The Alexander Cipher Page 0,89
The soldier yawned as he took it and Rick’s to his cabin to check.
The second soldier, meanwhile, remained standing beside the Jeep. He lit a cigarette, stamped his feet, then glanced in the rear window. Too late, Knox remembered the tarpaulin bundle containing the clothes and other belongings of Nessim and his men, including their handguns.
The soldier opened the back door and leaned inside. “What’s this?” he asked, putting his hand on the bundle.
“Just some clothes,” said Knox, trying his best to sound relaxed.
The soldier pulled back the flaps to rummage inside. He pulled out a jacket and held it up against himself to check his reflection in the glass before throwing it back and taking a couple of shirts instead, then a pair of trousers, checking the pockets, pulling out an expensive cell phone, and grinning ingratiatingly at Knox, as if to suggest that a gift wouldn’t go astray. Knox’s mouth was dry. If this prick found any of the guns, they’d have one hell of a lot of explaining to do. He said: “Excuse me, but those are our belongings.”
The soldier grunted irritably and threw the trousers and the phone back into the tarpaulin, then slammed the door unnecessarily hard. His comrade inside the cabin had finished his call and was coming back out. Knox’s heart was banging violently in apprehension, but the soldier handed back their passports without a flicker, then waved them through. They kept the smiles off their faces until they were well away. “What do you know,” said Rick. “Maybe Hassan’s given up on you.”
“I doubt it, mate,” said Knox. “I reckon he just doesn’t want the authorities knowing he’s on the hunt.”
“That’s something, at least.”
“Yeah,” agreed Knox. “It is.” He glanced around at the bundle in the back. “But I reckon we should dump this shit before it gets us into grief. What do you say?”
“I reckon you’re right,” nodded Rick.
NICOLAS ARRIVED AT IBRAHIM’S OFFICE with delicate business to discuss. His father had charged him with acquiring certain artifacts from the Macedonian tomb for his private collection: at least one golden burial casket, plus a selection of weapons. Now that Yusuf had taken personal control, it was just a matter of creating convincing replicas and arranging a switch. But Ibrahim was still involved in the excavation and would need to be dealt with, not least because Yusuf insisted on having a plausible scapegoat in place should their switch be discovered. “I’m not disturbing you, am I?” Nicolas asked.
“Nothing that can’t wait,” smiled Ibrahim. “Just sending some books on Siwa to Gaille. Though I can’t believe Dr. Sayed doesn’t have copies.”
Nicolas settled himself at the corner table. “I’m sure you must be aware how pleased we are at the Dragoumis Group at the outcome of our partnership,” he began.
“We’re pleased, too.”
Nicolas nodded and drew a thick envelope from his jacket pocket. “My family makes it a policy to reward success.” He set the envelope down on the table midway between them and smiled at Ibrahim to indicate that he should take it.
Ibrahim frowned at the wad of banknotes inside. “For me?” he asked.
“As a token of our appreciation and gratitude.”
Ibrahim squinted suspiciously. “And what do you want for this money?”
“Nothing. Just a continuation of our partnership.” Nicolas was, in fact, wearing a miniature camera on his chest, its lens disguised as his second button. Everyone in the SCA accepted bribes, but that didn’t make it legal. If Ibrahim took this baksheesh like a good little boy, the film would be used to coerce him, step-by-step, until he was completely compromised. If he didn’t, Nicolas had many other avenues to explore and exploit.
Ibrahim hesitated, then pushed the envelope back across the table. “If you wish to contribute further to our partnership,” he said, “we have a bank account set up for the purpose, as I’m sure you already know.”
Nicolas smiled tightly and took back the money. “Whatever you think best.”
“Is there anything else? Or may I return to—”
There was noise outside. The door burst open, and Mohammed rushed in. “I’m sorry, sir,” said Maha, hanging gamely on to his arm. “I couldn’t stop him.”
“It’s all right, Maha,” said Ibrahim. He frowned at Mohammed. “What do you mean by this?”
“It’s Layla,” said Mohammed, tears streaming down his face. “They’ve said no. They’ve said no. They won’t give her the treatment.”
“My dear friend,” winced Ibrahim, standing awkwardly, “I’m so sorry.”
“She doesn’t need sympathy; she needs help.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t see what more I can do.”
“Please. I’ve asked