Keystone (29 page)

“If Gail didn’t steal the books,
then she must have been set up,” Martín said, setting his knife and fork down
on his half-empty plate.

Ben found
himself nodding. George simply sat there, looking blankly into space.

“We know that
someone is trying to cover up the finds on Mars, and it looks as if they are
trying to cover up the finds on Earth too,” he continued. “Which means that
someone must have known about them, before they were discovered.”

Again, Ben
found himself nodding. “Which means they must have known about what was on Mars
before the mission was sent. But if they worked this out based on the Amarna
finds, then Gail would have known about it too.”
Which explains why the Professor and Gail are both dead
, he
thought.

“But why hide
proof of extra-terrestrial life?” George said, breaking his silence. “And even
if Gail and the Professor had managed to prove it from the Amarna finds, then
so what? The news had already reached the media anyway! That’s why she was here
in the first place!”

Before either
of them could answer, he continued.

“I’ll tell you
why: because it’s not proof of alien life that’s being covered up; it’s
something else. Something bigger. Maybe the Professor knew something, maybe he
didn’t. But whoever killed them wasn’t taking any chances either way,” he
slammed his fist on the table. Behind them a waiter shot them a disapproving
glance.

“What could be
bigger than aliens?” Martín and Ben said in unison.

George looked
at them both with fire in his eyes. “I don’t know, but it killed my wife, and
when I find out what it is, I’m going to make sure that somebody pays for
that.”

Captain Kamal
scratched his head and switched off the screen on his desk. There were no two
ways around it: Gail Turner just wasn’t going to go away as he’d hoped.

At first, he
had been concerned that the lack of a body would make her husband a constant
pain, a thorn in his side.
Then
, he
had been delivered a ‘body’.

Back in the
morgue, as he’d lifted the sheet that covered her, his heart had skipped a
beat. She hadn’t looked dead to him. Motionless, yes. But dead? He just had to
hope that her husband didn’t notice. He’d covered her up as quickly as
possible, feeling the game was up, but Mr Turner hadn’t suspected a thing, even
after being so close to her,
touching
her. If anything, the punch in the face for his lack of compassion had been
welcome when compared to the alternative.

And so she had
been taken away, and Kamal had staged the cremation of some poor nameless
beggar who’d been stabbed in a back alley. Mr Turner had spoken with him
briefly the next day to arrange transportation of the ashes back to England,
and that had been that.

“
Khara!
” he
picked up his terminal’s keyboard and slammed it back down on the desk. “
Ibin himaar!”

Because
that
hadn’t been
that
at all. What he’d been promised would be straight forward was
now turning out to be anything but. And the worst part was that it wasn’t Mr
Turner, or indeed anyone else, who had made things difficult.

He only had
himself to blame.
He
had been left to
cover the details of her ‘escape’ from the Museum. As far as he knew, she was
in perfect physical health. He’d requested the doctored CCTV footage, and hours
later it had been delivered to him. Watching it back, he even fancied, for a
moment, that it was
her
running from
the Museum, and not some computer generated model. It was, he knew,
indistinguishable from real life. Even a trained expert couldn’t tell it was a
fake. He knew, because he’d given it to one in his own department.

Usher syndrome
!

How could he not
have known, when it was even on her online profile page?

He leant back
in his uncomfortable chair and looked at the ceiling. He followed a small crack
from where it started next to a hanging light all the way across to where it
met the wall. The crack had been repaired barely five years ago. And yet there
it was again, as large as ever. Possibly even bigger. It had probably been
repaired five years before that, too. He snorted in mild amusement, though it
was far from funny.

Even if he
managed to get out of his present situation, even if the powers that be
accepted the CCTV footage over her husband’s testimony and her medical records,
five years from now would some crucial piece of evidence be uncovered that
would make the string of lies unravel? Would his best efforts barely cover
things up, leaving the truth just under the surface, ready for someone to find?
Would Mr Turner give it up? What would
he
do if he were in his place?

How long would
it be before more people started poking their noses into the investigation?
Into his
affairs
?

