The Alexandria Connection

by Adrian D'hagé

  O’Connor quickly put the folio in his bag and packed his tools of trade. He drew his pistol and made his way past the control room, where the second guard was struggling futilely against his bonds. He cautiously ascended the stairs, but the first guard was still equally immobilised. Perhaps the guard had been able to activate an alarm as he reached for his pistol?

  The sirens were getting closer and O’Connor quickly pondered his options. The police might surround the fence, but they would also undoubtedly use the driveway at the front, so he made his way unerringly through the corridors he’d committed to memory, and out onto the rear balcony. O’Connor vaulted the balustrade and disappeared into the gardens just as the first police car arrived at the front patio. He scanned the road at the back of the estate, but there was no sign of any police. He climbed the fence at the same point he’d come across, retrieved the laser from the tree and disappeared down the lane to his car, reasonably confident there would be nothing to connect him with the break-in. On the other hand, O’Connor had no knowledge of Area 15 . . . yet.

  28 EVRAN Nuclear Laboratories, California

  ‘This is most irregular, Mr Ruger,’ Professor Stockton complained as he led the way to the fortified compound where the Cobalt 60 was kept. ‘I can’t understand why we have to ship Cobalt 60 in three separate small containers when they’re all going to the same destination . . . one large container would have sufficed.’

  ‘Above my pay grade, Professor. How do you make this stuff?’

  ‘Cobalt 60 is highly radioactive, but let’s go over to the reactor and I’ll show you.’

  Stockton escorted Ruger through security, where they both were equipped with white coats and hard hats. A short while later, they stood on a gantry above a fuel bath, the water used to keep the spent fuel rods cool an eerie aquamarine blue.

  ‘Cobalt is mined like any other mineral, and once we process it, we get a powder which is pure Cobalt 59. In other words, 59 neutrons in the nucleus of the cobalt atom,’ Professor Stockton explained. ‘We compress the Cobalt 59 into pellets, and among the uranium in the reactor, we’re substituting a small number of rods made up of those pellets coated with nickel. When each Cobalt 59 atom absorbs another neutron from the reactor’s fission reaction, it changes into radioactive Cobalt 60, and that’s what you will be transferring up to Idaho.’

  ‘So what’s it used for?’

  ‘A whole range of things. It’s important for the sterilisation of medical equipment, and as a radiation source in the treatment of cancer. It’s also used in industrial radiography, where engineers can inspect flaws in materials, and of course, terrorists would love to get their hands on it, because once cobalt is lifted to the sixty-neutron level, it has too many neutrons to remain stable. I won’t get too technical, but it returns to a stable state by decaying to nickel and emitting cancer-causing gamma rays in the process, which would be catastrophic in a city like New York. With a half-life of over five years, this stuff hangs around for a long time.’

  Ruger watched as the three small blue steel containers of Cobalt 60 were loaded into the shipping container. ‘They look pretty solid.’

  ‘They have to be. That said, there are never any guarantees with radioactive material, Mr Ruger, but we comply with the standards set down by bodies like the Environmental Protection Agency and the UN’s International Atomic Energy Agency. The cobalt itself is encased in 11 inches of lead sheeting, and that’s surrounded by a double-insulated steel cage. Those containers have to pass testing which simulates anything from a train crash to a ship collision, so you can be confident that your cargo is well protected.’

  Ruger slowed the brand new FUSO ten-tonne truck and pulled into the nondescript EVRAN warehouse on the outskirts of San Francisco, where two more drivers were waiting with another two trucks. As soon as it was loaded the first truck took off, headed for a warehouse in Chicago. The two six-metre shipping containers destined for overseas were loaded with furniture, and Ruger hid the blue cobalt containers inside cavities in two large sideboards.

