Crowley stared at the priceless fragment, browned by the centuries and secured between two pieces of three-millimetre glass by Japanese paper tabs and wheat starch paste. The contents of even this small fragment were explosive, and Crowley was in no doubt the scribe had been guided by a very high-ranking Egyptian official, perhaps Ay himself, the grand vizier or prime minister of Egypt when the nine-year-old Tutankhamun had been installed as pharaoh in 1332 BC. Crowley and many professional Egyptologists suspected that Ay might have been responsible for the king’s death at the young age of eighteen. Recent X-rays of Tutankhamun’s mummified body had revealed that the boy king had suffered a massive blow to the back of the head, and it was Ay who had most to gain from the king’s death, succeeding him as the penultimate pharaoh of the eighteenth dynasty of the New Kingdom.
The eons had turned the ancient black ink to grey, but it was still legible, and for the umpteenth time, Crowley wrestled with the translation of the hieroglyphs: pintail ducks and scarab beetles, feathers and claws, interspersed with male and female figures, ropes and bowls, and signs for water. Crowley possessed an intimate knowledge of both the alphabetic elements and the logographic representation of whole words. To the EVRAN CEO, the first words on the Euclid fragment were clear enough.
The ancient text was headed ‘Pyramids – Construction’. But under the sub-headings of ‘Purpose’ and ‘Energy’, the text made no sense, and the scribe appeared to have coded the contents list of what presumably followed on the missing pages.
As he often did on his way out of the gallery, Crowley opened the small combination safe that was set into the rock wall near the door. It contained just one thick file, and he extracted the beautifully crafted red leather folder that was embossed with gold letters: ‘Pharos – A New World Order’. Crowley felt the power coursing through his veins as he thumbed the manifesto. It was all coming together.
Eight thousand kilometres away, at the direction of Crowley’s executive assistant, Rachel Bannister, Area 15 was working on a critical task. Crowley had recruited Juan Pablo Hernandez, a brilliant young hacker who had served time for busting into some of the most sensitive areas of the CIA. Hacking personal computers and mobile phones was now part of Area 15’s suite of capabilities.
Hernandez’s agile fingers flew across the keyboard. The target was an odd one – a Professor Marcus Ahlstrom, a Nobel Prize–winning nuclear scientist – but Hernandez didn’t question it. He was now earning more money than he ever dreamed of, for hacking activities that were protected inside the impenetrable firewalls of Area 15. Hernandez ran a series of programs, and although EVRAN’s computers were not quite up to the power of America’s National Security Agency, they were more than a match for a scientist whose internationally recognised expertise obviously didn’t extend to protecting his activities on the internet.
The four groups of numbers on the screen uniquely identified Ahlstrom’s laptop. Hernandez looked at his watch – just before ten a.m., which meant it was getting on for five in the afternoon in Stockholm, and Ahlstrom was online. Hernandez pulled up Ahlstrom’s browser history and scanned a series of academic journals and technical articles, when suddenly, the professor went totally off tangent with an avalanche of porn sites: Pretty Hairy GF Sucks Cock and Gets Fucked; Hairy GF With Small Breasts Spreads; Blindfolded Blonde Wife Sucks Cock and Gets a Mouthful. Ahlstrom had logged on to over fifty sites.
Hernandez shrugged. He would include it in Ahlstrom’s dossier, but so what, he thought. The professor’s bored in Stockholm and, like hundreds of millions of other human beings on the planet, he’d sought a diversion. Hernandez scanned further to find the professor had gone off on a gambling tangent, which for the mathematically minded hacker was a little more interesting, particularly when he found that Ahlstrom had attempted to log on to one of the world’s biggest gambling sites. It was currently under federal investigation.
Hernandez transferred the data into Ahlstrom’s dossier. His fingers flew across the keyboard again, excavating Ahlstrom’s password for another worldwide betting agency. Ahlstrom must get paid well, he thought, as he noted five bets, each of US $2000 on horse races at Royal Ascot in the United Kingdom; Churchill Downs in Louisville, Kentucky; Royal Randwick in Sydney; Sha Tin in Hong Kong, and Chantilly, at Oise in France. But it was the next series of sites that got Hernandez’s attention. Prostitution, he knew, was illegal in Sweden, but it hadn’t stopped a bevy of escorts, faces pixelated, advertising their wares. Ahlstrom had clicked on to just one with an invite: Hi! I’m Frida. I’m so horny, and I’m hot! Big boobs, and a very sexy ass. I’ll take you into some very interesting places, where you won’t be disappointed, so cum on over!
Hernandez noted the telephone number, and a short while later, he had the prostitute’s address and he turned back to Ahlstrom’s emails. ‘Paydirt!’ he muttered, and this time it had nothing to do with prostitutes.
Small amounts of cocaine for personal use were legal in Mexico and Portugal, but Ahlstrom was in Stockholm. And while the death penalty for drug use was generally confined to places like Saudi Arabia and Singapore, if Ahlstrom was caught, neither the Swedish police, nor the Nobel Foundation would likely be amused.
