The Alexandria Connection (2 page)

‘So you think the early Christian writers drew on all of this?’

Aleta smiled. ‘The parallels are far too close to be a coincidence, although the Vatican and the evangelicals in America – those who believe Christianity alone provides salvation – they will dispute this vehemently because the Egyptian religion threatens the very uniqueness of Christ. At age twelve, Horus was a prodigal child teacher. At thirty, he began his ministry after being baptised by Anup,’ she said, continuing to translate from the priceless document. ‘Horus had twelve disciples, and he performed the same miracles as Christ was said to have performed, healing the sick and walking on water.’

‘Raising the dead? That’s my favourite,’ said O’Connor with a wicked grin.

‘For a Catholic boy you haven’t retained too much reverence, have you . . . but yes,’ Aleta said, pointing to a depiction of Horus resurrecting Osiris using the Egyptian cross of eternal life. ‘Like Christ, Horus was said to raise the dead, but the next part of this papyrus would be enough for the Vatican to bury it in the deepest recesses of their Secret Archives . . . but let’s leave that for the moment, because the other papyrus is even more explosive.’ Aleta laid out the second papyrus with even more care than the first.

‘This is a map of the old city, and this papyrus dates back to not long after the city was founded by Alexander the Great.’

‘You paid twenty bucks for a document that’s over 2300 years old . . . shame on you,’ O’Connor said with a smile, sitting down on one of the gold-backed chairs beside the coffee table where Aleta had laid the papyrus.

‘God knows how long this papyrus has been in that basement. Archaeologists can work for a lifetime without making a single significant discovery, but if this is genuine,’ Aleta said, her voice filled with excitement, ‘it will attract worldwide interest, because according to this map, the lost Library of Alexandria would have been located in this region here.’ Aleta pointed to an area near the harbour’s eastern shoreline that was now under water.

‘I seem to remember they’ve done quite a bit of exploration already. Wouldn’t they have found this?’

‘Those expeditions are all relatively recent, and you’re right, they’ve done a fantastic job. They’ve uncovered a large number of artifacts, but they’ve never found the library. Come and stand on the balcony and I’ll give you an idea of what we’re going to see when we dive this harbour.

‘Imagine a straight line between us and Fort Qaytbey on the far side,’ said Aleta. She extended her arm toward the ancient stone fort built in the fifteenth century by the Muslim Mamluke Sultan al-Ashraf Qaitbay as a defence against a threat from the Ottoman Turks. ‘A few hundred metres out from the current shoreline they found the submerged island of Antirhodos. That island was the private property of the Ptolemaic kings and some scholars think the palace of the last pharaoh of ancient Egypt, Cleopatra was built there.’

‘And that line of pharaohs started with Ptolemy I?’

Aleta nodded. ‘After he conquered Egypt in 332 BC, Alexander the Great was installed as pharaoh, but after his death, a long line of Ptolemys followed him. The island was completely paved, and divers have discovered the remains of a palace, along with a Sphinx bearing the image of King Ptolemy XII.’

‘Ah . . . Cleopatra’s father.’

‘Probably the only bit of Egyptology you remember, and I’m not talking about her father!’

‘Hurtful and unnecessary,’ O’Connor said, grinning broadly.

‘But true.’

O’Connor had long ago conceded Aleta’s encyclopaedic knowledge of ancient civilisations, and he listened intently while she indicated the places where the harbour had already given up some of its secrets.

‘Over there, divers have found the remains of a port which in ancient times, was reserved for the king’s galleys,’ said Aleta, pointing toward the eastern breakwater, ‘and closer in, not far from this hotel, they’ve discovered another palace. Many scholars, myself included, think this was Mark Antony’s final retreat before he committed suicide.’

‘Cleopatra must have been a remarkable lady,’ O’Connor said, a wistful tone in his voice. ‘Just think: she’s the last pharaoh of Egypt, and to shore up her power, she gets into bed with Caesar, and then when he’s murdered, she hops into the cot with Mark Antony.’

‘Has it occurred to you that it might not have been just about power? She might have been attracted to them!’

‘I thought that might get a rise out of you – never fails.’ O’Connor let his hand slide down Aleta’s thigh.

‘When the teacher has finished her history lesson you might . . .
might
be able to entice her into bed, but until then, pay attention!’ Aleta’s dark eyes danced mischievously and she made no attempt to brush O’Connor’s hand away.

‘If you look beyond the palm trees down there to the far corner of Saad Zaghloul Square, that’s where the two obelisks that became known as Cleopatra’s needles were built to guide ships into the harbour. One obelisk now stands on the Thames Embankment in London, and the other’s in Central Park in New York. And this hotel was built on the place where Cleopatra likely committed suicide . . . This city has so much history.’

‘And the Pharos?’

‘Along with the Great Pyramid of Giza and the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, one of the seven wonders of the ancient world.’

‘High?’

