The Alexandria Connection (8 page)

D
r Omar Aboud had chosen his position well, high on the upper parapet of Fort Qaytbey, hidden at the rear of a deep loophole slit. To those tourists exploring the fort, it appeared that he was just another one of them, albeit equipped with powerful binoculars.

Aboud watched O’Connor and Aleta with interest as they prepared to dive. He noted the location the pair had chosen, a small protected inlet just to the west of the fort, but it had not escaped his notice that his targets were preparing to dive with Dräger LAR V rebreather scuba gear, the same type the US Navy SEALs used. Interesting, Aboud thought. O’Connor, he’d been briefed, had completed the SEAL combat diving course. Was the Dräger equipment just O’Connor’s scuba gear of choice, Aboud wondered, or was there a darker motive? Dräger gear was state-of-the-art, and because exhaled air was purified for rebreathing, the system was capable of much longer endurance than a normal set of open-circuit tanks. More importantly, Dräger left no telltale trail of bubbles.

O’Connor scanned the area around the stone base and the ramparts of Fort Qaytbey, but Alexandria was a recognised dive site, and no one appeared to be taking the slightest notice of either him or Aleta. In 1961, an Egyptian diver had stumbled on a collection of statues off Fort Qaytbey, the site of the old Pharos lighthouse, and since then, Jean-Yves Empereur, the diminutive Honor Frost, Franck Goddio and others had explored the archaeological site. Over the years, a picture had begun to emerge of what the old city of Alexandria would have looked like. It was a picture that Aleta was familiar with, but she was keen to explore for herself.

‘You’re still expecting someone to be tailing us?’

‘Hope for the best, plan for the worst . . . it’s an old CIA dictum,’ O’Connor said. ‘Put it down to habit.’

‘So what can we expect to find?’ O’Connor asked, changing the subject.

‘A lot more than archaeologists of the past thought was here,’ said Aleta. ‘For decades, they concentrated on the Valley of the Kings and the other tombs along the Nile. It wasn’t until the 1990s that we realised that the ruins of the old city of Alexandria are not only beneath the footpaths, where you can find part of an ancient water system, but there are extensive ruins beneath the waves. Even though some of the sphinx and columns have been brought to the surface, there are thousands of items still on the sea floor, and some of the huge blocks and columns are undoubtedly part of the Pharos lighthouse.’

‘It must have been quite something.’

‘It was, and one day, when you’re not busy in your black world, I’d like to dive a little further out, because about thirteen kilometres from here we can find the wreck of the SS
Aragon
, which was sunk by a German submarine in 1917 with over 2500 marines on board.’

‘I seem to remember there was another British ship close by?’

‘HMS
Attack
 . . . she came to the rescue of the
Aragon
, but was blown in half. They both lie on the seabed, not far apart . . . but let’s see what we can find today,’ said Aleta. ‘Once we’ve explored the area beyond the fort, we’ll need to get back into the inner harbour, and I’m in your hands. It’s over a kilometre to the eastern breakwater, and the visibility won’t be great,’ she said.

‘No problem, I’ve got the course mapped out,’ said O’Connor, checking his wrist compass, ‘although you would think if there was anything else to be found on the eastern side, other archaeologists might have discovered it?’

Aleta smiled. ‘If we subscribed to that theory, many of the great discoveries would still be waiting to be made. Howard Carter worked for five years in the Valley of the Kings, and he found very little. Lord Carnavon, who was financing him, gave him one last season in 1922, during which one of Carter’s workmen stumbled on an ancient set of steps which led to Tutankhamun’s tomb.’

‘Let’s see what we can find,’ O’Connor said with a grin, leading the way to the edge of the water. O’Connor and Aleta did a final negative pressure test, opened their cylinder valves and double checked the pressure on them, confirmed their oxygauges, and checked the bailout bottles and the buoyancy compensator low pressure inflators. O’Connor made the ‘O’ ring signal with his thumb and forefinger, the international diving signal for ‘I’m okay’. Aleta responded, and they disappeared beneath the smooth waters of the Mediterranean.

