Rogue Command (The Kalahari Series)

by A J Marshall

  Steven Trent gestured his amazement. “Apparently, modern-day accuracy – the results stipulated an observation altitude of several thousand metres and because of the known precession of the heavens, an exact date, too.”

  “When . . . when was this fresco painted, Steven?” Now it was Rothschild’s turn to fidget.

  “Almost twelve thousand years ago. I don’t know the exact date as the Professor’s got that information, but several thousand years before the Mayan civilisation was supposed to exist. Looks like we need to rewrite some local history.” He warmed his hands again.

  “It’s more than local history we are rewriting, Steven. Be in no doubt about that. Now, where is Professor Jones?”

  Steven Trent looked over his shoulder towards the makeshift project office – a plastic portacabin building that had been delivered by lorry. The lights were on inside but there was no sign of life. He looked back towards the camera. “No sign at the moment, I’m afraid,” he reported, anxiously.

  “Did he have a late night or something?”

  “Well I did leave him in the canteen with two archaeologist friends. At least they appeared to be friends. They called for another bottle of red wine as I left. Too much for me, and I don’t like wine much anyway. That was about ten-thirty.”

  “Do you know who they are? Perhaps we can call them.”

  “No, sorry, they only arrived yesterday morning. Seemed very interested in the Professor’s work – made the trip especially, in fact. Fellows of the European Society of Archaeological Science – I saw their ID, of course. The Professor was very keen on seeing their ID.”

  Rothschild typed European Society of Archaeological Science into the ministry’s World Net search engine on his computer, as he asked: “Where did they come from, did they say?”

  “No, sir! But one of them had a strong German accent; quite a bad scar on his face, too. Under here.” Steven ran his finger from his left ear around and beneath the jaw line to the corner of his lip. “He said he took a fall whilst on an expedition in Egypt. The other was Asian.”

  The words No results found appeared on Rothschild’s computer screen. He quickly retyped the society’s name into another search engine. “What was your impression of the men? . . . I mean, did they seem knowledgeable?”

  “To be honest, the Asian man barely spoke. The German was very friendly though – knew a lot about the Professor’s previous work. The Professor seemed quite relaxed when I left.”

  The words No results found appeared on Rothschild’s computer screen again. He looked up, concerned. “You are sure about the credentials of these men?”

  “Absolutely – checked their badges myself.”

  At that moment there was the sound of screaming from the direction of the project office; it was a woman’s voice. Steven Trent turned to see a young lady running towards him. “Steven! Steven!” she shouted. To Rothschild, she sounded highly distressed. Moments later she came into view on his video display.

  “This is Mr Rothschild, Shelley,” Steven said, explaining the image on the monitor. “He is in London. What is it? What’s the matter?”

  The young woman, clearly distraught, hung onto Steven’s shoulder. Tears streamed down her face.

  “What is it, for God’s sake?” Steven demanded.

  “It’s the Professor . . . he’s been found dead in his room!”

  A look of horror swept over Steven Trent’s face. Rothschild was quick to react. “I’ll get someone from the British Embassy in Mexico City to call you, Steven,” he said. “I think there is a more local Honorary Consulate in Cancun, but I haven’t got the number to hand. You two hang on there until someone comes for you. Whoever it is will have diplomatic identity papers and ask for you by name – do you understand? You do not leave the site with anyone else. Do I make myself clear?”

  The pair nodded blankly.

  “Steven, listen carefully to this question – it is very important.”

  The young man tried his best to focus on Rothschild and give him his full attention, but his mind wandered and Shelley couldn’t stop crying. “How he was killed, it’s horrible,” she mumbled.

  “Steven, listen to me, another man’s life may depend on it,” implored Rothschild.

  Steven nodded and looked directly at the camera; he drew a deep breath.

  “Did Professor Jones ever talk about Alexandria or the Egyptian connection to his work there in Uxmal – or even mention Alexandria in passing? You know, a reference? A colleague? Or even an artefact from there? Do you think he had any knowledge of what was recently found in Alexandria – a few weeks ago? This is very important.”

