The Alexander Cipher. Will Adams

worked. That was the thing. The spirit of Macedonian nationhood still burned strong. Their language survived, as did their culture and Church, in pockets across this ancient region. They lived on in these simple yet proud people, in the glorious sacrifices they’d already made and would soon be prepared to make once more for the greater good. And then his beloved country would finally be free.

      ‘And it waxed great, even to the host of heaven; and it cast down some of the host and of the stars to the ground, and stamped upon them. Yea, he magnified himself even to the prince of the host, and by him the daily sacrifice was taken away, and the place of his sanctuary was cast down. “And the place of his sanctuary was cast down”,’ repeated the preacher. ‘That’s this place. That’s Macedonia. The land of your birth. It was Demetrios, you see, who began the chaos that has engulfed Macedonia ever since. Demetrios. In 292 BC. Mark that date. Mark it well: 292 BC.’

      In Nicolas’ pocket, his mobile began to buzz. Few people had this number, and he’d given his assistant, Katerina, strict instructions not to put any calls through tonight except in an emergency. He stood and walked to the back doors.

      ‘Yes?’ he asked.

      ‘Ibrahim Beyumi for you, sir,’ said Katerina.

      ‘Ibrahim who?’

      ‘The archaeologist from Alexandria. I wouldn’t have bothered you but he says it’s urgent. They’ve found something. They need a decision at once.’

      ‘Very well. Put him through.’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      The line switched. Another voice came on. ‘Mr Dragoumis. This is Ibrahim Beyumi here. From the Supreme Council in—’

      ‘I know who you are. What do you want?’

      ‘You’ve been generous enough to offer sponsorship in certain—’

      ‘You’ve found something?’

      ‘A necropolis. A tomb. A Macedonian tomb.’ He took a deep breath. ‘From the description I was given, it sounds just like the Royal Tombs at Aigai.’

      Nicolas clutched his phone tight and turned his back on the church. ‘You’ve found a Macedonian royal tomb?’

      ‘No,’ said Ibrahim hurriedly. ‘All I have so far is a description from a builder. I won’t know what it really is until I’ve inspected it myself.’

      ‘And when will you do that?’

      ‘First thing tomorrow. Providing I can arrange finance, at least.’

      In the background, the preacher was still talking. ‘Then I heard one saint speaking,’ he intoned, squeezing every sonorous drop from the biblical prose, ‘and another saint said unto that certain saint which spake, How long shall be the vision concerning the daily sacrifice, and the transgression of desolation, to give both the sanctuary and the host to be trodden under foot? How long shall Macedonia and the Macedonians be trampled underfoot? How long shall we pay the price for Demetrios’ sin? Remember, this was written three hundred years before the sin of Demetrios, which took place in 292 BC!’

      Nicolas clamped a hand over his ear, the better to concentrate. ‘You need finance before you inspect?’ he asked sardonically.

      ‘We have a peculiar situation,’ said Ibrahim. ‘The man who reported the find has a very sick daughter. He wants funds before he’ll talk.’

      ‘Ah.’ The inevitable baksheesh. ‘How much? For everything.’

      ‘In money terms?’

      Nicolas clenched his toes in frustration. These people! ‘Yes,’ he said, with exaggerated patience. ‘In money terms.’

      ‘That depends on how big the site proves to be, how much time we have, what kind of artefacts—’

      ‘In US dollars. Thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands?’

      ‘Oh. It typically costs six or seven thousand American dollars a week for an emergency excavation like this.’

      ‘How many weeks?’

      ‘That would depend on—’

      ‘One? Five? Ten?’

      ‘Two. Three if we’re lucky.’

      ‘Fine. Do you know Elena Koloktronis?’

      ‘The archaeologist? I’ve met her once or twice. Why?’

      ‘She’s on a dig in the Delta. Katerina will give you her contact number. Invite her tomorrow. If she vouches for this tomb of yours, the Dragoumis Group will give you twenty thousand dollars. I trust that will meet all your excavation costs, plus any more sick children who turn up.’

      ‘Thank you,’ said Ibrahim. ‘That’s most generous.’

      ‘Talk to Katerina. She’ll talk you through our terms.’

      ‘Terms?’

      ‘You don’t think we’d provide funds on this scale without terms, do you?’

      ‘But—’

      ‘Like I say, talk to Katerina.’ And he snapped closed his phone.

      ‘And he said unto me, Unto two thousand and three hundred days; then shall the sanctuary be cleansed. Two thousand and three hundred days!’ cried the preacher exultantly. ‘Two thousand and three hundred days! But that’s not the original text. The original text talks about the “evenings and mornings of sacrifices”. And those sacrifices took place once each year. Two thousand three hundred days therefore doesn’t mean two thousand three hundred days at all. No. It means two thousand three hundred years. And who can tell me what date is two thousand three hundred years on from the sin of Demetrios? No? Then let me tell you. It is the year of Our Lord 2008. It is now. It is today. Today, our sanctuary is finally to be cleansed. It says so in the Bible, and the Bible never lies. And remember, this was all predicted exactly by Daniel, six hundred years before the birth of Christ.’ He wagged a finger in both admonition and exhortation. ‘It is written, people. It is written. This is our time. This is your time. You are the chosen generation, chosen by God to fulfil His command. Which of you dare refuse His call?’

      Nicolas watched with gratification people turning to look at each other, murmuring in astonishment. This was indeed their time, he reflected, and it wasn’t a fluke. His father had been working towards it for forty years now, and he for fifteen. They had operatives in every hamlet, town and village. Vast caches of weapons, food and drink were waiting in the mountains. Veterans of the Yugoslavian wars had trained them in ordnance and guerrilla campaigns. They had sleepers in local and national government, spies in the armed services, friends in the international community and among the Macedonian Diaspora.

      The propaganda war was in full swing too. The schedules of Dragoumis TV and radio were crammed with programmes designed to stir Macedonian fervour, their newspapers filled with stories of Macedonian heroism and sacrifice, alongside tales of the opulent lifestyles and unthinking cruelty of their Athenian overlords. And it was working. Anger and hatred was building across northern Greece, even among those who had little sympathy with the separatist cause. Civil disturbance, riots, increasing incidents of ethnic assaults. All the telltale trembling of an imminent earthquake. But they weren’t there yet. Much as Nicolas craved it, they weren’t quite there. A revolution needed people so worked up they wanted martyrdom. Break out the guns now, it would look promising for a while, but then everything would fizzle out. The reaction would come. The Greek army would deploy upon the streets, families would be menaced and businesses investigated. There’d be arbitrary arrests, beatings and counterpropaganda. Their cause would be set back years, might even be irreversibly crippled. No. They still needed something more before it could begin. Something very particular. A symbol that the Macedonian