Aleta knew visibility could get down to less than a metre, but the weather had been kind, and although hazy, it was out to 30 metres or so, and O’Connor followed easily in the wake of Aleta’s bright yellow fins. They headed out the inlet where ubiquitous bream and other small species flitted past. Almost immediately, the first of thousands of broken pieces of Greek columns came into view, not far from where the massive statue of the Egyptian goddess Isis, the mother of Horus, the hawk-headed Egyptian god of war, had been recovered. It was here that the massive statue of Ptolemy that had once stood at the base of the Pharos lighthouse had also been recovered by marine archaeologists. Aleta changed direction to the north-east, and shortly afterward, a massive headless sphinx appeared, still sitting on the sandy bottom where it had lain for centuries. For the next hour the pair explored the obelisks, stone door posts from the Pharos lighthouse and Ptolemaic statues. Suddenly, Aleta froze, and turned, with one hand making a fin in front of her mask, the international signal for shark. O’Connor moved forward to protect her. A big great white had chosen this moment to put in a rare appearance off Alexandria. The shark started to circle, which was never a good sign, but it was not yet moving in a zigzag pattern, which O’Connor knew was an indication of an immediate attack. O’Connor unhurriedly motioned Aleta back to the sphinx. Both knew that sharks had tiny sensors in their snout and lower jaw that picked up electrical signals in the water that were caused by muscle contraction. To swim quickly at this point would be to mimic the signals of a wounded fish or seal.

The great white was now circling a metre from the bottom. With their backs to the ancient monument, O’Connor had limited the shark’s options to a frontal attack.

O’Connor moved his palm up and down, signalling Aleta to remain calm, and they watched the magnificent creature in awe. Even though it was over four metres long, and would have weighed over a tonne, its movements were unhurried and graceful. The torpedo-shaped shark was a deep grey on top, changing to white on the underbelly. Its huge round eyes were wide open, although just before an attack, the shark would roll them back into their sockets for protection.

The animal disappeared behind the blind side of the sphinx and the pair waited for it to reappear. O’Connor and Aleta had encountered great whites before, and while never a zen moment, both knew the shark’s preferred prey consisted of seals, dolphins and rays, which they usually attacked from below. Attacks on humans were almost always a case of mistaken identity – to a shark, a board rider with arms and legs extended could look like an elephant seal from below, but with over 3000 razor-sharp teeth, and a bite that exceeded one tonne of pressure per square inch, that was usually cold comfort to the board rider.

The animal appeared around the sphinx, closer now, and suddenly it charged, pectoral fins down and back arched in classic attack mode.

T
he low hills to the north of Corsica’s Figari Sud-Corse airfield flashed past the windows and the EVRAN Gulfstream G550 powered into a clear Mediterranean sky. The aircraft climbed quickly, banking to the left toward the Italian island of Sardinia, before setting a south-easterly course that would take it across the southern tip of Italy and on to Alexandria on Africa’s northern coast.

As soon as they reached cruising altitude, the steward appeared with Crowley’s customary croissants, percolated coffee and champagne.

‘Did you make any progress on getting us a scientist to debunk this climate change crap?’ Crowley asked Rachel who was seated in the plush leather chair opposite. ‘I’ve got a feeling this is going to be front and centre at the next presidential election, and we need someone with gravitas who can swing the voters against it.’

Rachel withdrew a folder from her soft leather attaché case. ‘Down to three candidates, but before we left, I received a report from Hernandez in Area 15. The most promising is a Professor Ahlstrom.’

‘The Swedish Nobel Laureate?’

‘One and the same – due to receive his prize in Stockholm next week for his groundbreaking work in nuclear physics.’

‘So why would someone like Ahlstrom be a candidate? He’s more likely to speaking out
against
fossil fuels?’

‘You need to look to the second page,’ said Rachel. ‘Area 15 has turned up some interesting data on our professor. Ahlstrom’s presently at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, which is about as prestigious as it gets, but as you can see from the report, our man has some interesting habits.’

A slow smile spread across Crowley’s face as he scanned Rachel’s report and the meticulous research from Area 15. ‘So even the Nobel’s ten million Swedish krona isn’t going to get this guy off the hook?’

Rachel shook her head. ‘And it’s not quite that much. The prize varies according to how much the committee has in the fund, and given the current sluggishness of world financial markets, it’s rumoured that this year it’ll be reduced to eight million krona, which is a little over a million dollars. But as you can see from the report, in between frequenting nuclear physics laboratories, our man Ahlstrom has expensive habits . . . mainly cocaine, gambling and high-priced call girls, and his wife’s just filed for what’s going to be a costly divorce. Vivienne Ahlstrom’s a well-regarded scientist in her own right, and until now, she’s turned a blind eye to Ahlstrom’s dalliances, but now the kids have left, apparently she just wants out.’

