Chapter Thirty-five
ThERE WERE OLD RUTS and tire tracks in the sand. Knox used them as a water-skier uses wake, jolting all three of them, so that they bounced in their seats. It was a point of pride for Gaille that she wouldn’t remark on it, even though the passenger-side seat belt had broken years ago and Knox had to fling out his arm every so often to hold her in her seat. The Jeep’s antique suspension squeaked, squealed, and banged. Knox downshifted, turned, and roared up a dune, straining the old engine the last few yards. As they crested the dune, she could see the now-familiar silhouette of Bir al-Hammam ahead. Then they were on the downslope, taking it at such an oblique angle that the right wheels left the ground for a moment, hanging in space. Knox pinned Gaille in her seat until they bounced back onto all four. She threw him a grin, but then he glanced in the mirror and frowned in obvious concern. Gaille turned to see a four-by-four coming up fast behind them, headlights off, evidently not wanting to give itself away.
“What the hell?” muttered Rick.
“It’s those bloody Greeks,” said Knox. He raced down a dune, gaining speed to climb its far bank. They flew over the top and bounded down the other side, roaring away along the compact valley sand.
“There’s a second one,” said Rick, as another four-by-four appeared over the dune to their left, plunging down the bank, forcing Knox into an evasive skid, his wheels throwing up sprays of sand and bringing them almost to a stop. He shifted up through the gears, turning back the way he had come, but the Jeep was no match for the four-by-fours. They gained inexorably, pulling up alongside on either flank, motioning for him to stop. Knox spun hard and cut left, forcing the driver to slam on his brakes. He roared up another dune, but the gradient was steep and the sand soft, and the balding tires lost traction and began to churn.
Knox stopped fighting, let gravity roll them back down, then swung the Jeep around. A four-by-four nosed into his right side so that both his right wheels left the sand. It nudged them again, harder this time, tipping them up onto their side, so that they plowed a short furrow in the sand before crashing onto their roof. Gaille shrieked and threw up her hands to protect her head as Knox tried to hold her in her seat, but the momentum was too much for him, and she smacked the windshield hard.
They came to a stop. Gaille felt dizzy and sick. The passenger door opened and a man stood above her aiming an AK-47 at her face. She looked numbly up at him. He motioned for her to get out. She tried to obey, but her limbs wouldn’t function, so he grabbed her by a hank of hair and hauled her viciously out, ignoring her shriek of pain. Knox crawled out after her, bracing himself to spring at the man, but another of the Greeks was waiting in ambush and clubbed Knox on the back of the head with the butt of his gun, so that he collapsed face-first on the sand.
Rick came out next, hands over his head, looking cowed. But it was only an act. His first punch knocked the first Greek onto his backside. He wrenched the AK-47 from him and twisted it around at the second man, his finger already pulling the trigger. But he didn’t quite make it. A yellow burst of flame spat from the second man’s muzzle, accompanied by the percussive noise of automatic gunfire, and Rick’s chest exploded red. He was thrown backward onto the sand, the AK-47 falling from his grasp.
“Rick!” cried Knox, crawling over to his friend. “Oh, Christ! Rick!”
“Jesus, mate,” slurred Rick, trying to raise his head. “What the f*ck… ?”
“Don’t talk,” pleaded Knox. “Just hold on.” But it was already too late. The tension went from his neck, and his head slumped lifelessly. Knox turned around, hatred in his heart, purpose in his eye, but the Greek gunman was watching him with perfect self-assurance. He spat nonchalantly onto the sand, as if to indicate that was all Rick’s death meant to him, then pointed his weapon at Knox’s chest. “Hands behind your head,” he said. “Or it’s the same for you and the girl.”
Knox glared at him, but there was nothing he could do. Vowing silently that he wouldn’t leave Rick unavenged, he clasped his hands behind his head, while another of the Greeks bound him hand and foot.
art
IBRAHIM COULDN’T SLEEP. He had lain awake brooding for hours. Every time he managed to soothe himself to relative peace, he would suffer another spasm of shame. He had dedicated his whole life to the study of ancient Egypt. To be complicit in the rape of a tomb—and such a tomb!—would blacken the Beyumi name forever. He couldn’t allow this further stain on his honor. He couldn’t. Yet each time he sat up, resolved to do something, his nerve wilted. He wasn’t that kind of man. He was no kind of man at all. And what could he achieve anyway? They had taken his cell phone, his bedside phone, and his modem jack. They had locked his doors and windows and taken the keys. He rose once more, went to his bedroom door, and stood there with his hand on the handle. He returned for his dressing gown, then took three deep breaths for courage before opening his door. Manolis was asleep on a mattress in the corridor outside. Ibrahim stood still, waited for his heart to calm. He reached his left leg over Manolis. A floorboard creaked beneath the carpet. Ibrahim froze.
Manolis’s eyes opened; Ibrahim could see the luminous white rings of his corneas. “What are you doing?” he grunted.
“My stomach,” said Ibrahim. “I need tablets.”
“Wait. I come with you.”