‘Massive. The bottom storey of the lighthouse had over three hundred rooms, just for the mechanics and labourers. There was a second, octagonal storey and then a third, and on top of that a lantern with a seven-metre statue of Poseidon on top of it. The Pharos lighthouse was three times higher than the Statue of Liberty in New York harbour.’

‘Too big then to be powered by olive oil?’

‘Way too big . . . this one was wood-fired. The wood was stored in the bottom storey and hydraulic lifts were used to raise it to the fire at the top.’

‘And the mirror reflected the light from the fire?’

‘I’m not so sure,’ said Aleta. ‘There’s a lot about the ancients we don’t understand, and it’s quite possible that the Alexandrian mathematicians discovered the optical lens, although we’ll probably never know, because their discovery was lost to science when the lighthouse was destroyed by an earthquake in the fourteenth century.’

‘How do you know this papyrus goes back to Alexander’s time?’ O’Connor asked as they came in from the balcony. ‘How do you know it’s not a copy or a forgery?’

‘I’ve worked with ancient papyri before, and this one has all the look and feel of one that is centuries old, but I agree, we need to make sure. I have a colleague at the Alexandria University, and he can carbon-date this from a fragment, but if it’s genuine, it gives us a very accurate indication of all the areas of the ancient city that are now under water.’

‘Built by Alexander?’

Aleta shook her head. ‘Alexander the Great might have founded this city when he invaded and kicked the Persians out of Egypt, but he left for campaigns in Iraq and areas around the Khyber Pass before the first brick was laid. The city was built by Ptolemy I and his successors. In fact, Ptolemy and you might have had a lot in common.’

‘Ruggedly handsome, witty conversationalist, and exceptionally good in bed.’

‘I doubt historians have the slightest idea of Ptolemy’s expertise in bed,’ said Aleta, rolling her eyes, ‘but they do know that when Alexander died in Babylon in 323 BC, Ptolemy was not unlike an agent of the CIA. He stole the body before it reached Alexander’s birthplace of Macedonia and brought it back here where he built an opulent tomb for his former Pharaoh. Ptolemy I and his successors then set about building one of the greatest cities of the ancient world . . . temples, royal palaces, wide colonnaded streets and public baths. As you can see from this papyrus, much of the old city has slipped beneath the waves, but we know Ptolemy I founded a
mouseion
, what we might call it a museum. It housed laboratories and a medical school where they conducted dissections, which Greek culture outlawed in Athens, as well as lecture halls and rooms for visiting scholars like Archimedes and Euclid, and of course the library.’

‘And how do you know this map is accurate? I’m not doubting you,’ O’Connor added, sensing Aleta bristling at her academic professionalism being challenged. ‘I’m just playing Devil’s advocate.’

‘You’re right to question. As a scientist yourself, you will know that every good academic and scientist does, so perhaps we should get a second opinion from another of my colleagues, Professor Hassan Badawi, the director of the Cairo Museum.’

‘Didn’t they have a break-in there recently? He may not have time to see you.’

‘Yes, but that was during the riots in Tahrir Square. A bunch of amateurs looking for gold got in through a skylight, but it’s calm for the moment. I’m sure he’ll spare us half an hour.’

‘Well even if he can see you, showing him the papyrus with the map will start the hares and hounds running in all directions . . . buggering up a perfectly good diving holiday. Why don’t we take a photograph of the papyrus and show him that. That way no one will actually know we have the map, and we can be vague about where we discovered the photo – somewhere he can’t immediately check.’

‘Let’s split the difference. We can donate the Horus Papyrus to his museum, which will give him kudos – although once that becomes public, it will also spark furious debate, so we can ask that no announcement be made just yet.’

‘And you can tell him you discovered the photograph in a second-hand book . . . one you picked up in an obscure book fair.’

‘No wonder you’re back in the CIA, although I’m not sure I’m in favour of that,’ Aleta added, getting up and moving around behind O’Connor’s chair. ‘But I guess you’d never settle for a nine-to-five existence, would you,’ she said, moving her hands down O’Connor’s shirt front and stroking his hairy chest. He turned to look up at her and she bent down and kissed him, gently at first, and then more hungrily. ‘Take me to bed,’ she whispered.

T
he sun rose over the Margella Mountains, bathing the garden capital of Pakistan that was nestled in the foothills. In the 1950s, the government had decided to relocate the capital from Karachi to a more central location. The name ‘Jannat’ in Urdu meant ‘Paradise’, and Khan’s large patio, lined with potted palms, cacti and marijuana plants, overlooked the distant, well-planned capital with its wide streets and myriad parks and gardens.

Lieutenant General Farid Khan, the sacked head of the ISI, Pakistan’s Inter-Service Intelligence agency, adopted the prostrate position facing Mecca as he neared the end of his
Fajr,
the dawn prayer, the first of the five prayers for the day. He touched the old wooden patio floor with his forehead: ‘
Allahu Akbar . . . Subbana rabbiyal-a’la . . . Ash-hadu alla ilaha illallahu . . .
Allah is great; oh Allah, glory be to you, the most high; I bear witness that there is none worthy of worship but Allah.’

