by Gregg Loomis
Lang leaned forward, the box momentarily forgotten. "Which was…?"
Bin Hamish inhaled deeply, a man about to dive not into water but the past. "Would you be surprised if I told you my real name was Hamish, not bin Hamish?"
"You're Jewish?"
Bin Hamish nodded. "Once that was discovered, I was removed from my teaching post lest I contaminate Muslim youth."
"But I thought Egypt and Israel settled their differences."
Bin Hamish snorted sardonically. "After Israel seized the Sinai, bombed the Egyptian air force into oblivion, and destroyed almost all the Egyptian tanks, it was very easy to make peace. Your President Carter could broker the Camp David Accords because Egypt had essentially lost the war and had no means to continue or get its territory back. The Arabs' hatred of Jews, though, continues and will continue as long as one of each is left on this earth."
He paused and swallowed. That is why I am under constant surveillance, also. At any time the government could have me arrested as an agent of a foreign power." He laughed bitterly. "All Jews in Egypt are agents of a foreign power, particularly those whom the government suspects might be useful."
"Useful?"
He was inspecting his hands as though looking for flaws. "Before I was forced to leave the university, I published a number of papers in archeological and scientific journals dealing with ancient and lost sciences."
"So, why not leave? I'd bet one of Israel's schools would love to have you."
"Not that simple," he said dully. "My specialty is ancient Egypt. Once I left, the Egyptians would always find a reason to deny me reentry. Besides, my wife is Arab and has no desire to leave her native land."
The soft footsteps?
"But I stray," bin Hamish said. "We were talking about superconductors."
"I still have a hard time believing such things existed."
Bin Hamish rubbed his chin and got off the stool. "Very well. Please indulge me."
He left the room, the door sighing closed behind him. A minute later he returned, a manila folder in hand. Opening it, he placed several photographs in front of Lang.
At first Lang was uncertain what he was seeing. He recognized the stylized Egyptian figure of a man, face in profile, torso in frontal view. He squinted and picked up the picture.
"It's a photograph of a relief from the temple of Hathor in Dendra, dating back about forty-five hundred years," bin Hamish informed him.
"But what does…?" Lang stopped in midsentence, suddenly aware of what the figure was holding. "Looks like an elongated lightbulb with a snake for the filament."
"Not a lightbulb, a cathode tube."
"Or a vacuum tube."
Bin Hamish was puzzled. "A vacuum tube?"
"As in old radios."
Like Dr. Yadish liked to tinker with.
Lang picked up another picture, this one of several large jars. One had been cut in half vertically. Inside, a rod of some sort had been inserted, held by a stopper.
He held it up. "And this?"
"Look closely, Mr. Reilly. That jar is in the National Museum of Iraq in Baghdad. A copper cylinder was inserted into the neck of a clay jar and fixed with tar or asphalt and topped with lead. In the middle of the cylinder was an iron rod. That particular jar and a number like it have been dated to 1200 or so B. c."
Lang thought a moment. "I was never a science whiz. What's the significance of the jars?"
Bin Hamish spoke slowly, as though addressing a dull child. "A battery, Mr. Reilly. A battery or electric cell."
"But how…?"
"After the Second World War, a man named Willard Gray of General Electric's Pittsfield, Massachusetts, plant built an exact replica of what you see, using nothing more than the material I've described. With only a little citric acid-the acid in, say, a lemon-the jar produced two volts of electricity. If you doubt me, check the April 1957 issue of Science Digest."
There was a knock at the panel that served as a door. Unhurriedly bin Hamish walked over and spoke through a narrow crack. Lang could not make out the words. Shutting the panel again, bin Hamish returned with a tray bearing what looked like the same tea service and bowls.
"A little refreshment?"
This time Lang accepted a small cup of bitter tea while the professor continued. "Those other pictures are of copper utensils from ancient Sumer. They had been electroplated with silver. Then there are more pictures of your 'vacuum tube' at other places."
