Текст книги "Keystone"

Автор книги: Luke Talbot

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 36 страниц)

Chapter 31

The rain came down in waves, lashing the flat sides of the tall building again and again. Bright halogen beams cut through the darkness from their source along the roofline of the building, reflecting against the drops of falling water on their way to the ground. A simple white door was the only noteworthy feature of the plain white walls. A group of tall palms bowed under the forces of nature, their flexible bodies saving them from the worst of the hurricane.  In the distance, the roar of the disturbed sea was hardly perceptible above the sound of the rushing wind.

At the side of the building, a white van sat purring in the darkness, its headlamps dipped, waiting.

“So much for global warming,” the driver said, resentfully.

The percussive fall of rain on the van’s roof was almost incessant, save for the short bursts of very strong wind, when the water would be whipped back into the air before it had the chance to hit.

His passenger shivered and tucked his hands deeper into his coat pockets. “Warmer for some, though, isn’t it? Otherwise where do you think all this would be coming from?”

They both stared into the building’s courtyard and contemplated this. Suddenly, as if on cue, the driver turned off the engine and the heating. “Here comes another one, let’s get out of here.” He switched off the headlamps and rested his hand on the door release.

Outside, the howling wind reached its terrifying crescendo then dulled, the threat of its return lying oppressively in the air.

The men jerked open the van’s doors and slammed them shut behind them. As they ran towards the small door in the side of the building, the driver pointed his arm behind him and pressed a button on his keys, rewarded by the quick chirp of the van’s central locking system. His passenger had already reached the wall and was pressing the intercom button repeatedly.

The door gave a loud buzz and they pulled it open in unison. They were barely through the opening when the wind made its return, violently slamming the door behind them and making the frame shake.  They had been outside for a few short seconds, and yet they were soaked through to the skin. The passenger stood motionless with his legs apart, leaning his body forwards and holding his arms out to his sides, frozen in the posture of a man who has just been punched in the stomach.

“My God!” he exclaimed.  The water had already left his hairless scalp and most of it had made its way to his bearded chin, from where it dribbled to the floor with a patter.

They found themselves in a short corridor with another door at the far end, also secured by an intercom.

The driver shook his arms before running his hands through his short hair. “And to think people come here to retire.” He stopped in the middle of unzipping his coat. “Your bag?”

The passenger looked in disbelief at his own empty hands. He turned his head back towards the door and the raging storm outside. “Damn.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” he gaped, still halfway between taking his coat off and reluctantly putting it back on again. “I don’t get paid enough for this! Here, take my keys, you can go and get it.”

A few moments later, the passenger burst through the small door again, this time holding a satchel against his chest.

“Time for a drink,” he said.

“In this place? I think machine coffee is about as good as it gets!”

They walked towards the second door hastily and the passenger pressed the intercom button once.

“Coffee it is then,” he said.

Seth Mallus, dressed in an immaculate black suit, crisp white shirt and light blue silk tie, sat in a large executive chair at a large executive desk. In front of him, a letter-size notepad sat exactly perpendicular to the edge of the desk. A Mont Blanc pen lay on the pad, aligned to the margin, in which the day’s date had been written neatly and underlined: November 9^th, 2045.

“Dr Patterson, how are things progressing?” he said to the dishevelled man who sat opposite him in jeans and short-sleeved shirt.

Patterson had been in the facility for barely half an hour, the time to quickly dry off, change and grab a terrible coffee, before their meeting had begun. He brought his hand to his chin and played with his beard briefly. It was well kept, but the silver-grey hue added at least a decade to his fifty-six years.

“Here are the latest transcripts, with the translations.” He slid the paper across the table. “They are consistent with the other transcripts; whatever happened to these –” he hesitated before saying the word, “– people, there was nothing they could do to stop it.”  He flicked through his notes. “There is a lifetime of work here,” he gestured to the small folder on the table in front of him.

Mallus leaned forward in his chair and fixed his eyes intently on the man. “A lifetime can be long or short, Dr Patterson. You have been studying these texts for years now. How long will it take before you find out what I need to know?”

