THE MAHABHARATA QUEST:THE ALEXANDER SECRET

by CHRISTOPHER C. DOYLE

  Mike Ashford gritted his teeth as he willed the photocopier to work faster. It was brand new, one of the latest models which could photocopy using plain paper rather than the electrostatic copiers or the wet-type plain paper machines that were in vogue earlier. Yet, it was not fast enough for his purpose.

  Sweat beaded his brow as he thought back to the telephone call that he had answered two hours ago.

  ‘Mike Ashford?’ the voice on the other end of the line enquired.

  ‘Yes. Who is this?’

  ‘Never mind. That isn’t important. Listen very carefully. I need something that you have. The papyrus documents that you discovered yesterday.’

  Ashford was puzzled. He had told no one about the papyrus journals that he had found in a box in the basement of the library, apart from the faculty at the Classics Department. Had someone from the department leaked the news? That would be unlikely. Then, again, this unknown caller knew.

  ‘What documents?’ he ventured, testing the waters.

  The voice grew hard. ‘Don’t play games with me, Ashford. I want the documents delivered to the address I will give you now. The journals should be in a sealed envelope. I don’t want the papyrus falling apart. Even if they are in relatively good condition.’ The caller proceeded to dictate an address in downtown Philadelphia.

  Ashford was stunned. The caller had detailed knowledge about the journals, even down to the condition of the papyri!

  ‘And if I refuse?’ he countered. ‘These journals are the property of the college. As the librarian, it is my responsibility to protect them, not pass them around to anyone who calls.’

  A note of impatience entered the voice of the caller. ‘Fine, then. You had your chance. You didn’t take it.’

  The call was abruptly disconnected, leaving Ashford listening to an engaged tone.

  He would have dismissed it as a crank call had it not been for the shocking news that he received just forty-five minutes later. Carl Dunn, the faculty member from the Classics Department whom he had first spoken to about the papyrus journals, had been hit by a car as he was crossing the street in front of his house. Dunn had died on the spot. The car that mowed him down had vanished. There were no eyewitnesses so the car would remain untraceable.

  An uneasy feeling took hold of Ashford as he received the news. Dunn was a good man. A deeply religious Catholic, he had fitted well into this Jesuit liberal arts college. Was his shadowy caller behind this accident? It seemed too much of a coincidence.

  He now recalled the mysterious circumstances that surrounded the disappearance, two weeks ago, of Lawrence Fuller, a former Professor of Classics and Dean at the college. Fuller was returning from attending a seminar at the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. He had checked out of his hotel and then vanished into thin air. The doorman at his hotel and the bell boy had reported seeing him into a cab but he never made it to the airport. The college had, under the terms of Fuller’s employment contract, taken custody of his letters and journals. These had been stuffed in boxes and buried in the basement without cataloguing them at the time. It was in one of these boxes that Ashford had found the papyri, while he was doing an inventory of Fuller’s possessions.

  Where did that leave him then? Ashford had been obstinate, turned down the caller’s request. Would he be next?

  Thinking swiftly, he made up his mind. He had one advantage over the caller. No one knew about the two journals he had found along with the papyri. He hadn’t told Dunn or anyone else about it. Both journals were in English and one was a translation of the contents of the papyri, a fact that had been emblazoned across the first page of the journal in Fuller’s handwriting. If the translation had surprised him, the second journal had left him dumbfounded. Dazed.

  If the two journals together meant what he thought they did, then this discovery was more than just unearthing meaningless documents that were thousands of years old.

  The future of the world could be at stake.

  The copier spat out the last copy. Ashford hurriedly gathered up the papers and stapled them together. Gathering the two sets of photocopies, he stuffed them into an envelope and scrawled the recipient’s address with shaking hands that revealed his state of mind. For a few moments he stared at the sealed envelope as if reconsidering his course of action.