By the time Crowley emerged from his subterranean vault, the sun had already set, and a fiery red glow over the clouds above the Mediterranean had given way to the softness of the night. He made his way onto the stone balcony where Rachel Bannister was standing at the balustrade, staring out to sea. The evening breeze ruffled her long, curly red hair across her bare shoulders. The plunging neckline on her elegant black Dolce and Gabbana gown gave glimpses of her full, creamy breasts. Far below, the lights of Sartène glinted off the cobblestone streets of the medieval mountain commune.
Rachel turned and smiled seductively. She had learned long ago not to probe her boss on what might be behind the steel door in his office. ‘It’s such a balmy evening, I’ve told Chef we’ll eat out here,’ she said, inclining her head toward the table set for two. The sterling silver cutlery and crystal glasses reflected a soft light from the solid silver candelabra.
‘Good decision,’ Crowley responded, his mood lightening as he contemplated the hand-written menu on the white linen tablecloth.
‘Clos des Goisses, 1988.’ Rachel passed Crowley a baccarat crystal flute. A fine stream of bubbles from one of the world’s truly great champagnes formed off the tiny but deliberate imperfections in the crystal.
‘1988 . . . one of his best,’ Crowley agreed, savouring the bouquet of yeast and vanillin.
‘Did you find out anything on O’Connor and Weizman?’
Rachel nodded. ‘Our man inside Langley has given us some useful information on O’Connor.’ It was expensive, but Crowley made it a practice to ensure EVRAN maintained contacts in key government departments, and in the White House.
‘O’Connor’s an interesting one . . . brought up in Ireland in Ballingarry, a dirt-poor mining town in southern Ireland. His father was a drunk and used to lay into O’Connor at the slightest provocation. When the father died, O’Connor’s mother moved to Kilkenny where she supported herself with cleaning jobs and, not to put too fine a point on it, a succession of men friends after hours.’
‘Educated?’
‘O’Connor? Highly. One of his mother’s men friends paid for O’Connor to go to boarding school in Dublin, but when one of the priests tried to abuse him, O’Connor beat up the priest and escaped. He’s Mensa material, and he went on to Trinity College where he completed an honours thesis in chemistry, followed by a doctorate on lethal viruses and biological weapons.’
‘Is that why he finished up with the CIA?’ Crowley’s sense of danger was heightened. If O’Connor turned out to be a threat it might take some careful planning to eliminate him.
‘Eventually. He started out with Big Pharma, but didn’t like what they were doing, so he took a pay cut to join the CIA.’
‘A CIA agent with ethics . . . interesting combination.’
‘Ma
ybe, but he’s arguably one of the best agents they have. O’Connor eventually ran afoul of the CIA’s last deputy director, Howard Wiley. Wiley had sent him to Vienna to assassinate Aleta Weizman, who at the time was getting up the nose of the vice president because of her exposure of the CIA’s activities with the death squads in Guatemala. When O’Connor tumbled to Wiley’s reasons for the contract on her, he jumped ship and protected her. The pair went on the run, and despite several attempts to assassinate them both, they survived . . . right through to the discovery of the Maya Codex and the Inca’s lost city of Paititi. Wiley’s now behind bars, and likely stay there for the rest of his life.’
‘Hmm.’ Crowley stroked his ample chin thoughtfully. ‘So O’Connor’s back with the CIA?’
‘They brought O’Connor’s old boss – a guy by the name of McNamara – out of retirement to replace Wiley, so O’Connor’s back on the payroll.’
‘Married?’
‘Divorced and no kids. He’s had a succession of women in his life, but it doesn’t seem like commitment is part of his lexicon. Although he and Weizman are probably entangled,’ Rachel said with a touch of wistfulness.
‘And what about Weizman?’ Crowley asked.
‘Like O’Connor, she’s divorced and doesn’t have any children. She’s an internationally renowned archaeologist, with an interest in ancient civilisations . . . taking after her equally famous archaeologist grandfather, Levi Weizman. Weizman senior was employed by Himmler and the Nazis to investigate links between the Maya and the Aryan master race, but he and his wife were murdered at Mauthausen, while Weizman’s father escaped to Guatemala as a boy. Weizman herself was brought up by Lake Atitlán, but when she was ten, her parents and siblings were murdered by General Montt’s death squads.’
‘Who were supported by Washington,’ Crowley observed. ‘That might explain why she’s been outspoken against the CIA.’
‘Exactly. Wiley was the CIA’s chief of station in Guatemala City, and he was seen in Lake Atitlán’s San Pedro square on the day her parents were murdered there. Years later, Weizman recognised him. She’d become a serious threat, and Wiley wanted her out of the way.’
‘So you’ve confirmed they’re in Alexandria?’
‘Yes . . . apparently on holidays.’
‘Is it just coincidence that they’re there now?’ Crowley asked. In only three days time, the Pharos Group, comprised of the world’s most powerful elite, would meet for their annual conference.
‘We think so. They have some expensive rebreather diving gear with them, which may or may not be significant . . . because the likes of O’Connor and Weizman are never really on holidays. Both dossiers are in your briefcase.’