He swallowed hard and tried to avoid the steely gaze. “Some of the material is very clear as you’ve seen, but most parts make no sense at all. Context is everything, and in this regard I need assistance from someone more specialised in the field.” He put his hand on the folder and opened it. “Otherwise, it would take at least another two years for me to decipher it in its entirety, if at all.”

“Then I will need to find you some help.” Mallus paused and looked across at the transcripts in front of him. “We have experienced some unexpected setbacks that have already subjected this project to a great deal more risk than we anticipated. I need to be sure that you understand how important it is that this work remains secret, Dr Patterson.” His cold eyes met the scientist’s across the table. “I know how you academics work, and I know that you like to bounce ideas around the community. But for this project, the community is comprised of you and me. Do not seek contact from anyone else, I will send someone to you,” he ordered.

“Sure,” he muttered, “I understand.”

Mallus relaxed his gaze. “The cliché tells us that time is money, but you will understand more than anyone that in this case, a lot more is at stake. You will get the help you need, and in return you will provide me with the answers I want, quickly.” He smiled and leant back in his chair. “And as for getting our hands on more context,” he continued, “we’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed, won’t we?”

Dr Patterson nodded his head in agreement as he moved his eyes slowly across the hieroglyphs on the pages in front of him.

“On a positive note,” he said happily, “the Mars mission is bearing fruit. They have uncovered a jetty of some sort, which I think you’ll find interesting and may help you further.”

“A jetty?” Patterson queried.

“Indeed. I would suggest that you make your way through to Mission Control straight away.”

After Patterson had gone, Seth Mallus browsed through a series of résumés on his computer display.

He wasn’t happy bringing more help in: keeping things running smoothly was a trial at the best of times, and the last thing he wanted was more questions. For that reason he wasn’t about to openly put an advert for the post in the local paper, either.

How on earth had he ended up with Henry Patterson? All that time ago in the corridors of the Peabody Museum it had seemed a good bet. He had certainly delivered what had been asked of him, and in return Mallus had given Patterson the single most important discovery in human history.

But now, enough was enough. Years with the texts, and still he had no comprehensive translation. How hard can hieroglyphs be? Things had started out well enough: the first leads had been very promising, and had led him to where he was right now. But the time had come for that final push.

Of all the archaeologists, linguists, Egyptologists and anthropo-logists that Patterson had put forward, one was head and shoulders above the rest because of her Amarna experience. He looked at her photo on-screen; possibly not the most recent snapshot, as the file said she was forty-one years old and the attractive dark-haired woman looking back at him could barely have been a day over thirty. The same age as me, he thought wistfully.

She was married, but with no dependents. No known close family. Her academic work involved regular, frequent travel abroad. The husband would be an annoyance, but he’d dealt with worse.

Walker would probably be best suited to the job: reliable, and able to use his head. If things did go wrong, he could make any mess-up look like an accident.

Leaning back in his chair, he sent the résumé through to Walker with a quick note attached: quickly, quietly and in one piece.

He was looking forward to meeting Dr Gail Turner, and to finally getting the answers he was looking for.

Chapter 32

Larue looked at the photos that Martín had handed him. His hands were trembling. In his wildest dreams he had not imagined this.

Whilst far less economical and safe, even Larue had to admit that the manned mission had its virtues. It took Beagle half an hour to extract a good geological sample from the soil. In comparison, one of the astronauts could literally bend over and pick up a rock in seconds.

And from the look of the photos, even the versatile rover wouldn’t have been able to climb down three hundred metres of cliff.

He placed the pictures carefully on his desk and looked at Martín Antunez and Jacqueline Thomas, sitting in front of him. It was the first time he had seen them both together, and he fancied he could feel the electricity between them. What it must be, he thought to himself, to be in love again.