  He called his colleague, from the architecture department, who had offered to drop off the package at the FedEx office downtown. Five minutes later, the package was safely on its way to its destination.

  After his colleague left with the package, Ashford slumped in his chair. He had done everything he could to ensure that he was not the only one who knew what the journals contained. He was a simple man with a strong sense of duty. Even in this situation, the thought that the journals themselves could have been despatched to his friend had not crossed his mind. They were the property of the college and had to stay here. Like the papyrus texts. His solution had been to photocopy the journals and send them off instead.

  Ashford knew what was in store for him. His mysterious caller didn’t sound like the kind of person who liked being trifled with. He had no idea what to do next to protect himself. He had thought of making a run for it, but where could he go? This college had been his life for the last thirty-five years and he had not stepped out of the campus in all that time, except for the one occasion when he had attended a conference in Washington DC, in 1983. That was the time he had made his only friend outside the college, a historian from India who was speaking at the conference on the subject of preserving ancient documents. They had hit it off, surprisingly, and stayed in touch over the years. It was this friend whom he had now sent the photocopies to.

  Resigned to what was to come, he closed his eyes and began praying. A devout Catholic, this was his only succour when he had problems.

  The sound of footsteps approaching his office made him open his eyes. Five men entered and fanned out along the walls. He could see the bulge in their jackets indicating shoulder holsters. They were armed. Except for the one in the centre, a tall man with coal-black eyes and an intense look on his face as if he was perpetually in deep philosophical thought. He was clearly the leader of this pack.

  The unarmed man’s eyes alighted on the papyrus documents on Ashford’s desk. ‘Ah, I see you’ve kept them ready for me.’ He made it sound as if he was appreciative, but the menacing look on his face never changed. At a gesture, one of his men picked up the papyri and carefully eased them into a leather briefcase he was carrying.

  Ashford stared at them defiantly. He still had an ace up his sleeve. The two journals he had photocopied, which were now safely in a drawer in his desk.

  ‘You have something more for me, don’t you?’ the

  leader said.

  ‘What do you mean? I’ve given you the papyrus documents.’ Ashford hoped he could carry this off without betraying himself. He had always been useless at lying.

  ‘The two journals in English that you found with these documents.’ His voice was hard, ‘You weren’t meaning to tell me about them, were you? You thought we didn’t know.’

  Ashford’s jaw dropped open. How did they know? He hadn’t told anyone about them.

  The leader of the pack nodded and one of the men lashed out with a clenched fist. Ashford cried out in pain, as the goon’s fist connected with his nose, breaking it. Blood streamed down his face.

  ‘Search his desk.’ The leader commanded. Three men swiftly rifled through the drawers. One of them found the journals and held them aloft before slipping them into the briefcase with the papyri.

  The leader then leaned forward and fixed Ashford with a stare. ‘You know, I was going to kill you after taking the documents. But you’ve just made me change my mind. I’m going to take you with us. You’re going to disappear. Like old Fuller. And you’re going to wish I had killed you instead.’

  1

  PRESENT DAY

  DAY ONE

  North of Korinos and south of Markigialos, Greecer />
  Alice held her cellphone to her ear as she listened to the endless ring at the other end of the line. Her face betrayed her frustration and hinted at the seeds of anger being sowed as a result of multiple calls all ending with the same result.

  No response.

  She clicked her tongue in exasperation as the call disconnected yet again. She knew by now that she wouldn’t get a call back.

  Why do I even bother calling?

  She stared glumly at her phone for a few moments before stuffing it into her pocket. It wasn’t easy managing a relationship long distance. She had been camping here for the better part of the last twelve months as part of an international team put together by the Greek-American Archaeological Mission of Pydna. The mission was on the cusp of revealing to the world one of ancient Greece’s most puzzling secrets. The long months apart had taken a toll on her relationship, culminating in an acrimonious slanging match that had taken place two weeks ago. Her boyfriend hadn’t called back since then. And he hadn’t picked up any of her calls either.