‘We’ll need to keep an eye on these two,’ said Crowley.
‘Am I permitted to know why?’ Rachel asked, raising an eyebrow.
‘Let’s just say they might be a threat . . . time will tell. And apropos of Alexandria, how are we looking there?’ Crowley asked after the chef had brought out the first course of snails in garlic butter.
The secrecy surrounding Pharos was not unlike that associated with the secretive Bilderberg Group, which had been started back in 1954 under the auspices of Prince Bernhard of the Netherlands, taking its name from the first conference held at the Hotel de Bilderberg in the Netherlands village of Oosterbeek. Meeting in secret ever since, the Bilderbergers had included the likes of Queen Beatrix of the Netherlands, Queen Sofia of Spain, members of the Rockefeller and Rothschild families, Gerald Ford, Margaret Thatcher, Henry Kissinger, Tony Blair, and a hundred more of the world’s leaders in politics, banking, industry, the media and the military. The conspiracy theories were rife, amid accusations the Bilderbergers were planning a New World Order, facilitated by a shadowy, powerful clique pulling key economic levers, the United States invading Iraq to secure oil and bases in the Middle East, and a plan to reduce the world’s population. But whatever the agenda of the Bilderbergers, the Pharos Group was far more powerful, and Pharos was planning a New World Order. One in which this small group of already mega-wealthy and immensely powerful individuals would control a hidden one-world government through control of the world’s monetary reserves and stock exchanges, and by controlling the world’s major political systems.
The plan was ambitious, but provided the Pharos group could engineer crises to strike fear into the hearts of investors on the world stock markets, it was achievable. The world’s major political systems would be taken over by Pharos candidates, leading to a non-elected one-world government. A common single currency, controlled by the Pharos merchant banks, would replace all other currencies, and as the stock markets fluctuated wildly, other financial institutions would be crushed and ultimately eliminated.
The plan went beyond mere financial and political control though, to the heart of society and culture itself. The middle class would also be eliminated, leaving only rulers and servants. The number of children in families would be regulated and the world population reduced. National boundaries would be abolished, and a single legal system of world courts would operate under a unified Pharos legal code, upheld by a one-world government police force, a one-world military with standardised equipment, and a single, controlled, multinational media corporation. For Crowley and the other members of Pharos, it was the ultimate power that Hitler, Goebbels and others had only dreamed of: a subservient population under the control of a small Illuminati.
‘We’re all set for Alexandria,’ said Rachel. ‘I’ve put a copy of the latest Oxfam report in your briefcase. The figures indicate that the wealth of the eighty-five richest people in the world is now equal to the entire wealth of the 3.5 billion people in the bottom half.’
Crowley smiled. The plan was on track.
‘The pilots will be standing by at Figari Sud-Corse from eight a.m. tomorrow.’ An alternative to Aéroport d’Ajaccio Napoléon Bonaparte, the island’s major airport, the smaller provincial airfield of Figari Sud-Corse was perfect. It was less than 50 kilometres away, and with an 8000-foot runway, it would easily accommodate the EVRAN Gulfstream G550.
‘The background papers for Alexandria are also in your attaché case,’ said Rachel, ‘but there’ll be time enough for that tomorrow.’ She leaned forward and stroked Crowley’s arm, giving him another glimpse of her breasts, her nipples already hard.
Crowley felt the familiar primeval stirring in his loins. Rachel was not the only woman to turn him on, but her abandonment, both in the bedroom and out of it, gave him a satisfaction that his wife, Lillian, had long since ceased to match.
Chef appeared, pushing a polished wooden flame cart, from which he served the crispy duck. He poured the Château Latour, which had been decanted and left to breathe for an hour, waited while Crowley tasted it, and then retired.
‘The attendees have all responded?’ Crowley asked.
Rachel nodded. She had already committed it to memory. The list of invitees was never allowed out of Alexandria. ‘General Khan will be there . . . you asked about him particularly?’
‘Little Pakistani shit,’ Crowley swore.
‘Then why invite him?’
‘He’s an Islamic nutter, and no friend of the West. He wants the entire world subject to Sharia law, but the short answer is we need him,’ Crowley admitted, savouring his Latour.
Rachel looked at her boss quizzically, but he didn’t elaborate. ‘Louis Walden will be there,’ she said, aware that the media mogul was also critical to Crowley’s plans. The tentacles of Omega Centauri Corporation, the world’s largest media multinational, reached into every corner of the globe. Walden controlled vast numbers of television and radio stations, newspapers, magazines, and film studios.
‘As will René du Bois,’ she added. Crédit Group, with assets exceeding a staggering US $20 billion, dwarfed the holdings of HSBC, Deutsche Bank, Barclays, JP Morgan Chase, the Bank of America and the Industrial and Commercial Bank of China combined.
‘He’s able to travel?’ Crowley asked.
&n
bsp; ‘That will depend on the appeal today,’ said Rachel, thinking back to the last Alexandria conference where she’d made the mistake of being alone with Du Bois in the lift. The powerful French banker had attempted to grope her, and Rachel had promptly slammed her knee into his groin.
The Alexandria Connection Page 6
