The Alexandria Connection (34 page)

The Muslim elders led the way into the cemetery to the south of the Sphinx, accompanied by Professor Badawi. O’Connor and Aleta followed with their gear. They passed through row after row of tombs, some dome-shaped, some with V-shaped roofs, some square, but all kept in white-washed condition, until finally they reached a grove of sycamore trees, including one that O’Connor judged to be over 200 years old.

O’Connor put his diving gear down near the paving stones around the well and extracted a lead from his pack.

‘Professor Badawi, could you explain to the elders that I’m going to drop this weight into the well, to check its depth?’ Better to have them understand each step than mistakenly take offence, he thought.

The translation into Arabic complete, O’Connor swung the lead line into the semi circular–shaped well and paid it out, watching the coloured knots that were ten metres apart. ‘It’s deep,’ he said finally, ‘about 15 metres to the surface of the water, and then another 45 metres to the bottom.’

‘So we’re looking at diving in about 30 metres of water,’ said Aleta, ‘and perhaps deeper if there are connecting passages through the water table.’

O’Connor nodded, unravelling a rope ladder and securing it around the base of the nearest sycamore tree. The gear and safety checks took another twenty minutes, but finally, he and Aleta were ready.

‘There’s not going to be much room,’ O’Connor said, ‘so I’ll do the exploratory dive, and we’ll see where we go from there.’ He attached his fins to his belt, and began the descent to the inky black surface below. He reached the surface of the water, put on his fins, switched on his head-mounted dive light and continued to use the rope to assist in the descent until he came to the last rung, some five metres below the surface. As black as the water appeared from above, down here it was clear and the powerful headlight beam picked out the ancient stone walls of the well. O’Connor checked his depth gauge and continued his descent. At nearly 25 metres, he saw it. The stone wall had given way to natural rock and an opening just below him that was about two metres across. O’Connor reached for his powerful hand light to supplement the one on his head. And just in case that failed, he had a third. It was a cardinal rule for diving in confined spaces and caves: always carry three sources of light. Despite the progress in technology, dive lights remained the least reliable of all diving equipment, and to be caught in a cave without any light source was a major cause of fatalities.

The natural tunnel ran at a right angle from the well toward the Pyramids themselves.

A
bigail Roxburgh sat in her office in Missoula. Unable to work, and with a tear rolling down her cheek, she absent-mindedly switched on the television. Not surprisingly, with the presidential election now less than a fortnight away, all the news channels were covering it. She settled for CNC and Walter Cronkwell.

‘We’re joined again by Susan Murkowski, this time from Alaska. So what’s the feeling on the hustings up north, Susan?’ Cronkwell asked.

‘Very positive for Carter Davis, Walter.’ The shot switched to Susan Murkowski, standing beside one of the marble pillars at the top of the steps of the Capitol Building on Fourth Street in Juneau.

‘We’re here in the capital of Alaska, where, despite the concerns of environmentalists over EVRAN’s plans for oil drilling in the Arctic National Wildlife Reserve, Davis’s promise of new jobs has him in front in the forty-ninth state of the union – a state that is perhaps lucky to be part of the United States at all.’

‘Yes . . . we tend to forget,’ Cronkwell intoned, ‘that Alaska was actually purchased from the Russians in 1867 for two cents an acre. At today’s prices, that only amounts to US $120 million, and even then, Alaska wasn’t admitted to the union until very late, in January 1959. I guess since oil had yet to be discovered, the Russians would have had no idea of Alaska’s value.’

‘That’s so, Walter, but those who love the pristine nature of this wilderness would argue that’s worth way more than dirty black gold.’ The camera panned across the stunning vista of Juneau harbour and the small city nestled at the base of snow-capped mountains that were thickly forested with pine trees.

‘So with less than two weeks to go,’ Cronkwell continued, ‘someone who was virtually unknown outside of Montana a year ago is now looking like he could pull off a miracle . . . Davis might just be the next president of the United States?’

‘Indeed he could. He was, as we all know, a surprise winner in the Iowa caucuses. It seems like only yesterday but that was nine months ago, and back then not too many political commentators, this journalist included, thought he would last the distance in the race for the Republican nomination. But in the intervening period, he’s gone on to even more surprising wins in New Hampshire, Nevada, South Carolina, Colorado, Minnesota, Maine and Missouri.’

Abigail Roxburgh bit into her handkerchief. She’d watched every one of those wins, ballot by ballot, and even then, she’d thought she could remain quiet. It was still possible that her governor might return to Montana.

‘But I think people really started to sit up and take notice when Davis swept the Republican field on Super Tuesday,’ Murkowski said, ‘when he took nine of the ten states on offer. And once he took California, Texas, and Florida, it was all over. Those states alone gave him 116 electoral college votes and by then the Republican nomination was his.’

