The Sinai Secret

THIRTY-NINE

Near Intersection of Hassan Sabry and Sharia

26th of July

Zamalek District

Garden City

Cairo, Egypt

0920, Two Days Later

Gezira had been a mere sandbar in the Nile until it was built up as an island site for a royal palace. The northern part, Zamalek, was now a leafy, upscale residential district much like those found in Paris, London, or Rome. It was far enough away that little of the noxious air and even less of the noise of the Central City invaded its neat, palm-lined streets. Lang's first impression of the Egyptian capital had been seemingly random traffic, the stench of animal offal combined with exhaust fumes, and air so dirty it made Los Angeles's worst days seem pristine.

He sat on a rickety stool at the bar in Simonds, one of the oldest European-style cafes in Cairo, trying to ignore eyes stinging from both lack of sleep and pollution. He munched a croissant that rivaled any he had enjoyed in Paris. He hoped the bitter, black Turkish coffee would help clear a head still dusty with two days of jet lag, even if it was stripping away his stomach lining.

Atlanta-Dallas-New York-London-Cairo, all with tight connections. If anyone had been following him, they would have been obvious as he passed briskly through one terminal after another.

At least he had been lucky. Only one screaming child, and no seatmates exhibiting what might be the symptoms of a terminal and highly contagious disease. Not bad, considering each aircraft had contained, what, one hundred and fifty-plus passengers? All those people, with the only commonality being that no two of them had paid the same price for their ticket.

The Couch passport, multiple reservations, and having the Gulfstream fly to Stockholm had reduced to negligible the chances of his being followed to Egypt.

Before leaving Atlanta, he had used an Internet cafe to e-mail Amid bin Hamish to confirm that he had the right man, the name given him by Dr. Shaffer, and made an appointment. Bin Hamish had suggested meeting here.

Lang glanced around the dimly lit interior. Although the savage desert sun had not yet risen completely above the cluster of modern office buildings across the river, the cafe's lowered blinds were already lowered, giving a zebra effect to the newspapers of the few remaining breakfast patrons. Dust motes spun for seconds in the streaks of light before disappearing into darkness like planets out of orbit. The hum of air- conditioning muted but did not block the cries of muezzin, recorded, amplified, and blasted from the minaret of a nearby mosque, calling the faithful to the second prayer of the day.

As far as he could tell, Lang was just one more European in the most Westernized part of a Muslim city.

That was precisely as he wanted it.

He used a linen napkin to wipe the last crumbs from his mouth.

The waiter behind the bar pointed to Lang's nearly empty cup. Lang allowed him to refill it.

His mind went back, what, less than two days since he had sat on Alicia's deck in Vinings? He saw her face in the highly polished wood of the bar's surface, heard her laugh in the wheeze of the AC. For the first time since Gurt had left, he was not just looking forward to coming home; he was excited. Love, lust, attachment-he knew better than to try to quantify what he felt. Just enjoy it, just…

"Mr. Reilly?"

Lang turned to look into eyes almost as dark as the coffee. A round face perched above a pink knit shirt displaying an alligator on the left breast and buttoned to the chin. Even seated on the stool, Lang was half a head taller. The man's dark skin made guessing his age difficult, even if a few gray strands were clearly visible scattered among the jet-black.

"Langford Reilly?"

Lang nodded. "Amid bin Hamish?"

White teeth were made even brighter by the dark skin as the man extended a hand. "As you English say, Any friend of Dr. Shaffer's…"

"American. And Dr. Shaffer is dead."

The smile disappeared. "Dead?"

Lang slid off the stool and groped in his pocket for change. "I'm afraid so. Murdered in Vienna. Were you close?"

Bin Hamish shook his head slowly. "We never met, just exchanged ideas on the Net, wrote each other."

