Susan Murkowski paid the cab driver, and looked around. The mists among the cottonwoods were eerie, and she felt a sudden shiver down her spine. Murkowski felt for her iPhone, checked it had reception, and then switched it to silent. She walked up the long driveway and pressed the old-fashioned ceramic bell push.
Ruger swore softly as he heard the doorbell. He pulled the jiggler from the lock and withdrew into the shadows.
Abigail looked through the peephole. Recognising Murkowski, she opened the door.
‘Susan? I’m Abigail Roxburgh. Come in, and thank you for coming all this way,’ Roxburgh said nervously, leading the way in.
‘Your text didn’t say much, but if the polls for Davis are anything to go by, we might be talking about the next president of the United States, and that’s important.’
‘And it’s that possibility that is worrying me sick. Davis is not all he seems. I’ve brewed some coffee, and we can have it in here,’ Abigail said, turning the music down, ‘but it’s always nice to sit out on the back deck, even though it’s misty.’
The voices carried clearly, and Ruger withdrew down the back stairs and quickly retraced his steps toward the trees, pondering his options. He knew Crowley would be none too pleased if the target spilled the beans before he got to her.
‘Misty is good . . . although it’s quite eerie,’ said Murkowski, following Abigail out on to the deck. ‘You don’t get nervous out here? The neighbours seem a ways away?’
‘Not really,’ said Abigail, taking one of the padded wooden deck chairs while Murkowski took the other. ‘At least not up until now. But let me start at the beginning. Governor Davis and I . . .’
Ruger braced the M110 sniper rifle against the big cottonwood tree and adjusted the AN/PVS night sight, which gave him a magnification of 8.5x. He held the crosshairs on Abigail’s temple and slowly squeezed the trigger.
Murkowski screamed as blood sprayed all over her and the deck. About to vomit, she held her hand to her mouth and dropped to the decking, suddenly realising she too might be in the sights of an assassin. She groped for her iPhone, entered her code and dialled 911. Beyond the trees she heard a car start.
‘Fuck,’ Ruger swore, as he risked the lights and drove quickly down the dirt track. Gaining River Drive, he could hear the sirens in the distance. He turned into Glacier Drive and headed toward the safety of the heavier traffic on Bitterroot Road.
Hours later, Murkowski composed herself as she prepared to go to air for the late-night bulletin.
‘You okay, Murk?’ her producer asked.
‘Bit shaken up, but I’ll be fine.’
‘And in five, four, three, two, one . . .’
‘And we cross live to Susan Murkowski in Lolo, Montana, for breaking news,’ the evening announcer began. ‘A shocking murder tonight, Susan.’
Rachel Bannister was watching in San Francisco. She texted Crowley and Davis to switch on CNC as she listened with increasing alarm.
‘I gather Ms Roxburgh was on Governor Davis’s staff,’ the announcer continued, ‘and before she was killed, she texted you saying she had some information on the governor that you needed to hear . . . Was there anything in your discussion that might give an indication as to why she was shot?’
Rachel made a note of the three most damaging statements reported by Murkowski: ‘worries me sick’; ‘Governor Davis not all he seems’; and ‘Governor Davis and I’. The last was not difficult – other than refuting what the tabloid media might make of it. She pondered her options. Far better to hold a media conference now, rather than let the media make up their own stories. Properly handled, this was a grass fire that could be put out. But who was behind it? Rachel had a terrible feeling she knew. Crowley was a ruthless businessman, but would that ruthlessness extend to this? Ever since she’d been excluded from the conversation with Ruger – a man with a record and a shady past – Rachel had felt the first pangs of fear in the pit of her stomach. Perhaps it was time to confront Crowley, but for the moment there was a more urgent task at hand.
The story had spread very quickly, and Rachel waited for the huge throng of journalists to settle at the press conference, before introducing Governor Davis.
As coached, Davis was on message. ‘Firstly, my heart goes out to the family and friends of Abigail Roxburgh in what has been a tragedy for them, and for the state of Montana,’ he began. ‘Abigail was a loyal, hard-working employee,’ he continued, reading from the dot points Rachel had prepared, ‘and she will be sadly missed. She will be forever in our prayers.’