There was only
one certainty: whoever was behind it all wouldn’t be there to protect him. He
would be on his own. He already
was
on his own.

It hadn’t, he
decided, been worth it at all.

George stuffed
his wash bag into his suitcase and grimaced as he forced the zip shut. Behind
him, Ben looked out of the window and shook his head.

“Martín seems
to be an OK person. I think he is as genuinely bemused as we are.”

George threw
his suitcase to the floor and gave the bathroom a quick scan. Satisfied he had
gathered everything, he returned to the main room and checked under the bed;
socks had a nasty habit of rolling under beds, as he knew from his travelling
for work. It was more a force of habit than anything else, though, as socks
couldn’t be further from his mind.

“But with all
this talk of cover ups, I don’t know where to begin,” Ben continued. “And in
any case, it doesn’t really help, does it?”

George got to
his feet and checked the cupboard for suits, despite the fact that he hadn’t
brought any suits to Cairo.

“It’s actually
a shame Martín has to leave so soon. I have enough space in my flat for both of
you. We could lock heads and give this some serious thought.” He looked at the
Englishman, who was now checking every drawer of a chest of drawers he had
obviously not used either
 
during his
stay. “Besides which, I owe you a drink from last time you were here.”

George stopped
and looked at him. Last time they’d been in Egypt, he had been with Gail, and
they had gotten obscenely drunk in a bar. George knew his friend well enough to
understand he didn’t lack tact; he knew what he was trying to do. He forced a
smile and nodded slowly.

“I’ll stay a
while,” was all he managed to say. Being in Egypt brought back painful memories,
but he was dreading returning to their empty house in Southampton even more.

Ben was about
to answer when there was a knock at the door.

“Martín?” he
asked George.

George looked
puzzled. “It shouldn’t be, his flight is in an hour, he’ll be late if he’s still
here!” He walked over to the door and opened it.

To his total
surprise, Captain Kamal stood in front of him. Looking nervously left and right
down the hotel corridors, he forced his way into the room.

“Sorry, Mr
Turner,” he said in his strongly accented English. “Please close the door.” As
he said this he closed the door himself, leaving George standing in the
entrance with his hand clasping an imaginary door handle.

“What do you
want, Captain Kamal?” George said, deliberately saying the Captain’s name to
identify him, to warn Ben not to speak. If he recognised his voice, who knew
what might happen next.

Ben looked
startled, but then surprised George completely with a voice he’d never heard
before. Heavily accented, he somehow didn’t even sound Egyptian. “
Salaam
, Captain. My name is Ahmed
Mohammed Naser. I am a family friend of the Mr Turner.”

They shook
hands, Kamal somewhat reluctantly.

“Mr Turner
will be staying with my family for some time while Mrs Turner’s murder is
investigated. It is much, much, cheaper than the hotel for such a long stay,” he
smiled weakly.

Kamal pushed
past Ben and pulled a chair out from under a small round table in front of the
window. Sitting down, he leant forward and placed his elbows on his legs,
clasping his hands out in front of him.

“We need to
talk,” he said, matter-of-factly.

George
hesitated. “The Embassy have advised me not to without them being present,” he
said, thinking on his feet. He and Ben simply hadn’t thought of what would
happen if they came face to face with Kamal. They hadn’t thought that far
ahead.
 

“That’s not
why I am here,” Kamal brushed the matter aside with the back of his left hand
and put his right hand inside his pocket. Fishing out a packet of cigarettes he
lit one and offered the pack around.

George thought
to mention that the hotel, unlike most of Cairo, was non-smoking. He managed to
bite his lip instead.

Kamal put the
pack of cigarettes back in his pocket and looked around for an ashtray. Ben saw
an empty glass beside the bed, but didn’t move to pick it up. Following his
eyes, Kamal reached for the glass and tapped his cigarette into it anxiously.

“Why are you
here then, Captain?” George asked.

