The Alexandria Connection (3 page)

T
he Egyptian Museum of Antiquities was just across the street from where O’Connor and Aleta were staying at the Ramses Hilton on the eastern bank of the Nile.

‘My contact’s just texted me the carbon dating of the papyrus,’ Aleta said, as they crossed the road. ‘Matches Alexander the Great and Ptolemy I’s time . . . around 330 to 300 BC. It’s genuine!’ she whispered excitedly. When they arrived at the museum entrance, the director, Professor Hassan Badawi, his dark skin baked from countless hours exploring in the desert, was waiting to whisk them through security.

‘
Ahlan wa sahlan
 . . . welcome, welcome,’ Badawi said, kissing Aleta on both cheeks. ‘It’s been far too long, but I see from the papers you’ve been very busy . . . first the Maya Codex and now the lost city of Paititi. Magnificent achievements!’

‘You’re too kind, but I couldn’t have done any of it without this man, Hassan. Let me introduce you to my colleague, Doctor Curtis O’Connor.’

‘I’ve read so much about you, I feel I already know you, Doctor O’Connor,’ said Badawi, gripping O’Connor’s hand. ‘Come . . . follow me.’

‘What’s with the “Doctor”?’ O’Connor whispered as they followed Professor Badawi into the museum.

‘Credibility. You won’t get any points here for your assassination skills, but around archaeologists of Professor Badawi’s standing, even a doctorate on lethal viruses carries
some
weight.’

O’Connor gently dug her in the ribs.

‘So . . . what brings you to Cairo?’ Badawi asked, after tea had been served in his hundred-year-old office. Lined with books on Egyptology and archaeology, the office had housed directors since the museum was built in 1902. Behind Badawi’s desk there were photographs of him briefing various world leaders in front of the Great Pyramid of Giza, as well as one of him meeting the Pope in the Vatican.

Just down the corridor, the deputy director of the museum, Doctor Omar Aboud, adjusted the headphones connected to the listening device he’d installed in the director’s office.

‘We’re here on holidays. I was browsing in a papyrus factory in Alexandria, and I found this,’ said Aleta, opening the protective folder and extracting the papyrus that had been inscribed at least 3000 years before the birth of Christ, yet paralleled both the Christian doctrine and the life of the Christian saviour himself. She laid it out on Badawi’s desk.

Badawi picked up a magnifying glass, and it was some time before he spoke. ‘The Horus Papyrus . . . you’ve found the Horus Papyrus! The first time we’ve had a conclusive record of the extraordinary similarities between the religion of the ancients, and the stories in the Bible . . . it will cause an absolute furore among the Christians.’

O’Connor, who had long ago ditched organised religion, looked on with bemused interest at the excitement an archaeological religious discovery could ignite.

‘We’d like to donate it to your museum, Hassan, but on condition that you keep it quiet for the moment, because there’s something even more important we have to show you, and the last thing we want is media interest in what we’re after.’

‘That’s very kind of you. I’ll make sure it’s secured in the vault until we make the announcement . . . but you have something more important than the Horus Papyrus?’ said Badawi, a look of both surprise and excitement on his face.

Aleta extracted the photo of the papyrus map she and O’Connor had taken. ‘Just before we left Peru, I came across an original edition of Howard Carter’s book on the tomb of Tutankhamun, so I bought it . . . and this was being used as a bookmark.’ Aleta handed a photo of the papyrus map to Professor Badawi.

The professor studied it in silence. ‘Where did you say you bought this?’ he asked finally, ‘because this may be a very important find.’

‘So you think what’s in that photograph might be a genuine map?’ Aleta asked.

‘The layout and the Greek language all point to that,’ Professor Badawi replied, ‘and if this is a photograph of it, it means the original document has been found. Where did you say you bought the book?’

‘Unfortunately, it was from a roadside stall in Lima, and that’s going to be difficult to trace, but I’ll do what I can.’

‘As Aleta will attest,’ said O’Connor, ‘ancient civilisations are not my long suit. I have to confess I don’t know a lot about the Library of Alexandria, but as well as giving us a location, might this throw some light on what happened to it?’