  Ruger and the other driver pulled out of the warehouse complex, and they headed south along Route 5 toward Los Angeles, sticking to the speed limit. It would take five days and five states to cover the 2200 miles to New Orleans and the Port of South Louisiana. From Los Angeles, they would head across the deserts of Arizona to Phoenix; through Las Cruces in New Mexico; on to San Antonio in Texas; and finally South Louisiana. And the Port of South Louisiana had not been chosen by accident. It was the ninth largest port in the world after those like Shanghai, Singapore and Rotterdam, and it was easily the biggest in the United States. Between them, the Ports of New Orleans, South Louisiana and Baton Rouge stretched for nearly 300 kilometres along the banks of the Mississippi, and that posed a particular challenge for the port authorities. Only a fraction of cargoes could be checked, and the authorities relied on intelligence. The containers of furniture destined for overseas were being consigned with that in mind. In the United Kingdom, the cargo would be picked up at Felixstowe in Suffolk, the United Kingdom’s busiest container port, and in Australia, the cargo was destined for Melbourne. With fewer than one in a hundred containers being physically examined in either country, the chances of the shielded cargo getting through were high.

  Sadiq Boulos and Gamal Nadar walked from the Blackfriars Underground and headed down to Fleet Street, where they turned right to walk the last few blocks to St Paul’s Cathedral.

  ‘The house of the Infidel’s false god has possibilities,’ Boulos whispered, as they approached one of the greatest churches in all of Christendom.

  ‘Let’s see,’ Nadar said quietly, looking behind him to ensure no one was within hearing distance. ‘Security is probably not as tight as the other buildings in the financial district, and if we can get up to the Golden Gallery, that would be perfect. Lunchtime would be best . . . a lot of people are out of their offices then, although that won’t make much difference. Gamma rays go through everything.’ Nadar smiled broadly at the thought of it.

  The traffic was heavy, and the pair had to wait for several iconic London taxis to pass, along with the number fifteen bus to Blackwell, and the number seventy six to Tottenham, before they could cross to the cathedral’s west front with its wide, stone steps and paired Corinthian columns. After the original church had been gutted in 1666, in the Great Fire of London, Sir Christopher Wren, arguably England’s finest architect, had been engaged to redesign it in a baroque style.

  It was not the first time the great church had been deliberately targeted. Sitting on Ludgate Hill, the highest ground in the City of London, the great dome had survived several attacks during the blitz, including a huge Nazi time-delay bomb that hit the cathedral on 10 October 1940. Had it gone off, the cathedral would have been totally destroyed, but the bomb was defused by two soldiers from the Royal Engineers, Lieutenant Robert Davies and Sapper George Wylie, both of whom received the rarely awarded George Cross.

  Boulos and Nader, tourist maps of London in hand, paid their entrance fee and once inside, barely paused to look at the stunning candelabra, the beautiful high ceilings and the breathtaking stonework and marble in the various chapels, naves and choir stalls. Instead they headed toward the first of a series of stone stairs that would take them to the top of the dome. Two hundred and fifty-seven steps later, they reached the Whispering Gallery which ran around the interior of the dome, and where a whisper against one wall was audible on the opposite side. A further 119 steps, and they were able to inspect the Stone Gallery.

  ‘We can do better,’ Nadar said quietly. ‘It’s only 50 metres to the ground from here.’

  Boulous nodded and they climbed another 152 steps to the Golden Gallery, which gave them stunning views of London. But the vista of the River Thames, Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre and Tate Modern in one of the world’s great cities was the last thing on their mind. Instead, they walked around the outside of the dome with its near shoulder-high iron railing providing protection. On the northern s
ide, they could look down on Paternoster Square.

  ‘Even if the wind is not in our favour, the effect will still be devastating,’ Boulos whispered, taking a picture of the London Stock Exchange building, which took up the whole of the northern side of the square.

  To the west, across the Atlantic Ocean, and to the east, across the Indian Ocean two more teams were playing the role of tourists, calculating likely wind directions in key cities in the US and Australia, and how they might best spread one of the deadliest substances on the planet.

  29 Ploutos Park, Dallas, Texas

  The EVRAN jet carrying Rachel Bannister and the governor of Montana, Carter Davis, came to a stop at the Business Jet Centre at Love Field. Bannister and Davis were whisked through arrivals and Crowley’s driver was waiting with one of EVRAN’s specially armoured DTS Cadillacs. Despite his media-shy profile, Crowley hadn’t got to be the most powerful industrialist in the world without making a lot of enemies, and when Area 15 assessed the risks as being high, the 4.6 litre, three-tonne V8s were there to minimise them. The cars were protected with hardened ballistic steel that was impervious to both 7.62-millimetre and 5.56-millimetre high-powered rifles. The floor and roof provided anti-mine and grenade protection and the heavily tinted windows were made from multi-layered ballistic glass. The fuel tanks, computer modules and batteries were similarly armored and normal tyres had been replaced with high-grade ‘run-flat’ wheels. Crowley insisted the EVRAN armoured fleet be of identical design to that of the Beast, the specially armoured Cadillac used by the president.

