The Alexandria Connection (35 page)

O
’Connor had no way of knowing how far the tunnel went, but a cardinal rule of diving forbade cave exploration on his own, and he set his dive computer and began the slow ascent to the surface. The deeper the dive, the more nitrogen would be absorbed into his bloodstream, exacerbated by the time spent at depth. Decompression sickness, commonly known as ‘the bends’, resulted from not making stops in an ascent to reduce the pressure of the nitrogen dissolved in the body.

He eventually reached the surface, removed his mouthpiece and called back up the shaft to Aleta. ‘Okay, lower the tanks down, and then follow . . . but take it easy on the rope.’

Aleta lowered two foam-lined tanks that had been made to look like cylinders of air.

When Aleta reached him, he said quietly, ‘I’ve found a linking tunnel at 25 metres. I’ll lead.’

Aleta put her fins on and followed O’Connor into the depths of the well.

O’Connor reached the linking tunnel and hammered a steel peg into the rock, to which he fastened the end of a guideline from a dispenser on his belt. More than one diver had died swimming into what seemed like a single tunnel, only to turn around hundreds of metres later and be confronted with a maze of passageways, with no way of determining which one led to the exit.

O’Connor and Aleta exchanged the thumb and forefinger ‘o-ring’. O’Connor checked his air pressure and made a mental note to leave at least two thirds of the remaining air for the exit. It was yet another rule for what was easily the most dangerous form of diving. They made their way along a passage that from time to time expanded into small flooded caverns formed out of the natural rock, but it wasn’t until they were almost 500 metres in that they came to a much larger cave. O’Connor pointed upwards to where the torch light picked up empty recesses cut into the rocks just below the surface of the water. Aleta followed O’Connor and they broke the surface to find themselves in a large subterranean cavern.

‘
Mon Dieu!
’ Aleta exclaimed.

‘The Hall of Records?’

‘Very possibly, but any papyri that were not stored in waterproof urns would long since have deteriorated.’ She gazed around in wonderment. ‘Look! Up there!’ she said excitedly. ‘Someone’s gone to the same trouble they went to in Alexandria.’

O’Connor followed Aleta’s gaze to where a number of urns had been stored in the recesses above a ledge. O’Connor heaved himself up and helped Aleta out of the water.

‘There are inscriptions here,’ Aleta said, after they’d taken off their rebreathers, ‘but they’re in ancient Greek, not hieroglyphics.’ Aleta ran her eye over the carvings on the bottom of each recess. ‘Every space has a different author, but it’s the date that’s interesting . . . they’re all marked 31 BC.’

‘What’s the significance?’ O’Connor asked.

‘The battle of Actium,’ said Aleta. ‘In September of that year the Roman Senate declared war on Cleopatra because of the influence she wielded over Marc Antony. Antony had given her several of the eastern Roman territories, the so-called Donations of Alexandria, and a furious Senate threw its support behind his rival, Octavian,’ she said. ‘Octavian went on to defeat Antony and Cleopatra in a naval engagement on the Ionian Sea near the city of Actium in what is now Greece.’

‘So what’s the connection? I know that Octavian was the founder of the Roman Empire, but beyond that . . .’

‘We’ll make an historian out of you yet! But it’s not the history of Rome that makes the inscription of the dates important, it’s what was happening in
Alexandria
in 31 BC. After Octavian’s victory, the librarians in Alexandria feared retribution from Octavian’s advancing forces. In the end, Octavian’s takeover of Alexandria was relatively peaceful, but they had no way of predicting that, so when Antony and Cleopatra committed suicide, the librarians smuggled the library’s prize collections overland to Giza, probably by camel train.’

‘Prize collections?’

‘Look at the catalogue of names here,’ she said, pointing to the markings on the recesses. ‘Eratosthenes was the library’s third librarian and is credited with calculating the circumference of the earth. He produced the first map of the world based on the knowledge of the day . . . wrote numerous treatises, and I suspect there are copies of them in that urn,’ she said, staring at the ancient receptacle. ‘Archimedes . . . probably one of the most famous of the ancient mathematicians, and the discoverer of
pi.
And look . . . Aristarchus, the first person to state the earth revolves around the sun, a full 1800 years before Copernicus. And here!’ she said excitedly. ‘Euclid!’

‘Just two urns for him,’ said O’Connor, ‘and one a little larger than the other.’

Aleta’s face was flushed with excitement. ‘We have to take these back to the surface!’

O’Connor looked at his watch. ‘I doubt Professor Badawi has too much of an idea of diving tables, but it’s time we returned, in case he sounds an alarm. We don’t want the eyes of the world on this just yet, and not a word about this, especially in front of Aboud.’

Aleta’s disappointment showed clearly on her face. ‘I suppose so,’ she said, scanning the rest of the as-yet-unexplored recesses.

