KHALID AL HASSAN
PARIS, FRANCE
KHALID HAD JUST ARRIVED and sat in a small hotel room in the 18th Arrondissement of Paris. A single bulb hanging from the ceiling dimly lit the dingy room. A milk crate sat beside the bed, serving as a bedside table. The dank smell of sewage permeated the stale, humid air filtering in through the small window. Khalid hated Paris. He hated the people, and the smell in his room fouled his mood further. The faucet in the bathroom dripped a constant tempo, and the chipped white tile floor looked like it had not been mopped in decades.
Khalid closed the blinds to the window overlooking a small, dark concrete courtyard in the middle of the building, to block out the breaking dawn. He sorted through the bag he had just picked up from one of his contacts to examine the weapons inside. Across the bed, several untraceable prepaid phones were laid side-by-side, identical to the one in his pocket. Each one was labeled with a date. He would cycle through these phones as instructed, using only one number for a specified period of time. He would only call one person with each of these phones.
As Khalid put on his maroon jacket, the phone in its pocket rang. He wondered what motivated his employer. He knew he was a pawn in some political agenda. But he didn’t care, as long as he was paid. But he couldn’t help wondering anyway—what was this all about?
He answered the phone without saying a word. On the other end, a simple phrase was muttered:“7 Rue Palatine, in the 5th Arrondissement.”
Khalid hung up the phone. He grabbed a small backpack from beside the bed and headed out the door onto the streets of Paris.
DR. SOFIA PETRESCU
GENEVA, SWITZERLAND
And great earthquakes shall be in diverse places, and famines, and pestilences; and fearful sights and great signs shall there be from heaven.
Professor De Vos was late. Sofia sat at a table outside the Cottage Cafe in Geneva. The quaint café, situated on Square des Alps with a great view of the Rhone and the mountains, was far enough away from the U.N. headquarters that Sofia felt comfortable about meeting the professor there. Or mostly comfortable. She was still anxious to be associated with him—and her recent research into the professor’s theory had disturbed her greatly.
“I’m so sorry,” the professor said, hurrying over to the table. His hair blew wildly in the afternoon breeze as he sat down next to her. Looking around again to see if anyone recognized them, Sofia scooted her chair closer to the table.
“Professor, what have you gotten me into?” She whispered, pulling a graph from under the notepad and handing it to him. “As you know, the magnetosphere protects the earth from solar radiation,” she continued, “and the earth acts like a magnet in more ways than one, projecting its magnetic field way out into space like an invisible forcefield enveloping the earth. There is a constant barrage of charged particles, radiation, and solar wind ejected from the sun that impacts this field; if the field didn’t exist, everything on earth would be destroyed and the atmosphere would be blasted out into space. Life would cease.”
“Yes,” the professor said expectantly.
“The magnetosphere is relatively constant, although it fluctuates from time to time due to magnetic changes within the earth itself. However, the changes have been consistently predictable—until recently. Your findings of the pole migration pushed me to dig a little deeper.” She leaned in over the chart. “This chart shows the incredible increase in severe magnetic compressions on the magnetosphere over a 22-month period. These compressions are rising at alarming levels. Clearly something is causing the sun to discharge powerful solar winds more frequently, which are impacting the magnetosphere of the earth.” She placed another graph on the table in front of the professor. “Now take a look at this chart, which shows a similar increase in the number of near-earth objects, such as asteroids and meteors, that are being discovered. It’s as if, at the same time, our protection is weakening, and we are entering an area of space that is riddled with meteors.
“Now this is a graph showing a similar increase in meteorite activity around the earth,” she continued, pulling out another paper. “I’m not sure how, but it’s possible that all of these are somehow causally related.”
“What do you think could be the cause?” the professor asked.
“I’m not sure. But more disturbingly, I think the entire solar system is being affected.”
“How so?”
She frowned. “I have done some digging, and there are few studies that I am aware of that seem to demonstrate that other planets are warming,” she said. “There has been no complete study of this phenomenon as it pertains to the rest of the solar system. But looking over many independent studies, it is clear to me that this is occurring. More interestingly, a recent, very thorough study concludes that all the planets’ poles have been very recently and rapidly migrating—similar to what we have seen here on Earth. It actually appears that several planets’ poles have flipped already.”
“How is that possible?”
“I don’t know. But the claim is that this phenomenon started with the outermost planets and then moved to the inner planets. Likewise, current data shows that all of the planets are heating up or experiencing atmospheric changes and anomalies—again occurring in the outer planets first.” She took a deep breath, again regretting the moment she agreed to look into all this. “It—it just makes no sense to me.”
PARIS, FRANCE
It had been over a week since Robert’s revelation had disrupted James’s vacation. Ever since, the constant calls and reviews of data and DNA patterns had been steadily wearing him down.
Today, James’s phone had begun vibrating at seven a.m. He had turned the ringer off before passing out on the couch in his flat. Now the repetitive buzzing under his arm slowly brought him into the conscious world; his head throbbed as sunlight flooded in through the living room’s sheer curtains. Lying on his side, he peered out at the door and stretched, trying to wake himself. Thoughts of the “anomalies in DNA” that James interpreted as costly business problems, soured his mood instantly. He heard a subtle creaking of the stairs from his apartment hallway—not uncommon, given that he was on the third floor of a seven-story building.