Professor Badawi smiled. ‘It’s entirely possible. Alexander didn’t get to see his own library – it was left to one of his generals, Ptolemy I, and subsequent pharaohs to build and stock it – but we do know that Alexander wanted all the works of the nations he conquered to be translated into Greek and housed under the one roof.’

‘When Alexander conquered Egypt,’ Aleta added, ‘Alexandria was a logical choice for a new centre of both Hellenism and world trade. It had a natural harbour, a good supply of water, and an existing colony of Greek-speaking Macedonians.’

‘Precisely,’ Badawi agreed, ‘and Ptolemy I and those pharaohs that followed in the Ptolemaic dynasty were determined to make Alexandria
the
centre of learning and culture in a panhellenic world.’ Badawi’s dark eyes twinkled with enthusiasm for one of his favourite subjects. ‘So we’re not only concerned with what might have happened to the library,’ Badawi continued, ‘but also with what was in it . . . possibly as many as 700 000 papyrus scrolls, including the personal library of Aristotle which found its way to Alexandria from Athens.’

‘And some very famous scholars studied there,’ said Aleta, turning toward O’Connor. ‘Archimedes, Herophilus, Saint Catherine – who was beheaded for her Christian beliefs by the Roman Emperor Maxentius – and Euclid.’

Badawi nodded. ‘Intriguingly, some of Euclid’s original papyri have since been found at a place called Oxyrhynchus or modern day al Bahnasa, which is about 150 kilometres to the south of here on the west bank of the Nile,’ he explained, ‘so it’s more than possible that documents from the Great Library found their way into the desert, and were not lost at all.’

‘I thought Julius Caesar burned it?’ said O’Connor, smiling disarmingly.

‘My colleague is a great fan of Elizabeth Taylor, Hassan,’ said Aleta apologetically.

Badawi rolled his eyes. ‘Hollywood has a lot to answer for,’ he said. ‘Ever since
Cleopatra
hit the screen, Caesar – who was it that played him?

‘Rex Harrison,’ O’Connor offered.

‘Thank you – Rex Harrison. Ever since Rex Harrison and Elizabeth Taylor tangled lips on the big screen, Caesar’s been blamed for not putting out the fire he started when he wanted to wipe out the Egyptian fleet in the harbour. I suspect that far from being destroyed on the night of the harbour fire, the destruction of the library occurred over many centuries, and that much of its content is still to be discovered. And we have to remember that there was more than one library. The library everyone talks about was part of the
musaeum
complex of the city, but there was also a daughter library in the Serapeum Temple, which was built by Ptolemy III as a dedication to the god Serapis – a Greek and Egyptian god who was the protector of Alexandria. The daughter library held hundreds of thousands of papyri as well.’

‘I plan to show him the ruins while we’re in Alexandria,’ Aleta affirmed.

Badawi nodded approvingly. ‘There’s nothing left above the ground, of course, other than the column of Diocletian which stands on top of the original site, but archaeologists have excavated the area and you will see the recesses in the walls where the papyrus books were stored.’

‘So what happened to that library?’ asked O’Connor.

‘Pope Theophilus ordered it destroyed in around 391 AD . . . not the first time the church has burned books that threaten its rigid dogma,’ Badawi added ruefully.

‘Would papyrus survive this long?’ asked O’Connor.

‘Depends where and how it’s kept. The whole area of Alexandria was subject to repeated earthquakes and tidal waves, which is why so much of the ancient city is now beneath the sea, and papyrus, of course, would not survive in water unless it was in a very tightly sealed container. But out in the desert . . . that’s another matter,’ Badawi said. ‘The dry climate out there helps to preserve ancient papyri, and we only have to look at what’s been found at al Bahnasa to confirm that. After the British took over Egypt in 1883, two young British archaeologists, Bernard Grenfell and Arthur Hunt, started to excavate around al Bahnasa and they discovered layers of papyri beneath the rubbish of the more recent occupants: thousands of priceless documents written by Euripides, Sophocles and other authors of the Greek tragedies, along with the most complete set of Euclid’s mathematical diagrams yet found. It’s one of the most important archaeological sites in the whole of Egypt and some archaeologists were hopeful it might even turn up the Euclid Papyrus.’