‘We’ll just tell them the passage was interesting, and we’ll need to bring down a longer supply of air to explore it further.’

‘We’ll have to tell Badawi . . . we can’t possibly not.’

‘But not in front of his deputy. I’ve done some background checks on this guy . . . let’s just say he’s not what he seems.’

Aleta nodded resignedly. O’Connor’s was a shadowy world, she knew, but she had long ago learned to trust this extraordinary man.

‘We’ll hide these urns in our satchels,’ O’Connor said, ‘and we can bring Badawi into the picture later.’

O’Connor carefully removed the urns, and placed them in the foam-lined tanks.

Back in the Montgomery suite, O’Connor pulled the curtains on the view of the Great Pyramid and on any prying eyes, and switched on the lights.

Not for the first time, Aleta’s heart raced as she put on a pair of white gloves, ran her knife around the pitch seal on the larger urn and carefully prised open the lid. Just as carefully, she extracted the contents, two leather pouches, and opened the first of them.

‘An original copy of
The Elements
! Or at least the first three books of it,’ she exclaimed, quickly translating the Greek.

‘And I’m betting that the other pouches contain the rest of it. Quite a find. A first edition, so to speak,’ O’Connor said with a grin.

Aleta turned her attention to the smaller of the two urns, and after painstakingly removing the lid, she extracted the contents. ‘Just a single leather pouch.’ She slowly unravelled it, and laid the papyrus from within on the table.

T
he mists drifted silently through the trees. Ruger checked the silencer on his M110 sniper rifle and crept toward the house, keeping to the shadows. Fifty metres from the back door, he laid the rifle behind a large cottonwood tree, checked the garotte in his pocket, and approached the back deck. He crept up the wooden steps, and moved toward the door. The sounds of country music were drifting from the living room. Through the curtains, he could see his well-endowed quarry. Abigail was in her kitchen, preparing supper. Ruger checked the lock on the French doors, only to find they were fitted with an old-style mortice lock. Prepared for any contingency, he selected a set of keys from his satchel. At least the music would shroud the sounds of the lock jigglers, he thought, as he tried first one, then another. It wasn’t until the fourth jiggler that he felt the lock give.

Susan Murkowski paid the cab driver, and looked around. The mists among the cottonwoods were eerie, and she felt a sudden shiver down her spine. Murkowski felt for her iPhone, checked it had reception, and then switched it to silent. She walked up the long driveway and pressed the old-fashioned ceramic bell push.

Ruger swore softly as he heard the doorbell. He pulled the jiggler from the lock and withdrew into the shadows.

Abigail looked through the peephole. Recognising Murkowski, she opened the door.

‘Susan? I’m Abigail Roxburgh. Come in, and thank you for coming all this way,’ Roxburgh said nervously, leading the way in.

‘Your text didn’t say much, but if the polls for Davis are anything to go by, we might be talking about the next president of the United States, and that’s important.’

‘And it’s that possibility that is worrying me sick. Davis is not all he seems. I’ve brewed some coffee, and we can have it in here,’ Abigail said, turning the music down, ‘but it’s always nice to sit out on the back deck, even though it’s misty.’

The voices carried clearly, and Ruger withdrew down the back stairs and quickly retraced his steps toward the trees, pondering his options. He knew Crowley would be none too pleased if the target spilled the beans before he got to her.

‘Misty is good . . . although it’s quite eerie,’ said Murkowski, following Abigail out on to the deck. ‘You don’t get nervous out here? The neighbours seem a ways away?’

‘Not really,’ said Abigail, taking one of the padded wooden deck chairs while Murkowski took the other. ‘At least not up until now. But let me start at the beginning. Governor Davis and I . . .’

Ruger braced the M110 sniper rifle against the big cottonwood tree and adjusted the AN/PVS night sight, which gave him a magnification of 8.5x. He held the crosshairs on Abigail’s temple and slowly squeezed the trigger.

Murkowski screamed as blood sprayed all over her and the deck. About to vomit, she held her hand to her mouth and dropped to the decking, suddenly realising she too might be in the sights of an assassin. She groped for her iPhone, entered her code and dialled 911. Beyond the trees she heard a car start.

‘Fuck,’ Ruger swore, as he risked the lights and drove quickly down the dirt track. Gaining River Drive, he could hear the sirens in the distance. He turned into Glacier Drive and headed toward the safety of the heavier traffic on Bitterroot Road.

Hours later, Murkowski composed herself as she prepared to go to air for the late-night bulletin.

‘You okay, Murk?’ her producer asked.

‘Bit shaken up, but I’ll be fine.’

‘And in five, four, three, two, one . . .’

‘And we cross live to Susan Murkowski in Lolo, Montana, for breaking news,’ the evening announcer began. ‘A shocking murder tonight, Susan.’

