Chapter Thirty-three
IBRAHIM’S NERVE, never particularly strong, had completely failed him since Nicolas pressed that sharp blade against his throat. Courage was easier in daydreams. He had let himself be bullied into calling in sick, then writing out and signing multiple authorizations on SCA paper for an excavation in the Western Desert, even though the Western Desert was completely outside his jurisdiction. Since then, he had been forced to stay by his phone in case Nicolas was challenged and he was called to verify his signature.
He hadn’t been left alone. Manolis and Sofronio, Nicolas’s pilot and copilot, were with him. They had locked all the exterior doors and windows, pocketed the keys, and confiscated his cell phone. Now they followed him everywhere: to his bedroom, even to the bathroom. And Sofronio spoke enough Arabic to listen in on his conversations whenever the telephone rang, his finger poised to disconnect should Ibrahim try anything.
Nicolas and his men were clearly intent on looting a priceless historical treasure from Siwa. Ibrahim had dedicated his life to Egypt’s heritage, yet now he was helping these gangsters pillage it. He turned abruptly and walked toward his office. Manolis followed. “I’m only fetching my work,” he sighed. Manolis came with him all the same. Ibrahim pulled some papers from his top drawer and glanced at the lock as he left. The key was on the inside, as he had thought. He walked back out with Manolis, then tutted at himself. “My pen,” he said.
Manolis waited while Ibrahim returned into his office, picked up a bulbous red fountain pen from his desk, and held it up for Manolis to see. His heart began pounding unhealthily fast, and his mouth went dry. He regretted his sedentary life, which had rendered him hopelessly unfit for heroics. Still, he put his hand on his office door and told himself this was the moment. His mind urged his hand to slam the door and twist the key, buy himself some time, allow him to redeem himself… but his hand didn’t obey. Then he lost his nerve and walked on out. His heart rate slowed. The adrenaline ebbed, and he felt an urgent need to urinate. He bowed his head in shame at the truth of himself: a coward, a failure, a nothing. A man’s life was the gift of Allah; what a waste he had made of his.
art
BIR AL-HAMMAM PROVED to be twin peaks of rock connected by a low ridge, with steep slopes of sand that fell away like a pyramid on every side. There was a freshwater lake at its southern foot, bounded by reeds and vegetation, and the moonlight shimmered off its waters, rippled by the skipping of insects and the fish that hunted them. Fruit bats shrieked as they left their caves in the worn limestone to gorge themselves on the nearby orchards.
In order to hide their activity, Nicolas arranged all the vehicles in a semicircle around the precise spot at the base of the hill where he intended to dig, where Kelonymus had marked the spot all those millennia ago. Not that anyone was likely to be passing. They were ten kilometers north of Siwa, after all, and three from the nearest road or settlement. He supervised the unloading of equipment, distributing shovels, picks, flashlights, and weapons. He ordered Leonidas to take one of the AK-47s and climb onto the container to keep lookout.
Moonlight gave Mohammed enough light to work by. He munched great scoops out of the desert with his mechanical digger and dumped them behind him, his vehicle gradually tipping forward so that he had to reverse out and then dig himself an approach trench. The hill was an iceberg, most of its mass hidden beneath the sand. After three hours, his entire digger had been swallowed by the pit he had created, but still he found nothing. Nicolas and his men had watched eagerly at first, but their interest ebbed as the hours passed without success. Still, every so often Nicolas asked him to pause while he inspected the newly uncovered rock. During these intervals, Mohammed took the chance to look around. The dunes were so cold and white, one would think them snowdrifts. Leonidas came down from his sentry duty on top of the container, moaning about how bitterly cold it was, and no one went up to replace him. They stood together with their shoulders hunched, and cupped cigarettes.
Mohammed filled another scoop, dumping it behind him. The sand cascaded hard down the slopes; it sounded like rain. His mind fizzed and blurred with fatigue. He was by now so deep in his own pit that he couldn’t help but imagine that he was digging his way down to hell. Nicolas held up a hand to ask him to idle his engine once more, then went forward with his father to inspect the sandstone. He shook his head in frustration and kicked the rock angrily. Mohammed tried not to show gladness. His best hope was to obey orders and pray he found nothing. Nicolas trudged out of the pit and came over to him. Mohammed lowered his window.
“Enough,” said Nicolas. “There’s nothing. We must leave.”
Mohammed nodded at the vast trench he had created. “Do we fill it in?”
Nicolas shook his head. “The first wind will take care of it for us.”
“As you wish.” Mohammed looked over his shoulder to back out of the trench. He was so tired, he forgot to change gear and jumped forward instead, clattering against the rock of the hill with his scoop. A sheet of solidified sand cracked and fell away. He shook his head in annoyance, but as he shifted gears and reversed there was a shout of excitement, then a chorus. The Greeks all clustered around the rock, shining flashlights. Mohammed stood up in his cab. He could just make out a smooth piece of pink marble the size of an outspread hand. His heart sank. Whatever it was these men were looking for, he had just found it for them.
art
IT WAS DARK AND QUIET at Aly’s house. The windows were shuttered and the front door locked. Rick produced his steel wire, and soon they were inside.
“I don’t like this,” said Gaille nervously.
“Trust me. Aly’s a friend. He’ll understand. Let’s just find these books.”
It was Rick who did so, beneath Aly’s mattress. There were five volumes, all told. They took one each and flipped through the pages. It was Gaille who spotted the line drawing of Bir al-Hammam. “Look!” she said, setting it on the bed. “The silhouette of the hills. It’s exactly the same as the mosaic.”
“And the Wepwawet painting from Lycopolis,” said Knox.
Gaille stared at him in surprise. “You’ve been there, too?”
“We’ve been everywhere, sweetheart,” grinned Rick.
“The holder of the secret,” muttered Knox. “So now we know what it was: the location of the tomb the shield bearers built for Alexander, with all the grave goods still inside.”
“The exact location,” added Rick, pointing out the two outcrops of rock that mapped exactly onto Akylos’s splayed knees and Wepwawet’s outspread feet, and between which both sword and standard were planted.
Gaille sucked in a breath anxiously. Knox squinted at her. “What?” he asked.
“It’s just, I asked Ibrahim to send me copies of these books. And then Elena was summoned to Alexandria. And Aly to Cairo. You don’t think someone’s… trying something, do you?”
“I don’t know,” said Knox grimly. “But I think we should make sure.”