Aleta nodded. The average guy in the street would not likely have heard of the papyrus, but like the Ark of the Covenant, it was one of those prizes archaeologists could only dream of finding. ‘I’ve been on the lookout for that for years.’

‘The Euclid Papyrus?’ O’Connor asked.

‘Said to have been written by the father of geometry about the same time he wrote
The Elements
in 300 BC – a treatise on the real reason the pyramids were built,’ Badawi replied. ‘There’s fierce debate in academic circles as to whether that’s a myth, or whether the Papyrus actually exists, although if it did, there would almost certainly have been a copy in the Great Library. For some years, there’s been a rumour around the souks about a fragment that was supposedly sold on the black market, but we’ve never had any proof of that.’ Badawi smiled. ‘As Aleta knows only too well, Egyptology is full of intrigue. The Horus Papyrus might be a threat to Christianity, but if what’s rumoured to be in the Euclid Papyrus is true, it may turn academic scholarship on the Pyramids of Giza on its head.’

As Badawi escorted them out of his office, his deputy was walking toward them.

‘My deputy, Doctor Omar Aboud,’ said Badawi, introducing them. O’Connor was immediately on alert. The gangly Aboud had avoided eye contact, and although not definitive, it could mean Aboud had something to hide.

‘T
he Tutankhamun mask would be very difficult to steal, signore.’

‘But not impossible.’

‘Nothing is impossible, signore . . . for a price.’ Zachary Rubinstein’s dark eyes glinted in the half-light of the cluttered back room of his art gallery.

Galleria d’Arte Rubinstein was located off the open square of the Campo del Ghetto Nuovo, the Jewish quarter of the Cannaregio region of northern Venice, not far from Venice’s railway terminal and the Canal Grande. The quarter had a rich, but tragic history. In 1516, under the Venetian Republic, Jews had been compelled to live in what was now the oldest Jewish ghetto in the world.

The old art dealer scrutinised his wealthy visitor. His client’s thinning silver hair was combed straight back without a part, curling over the collar of a Borrelli shirt. He had an aquiline nose, distinguished sideburns, and a neatly trimmed silver beard and moustache. His round, red face and double chin were indicators of an extravagant life, which made age difficult to judge, but Rubinstein thought his client to be around sixty and he knew well that he was dealing with Sheldon Crowley, the chairman of EVRAN, the largest energy and arms conglomerate on the planet.

‘Shall we say ten million euros on account, and one hundred million on delivery?’

It was a standard arrangement for every illicit artifact Crowley had purchased from Rubinstein, and Crowley pushed a briefcase across the gnarled wooden table. Rubinstein opened it to find one hundred packets, each containing two hundred used €500 notes. In 2010, British banks had banned the high-value euro notes after finding that nine out of ten were linked to organised crime and terrorism, but Rubinstein’s client favoured them for the same reason as his colleagues in organised crime: they took up far less space than US $100 bills.

‘You can count it if you wish. It’s all there.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Rubinstein, smiling thinly as he closed the briefcase. He would count it later. In the past, it had always been there, right down to the last euro. ‘In the meantime, I have some information that may interest you. You have heard of the Rhind Papyrus?’

‘Of course. I’ve not only heard of it, I’ve seen it, although like a lot of priceless Egyptian artifacts, it’s not located in Egypt but in a museum with high-grade security, which makes artifacts like that much harder to get hold of,’ the client added pointedly. ‘Apart from a few fragments held by the Brooklyn Museum in New York, most of the Rhind Papyrus is held by the British Museum in London. If I recall correctly, it was looted from Pharaoh Ramesses II’s temple, and it’s still the best example of Egyptian mathematics found to date.’