His prayers completed, Khan stood and remained facing the direction of Mecca, seething. He had no doubt Washington was behind his sacking, and one day, the West would be brought to account. The world, he had vowed, would be brought under Islamic control, and subject to the only law Khan recognised, the Sharia.

Khan descended to the locked and alarmed gallery beneath his spacious study. The short, swarthy, thickset general had spent thirty years getting to the top of Pakistani military intelligence. Along the way, he had not only mastered the corrupt corridors of power in Islamabad, but courtesy of his membership of Pharos – an ultra powerful and highly secretive group that met once a year in Alexandria – he had also acquired an intimate knowledge of financial markets. Khan was now the wealthiest man in Pakistan. His sprawling villa, protected by a large contingent of privately funded armed guards, was located in the steep, picturesque hills to the north of Pakistan’s capital Islamabad.

Khan deactivated the alarm, and stepped into his gallery, where the temperature and humidity were strictly controlled. He ran his hand through his thick, black hair and stopped to admire Van Gogh’s
Congregation Leaving the Reformed Church in Nuenen, 1884.
The small oil on canvas, which the master had painted for his mother when she had broken her thighbone, was one of General Khan’s favourites.

Khan moved on to the
Congregation
’s companion, the
View of the Sea at Scheveningen,
which Van Gogh painted at the beach near The Hague, in 1882. Khan stepped back and admired the artist’s rough brush strokes and his bold use of thick daubs of colour: the dark clouds, the greys and whites of the thundering, foaming waves, and the flag on the solitary boat, whipping in the wind. Both the
Congregation
and the
View of the Sea at Scheveningen
had been stolen from the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam in 2002, and now, courtesy of a wizened art dealer in Venice, Zachary Rubinstein, they were Khan’s.

The exclusive ownership of the world’s greatest masters gave the Pakistani general a great deal of pleasure. He had even pondered the possibility of acquiring the
Mona Lisa.
It had been stolen before in 1911. Vincenzo Peruggia, an Italian Louvre employee who wanted the painting hung in Italy, had hidden in a broom closet and simply walked out after the museum had closed, with the priceless masterpiece hidden under his overcoat. Security had improved since then, but nothing was impossible. The painting went missing for two years before it was recovered in Florence, and since then, it had been subject to an acid attack in 1956, had a rock thrown at it the same year, and had red paint sprayed at it, prompting the Louvre to protect it with bullet proof glass. On rare occasions, Khan mused, the painting was entrusted to other museums, but he’d concluded that the security surrounding the world’s best-known painting meant it was now out of reach.

Despite his extensive collection, there were three additions he desperately wanted to own: Van Gogh’s
Poppy Flowers
; Tutankhamun’s falcon pendant; and the greatest Egyptian artifact of them all, Tutankhamun’s gold mask.

Van Gogh’s
Poppy Flowers
had been painted three years before the artist’s suicide and it had disappeared from the Mohammed Mahmoud Khalil Museum in Cairo in 2010. In an unguarded moment, Rubinstein had alluded to knowing where it was, and General Khan would have given a great deal to know who had it.

Khan’s other passion was the ancient artifacts of the Pharaohs. His collection was growing, and the recent unrest in Egypt had provided more than one windfall. Rubinstein had secured for Khan the exquisite statuette of Tutankhamun’s sister,
A Daughter of the Pharaoh Akhenaten
. With it had come the possibility of the two additions he wanted most of all. Both were housed in the famed Egyptian Museum of Antiquities on the banks of the Nile in Cairo. The first, Tutankhamun’s funerary falcon pendant, superbly fashioned from solid gold, lapis lazuli, carnelian and turquoise, had been discovered by Howard Carter in a wooden casket in the treasury of Tutankhamun’s tomb. The falcon’s wings of red, blue and black semi-precious stones were spread, as if to protect the dead pharaoh. In its solid-gold talons, the falcon grasped the
shen
rings of eternity and the
ankh
keys to life, showing the ‘boy king’ was promised an eternal afterlife. Curiously, Rubinstein had indicated that for a price, the pendant might be acquired. And then there was the mask, the greatest prize in all of Egyptology.

Khan looked at his watch. It was time to leave for the lawless border town of Peshawar. From there, he would make the crossing through the Khyber Pass into Afghanistan, and on into the soaring mountains of the Hindu Kush. It was one of the most dangerous crossings in the world, and he had only agreed to meet with the Afghan Taliban and al Qaeda after persistent requests from the Pharos group, and an inducement that had been too tempting to refuse. If he was successful in integrating the Taliban and al Qaeda into the Pharos plans, the elusive Sheldon Crowley had agreed to attempt to obtain for Khan the funerary mask of the boy King Tutankhamun.

Khan paused briefly to admire Jean-Baptiste Oudry’s 1753 painting
The White Duck
, stolen from the Marquess of Cholmondeley’s collection at Houghton Hall in Norfolk, in the United Kingdom. Khan smiled. The textures of the duck feathers were extraordinary, and he was now the only one who could appreciate them.