Rachel had deliberately kept the opening statement short, banking on the journalists asking the leading questions. She wasn’t disappointed, as ten journalists shouted at once.
‘One at a time, please,’ said Davis, showing the results of Rachel’s intensive training. ‘Yes,’ he said, indicating the attractive young journalist in the front row.
‘Governor Davis, what do you think Ms Roxburgh meant when she said your probable win on Tuesday “worried her sick”?’
Davis nodded, maintaining the grave look Rachel made him rehearse. ‘When I left Montana to announce my candidacy for this great office, Abigail – Ms Roxburgh – who was on my staff, asked to see me, and she was in tears in my office. Her exact words were, “Governor Davis, I am so worried. The greatest leaders in this country are so often assassinated . . . and I keep thinking about Kennedy. You’ve been —” and forgive me, but these were her exact words, “you’ve been the best governor Montana has ever had, and you would make a great president, but it worries me sick that an assassin’s bullet has your name on it.” I have no doubt that in contacting Ms Murkowski, Ms Roxburgh was trying to sound yet another warning to me. Let me say, I have the greatest faith in this country’s Secret Service. They are the best in the world. Yes . . . over here,’ Davis said, choosing an older male journalist, with a body that reflected hard living. At his first media conference, Rachel had been furious. The first ten questions had gone to attractive females.
‘So what do you think she meant when she said, “Governor Davis is not all he seems”?’
Rachel had anticipated the question and she’d coached him, not only in the verbal response, but the equally important body language. Davis allowed himself a grim smile.
‘That was something else that, on more than one occasion, Abigail – Ms Roxburgh – had said to me. If I remember her words correctly, they were along the lines of “Governor Davis, you’re not at all what you seem. You give the impression to the public that you’re a knock-about guy, and they love you for that” – and again, you will have to forgive me, because this is not a time for political statements, but she followed that up with something about me being as sharp as a tack, and that the people loved me because I seemed to be one of them. Her exact words were, “behind the scenes, you’re always putting your intellect up against those who might be out to take advantage of ordinary, hard-working Montanans.” I will miss her more than words can say,’ Davis said, pulling a white handkerchief from his pocket. As coached, he dabbed at his eyes.
‘So who do you think might have had a grudge against Ms Roxburgh, Governor?’ Rachel had planted the question with one of the Omega Centauri hacks.
‘As far as I know, Ms Roxburgh didn’t have an enemy in the world. She was always willing to help those less fortunate than herself. That said, we have made some tough decisions in Montana, decisions that focus on jobs and the economy, and we’ve been tough on graft and corruption, and those on the wrong side of the law resent that. I only hope Ms Roxburgh has not paid the ultimate price for being a loyal member of my staff.’
Crowley flicked off the television and buzzed Miranda to summon Reid.
‘I want round-the-clock surveillance on these three people,’ he said, handing the head of Area 15 a list with three names on it: Emma Cooper, Brooklyn Murphy and Harper Scott. ‘I want to know who they call, who they text, where they go, when they fart, and if there’s even an inkling of them giving an interview on the R
epublican presidential candidate, Carter Davis, you’re to call me . . . even if it’s three a.m.’
42 The Great Pyramid, Giza
‘I’m beginning to understand why Crowley is so keen to get his hands on this,’ Aleta said, breathless with excitement as she examined the papyrus. ‘There are two documents here. The first is the original hieroglyphic record of the calculations done by Pharaoh Khufu’s engineers when they built the Great Pyramid.’ She pointed to the pintail ducks and scarab beetles, and the heading on the first papyrus leaf: Pyramids – Construction. ‘But the second document is in Greek, in Euclid’s hand, and I think it might explain the real purpose of the Pyramids of Giza . . .’
‘So this is the Euclid Papyrus.’
‘Without a doubt!’
O’Connor listened attentively as Aleta translated Euclid’s Greek and his notes on the engineering calculations. ‘We’re going to have to check this out,’ O’Connor said finally, ‘and the only way to do that is to get inside the Great Pyramid.’
