The Alexander Cipher Page 0,81
A terrible thing, the love of alcohol. Each time I run low I must invent SCA business in Cairo, and I hate Cairo. It means I have to pay respects to my secretary general, and, believe me, that is a privilege made all the greater by its rarity.”
He poured them drinks, led them back to the hallway, where he unlocked a blue door, pushed it open, flipped on a light, and stood aside. A wave of delicious cool air wafted out. The room was large and lushly carpeted. A single heavy air-conditioning unit stood hissing beneath the closed, bolted, and shuttered windows. A computer, a flatbed scanner, and a color printer rested on two archival tables next to three gray steel filing cabinets and white-painted shelving stacked with books above locked glass-fronted cabinets. She noted the straight lines on the walls. There was no risk of this room, at least, turning back into mud. “I understand you’re here to research our old sites, yes?” He waved his hand. “My collection is at your service. If it is published about Siwa and the Western Desert, it is here. And if not published, also.”
“You’re extremely kind,” said Elena.
He waved her thanks away. “We’re all archaeologists here. Why would we keep secrets from one another?”
“Do you have photographs?”
“Of course.” He opened the top drawer of a filing cabinet, withdrew a large map, and spread it out. Grid lines ran north to south and east to west, giving each square a unique reference number that corresponded to an indexed folder in the cabinets, which contained grainy black-and-white aerial photographs as well as occasional color, ground-level site prints. While he explained his system to Elena, Gaille wandered along the shelves, fingering sheaves of press cuttings on the golden mummies of Baharriya; histories of Kharga, Dakhla, and Farafra and of the geology of desert. Two entire ranges had been given over to Siwa, the shelves packed so tight that she had to pull hard to pluck out a first edition copy of Qibell’s A Visit to Siwa. She turned the crumbling yellow pages with great tenderness. She loved the whimsy in the accounts of pioneer travelers like this.
“You know these?” murmured Aly, suddenly at her side.
“Not all of them,” she admitted. “In fact . . .”
He laughed warmly, then stooped to unlatch and open a low cabinet. Inside, wire racks bulged with gray and tan folders of loose papers. Notebooks and journals were stacked in separate piles. He found and removed a thick green folder and handed it to her. “You know the Siwan Manuscript? The history of our Oasis kept by the Mosalims since . . .” he waved his hand to indicate forever. “These notes in red pen are mine. You’ll find them valuable, I think.” He set the folder down and returned to his books. “Ah, yes! Ahmed Fakhry. A great man. My mentor and my very good friend. You have read his works?”
“Yes.” It was the only research she’d managed so far.
“Excellent. Ah! And this! W. G. Browne’s Travels in Africa, Egypt and Syria from the year 1792 to 1798. The first European for centuries to visit Siwa—or to write of it, at least. He thought us nasty, dirty people, while we hurled stones at him because he pretended to be a man of faith. How far the world has come! Here’s Belzoni, everyone’s favorite circus strongman. And Frederick Hornemann—German, of course, but he wrote in English. His journey was sponsored by the London African Society in, let me see, yes, 1798.”
“Is there nothing more up-to-date?”
“Of course, of course. Many books. Copies of every excavation log. But, believe me, when these old people visit, our monuments and tombs were in much better condition. Now many are nothing but dust and sand. ‘My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings.’ ” He sighed, shook his head sadly. “So much lost. You read German, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Good. One never knows these days. Even reputable universities seem to hand out doctorates to people who can barely speak their own language. Here is J. C. Ewald Falls’s Siwa: Die Oase des Sonnengottes in der Libyschen Wüste. Cailliaud’s Voyage à Meroe; you must read that. And that criminal Drovetti! I had to travel to Turin to see the Canon of Kings. Turin! Worse even than Cairo! They tried to kill me with their trams!”
“When can we start?” asked Elena.
“When you would like?”
“Tonight.”
“Tonight!” laughed Aly. “Do you never relax?”
“We only have two weeks.”
“Not tonight, I’m afraid,” said Aly. “I have plans.