The Alexandria Connection (33 page)

‘And what have the frontrunners been saying about Iran and the recent crisis in the Persian Gulf? I gather Carter Davis has been quite outspoken?’

Murkowski brushed at a wisp of dark hair and smiled. ‘Outspoken would be one way to put it, Walter. Most of the Republican candidates have been guarded, but Carter Davis has condemned the theocratic state of Iran in no uncertain terms . . . here’s a little of what he had to say.’

The image switched to an energised Carter Davis, standing in the back of a big red ZR5 Chevy pickup, surrounded by an equally energised crowd of Republican supporters, waving the stars and stripes, red-and-blue Republican Flags, and wearing large ‘VOTE 1 DAVIS’ lapel pins. Behind Davis, Rachel had strategically positioned the luxurious campaign bus for the television coverage, ‘DAVIS for PRESIDENT’ and ‘FAITH and FREEDOM’ emblazoned in blue and red on the sides.

‘My fellow Americans, recently we’ve seen gas prices hike to a new record high of over twelve dollars a gallon – triple what they were before the sinking of the two supertankers, the
Leila
and the
Atlantic Giant
, and the closure of the Strait of Hormuz – followed by the biggest stock market crash since 1929. The finger is pointed firmly at Iran and the religious zealots who control their evil religion!’ Davis thundered. ‘This is a deliberate attempt to sabotage the jobs of hard-working American men and women – men and women
of the one true faith
who have made this great nation what it is today. When I become president, I’m not going to stand meekly by and just let this happen. As your president I will take decisive action to ensure this never happens again, and that means all options –
all
options – are on the table!’

The crowd cheered wildly, breaking into a chant: ‘Carter Davis! Carter Davis! Carter Davis!’

Susan Murkowski reappeared. ‘As you can see, Walter, Davis didn’t mince his words. It’s very early days, but he’s now the Republican frontrunner, and if the results in Iowa are repeated in the upcoming primaries in other states, then come the presidential election, Davis will be the Republican candidate.’

‘And the Department of Defense have still not confirmed that one of the USS
Truman
’s F/A-18s was shot down over the burning tankers in the Gulf, yet Carter Davis seems to be in no doubt – he thinks the Iranians shot it down. Do we know anything more about that?’

‘There are other reports that indicate there may have been a collision with one of our drones. As you say the Department of Defense is remaining tight lipped, although they have confirmed the pilot was recovered from the sea.’

Cronkwell nodded. ‘Well, it’s to be hoped the pilot is okay. And turning to the Democrats, Hailey Campbell is well in front?’ he asked, an avuncular smile creasing his craggy face.

Murkowski returned the smile. ‘No surprises at all, Walter. The last poll in Iowa showed 65 per cent of voters would like to see her in the White House. Campbell’s won the Iowa caucuses decisively, with 43 per cent of the vote, and her nearest rival, Vice President John Bilson, is a long way behind. He only managed 18.5 per cent of the vote . . . 11 per cent of Iowans were unable to name him.’

Walter Cronkwell maintained an inscrutable expression. ‘Has Campbell had much to say about the crisis?’

‘She’s been very guarded, Walter, but here’s what she had to say in answer to a question I put to her a little earlier today.’

The shot cut to a media conference on the steps of the Des Moines Capitol building.

‘Ms Campbell,’ Murkowski began, ‘as far as the sinking of the supertankers in the Strait of Hormuz goes, Governor Davis is pointing the finger firmly at Iran . . . do you think he’s right?’

‘I’ve seen Governor Davis’s response, and his rhetoric is bordering on reckless.’ Dressed in a stylish white Chanel pantsuit, Hailey Campbell cut a striking and elegantly powerful figure. ‘Firstly, let me extend my condolences to the families of those who have lost loved ones. The attack on these tankers and the closure of the Strait is an outrageous act of terrorism, but I note that Iran has been swift to deny any involvement. Before we start pointing fingers, let’s wait to see the results of the investigations being carried out by the United Nations and our own Central Command, which has a forward headquarters nearby, at al-Udeid Air Base in Qatar. As I understand it, we’ve had SEAL team divers down on both wrecks attempting to ascertain the cause. In the meantime, can I add my voice to that of the president’s appeal for calm. There is absolutely
no
need for continued panic-buying of fuel. Our reserves are in place to meet precisely this type of emergency, so I would urge my fellow Americans to remain calm . . .’

