The Alexander Cipher Page 0,80

rise. He glimpsed gray ahead and pointed it out. Rick nodded and motioned for Knox to stay where he was. He vanished for a minute before reappearing out of the shadows. “Two buildings,” he whispered. “One large, one small. Made of concrete block. No windows. Steel doors. Padlocks. But both guards are outside the small one. That’s the one we need to get inside.”

“I thought you said it was a concrete-block building with no windows. How the fuck are we going to get inside?”

Rick grinned. “You’ll see.”

GAILLE AND ELENA found Dr. Aly Sayed easily enough. He lived in an impressive two-story house at the end of a narrow tree-lined lane. A dark man with snowy hair, eyebrows, and trimmed beard sat outside, a tumbler in one hand, a bulbous fountain pen in the other, his tabletop spread with papers. “Hola!” he cried cheerfully. “You must be my secretary general’s friends.” He rested his tumbler on his papers to stop them from being blown away, then bounded across. Siwa had been on the ancient slave route, and he clearly had Negro as well as Arab blood, which he seemed to emphasize deliberately with his open sandals, khaki shorts, and short-sleeved gold and scarlet shirt.

“You must be Ms. Koloktronis,” he said to Elena, shaking her hand. “And Gaille Bonnard,” he said, turning to her. “Yes! Your father’s eyes.”

Gaille was shocked. “I beg your pardon?”

“You are not Richard Mitchell’s daughter?”

“Yes, but—”

“Good! When Yusuf tell me to expect Elena Koloktronis and Gaille Bonnard, I think to myself, ah, yes, I recognize this name! When your father dies in his terrible fall, I post to you I think a great package of papers and belongings. You received it, I trust?”

“That was you? Yes. Thank you.”

Aly nodded. “Your father was my very good friend. He stay with me often. You are welcome for your own sake, of course. But the daughter of such a good man is a thousand times welcome.”

“Thank you.”

“Though I must say I am surprised that Yusuf Abbas commended you so warmly to me.” He raised an eyebrow. “It couldn’t be that he is unaware of who your father is, could it?”

“I don’t know,” blushed Gaille, who always felt slightly awkward when her father was discussed in Egypt.

“Perhaps I should tell him myself next time we speak,” he mused. But then he saw her expression, and touched her elbow. “Of course you know I’m joking. I would never do such a thing. You have my word. Now, come inside. You’ll honor and adorn my humble home. Inside! Inside!”

Gaille and Elena exchanged a glance as they followed. They hadn’t expected such an exuberant welcome. He slapped his hand against the rough yellow exterior wall. “Kharshif,” he announced. “Mud and salt. Strong like rock but with one weakness. She turn back into mud again when she rain!” He put his hands on his sides and laughed uproariously. “Fortunately, she not rain like this often in Siwa. Not since 1985! Now Siwa is all one concrete block.” He thumped his chest. “Me, I like the old ways.” His front door opened onto a long hallway. Framed photographs jostled for space. More were stacked on the floor. Discolored patches from previous hangings showed that he often changed them around. He wasn’t camera shy, that was for sure. He appeared in picture after picture: Discussing excavation matters on-site; out hunting with an army officer, holding up a white gazelle with a gunshot wound in its head; in mountaineering kit halfway up some cliff; sightseeing in Paris, St. Louis, Granada, and other cities she couldn’t place; shaking hands with dignitaries, celebrities, and Egypt experts. Not an ego wall so much as an ego house.

They reached his kitchen, its broad fireplace open to the night sky. A huge old yellowing refrigerator clicked on as they entered, and began to rattle loudly. He kicked it, and the rattling became more subdued. “A drink?” he suggested. “You may not know, but Siwa is dry of alcohol. Our young men enjoy too much the labgi, the alcohol we make from dates, and labgi makes them enjoy too much each other, so no more alcohol! In this sense, however, my house is the oasis!” Gaille found his boisterous good humor disconcerting, as though he was laughing up his sleeve at them. He opened the refrigerator door to reveal a jungle of fresh fruit and vegetables inside, stacks of beer and white wine. He wagged a finger at Gaille. “Your father teach me wicked habits.