  It had taken a bare ten minutes from touchdown to Crowley’s driver saluting and ushering the governor and Rachel into the spacious, finely crafted leather seats.

  ‘So . . . what does a gorgeous looking woman like you do when you’re not working for Crowley?’ Governor Davis asked, placing his hand on Rachel’s thigh.

  Rachel sighed audibly. On the Gulfstream 550, Rachel had managed to keep the governor’s wandering hands at bay by ensuring the seating configuration had them facing each other over a coffee table. She took his arm and firmly placed the governor’s hand back on his own flabby thigh. He might have had a ‘million dollar body’ in the earlier days, but good living had turned his once toned muscles to fat. What looked suspiciously like a double chin was forming, and his reddish hair was greying at the temples. ‘Working for Mr Crowley is a full-time occupation, Governor. Now, if you look to your right, we’re coming in to the Mayflower Estates area of Preston Hollow . . . As you’re probably aware, George W. Bush and his wife have moved here, and it’s home to the likes of Ross Perot, along with any number of business tycoons.’

  ‘The Crespi-Hicks estate is somewhere around here?’ asked Davis, his hand once again creeping across the plush leather of the rear seat.

  ‘Valued at US $135 million and it sits on 25 acres, but none of these mansions come even close to Ploutos Park,’ Rachel said, once more removing Davis’s hand. Named after the Greek god of wealth, Crowley’s estate sat on a staggering 79 acres. The six-storey stone mansion included fifteen bedrooms, twenty bathrooms, a library, a ballroom where ten huge crystal chandeliers hung from a cavernous ceiling, a large art-deco bar, a main kitchen lined with eighteenth-century Delft tiles, and a separate indoor commercial catering kitchen. The home theatre took up half the third floor, with the other half allocated to a games room.

  The driver slowed the big Cadillac and pressed the remote, and the big wrought iron gates swung silently on their hinges.

  ‘Impressive driveway,’ Davis observed, as they came to a halt under a stone portico supported by four immense Greek-style stone pillars. The driver opened the rear door and saluted. Sheldon Crowley waited beside the heavy double cedar doors of the main house.

  ‘Welcome to Ploutos Park, Carter,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘My wife Lillian sends her apologies, but she will join us later. We’ve put you in one of the guesthouses. Hank will take your bags over, and in the meantime, Chef has prepared lunch which we’ll have in the cellar.’

  Crowley led the way across the expensive black-and-white Italian tiles of the entry foyer, where four of the great masters, acquired legitimately, took pride of place: a Renoir, a Monet, a Raphael and a Cézanne. He turned left into the library, which was panelled in Italian walnut, past a feature wall that had cost a cool US $1 million per square metre, tiled in diamond, mother of pearl, abalone shell and black onyx. Rachel and Davis followed Crowley past display cases of priceless Egyptian artifacts, including a full-size mummy, down heavy wooden steps to the underground cellar.

  ‘I had it modelled on the barrel room of Château Margaux. Are you familiar with that château?’ Crowley asked.

  ‘Can’t say I am,’ said Davis, casting his eyes around the cavernous cellar.

  No surprises there, Rachel thought. Davis, she suspected, would have difficulty distinguishing a chardonnay from a chablis. Stone pillars supported the roof, and soft lighting played on the arches of the ceiling. Chef stood ready to carve rare roast beef. Crowley’s personal sommelier was on hand to serve the wine. The rest of the cellar lunch, including crabs and freshly shucked oysters, was laid out on a long rough-hewn table in the centre of the cavern, the walls of which were lined with stone recesses containing thousands of bottles of the world’s rarest wines.