“What shall we do with the pictures, Monsieur?” Martín said. “They were taken over four days ago, and still nothing has been released by the Americans. The other agencies are still jumping up and down about some of the rock samples that came through yesterday, so I doubt they know either. We have a lead Beagle engineer in Bristol, England on the phone to us every hour or so asking about this data and what it means. They’re going crazy over there, and it’s only a matter of time before things start leaking out.”

Larue opened his drawer and pulled out his cigar box. Now was the right time for one, he thought. Removing one of the Diplomáticos from within, he ran it under his nose slowly, before snipping the end off and putting it between his lips. As an afterthought, he offered the box to Martín and Jacqueline.

Martín shook his head. He was amazed that Larue would dare light a cigar inside a place of work, but for some reason he couldn’t help feeling that his real indignation came from the fact that he had not offered first before taking one himself.

Jacqueline simply ignored the gesture entirely.

“I think,” he said slowly, “that it is time for us to release Beagle 4’s newest findings to the press.” With this, he took a box of matches from his drawer and lit his cigar. The thick plume of smoke snaked up to the alarm in the ceiling, which remained silent.

“The press, Monsieur?” Jacqueline couldn’t stop herself from bursting out.

He raised an eyebrow, prompting her to explain herself. Since his conversation with Martín the previous week, and the shocking revelations that had followed, he had found himself full of energy and confidence. The old Larue was back, he thought to himself, and the ridicule that had fallen on him with the ESA’s exclusion from the Clarke would soon be but a distant memory.

Jacqueline was not accustomed to addressing people of Larue’s status. She took a breath and did her best. “Monsieur Larue, if you don’t mind me saying, the Agency does not normally address the press with this sort of information. This is not a Public Relations exercise. We should release these photos through the appropriate scientific channels.”

Larue smiled. “And we shall. But sometimes, you need to point the press in the right direction, so that they find our properly released material. And if they happen to ask for copies of the photos before anyone else has the opportunity, then so be it. The photos will be released across the scientific network before they appear in Le Monde, Jacqueline, trust me. Just not by much.”

Martín wondered how much Larue would take for the exclusive. If Le Monde was able to publish high resolution photographs in its daily edition, it would only have exclusivity for a few hours, half a day at most. But in the world of Journalism, and with the headline that Martín could already see in his mind’s eye, sometimes a few hours was all that was needed to sell a few extra million copies.

Larue saw the look on the Spaniard’s face and removed the cigar from his mouth. “Martin, the American author Richard Evans once wrote that ‘it is in the darkest skies that stars are best seen’. I think that you will agree that the skies have rarely been darker than most recently. Stars that I had previously never noticed have become visible. You have to pick them out while the skies are still dark, lest the opportunity pass you by.”

Jacqueline looked sideways at her partner, but he said nothing to counter his boss.

Instead, he passed Larue the book he had been holding. “I also have this, Monsieur. It’s my own personal copy. I think that you will find it quite interesting.”

Larue took the book and after a quick glance at the cover, opened it. Inside was a dedication. ‘Martín – Good Luck – Dr Turner.” He closed the book and examined the cover again.

“What is this?” he asked.

Martín leant forward and started to explain.

Chapter 33

With a kiss goodbye and a cheery smile, Dr Gail Turner left the house, leaving George sitting at the dining room table with his newspaper.

If there was one thing that had changed over the years, it was her punctuality.

He cleared breakfast away and placed the dirty things in the dishwasher. He selected the Quick Wash option and pushed the door closed.

Picking up his mug of tea he wandered into the living room.  The video wall came to life as he picked up the remote control, automatically tuned in to his favourite comedy series. Sitting down on the sofa, he put his legs up on the coffee table and placed his mug on his belly.

There really wasn’t much else for him to do on his day off; the house pretty much took care of itself, not that they made it very messy between the two of them anyway. Gail wouldn’t be home until late that evening after work and it was Monday, so he didn’t need to cook. Monday was always Fish and Chips day.

The traditional British takeaway had almost disappeared at the start of the century, mainly due to dwindling fish stocks in the surrounding seas. But a European-wide restriction on fishing zones had been sufficient to allow the populations of cod in particular to thrive once more. By 2020, whilst fish consumption had fallen drastically, particularly in the Mediterranean states, fish stocks had grown beyond the most optimistic of estimates.