‘Can she be bought? If we go with this guy, we’ll need to settle this quickly.’

‘If you mean, “will she remain out of the spotlight?”, I think so. She’s already got someone else on the scene, so I think she’ll be happy to settle. Half the Nobel should do it, but she’ll want the house.’

‘Make sure she gets it.’ Crowley stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Homeless and up to his armpits in debt . . .’

Rachel nodded. ‘It will be a real coup if we can get Ahlstrom to switch camps. If a scientist of his reputation starts to rubbish climate change science, the rest of the world will listen. And I think it’s a better than even chance. The drug thugs and the banks are already circling.’

‘And the other two?’ Crowley asked, flicking through the remaining dossiers.

‘They’re possibilities, but they’re pretty clean. I’ve only included them because they’re both well known and like Ahlstrom, highly respected in the broader international scientific community, and from our point of view, they’d be pretty credible. But although both have had the odd affair, none of those are ongoing, and their finances are in much better shape, so the leverage for us isn’t nearly as strong.’

‘How much is it going to cost to bring Ahlstrom on board?’

‘One and a half million should get the drug barons, bookmakers and banks off his back, and if we offer him a place to stay – a town house should do it – then it’s a matter of how much he’ll want to jump off the climate ship.’

‘Half a million a year?’

Rachel frowned. ‘That might be a little generous. If you want me to negotiate though, I’ll keep that one in reserve.’

‘Let’s do it. As soon as this conference is over, get yourself up to Stockholm. I’ll have Prince Johan organise you a ticket for the Nobel ceremony,’ Crowley said, handing back the folder. Half a million a year would be money well spent, he thought. It was only a fraction of what he paid Rachel, but she was as ruthless as she was good in bed, and worth every dime.

‘And the security situation in Alexandria?’

‘The military are expecting protests, but that shouldn’t bother us. They’re mainly confined to the harbour foreshores.’

Crowley nodded, a satisfied look on his face. The more unrest there was in this part of the world, the more likely oil prices would rise.

The EVRAN corporate jet rolled to a stop on the south-west side of the runway at Alexandria’s Borg el Arab International Airport, away from the main terminal. In a measure of the power of the Pharos group, immigration and customs procedures that might take mere mortals and even government officials an hour or more were handled quickly and discreetly. Three black Mercedes were waiting on the tarmac: one for Crowley and Rachel, and two for Crowley’s personal bodyguards, several of whom were moonlighting members of the powerful Egyptian military.

A short distance after leaving the airport, the small convoy swept past the outlying areas of Al Hawwariyyah and Qaryat Shakush, already threatened by the advancing Sahara Desert to the west. The largest desert in the world was expanding at the rate of six kilometres a year, which over the next one hundred years would not only prove a problem for cities like Alexandria on the Nile delta, it would devastate many areas of the African continent itself – but that was not a thought Sheldon Crowley entertained. For the CEO of the world’s largest emitter, the chardonnay-swilling, leftie fluffballs who constantly advocated government taxes to eliminate climate change were a far bigger threat. They reached a large roundabout and turned right onto the Cairo–Alexandria Desert Road and the convoy weaved its way past rusted buses belching black smoke, ancient Soviet Lada taxis in their ubiquitous yellow and black livery, camels and rubber-wheeled horse-drawn carts of doubtful origin.

The convoy came to a halt outside the huge wrought-iron gates of the Kashta Palace, in the wealthy Somuha area to the south of the city. The palace, like many that had once belonged to Egypt’s King Farouk, had been used as a guesthouse for VIPs. The eighteenth-century building, modelled on the Palace of Versailles, had accommodation for up to forty guests, and for the Pharos Group, it was perfect. Secure and secluded, it was away from the troubles erupting on the Corniche, the waterfront promenade that ran around Alexandria’s harbour. And not only was the Kashta Palace removed from any disturbances, the fifty hectares of gardens made it almost impossible for anyone to eavesdrop on conversations as the participants strolled along the paths in breaks between briefings.

Rachel opened the window of the Mercedes and produced two passports. The guard snapped to attention and saluted.

‘
Ahlan wa sahlan, Sayad
 . . . welcome back, sir.’