Crowley flicked off the broadcast. ‘Our man is on track for the White House,’ he said, sliding his hand up Miranda’s thigh.

T
he Cairo international airport might have only been 25 kilometres from the pyramids, but it took O’Connor and Aleta more than an hour to get through Cairo’s chaotic traffic. O’Connor slowed at the entrance to the Mena House Hotel, built in the shadow of the Great Pyramid itself, but as he braked the car was stormed by a crowd of young men. The illegal guides were desperate for the rapidly diminishing tourist dollar, and they were aggressively proffering their services.

‘These guys are getting more reckless the longer this Arab Spring goes on,’ said Aleta, offering a sympathetic smile as she waved them away.

‘For them, it’s more like an Arab Winter.’ O’Connor gently hit the brakes as one, more desperate than the rest, flung himself on to the bonnet. Hotel security cleared the way through to the entrance, and closed the boom gate behind their car.

‘This place has so much history,’ said Aleta, after they’d checked in and settled into the Montgomery Suite, which had been decorated with many of the hotel’s original masterpieces. The splendid door to the suite was inlaid with mother of pearl, and the living room was furnished with antique furniture. ‘Trust you to get us a suite with furniture from a harem!’

O’Connor grinned. The furniture had indeed been sourced from the harem of a bygone sultan. The hotel itself had initially been built in 1869 as a hunting lodge for the Egyptian king Isma’il Pasha, and hadn’t opened as a hotel until 1886. Over a hundred years later, it had retained all of its former glory. O’Connor detested ritzy five-star hotels, preferring those with a story to tell, and Mena House was no exception. While they hadn’t added their own names to the guest book, there were some very distinguished entries, including Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the future King George V and Queen Mary, Agatha Christie, Cecil B. DeMille, Frank Sinatra and Richard Nixon; and here too, in 1977, the Mena House Agreement had been thrashed out between President Sadat of Egypt and Prime Minister Menachem Begin of Israel, leading to the Camp David Accords and an historic peace treaty between the long-time enemies.

‘Thank you for this,’ Aleta said, as they stood out on the suite’s private terrace, and she rested her head on O’Connor’s shoulder. Beyond the sixteen hectares of gardens and palm trees, the Great Pyramid and the two smaller pyramids stood as sentinels to the ages, their secrets still intact. ‘I’m still not accustomed to your standard of accommodation.’

‘This isn’t a dress rehearsal; this is life, and we’re living it,’ said O’Connor, putting his arm around Aleta’s slender waist. ‘When Accounts query it, I will argue persuasively that it was necessary to be close to the object of our investigation . . . and given what I found in the Kashta Palace, I suspect there’s an element of truth to that. I’m still none the wiser as to why someone like Crowley would have an interest in this Euclid Papyrus. What time are we due with Professor Badawi?’ His hand wandered on to the top of Aleta’s taut thigh.

‘In another hour . . . and no, as much as I might find that proposition attractive, it will take us that long to get through the traffic.’

‘What proposition?’ protested O’Connor, unable to stifle a grin.

‘I know that look! Taxi or drive?’

‘Taxi – this place is on a par with Lima and New Delhi. I’m over driving for one day.’

Professor Hassan Badawi was once again waiting to ensure there was no problem with security, and minutes later Aleta and O’Connor found themselves inside Badawi’s musty, wood-panelled office, sharing tea with the professor.

‘I’m so sorry to have read what you’ve been through, Hassan,’ Aleta began. ‘The mask of Tutankhamun was an unimaginable loss.’

