The Alexander Cipher. Will Adams

upon local cult-gods. If Wepwawet was the cult-god of this place, then surely this must be—

      ‘Gaille! Gaille!’ From far behind her, Elena was shouting. ‘Are you down there? Gaille!’

      Gaille hurried back along the passage. ‘Elena?’ she called up. ‘Is that you?’

      ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing down there?’

      ‘I thought you’d fallen. I thought you might be in trouble.’

      ‘Get out,’ ordered Elena furiously. ‘Get out now.’

      Gaille started to climb. She saved her breath until she reached the top. Then she said hurriedly: ‘Kristos told me you wanted to—’

      Elena thrust her face in Gaille’s. ‘How many times have I told you this is a restricted area?’ she yelled. ‘How many times?’

      ‘I’m sorry, Ms Koloktronis, but—’

      ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ Elena’s face was red; tendons stood out on her neck like a straining racehorse. ‘How dare you go down there? How dare you?’

      ‘I thought you’d fallen,’ repeated Gaille helplessly. ‘I thought you might need help.’

      ‘Don’t you dare interrupt me when I’m talking.’

      ‘I wasn’t—’

      ‘Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare!’

      Gaille stiffened. For a moment she considered snapping back. It had barely been three weeks ago, after all, that Elena had called her out of the blue and begged her, begged her, to take a month out from the Sorbonne’s Demotic Dictionary project to fill in for a languages assistant who’d fallen ill. But you knew instinctively in this world how well you matched up against other people, and Gaille didn’t stand a chance. The first time Elena had exploded, it had left Gaille shell-shocked. Her new colleagues had shrugged it off, telling her that Elena had been that way ever since her husband had died. She boiled like a young planet with internal rage, erupting unpredictably in gushes of indiscriminate, molten and sometimes spectacular violence. It had become almost routine now, something to be feared and placated, like the wrath of ancient gods. So Gaille stood there and took upon her chin all Elena’s scathing and brutal remarks about the poverty of her abilities, her ingratitude, the damage this incident would doubtless do her career when it got out, though she herself would, of course, do her best to protect her.

      ‘I’m sorry, Ms Koloktronis,’ Gaille said, when the tirade finally began to slacken. ‘Kristos said you wanted to see me.’

      ‘I told him to tell you I was coming over.’

      ‘That’s not what he told me. I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t fallen.’

      ‘Where did you go?’

      ‘Nowhere. I just checked at the bottom.’

      ‘Very well,’ said Elena grudgingly. ‘Then we’ll say no more about it. But don’t mention it to Qasim, or I won’t be able to protect you.’

      ‘No, Ms Koloktronis,’ said Gaille. Qasim, the on-site representative of the Supreme Council, was every bit as secretive about this place as Elena herself. No doubt it would be embarrassing for Elena to have to admit to him that she’d left the door unlocked and unguarded.

      ‘Come with me,’ said Elena, locking the steel door, then leading Gaille across to the magazine. ‘There’s an ostracon I’d like your opinion on. I’m ninety-nine point nine nine per cent sure of its translation. You can perhaps help me with the other nought point nought one per cent.’

      ‘Yes, Ms Koloktronis,’ said Gaille meekly. ‘Thank you.’

      III

      ‘Are you an idiot?’ scowled Max, having followed Knox to the stern of the dive boat. ‘Do you have a death wish, or something? Didn’t I tell you to leave Hassan’s woman alone?’

      ‘She came to talk to me,’ answered Knox. ‘Did you want me to be rude?’

      ‘You were flirting with her.’

      ‘She was flirting with me.’

      ‘That’s even worse. Christ!’ He looked around, his face suffused with fear. Working for Hassan could do that to people.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ said Knox. ‘I’ll stay away from her.’

      ‘You’d better. Trust me, you get on Hassan’s wrong side, you and your mate Rick can forget about your little project, whatever the fuck it is.’

      ‘Keep your voice down.’

      ‘I’m just warning you.’ He wagged a finger, as if he had more to say, but then he turned and walked away.

      Knox watched him go. He didn’t like Max; Max didn’t like him. But they had a valuable relationship. Max ran a dive school, and Knox was a good, reliable dive instructor who knew how to charm tourists into recommending him to others they met on their travels; and he worked for peanuts too. In return, Max let him use his boat and side-scan sonar for what he disparagingly referred to as his ‘little project’. Knox smiled wryly. If Max ever found out what he and Rick were after, he wouldn’t dismiss it so patronisingly.

      Knox had come to Sharm nearly three years before. He’d only been here four weeks when something extraordinary had happened; and it had been prompted by the very same tattoo that had caught Fiona’s eye.

      While he’d been sitting on the front one evening, enjoying a beer, a powerfully built Australian man had come up to him. ‘Mind if I join you?’ he’d asked.

      ‘Help yourself.’

      ‘I’m Rick.’

      ‘Daniel. But everyone calls me Knox.’

      ‘Yeah. So I’ve been told.’

      Knox squinted at him. ‘You’ve been asking?’

      ‘They say you’re an archaeologist.’

      ‘Used to be.’

      ‘You gave it up to become a dive instructor?’ asked Rick sceptically.

      ‘It gave me up,’ explained Knox. ‘A bust-up with the establishment.’

      ‘Ah.’ He leaned forward. ‘Interesting tattoo.’

      ‘You think?’

      Rick nodded. ‘If I show you something, you’ll keep it to yourself, right?’

      ‘Sure,’ shrugged Knox.

      Rick reached into his pocket, pulled out a matchbox. Inside, embedded in cotton wool, was a fat golden teardrop about an inch long with an eyelet at the narrow end for a clasp or a chain. Specks of pink were accreted from where it had been chiselled out of coral. And, on its base, a sixteen-pointed star had been faintly inscribed.

      ‘I found it a couple of years back,’ said Rick. ‘I thought you might be able to tell me more about it. I mean, it’s Alexander’s symbol, right?’

      ‘Yes. Where d’you find it?’

      ‘Sure!’ snorted Rick, taking it back, replacing it jealously in its makeshift home, then back in his pocket. ‘Like I’m going to tell you that. Well? Any idea?’

      ‘It could be anything,’ said Knox. ‘A tassel for a robe, a drinking cup, something like that. An earring.’

      ‘What?’ frowned Rick. ‘Alexander wore earrings?’

      ‘The star doesn’t mean it belonged to him personally. Just to his household.’

      ‘Oh.’ The Australian looked disappointed.

      Knox