The Alexander Cipher Page 0,37
How about your excavation reports from the harbor? I’d love to know what you’ve been finding.”
“Sure,” nodded Augustin. “No problem. I’ll bring them back tomorrow night. But if you’re suffering . . .”
“Yes?”
“This site I visit today. A necropolis. It goes all the way down to the water table and then some, but Ibrahim doesn’t want to pump. He wants me to explore. I was going to take Sophia, but if you’re really going crazy . . .”
A little tremor of fear and anticipation ran through Knox. “Are you serious?”
“Why not? She’s prettier than you, yes, but not so good a diver. You know how dangerous enclosed spaces can be.”
“How would I even get to the site?”
“On the back of my bike,” said Augustin, passing Knox a cold bottle of Stella. “You can wear my helmet; someone should. No one will stop us, I promise. The police in the city are a disgrace. Ten years I am here, I am never once stopped. And if we are, tant pis! I still have my papers from my last visit to Cyrene. Those Libyan bastards refused me entry under my real name! Me! Just because of some letter I wrote about that mad fop Gadhafi. So I had to go in as Omar Malik. A truck driver from Marsa Matruh, would you believe? If I can pass for a truck driver from Marsa Matruh, so can you.”
Knox shook his head. He couldn’t believe he was even considering this. But Augustin had an admirable lack of respect for the ordinary rules of behavior, and his attitude was infectious. “And inside the site?”
“No problem. Leave any talking to me. Not that there’ll be much. Up top there’s a working building site, remember. Down below there are God knows how many chambers, a hundred loculi in each, every one stuffed with bones and artifacts, all of which Mansoor wants in the museum inside two weeks. It’s chaos. Excavators from the museum, from the university, from along the coast. Just one security guard at the mouth of the stairwell, but all you need to get past him is a standard SCA pass, and I can issue you one of those myself. Some forgettable name. John Smith. Charles Russell. Mark Edwards. Yes! Perfect. Mark Edwards. You look exactly how a Mark Edwards should look.”
Knox shook his head uncertainly. “You know what Cairo thinks of me. If I’m found out, it could mean trouble for you.”
“Fuck Cairo,” scowled Augustin. “I still feel sick at what that bastard Yusuf did to you and Richard. Believe me, helping you will be a pleasure. Besides, how will anyone find out? I’m not going to talk. Are you?”
“Someone might recognize me.”
“I don’t think so. Ibrahim, maybe, but he’s a good man; he wouldn’t take it any further. Anyway, he never visits sites anymore; he might get his suit dirty. Other than that, there’s no one you know. And they’re all friends, except for this gorgeous angry Greek woman called Elena and her—”
“Elena?” Knox put a hand to his brow. “Elena Koloktronis?”
Augustin pulled a face. “You know her?”
“No,” snorted Knox. “Just a lucky guess.”
“How do you know her?”
“You remember what happened to my parents and my sister?”
“Of course. Why? She had something to do with that?”
“It was her husband who was driving.”
“Oh. And he… ? He also… ?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry,” said Augustin. “I’m sorry both for you and for her. But it won’t matter; she’s not there tomorrow.”
“You’re certain?”
“She runs an excavation in the Delta. She only came today to bring in her French photographer girl. Gaille Dumas, something like that. You know her?”
“A photographer?” Knox shook his head. “No.”
“Then we’re fine,” said Augustin. He grinned and held out his beer bottle to clink in a toast. “What could possibly go wrong?”
Chapter Nine
AUGUSTIN WAS RIGHT about getting into the site the next morning. It proved a breeze. He was right, too, about the excitement Knox felt at being part of a proper excavation again. It had been too long. Far too long. Just being there made him happy: the noise, the smells, the banter. Up top, a generator was roaring away, powering a winch lift hauling an almost nonstop stream of excavation baskets cut from old truck tires, filled with rubble to be sifted in sunlight, then sent either to the museum or to landfill; lamps and ventilator fans were spread throughout the necropolis on miles of white power cables; and excavators in breathing masks and white gloves knelt in the confined tombs, carefully