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him and pressed the muzzle against his heart. “Tell your men to be still,” she said. Dragoumis said nothing, so she raised and pressed the gun against his forehead. When she saw him tremble, she felt a great gladness inside. Then she realized he was trembling not with fear but with anger. “I didn’t kill Pavlos,” he said flatly.

“Yes, you did.”

He shook his head. “You have my word: that crash was an accident.”

“It was no accident,” she assured him. “Believe me. I know everything. I know you hired a whore to seduce Pavlos. I know you had them filmed together, that you showed him the footage. I know you threatened to send me a copy unless he stopped calling for an inquiry.”

“Then you also know that I had no need to kill him.”

Elena could feel tears prickling on her cheeks. “Did you really believe you could control Pavlos? Not a chance. Not you. Not me. Not anyone. He came to me. He confessed everything. That’s how I know you were responsible.”

A muscle flickered on Dragoumis’s temple. “I give you my word,” he said. “I swear on Macedonia. On the body of Alexander. On the death of my wife. I never ordered for Pavlos to be killed.”

“No,” said Elena. “But I did. I had him killed because of your fucking film.” She smiled as Dragoumis assimilated this, worked out the import, looked at her for the first time in the certain knowledge of his own death; and seeing that, savoring it, she shot him once through the forehead, scattering bits of brain and bone like seed corn over the sands. Then, thinking of Pavlos, longing for him, she stuffed the hot muzzle against the roof of her mouth, closed her eyes, uttered his name, and pulled the trigger one final time.

Chapter Thirty-seven

NICOLAS DRAGOUMIS FLINCHED and closed his eyes a millisecond before Elena killed his father and then herself. When he opened them again, his father was lying on his side, one arm splayed out, the other tucked awkwardly beneath him, legs folded like half a swastika. He found himself staring and staring, unable to take in what he saw. It was impossible that such a man could be so quickly and utterly extinguished. He stepped unsteadily across Elena’s prostrate corpse to stand beside his father, waiting for him to move—to rise, brush himself down, give orders.

He jumped as someone touched his elbow. He turned to see Leonidas talking to him. He could see his lips move but could make no sense of the words. He looked down again, and slowly his brain began to recover. All men died, but their missions lived on. His father’s mission lived on. It was up to him to complete it. The thought strengthened Nicolas. He looked around again. The sun had already cleared the horizon. The mouth of the tomb had already vanished beneath sand. His men were gazing expectantly at him.

“Dig a pit,” he said. “We bury Costis and Elena here.” The calmness and authority of his voice surprised him. But then, why should it? His father had been Philip II reincarnate, the father of Alexander the Great. And what did that make him? Yes, what did that make him?

“And your father?” frowned Leonidas.

“You think I’d leave him here?” snapped Nicolas. “We bring him with us. He is to be buried with full honors.”

“What about those two?” asked Leonidas, nodding at Gaille and Knox, being herded by Bastiaan into the back of one of the four-by-fours.

Nicolas felt a resurgence of his anger, and an opportunity to vent it. His jaw tightened. He stooped to take the Walther from Elena’s loose grip. He checked the clip: five gone, four left. He walked over to the four-by-four. “Get Knox out,” he ordered.

Bastiaan dragged Knox out by the arm and threw him on the sand. Nicolas aimed down at his chest. The girl cried out, pleading for mercy, but Bastiaan punched her in the temple, so that she fell sprawling unconscious across the rear seats. Nicolas stared down at Knox. “No one can say we didn’t give you fair warning,” he said.

“Your father gave us his word he’d let us go if we helped you find Alexander.”

“My father is dead,” said Nicolas.

“Yes, but he—”

He got no further, because Bastiaan slammed the butt of his gun into the back of his skull, and he collapsed facedown on the sand.

“Thank you,” said Nicolas. He smiled as he aimed at the back of Knox’s head and tightened his finger on