  The young man hesitated. Rothschild sensed his reservations.

  “Listen, Steven,” continued Rothschild reassuringly. “Do not worry about the security aspects of this . . . you’re not in trouble, certainly not for anything that you may have seen, overheard or been party to during your work. And this communication link is scrambled – totally secure – no one can listen in on our conversation. So, think carefully, Steven . . . could the Professor have had any knowledge of the recent find in Alexandria?”

  CHAPTER 11

  One more than Five

  Alexandria Egypt

  The House of Mubarakar – same day

  21:45 Local Time

  Richard could not hear the sea, but he could smell it. The military vehicle that had dropped him in the old part of town soon disappeared into the night and, as the low whine of its electric transmission gradually faded from earshot, a peculiar silence settled over the shadowy street. A wild cat, dishevelled and emaciated, darted out from behind a wall and startled Richard momentarily. The mange-ridden animal stopped short and eyed Richard with a view to coaxing some food from him, but strangely, after assessing the odds, seemed to think better of it and dashed off, its form quickly vanishing into a dark recess.

  The sky was as black as tar, but there were no stars to see. There were never any stars. Not from anywhere on the surface of the planet could one marvel at the heavens, so there was no reason for Egypt to be any different. Even so, thought Richard, because of its history, its long, civilised, astronomical history, Egypt deserved more. But here in the outskirts of sprawling Alexandria, where, as with many places on this continent, electricity was both scarce and expensive, people had returned to the old ways. Oil lamps, the glint of a candle, perhaps the occasional solar lantern, had no impact on this street scene. Nor was there any humanised glow over the sprawling conurbation to the south; a radiance that told of life and living, as in more privileged parts of the world.

  A squally breeze blew over Richard’s face, ruffling his hair. Trying to find a way to the sea, the gust whistled and swirled as it was funnelled between shadowy houses. Success lay to the north, and eventually finding a path, the flurry subsided.

  The Eastern Mediterranean, thought Richard, is where the secrets lie. He turned and stepped onto the stone pavement where, to his right, a tall but scanty-looking palm tree with limp fronds suffered the incessant cold. To his left, at a short distance, there was another tree, and beyond that the outline of a third, and Richard sensed that this was wider than a street, more a boulevard. He checked his chronometer; the blue backlight gave an indication of seven degrees Celsius. “Seven degrees,” he mumbled, “positively warm.”

  Amazingly, it was dry underfoot – something that was noteworthy. With no drizzle to dampen his cheerfulness or his prospects Richard’s perspective lightened and, with a visit to Mubarakar in view, he grew positively optimistic.

  After walking for a short while and checking numbers, Richard stopped outside a pair of towering metal gates that were heavy with ornamentation. A substantial stone-built wall stretched in both directions for at least twenty metres. It’s stained and blackened and probably in need of repair, thought Richard, but the two, large, faintly glowing lanterns set high on the gate pillars made the place look stately. He loitered for a moment and rechecked the area. There was an intercom box on the le
ft-hand pillar and, confirming the address, Richard pressed the call button.

  “Mr Reece?” A woman asked, after a few seconds.

  “Yes, that’s right. I’ve come to see Professor Mubarakar.”

  “You are most welcome. Please come in.”

  Richard pushed hard on the heavy gates until one opened wide enough for him to walk through. After closing it he heard the solenoid clunk the draw-bolt shut again. There was a dimly discernible wide path leading to the house where, at its far end, lanterns cast their light onto an impressive pair of doors. The occasional solar beacon in the extensive garden showed it off as bedraggled and unkempt. From what he could see of the house, however, as he drew closer, it conjured images of an Arabian palace – a Moorish architectural adventure with arched windows and doorways dominating a broad, square, colonial facade of brick and stone – surely the house of a nobleman or statesman.