Rubinstein nodded. ‘It’s the earliest record in the history of mathematics, and it contains the means of inquiring into the world’s secrets, but . . .’

The old Jewish art dealer paused, choosing his words carefully. ‘You may not be aware there is a companion, the whereabouts of which have remained a mystery.’ Rubinstein watched the colour drain from the client’s face.

‘The Euclid Papyrus?’ Like his co-conspirator in Pakistan, Crowley was not only an avid collector of stolen masters, but he too had a passion for Egyptology and Egyptian artifacts, and he was instantly on alert. If what was alleged to be in it turned out to be true, for Crowley, that spelled extraordinary danger.

‘I thought the Euclid Papyrus vanished with the Library of Alexandria?’

‘The media and most Egyptologists think so too,’ Rubinstein replied, his lined and weathered face devoid of emotion, ‘but I have a contact in the Egyptian Museum in Cairo.’ Rubinstein trusted no one, and he stopped short of naming the museum’s shadowy deputy director. ‘The director has had a visit from two people, one of whom has been on the lookout for it for years. They’ve apparently discovered a map of the ancient city of Alexandria, or at least a photograph of one.’

‘And who are these two people?’ Crowley demanded.

‘Curtis O’Connor and a Doctor Aleta Weizman. You may have heard of them?’

‘I seem to remember reading something about them,’ Crowley lied. Weizman and O’Connor’s search for artifacts in the jungles of Guatemala and the Amazon had already attracted his attention, and he had noted Weizman’s interest in the Maya, the Inca and the Egyptians. ‘Are they the ones who unearthed the Maya Codex in Guatemala?’

Rubinstein nodded. ‘Weizman is a world-renowned archaeologist – originally from Guatemala, with an extensive knowledge of ancient cultures.’

‘And O’Connor?’ Crowley probed, keen to know how much Rubinstein knew.

‘He’s a CIA agent.’

‘I can understand an archaeologist having an interest in the Library of Alexandria . . . but a CIA agent? What’s the connection?’

‘We’re not sure. They’ve operated together before, although this time they may be just holidaying. O’Connor – how shall I put it – has a fair bit of form in the bedroom, and Weizman’s pretty easy on the eye, so taking some time off in Alexandria might not be significant. And they’re both keen divers, so their choice of country may reflect the proximity of the Mediterranean. On the other hand . . .’ Rubinstein’s voice trailed off.

Crowley made a mental note to direct his executive assistant, Rachel Bannister, to compile dossiers on the pair.

‘Strange they’ve chosen to holiday in Egypt . . . the place is going up in smoke,’ Crowley said, more intrigued than ever.

Rubinstein shrugged. ‘I don’t think a few protests in Tahrir Square or on the streets of Alexandria would worry those two. They seem to know how to handle themselves.’

‘Is it possible they have a lead, not only on the Library of Alexandria, but the Euclid Papyrus as well?’

‘I’m not absolutely sure,’ said Rubinstein, ‘but if they unearth the old library, it’s possible it contains a copy of the Euclid Papyrus, and that would rival the discovery of Tutankhamun’s tomb.’ Given his client’s request, Rubinstein’s comment held more than a touch of irony, but if Crowley recognised it, he showed no sign.

‘Where’s the map now? Did anyone make a copy?’ Crowley demanded.

‘Not as far as we know. The director of the Cairo Museum, Professor Hassan Badawi, and Doctor Weizman are old friends, so in the event that she and O’Connor do uncover the fate of the library, and perhaps even more importantly, the Euclid Papyrus, Weizman would undoubtedly have assured Badawi that he would be the first to know.’

Crowley fell silent, his mind racing. ‘Keep me informed, both on the Tutankhamun mask and the Euclid Papyrus,’ he said finally, getting to his feet.

‘Of course,’ Rubinstein replied, and he accompanied his client to the gallery door, which opened on to a narrow cobblestone alley.

