Читать книгу The Alexander Cipher - Will Adams - Страница 7

The Ras Mohammed reefs, Sinai, Egypt

Daniel Knox was dozing happily on the bow when the girl came to stand with deliberate provocation in the way of his afternoon sun. He opened his eyes and looked up a little warily when he saw who it was, because Max had made it clear that she was Hassan al-Assyuti’s for the day, and Hassan had a proud and thoroughly warranted reputation for violence, especially against anyone who dared tread on his turf.

‘Yes?’ he asked.

‘So are you really a Bedouin?’ she gushed. ‘I mean, that guy Max said like you were a Bedouin, but I mean you don’t look it. I mean, don’t get me wrong, you kind of look it, I mean, your complexion and your hair and eyebrows, but …’

It was no surprise she’d caught Hassan’s eye, thought Knox, as she rambled on. He was notoriously a sucker for young blondes, and this one had a charming smile and startling turquoise eyes, as well as an attractive complexion, with its smattering of pale freckles and pinkish hints of acne, and a slender figure perfectly showcased by her lime-green and lemon-yellow bikini. ‘My father’s mother was Bedouin,’ he said, to help her out of her labyrinth. ‘That’s all.’

‘Wow! A Bedouin gran!’ She took this as an invitation to sit. ‘What was she like?’

Knox pushed himself up onto an elbow, squinting to keep out the sun. ‘She died before I was born.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ A damp, blonde lock fell onto her cheek. She swept her hair back with both hands, holding it there in a makeshift ponytail, so that her chest jutted out at him. ‘Were you brought up here, then? In the desert?’

He looked around. They were on the deck of Max Strati’s dive boat, tethered to a fixed mooring way out into the Red Sea. ‘Desert?’ he asked.

‘Tch!’ She slapped him playfully on the chest. ‘You know what I mean!’

‘I’m English,’ he said.

‘I like your tattoo.’ She traced a fingertip over the blue and gold sixteen-pointed star on his right biceps. ‘What is it?’

‘The Star of Vergina,’ answered Knox. ‘A symbol of the Argeads.’

‘The who?’

‘The old royal family of Macedonia.’

‘What? You mean like Alexander the Great?’

‘Very good.’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘You a fan, then? I always heard he was just a drunken brute.’

‘Then you heard wrong.’

She smiled, pleased to be put down. ‘Go on, then. Tell me.’

Knox frowned. Where did you even start with a man like Alexander? ‘He was besieging this town called Multan,’ he told her. ‘This was towards the end of his campaigns. His men were fed up with fighting. They just wanted to go home. But Alexander wasn’t having that. He was first up the battlements. The defenders pushed away all the other assault ladders, so he was stranded up there alone. Any normal man would have leaped for safety, right? You know what Alexander did?’

‘What?’

‘He jumped down inside the walls. All on his own. It was the one sure way to make his men come after him.’ And they had too. They’d torn the citadel apart to save him, and they’d only just got to him in time. The wounds he’d taken that day had probably contributed to his eventual death, but they’d added to his legend too. ‘He used to boast that he carried scars on every part of his body; except his back.’

She laughed. ‘He sounds like a psycho.’

‘Different times,’ said Knox. ‘You know, when he captured the mother of the Persian Emperor, he put her under his personal protection. After he died, she was so upset, she starved herself to death. Not when her own son died, mind. When Alexander died. You don’t do that for a psychopath.’

‘Huh,’ she said. It was clear that she’d had enough talk of Alexander.

She rose to her knees, placed her left palm flat on the deck the far side of Knox, then reached across him for the red and white icebox. She threw off its lid, sampled each of the bottles and cans inside for cool, taking her time, her breasts swinging free within her dangling bikini-top as she did so, making the most of themselves, nipples pink as petals. Knox’s mouth felt a little dry suddenly; knowing you were being worked didn’t make it ineffective. But it reminded him forcibly of Hassan too, so he scowled and looked away.

She sat back down with a thump, an open bottle in her hand, a mischievous smile on her lips. ‘Want some?’ she asked.

‘No thanks.’

She shrugged, took a swallow. ‘So have you known Hassan long?’

‘No.’

‘But you’re a friend of his, right?’

‘I’m on the payroll, love. That’s all.’

‘But he’s kosher, right?’

‘That’s hardly the smartest way to describe a Muslim.’

‘You know what I mean.’

Knox shrugged. It was too late for her to be getting cold feet. Hassan had picked her up in a nightclub, not Sunday school. If she didn’t fancy him, she should have said no; simple as that. There was naïve and there was stupid. It wasn’t as though she didn’t know what she was doing with her body.

Max Strati appeared around the line of cabins at that moment. He walked briskly over. ‘What happens here, then?’ he asked frostily. He’d come to Sharm el-Sheikh on holiday twenty years before, had never gone home. Egypt had been good to him; he wouldn’t risk that by pissing off Hassan.

‘Just talking,’ said Knox.

‘On your own time, please, not mine,’ said Max. ‘Mr al-Assyuti wishes his guests to have a final dive.’

Knox pushed himself up. ‘I’ll get things ready.’

The girl jumped up too, clapped with false enthusiasm. ‘Great! I didn’t think we’d be going down again.’

‘You will not join us, I think, Fiona,’ Max told her flatly. ‘We have not enough tanks. You will stay here with Mr al-Assyuti.’

‘Oh.’ She looked scared, suddenly; childlike. She put her hand tentatively on Knox’s forearm. He shook her off, walked angrily towards the stern, where the wetsuits, flippers, snorkels and goggles were stored in plastic crates next to the steel rack of air tanks. A swift glance confirmed what Knox already knew; there were plenty of full tanks. He felt stress suddenly in his nape. He could feel Max’s eyes burning into his back, so he forced himself not to look round. The girl wasn’t his problem. She was old enough to look after herself. He had no connection to her; no obligation. He’d worked his balls off to establish himself in this town; he wasn’t going to throw that away just because some bratty teenager had misjudged the price of her lunch. His self-justifications did little good. He felt sick in the pit of his stomach as he squatted down by the crates and started checking equipment.