The Alexander Cipher Page 0,123
was up to. But then he shook his head and beckoned for Leonidas and Bastiaan to come with him. The three of them walked off a few paces, conferring urgently but quietly. When they were done, Nicolas came back. “We’ll all go in together,” he said, as though it had been his idea. “But the girl will stay in the container with Eneas.” He held up his cell phone. “Try anything, and if I even sniff a trap, it’ll be the end of her. Understand?”
Knox looked into his eyes. The devil and the deep blue sea, rocks and hard places, Scylla and Charybdis. Hurling nitro at glycerine in hopes of crawling out of the resulting crater wasn’t much of a strategy, but he had no alternative. “Yes,” he said.
Nicolas gestured at the nearer SUV. “Good. Then, come with me.”
“If Gaille’s in the truck, I’m in the truck.”
“Very well,” scowled Nicolas. “We’ll ride up front with Bastiaan.”
ONCOMING HEADLIGHTS spiked into Knox’s eyes as he sat between the two Greeks in the container truck’s high cab. Adrenaline added luster to the ink-blue night sky, and his mind felt almost unnaturally sharp. Bastiaan drove anxiously, grinding the gears, muttering and cursing, uncomfortable, perhaps, with such a heavy load and—no doubt—with the situation he found himself in. Nicolas kept the muzzle of his Walther pressed unnecessarily hard into Knox’s ribs while giving Bastiaan directions at the same time.
They turned off the main road into an industrial park of low warehouses and cracked concrete. There was no other traffic. All the offices were closed. Every twenty meters or so, streetlights made yellow pools in the sea of black. A line of tall cranes marked the waterfront. A series of PRIVATE: KEEP OUT signs bearing the logo of Al-Assyuti Trading ran along a high chain-link fence. Bastiaan checked his side mirrors and slowed as they neared the entrance. The brakes began to sing, so he released them. He turned to make the approach, then pulled up at a wooden barrier and lowered his window to attract the attention of the elderly security guard playing checkers against himself in a glass-walled booth, watched by a Doberman on a leash. The old man sighed, hobbled across, squinted up at Bastiaan, and asked in Arabic what he wanted. Bastiaan shrugged and looked at Knox and Nicolas for assistance.
“I’m Daniel Knox,” said Knox. “Mr. al-Assyuti is expecting me.”
“All of you?” asked the man.
“Yes.”
A ship’s horn sounded in the distance. The guard shrugged and shook his head, then returned to his booth and made a call. With the window open, cool night air flooded in, bringing the smells of diesel, salt, and rotting fish. A security camera whirred and focused; then the barrier lifted. Bastiaan drove on through, struggling to pick up speed. The office buildings were at the far end of the terminal. Stacks of colored containers were everywhere, like a gigantic set of child’s building blocks. There was no one in sight, no laborers, no forklift drivers, no truckers, no crane operators. Emptiness and silence. The four-by-fours fanned out like wingmen on either side of the truck. A huge ship lumbered along the canal, the lights of its bridge and deck doubling in the water, and Knox had a disembodied yet overpowering sensation that the past decade of his life was now reaching its climax. The deaths of his parents and his sister, his conflict with the Dragoumises, his years with Richard, the quest for Alexander. And Gaille, too—Gaille most of all.
As if reading his mind, Nicolas punched a number into his cell phone. A moment later, Knox heard it ringing in the container behind them. When Eneas answered, Nicolas held it up for Knox to see. “I’ll do it,” he warned. “I’ll have her killed if you try anything. I swear I will.”
Something about his choice of words made Knox frown. A memory of Elena came unexpectedly to his mind—of her standing before Dragoumis in the moment before she shot him, and the words she had used to explain herself. “Elena didn’t kill Pavlos,” he muttered. “She had him killed. That’s what she told your father.”
Nicolas scowled. “So?”
“Elena was an archaeologist, not a mafia wife. How would she have someone killed?”
“How the fuck should I know?” But there was an edge of anxiety in Nicolas’s voice.
“How long has Costis worked for you?” demanded Knox, certain he was onto something.
“Shut up!”
“I bet he was working for you back then, wasn’t he? Did Elena know him?”
“Where do you get this