Rachel Bannister was watching in San Francisco. She texted Crowley and Davis to switch on CNC as she listened with increasing alarm.

‘I gather Ms Roxburgh was on Governor Davis’s staff,’ the announcer continued, ‘and before she was killed, she texted you saying she had some information on the governor that you needed to hear . . . Was there anything in your discussion that might give an indication as to why she was shot?’

Rachel made a note of the three most damaging statements reported by Murkowski: ‘worries me sick’; ‘Governor Davis not all he seems’; and ‘Governor Davis and I’. The last was not difficult – other than refuting what the tabloid media might make of it. She pondered her options. Far better to hold a media conference now, rather than let the media make up their own stories. Properly handled, this was a grass fire that could be put out. But who was behind it? Rachel had a terrible feeling she knew. Crowley was a ruthless businessman, but would that ruthlessness extend to this? Ever since she’d been excluded from the conversation with Ruger – a man with a record and a shady past – Rachel had felt the first pangs of fear in the pit of her stomach. Perhaps it was time to confront Crowley, but for the moment there was a more urgent task at hand.

The story had spread very quickly, and Rachel waited for the huge throng of journalists to settle at the press conference, before introducing Governor Davis.

As coached, Davis was on message. ‘Firstly, my heart goes out to the family and friends of Abigail Roxburgh in what has been a tragedy for them, and for the state of Montana,’ he began. ‘Abigail was a loyal, hard-working employee,’ he continued, reading from the dot points Rachel had prepared, ‘and she will be sadly missed. She will be forever in our prayers.’

Rachel had deliberately kept the opening statement short, banking on the journalists asking the leading questions. She wasn’t disappointed, as ten journalists shouted at once.

‘One at a time, please,’ said Davis, showing the results of Rachel’s intensive training. ‘Yes,’ he said, indicating the attractive young journalist in the front row.

‘Governor Davis, what do you think Ms Roxburgh meant when she said your probable win on Tuesday “worried her sick”?’

Davis nodded, maintaining the grave look Rachel made him rehearse. ‘When I left Montana to announce my candidacy for this great office, Abigail – Ms Roxburgh – who was on my staff, asked to see me, and she was in tears in my office. Her exact words were, “Governor Davis, I am so worried. The greatest leaders in this country are so often assassinated . . . and I keep thinking about Kennedy. You’ve been —” and forgive me, but these were her exact words, “you’ve been the best governor Montana has ever had, and you would make a great president, but it worries me sick that an assassin’s bullet has your name on it.” I have no doubt that in contacting Ms Murkowski, Ms Roxburgh was trying to sound yet another warning to me. Let me say, I have the greatest faith in this country’s Secret Service. They are the best in the world. Yes . . . over here,’ Davis said, choosing an older male journalist, with a body that reflected hard living. At his first media conference, Rachel had been furious. The first ten questions had gone to attractive females.

‘So what do you think she meant when she said, “Governor Davis is not all he seems”?’

Rachel had anticipated the question and she’d coached him, not only in the verbal response, but the equally important body language. Davis allowed himself a grim smile.

‘That was something else that, on more than one occasion, Abigail – Ms Roxburgh – had said to me. If I remember her words correctly, they were along the lines of “Governor Davis, you’re not at all what you seem. You give the impression to the public that you’re a knock-about guy, and they love you for that” – and again, you will have to forgive me, because this is not a time for political statements, but she followed that up with something about me being as sharp as a tack, and that the people loved me because I
seemed
to be one of them. Her exact words were, “behind the scenes, you’re always putting your intellect up against those who might be out to take advantage of ordinary, hard-working Montanans.” I will miss her more than words can say,’ Davis said, pulling a white handkerchief from his pocket. As coached, he dabbed at his eyes.

‘So who do you think might have had a grudge against Ms Roxburgh, Governor?’ Rachel had planted the question with one of the Omega Centauri hacks.

‘As far as I know, Ms Roxburgh didn’t have an enemy in the world. She was
always
willing to help those less fortunate than herself. That said, we have made some tough decisions in Montana, decisions that focus on jobs and the economy, and we’ve been tough on graft and corruption, and those on the wrong side of the law resent that. I only hope Ms Roxburgh has not paid the ultimate price for being a loyal member of my staff.’

Crowley flicked off the television and buzzed Miranda to summon Reid.

‘I want round-the-clock surveillance on these three people,’ he said, handing the head of Area 15 a list with three names on it: Emma Cooper, Brooklyn Murphy and Harper Scott. ‘I want to know who they call, who they text, where they go, when they fart, and if there’s even an inkling of them giving an interview on the Republican presidential candidate, Carter Davis, you’re to call me . . . even if it’s three a.m.’