‘Into areas that are well off limits to the public,’ said Aleta.
‘Which means bringing Badawi on board.’
‘Well . . . we were going to do that anyway,’ she reminded him.
‘Yes, although I’d be a lot happier if Badawi kept his deputy out of the picture.’
‘I’ll ensure he sees us alone.’
The next day, Professor Badawi escorted O’Connor and Aleta into his office.
‘We have a confession to make, Hassan, so I hope you won’t be too cross with us,’ Aleta began after Badawi had served tea.
‘How could I possibly be cross with you, my dear?’ the avuncular professor asked, his weathered face softened by his smile.
‘I have reason to believe that your deputy may not be all he seems,’ O’Connor explained.
‘Do you have any evidence for that?’ Badawi asked, his smile vanishing.
‘He’s been in contact with someone in Venice whom the authorities in Washington are watching closely. You’ll have to trust me on this one. If anything is amiss, we’ll try to deal with it quietly so that it doesn’t damage the museum’s reputation. In the meantime, we’d be grateful if you could keep our discussions to yourself.’
Professor Badawi looked at O’Connor long and hard. ‘Doctor Aboud asked to attend this meeting . . . he was none too pleased when he was excluded.’
‘Aboud is a graduate of the Australian National University in Canberra?’
‘A very fine university,’ said Badawi. ‘It has a particularly good reputation for research, and Doctor Aboud gained his doctorate from ANU’s School of Archaeology and Anthropology. He studied the Graeco-Roman period of Egypt and he’s an expert on the works of Herodotus and Diodorus Siculus. Doctor Aboud is one of the few in the world who have studied the difficult works of Manetho, an Egyptian priest during the reign of Ptolemy I and Ptolemy II.’
O’Connor handed Badawi a sanitised version of the NSA report on Aboud. ‘He bought his doctorate from the Degrees and Diplomas Order Centre, a Chinese website operating out of Shenzhen.’
Badawi shook his head in disbelief as he read the promo from the website:
Buy a degree is more and more important for someone couldn’t get a degree from his university. How to buy a degree and where to buy degree that means your choose. Our degree mill will service for you online everyday!
We already have the high-end printing equipment, all kinds of import the original paper, mature processing technology and perfect service system. No matter from watermark, seal, or hot stamping or laser, we can do it 100% of similar! And you don’t have to sit for endless examinations and do assignments.
‘According to the Chinese Degrees and Diplomas Order Centre, and you can look their website up for yourself, ANU is a particularly fine university, and I’m sure ANU will be delighted to find it’s being advertised as having over 200 books in their library. Since ANU actually has five libraries, that’s forty books in each,’ O’Connor said, unable to stifle a wry smile.
Badawi stared at the report, and the colour drained from his face. ‘I’m shocked. But there have been occasions when I’ve wondered about some of his remarks. Where did you get this information?’ he asked finally.
‘My turn to come clean, Professor. Let’s just say I’m not what I might seem either. I do have a doctorate in biochemistry and lethal viruses – won with a lot of blood, sweat and tears in the laboratories of Trinity College Dublin – but when I’m not with Aleta on her archaeological pursuits, I work for the United States government. I can’t tell you much more than that, other than to say we’re worried that Aboud may be about to drag the museum into an unholy international political row. I’ve always had my suspicions, which is one of the reasons we haven’t been able to be totally honest with you. Now that we’ve isolated Aboud, I’ll leave Aleta to bring you up to speed on our archaeological investigations.’
‘I can only apologise, Hassan, but we truly are on your side.’
The old professor’s smile returned, albeit wanly. ‘If it were anyone else but you, Aleta, I might have difficulty believing anything any more. Some more tea?’
Aleta nodded and took a deep breath. ‘Firstly, the photo we showed you of the original papyrus with Euclid’s notations and the Flower of Life wasn’t bought in Lima. It was a photograph of a very old papyrus we found in the Souk el-Attarine.’ Badawi’s eyes widened as Aleta recounted her discovery in the basement of the papyrus store in Alexandria and their subsequent dive on the ruins in Alexandria harbour.