Badawi smiled wanly. It seemed to Aleta that he had visibly aged. ‘We can only hope the mask will be recovered soon. You can’t put a price on it, and it’s not only a loss to the museum, of course, it’s a loss to the whole of society.’ Badawi sipped his tea.
Shai,
or tea, was the national drink in Egypt, a position that coffee had never rivalled. It was so important that the Egyptian government ran tea plantations in Kenya to ensure a quality supply.

‘Nearly two million people visit this museum every year . . . or used to,’ Badawi continued. ‘It seems we’ve been hit with a double whammy. The loss of the funerary mask has been devastating enough, but ever since the overthrow of Mubarak, the country’s been in turmoil, and tourism has been decimated. We’re really struggling.’

Aleta detected a tear in the old professor’s eye and she placed her hand on his arm.

‘I must apologise,’ he said, reaching for his handkerchief, ‘but this country has so much potential . . . so much! We used to provide leadership in the Arab world, and now we’re in a shambles. Over twenty million Egyptians are living on US $1.50 a day, or less, and it’s getting worse.’

‘Egypt will rise again, and you have a lot of friends who will do everything they can to help,’ Aleta offered reassuringly.

O’Connor watched the exchange between the two renowned archaeologists with interest. Two people who cared deeply, not only about the past, but about injustice and the future. Injustice in the world was something O’Connor had long struggled with himself. Given his assignments and the nature of his employment, he’d compartmentalised his anguish and banished those thoughts to the deeper recesses of his brain. But every once in a while a conversation like the one he’d just witnessed brought to the fore his frustration with the widening gap between the mega-wealthy and the poor, and, increasingly, a struggling middle class.

‘Yes,’ said Badawi. ‘We can only hope that Egypt’s military government will be temporary, and that democracy will rise again, otherwise corruption and nepotism will be worse than under Mubarak, and we had thirty long years of his dictatorship.’ Badawi reached for a file on his desk. ‘In between police investigations and media intrusion, I’ve been thinking about our last meeting. There’s something really exciting about that photograph you showed me . . . and it’s to do with the dots over the pyramids.’

Aleta felt a pang of remorse that she hadn’t been entirely honest with her old friend, but she put her feelings to one side as O’Connor caught her eye. ‘Yes . . . the superimposition of what looks to be a constellation over the top. But there’s still argument over whether they’re aligned with Orion, or Cygnus,’ Aleta said, excited to find that an archaeologist of Professor Badawi’s standing was thinking along the same lines. ‘You think Euclid might have been trying to tell us something?’ Aleta asked, after she’d outlined her theory on the two celestial bodies.

‘He may have been. If the pyramids were not only aligned with the compass points but the movement of the stars as well, this is an exciting find. And I’m not one to delve into astronomy, but did you see that recent show on crop circles in the United Kingdom?’

Christ, O’Connor thought. Here we go again.

‘No . . . I’ve been travelling. What show?’ Aleta asked, her interest thoroughly aroused.

‘Three more crop circles have appeared next to the Chilbolton Observatory in the UK – the Flower of Life, a detailed image of the Cygnus constellation, and a third which depicts the planets in our solar system,’ Badawi explained, ‘all of them extraordinarily intricate.’

‘Appeared just after closing time at the Elephant and Castle,’ said O’Connor, a wicked grin on his face.

‘Just ignore him, Hassan. For a scientist, he has some peculiarly philistine views.’

‘Then the scientist in our midst,’ Badawi countered, ‘might be interested to know that a chemical analysis of the flattened wheat showed the crop’s molecular structure had been altered. They found rare radioactive isotopes which have never previously been found in a wheat crop.’

Aleta stared at O’Connor over the tops of her glasses with a ‘what do you have to say to that’ look.

‘Hmm.’ O’Connor didn’t concede any ground, but his interest was suddenly piqued. It was the first time he’d heard about the chemical analysis of isotopes.

‘Did the show throw any light on what the latest circles might mean?’ asked Aleta.

