Keystone

by Talbot, Luke

  “My God, Mamdouh. Professor Hunt would love to hear about this! But even he would never believe such advanced human civilisations from the past,” she said.

  The Professor looked her straight in the eyes. “And you think I would? Gail, over the decades I have seen thousands of ancient texts, not just from Egypt but from all over the world. This wasn’t some dream-fuelled flight of fantasy, it was a vision of a future world. It was so real, so tangible, so believable that it can only have come from someone who had witnessed it.

  “All of the people in the streets of the mysterious city, the pilots in flying machines, the farmers in the fields and sailors on the strange ships existed. And from the little I saw, it is clear to me that they were wiped out, erased from history.”

  Gail could not find the words, her mouth opened and closed slowly like a goldfish.

  “When I saw that book I realised what it represented; I knew it couldn’t be shown to the outside world. I don’t pretend to know what wider implications it may have and why the agency would want to cover it up. Whatever religious or political motivations they might have, I simply understood that to reveal it would have been professional suicide. I would have been no better than those who claim that the Great Pyramid of Khufu was built as a landing platform for interstellar spaceships. Here was I, looking at a veritable link between the ancient Egypt I love and something that would destroy everything we think we know about our origins.

  “I couldn’t let that happen. As a philosopher, I was frustrated that I would never again be able to see the book, to study and translate its text. But as a man who wanted to earn a living and develop my career, I was relieved that it was being taken off my hands. The responsibility was no longer mine.

  “Because of this, I never once felt inclined to reveal this to you, or to anyone for that matter. Over time, I made myself believe that the book did in fact represent little more than a fantasy world. I mean, what will people think thousands of years hence when they discover our libraries full of science fiction? Would they believe that we had really waged war with Mars, that we genuinely conquered the stars or that we could easily travel through time at will?” He paused and let out a long sigh. “That idea helped reconcile my guilt. The belief that it was a work of fantasy got me through the past ten years in one piece.

  “Until this morning. When I saw the photos from Mars, it all came back as real as if I had the book in my hands. The smell of the wood, the texture of the pages, the intricate detail of the alien world; none of it was fantasy, it was authentic. That is why I do not think the Stickman on Mars is faked, Gail. I do not believe it is a coincidence. I believe instead that it belongs on Mars, as do the people from the book.”

  He stopped talking and they sat in silence for several minutes. He wanted to urge her to respond, but understood that she was overwhelmed by his story and needed time to digest. Eventually, she looked at him.

  “Firstly Mamdouh, let me say I do not judge you for what you did. I would probably have done the same as you, otherwise my career as a result would have been entirely different, and I would probably have had to get my doctorate from the Internet rather than from a good university.”

  He nodded in reply, as much in gratitude for her understanding as in agreement of her statement.

  “Secondly, the photos from Mars prove something else,” she continued.

  “What?” he asked. He had not expected her to dwell on the photos from Mars.

  “The fact that the pictures from Mars reached the media at all can mean only one thing: that whatever the agency you dealt with is doing to cover all this up, they’ve made a mistake. Somehow, they weren’t as thorough as they should have been, and if they were trying to stop ‘disastrous repercussions,’ then they’ve failed.”

  The Professor was about to speak when a noise from outside his office caught his attention. He quickly placed his index finger against his lips. Gail turned round silently to follow his stare.

  Two loud knocks on the solid oak door reverberated round the room.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Mamdouh stood up behind his desk.

  “Come in,” he said, a slight crackle in his voice.

  Chapter 41

  George woke up to the phone ringing incessantly in the living room. He looked at his watch: six-thirty in the morning.

  Bloody hell, Gail, he thought to himself as he stumbled down the stairs. He searched among the empty cans, bottles and food wrappers on the coffee table before finding the remote. One of his friends emerged from the toilet scratching his head.

  “What time is it?” he said.

  “Six-bloody-thirty, and where did you come from?” he asked as he answered the call.

  “Slept in the bath, mate,” came the reply as he looked enviously at the couch, where another body lay comfortably, still unconscious.

  George wasn’t listening. The video wall asked him if he wanted to accept a video-call from a private number in Egypt. He cursed under his breath; the one time that he was home-alone and had friends over for a drink, and Gail had to call him first thing. There was no way he could make the room look even half decent for the camera, so he didn’t even bother trying. Instead, he checked his reflection in the preview screen in the corner of the video wall and accepted the call, before focusing his attention on the caller. It wasn’t Gail.

  “Mr Turner?” a man in uniform asked. He was standing against a plain white background, his navy blue uniform immaculate. He didn’t wait for George to confirm his identity, and he didn’t look surprised by his attire. To him, all Englishmen looked as scruffy as the half-naked apparition he was talking to. “I am Captain Ahmed Kamal of the Cairo police department. We are looking for your wife, Mrs Gail Turner?” He used a raised inflection at the end of his statement, prompting an answer.