Lang almost expected his host to next produce Egyptian tomb drawings of a pharaoh watching a TV set, or one of his wives or concubines using a hair dryer. Either the man and those like him were lunatics or the current view of ancient world history needed serious revision.
He was inclined to the latter possibility.
What he had just heard and seen, though, was the stuff of fantasy, Lovecraft, Vonnegut, and H. G. Wells. He could not have been more dumbfounded had Grumps suddenly quoted Shakespeare.
He took a sip of tea and set the cup down. "Assuming all this is true, what is the significance of the Ark being a superconductor?"
"When fueled by orbitally rearranged monatomic elements, such as the pure gold mentioned in your papers-"
Lang held up his hands in surrender. "Try to keep it simple, Professor, something a mere English major might understand."
Bin Hamish thought for a moment. "Simply put, or oversimplifying, actually, once a superconductor is fueled, it keeps on doing whatever task is set for it, sort of a perpetual-motion machine. The way the Ark is constructed is to transport energy over any distance for any length of time. Basically, when fueled by pure gold, the manna of your papers, that energy could well take the form of unimaginable power directed at a specific target."
"Like Jericho."
"Like Jericho."
Lang reached toward the box. "All from a box like-"
"No!" Ben Hamish knocked Lang's hand away. "You would die instantly, like those mentioned in your papers. Let me show you something."
Stepping down from his perch on the stool, bin Hamish placed a rubber mat under his feet. "They had no rubber in biblical times, but the Ark's handlers washed and thoroughly dried their feet, thereby removing moisture or anything else that might act as a conventional conductor. Their clothes would have been of the finest cloth, so as to generate as little static electricity as possible."
He pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and then moved the golden box slightly before walking across the room and opening a cabinet.
He removed a piece of metal and tossed it to Lang. "Slug iron."
Lang looked at the heavy ingot in his hand. "So?"
"Place it at the end of the counter, if you please."
Lang did as instructed.
Bin Hamish returned to stand by Lang and adjusted the box.
What happened next wasn't quite clear. A bolt of light, the brightest Lang had ever seen, seemed to leap from the box and disappear faster than lightning, so fast Lang wasn't sure he had seen it at all. There was no sound. The slug of metal was gone. Not melted, not transformed, but gone without fragments or a wisp of smoke.
"Shit!"
Bin Hamish was peeling off his gloves. "Exactly so."
"But what happened to the metal?"
Bin Hamish shrugged. "There are any number of theories, including transportation to a parallel dimension."
"Yeah, Dr. Shaffer mentioned that. Can you bring it back?"
"So far, no."
Lang inhaled deeply, still not completely sure he wasn't dealing with a madman or a talented trickster. "I'd guess a lot of governments would like to have that in their arsenal."
Bin Hamish chuckled. "What makes you think they do not?" He raised a hand to stifle Lang's next question. "Let me tell you a brief story: In 1976 near Phoenix in the state of Arizona, there was a cotton farmer named David Hudson. In that area, the soil has a high sodium content, a condition Mr. Hudson attempted to lessen with high amounts of sulfuric acid. Do you understand?"
Lang n
odded. "Using an acid to dilute a base, right?"
"Just so. Now, after one such treatment, Mr. Hudson Sent soil samples for analysis. When dried by the hot Arizona sun, some particulate in that soil sample would burst into flames and totally disappear. Do I have your attention?"
Lang helped himself to a pastry, a sugary substance that literally melted in his mouth, leaving a pleasant but unidentifiable flavor. "You do."
"Mr. Hudson had more analyses done over a period of years. Each time the substance tested as different elements at different temperatures____________________
"
Lang remembered what the professor at Georgia Tech, Werbel, had told him and Detective Morse. "Let me guess…" He related as best as he could recall.
