by A J Marshall
“Abdel is outside with the car, Professor,” he said.
“Good! Precisely on time. You have a fine son there, Ashai.”
“He brings good fortune to us all,” replied Ashai, bowing slightly. Unable to contain his pride at the remark, Ashai quietly closed the door grinning.
Mubarakar looked up at Richard. “Abdel speaks English as good as his father; it is a great blessing,” he commented, before finishing his newspaper.
Richard heard a carriage clock on Mubarakar’s desk chime midday.
They had been driving for fifteen minutes in Mubarakar’s T Class Mercedes when Richard, who was mentally formulating his report to Peter Rothschild regarding the missing Ark, suddenly realised that he had switched off his telephonic pager the evening before and failed to reactivate it. Rothschild won’t be pleased, he thought, as he unzipped his coat pocket. The car swerved unexpectedly, narrowly missing a wayward cart drawn by a bedraggled donkey. The animal had been foolishly encouraged to hold its own against the bewildering traffic flow and an exploding exhaust pipe had been the final straw, making it rear up in the shafts.
The principal road to the docks was a seething mass that moved at a shuffle. Vehicles of all descriptions – mainly old and makeshift – jostled for space with animals, but pedestrians presented the most difficult challenge as they flooded shoulder to shoulder in both directions, frequently spilling onto the road. They appeared to have little regard for their own safety, let alone respect for the furtherance of commerce.
Preceding them, Richard could see a line of camels, a horse-drawn cart and another donkey – this time heavily laden, and with its owner walking by its side, tapping the required direction of travel with a flimsy stick. In the opposite direction was a rickety bus that belched black smoke from beneath its bonnet. There was an oily smell in the air that reminded Richard of bio-derived aviation fuel. Together they all plied this essential artery.
“I’ve never seen so many people,” remarked Richard, typing his personal code into the pager.
“Nine million in Alexandria and thirty in Cairo,” replied Mubarakar, over his shoulder.
Within seconds the small screen had lit up and the device mildly vibrated in Richard’s hand. The numbers 1, 2, 3 and 4 appeared in black emboldened Courier Final Draft font, together with the initials PR and the words Immediate Response alongside each. Oh dear, thought Richard, in trouble again. Just then the foolhardy manoeuvring of another Mercedes caught his eye. It was highly polished and appeared to be a new model. It joined the thoroughfare aggressively from a small street on their right. The silvery grey car bullied its way into a position immediately behind them, caring little for the displaced camel and its rider who subsequently struggled to keep the large animal under control and who screamed unheeded obscenities in Arabic. Richard turned to see the commotion gradually subside and the other car tuck comfortably into their lee.
Seemingly immune to the choking atmosphere outside, Mubarakar sat in the front passenger seat with his window open. At times the noise was intolerable. But occasionally someone in the passing throng of people would look enviously at his car and then recognise Mubarakar, subsequently giving a gesture of respectful and friendly acknowledgement. It was clear he was very well known here; more a national hero, thought Richard. The almost permanent grin on Mubarakar’s face made Richard smile too.
Presently, and after becoming aware somehow that he was being stared at, Mubarakar turned awkwardly in his seat and raised a finger at Richard. “I forgot to tell you that Peter Rothschild called this morning,” he said nonchalantly, “just after eight. You were still asleep. He wanted you to acknowledge your security brief. Because there was some measure of dissatisfaction in his tone, I said that I would remind you immediately.” He shook his head. “This ageing, it comes to us all, you will see.” Mubarakar twisted more and looked Richard in the eye. “Apparently he has sent more than one.” Then he nodded, smirked knowingly, and looked forward again.
Richard took a breath and breathed it out forcefully through his nose. “Got it!” he said, and decided not to relay the disquieting news. Then he shuffled around in his seat, lengthening the safety belt a little with his thumb in order to allow a prolonged look behind. It was still there, the Mercedes. Its windscreen had a reflective tint to it making it impossible to see inside. While I’m with Mubarakar, he thought, at least in Alexandria, there will always be some measure of protection. He replaced his pager into the coat pocket.
