The Alexander Cipher Page 0,36

took it up to his room to read. It was disappointingly thin, as files went, but then, he hadn’t expected Knox to have a file at all. He flipped through the pages, the print barely legible from being photocopied too often, the photographs almost completely black.

It quickly became clear that the Security Service hadn’t really been interested in Knox at all. They had been interested in another man, a Richard Mitchell, with whom Knox had worked for several years. Mitchell, it seemed, had a big mouth; he had accused the extremely well connected head of the SCA of selling papyri on the black market. A piece of recklessness that had achieved precisely what one would expect: his isolation from the Egyptological community and the refusal of any further permissions to excavate.

That at least explained what Knox had been doing in Sharm: killing time until the dust settled, dreaming of treasure on the seafloor. But it wasn’t much help when it came to tracking him down. The last sheet in the file, however, was a different matter. It was a list of all Knox’s known friends and associates, and it gave their home addresses, too.

NUR GREETED MOHAMMED AT THE DOOR. She looked haggard, which meant Layla had had a bad day. “You look beautiful,” he said, kissing her cheek and handing her a small bouquet of tired blooms.

“How can you afford these?” she protested tearfully.

“They’re a gift,” he said gently. “Sharif wanted you to have them.” He looked past her, down the hallway, to Layla’s room. “Is she awake?”

Nur nodded. “But tired.”

“I won’t be long.” He knocked gently on Layla’s door, opened it, and walked in. His daughter smiled to see him. He knelt beside her bed, reached into his pocket, and produced a black queen he’d carved and varnished. He liked to whittle. In the rare lulls on-site, he would scour the bins for ends of wood that he could attack with his linoleum knife. It was good therapy. When you could do nothing for your child’s health, you could at least do something for her happiness.

Her eyes went wide with wonder and delight. She took the varnished mahogany, licked it with the very tip of her tongue, clutched it tight against her chest, like a doll. For some reason, Layla had turned against real dolls since learning of her disease, making do with these carved figures instead. He couldn’t even tempt her with sweets any more. It was as though her life had become too serious for childish distractions. “You’ll read for me tonight?” she asked.

“Of course.”

She snuggled down, seemingly content. Now that Ibrahim had promised funding, he had called everyone he could think of and begged them to take the tests. That had felt good, as though he was contributing. But now he was dependent on others again. Now he was waiting. It was the hardest thing in the world for a parent, waiting.

He felt wretched when he left Layla’s room. Nur bit her lip, but she couldn’t hold back her tears. She spent her life weeping, drying herself out from the inside. Mohammed took her in his arms, held her tight to comfort her. Sometimes he felt so close to despair, he almost craved for the worst to happen, just so it would be over. His fine career, his beautiful wife and daughter. Everything that had once seemed so perfect. He murmured tentatively, “Is she well enough to go out?”

“Out?” There was an edge of hysteria in Nur’s tone. “Where?”

“The site.”

Nur pushed him away. “Are you crazy?” she cried.

Mohammed embraced her again. “Listen to me,” he said. “This archaeologist Ibrahim I told you about, the one with the Mercedes who’s paying for our tests. He has money; he has influence. He moves in a different world from ours. Layla needs all the friends she can get in that world.”

“He can help?”

Mohammed hesitated. Nur had a habit of punishing him for promises he made to soothe her through the harder times. “Who can say?” he murmured. “But he’s a kind man, a gentle man. Once he knows Layla for himself, who knows what Allah would have him do?”

“LOOK WHAT I HAVE!” said Augustin cheerfully, hoisting up two plastic bags. “Falafel baguettes and beer, yes? Just like the old days.”

“Great.”

Augustin frowned. “You don’t sound too happy.”

“A little stir-crazy,” admitted Knox.

“One day? You can’t even survive one day?”

“It’s all these bloody Tintin books of yours,” said Knox, helping him unpack. “Can’t you get me something decent to read?”

“Such as?”

“Something archaeological.