"Precisely. You have already had this… this manna subjected to tests. But Mr. Hudson's story is not yet ended. He spent a fortune trying to develop this marvelous material into an energy source by use of superconductors. The sudden flame, the weightlessness, all had tremendous potential. First he was denied a building permit for a plant in which to work, and then fault was found with every plan he submitted. Then came zoning delays. Then came an unexplained explosion that leaked tons of toxic material. Your government people, environmental, employee safety…"
"OSHA," Lang supplied.
"Whoever they were, they imposed fines and other penalties. Then your military appeared and closed the man's research on superconductivity on grounds of national security. Frankly, Mr. Reilly, I was surprised your much-touted democratic government could act in such an arbitrary manner."
Lang wasn't. Once a motivated coalition of bureaucracy and military was formed, law, Constitution, and individual rights might not be suspended, but they could be made so expensive that only the wealthiest could afford them.
"You're saying the military intervened?"
Bin Hamish nodded. "Just so."
"So, they were interested in the weapon's potential," Lang mused.
"Not potential," bin Hamish corrected. "Very real."
"Real?"
"Mr. Reilly, surely you remember your President Reagan's Star Wars proposal, the idea of building a series of killer satellites that would knock Soviet missiles out of the sky? You will recall it was never built, but the mere threat caused such a surge in Russian defense spending that within a year or two the communists went broke."
Lang remembered clearly. It was the collapse of the Evil Empire that had precipitated his departure from the Agency. "You're telling me that Star Wars was actually a version of this… this whatever it is. Superconductor?"
Bin Hamish smiled and gave a slight bow. "Precisely. The talk of killer satellites was just a red fish."
"Red herring."
"A ruse by any name."
"So, the United Sates, at least, has this technology?"
"I am fairly certain, yes."
"Who else?"
Bin Hamish shrugged. "Who would know? Only the few physicists who are aware of the unique powers of the Ark realized what your president was actually describing."
"But the Egyptians must have some inkling of it. Otherwise why the surveillance?"
"From my published work they would know I am studying something that could be a potential weapon. I also am studying something that, if properly harnessed, could literally move mountains."
Lang settled back on his stool and refilled his teacup. "Or tons of rock to build a pyramid."
"Just so."
"But how?"
Bin Hamish was checking the backs of his hands again. "That I do not yet know. What I do know so far is what you have seen. The only material not affected like the slug of metal is pure gold."
"What happens to gold?"
"Gold, Mr. Reilly, does not burn. It melts. Your papers tell of Moses burning the golden calf. The only way he could have done that is by using a force similar to the one the Ark projects. It turns gold into the white powder. Manna, if you will."
"Let me get this straight." Lang was trying to reduce the process to one he could understand. "The white powder, manna, fuels the Ark, and the Ark turns gold into the white powder. Why?"
Bin Hamish moved his head slowly from side to side. "That is, so far, unknown to me. That is a law of the universe that is yet to be rediscovered."
Lang slid from the stool, standing. "Dr. bin Hamish, I appreciate your time. What can I do…?"
Bin Hamish crossed the room and somehow opened the panel. "It is unnecessary for you to do anything. As you can see from this house, I have no need of money. An inheritance and investments outside Egypt have seen to that. Having a chance to talk with you is recompense enough. I rarely have visitors." He nodded in the direction of the street and his minders. "You can understand why few if any of my former colleagues come to call."
Lang left by the same rear door through which he had entered. When he reached the street, the same two men were still in the same Mercedes.
FORTY
Four Seasons Hotel at Nile Plaza
1089 Comiche el-Nil
Cairo
Twenty Minutes Later
Lang had gone from the airport straight to meet bin Hamish, detouring only to entrust his single bag to the hotel's concierge before heading across the river. Now he had returned to a flurry of excuses and promises as to when he might occupy his room. His expectations were not enhanced by the marble-pillared lobby's growing line of disheveled arriving guests who were also looking forward to a shower, a shave, and perhaps a nap to bring their frayed psyches more in line with local time.
