The Alexander Cipher. Will Adams

is sick.’

      ‘Ah,’ said Ibrahim, leaning back. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

      ‘They call it Burkitt’s lymphoma. It appeared in her stomach like a grape and then a mango beneath her skin. Her surgeons removed it. She had chemotherapy. We thought she’d conquered it.’

      Ibrahim rubbed his throat. ‘Maha said you’d found something—’

      ‘Her doctors are good people,’ said Mohammed. ‘But they’re overworked, under-equipped. They have no money. They wait for—’

      ‘Excuse me, but Maha said you’d found—’

      ‘They wait for her disease to progress so far that there’s nothing more they can do.’ Mohammed leaned forwards, said softly but fiercely: ‘That time is not yet here. My daughter still has one chance.’

      Ibrahim hesitated, then asked reluctantly: ‘And that is?’

      ‘A bone-marrow transplant.’

      A look of polite horror crossed Ibrahim’s face. ‘But aren’t those incredibly expensive?’

      Mohammed waved that aside. ‘Our Medical Research Institute has a programme of publicly funded transplants, but they won’t consider a patient unless they’ve already identified a donor match. But they’ll not run tests for a match unless the patient is already in the programme.’

      ‘Surely that makes it impossible—’

      ‘It’s their way of choosing without having to choose. But unless I can finance these tests, my daughter will die.’

      Ibrahim said weakly: ‘You can’t expect the SCA to—’

      ‘These tests aren’t expensive,’ said Mohammed urgently. ‘It’s just that the chances of a match are low. My wife and I, our closest family, our friends, we’ve all taken the tests, but without success. I can persuade others, more distant cousins, friends of friends, but only if I organise and pay. I’ve tried everywhere to borrow money for this, but already this disease has put me so far in debt that …’ He felt tears coming; he broke off, bowed his head to prevent Ibrahim seeing.

      There was silence for a while. Then Ibrahim murmured: ‘Maha said you’d found something on your site.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Am I to understand that you want money for these tests in exchange for telling me about it?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘You realise you’re legally obliged to inform me anyway.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘That you could go to gaol if you don’t.’

      Mohammed lifted his face, met Ibrahim’s gaze with perfect calmness. ‘Yes.’

      Ibrahim nodded, gestured around his shabby offices. ‘And you understand I cannot promise anything?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Very well. Why don’t you tell me what you’ve found?’

       THREE

      I

      Knox reached the dive boat quickly. He took off his flippers, tossed them aboard, climbed up. He could see no sign of Fiona or Hassan. Now that he was here, he wasn’t certain what to do. He felt conspicuous and rather foolish. He unbuckled and slipped off his BCD and tank, carried it with him as he walked quietly across the deck to the port-side cabins. He tested the doors one by one, looking inside. He finally came to one that was locked. He rattled it. There was a muffled cry inside, then silence.

      Some people enjoy and seek out violence. Not Knox. He had a sudden disembodied vision of himself standing there, and it unnerved him badly. He turned and walked away, but then the door opened behind him.

      ‘Yes?’ demanded Hassan.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ said Knox, without looking around. ‘I made a mistake.’

      ‘Come back!’ said Hassan, irritably. ‘Yes, you. Max’s boy. I’m talking to you. Come here now.’

      Knox turned reluctantly, walked back towards Hassan, eyes submissively lowered. Hassan didn’t even bother to block his view, so that Knox could see Fiona lying on the bed, forearms crossed over her exposed breasts, cotton trousers half pulled down around her clenched and lifted knees. There was a cut above her right eye; her upper lip was bleeding. A torn white T-shirt lay discarded on the floor.

      ‘Well?’ demanded Hassan. ‘What did you want?’

      Knox glanced again at Fiona. She shook her head at him, to say it was all right, she could cope with this, he shouldn’t get involved. The small gesture triggered something utterly unexpected in Knox, something like rage. He swung his scuba tank like a wrecking ball into Hassan’s solar plexus, doubling him up. Then he clubbed him on the side of his jaw, and sent him reeling backwards. Now that he’d started, he couldn’t help himself. He hit Hassan again and again until he collapsed on the ground. It was only when Fiona pulled him away that his mind cleared.

      Hassan was unconscious, his face and chest painted with blood. He looked so badly beaten that Knox kneeled and was relieved to find a pulse in his throat.

      ‘Quick,’ said Fiona, tugging his hand. ‘The others are coming back.’

      They ran together out of the cabin. Max and Nessim were swimming towards the boat. They shouted furiously when they saw Knox. He ran to the bridge, ripped wiring from beneath the two-way radio and ignition. All the keys were kept in a plastic tub on the floor. He grabbed the lot. The speedboat was tied by a single rope to their stern. He hurried down the ladder, hauled the speedboat towards them, helped Fiona onto its bow, followed himself, untying the towrope, jumping into the driver’s seat, slipping the key into the ignition just as Max and Nessim reached them and started to climb aboard. Knox spun the boat in a tight circle and roared away; the wash of water ripped Max free, but Nessim held on, pulled himself aboard, stood. He was a tough bastard, Nessim, angry as hell, but he was hampered by his wetsuit and his tank. Knox threw the boat into another tight spin and sent him flailing over the side.

      Knox straightened out and roared off towards Sharm. He shook his head at himself. He’d done it now. He’d fucking done it. He needed to reach his Jeep before Hassan or Nessim could put the word out. If they caught him … Christ! He felt sick at the prospect of what they’d do. He needed out of Sharm, out of Sinai, out of Egypt altogether. He needed out tonight. He glanced around. Fiona was sitting on the bench seat at the back, head bowed, teeth chattering, a blue towel wrapped tight around her trembling shoulders. For the life of him, he couldn’t think how she’d reminded him of Bee. He slammed the heel of his hand against the control panel in anger at himself. If there was one thing he hated, it was memory. You worked your balls off to build a life in a place like this that had no links whatsoever with your past; no friends, no family, nothing to weigh you down. But it wasn’t enough. You took your memory with you wherever you went, and it’d fuck you up in a heartbeat.

      II

      Ibrahim Beyumi walked Mohammed down to the street to wish him farewell, then thanked him and watched him disappear round the corner. He could have followed him, of course, and found the location of his site that way. But the big man’s story had touched him, not least because he’d effectively put his career and freedom in Ibrahim’s hands, and Ibrahim always liked to repay such trust. Besides, he’d left a telephone number to call when he had news, so he’d be easy enough to track down, if necessary.

      Maha, Ibrahim’s assistant, started to rise when he walked over to her desk, but he settled her with a palm, then went to consult the vast street map of Alexandria pinned to the wall behind her. As ever,