Читать книгу The Alexander Cipher - Will Adams - Страница 13

Mohammed el-Dahab clasped his case protectively in front of his chest as the woman led him up to the private office of Ibrahim Beyumi, head of the Supreme Council for Antiquities in Alexandria. She knocked once upon his door then pushed it open, beckoned him through. A dapper and rather effeminate-looking man was sitting behind a pine desk. He looked up from his work.

‘Yes, Maha?’ he asked.

‘This is Mohammed el-Dahab, sir. A builder. He says he’s found something on his site.’

‘What kind of something?’

‘Perhaps he should tell you himself,’ she suggested.

‘Very well,’ sighed Ibrahim. He gestured for Mohammed to sit at his corner table. Mohammed looked around, dispiritedly assessing with a builder’s eye the bulging wood-panelled walls, the fractured, high ceiling with its missing clumps of plaster, the mildewed drawings of Alexandria’s monuments. If this was the office of the top archaeologist in Alexandria, there wasn’t as much money in antiquities as he’d hoped.

Ibrahim read his expression. ‘I know,’ he complained. ‘But what can I do? Which is more important, excavation or my comfort?’

Mohammed shrugged as Ibrahim came to sit beside him. He, at least, looked expensive, with his sharp suit and gold watch. He settled his hands primly in his lap, and asked: ‘So you’ve found something, then?’

‘Yes.’

‘You care to tell me about it?’

Mohammed swallowed. He was a big man, not easily cowed by physical dangers, but educated people intimidated him. There was something kindly about Ibrahim, however. He looked like a man who could be trusted. Mohammed set his case on the table, opened it, withdrew his framed photograph of Layla, laid it facing Ibrahim. Touching and seeing her image restored his courage. ‘This is my daughter,’ he said. ‘Her name is Layla.’

Ibrahim squinted curiously at Mohammed. ‘Allah has indeed blessed you.’

‘Thank you, yes. Unfortunately Layla is sick.’

‘Ah,’ said Ibrahim, leaning back. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘They call it Burkitt’s lymphoma. It appeared in her stomach like a grape and then a mango beneath her skin. Her surgeons removed it. She had chemotherapy. We thought she’d conquered it.’

Ibrahim rubbed his throat. ‘Maha said you’d found something—’

‘Her doctors are good people,’ said Mohammed. ‘But they’re overworked, under-equipped. They have no money. They wait for—’

‘Excuse me, but Maha said you’d found—’

‘They wait for her disease to progress so far that there’s nothing more they can do.’ Mohammed leaned forwards, said softly but fiercely: ‘That time is not yet here. My daughter still has one chance.’

Ibrahim hesitated, then asked reluctantly: ‘And that is?’

‘A bone-marrow transplant.’

A look of polite horror crossed Ibrahim’s face. ‘But aren’t those incredibly expensive?’

Mohammed waved that aside. ‘Our Medical Research Institute has a programme of publicly funded transplants, but they won’t consider a patient unless they’ve already identified a donor match. But they’ll not run tests for a match unless the patient is already in the programme.’

‘Surely that makes it impossible—’

‘It’s their way of choosing without having to choose. But unless I can finance these tests, my daughter will die.’

Ibrahim said weakly: ‘You can’t expect the SCA to—’

‘These tests aren’t expensive,’ said Mohammed urgently. ‘It’s just that the chances of a match are low. My wife and I, our closest family, our friends, we’ve all taken the tests, but without success. I can persuade others, more distant cousins, friends of friends, but only if I organise and pay. I’ve tried everywhere to borrow money for this, but already this disease has put me so far in debt that …’ He felt tears coming; he broke off, bowed his head to prevent Ibrahim seeing.

There was silence for a while. Then Ibrahim murmured: ‘Maha said you’d found something on your site.’

‘Yes.’

‘Am I to understand that you want money for these tests in exchange for telling me about it?’

‘Yes.’

‘You realise you’re legally obliged to inform me anyway.’

‘Yes.’

‘That you could go to gaol if you don’t.’

Mohammed lifted his face, met Ibrahim’s gaze with perfect calmness. ‘Yes.’

Ibrahim nodded, gestured around his shabby offices. ‘And you understand I cannot promise anything?’

‘Yes.’

‘Very well. Why don’t you tell me what you’ve found?’