Lang was grateful to come up with a handful of piastres, one hundred of which made up the Egyptian pound. He had already learned the hard way that so few coins were in circulation that exact change was rare. He started to leave them on the bar top, thought better of it, and left an Egyptian note instead. At the current exchange rate, the coffee had been a bargain compared to, say, Starbucks.

"You have euro, dollar?" the waiter asked hopefully.

Egypt's chronic currency problems caused many hotels and restaurants not to accept the national money.

Bin Hamish snapped something at the man, who sulked as he picked up the Egyptian bill.

The little man turned his attention back to Lang. "Murdered? By whom?"

Lang noted the correct grammar. "I'm afraid I don't know. I'm sure the Austrian authorities are working on finding out, if they haven't already."

Bin Hamish glanced uneasily around the cafe, as though one or more of the killers might have followed Lang to Cairo. "Perhaps we should talk elsewhere, perhaps my house."

Why meet at the cafe if they were going to bin Hamish's house to talk?

As Lang took his light jacket from the back of the stool and started for the door, bin Hamish put a hand on his shoulder. "No, this way."

They walked out the back door into an alley fetid with garbage that smelled like it was a permanent part of the environs. Flies buzzed angrily at the disturbance, and rats boldly surveyed them from atop piles of refuse. An occasional skeletal dog paused in rooting through piles of waste to snarl territorial claims.

As though by magic, a turn at the end of the alley brought them onto a street that could have been in Beverly Hills or Palm Beach.

Cairo, it seemed, was unaware of modern zoning. Or public health.

Lawn sprinklers made rainbows over lush grass medians lining high walls. Through the occasional gate Lang could see lavishly landscaped grounds with driveways winding to tile-roofed mansions.

The preferred mode of travel was by chauffeured Rolls-Royce, the less fortunate making do with highly polished Mercedes limousines.

The contrast was enough to make Lang look over his shoulder to be certain he had not imagined the squalor of the alley. "Any reason we couldn't take the front door?"

Bin Hamish turned to look up and down the street behind them, a gesture performed so frequently, Lang was beginning to think of it as some sort of nervous tic. "They would have followed, just as they would have noted your arrival at my home."

"They?"

Bin Hamish left the question unanswered. "We are almost there. Good thing, hey? I remember what your English poet said about only mad dogs and Englishmen going about in the midday sun."

"I'm American."

Bin Hamish ducked down what Lang had thought to be another driveway. After a turn to the right, he realized they were approaching the back of a house. Slightly smaller than its neighbors, judging by the perimeter of the wall, it still would be a large estate by most American standards. Whatever its size, Lang would be glad to get inside and out of soaring temperatures that promised to soon become unbearable.

They stopped at a small wooden door while bin Hamish fumbled with a jingling set of keys. When the portal swung open, Lang was treated to perhaps an acre of rampant flowers, citrus trees heavy with fruit, and towering date palms that obscured most of what appeared to be a two-story stucco house, each floor with the arched, elaborately columned loggias favored in Muslim architecture. At the back of the building the blue waters of an Olympic-size pool sparkled.

Bin Hamish relocked the gate. "It is my oasis."

Lang hoped it was an air-conditioned oasis.

Lang followed his host to the house and through huge mahogany doors that opened and closed soundlessly. He stopped for a moment to let his eyes adjust to light low enough to reveal furniture only in silhouette. He followed bin Hamish up a short flight of stairs to what Lang guessed was the foyer. Reception hall would have been a better description. Lang was surprised to see the screen of a TV set flickering above more massive mahogany doors.

Bin Hamish pointed. "As you can see, they are watching."

Looking closer, Lang realized he was observing the sweep of a security camera mounted somewhere outside. Two men sat in an old Mercedes and stared back through sunglasses. Neither made any effort to appear interested in anything other than this residence. Since they were in the only car parked in the area, Lang assumed they knew their presence was no secret.

"Who are your pals?" he asked.

"Mukhabarat."

Lang turned away from the television to look at the little Egyptian. "What are you doing that would interest the state security police?"