By the time fishing restrictions were relaxed in the mid 2030’s, however, fish had mostly been replaced on Europe’s menus by organic substitutes. The market leader’s product range had been comprised entirely of fish substitutes for over ten years, and they had no plans to change it. This was partly because substitute products were virtually indistinguishable from real fish in terms of taste and texture. Of course, shape didn’t matter because most fish products sold were processed anyway. Their landmark advertising campaign twenty years previously had challenged celebrities to tell the difference between a real fish cake and a fish-substitute one. Not only had they been unable to correctly identify the real fish, but most had preferred the substitute. Once consumers knew this, their products were an instant success. The substitute was nutritious, tasty, and ethical.

Rocketing profits sealed the fate of the fishing industry, the final nail in the coffin for an already crippled sector. Processed fish never returned to the supermarkets again.

But there were some things that technology couldn’t replace, no matter how hard they tried, the traditional Fish and Chips meal being one of them. With fish stocks higher than ever, most expected the price of Cod to reach all-time lows. Unchallenged, you could literally fish them out of the sea with a bucket. But economics never worked as consumers would like, and the drop in competition allowed the few fishing vessels remaining to inflate the asking price as much as they wanted.

Gail and George always had real Fish and Chips on a Monday; it was one of the many luxuries their lifestyle afforded them.

Gail entered her office and turned her computer on.  She glanced at the clock: eight-thirty; perfect.  Removing her phone from her pocket and placing it on the desk, she pulled the keyboard towards her and opened her email program.

The first email was from George from the previous night. A silly joke as usual, which made her smile and shake her head.

This was followed by half a dozen questions from her students, two of which she answered, the remaining four she flagged to look at later.

Ellie had sent her some pictures the previous day, which she had not had the opportunity to look at yet. She opened the email and scrolled through a series of photos of Ellie, her husband and their two children on holiday in China. The final photo, of her with her grinning youngest son, had the caption ‘Come on, don’t tell me you don’t want one just like this?!’ She hit the reply button and fired off a few short lines, saying how wonderful China looked, how great they looked as a family, and how no, she didn’t want one because she knew all too well what they were like the remaining ninety per cent of the time.

She had time for one more email. It was from David Hunt.

Ever since her discovery in Amarna ten years earlier, the now Professor David Hunt had been the closest colleague of Gail’s at the University. Despite her best assurances to the contrary, he felt that her discovery gave credence to his alternate histories theory, blowing wide open all of the dating that had previously been thought to be true about ancient Egypt. In general, Gail disagreed; she saw no reason why Amarna shouldn’t fit in the context of ancient Egypt without disrupting known dates, a belief that was gladly shared by the Egyptologist community.

David had always been more radical than most, a position that had caused him problems before. Gail was more than aware of the dangers involved, particularly in Egyptology, if she were to try to oppose established facts as he regularly did: in Cairo, it was the first thing that Professor al-Misri had warned her of as the magnitude of their discovery had unfolded.

She scanned through David’s email and grinned. He had something to show her that might change her mind. David always said that, about everything. She switched her display off and stood up, grabbed a pile of notes and books, and left her office.

A few minutes after the door closed her mobile phone, still on the desk, began to ring. Several moments later it stopped, and her office phone rang instead. Then it stopped too.

Seconds later, both of her phones started ringing together.

Chapter 34

The main lecture theatre of the Faculty of Arts had hardly changed in ten years. She looked around the empty seats and thought of all the lectures and study groups she had stumbled into, late. It had all been different on her return from Egypt.

Her thesis had been a breeze, and her findings then fuelled several published articles and a permanent position within the Department of Archaeology. For the University, she had been one of those most rare accomplishments: a home-grown talent that other Faculties would pay handsomely to attract.

Her crowning achievement to date had been the publication of her book, aided by her friend Professor al-Misri, which had cemented her place on the international lecture circuit.