  “Well, I assume you’re closer to her than I am, Captain; she’s in Cairo. I spoke to her yesterday evening, but haven’t heard anything since then.”

  “At what time did you speak to her, Mr Turner?” the Captain demanded.

  George crossed his arms defensively. Two of his friends were now sitting on the sofa behind him, looking at the video wall in bemusement. “Am I being interrogated here?” he said. “Why are you asking me about Gail? Is she OK?”

  The policeman looked beyond the camera, as if checking something going on in the background where he was calling from. “We just need to speak to her, Mr Turner. Telephone recordings reveal that your wife was meeting a Professor Mamdouh al-Misri yesterday evening at his office in the Egyptian Museum of Cairo. We would very much like to find her so that she can answer some questions relating to our enquiries.”

  George scratched his head. It was too early for this. “I last spoke to her at about six, that’s eight in the evening your time. She was on her way to meet Mamdouh.”

  “Mamdouh?” the Captain raised an eyebrow. “You knew him well?”

  “Absolutely, we spend a lot of time there, we stay with him whenever we go to Egypt.”

  “That’s very interesting.” He looked behind the camera again and made a slight nodding of the head. “Do you know of any reason for dispute between him and your wife, Mr Turner?”

  George was taken aback; what a question. “Not really, no. They were both pretty shocked by the photos from Mars yesterday; Mamdouh called her and arranged her flight to Cairo, he wanted to see her as soon as possible.” The policeman was annoying him now, what he really wanted was to call Gail on her mobile to check she was OK. “Anyway, she will be at his house now, they were meeting at the museum but she was going to stay with him as usual. He lives nearby. You’ll find her there, Captain” George had a quick rummage on the coffee table before finding his mobile phone. He tried to call her, out of view of the Captain, but the network immediately informed him that her phone was switched off. “Otherwise, I suggest that you ask the Professor where she is.”

  The Captain looked carefully at George for a few moments. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Mr Tu
rner. You see, Professor Mamdouh al-Misri was murdered, late last night in his office at the museum. Your wife is missing, and until she is found she is our closest link to the killer.”

  George’s two friends slid out of the room into the kitchen, leaving him alone.

  He sank to the sofa and shook his head. The camera embedded into the video wall followed him.

  “Mamdouh’s dead?” he said in disbelief. “And there’s no sign of Gail at all?” he asked more in the direction of the officer.

  “I’m afraid not, Mr Turner,” came the dispassionate reply. “I understand that this has come as quite a shock to you. To help in our investigation, I would appreciate it if you could try to remember any details about your conversation with your wife yesterday evening.”

  He shook his head. Now he was extremely concerned about Gail; she usually sent him numerous messages when she was away, to say goodnight, good morning, and to update him on anything interesting in between. His phone and video wall both told him she had done nothing of the sort since twelve hours earlier when she had landed in Cairo. The only other call he had received was from the man from the space agency.

  “I had one other call last night,” he started slowly. “A man called from the European Space Agency wanting to speak to her. I gave him the Professor’s phone number and told him to call there.”

  The Egyptian didn’t look surprised, but instead nodded his head approvingly. “A Mr Martín Antunez, I believe? Yes, he called the museum yesterday evening as you suggest. We found his details written on a note in the Professor’s office.” He was getting fidgety, as if he felt he would get no further and did not wish to divulge more about his case. “We have already spoken to him, Mr Turner. Anyway, I have sent you my business card, if anything else comes to you, or if you hear from your wife, then please let me know immediately.”

  He was about to reply when the screen went blank, replaced momentarily by the telephone company logo, which in turn was replaced by the placeholder reel of the video wall, a mountain slope overlooking a wide rain-swept valley through which a river wound its tumultuous path. He stared at the scene for several minutes before standing up and moving towards the kitchen.

  Opening the door he interrupted his friends, their sudden silence betraying the subject of their conversation.

  “Well?” the one who had slept in the bath said. The look on his face and rasping voice both suggested he had not slept very well. “Is she alright?”

  He glanced at them both and reached for the percolator. Sensing its lack of heat, he poured a cup of the thin black liquid and placed it in the microwave. Removing it seconds later, he sipped the piping-hot coffee and looked at them both again.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But I’m going to Egypt to find out,” he added resolutely.

  He left the kitchen and his friends in silence as he returned to the video wall to book his flight.

  Chapter 42

  You did not need to come to Egypt, Mr Turner,” Captain Kamal repeated in an unfriendly tone. “Our investigations have been progressing well during the day; your presence is simply not required.”

  He seemed much smaller in person than on the video wall, which had the annoying tendency of making callers much larger than life. It could be quite intimidating at times, which was why George usually only made voice calls except when speaking to Gail. The added dimension of seeing any other caller was not something he saw much point in, though many people insisted on using the function – in particular for business or official calls.