Kamal flicked
his eyes between the two men before taking a deep drag. “Because I have something
very important to tell you, Mr Turner.” As he spoke he exhaled, and the thick,
pungent smoke filled the room. “Alone,” he stared up at Ben.

Ben was about
to protest; the last thing he wanted was to leave his friend with this corrupt,
possibly dangerous man. But George raised his hand to stop him.

He hesitated,
trying to remember the name Ben had made up for himself.
Abdul?
He decided to play it safe. “It doesn’t matter if he leaves
or not, whatever you tell me, I’ll tell him anyway.”

Kamal seemed to
weigh the options up for a moment, and then shrugged impassively.

 
“Those aren’t your wife’s ashes,” he said
bluntly, nodding towards the urn standing on a desk behind Ben.

George jumped
and took a step towards the policeman. “What do you mean they’re not Gail’s
ashes? Where are Gail’s ashes?”

“There aren’t
any. There are no ashes of your wife.”

“But I was at
the cremation! I was given the urn containing her ashes! How can you dare come
here and tell me that this isn’t my wife?” George was within a couple of feet
of where Kamal was sitting, and the policeman instinctively leant back to
defend himself.

“I’m sorry Mr
Turner, I really am, but it’s true.” There was genuine remorse in his voice,
and George eased his stance briefly.

“So why are
there no ashes of my wife? Who screwed up? The crematorium? You?”

Kamal looked
into George’s eyes. “There are no ashes of your wife, Mr Turner, because as far
as I know she isn’t dead.”

“I’m sorry, Dr Turner, I
understand why you would be upset with the way you have been treated,” Seth
Mallus said. Before she had a chance to respond, he continued. “Dr Patterson
has been tasked with making you feel as welcome and as comfortable as possible
during your stay.”

“Let me speak
to my husband,” she demanded.
 

“In due
course.”

“No!” she
shouted, slamming her hand on his desk. “How dare you treat me this way? You
abducted me, you murdered a peaceful man, and now I demand to be set free.”

He hesitated
slightly. “Dr Turner, imagine that what you say is true. Imagine that I did
murder a man, and that I did abduct you. That being the case, what sort of
position do you think you are in where you can suddenly make demands of me, and
expect to get your way?”

“I –” she
began, but didn’t know how to finish.

“Good. Now I
would
like to spend the next few days
gently easing you into your new role, which by the way is of assistant to Dr
Henry Patterson, whom you have already met.”

“Assistant in
what
?” she demanded.

Mallus looked
at her impatiently. “As I said; I
would
ease you in to your role slowly, but unfortunately we simply don’t have time.
And to be perfectly honest after so many years waiting for Dr Patterson to do
this on his own before he asked for help, I don’t have the patience either.”

Gail looked at
Patterson, who looked away uneasily.

“So I’ll be
quite frank, give you the briefest of briefs, and then it’s up to you to decide
if you wish to cooperate or not.” He leaned forwards and raised an eyebrow.
“You may have guessed this already, but
not
cooperating is something I have contingency plans for. Now, I don’t like being
interrupted, which is something you seem to be in constant threat of doing, so
this is your opportunity. Speak.”

She stared at
him for a moment. He hadn’t really given her much of a choice, she conceded.
“No,” she said bluntly. “
You
speak.”

He smiled, as
if her attitude was something he’d been expecting.
Feisty
, he thought.

“We need your
assistance, and we need you to be able to concentrate fully on what we are
doing here. What I am about to disclose is knowledge shared by only a handful
of people, all of them within this facility. Its implications are so huge that
it cannot be made public. The societal impact of this would be catastrophic.”
He gestured for Gail and Patterson to be seated.

Her temper simmering,
Gail didn’t question him, but simply sat down and waited for him to continue.
“Some time ago, a discovery was made at an archaeological dig in Amarna, in
Egypt. You know it well, Dr Turner, as you made that discovery. By now, I
believe you know that the book you focused your attention on was not the only
important book in the Amarna Library. Indeed, another book was brought to this
facility under a shroud of secrecy.” With this he tapped the surface of his
desk and the wall lit up behind him with a very high resolution photograph.

