The Alexander Cipher Page 0,19
hundred years, the borders it had laid down had remained largely unchanged. And the loathsome Greeks, Serbs, and Bulgars had done everything they could to eradicate Macedonian history, language, and culture. They had shut down free speech, imprisoning anyone who showed the slightest defiance. They had appropriated the properties of Macedonian farmers and resettled outsiders on them. They razed villages, orchestrated mass murders and rapes, turned Macedonians into slaves, and then worked them to death. They committed ethnic cleansing on a grand scale, without a peep of protest from the wider world.
But it hadn’t worked. That was the thing that gave Nicolas hope. The spirit of Macedonian nationhood still burned strong. In pockets across the region, their language survived, as did their culture and church. They lived on in these simple yet proud people, in the glorious sacrifices they had already made and would soon make once more for the greater good. Someday soon his beloved country would finally be free.
“And it waxed great, even to the host of heaven; and it cast down some of the host and of the stars to the ground, and stamped upon them. Yea, he magnified himself even to the prince of the host, and by him the daily sacrifice was taken away, and the place of his sanctuary was cast down.’ ‘And the place of his sanctuary was cast down,’ ” repeated the preacher. “That’s this place. That’s Macedonia. The land of your birth. It was Demetrios, you see, who began the chaos that has engulfed Macedonia ever since. Demetrios. In two hundred and ninety-one BC. Mark that date. Mark it well. Two hundred and ninety-one BC.”
In Nicolas’s pocket, his cell phone began to vibrate. He gave few people this number, and his assistant, Katerina, had strict instructions not to put any calls through tonight. He stood and walked to the back doors. “Yes?” he asked.
“Ibrahim Beyumi for you, sir,” said Katerina.
“Ibrahim who?”
“The archaeologist from Alexandria. I wouldn’t have bothered you, but he says it’s urgent. They’ve found something. They need a decision at once.”
“Very well. Put him through.”
“Yes, sir.”
The line switched. Another voice came on. “Mr. Dragoumis, this is Ibrahim Beyumi here. From the Supreme Council in—”
“I know who you are. What do you want?”
“You’ve been generous enough to offer sponsorship in certain—”
“You’ve found something?”
“A necropolis. A tomb. A Macedonian tomb.” He took a deep breath. “From the description I was given, it sounds just like the Royal Tombs at Aigai.”
Nicolas clutched his phone tight and turned his back on the church. “You’ve found a Macedonian royal tomb?”
“According to this description, maybe. But I won’t know for sure until I’ve inspected it myself.”
“And when will you do that?”
“First thing tomorrow—providing I can arrange financing, at least.”
In the background, the preacher was still talking. “ ‘Then I heard one saint speaking,’ ” he intoned, squeezing every sonorous drop from the biblical prose, “ ‘and another saint said unto that certain saint which spake, How long shall be the vision concerning the daily sacrifice, and the transgression of desolation, to give both the sanctuary and the host to be trodden under foot?’ How long shall Macedonia and the Macedonians be trampled underfoot? How long shall we pay the price for Demetrios’s sin? Remember, this was written three hundred years before the sin of Demetrios, which took place in two hundred and ninety-one BC!”
Nicolas clamped a hand over his ear, the better to concentrate. “You need financing before you inspect?” he asked sardonically.
“We have a peculiar situation,” said Ibrahim. “The man who reported the find has a very sick daughter. He wants funds before he’ll talk.”
“Ah.” The inevitable baksheesh. “How much? For everything.”
“In money terms?”
Nicolas clenched his toes in frustration. These people! “Yes,” he said, with exaggerated patience. “In money terms.”
“That depends on how big the site proves to be, how much time we have, what kind of artifacts—”
“In U.S. dollars. Thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands?”
“Oh. It typically costs six or seven thousand American dollars a week for an emergency excavation like this.”
“How many weeks?”
“That would depend on—”
“One? Five? Ten?”
“Three. Two if we’re lucky.”
“Fine. Do you know Elena Koloktronis?”
“The archaeologist? I’ve met her once or twice. Why?”
“She’s on a dig in the Delta; Katerina will give you her contact number. Invite her tomorrow. If she vouches for this tomb of yours, the Dragoumis Group will give you twenty thousand dollars. I trust that will meet all your excavation costs, plus any more sick children who turn up.”
“Thank you,” said Ibrahim. “That’s most generous.”
“And