The Alexander Cipher Page 0,16

harbors had come back to life, thanks to a boom in Mediterranean trade, so that today some four million souls were packed together into high-density housing that rendered systematic excavation impossible. Archaeologists like Ibrahim, therefore, were at the mercy of developers, who were still tearing down old buildings to erect new ones in their place—and every time they did so, there was a glimmer of a chance that they would uncover something extraordinary.

“He did describe one area in great detail,” he said. “A forecourt with bronze doors leading to an antechamber and main chamber. What do you make of that?”

“A tomb?” hazarded Maha. “Ptolemaic?”

Ibrahim nodded. “Early Ptolemaic—very early.” He took a deep breath. “Indeed, it sounded to me like the tomb of a Macedonian king.”

Maha stood and turned, her fingers splayed on her desk. “You can’t mean… ,” she began. “But I thought Alexander was buried in a great mausoleum, not an underground necropolis.”

Ibrahim remained silent for several seconds, vicariously enjoying her excitement, wondering whether to deflate her gently now or risk sharing his wilder hopes. He decided to let her down. “He was, yes. It was called the Sema; the Greek word for ‘tomb,’ you know. Or perhaps Soma, their word for ‘body.’ ”

“Oh,” said Maha. “So this won’t be Alexander’s tomb, then?”

“No.”

“What is it?”

Ibrahim shrugged. “We’ll need to excavate to find that out.”

“How? I thought we’d spent all our money.”

And that was the nub. Ibrahim’s entire budget for the year was already allocated, and he’d begged as much from the French and the Americans as they could give. It happened like that here, precisely because excavation was such an opportunistic affair. If too many interesting sites were found in the same financial period, he simply couldn’t handle them all. It became a matter of triage. At this precise moment, all his field archaeologists were involved, directly or indirectly, in projects across the old city. Excavating this new site would demand new money, specialists, and crew. And it wasn’t as if he could put it on hold until the next financial year. The stairwell was slap in the middle of the new hotel’s prospective parking lot; Mohammed could accommodate a couple of weeks of excavation, but any more would ruin his schedule. That was a real concern to Ibrahim. In uncovering ancient Alexandria, he depended almost entirely on property developers and construction companies to report significant finds. If ever he got a reputation for causing excessive delays or being difficult to work with, they’d simply stop notifying him, regardless of their legal obligations. In many ways, this latest site was a headache he didn’t need. But it was also an early Macedonian tomb, quite possibly a very significant find indeed, so he couldn’t let it slide by.

There was one possible source of funds, he knew. His mouth felt tacky and dry just thinking of it, not least because it would mean contravening all kinds of SCA protocols. Yet he could see no alternative. He forced a smile. “There’s that Greek businessman who keeps offering to sponsor us,” he said.

Maha raised her eyebrows. “You can’t mean Nicolas Dragoumis!”

“Yes,” he said. “That’s the one.”

“But I thought you said he was . . .” She caught his eye and trailed off.

“I did,” he acknowledged. “But do you have a better suggestion?”

“No, sir.”

Ibrahim had been delighted when Nicolas Dragoumis first contacted him, for sponsors were always welcome. Yet something about his manner had made Ibrahim apprehensive. After finishing that first phone call, he had immediately checked the Dragoumis Group’s corporate Web site, with all its links to subsidiaries in shipping, insurance, construction, media, import-export, electronics, aerospace, property, tourism, security, and more. He had found a sponsorship section explaining that the Dragoumis Group supported only those projects that helped demonstrate the historical greatness of Macedonia or worked to restore the independence of Aegean Macedonia from the rest of Greece. Ibrahim didn’t know much about Greek politics, but he knew enough not to want to get involved with Macedonian separatists.

Elsewhere on the site, he’d found a page with a group photograph of the company’s directors. Nicolas Dragoumis was tall, lanky, handsome, and well dressed. But it had been the man standing front and center who unnerved Ibrahim. Philip Dragoumis, the Group’s founder and chief executive, fearsome-looking, swarthy, lightly bearded, with a large plum-colored birthmark above his left cheekbone, and a disturbingly potent gaze, even in a photograph. He seemed like a man to steer clear of. But at this point Ibrahim had no choice. His