London – simultaneously
Peter Rothschild closed the communication channel and reviewed some data on his computer screen. He tapped his fingers thoughtfully on his desk and cross-checked the name of the agent that would escort Abbey back to the UK. I trust General Roper and the Americans implicitly, there is no question of that, but there is a security problem with SERON, I know it, and the breach lies within the establishment of our oldest ally. National pride, misplaced patriotism, or just plain simple obstinacy – why won’t Roper run a check on their interface? If there is a mole, let’s find them, forget the rest of it, he thought. Now he had this additional problem – an agent from the CIA attending the experiment. The proceedings, and any results, would now be passed back to the United States; quite acceptable under normal circumstances, but once into the American system it was anybody’s guess where they could end up. The scenario made him shudder.
Laura Bellingham’s voice, emanating from the intercom module, broke the silence of Rothschild’s office and his train of thought. “Peter, Laura here,” she said, in her efficient tone. “You have been copied in on Professor Mubarakar’s recent report to the ISSF regarding his find in Alexandria, and his speculations relating to the pyramids on Mars . . . well, according to the report, it’s rather more than speculation, actually – also their response. Everyone appears to be waiting for Richard’s appraisal on that matter. In your message queue there is also a copy of the request from the ISSF to Commander Race, following the incident with their transport vehicle, near Elysium. They want more information as soon as possible and details of the coroner’s report.”
“Very well, I’ll get onto it. Do you have an update on Abbey’s arrival?”
“It’s a military aircraft if you recall, Peter, and so it’s landing at Northolt. Hold on . . . yes, arrival information is giving a little over two hours, as it stands. Apparently there was some delay with immigration, because they departed from a civilian airport and the approvals were late in arriving.”
Rothschild nodded. “Okay, understood. What about the Arius probe, anything from Brian Grant?”
“Actually yes, just came in. Would you like me to read it to you or send it through?”
“Send it through, Laura.” The message box appeared immediately on Rothschild’s screen. He opened it and read the comments. “Laura . . . get me a line to Grant, please. Tell him it’s urgent!”
“Good afternoon, Peter. I assume you have read the latest update on Arius?”
“Yes, indeed. Are you sure about it?”
“Ninety-nine per cent, if you want me to put it like that. The probe is still some way off, but the data is accurate as far as we can tell. Sadly, we were expecting the debris, weren’t we? Most of it is concentrated around the Hera’s planned orbital trajectory. I do not think there is any mistake about her demise. As for the residual pockets of rocket propellant that we have detected, it’s not a type used by the Hera’s thrust motors – a much more basic blend of fuel. And the fact that the residue is occurring in a similar elliopheric orbit but on the opposing side of the planetoid means that another craft was present. We could not, however, detect the presence of another vehicle, and the fortuitous electromagnetic window has now closed.”
“So you think that this ‘vehicle’ has now departed?”
“That’s my view on it, yes. Another few days and the probe will be in close proximity. Then we will know for sure.”
“Okay, that’s understood. Thank you, Brian.”
Alexandria
13:46 Local Time
Richard caught sight of the sea, momentarily. More, he realised a little later, a huge artificial basin – one where several container ships lay moored alongside long berths. After passing through heavy security gates constructed of steel mesh and topped with electrified wire strands, the traffic had thinned considerably and now only numbered commercial vehicles and the occasional car or two, although many pedestrian workers could be seen going about their business. Egypt’s close ties with neighbouring oil-producing states had helped its economy considerably over the last few years, but it was evident by the lack of shipping movements that those privileged times were over.
The other Mercedes, that had seemingly followed them for more than an hour, had been denied entry at the checkpoint and Richard, whose suspicions had become raised, now discounted the incident as opportunism. They will have been interested in Mubarakar, he reasoned, as only MI9 knew of his whereabouts. Roadside robbery, extortion, even kidnap. Money was tight everywhere, and he could only imagine the scale of criminality that existed in Alexandria. Moreover and worryingly, Mubarakar did appear to rely heavily on his celebrity for security; perhaps it was time to mention it to him, Richard mused.
