
“You misunderstand how these things work,” said Gaille. “Ibrahim Beyumi is reporting all this to the secretary general of the SCA. What happens next will be up to them. And it won’t include me.”
“Perhaps you have not heard. Elena was at this meeting, too.”
“Yes, but—”
“And she has persuaded the secretary general that she is the best person to lead this search.”
“What? But… how?”
“Elena is skilled at negotiation, believe me. However, she is not so skilled at other aspects of archaeology. That is why I asked you here. I want you to go to Siwa with Elena. I want you to find this tomb for me.”
“Me?”
“Yes. You have a gift, as your father did.”
“You overestimate my—”
“You discovered the lower chamber, didn’t you?”
“Actually, that was—”
“And you deciphered the inscription.”
“Someone else would have deciphered—”
“Humility does not impress me, Ms. Bonnard,” he said. “Success impresses me. Elena has many virtues, but she lacks imagination and empathy. These are your gifts. They are gifts our cause needs.”
“Your cause?”
“You think it old-fashioned to have a cause?”
“I think ‘cause’ is a politician’s word for bloodshed,” said Gaille. “I don’t think archaeology should be about causes. I think it should be about the truth.”
“Very well,” nodded Dragoumis. “How about this truth? My grandfathers were both born in Greater Macedonia. By the time they were men, one was Serbian, the other Greek. To people like you, people without causes, it may seem an excellent thing that families like mine can be cut up and parceled out like slaves. But one group of people feels strongly that this is not acceptable. Can you guess, perhaps, who these people are?”
“I imagine you mean those people who call themselves Macedonian,” answered Gaille weakly.
“I do not seek to change your mind, Ms. Bonnard,” said Dragoumis. “I simply ask you this question: who, in truth, should decide who a person is—they themselves or someone else?” He paused, perhaps to give her a chance to respond, but she found she had nothing to say. “I believe that there’s a legitimate nation of Greater Macedonia,” he continued. “I believe that this nation has been illegally divided between Bulgaria, Serbia, and Greece. I believe that the Macedonian people have been unfairly oppressed for centuries, that they’ve suffered decades of ethnic cleansing, that they are persecuted still because they have no voice, no power. Hundreds of thousands in this region agree with me, as do millions more across the world. They share culture, history, religion, and language with each other, not the states to whom they’ve been allocated. They call themselves Macedonian, whatever world opinion tells them they’re called. I believe these people deserve the same rights to liberty, religion, self-determination, and justice that you take for granted. These people are my cause. They are why I ask your help.” His gaze seemed to grow in intensity as he looked at her; there was something almost triumphal about it, about his self-certainty. She tried not to meet his eyes, but she couldn’t help herself. “And you will give it,” he said.