Although Lang had spent little time in the Arab world, he understood far better than most of his tired, jetlagged, and irritated fellow travelers how things worked. Deeply apologetic, the desk clerk pleaded an abnormal number of late checkouts and the lack of trained help.
He leaned toward Lang conspiratorially. "It is difficult to get these people to work," he confided with a patronizing smile that said he was sure someone of Lang's sophistication would understand the abhorrence with which local women regarded labor. "But we do have the presidential suite available right now. Only a few hundred pounds more than yours."
Lang wasn't falling for the old upgrade trick, one common throughout the Middle East. Instead he crossed the ornate lobby to press against the concierge desk so that those behind him could not see the ten-Egyptian-pound note he spread out on the varnished wood.
Smiling, he said, "I would like my room as soon as possible."
"Of course," the man said with an oily grin as he reached for the bill.
Lang stepped back, returning the money to his pocket. "It will be yours when you deliver the room key. I'll be in the bar."
Lang was uncertain whether the hotel's bar was supposed to be contemporary with an Egyptian flair or was just overdone. A round window of dark blue was reflected in twin crystal obelisks. He sat in one of the gold- lacquered chairs that vaguely resembled something he might have seen at Versailles.
A waiter who looked like he might have just left a meeting of the local Shriners, complete with fez, appeared as though from Aladdin's lamp. Already full of caffeine so early in the day, Lang ordered a large orange juice, leaned back, and went over the meeting he had just left.
Add to a Moses who was not Hebrew but a king and Israelites who were not Jews but Egyptians a weapon of ancient origin that, quite likely, had toppled a modern empire. Was it this device that the unknown "they" sought? More likely they were trying to suppress it. If someone were trying to prevent its proliferation, presumably that would be a power that already had it.
As far as Lang knew, that included only the United States.
But weapons systems tended to be like popular songs: Once performed, everyone whistled or hummed along. If America had the Ark… what? Ray? Laser? Whatever. Star Wars. If the United States had it, it was certain to have been tested; and, if tested, its existence was at least known to the other major players.
But which ones?
"Mr. Reilly?"
The smarmy co
ncierge was looking down at him, suitcase in hand. "Your room is ready."
The view of the river one block west and the island he had just left were impressive, but Lang pulled the curtains against the glare, took a long shower, and stretched out on the king-size bed. He tried to take up the thought process that had been interrupted in the bar but was soon asleep.
He had no idea how long he had slept. The sun was now making the room brighter despite the curtains. For an instant he hung between the reality of this world and the gauzy consciousness of dreams. He had been… somewhere, and there had been a sound… a noise. But what?
A very real knock came from the door to his suite.
"A minute!" Lang called, struggling into his pants and shoes. "Who's there?"
"Room service."
Lang stopped halfway to the door. He hadn't ordered anything, nor was he going to. Another common scam in this part of the world was to post room service items at one price while charging nearly-double that for delivering them.
Lang pressed an eye to the peephole. Outside his door was the concierge. Now what?
The instant he unlocked the door it flew open. Two burly men stepped into the room from the hall and slammed the door shut while the concierge, his mission complete, slunk away.
Both men wore dark suits despite the heat; both faces were hidden behind sunglasses.
Tweedledum and Tweedledee.
They could have been the men outside bin Hamish's house. The two took their time inspecting the room and Lang's suitcase while Lang cursed himself for not making arrangements for the weapon he could not have carried past airport security.
"If you gentlemen are from the tourist bureau, I'm perfectly satisfied with the room."
Neither intruder gave a sign of having heard.
Instead they completed probing the lining of Lang's single bag before the shorter of the two turned and asked in accented English, "What did you discuss with the Jew bin Hamish?"
He made no effort to conceal the butt of a pistol in the holster under his left arm.
Lang pursed his lips and squinted, a man desperately trying to recall something. "We spoke of many things: of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings."