“It’s okay. I—”
“I come with you.”
art
THE TWO FOUR-BY-FOURS pulled up in front of Nicolas with a screech of brakes and a spray of sand. Bastiaan threw open the back door of the first and hauled two figures out. First was some lifeless stranger half wrapped in a rug, his chest a mess of blood and pulp. Then the girl, Gaille, dizzy and pale, her wrists and ankles tied with rope. She looked around, evidently terrified, and her eyes locked on someone standing behind him. “Elena!” she cried plaintively. “How could you?”
“Because she’s a patriot,” retorted Nicolas coldly when Elena didn’t speak.
Costis was hauling another man from the back of the second four-by-four. He glared up from the sand. Knox! Nicolas felt a little nauseated suddenly, as though he had eaten something that disagreed with him. There was something about the man that made him feel just that little bit helpless. Knox’s gaze slid past Nicolas to where his father was standing. “So!” he said contemptuously. “A common tomb robber.”
“Scarcely a common tomb robber,” replied Dragoumis, unruffled, “as I suspect you know full well.”
“Have you found him, then?” Knox asked despite himself.
“Not yet,” admitted Dragoumis.
“Not yet?” frowned Nicolas. “What do you mean, not yet? There’s nothing there.”
Dragoumis looked sourly at his son. “Have you learned nothing about this man Kelonymus?” he asked impatiently. “Do you really believe he’s the kind to surrender his greatest secret at the first breach?” He pointed at Gaille, then said to his men, “She understands his mind better than anyone. Bring her inside.”
“Don’t do it, Gaille,” said Knox tersely. “Don’t give them anything.”
Dragoumis turned to him. “You know I am a man of my word. So let me make you an offer. If you two help me find what we’re looking for, I vow I’ll let you both go free.”
“Sure!” scoffed Knox. “After everything we’ve seen!”
“Believe me, Daniel, if we find what we’re looking for, the more you two talk, the better it will be for us.”
“And if we refuse?”
Dragoumis gave a small, sorrowful shrug. “Do you really want to put that to the test?”
Nicolas kept his eyes on Knox while he debated his response. It was clear that he was still burning with rage for what they had just done to his friend, that he was only waiting for an opportunity to exact revenge. He turned to warn his father, but his father silenced him with a look, as though he was already five moves ahead, so he shrugged and turned back to Knox. The man was still struggling with himself, with his conscience, but then he glanced at Gaille, her face ashen with fear and streaked by tears, silently pleading with him not to do anything crazy.
He blinked and sighed. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll do what we can.”
“Good,” said Dragoumis. He turned to Costis. “Untie their ankles, but not their wrists. And keep a close eye on this one,” he added, gesturing at Knox. “He’s more dangerous than he looks.”
Costis nodded seriously. “I know,” he said.
art
IBRAHIM AND MANOLIS walked downstairs together. The carpet was lush, but the soles of Ibrahim’s feet felt icy. He glanced down, almost expecting them to be glistening blue-white, like diamonds. Sofronio was snoring on the couch. When Manolis turned on the lights, he sat up, disoriented with sleep, then cursed Manolis in Greek and covered an expansive yawn.
Ibrahim made a show of looking through his kitchen cabinets, slamming drawers, muttering. He heard the two Greeks conferring. Their Greek was so guttural, he couldn’t understand a word, but the way they looked suspiciously at him… “They’re not here,” he said brightly. “They must be in my desk.” He walked briskly toward his office. Sofronio and Manolis were still muttering. It was now or never. Ibrahim leaned his weight forward and broke into a run.
art
“MOVE, DAMN YOU,” said Costis, jabbing Knox in the small of the back with the muzzle of his Kalashnikov.
Knox glowered over his shoulder. “You’re going to pay for what you did to Rick,” he promised.
But Costis only snorted and jabbed him harder. And in truth, Knox was in no position to make threats. Walking along this dark passage into the belly of the hill, the bloom and flare of flashlights all around, having to duck every so often to avoid scraping his scalp on the low ceiling, he felt sure that it wasn’t just Alexander’s tomb he was walking into, but his own and Gaille’s, too, unless he could somehow turn this situation around.
The passage opened out abruptly. Evidently, the Greeks had been here before, for they expressed no surprise at the marvelous sculptures around the walls. But to Knox they were so remarkable that for a moment he almost forgot about his predicament. His wrists were still bound, but his hands were in front of him. He took a flashlight from one of the Greeks, then went over to a sculpture of Alexander leading a charge. Gaille came with him, and then Elena and Dragoumis, too, creating the surreal impression of four academics at a conference discussing some obscure artifact.
Gaille stooped to translate the inscription. “ ‘Then Pallas Minerva gave him courage that he might outdo all others. Fire blazed like the summer sun from his shield and helmet.’ ” She turned to Elena. “Is that what you made of it?” she asked.
“Pretty much,” agreed Elena. Then she added, a touch uncertainly, “It’s from the Iliad, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” agreed Gaille. “Adapted a little, but yes.”
Elena nodded more confidently. “He certainly likes his Homer,” she said. “All of the inscriptions are from the Iliad.”
“Not all,” corrected Dragoumis. He nodded at the far wall. “The Gordian knot wasn’t in the Iliad.”