Bin Hamish smiled again. "Ah! You recognize the name of the Mukhabarat! Most Englishmen would not."

Lang gave up. It would be easier to be British.

Bin Hamish motioned. "Come, I will show you."

As they passed along one dimly lit corridor into another, Lang had the impression that they were not alone. Twice he was certain he heard gentle footsteps, but when he turned no one was there. Once he recognized the swish of fabric against the wall. Again, no one was to be seen.

Stopping in front of an arched doorway, bin Hamish ushered Lang inside. From one of the beams high overhead, a slow-moving fan stirred the dry air around the paneled room. Upholstered cushions surrounded a low table floating on the muted colors of an Oriental rug. On the table were several bowls and a teapot, steaming as though just set in place by some invisible jinni.

"Tea?" bin Hamish asked, pouring into a small cup without handle or saucer.

The idea of hot liquid was less than appealing. Lang shook his head. "No, thanks."

His host shook his head, too. "Arabs begin conversations with coffee or tea, Mr. Reilly." He pointed to the bowls. "Perhaps a few dates, almonds, or pastries?"

Lang helped himself to a date the size of a pecan, nibbling carefully to avoid the pit. "I certainly did not mean offense."

"None taken. Another Arab custom is a long chat before getting around to business, something you English are loath to do. Why did Dr. Shaffer send you here? What is it you want with me?"

Lang decided not to correct the impression that Shaffer had actually sent him. Instead he reached into the pocket of the jacket he had been carrying over an arm and proffered the papers Jacob had translated. "I'd like your thoughts on this. Dr. Shaffer said you might be able to help."

Lang never saw the switch, but a light from the ceiling suddenly beamed down onto the table in front of his host. Bin Hamish read, his eyebrows coming together in a near scowl. When he finished, he began again.

At last he looked up. "Where did you find this?"

"Hidden in an old radio," Lang said, and explained what had happened.

Wordlessly, bin Hamish rose and went to the wall at Lang's back. Soundlessly a panel slid back, revealing nothing but dark space. It suddenly became ablaze with such light Lang had to shield his eyes after the dimness of the rest of the house.

When he moved his hands from his face, he was looking at a laboratory of glass and stainless steel. A number of machines occupied the single counter, some of which he recognized from Georgia Tech.

They entered and the door silently slid back into place.

"I thought you were with some university," Lang said.

"I was until… Well, as you Americans say, that is another story."

He walked over to a box about the length and width of those Lang's cigars came in, but much thicker and made from a shiny metal. "The Ark in your document, Mr. Reilly, has certain dimensions. This has proportionately the same."

Lang waited for him to continue.

"You will note that, like the Ark, this is made of gold and wood."

Lang waited again.

"Are you familiar with superconductors, Mr. Reilly?"

Lang stepped closer to take a better look. "Only that it's some kind of new theory of physics."

Bin Hamish sighed, disappointed. "Superconductors are no longer only theory. Among other things they can create a highly conductive path along certain molecules or even DNA strands. The medical implications for treatment of cancer and other diseases are endless.

"Additionally, in a superconductor, a single-frequency light flows at less than the speed of light but absorbs magnetic energy, enough to repel both positive and negative poles…"

Lang thought he remembered something from long- ago physics classes. "But if both poles are repelled…?"

"Then the superconductor can cause material to weigh less without losing mass."

"Levitate?"

"Exactly."

"Good. That's about all the science I can call up from high school."

Bin Hamish seated himself on a long-legged stool in front of the counter and motioned for Lang to take the one remaining. "I will try to keep it simple. Much energy either loses potency over space or is conducted by some means. Electricity, for example, is conveyed by wires. A superconductor has no such limitations, so…"

Lang held up a hand. "Whoa! Electricity, superconductors-we're talking about 1500 or so b.c. They didn't have such things."