  ‘So how are things up in Montana?’ Crowley asked, after the first course of Chesapeake Bay chowder was served and the sommelier had poured a 2004 Tyrrell’s Vat 1 semillon from one of the world’s leading semillon terroirs in the Hunter Valley of Australia.

  ‘We’d be doin’ a whole better if it weren’t for those latte-sippin’ greenies tryin’ to tell us what we can and can’t mine,’ said Davis, emptying half a glass of semillon in one gulp.

  Rachel nodded surreptitiously toward the sommelier, who immediately refilled the governor’s glass.

  ‘There’s enough shale oil in Montana to make American self-sufficient into the next century, but all those greenies do is whinge and whine about the water table this, and the toxic waste that, hazardous methane this, and contaminated drinking water that . . . they’re like a broken record.’

  Crowley smiled. The conversation was going in precisely the direction he wanted. ‘Washington any help?’

  ‘Washington? You’ve got to be kidding me, Sheldon. Washington’s nothing but a contraceptive to the prick of progress. They can’t even get their act together over gray wolves. I doubt half of ’em have ever been outside the beltway. Congress keeps wolves on the endangered species list, and in the meantime they’re wreaking havoc on the herds. The ranchers have had a gut full of Washington, and so have I,’ Davis grumbled, alternately gulping at his wine and attacking a full lobster and rare roast beef. ‘Hunting wolves might not be legal in Pennsylvania and Constitution Avenues, but up where I come from, wolves are vermin, end of story.’

  Crowley nodded to the sommelier. The sommelier had decided on an Australian theme, and Kellermeister’s 2008 shiraz from the Barossa in the south of Australia had not only taken out ‘Best Barossa Shiraz’ and ‘Best Australian Shiraz’, it had been accorded the ‘Best Shiraz in the World’ by over 400 judges at the London Wine Show. That achievement, Crowley decided, would be lost on Davis, so he moved straight to the punch line. ‘There’s a way to fix all of this,’ he said.

  ‘And how’s that?’ asked Davis.

  ‘You could call the shots from Washington.’

  ‘And how do you suppose I might do that, Sheldon?’

  ‘Simple. Run for president.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Those assholes have got the game sewn up down there. Besides, if you want to compete, you’ve got to have some very big backers, Sheldon. I’ve seen the figures . . . the campaign in 2008 cost over US $750 million.’

  ‘Have a look around you, Carter. What do you see?’

  ‘Huh?. . . Wine.’

  ‘Not just any wine, Carter. There are over 8000 bottles of the world’s rarest wines in this cellar, including two cases of Henri Jayer Ri
chebourg Grand Cru, which, if you can get hold of it, comes in at over $20 000 a bottle. The jet that picked you up would set you back around $70 million.’

  ‘Meaning . . .’

  Oh God, thought Rachel. He’s thicker than I thought.

  ‘After we’ve finished here, I’ll get Rachel to show you around, Carter, but this is no ordinary estate. The backing is here, and we want you to run.’

  Davis shook his head. ‘I’m quite comfortable where I am, thanks. They don’t call Montana “Big Sky Country” for nothing. I’m mountain born and bred.’

  And doesn’t it show, Rachel thought. Surely Sheldon can’t be serious.

  ‘We’d still like you to run.’

  ‘Afraid not, Sheldon, but it’s mighty nice of you to offer, just the same,’ said Davis, draining his glass again.

  Crowley dismissed the staff, and turned back to Governor Davis. ‘It’s not that simple, Carter. You see, Washington and the greenies are not only causing you problems in Montana . . . they’re causing me big problems down here. Granted, there are a lot of attractions for you in Montana. Stunning mountains, beautiful four-legged wildlife, and then there are the two-legged locals . . . and some of them are very attractive, in and out of bed.’

  Davis coloured visibly. ‘What the hell are you talkin’ about, Crowley? I’ll have you know that I’ve run on a ticket of faith and family values for the last ten years, and I’m not about to —’

  ‘Spare me the crap, Davis,’ said Crowley, an icy edge to his voice. ‘You might have run on that hogshit, but you’ve been screwing your ass off every chance you get.’

  ‘How dare you . . . who the fuck do you think you are? I’m leaving!’ Davis got up, unsteady on his feet, and the chair fell backwards behind him.