Gail instantly
knew what she was looking at: the man holding a staff aloft, embossed on the
wooden cover of an ancient book. She couldn’t help being taken aback; having it
described second-hand by Professor al-Misri was no substitute for the real
thing, or at the very least a
picture
of
the real thing.

“Dr Turner,
you devoted your career to studying the
Book
of Aniquilus
, what
you
call the
Stickman Book
. What you see behind me is
the –”

“
Book of Xynutians
,” she interrupted him.

For the
briefest of moments, Mallus faltered. He glanced across at Patterson, who
looked back, equally as confused. “Indeed, the Xynutians. But how did you know?
None of your work indicates that you knew this.”

Gail pulled
her eyes away from the picture on the wall and looked at the man behind his
desk.
I’ve thrown him
she thought
triumphantly.
But how could her dream
have told her such a thing
? It took her little time to work out the most
likely answer, that when she had been unconscious someone, probably Patterson,
must have mentioned the name. Her subconscious mind, still somehow aware of the
world around her, incorporated the detail into a vivid dream that was a
mishmash of fragments of memory. But she wasn’t going to reveal such logic to
the man sitting in front of her. “I just knew; I must have read it somewhere.
I’ve never seen it before, but it’s been described to me by Professor
al-Misri.”

“It doesn’t
really matter how you know,” he said dismissively. “But you are correct. The
Book of Aniquilus and the Book of Xynutians: two books sealed in the Amarna
Library deep underground thousands of years ago. You have studied the former
intimately for years, but have never seen the latter. You will shortly get that
opportunity, but first I have to fill in some gaps for you, to help you
understand how important this is.

 
“We knew that the books were hidden at Amarna before
Professor al-Misri started his dig. In fact, I had been closely monitoring all
archaeological excavations in the area before your dig even started. But
knowing there are ancient texts hidden in Egypt is like knowing water is wet.
Our knowledge was a little more informed: we knew of the existence of the books
of Aniquilus and Xynutians, as when they were entombed thousands of years ago,
the architect who designed the Library was free to go his own way. At the time,
Egypt was in the middle of a short-lived religious revolution. The time of
Akhetaten was almost over, and the capital was abandoned within a decade.”

“Spare me the
history lesson,” Gail sneered.
 

“Indeed, I’m
sure you know all this better than I. Nevertheless, please indulge me a little
more. Soon, Akhenaten passed away, followed by Nefertiti. The capital was a
ghost town, and looting was rife. As you know some of the most prolific looters
in ancient Egypt were probably the workers themselves. The very people who
created the supposedly hidden and impenetrable tombs knew exactly where they
were, and precisely how to get in.

 
“The Amarna architect however had been a
strong believer in the ways of Akhenaten and Nefertiti, and believed that the
message sealed in the Library was too important to be lost to thieves, who
would throw texts aside in their search for gems, gold and other precious
metals that could be hammered flat and resold. Yet he also believed that the
message was too valuable to be sealed away forever. Unfortunately for us,
whilst he was a competent architect, he was not a great story-teller. The text
he left behind, inscribed on a papyrus scroll, only gave the briefest of
descriptions of the two important books, and a vague allusion to their
location. It did, however, offer some insight into the architecture of the
Library, and what he had done to keep its location secret.

“The
architect’s scroll was found inside a sealed jar in 2015, during some road
works just north of Dendera. An art dealer bought the jar from the site
foreman; he didn’t even want to know what was inside. You will know better than
me the dangers of ‘rescue archaeology:’ a lot of the time, you people are only
brought in if the construction company aren’t able to hide or destroy the finds
first. Of course, in Egypt no groundwork can be undertaken without the presence
of an archaeologist. But Egypt is a big country, and there just aren’t enough archaeologists.
Not only that, but the Egyptians were still getting over a change of regime,
and archaeology was lower on the agenda than fixing roads. The scroll was never
missed.