Bin Hamish wagged his head dolefully. "Of course they did, Mr. Reilly. Electricity was not invented; it was discovered. The same with gravity. The physical laws of the universe were in effect long before the pharaohs. The ancients were aware of many and knew how to use some. Much of that knowledge was lost during the Dark Ages. A lot of that wisdom remains to be rediscovered."

Lang had a hard time taking his eyes from the gilt box. "That's what you do, rediscover ancient secrets?"

"I suppose you would call me an archeological physicist. At least, that was the subject I taught at the University of Cairo until…"

Lang waited.

"Until the government uncovered my secret."

Lang leaned forward, the box momentarily forgotten. "Which was…?"

Bin Hamish inhaled deeply, a man about to dive not into water but the past. "Would you be surprised if I told you my real name was Hamish, not bin Hamish?"

"You're Jewish?"

Bin Hamish nodded. "Once that was discovered, I was removed from my teaching post lest I contaminate Muslim youth."

"But I thought Egypt and Israel settled their differences."

Bin Hamish snorted sardonically. "After Israel seized the Sinai, bombed the Egyptian air force into oblivion, and destroyed almost all the Egyptian tanks, it was very easy to make peace. Your President Carter could broker the Camp David Accords because Egypt had essentially lost the war and had no means to continue or get its territory back. The Arabs' hatred of Jews, though, continues and will continue as long as one of each is left on this earth."

He paused and swallowed. That is why I am under constant surveillance, also. At any time the government could have me arrested as an agent of a foreign power." He laughed bitterly. "All Jews in Egypt are agents of a foreign power, particularly those whom the government suspects might be useful."

"Useful?"

He was inspecting his hands as though looking for flaws. "Before I was forced to leave the university, I published a number of papers in archeological and scientific journals dealing with ancient and lost sciences."

"So, why not leave? I'd bet one of Israel's schools would love to have you."

"Not that simple," he said dully. "My specialty is ancient Egypt. Once I left, the Egyptians would always find a reason to deny me reentry. Besides, my wife is Arab and has no desire to leave her native land."

The soft footsteps?

"But I stray," bin Hamish said. "We were talking about superconductors."

"I still have a hard time believing such things existed."

Bin Hamish rubbed his chin and got off the stool. "Very well. Please indulge me."

He left the room, the door sighing closed behind him. A minute later he returned, a manila folder in hand. Opening it, he placed several photographs in front of Lang.

At first Lang was uncertain what he was seeing. He recognized the stylized Egyptian figure of a man, face in profile, torso in frontal view. He squinted and picked up the picture.

"It's a photograph of a relief from the temple of Hathor in Dendra, dating back about forty-five hundred years," bin Hamish informed him.

"But what does…?" Lang stopped in midsentence, suddenly aware of what the figure was holding. "Looks like an elongated lightbulb with a snake for the filament."

"Not a lightbulb, a cathode tube."

"Or a vacuum tube."

Bin Hamish was puzzled. "A vacuum tube?"

"As in old radios."

Like Dr. Yadish liked to tinker with.

Lang picked up another picture, this one of several large jars. One had been cut in half vertically. Inside, a rod of some sort had been inserted, held by a stopper.

He held it up. "And this?"

"Look closely, Mr. Reilly. That jar is in the National Museum of Iraq in Baghdad. A copper cylinder was inserted into the neck of a clay jar and fixed with tar or asphalt and topped with lead. In the middle of the cylinder was an iron rod. That particular jar and a number like it have been dated to 1200 or so B. c."

Lang thought a moment. "I was never a science whiz. What's the significance of the jars?"

Bin Hamish spoke slowly, as though addressing a dull child. "A battery, Mr. Reilly. A battery or electric cell."

"But how…?"

"After the Second World War, a man named Willard Gray of General Electric's Pittsfield, Massachusetts, plant built an exact replica of what you see, using nothing more than the material I've described. With only a little citric acid-the acid in, say, a lemon-the jar produced two volts of electricity. If you doubt me, check the April 1957 issue of Science Digest."