  As Richard arrived at the main doors the left one opened for him and a hand beckoned him inside. And there was Mubarakar, friend and mentor and seemingly the fount of all past Egyptian knowledge. Richard shook the Professor’s hand warmly and put a hand on his shoulder. The learned man was a head shorter than Richard and stockier, even a little rotund. His white, wispy hair was cut shorter than before. As he stepped back to study Richard, the Professor’s face lit up as if the sun had burst through the door and Richard saw how old and frail he looked.

  “It has been a year my young friend, but it feels like more. I have missed you. There are not many in Europe I can say that about.”

  Richard smiled and gestured his gratitude at being held in such esteem. Professor Mubarakar hunched and, using a stick to walk, indicated to follow him. Richard walked by his side into a lofty reception area and towards a majestic staircase on the far wall. Halfway up, the staircase split into two and then continued to climb, creating a balustrade-fronted gallery on either side. Beautiful coving and an enormous, ornate, circular ceiling rose with an intricate rose in the centre, from which hung a crystal chandelier, took his eye. As did several fine wall frescoes and a patterned Persian carpet of immense proportions.

  “I see you like the house,” Mubarakar said, as he stepped into an anteroom.

  “I should say! It’s impressive to say the least.”

  “Built for an Egyptian Prince in 1793; the plumbing is terrible. Too big for us now, of course. Regretfully, I have no children to pass it on to and my wife, having been raised in a palace with a harem, finds it claustrophobic!” He laughed at his irony.

  The rectangular anteroom was much smaller, but the ceiling was high, giving it an airy feel. Two tall glass-panelled doors led outside on to what would have been a sun-drenched terrace and large windows on each side had arched architraves. Heavy patterned drapes, hanging from metal rods, remained open. This was a Gentlemen’s Room, it was plain to see. Not just a study either, but Mubarakar’s sanctuary – although there were enough books filling the copious shelves to call it a library too. The furniture was antique, traditional and decorative; another Persian carpet made it homely and wall-hung paintings and large photographs spoke of a life of expeditions and discovery. Richard recognised a well-worn, high-backed ‘favourite’ chair and its backdrop as being the one he had seen in the video while in London. Mubarakar sat in it, put his stick to the side, drew a long breath and smiled. He beckoned Richard to sit opposite.

  “So, Professor, how are you feeling?”

  “Sometimes good, sometimes bad, never young, not any more, not after the stroke – my wife says that I’m almost back to normal, but of course I am not . . . as you can see.”

  Richard nodded despondently, unable to disagree. He cast his eye around the room. “I thought this place would have been filled with artefacts, you know, from ancient Egypt, from your life as an archaeologist,” he said, and fixated on a framed photograph on a nearby table of a much younger Mubarakar in the desert holding a stone carving. The inscribed date read: 1987.

  “Valley of the Kings,” Mubarakar enlightened, with a glint in his eye. “After we had excavated a lost chamber in the renowned KV4 mausoleum. Those were the days.” His head wobbled for a moment. “The history of Egypt belongs to the people, my young friend, which is why I have always supported the national museums. Private houses are not places for national treasures. Everything I have done . . . ” Mubarakar looked reflectively around his home. “Yes, I was given things, gifts, recognition for my work . . . and for a favour here and there – a little corruption can be helpful in preserving history.” He smiled again. “And I have found things . . . oh what I have found, Richard, in this life of mine.” His eyes glinted again and then he shook his head in order to bring himself back to reality. But there was no holding back the ensuing sigh – a sign of sadness at the thought of it – and he changed the subject, saying: “We join forces again, my boy, in the fight for enlightenment.”

  “Yes, we do indeed, sir, and I hear you have something to tell me about this great city. Something that perhaps links it to . . .”

  Mubarakar nodded enthusiastically and raised his hand. “Yes, but first tea, Richard, mint tea, with honey, from my remaining stock, the way my steward prepares it . . . it is my favourite.”

  London – simultaneous

  “There’s a call for you, Peter, from Scotland Yard. They have something on the identifit,” said Laura Bellingham, peeping around the door.