  Bloody idiot. If he didn’t have the courtesy to apologise, the least he could do was take her call so she could try and patch the relationship back together again. Unless…she pushed the unpleasant thought away with a shake of her head.

  Her brooding was interrupted by an excited student, breathless from his dash through the tunnel that led to what was expected to be the discovery of the century – a tomb that had not been opened for over 2000 years. A tomb that had been the subject of much speculation for the last 150 years. The excavation team had been assisted by a contingent of over fifty students and an army of local workers, while the two co-directors of the project, a Greek and an American, were based in Thessaloniki, around 50 kilometres away via the E75 toll road.

  ‘Alice, we’ve broken through to the tomb entrance!’ The excitement in his voice was palpable and infectious. ‘C’mon, hurry up!’ The words were hardly out of his mouth than he was retracing his steps to the opening of the shaft that led to the tunnel deep below the earth.

  All concerns of her boyfriend banished from her mind, Alice adjusted her backpack and turned to follow the student, her thoughts flitting back to the moment, eighteen months ago, when she had been approached to join the team.

  It was ironic that she had just met her boyfriend at the time the invitation came. She had been wallowing in the wake of the incident which she never spoke of anymore. At that time, she was struggling to put it behind her, and she had finally managed to bury it deep in the recesses of her mind like a centuries-old secret. He had been such a support to her then, and she had been grateful to him for it. After dating for a couple of months, she had moved in with him – until she had been called away for this excavation. And today, when she was about to unveil one of the last great secrets of ancient Greece, it looked like he wasn’t there for her anymore.

  As she followed the student to the tomb, she recalled her meeting with Kurt Wallace, the billionaire philanthropist. Wallace was funding this excavation through his Wallace Archaeological Trust, an organization devoted to archaeology and the study of ancient civilisations. He was also the man behind the “Forgotten Roots” movement: a counter-evolutionary initiative of the Trust based on the five books he had authored. The common theme of the books was the hypothesis that humanity had forgotten its roots and turned to an erroneous theory based on the concept of evolution, when the true origins of humankind were hidden deep in the ancient myths of cultures across the world.

  Alice had heard and read about Wallace but had never really given much thought to what her opinion was about him and his theories. But she had been blown away by the man’s intellectual capacity and his genteel, refined manner. And, of course, by the ornate trappings of his stately mansion where she had been summoned to meet him.

  The meeting had lasted precisely ten minutes, and Wallace had opened the conversation by getting to the point.

  ‘The reason I have requested your presence on the team is because of your rich expertise, among other things, concerning the era of Alexander the Great and the years prior to and after his death,’ he began, after the formalities of greetings and asking her if she wished to be served any refreshments.

  This opening remark had ignited her curiosity and she stared back at the tall figure of Wallace, standing by the window of his study, the portrait of an aristocrat with his finely cut suit, silk tie, rugged face and salt and pepper hair.

  Wallace smiled at her, knowing that she’d taken the bait. ‘You see, my research team at the Trust has unearthed a clue to one of ancient Greece’s most enduring mysteries. And it has everything to do with Alexander the Great.’

  He had gone on to explain the nature and purpose of the mission and the composition of the team. By the time he finished, she would have paid to sign on for this project.

  ‘Watch your step here,’ the voice of the student intruded once more on her thoughts. ‘The roof of the tunnel is lower from here on.’ They had scrambled down the shaft and made their way through the tunnel, aiming for the light from the portable lamps that grew stronger as they advanced.

  They hurried through the tunnel as fast as they could in the beam of the student’s torchlight and finally emerged in a cube shaped chamber with smooth stone walls.

  Two portable LED pole lights stood in diagonally opposite corners, lighting up the little space.

  ‘Thank you, Marco,’ Alice smiled at the student, as he switched off his flashlight.