‘And in the meantime, the wheels seem to be falling off Hailey Campbell’s campaign?’

Murkowski nodded. ‘Less than two weeks out from the election, she’s sacked her campaign manager, Chuck Buchanan, who was chief of staff to President McGovern.’

‘Do we know why?’

‘My sources tell me there’s been a rift between Buchanan and Hailey Campbell for some time, principally over policy on global warming. That’s not at the centre of her campaign – like Davis, she’s been concentrating on jobs and the economy, but when she’s asked about it, Campbell leaves no doubt that she believes global warming is real, that a big factor is human activity, especially our burning of fossil fuels, and that we have to do something. For her part, she’s been very clear that she won’t allow the big emitters to continue as they have been. I’m told this all came to a head the other day when her team was discussing strategy for the last debate of the campaign, which goes to air tomorrow night. No doubt global warming will come up, because Davis is equally clear that, in his words, “global warming is a conspiracy theory from the loonie Left’’. The problem for Campbell is that the Nobel Laureate, Professor Marcus Ahlstrom, has been touring the country, supporting Davis, and if the polls are anything to go by, a lot of Americans are listening to him . . . especially when in spring, they were still shovelling snow off their driveways.’

‘And the media, particularly Omega Centauri outlets, have been very pro-Davis?’

‘And pro-Ahlstrom. In the early part of the race, Campbell was so well respected from her time as energy secretary that many analysts thought she would get to the White House in a canter, but the relentless pressure from the Omega Centauri corporation, coupled with saturation television advertising for Davis and a backing from Ahlstrom, has seen her lead virtually evaporate.’

‘That was Susan Murkowski, reporting from Juneau in Alaska. Now in other news, President McGovern . . .’

Abigail’s tears welled up again as she glanced at the front page of the
Montana Mercury.
The Omega Centauri tabloid boasted a huge headline:

BUCHANAN SACKED: CAMPBELL IN CLIMATE CHANGE CUCKOO LAND

The headline was accompanied by a cartoon of a big clump of mushrooms at the bottom of the garden. The biggest mushroom was capped with Hailey Campbell’s head and the smaller ones with the heads of key advisors like Megan Becker. The subtitle read:

CAMPBELL AND THE DEMOCRATS: IN THE DARK, AND FED ON . . .

Abigail knew in her heart that her hopes of Davis divorcing his wife were gone forever, but she wasn’t going to stand by and see that bitch on the front page of every paper and magazine, being interviewed as the new first lady. She flicked off the television and looked at her watch. Lunchtime. It was bitterly cold outside, but she needed some fresh air, and she took the lift down to the office foyer and walked the few blocks to the Higgins Avenue bridge across the Clark Fork River. Abigail stood in the middle of the bridge on the pedestrian walkway and pulled her parka hood tight. The wind was coming from the south-east and the pines on top of Mount Sentinel were heavy with snow. She looked toward Montana University, nestled at the base. In 1909, forestry students had erected a big white “M” on the side of the mountain. Since 1919, university freshmen hiked up the mountain each year to light the outline of the M with railroad lanterns to mark homecoming, the tradition of welcoming alumni back to the campus. Today the M was covered in snow, and Abigail’s tears threatened to freeze before they reached the river flowing under the bridge. Her mind made up, she retraced her steps, determined to track down Susan Murkowski. Murkowski struck Abigail as a journalist who would listen.

C
rowley stood at the plate glass windows of his office and stared at the ant-like humanity on the streets of Dallas below. He felt a surge of exhilaration. It was all coming together. It had taken some months of complex planning, but the Cobalt 60 was finally in position and the plans for the attacks on the nuclear plants were well advanced.

The authorities in the gulf had dredged new channels around the hulks of the
Leila
and the
Atlantic Giant,
their burned-out superstructures protruding grotesquely above the waters. It would take many months to salvage them, and the oil had left greasy scars on the shoreline and all but wiped out the marine life. But the stock markets had recovered, and it was time to strike again. The long delays in the repair of the
EVRAN I
had irritated Crowley, but in less than two weeks, the Taipan and Scorpion missiles would be loaded and on their way from Manaus to Karachi, once again destined for the Hindu Kush and Iran. Best of all, despite Rachel’s scepticism, Carter Davis was now ahead of Hailey Campbell in the polls, albeit just. A lot would ride on their final debate, but the Campbell team, he knew, was in wild disarray over Campbell’s stance on global warming, and with the help of Ahlstrom and Louis Walden, Crowley had a feeling Pharos would soon be in charge of the White House. From there, the path to the New World Order would become a reality.

He buzzed for Miranda.

‘Ask Reid to step in.’