  Peter Rothschild, sitting at his desk, barely had time to look up when he heard the door close again. Two short beeping sounds drew his attention to a communications panel that was incorporated into the desktop; the call was on Line 2. “Rothschild, MI9,” he responded sharply.

  “Good evening, Sir. Inspector Hanson here from the Yard . . . International Crime Department – I head the RASP squad.”

  “RASP?”

  “Reaction and Support Procedures, Sir. I have the results for your identifit request.”

  “I see. Please . . .”

  “We have correlated information from the Embassy in Mexico City and a number of other sources, including some relevant documentation held here in our own database – I understand Level Three security is required.” The man spoke in a way that brooked no argument.

  Rothschild checked an indicator on his comms panel. “Quite correct, Inspector . . . Level 3 is in place, so what do you have?”

  “The young man in Cancun provided very helpful descriptions of Professor Jones’ so-called drinking partners. Regarding the primary suspect, he detailed a number of specific characteristics and we have used these to reference an identity with a high probability. Indeed, sir, we were able digitally to match the line of a prominent facial scar from images held on record, allowing confirmation beyond any reasonable doubt. The identity of the accomplice, however, remains a mystery. As far as we are aware this second man does not appear to be in any criminal database we have access to – and that includes Interpol’s. Asian, probably of Chinese origin, heavily built, perhaps a little overweight – particularly in the face. Mid-thirties, we deduced. Our identifit image is currently being circulated, but nothing at the moment.”

  “I see, so who is our main suspect?”

  “I’m sending over the computer’s 3D facial reconstruction – it should appear on your screen in a few moments. And also a number of general images of the suspect taken over the last few years and in various locations around the world. More specifically, London in May 2050; Rome that same month; Shanghai’s Central Monorail Station in February fifty-two; and a very recent image captured in the Private Aviation Terminal of Berlin’s Schönefeld Airport. The scarcity and price of aviation fuel makes private flying in Europe almost non-existent and Germany’s no different, and so this man either has very deep pockets or his employer has a near limitless budget, because the aircraft he flew out in was documented as being chartered from overseas and the crew paid cash for a full fuel load – a considerable sum of money by all accounts! Actual aircraft ownership and place of registration is proving difficult to trac
e due to deliberate misinformation, and this also applies to the destination airport. The German authorities have promised to forward these details as soon as they have them. Interestingly, the man appears to have been a suspect included in Interpol’s automatic comparison programme for a period of time, but was removed or deleted a year or two ago. We had them reinstate his profile and their system came up with the Berlin image – taken just a few days ago in fact. We have compared these and a number of other images to the nineteenth pixilation. As I said, sir, it’s a positive ID, no question.”

  “Very good, Inspector. And his name . . . ?”

  “Karl Wilhelm Rhinefeld, a German national born in Bautzen in the east of the country, close to the border with Poland – a region that was under the control of the old Soviet Union. There are links to that state’s former Secret Service, the NKVD – splintered remnants that have continued to operate underground for decades. Drugs, black market commodities, extortion, that sort of thing – and a number of other established terrorist groups. There are also some other disturbing offences. By all accounts he is not a nice character, and that’s putting it mildly. His participation in these events gives me cause for serious concern.” There was a thoughtful pause. “Finally, our files here at the Yard have a prefix that indicates MI9 interaction at some point and so you may be holding additional information on this man – you might like to pull your own records, sir.”

  “Karl Rhinefeld . . . Rhinefeld, yes, that name rings a bell. The department has had dealings with him in the past. Indeed, if I recall correctly, one of our operatives was lucky to escape from him with his life. I’ll pull the archives, Inspector, to see what we have. Very helpful . . . thank you so much.”

  “That’s quite alright, sir. Oh, there is one other thing – it may help.”

  “Yes?”

  “The suspect walks with a limp. It is an injury to his right leg that appears to have happened between the images taken in May 2050 and February 2052. That’s all. If I can be of further service, please do not hesitate to call. Good day, sir.”