There was a knock at the panel that served as a door. Unhurriedly bin Hamish walked over and spoke through a narrow crack. Lang could not make out the words. Shutting the panel again, bin Hamish returned with a tray bearing what looked like the same tea service and bowls.

"A little refreshment?"

This time Lang accepted a small cup of bitter tea while the professor continued. "Those other pictures are of copper utensils from ancient Sumer. They had been electroplated with silver. Then there are more pictures of your 'vacuum tube' at other places."

Lang almost expected his host to next produce Egyptian tomb drawings of a pharaoh watching a TV set, or one of his wives or concubines using a hair dryer. Either the man and those like him were lunatics or the current view of ancient world history needed serious revision.

He was inclined to the latter possibility.

What he had just heard and seen, though, was the stuff of fantasy, Lovecraft, Vonnegut, and H. G. Wells. He could not have been more dumbfounded had Grumps suddenly quoted Shakespeare.

He took a sip of tea and set the cup down. "Assuming all this is true, what is the significance of the Ark being a superconductor?"

"When fueled by orbitally rearranged monatomic elements, such as the pure gold mentioned in your papers-"

Lang held up his hands in surrender. "Try to keep it simple, Professor, something a mere English major might understand."

Bin Hamish thought for a moment. "Simply put, or oversimplifying, actually, once a superconductor is fueled, it keeps on doing whatever task is set for it, sort of a perpetual-motion machine. The way the Ark is constructed is to transport energy over any distance for any length of time. Basically, when fueled by pure gold, the manna of your papers, that energy could well take the form of unimaginable power directed at a specific target."

"Like Jericho."

"Like Jericho."

Lang reached toward the box. "All from a box like-"

"No!" Ben Hamish knocked Lang's hand away. "You would die instantly, like those mentioned in your papers. Let me show you something."

Stepping down from his perch on the stool, bin Hamish placed a rubber mat under his feet. "They had no rubber in biblical times, but the Ark's handlers washed and thoroughly dried their feet, thereby removing moisture or anything else that might act as a conventional conductor. Their clothes would have been of the finest cloth, so as to generate as little static electricity as possible."

He pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and then moved the golden box slightly before walking across the room and opening a cabinet.

He removed a piece of metal and tossed it to Lang. "Slug iron."

Lang looked at the heavy ingot in his hand. "So?"

"Place it at the end of the counter, if you please."

Lang did as instructed.

Bin Hamish returned to stand by Lang and adjusted the box.

What happened next wasn't quite clear. A bolt of light, the brightest Lang had ever seen, seemed to leap from the box and disappear faster than lightning, so fast Lang wasn't sure he had seen it at all. There was no sound. The slug of metal was gone. Not melted, not transformed, but gone without fragments or a wisp of smoke.

"Shit!"

Bin Hamish was peeling off his gloves. "Exactly so."

"But what happened to the metal?"

Bin Hamish shrugged. "There are any number of theories, including transportation to a parallel dimension."

"Yeah, Dr. Shaffer mentioned that. Can you bring it back?"

"So far, no."

Lang inhaled deeply, still not completely sure he wasn't dealing with a madman or a talented trickster. "I'd guess a lot of governments would like to have that in their arsenal."

Bin Hamish chuckled. "What makes you think they do not?" He raised a hand to stifle Lang's next question. "Let me tell you a brief story: In 1976 near Phoenix in the state of Arizona, there was a cotton farmer named David Hudson. In that area, the soil has a high sodium content, a condition Mr. Hudson attempted to lessen with high amounts of sulfuric acid. Do you understand?"

Lang nodded. "Using an acid to dilute a base, right?"

"Just so. Now, after one such treatment, Mr. Hudson Sent soil samples for analysis. When dried by the hot Arizona sun, some particulate in that soil sample would burst into flames and totally disappear. Do I have your attention?"