‘You’ve found the lost Library of Alexandria!’
‘There’s every possibility, but you can understand why we wanted to keep this quiet. If we’d announced this, the world’s media would be all over you and the Department of Antiquities like a rash. But when we’re ready, we would like you to make the announcement.’
‘When you’re ready?’
‘We’ve also discovered a passage off the holy well at Bir el-Samman.’ Aleta quickly brought Badawi up to date on the discovery of the subterranean cavern.
‘The Hall of Records?’ Badawi wondered excitedly.
‘Quite possibly, but even more importantly, we were able to bring two urns out without Aboud or the Muslim elders being any the wiser.’
‘Or me!’
‘Again, we’d like you to make the announcement of this discovery, Hassan, but not yet. One of those urns contained an original copy of Euclid’s The Elements, but the other,’ said Aleta, opening her attaché case and withdrawing a rigid protective folder, ‘is even more exciting.’ She carefully laid the ancient papyri leaves on Badawi’s desk.
Badawi reached for a magnifying glass and studied the documents. ‘I think,’ he said, after what seemed like an age, ‘that you’ve found the Euclid Papyrus. What an incredible discovery.’ He paused and took a deep breath. ‘In all my years of Egyptology, I’ve never seen anything like this. It will completely extinguish the widely accepted notion that the Great Pyramid was Khufu’s tomb. If this papyrus is correct, Khufu’s engineers were way more advanced than we’ve ever given them credit.’
‘There’s no doubt that the Egyptian engineers were amazingly successful in aligning the pyramids with the earth and the Cygnus constellation,’ said Aleta. ‘And as you and I both know, even today, the Great Pyramid is not only the most accurately aligned construction on the planet but it’s still by far the largest and most precise as well. We’ll have to find a way to explain this to the average person. Not only did the pharaoh’s engineers incorporate the Fibonacci sequence, but when you take the height of the Great Pyramid compared to its base, it’s precisely the same relationship as a circle has to its circumference. The extremely concise side angle of 51° 51’ 14.3” means the mathematical value of Pi is contained within the pyramid’s shape.’
‘Yes,’ Badawi agreed. ‘You may not be aware, Doctor O’Connor, but in 1859, an Englishman, John Taylor, published some astonishing findings on the Great Pyramid. The discovery that Pi was embe
dded in its construction prompted Taylor to conclude that not only was there a relationship between the height of the pyramid to its base, but the height-to-base ratio was the same as the distance between the centre of the earth to the poles. He found that the “inch” Khufu’s engineers had used was just .001 larger than today’s British inch. But more importantly, there are 25 pyramid inches in a cubit, 365.24 cubits in the base of the Great Pyramid, and it’s beyond coincidence that 365.24 is the precise number of days in a calendar year. The pyramid inch is one 500-millionth of the earth’s axis of rotation, so there’s absolutely no doubt that Khufu’s engineers were not only aware of the geometry of our planet – their measurement systems were based on that.’
‘It is extraordinary,’ O’Connor agreed, ‘but the question is, how much did Khufu’s engineers know about frequency resonance and the possibility that a pyramid could be built with a natural vibration frequency? Euclid seems in no doubt, but if he’s correct, there will be evidence inside the pyramid and to check, we’re going to need your help, Hassan. Those areas are off-limits.’
Badawi nodded. ‘That’s not a problem. I’m not without influence in this town. You can start as early as tomorrow morning if you wish, or perhaps it would be better if we went into the pyramid after it’s closed to the public?’
Aboud took his headphones off, locked them in the drawer in his office, opened his safe and extracted the mobile phone he’d been given by Area 15.
‘He’s pretty agile for his age,’ O’Connor said softly, as he and Aleta followed Badawi into the ancient entrance of the Great Pyramid. The ‘Robber’s Tunnel’ dug by Caliph al-Mamum’s workers in 820 AD had now been used by millions of tourists, but Badawi was heading for areas within that were sealed off to the public.
From a distance, Aboud focused his binoculars and watched the trio disappear inside.
The Alexandria Connection Page 33