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.
‘He did describe one area in great detail,’ he said. ‘A forecourt with bronze doors leading to an antechamber and main chamber. What do you make of that?’
‘A tomb?’ hazarded Maha. ‘Ptolemaic?’
Ibrahim nodded. ‘Early Ptolemaic. Very early.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Indeed, it sounded to me like the tomb of a Macedonian king.’
Maha stood and turned, her fingers splayed on her desk. ‘You can’t mean …’ she began. ‘But I thought Alexander was buried in a great mausoleum.’
Ibrahim remained silent for several seconds, vicariously enjoying her excitement, wondering whether to deflate her gently now or risk sharing his wilder hopes. He decided to let her down. ‘He was, yes. It was called the Sema; the Greek word for “tomb”, you know. Or perhaps Soma, their word for “body”.’
‘Oh,’ said Maha. ‘So this isn’t Alexander, then?’
‘No.’
‘What is it?’
Ibrahim shrugged. ‘We’ll need to excavate to find that out.’
‘How? I thought we’d spent all our money.’
And that was the nub. Ibrahim’s entire budget for the year was already allocated. He’d begged as much from the French and Americans as they could give. It happened like that here, precisely because excavation was such an opportunistic affair. If too many interesting sites were found in the same financial period, he simply couldn’t handle them all. It became a matter of triage. At this precise moment, all his field archaeologists were involved directly or indirectly in projects right across the old city. Excavating this new site would demand new money, specialists and crew. And it wasn’t as if he could put it on hold until the new financial year. The stairwell was slap in the middle of the hotel’s prospective car park; Mohammed could accommodate a couple of weeks of excavation, but any more would ruin his schedule. That was a real concern to Ibrahim. In uncovering ancient Alexandria, he depended almost entirely upon property developers and construction companies to report significant finds. If ever he got a reputation for being difficult to work with, they’d simply stop notifying him, whatever their legal obligations. In many ways, this latest site was a headache he didn’t need. But it was also an early Macedonian tomb, quite possibly a very significant find indeed. He couldn’t let it slide by. He just couldn’t.
There was one possible source of funds, he knew. His mouth felt tacky and dry just thinking of it, not least because it would mean contravening all kinds of SCA protocols. Yet he could see no alternative. He conjured up some saliva to help him speak, forced a smile. ‘That Greek businessman who keeps offering to sponsor us,’ he said.
Maha raised her eyebrows. ‘You can’t mean Nicolas Dragoumis?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s the one.’
‘But I thought you said he was …’ She caught his eye and trailed off.
‘I did,’ he acknowledged. ‘But do you have a better suggestion?’
‘No, sir.’
Ibrahim had been delighted when Nicolas Dragoumis had first contacted him. Sponsors were always welcome. Yet something about his manner had made Ibrahim apprehensive. After putting down the phone, he’d gone directly to the Dragoumis Group’s corporate website, with all its links to subsidiaries in shipping, insurance, construction, media, import-export, electronics, aerospace, property, tourism, security and more. He’d found a sponsorship section explaining that the Dragoumis Group only supported projects that helped demonstrate the historical greatness of Macedonia, or which worked to restore the independence of Aegean Macedonia from the rest of Greece. Ibrahim didn’t know much about Greek politics, but he knew enough not to want to get involved with Macedonian separatists.
Elsewhere on the site, he’d found a page with a group photograph of the directors. Nicolas Dragoumis was tall, stringy, handsome and well-dressed. But it had been the man standing front centre who’d unnerved Ibrahim. Philip Dragoumis, group founder and chief executive, fearsome-looking, swarthy, lightly bearded, with a large, plum-coloured birthmark above his left cheekbone, and an incredibly potent gaze, even in a photograph. A man to steer clear of. But Ibrahim had no choice. His heart beat a little faster, a little louder, as though he were standing on the very edge of a high cliff.
‘Good. Then could you find me his telephone number, please?’
III
Knox beached the speedboat near his Jeep and waded ashore. Fiona had pulled herself together, was now insisting on returning to her hotel. From the way she wouldn’t meet his gaze, it seemed she’d figured out that Hassan’s wrath would be at Knox, not her; and therefore the safest place was anywhere away from him. Not so dumb after all. Knox revved his Jeep furiously. He was glad not to have her to worry about, but it pissed him off anyway. His passport, cash and plastic were in his money-belt. His laptop, clothes, books and all his research were in his hotel room, but he dared not go back for them.
At the main road, he faced his first major decision. North-east to the Israeli border or up the west coast highway towards the main body of Egypt? Israel was safety, but the road was in bad repair, slow and choking with army checkpoints. West, then. He’d arrived here nine years ago on a boat into Port Said. It seemed a fitting way to leave. But Port Said was on the Suez, and the Suez belonged to Hassan. No. He needed out of Sinai altogether. He needed an international airport. Cairo, Alexandria, Luxor.
He jammed his mobile against his ear as he drove, warning Rick and his other friends to watch out for Hassan. Then he turned it off altogether, lest they use the signal to trace him. He pushed his old Jeep as fast as it would go, engine roaring. Blue oil fires flickered ahead on the Gulf of Suez, like some distant hell. They matched his mood. He’d been driving for less than an hour when he saw an army checkpoint up ahead, a chicane of concrete blocks