Crowley waved dismissively, and the convoy moved up the long, gravel drive lined with palm trees. Between the Pharos meetings the palace was left vacant, guarded by a skeleton security staff; now, every hundred metres or so, the convoy passed detachments of the Pharos guards. Heavily armed with Heckler & Koch MP5 sub-machine guns with laser sights, earpieces in place and dressed in black, they were instantly recognisable. More were stationed around the perimeter of the gardens. The whole area was covered by CCTV, with security controlled from a command centre in the basement beside the extensive wine cellar. The convoy swept under the stone portico supported by magnificent stone pillars, topped with the carved faces of the pharaohs, from Tutankhamun to Ramesses II. Above the portico, on the third floor roof, more armed guards scanned the perimeter from behind the stone balustrades.

To the outside world, the existence of the shadowy, eponymous Pharos group was virtually unknown, and even those who had heard of it had no idea that Pharos himself was Sheldon Crowley. Next morning Pharos surveyed the fourteen men and one woman seated at the polished mahogany table of the conference room. They either controlled a substantial proportion of the world’s resources, or were in very strong positions of influence, or in many cases both. But no single member had the power to achieve a New World Order on their own. The membership had been carefully crafted to create a powerful hidden synergy. On the wall behind Pharos were two large, framed quotes:

‘Let me issue and control a nation’s money and
I care not who writes the laws.’

– Mayer Amschel Rothschild, 1744–1812,
founder of the House of Rothschild

Beside it was another framed quote:

‘Behind the ostensible government sits enthroned
an Invisible Government owing no allegiance and
acknowledging no responsibility to the people.’

– Theodore Roosevelt, 1858–1919,
twenty-sixth president of the United States

Together, the quotes encapsulated the ideology of the Pharos Group.

In front of each place at the table was a soft leather folder containing the participant’s confidential briefing notes on the current world financial situation and predictions for the movement of stocks and shares. The folders included secret information on the G7 governments of the US, the UK, Germany, France, Italy, Japan and Canada, as well as detailed notes on a rising Russia, China, India and Brazil, and predictions on the likelihood of political change.

‘Given the upheavals in the Middle East,’ Pharos began, ‘the world is more unstable than at any time since 1939, and that is something we intend to turn to our advantage. I am reminded of a statement by the thirty-third president of the United States, Harry S. Truman. In 1941, when he was a little-known senator from Missouri, he said, “If we see that Germany is winning we ought to help Russia, and if Russia is winning, we ought to help Germany, and that way let them kill as many as possible.” It is a strategy we can employ throughout the Middle East and beyond, as we move to gain ultimate power. That strategy is at Flag A of your briefing notes. Firstly, we need to take control of the world’s finances and stock exchanges; and secondly, we need our people at the top of the major political institutions. Any views?’

‘Fortunately for us, not many people know that the US Federal Reserve is owned by the banks and not the government.’ René du Bois, the tall, distinguished CEO of the world’s largest merchant banking group, spoke with a heavy French accent, and an air of authority. Much to Pharos’s displeasure, a small section of the French media was still pursuing the allegations made by the Filipina kitchen hand, but at least Du Bois’ lawyers had been successful in getting his passport returned.

‘We are already the major player in the Fed,’ said Du Bois, ‘but we need to increase our own holdings while we weaken the other banks to the point we can wipe them out, one by one. On the wider front, the key to control is
debt.
’ Du Bois paused to let his emphasis take hold. ‘As you’re well aware, when governments need money, they print money, buy their bonds and charge interest. The money goes into circulation via the banks, which create more money through customer loans, which goes into circulation through additional banks, which in turn repeat the process.
Debt
is the key to our control of the world money markets. We’re also in positions of influence at the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund, and through those organisations, we can impose much more debt on the developing countries to keep them in a position of subservience.’ Du Bois smirked. It was all so easy for those on the inside. Even those in positions of political power rarely understood who was really pulling the levers.

‘We, of course, need to continue to improve our position vis-à-vis our stock holdings, by manipulating the world’s stock markets. Nowhere have we been more successful in this manipulation than through this mythical war on terror,’ Du Bois continued, ‘especially in the Middle East. It’s this region that offers us the greatest opportunities to create chaos on the stock markets. Once the masses are enslaved through overwhelming debt, we can influence a change from capitalism and democracy to acceptance of our world government.’