Lang helped himself to a pastry, a sugary substance that literally melted in his mouth, leaving a pleasant but unidentifiable flavor. "You do."

"Mr. Hudson had more analyses done over a period of years. Each time the substance tested as different elements at different temperatures____________________

"

Lang remembered what the professor at Georgia Tech, Werbel, had told him and Detective Morse. "Let me guess…" He related as best as he could recall.

"Precisely. You have already had this… this manna subjected to tests. But Mr. Hudson's story is not yet ended. He spent a fortune trying to develop this marvelous material into an energy source by use of superconductors. The sudden flame, the weightlessness, all had tremendous potential. First he was denied a building permit for a plant in which to work, and then fault was found with every plan he submitted. Then came zoning delays. Then came an unexplained explosion that leaked tons of toxic material. Your government people, environmental, employee safety…"

"OSHA," Lang supplied.

"Whoever they were, they imposed fines and other penalties. Then your military appeared and closed the man's research on superconductivity on grounds of national security. Frankly, Mr. Reilly, I was surprised your much-touted democratic government could act in such an arbitrary manner."

Lang wasn't. Once a motivated coalition of bureaucracy and military was formed, law, Constitution, and individual rights might not be suspended, but they could be made so expensive that only the wealthiest could afford them.

"You're saying the military intervened?"

Bin Hamish nodded. "Just so."

"So, they were interested in the weapon's potential," Lang mused.

"Not potential," bin Hamish corrected. "Very real."

"Real?"

"Mr. Reilly, surely you remember your President Reagan's Star Wars proposal, the idea of building a series of killer satellites that would knock Soviet missiles out of the sky? You will recall it was never built, but the mere threat caused such a surge in Russian defense spending that within a year or two the communists went broke."

Lang remembered clearly. It was the collapse of the Evil Empire that had precipitated his departure from the Agency. "You're telling me that Star Wars was actually a version of this… this whatever it is. Superconductor?"

Bin Hamish smiled and gave a slight bow. "Precisely. The talk of killer satellites was just a red fish."

"Red herring."

"A ruse by any name."

"So, the United Sates, at least, has this technology?"

"I am fairly certain, yes."

"Who else?"

Bin Hamish shrugged. "Who would know? Only the few physicists who are aware of the unique powers of the Ark realized what your president was actually describing."

"But the Egyptians must have some inkling of it. Otherwise why the surveillance?"

"From my published work they would know I am studying something that could be a potential weapon. I also am studying something that, if properly harnessed, could literally move mountains."

Lang settled back on his stool and refilled his teacup. "Or tons of rock to build a pyramid."

"Just so."

"But how?"

Bin Hamish was checking the backs of his hands again. "That I do not yet know. What I do know so far is what you have seen. The only material not affected like the slug of metal is pure gold."

"What happens to gold?"

"Gold, Mr. Reilly, does not burn. It melts. Your papers tell of Moses burning the golden calf. The only way he could have done that is by using a force similar to the one the Ark projects. It turns gold into the white powder. Manna, if you will."

"Let me get this straight." Lang was trying to reduce the process to one he could understand. "The white powder, manna, fuels the Ark, and the Ark turns gold into the white powder. Why?"

Bin Hamish moved his head slowly from side to side. "That is, so far, unknown to me. That is a law of the universe that is yet to be rediscovered."

Lang slid from the stool, standing. "Dr. bin Hamish, I appreciate your time. What can I do…?"

Bin Hamish crossed the room and somehow opened the panel. "It is unnecessary for you to do anything. As you can see from this house, I have no need of money. An inheritance and investments outside Egypt have seen to that. Having a chance to talk with you is recompense enough. I rarely have visitors." He nodded in the direction of the street and his minders. "You can understand why few if any of my former colleagues come to call."

Lang left by the same rear door through which he had entered. When he reached the street, the same two men were still in the same Mercedes.