A new batch of first-year students, now into their third month at university, was about to pile through the double doors to her left, followed some time later by the ones that were enjoying student life a little too much, she imagined. For most, it would hopefully be the first of six optional lectures on Egyptology, spread across the first year of their degrees. An all too significant proportion, however, were likely to drop out of university after the Christmas holidays.

Her job, as she saw it, was to pull them in now, get their attention, spark their enthusiasm, and make sure that they stayed. And her hope for the long-term was that the series of lectures, which she had been running now for the past two years, would ultimately lead to a full-time Egyptology unit.

Gail pushed her memory card into the reader, inset into the side of the touch screen on the lecturer’s podium. Quickly navigating the system’s menus, she brought up her media set, entitled ‘Egyptology – Lecture 1’. The first still slide filled the small preview screen. Turning round, she looked at the projection on the wall behind her.

She used to be embarrassed by such displays of her work, especially in front of an audience of hundreds. But over time her confidence had grown, and she now looked up at the wall with immense pride. On a white background was a picture of her book, placed on top of an old, yellowed map of Egypt. A small mound of sand covered one corner of the map. It was one of her book publisher’s marketing shots, but she always used it because she felt it gave the lecture a certain gloss.

 The cover of the book showed the title ‘Buried Past – The hidden stories of Amarna’. The space underneath was filled with an engraving on a stone lit by an oil lamp; another dramatic effect Gail felt added a sense of adventure to the lecture.

It would be too obvious, she felt, to start the term with a picture of the Great Pyramids, or Karnak, or the Sphinx. But that wasn’t the impact she was going for. Her aim was to show that even in the twenty-first century there were still incredible discoveries to make, and there were still huge unknowns. It didn’t matter how much research went into Egypt, or for that matter any civilisation, there were always unanswered questions, and questions not yet asked

Asking, and answering, those questions was what archaeology was all about.

She focused on the engraving, following its strange lines, remembering what it had felt like to run her hands over the stones for the first time.

Her presentation ready to go, she let her mind wander and remembered that first venture into the Amarna Library.

Professor al-Misri had promised her that she would be one of the first to go into the Library, following the engineers who had to check the integrity of the structure. But first they had to find a way in. After two days studying the stone wall between the ante-chamber and the Library, it had been decided that the only way to access the room was by cutting through the stone itself.  To Gail, this had seemed quite destructive, but modern technology and the ingenuity of the engineers had managed to surprise her.

After identifying a section of wall in the corner of the room with no book shelves connected to it on the other side, the engineers had outlined a circle a foot and a half in diameter, about three feet from the floor. Two slots were cut into the centre of the circle, into which the arms of a counterweighted jack were inserted. The counterweight platform was loaded with lead plates and the jack was raised as far as possible. They had then used a large pneumatic drill to sink a series of holes into the wall around the circle’s circumference. The goal was to create an entrance to the Library whilst generating as little dust and debris as possible. For this reason, the drill bit stopped a fraction of an inch short of the other side of the wall. It was precision work, and very time consuming.

After three days of drilling, and an enormous amount of dust inside the ante-chamber, the engineers had cut around the entire circle. The jack was then taking most of the weight of the cylinder of stone within, while a thin layer of stone still separated the two rooms.

Gail had wondered what tool the engineers would use to cut the final sliver of stone, without generating dust, and had asked Ben his opinion.

“When you cut, using a drill, or a saw, you always get dust,” he had explained. “But when you break, or snap as you say, you get much less. Like cutting a piece of wood.”

Which is exactly what the engineers had done; once all of the dust caused by the drill had been cleared away, they had literally pulled the stone outwards and into the ante-chamber using pneumatic pumps, like taking the cork from a bottle of wine. The thin circle of stone connecting it to the surrounding wall had broken easily, leaving a more or less perfectly circular tunnel between the two rooms.

The engineers had then entered the Library, with their black suitcase of equipment, and had spent ten minutes assessing the structure. They had then set up a series of electric flood lights, connected to a generator on the surface.