“It then came
to me by way of a business partner. I made my fortune in nanotech back in the
late twenties, and this person had just acquired the jar. He found the scroll
inside, itself sealed inside a tube, and realising he couldn’t open it was
looking for a buyer.”

The image of
the Book of Xynutians on-screen was replaced with a picture of the scroll. Gail
immediately recognised the hieratic text. A stylised, cursive form of
hieroglyphs, hieratic looked like a cross between hieroglyphs and modern
Arabic. Another similarity with Arabic was that it always read from right to
left. Two colours had been used in the text: ochre-red and black. The quality
of the papyrus was excellent, and she was amazed at how complete it looked. It
would have taken pride of place in any public museum, even in Egypt where such
things were so much more common.

“I’m glad you
like it,” Mallus said. “A couple of years passed with it sitting in storage
before I got the chance to try and open the scroll. If I knew what the text was
about, you see, I might be able to make more of a profit. And so when I bumped
into Dr Patterson during a science convention in Boston, we found we had this
mutual interest. His equipment at Harvard helped open the scroll, and as it
unfurled so too did the story of our architect.”

“So that’s how
you knew about the texts; fine.” Gail interjected. “But while the books and
this scroll are priceless to
me
, that
value is academic. Even on the black market no one would pay enough to warrant
you going to all this trouble.”

“Not everyone
values life to the same extent, Dr Turner. But anyway, you’re right, of course:
the books are worth a great deal of money, but it’s the message they contain
which is their true value. The Book of Aniquilus is like a Bible for the Aten.
As you know, it gives clear guidelines on how life should be lived in order to
achieve so-called ‘celestial magnificence.’ But the Book of Xynutians is
entirely different. It tells a story of a cataclysm so immense it wiped out an
entire civilisation, the same race of Xynutians that you see on the cover of
the book. It tells of their ascent to power, and then of their demise. Can you
imagine, Dr Turner, such a technologically advanced race, wiped out?”

“I find it
difficult enough to accept they existed in the first place, let alone their
being wiped out,” she said sarcastically.

Until now,
Patterson had been quiet. He took this opportunity to cut in.

“I think I
felt the same way, Dr Turner, until I saw the book for the first time.”

She turned to
him. “Then show me the book. Hell, why not show the whole world the book? I’m
not stopping you.”

“Unfortunately,
it’s not that simple. This book would cause a major issue in the public domain.
You don’t appreciate how much: these books are proof of intelligent life
pre-dating our own by hundreds of thousands of years. It may seem trivial, but
such a thing would turn religion on its head. It de-centralises man’s
understanding of his position in the Universe.”

She sighed.
“So you’re saying that all this needs to stay hush-hush because you’re worried
that if it gets out, there’ll be trouble?”

“Not quite.
Within this story of their destruction comes a clear warning: what happened to
them will happen again, to us. We need your help to decipher the last pieces of
text that Patterson has been struggling with, so that we can avoid that fate.”
He seemed almost nervous as he said this, and he looked away from them both,
towards the hieroglyphs on the screen.

Patterson
cleared his throat. “The Book of Xynutians was written under instruction from
Nefertiti. It recounts the fall of the Xynutians more than two hundred and
fifty
thousand
years earlier. It
claims that the final coming of Nefertiti will signal the beginning of the next
cataclysm. The problem is that according to the statement in the book, the
final coming of Nefertiti occurred nearly forty years ago.”

Gail sat back
and looked at them both. Patterson had seemed nice enough, but he also appeared
to be as passionate about this story as Seth Mallus, who in every way was
coming across as completely insane.

She looked at
her options carefully; on the one hand, she could protest, demand to be freed,
make a nuisance of herself, and then probably end up dead like Mamdouh. On the
other hand, she could cooperate for the time being, play their little game, and
wait patiently for her chance to escape.

That option made
the most sense to her now. And in any case, she would be lying if she said she
wasn’t eager to get her hands on the book that had been snatched from under her
nose back in Egypt all those years ago.

“Fine,” she
said. “I’ll help you finish interpreting the Book of Xynutians.”