The Alexander Cipher Page 0,88
grabbing Rick’s arm just before he could pull the trigger. “We’re not like that.”
“You may not fucking be,” retorted Rick, trying to shake him off, “but I am.”
“Please, mate,” said Knox.
“And what the fuck do you suggest we do?” yelled Rick. “Let them go, they’ll come straight after us. This is self-fucking-defense, mate. Nothing more.”
Knox looked again at Nessim. His expression gave nothing away, yet Knox was certain Rick was wrong. Let Nessim go, and his personal code wouldn’t allow him to come after them. But as for the others… He stooped to pick up Nessim’s handgun, then looked around for inspiration. The outbuilding was small and windowless and built of concrete blocks. Its door was solid steel with strong hinges. He grabbed the tarpaulin from the Jeep, threw it on the floor in front of Nessim, then aimed down at his chest. “Off with your clothes,” he ordered. “All of you.”
“No,” scowled Nessim.
“Do it,” said Knox. “If not for yourself, then for your men.”
Nessim’s jaw tightened, but he looked around at his men and seemed to deflate a little. He began reluctantly to undress, as did his men, throwing their discarded clothes into the tarpaulin. When they were down to their underpants, Knox made a bundle of the tarpaulin and tossed it in the back of the Jeep.
“Can you handle them on your own?” he asked.
Rick snorted. “Weren’t you watching?”
Knox drove the Jeep over to the Subaru and Freelander. The Subaru was dead, but the Freelander started up on the third try, its engine clattering with terminal damage. He wrestled it into reverse and bunny-hopped over to the outbuilding. Rick came out backward, swinging the steel door closed with his foot, allowing Knox to drive tight up alongside it and put on the hand brake. Not perfect, maybe, but it should hold them for a few hours, by which time they’d be halfway across Egypt.
They hurried to the Jeep. Rick took the wheel, roaring off unnecessarily fast as if to burn off his residual anger, not once looking Knox’s way. As for Knox, he stared out the windshield, badly shaken by the revelation that his friend had been prepared to execute those men. The silence between them grew distinctly uncomfortable, so that Knox began to fear that things between them might never be quite the same.
It was Rick who finally spoke. “I thought you said those guys were serious,” he muttered.
“What can I tell you, mate,” grinned Knox. “I thought they were.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
GAILLE AND ELENA took Aly at his word, arriving at his house at seven sharp to find him already at work outside, his papers pinned down with a pot of Siwan tea and some glasses, as though he’d been expecting them. He greeted them warmly, poured them each a glass, then showed them into his library and left them to it.
Elena started with the aerial photographs; Gaille, with the books. When she pulled down her first volume, it came more easily than the night before, as though the bookshelf was less tightly packed. She looked more closely. Yes. She distinctly remembered a red-leather-bound volume that had left stains on her fingers. She pulled out a modern academic text and checked the bibliography against his shelves. Two of the best-known books on Siwa were missing. Yet this was supposed to be a definitive collection. Then she remembered that strange look on his face the night before, when he was looking through her photographs. “Elena,” she murmured hesitantly.
Elena looked up crossly. “Yes?”
“Nothing,” said Gaille. “Sorry.” Knowing Elena, she would go straight out to confront Aly, and bang would go their cooperation. Instead she made a note of the missing titles. She would call Ibrahim at her first opportunity and ask him to send copies directly to her hotel.
KNOX WAS FAST ASLEEP in the passenger seat of the Jeep when Rick shook him awake. “What?” he asked blearily.
“Checkpoint,” muttered Rick.
“Damn it,” said Knox. Checkpoints were so rare in Alexandria and the Delta that he had stopped worrying about them, but in Middle and Southern Egypt, and in the desert regions, they became commonplace. The Jeep drifted to a halt. Two weary-looking soldiers wearing thick uniforms against the morning chill trudged across. One of them rapped the driver’s-side window. “Passports,” he said in English when Rick lowered it, evidently figuring them both for foreigners. Knox still had Augustin’s papers for Omar Malik, but to use them now would only raise suspicions. He fetched out his American passport and handed it across.