After they had finished, the Professor had addressed Gail.

“Gail, don’t think of the engineers; apart from the strength of the stone in the room, they don’t know the first thing about what they have just seen. You are to be the first person to set foot in that room for over three thousand years. Savour every moment of it.”

She had never forgotten those words. Sliding through the tunnel, she found herself in the room she had dreamt about for days, ever since she had first seen it on the X-ray screen.

The Library was exactly as she had imagined it, with one exception. It was bigger. The Backscatter X-ray, although colour coded for range, simply couldn’t give a true sense of scale and depth. On close examination of the Backscatter images, it was obvious that the room was large, and she was certain that the seasoned experts would not have been surprised, but she had been taken aback by the length of the walls, the number of shelves, and the volume of material stacked upon them.

The room was, as the instruments had shown, one hundred and twenty feet long. What the instruments had only barely shown, however, was that it was almost a hundred feet wide and about fifteen feet tall. On the hundreds of shelves were piled thousands of scrolls, and an assortment of bound parchments and clay tablets – they later found there to be three thousand two hundred and twenty-seven of them in total.

The shelves against the walls were made of planks of wood, slotted into each other like jigsaws. However the rows of free-standing shelves lined up along the centre of the room were more like book cases, solidly built with thicker beams comprising their uprights.

 A thick layer of dust covered everything, and as she had walked towards the end of the room, she had seen the footprints of the engineers. They had obviously done their jobs very thoroughly, checking in between every set of shelves, and along all of the walls. The sight of recent footprints did put her off slightly, but she tried hard to focus on what the Professor had told her, and soon she was concentrating on the ancient finds, letting her fingers hover millimetres from the surface of the documents, not daring to touch them lest they disappear in piles of fragments and dust.

Eventually, she reached her goal. In front of her stood a stone plinth, like a small altar, on which a book was propped, facing away from her. Her first impression on seeing the X-ray had been that it was like a Bible in a church. That simile felt even more accurate as she had stood before it. She felt like a member of a congregation, waiting for the priest to walk up and start reading.

Now, after many years giving lectures to students, she likened it more to the podium at the front of a lecture theatre.

The stone plinth was simple, unmarked, ending in an angled table surface that projected out an inch or so from plinth. The book was held in place by a stone lip that ran along the bottom edge.

She had walked round the plinth to see the cover, which was when she first laid eyes on the Stickman, engraved into the wood.

The symbol was made up of seven straight lines and one circle. Six of the straight lines were connected in pairs to form three upside-down Vs, one on top of the other. A vertical line connected the three Vs, starting at the apex of the bottom V and ending at the apex of the third V.  A circle sat on the apex of the topmost upside-down V.

Upon entering the room for the first time, Ben had immediately associated the symbol with a stickman, because quite simply it looked just like one, except that it had a second pair of legs just above the first.

From that moment on, it had been known popularly as the Amarna Stickman, previously unheard of and seemingly unique to the Amarna Library. Academically, it remained nameless in the hope that one of the texts in the Library would shed light on its ancient Egyptian pronunciation.

She had not dared to open the book, for fear of it falling apart, and had therefore spent several minutes examining it from every angle. It was about the size of a modern coffee-table book. The covers were a quarter of an inch thick, and the whole thing was bound together, incredibly neatly, with reed. It was in immaculate condition, as if it had only just been placed there.

After a while, she had left the plinth and had walked slowly back to the tunnel, but along the opposite side of the room. It was then that she had noticed that all of the shelf uprights were also engraved with the Stickman symbol from the book-cover. As she had walked past the final row of shelves, she had seen for the first time in full the end wall of the Library, through which the tunnel had been drilled. In the centre of the wall was the same symbol again, but about six feet high. Next to it, but roughly half as tall, was Nefertiti’s Cartouche. The two symbols were separated by a single vertical line.

It was later confirmed that aside from Nefertiti’s cartouche, the strange symbol was the only marking inside the Library. To date, none of the other documents in the Library had been found to contain the symbol.