Crowley crossed the Campo del Ghetto Nuovo square to the Calle Ghetto Vecchio bridge, one of many hundreds enabling Venetians to cross the myriad small canals that defined the city. A long, narrow barge approached, loaded with mineral water and other staples, and the helmsman manoeuvred it under the bridge and on past two shiny black and gold gondolas. Irritated by the throngs of tourists, Crowley pushed his way along the narrow bridge, past kosher restaurants, and bakeries advertising Jewish cakes,
Specialita: Dolci Ebraici della tradizione Veneziana.
Aromas of baked bread mixed with freshly ground coffee permeated the air but Crowley was never in a mood to dally. He reached the wider Fondamenta Pescaria, crossed another canal and headed toward the Canal Grande where his Super Aquarama speedboat was waiting, polished mahogany glinting in the afternoon sun.

As soon as Crowley was seated, his boatman, black cap at a rakish angle, released the painter from the red and white striped mooring pole beside the jetty. Centuries before, the colours had represented the families who owned them, but now, the ‘barber poles’ simply added another colourful backdrop to the ancient maritime city.

The twin V8 Chrysler engines throbbed into life and the boatman eased into the seemingly impossible traffic that plied Venice’s canals. Cream and green
vaporetti,
the ferries that formed the mainstay of the Venetian transport system, fought for right of way among water taxis and lighters, barges and gondolas, and the boatman throttled back to allow a vaporetto dell’arte to pass. More comfortable than the normal vaporetti, the vaporetto dell’arte carried tourists from Ferrovia at the Santa Lucia train station, down the grand canal to San Marco Piazza and the Giardini jetty, allowing them to visit the Peggy Guggenheim Collection, La Fenice Opera Theatre, the Doge’s Palace and a host of other museums and galleries.

The speedboat surged toward the western industrial end of the canal, leaving behind centuries-old buildings that boasted a rich compendium of Byzantine, Ottoman, Phoenician, Renaissance and Baroque architecture, alongside the Venetian Gothic style and the ubiquitous lancet arch of the elegant
palazzi
lining the canal. The boat passed under the rail bridge and the Ponte Della Libertà, the bridge opened by Benito Mussolini in 1933 to provide road access from the mainland, but that traffic was restricted to the western edge of the city. No cars were allowed in the centre of Venice itself. The boatman glanced around. The familiar blue and white
polizia
boats of the Venice water police were nowhere in sight. He ignored the 20 km/h limits for the
Leguna Veneta,
and opened the throttles. The superbly maintained engines roared into life and Crowley’s silvery-grey locks streamed in the wind as the boat planed to 50 knots, powering north toward Venice’s Marco Polo airport where Crowley’s private jet, a long range Gulfstream G550, was waiting to take him to Corsica.

Crowley stared unseeingly across the lagoon, the boat’s deep leather seats cushioning his ride. His thoughts turned to the Rhind Papyrus and its companion, the Euclid Papyrus. Unbeknown to the Jewish art dealer, Crowley had already acquired a priceless fragment of the Euclid Papyrus from an even less reputable dealer in one of the souks in Cairo. A competent Egyptologist in his own right, Crowley had been able to decipher some of the hieroglyphics, and it had been enough to send a chill down his spine.

The Euclid Papyrus purported to contain details of the real reason behind the construction of the pyramids. But Crowley only had a fragment, and some of it had been encoded. The Greeks and the Romans, Crowley knew, were the first to employ encryption aggressively, but the Egyptians and Mesopotamians had also used codes. A Babylonian tablet, dating as far back as 2500 BC, contained words from which the first consonant had been deleted. Most of the ancient codes, by today’s standards of encryption, were relatively simple, but the Euclid fragment had stubbornly refused to yield its secret, one that had the potential to threaten Crowley’s vast fossil-fuel, forest and arms empire. The need to decrypt the fragment was now urgent, he reflected, and the recovery of the rest of the papyrus even more urgent. But if Rubinstein was right, O’Connor and Weizman might lead him to it.

Crowley extracted a ‘clean’ mobile phone from his soft leather attaché case. He typed in a short text and sent it to General Khan. Short or not, it was a text he would come to regret.