  Standing next to the diminutive officer, he couldn’t help thinking that he looked like a much reduced version of Peter Sellers in the Pink Panther films. The fact that his accent was not dissimilar didn’t help. Had the whole situation not been so serious and the man so unpleasant, George would have found him more than a bit comical.

  “My wife has disappeared in your country, how could I not come here to help you find her?” he asked. “Speaking of which, are you any closer to finding her?”

  “We will let you know as soon as we find her, Mr Turner. In the meantime, I suggest that you return to your hotel where we can easily find you, should that be necessary.”

  The Englishman left, albeit reluctantly, and Captain Kamal shook his head in disapproval. Police matters were not to be meddled with by members of the public, he firmly believed. Particularly not this police matter.

  Why this Englishwoman was so important, he had no idea, but now he had a murder scene and an irate husband to deal with, it seemed that this was all going to be more trouble that it was worth.

  A routine murder such as this would be over quickly enough. It was a high profile case, thanks to the murder-victim himself being such a high-profile member of the academic community, but that did not detract from his ultimate goal. Kamal was a focussed and experienced policeman, and he already had three of the four pieces of his murder puzzle handed to him on a plate.

  The first piece was the victim: Professor Mamdouh al-Misri, of the Egyptian Museum of Cairo. An Egyptologist with a keen interest in Amarna texts, he had been the General Director of the Museum for nearly four years.

  The second piece of the puzzle was the weapon: the sharp corner of the General Director’s solid mahogany desk had broken the man’s skull at his left temporal bone as he had fallen. This caused an internal haemorrhage that had placed pressure on his brain and killed him within minutes, the autopsy report told him.

  The third piece was the motive: a collection of extremely rare texts, dating from the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, were conspicuous by their absence from the General Director’s office. On the black market, they would in total fetch upwards of three million dollars, and he had been reliably informed by other employees at the museum that there would be no lack of willing bidders.

  Which left him with one final piece to find: the murderer.

  There were three ways this could end. She could turn herself in, or be found by the police on the streets. He knew that wasn’t going to happen, of course. Or she may never be found, instead disappearing into the ether, never to be seen again. In a city of thirty million people, who would question such an outcome?

  But no, now Kamal had met the husband he knew that it wouldn’t end that way. He knew people, and he had seen the look in the Englishman’s eyes: he wouldn’t let this go. If she wasn’t found, he would be a thorn in his side.

  Which only left one possible outcome: Cairo was a heaving great overweight animal of a city; and overweight animals can have very dirty underbellies. A pretty woman, alone on the streets late at night, on the run after committing a crime, would be simply asking for trouble.

  All he needed was a body.

  This is all more trouble than it’s worth, he thought again as he put his phone to his ear and made all the necessary plans.

  George almost ripped the pocket of his shirt as he dug frantically for his ringing phone. His heart sank as he saw the number wasn’t Gail’s; it was identified generically as French mobile.

  “Yes?” he said impatiently. He’d been running this way and that for hours, desperately trying to get any scrap of information possible that would lead him to Gail.

  “Is that Mr Turner?”

  A foreign accent, but it didn’t sound French, although George’s knowledge of accents was limited to the same old films from which he had characterised the Egyptian policeman.

  “Speaking,” he said.

  “My name is Martín Antunez, from the European Space Agency. I need to meet with you urgently,” he continued.

  George wasn’t surprised at the name. He had expected another call from him sooner or later. “Hello Mr Antunez,” he said, still struggling with the name, “I’m afraid I don’t know where my wife is. Did you not speak to her last night?”

  “No, I’m afraid not, I left a message with a man at the museum.”

  “Professor al-Misri? He’s dead.” George added. In his search for Gail he hadn’t spent much time thinking about the
Professor, and the fact stumbled out, emotionless.

  “I heard that; the police told me this morning,” he replied, slightly taken aback by the Englishman’s bluntness. “Mr Turner, I know that your wife has disappeared, and I believe these circumstances are too coincidental not to be linked.”

  “What?” George was exasperated, tired of people trying to get hold of Gail, when all he wanted was to get hold of her himself. The last thing he needed was a riddle.

  There was a pause, short enough for George not to have to check his phone’s signal, but too long to be caused simply by the long distance call bouncing into space and back on its way from France.

  “Mr Turner, a massive cover-up is underway at the moment, and what is happening on Mars is somehow linked to your wife, and the finds that she made in Egypt. The reason I needed to speak to her was to talk about this and see where it would lead. I am not the only one who believed that your wife has the answers, Mr Turner, and I am sure that she has been taken.”

  George bit his bottom lip. “Kidnapped?” The police had said nothing of kidnapping, in fact his impression had been that she was being treated as a suspect rather than as a victim. “Why do you think that? Who would do such a thing?”