Abdel, Mubarakar’s PA, drove at a leisurely speed for another kilometre to the east side of the docks, finally drawing to a halt in the closest car parking space to a small industrial building. There was a single-storey office space built onto the side of the building and the whole structure was painted in a beige colour, although, where the guttering downpipes were fixed, it was heavily streaked with black grime and mould. The air was heavy with moisture and the smell of salt as it blew from the sea, and although the concrete paving of the car park was darkened with dampness, it was essentially a dry day. As Richard climbed from the backseat he saw a wooden sign secured to the building immediately in front of the car’s bonnet. In white lettering the sign read: University Principal. Abdel led them inside.
“This is the Assistant Director of Archaeology at the University of Alexandria,” said Mubarakar, smiling at the tall, lean Arab. “He is also a skilful and experienced diver. Richard, may I present Hamid Faruq.”
Richard stepped forward and shook the man’s hand. “Richard Reece,” he said, warmly. “UK Government.”
At that Mubarakar laughed. “And that covers a multitude of sins, does it not?”
That raised a smile on all of their faces. Hamid Faruq was in his thirties, had black short hair, keen brown eyes and a firm handshake. Richard took to him immediately. “Good diving around here?” he enquired.
“Not as good as it used to be, I must say,” responded Hamid. His English was good, with an educated accent. “However, we dive in water usually no deeper than fifteen metres and so there is still some natural light and the visibility is about thirty metres, which is acceptable for my work.”
“Which is, primarily?”
“Most of the old city of Alexandria lies undisturbed below this area of the Mediterranean Sea, Mr Reece. Almost as if it has just been swamped, except of course that there are no people; tens of thousands were lost during the flooding. Where salt water can preserve, it has; where it can erode, it has done that, too. I spend my days swimming along the grand central avenue, visiting ruined theatres, lecture halls and giant temples and sifting through sediment in the world’s first museum. That was where I made my find.” Hamid gestured for Richard and Abdel to follow him and he gave his patron a helping hand.
The four men walked through a doorway into a much larger adjacent room where there were a number of wooden benches set against the walls. Each had a quantity of diving kit laid out on top that was drying. The floor was wet and there was sand in the corners. On the other side of the room, leading outside, Richard noticed that there was a reinforced steel entrance door with three digitally controlled strong bolts. In the centre of the room was a long table on which lay a wooden, coffin-like box, but it was more than three metres long and almost a metre wide. Richard walked to its nearside clearly puzzled, while Hamid and Abdel assumed positions at the head and foot. The whitish, softwood lid had a handle at each end, which the two younger men grasped; Mubarakar faced Richard over the prize.
“Before I show you this,” said Hamid, concentrating his gaze on Richard, “I would like you to imagine the time in which such a thing was made; to appreciate that perhaps seven thousand years ago there was technology that in some areas surpasses ours even today. Here in this ancient city linguistic codes were devised, water-clocks and steam-engines invented. Philosophers laid the cornerstones for religious thinking and pondered the universe. To all intents and purposes it was a civilisation resembling that of the ancient Greeks. However, it was the Greeks who modelled their society on this one, and theirs occurred many centuries later. Alexander the Great was a prodigal son, a catalyst for reinstatement, and not an originator, as is widely believed.”
Richard nodded. Hamid spoke with great fluency, he thought. “I have an open mind to all this,” he said.
Hamid gestured to Abdel that they should lift the lid together and Abdel made ready with both hands, for it was much heavier than it appeared.
London – simultaneous
Abbey Hennessy called from the limousine. “Peter!” she said, in her refined manner. “We are on our way. Myself plus two, plus Mr . . . you know, our colleague from the United States Intelligence Service.”