Crowley found himself savouring another evening with the tall, leggy blonde, and perhaps, he thought, it was time to give Rachel the flick; although, deep in the recesses of his mind, warning bells were sounding. Rachel might not have known about the extensive collection of stolen art held on the island of Corsica, but she still knew more than enough to damage him, perhaps irreparably.

Miranda flashed him a willing smile and departed, and Crowley dismissed the warning bells. The blonde was exciting, and Rachel had become passé.

‘Have a seat, Reid,’ said Crowley when the head of Area 15 arrived. ‘Where are we at with O’Connor and Weizman?’

‘Our source Aboud has reported only this morning that Weizman has not long returned from Abydos. And interestingly, O’Connor has joined her. They’re preparing to descend into an ancient water table beneath the Pyramids.’

‘Any clues to the Euclid Papyrus?’

‘Not as yet, but Aboud is in no doubt that they’re searching for it.’

‘Keep me informed, and make sure Ruger is on standby.’

Ruger left and Crowley got up from his desk and stared out the window again, deep in thought. The path to the New World Order was on track, but the Euclid Papyrus threatened Pharos in general, and the EVRAN conglomerate in particular. Just as the discovery of oil in the early twentieth century had transformed the global energy sector, rendering coal-fired bunkers on ships obsolete and revolutionising the world’s automobile and aircraft industry, any new form of energy hung like the sword of Damocles over Crowley and the other members of Pharos’s sinister quest for ultimate power. Crowley returned to his desk, more determined than ever that the Euclid Papyrus would not see the light of day.

‘Mr Reid to see you again, sir.’

‘So soon? Show him in.’

‘I thought you should see this intercept that just came in from Abigail Roxburgh’s cell phone,’ Reid said. ‘It would appear she’s considering exposing Davis. That’s a text between her and that Susan Murkowski.’

Crowley stared at the printout, his anger rising.

Have been watching your coverage of the presidential race with interest, but there is something you need to know about Carter Davis, and we should meet.

‘Leave it with me.’ Crowley waited for Reid to depart and buzzed Miranda. ‘Get Ruger to come and see me . . . now,’ he said, throwing caution to the winds.

R
uger waited for Abigail Roxburgh to leave work, and then followed her at a discreet distance in his nondescript Chevrolet Cruze. He’d already reconnoitred her home – a hectare of Bitterroot River frontage in Lolo, south of Missoula. The mists were closing in as he followed his target out of the city on to Bitterroot Road. Fifteen minutes later, Abigail slowed at the lights and turned left into Glacier Drive, and then into River Drive.

Good, she’s headed home, Ruger thought, as he followed her on to Red Fox Road. The house was set back, but better still from Ruger’s point of view, it was on acreage, and the house was surrounded by aspen, old-growth cottonwood and ponderosa pines, offering a covered approach to the back deck, which overlooked the river and the hills to the east. He drove past as she turned into her driveway and pondered his options. One possibility was a shot from among the trees on the riverbank. He’d already ascertained that a dirt track near the river would give him a covered route to the back of the property, with a clear line of sight. He’d packed his Knights M110 7.62-millimetre sniper rifle in the trunk of the car, a rifle that had been used with impressive results in both the Iraq and Afghanistan wars. But Ruger knew a successful shot would depend on Roxburgh choosing to sit out on her deck to enjoy the misty evening, and as good as Area 15 was, they had no information on the habits of this target.

Failing that, he knew he could approach the house through the trees without being seen, and from his observations through binoculars, it didn’t appear as if the house was alarmed. It would be a matter of defeating the locks.

The American Airlines Airbus A320 touched down in Missoula on time, and it took Susan Murkowski just fifteen minutes to clear the small red-brick international terminal, and another twenty minutes to book into the Hilton Garden Inn, by which time it was not yet six-thirty p.m. Her meeting with Roxburgh was not until eight at Roxburgh’s house in Lolo. Unlike New York or Washington, at least everything was close here, Murkowski thought, and she headed down to the Blue Canyon Kitchen Tavern, the Garden Inn’s rustic restaurant. She chose a table near the high windows. Outside, a misty evening was enveloping the distant, snow-capped hills.

It was odd that Roxburgh wanted the meeting at her home, Murkowski thought, as she ordered the honey and pecan encrusted baked brie, and the clams, sautéed in garlic, pesto and white wine. The braised pork belly and the grilled mountain buffalo, she would leave to the Montanans. Perhaps Roxburgh was afraid of being seen with a well-known journalist, although to date, no one had recognised her up here, for which she was grateful.

Ruger drove quietly down the dirt track beside the Bitterroot River with his lights extinguished, and he parked under a clump of ponderosa pines, 200 metres from the house. He scanned the rear of the property with his night vision goggles, but the back deck was vacant. Ruger looked at his watch. Coming on toward eight p.m. Time to move.