  ‘The mother-lode, quite literally.’ Damon, the other archaeologist on the team, a pudgy, black-haired man in his late forties, pointed to the entrance to the tomb that they had painstakingly excavated over the last twelve months.

  Alice saw stacks of containers in the chamber. These were padded containers used to gather artefacts from excavation sites to transport them safely to labs where they could be tested, dated and examined more thoroughly. ‘We’re picking up stuff from here?’ She was a bit taken aback. This was against standard archaeological procedure, where every artefact has to be photographed, tagged, mapped and measured to the last detail before being removed from the site.

  ‘Orders from HQ. Our directors gave me specific instructions to remove every moveable artefact and secure them all in the dig hut,’ Damon replied, studying her curiously. ‘Where have you been?’

  Alice shook her head, trying to keep her emotions at bay. ‘I noticed that you sent everyone else away.’ On their way to the shaft entrance, they had passed the other students and workers heading the other way and she had realised that Damon was planning a private preview of the tomb.

  ‘I sent them off,’ he replied, grinning at her. ‘I thought you and I should have the privilege of opening this tomb by ourselves.’ He glanced at the student. ‘With a little help from Marco, of course. Lucky guy.’ He winked at Marco, who grinned back.

  ‘There’s no door here,’ Alice frowned. ‘All the Hellenistic tombs have doors.’

  Damon shrugged. ‘Let’s find out, shall we?’ His face betrayed his anxiety. Had they laboured so hard for so many months only to be disappointed?

  Alice took a deep breath. This was the moment of truth. She nodded to Damon who beckoned to Marco. The student hefted one of the pole lights and carried it through the open doorway, into the tomb. As Alice and Damon entered the tomb, he returned for the other lamp, his eyes glistening with excitement.

  ‘There are two chambers,’ Damon whispered. ‘Just like the other Macedonian tombs. Barrel vaulted. It’s Hellenistic alright.’

  Alice found herself standing in a small antechamber, the walls covered with murals of a woman in colourful robes, commanding armies, instructing men and generally assuming the pose of a leader in charge.

  She looked at Damon and saw the excitement on his face as well. They had been right about this.

  ‘The tomb of a queen,’ Damon breathed. ‘At last the world will see her resting place.’

  Alice moved through the doorway separating the antechamber from the bu
rial chamber within, Damon following her.

  As she entered the chamber, Alice gasped. She had been prepared to find a sarcophagus, a larnax, or even a mummy. But the sight that greeted her eyes was something that made her hair stand on end.

  2

  R.K. Puram, New Delhi

  Imran Kidwai, Special Director at the Indian Intelligence Bureau, contemplated the day’s events as he was being driven home.

  Six months ago, after the dust raised by a terror threat to the G20 nations and the discovery of an ancient secret from the Mahabharata had died down, the governments of the US and India had decided to set up a joint task force to monitor and investigate leads to technology based terrorism. The idea had stemmed from the attempt by a shadowy global group to partner with terrorists to use cutting edge technology based on the secret from the Mahabharata with the objective of global political and economic domination. The plot had been foiled but the enemy still existed. And the entire episode had demonstrated that there were enough people out there who would not have any scruples about using technology to achieve their ends.

  Imran had willingly embraced the idea of a task force that was supported politically and had the authority and responsibility to investigate potential leads for techno-terrorism. But he had met the leader of the task force for the first time only today. And he didn’t like what he saw. What was worse was, having backed the idea to the hilt initially, there was no way for him to withdraw from the task force. It was a difficult situation.

  The email alert from his Blackberry intruded on his thoughts. Not tonight. Normally, he welcomed the challenge of an after office hours email. It usually meant there was a problem to be solved. And Imran was nothing if not a problem solver. A true Gemini, he loved nothing more than the novelty of a new crisis rearing its ugly head. It gave him the variety his nature sought as a natural diversion from his routine work.

  He glanced at his email inbox. What he saw there made him sit up immediately. It was an email from a ghost.