“Good. Directly to Whitehall, please, Abbey. The facility is ready and so is the team. There will be time for a wash and brush up, some food and rest and then we start. We enter a critical phase. I’ll see you at six. Goodbye.”
Alexandria – simultaneous
It took considerable effort on the part of Hamid and Abdel to displace the wooden lid. The two men were careful to lift it vertically for 150 millimetres or more before shuffling sideways. Mubarakar explained that an inner lid carved from a single piece of quartz – a sarcophagus lid – had been secured by straps to the wooden structure for ease of movement, as there were no handholds on the former and moisture in the air made handling it precarious. Meanwhile, the two men, who were visibly straining, carefully placed the complete structure on a rubber mat that was positioned for the purpose on the floor – and that despite zealous fussing from Professor Mubarakar, which, although well intentioned, was more a hindrance. Richard gazed wide-eyed at what was inside.
Had it been only the tight fitting, semi-transparent crystal coffin that was hewn without join in the most ingenious way, then that would have been impressive enough, but inside that was the most beautiful, precise and lifelike statue that Richard had ever seen. It was in the masculine style of those from the Greek or Roman periods, where often they were painted to be more authentic. But there was no sign of paint or blemish or vein on this masterfully carved artefact. In a pale bronze coloured material the detail was astonishing. It was a man clad in warrior’s regalia, including a helmet, chest armour, skirt, gaiters and sandals. Richard immediately associated it with a celebrated painting he had seen of Ares, the God of War from Greek mythology, that hung in the London Museum.
Richard, astonished at what he was seeing, was speechless. Mubarakar and the other two men stared with equal amazement – although by previous examination they were familiar with its contours and had already formulated a hypothesis for the tiny slots around the statue’s eyes and mouth.
“Hamid found the sarcophagus buried in sediment in one of the temples close to the central precinct – that was the most important religious area,” said Mubarakar, eventually.
“It looks to be made of bronze, doesn’t it,” said Hamid, rhetorically, running his hands over the fine polished surfaces of the head and neck. He walked to the foot of the statue that was almost three metres tall and a metre wide and directed Richard’s attention to some discolouration on the sole of the left foot. “We have run material tests,” he continued. “Quite exhaustive ones, using up-to-date equipment. It is not bronze, nor is it iron or tin or any other copper alloy;
all reliable traditional materials for such artefacts. In fact we do not know what the material is. It looks like solid rock, doesn’t it? But actually it seems to have been cast, like resin poured into a mould. A very advanced process all the same – no bubbling or fractures. It’s quite difficult to achieve that even now. I did find some silica compounds and also traces of a chemical polyisoprene. These are elastic hydrocarbon polymers similar to rubber that are derived from latex, all materials that occur naturally here on Earth, as you know. But the main constituent is elusive – I don’t think it’s from here.”
Mubarakar put a hand on Richard’s. “See the eyes and mouth . . . we think they must have moved.”
Richard’s focus shifted from the statue’s face to Hamid’s. “You mean like a . . . machine?” he questioned.
“You may conjecture,” replied Mubarakar. “As men of science, we are not averse.”
Richard glanced sideways at the Professor.
“Robots were well documented in Alexandria, Richard. Visitors to the great city wrote of such things in amazement and admiration.” Mubarakar’s voice trailed to a forced whisper. “This is fact!” His comments added poignancy to the moment.
Hamid nodded in agreement. “I also found some inscriptions; it’s what led me to this find. The Gateway to Rhodes was mentioned, and Helios the sun god, a deity attributed to the Rhodians. Also a chant of welcome to Poseidon, the god of the sea to the Greeks; for people living on or close by the sea he was perhaps their most important deity after Zeus himself. In other buildings close to the original wharf I have previously found tablets detailing lists and inventories; huge volumes of stores and provisions passed through this city. These ties and others, Mr Reece, link Alexandria along with Rhodes as serving a much greater population – perhaps that of Atlantis?”