“No,” agreed Knox. He walked over to it and stooped to read the inscription. “He who unties the knot on this yoke will find himself the Lord of all Asia.” He snorted and glanced around at Dragoumis. “You gave us your word, yes?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Dragoumis.
“Good,” said Knox. He walked over to the tableau of Alexander spearing the Persian and grabbed the bronze ax in both hands. It was cool to the touch and surprisingly heavy.
“Stop him!” cried Nicolas.
“Be quiet,” said Philip Dragoumis irritably.
Knox took the ax to the Gordian knot, bringing the blade down hard, slicing splinters out of the wood. He struck again, then a third time, the blows sending shivers up his fingers and palms. But the dull blade still did its work, and the old wood shattered and tore apart. One end lay still; the other slithered like a fugitive snake into the rock wall—apparently attached to some kind of weight. There was a low scratching sound, then silence. They waited expectantly, but seconds ticked by and nothing more happened.
“Is that it?” sneered Nicolas. “I hope you don’t think that—”
And then it started: a low rumbling in the rock above their heads, growing louder and louder, shaking dust from the ceiling and making tiny vibrations in the floor. Everyone looked up and then, apprehensively, at one another. The noise stopped, and there was silence again. Everyone shrugged and began to relax and—
The wall to Knox’s right suddenly exploded, sending shards of stone flying everywhere. He had virtually no time to react. He dropped the ax and threw himself to the ground, taking Gaille down with him, hugging her face against his chest as fragments of rock thudded and crashed into his legs and back, glancing off his scalp, bruising and stinging, drawing blood.
It was over almost before they realized it was happening at all. The shrapnel settled; the thunderous noise died, leaving their ears ringing. People began muttering and coughing and choking on the dust and powdered sandstone, gingerly checking themselves for injuries. One of the Greeks was cursing, but not too seriously, as though he had sprained a wrist or turned an ankle. Other than that and a few cuts and bruises, it seemed they had been lucky. It took Knox a moment to recognize the opportunity for him and Gaille to make a break for it. But when he glanced around, the first thing he saw was Costis, grinning knowingly at him and pointing his gun.
He picked himself up and helped Gaille up, too. Someone retrieved a flashlight and shined it at where the wall had been—a great, gaping hole was now torn in its heart. There was blackness beyond, indicative of an even greater space, and the glint of metallic objects on the floor. They edged closer, treading tentatively on pulverized sandstone littered with fragments of a tougher stone, like marble, that crackled beneath their feet.
Knox looked up at the circular shaft that rose almost vertically above him into the hill before vanishing into darkness. Cutting the Gordian knot must have triggered a rockfall. But then he was through to the other side, and other matters took his attention. The hewn passage zigzagged left and right, shielding it from the blast of the falling rock. Then it began to funnel open. Niches were cut in the walls, and in them were life-size painted alabaster statues of nymphs and satyrs, a rearing horse, Dionysus on a couch, his head thrown back, drinking from a goblet, surrounded by tendrils of ivy and fat bunches of purple grapes. They passed other objects, too: Attic vases of brown, red, and black painted with scenes from Alexander’s life. Too crude to be the work of Kelonymus, perhaps they were the personal tributes of the shield bearers themselves. A wooden model of a chariot. Some crude pottery figurines. A silver wine jug and matching drinking vessels. A bronze cauldron. A golden bowl containing fistfuls of uncut precious and semiprecious stones: rubies, turquoise, lapis lazuli, amethyst, diamonds, sapphires. A golden cup inscribed with a sixteen-pointed star, and next to it a golden handbell that reminded Knox poignantly of Rick. And then, set in the right-hand wall, a painting of Alexander in his chariot, carrying a golden scepter, just like the frieze described by Diodorus Siculus as part of the funeral catafalque, enabling Knox to answer at last the question of how Kelonymus and the shield bearers had financed all their endeavors. They had had the catafalque. Perhaps these shield bearers were the very unit that Ptolemy had tasked with bringing it back to Egypt, only for them to change their plans once they realized that he meant to betray Alexander’s last wish.
Costis nudged him in the back again. They moved on, passing what could only be described as an ancient library: scrolls bound with ivory holders and stacked in loculi cut in the sandstone walls, and books in open silver and golden caskets, the handwriting still faintly visible on their yellow parchment and papyrus, as well as drawings of herbs, flowers, and animals.
“My god!” muttered Gaille, looking at Knox with wild eyes, all too aware of the intrinsic and historic value of this find.
They kept walking and the passage opened up again into a great domed chamber twice the size of the previous one, its floor glittering like shattered quartz with metallic artifacts, its walls and ceiling decorated with gold leaf, so that their flashlights reflected dazzlingly from all sides. And there were grave goods here, too, set on twelve altars: rings and necklaces and amphorae and coins and caskets. Weapons, too: a shield, a sword, a helmet, a breastplate, a crested helmet. And in the center of the chamber, at the heart of all the altars, at the focal point of their flashlights, stood a high pyramid, rising in steps on every side to a peak on which rested a magnificent golden anthropoid coffin.
And no one could be in any doubt now about what they had found.