Badawi smiled. ‘Our friend the scientist over here might think this far-fetched,’ he said, giving Aleta a conspiratorial wink, ‘but there’s speculation from quite reputable scientists that one may contain a warning. The solar system circle accurately depicts our planetary system, with one change. Earth is depicted with a jagged edge and a plume, which may be a representation of a planet rapidly warming – a ring of fire with a plume of smoke. As to the Flower of Life, the ancient representation of what we’d call radiant or free energy comes with a coded formula for a technology that produces energy without combustion, a technology that is based on the laws of nature, or the planet’s vibrations – more than one scientist thinks that’s worth looking at.’

‘And the Cygnus constellation. I wonder if we should be looking at the significance of Cygnus instead of Orion?’ Aleta asked.

‘The Cygnus alpha star over the cemetery to the north-west of the middle pyramid has me intrigued,’ said Badawi. ‘Are you familiar with the northern night sky, Doctor O’Connor?’

‘Only the major formations . . . I couldn’t claim astronomy as a speciality,’ replied O’Connor.

‘One of the better maps was drawn by John Perring in 1837.’ Badawi got up from behind his desk. ‘I’ve laid it out over here on the chart table. You can see he’s produced a detailed layout of the pyramids and the rest of the Giza plateau. Now, if we overlay Cygnus,’ Badawi said, fitting a transparency of the constellation over the map, ‘we can see the alpha, delta, gamma and epsilon stars, as well as the Cygnus beta star which falls over the Gebel Ghibli or ‘southern hill’ area east of the smallest pyramid on the boundary of an Islamic cemetery. But it’s this small, unnamed star here that falls
inside
the Islamic cemetery that caught my attention.’

‘I wondered about that,’ said Aleta. ‘It seems to fall over a well that Perring’s marked on the map?’

‘Exactly,’ said Badawi, his dark eyes reflecting an enthusiasm for discovery and a possible solution to a long-standing puzzle. ‘The well was known in ancient texts as Bir el-Samman.’

‘And now?’ asked O’Connor.

‘It’s still there, but an Islamic cemetery is out of bounds to non-Muslims, so before you can investigate the well, we’ll need approval. The Muslim Brotherhood, or what’s left of it, has its hands full right now. The military government is arresting its leaders left, right and centre, and its focus is elsewhere, although I still have contacts. But there’s another problem. It’s an artesian well, so it’s connected to the water table beneath the Giza plateau, and that may mean an underwater maze.’

‘We’re trained to handle that,’ O’Connor assured the Professor. ‘If there’s anything down there, it’s probably been undisturbed for a very long time, so the visibility should be okay.’

‘I hope so,’ said Badawi. ‘For a long time now, there’s been speculation on what might lie beneath the pyramids, including predictions that one day, we will find the lost Hall of Records, although hard-headed archaeologists keep no more than an open mind on that.’

O’Connor grinned disarmingly. ‘The Hall of Records? You will have to excuse my ignorance, but the more I hang around here, the less I seem to know.’

‘The Hall of Records, like the lost Library of Alexandria, is said to contain papyri recording the history of ancient Egypt . . . although unlike the Library, we only have vague reports to go on,’ Aleta explained. ‘In the fifteenth century, al-Makrizi, a Cairo-born historian, wrote of subterranean passages that had been constructed in the vicinity of the pyramids for, as he put it, “depositories of the wisdom and acquirements in the different arts and sciences”. And even before al-Makrizi, the fourth-century Greco-Roman historian Marcellinus wrote about winding subterranean passages near the Pyramids.’

‘We’ve perhaps come close on a couple of occasions,’ said Badawi. ‘Henry Salt, who was the British consul general here in the early 1800s, discovered an entrance to some catacombs to the west of the Great Pyramid.’

‘But no papyri?’ O’Connor asked.

‘No,’ said Badawi. ‘But in 1934, the tomb of Osiris, the Egyptian god of the afterlife, was found between the second pyramid and the Sphinx by Doctor Helim Hassan from the American University in Cairo. The chambers were explored in the nineties, and there are three tiers, one on top of the other, with access facilitated by vertical shafts. But again, no Hall of Records, and no papyri. And of course, the water table’s risen since ancient times, so that may make things difficult.’

‘Diving in confined spaces,’ O’Connor mused aloud. ‘That’s not without its risks.’