The Alexander Cipher Page 0,109
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.
“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