Strange: it sounded as if the person stopped on his level. This got James’s attention; his was the only apartment on this floor. The creaking occurred again—right outside his door. He sat quietly listening. He could see a shadow from under the door: someone’s feet moving around. Over the muffled buzzing of the phone he heard a quiet scraping on the door—against the lock.
James jerked his head off the pillow. Panic filled his gut. What was going on? The scraping continued, then stopped. A barely audible click echoed across the room.
Ever so slowly, the lever-style handle on the front door was turning downward toward the floor.
What in the hell? he thought. He frantically rubbed his eyes holding the door in his gaze but remaining dead silent as he slowly sat upright. Now, very distinctly, he could see the handle of the door moving. With impossible slowness the door began to creak open.
Adrenaline filled James’s body. Terror coursed down his spine. His face flushed. His throat tightened, and his heart raced as the world seemed to slow. A thousand thoughts flashed through his mind but before he could think, he screamed, as loud as he could, “HEY!”
In one motion he leaped to the door, slamming it shut violently with his shoulder. He pressed hard against the door, struggling to regain his breath from the force of the impact while he prepared for a confrontation.
Slamming the deadbolt home, he peered out the peephole. He saw a man with short dark hair jumping down the stairs, his maroon jacket waving behind him. James tried to calm himself, he was taking deep breaths in frantic succession. “My God,” he huffed.
James hurried over to the couch and grabbed the phone, which had begun to vibrate again. “Hello,” he barked, running back over to the door with his phone. He looked back out through the peephole: the hallway was now empty.
“Are you up and moving already?” Robert asked, the sound of a computer keyboard echoing in the background.
“Shit, you’re never going to believe what just happened,” James said breathlessly. “Some punk just tried to rob my apartment.”
“What are you talking about?”
James recounted the story, waiting for his pulse to return to normal.
“That must have been really nerve-wracking,” Robert said when he’d finished.
“Yeah.” James cleared his throat. “I should probably report it after I get off the phone with you. Anyway, what’s up?”
“Did you read the summary I sent you of my last conversation with Dr. Caruthers?”
“Yes. It doesn’t make any sense to me. It seems like Stan thinks there is more to this DNA pattern, which I suppose is great for science in general—I’m just worried how it will apply to the business end of things.”
“I’m sending you some more information today on the Golden Ratio. I want you to take a look at it. I realize that you’re more of a visual type of guy, so I really think these images will help you understand. However, I think we need to formally engage Stan to help with this. I want to bring him on board as a consultant.”
“I can’t even get my hands around what the hell’s going on,” James sighed, reminding himself that Robert was a sane individual who wouldn’t be dragging him through this without some logical reason. “Can you maybe tell me what we can develop out of this? Will our product benefit from it, or is there some competing product that could? I mean, we can’t afford to bring experts in and increase our burn rate just for tangential research.”
“Damn it, James! This is bigger than our research!” Robert paused to collect himself before continuing. “Come on, Stan is an old colleague,” he said slowly. “I know him. This is right up his alley, plus he owes me one. I think I can get him to consult for free if we cover any expenses.” He paused again. “It’s not nonsense, James. It should be nonsense, but it isn’t.”
“Okay, Robert,” James released a breath. “I’m happy to bring in another expert at no cost, whoever you recommend. But I want to play this straight, okay? See if you can get Stan to look through all your historical data, too. I would really like a second opinion on your findings. You haven’t been getting much sleep, after all.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that, James. I knew you would agree.”
“One more thing. Make sure he signs a nondisclosure agreement before you give him anything more—just in case,” James concluded.
“I’ll take care of that,” Robert laughed. “He’ll love the chance to show us how smart he is. I’ve often wondered if that isn’t one of the reasons that he became a teaching professor instead of an independent researcher.” Robert suddenly yawned. “I guess I do need to get some sleep.”
James glanced at his watch. It was past midnight in Chicago. “Let’s just hope that this thing is as big as you say it is,” he said.
“Believe me, James,” Robert said, yawning again. “This could be the biggest scientific breakthrough since we split the atom. I’m sending you an email right now—I want you to open it and go over the contents. I’ll call you when I wake up.”
“Okay.” James stretched and rubbed his throbbing shoulder. “Great! Talk to you then.”
James shook his head and hung up the phone, his head spinning. Turning his attention back to the attempted break-in, he walked back over to the door and opened it. There were some gouge marks on the lock. He contemplated calling the police, then decided against it. This type of crime was common in Paris, after all; and with the classic lack of French administrative efficiency, it would take the cops all day to accomplish nothing.
As he stared at the wooden floor, wondering who else may have walked across its ancient herringbone pattern and contemplating if today was going to be another shitty day, he was drawn to the smell of the freshly baked bread from the boulangerie below. He needed coffee and a cigarette.
Foregoing a shower, he donned a very American baseball cap and headed down the Rue des Cannettes in search of a tabac for another pack of cigarettes.
The chilly morning air helped him to clear his head. After about thirty minutes he found himself back at Place Saint-Sulpice with a croissant, a cup of coffee, and a fresh cigarette dangling from his mouth. He sat on the edge of the fountain, facing north, and watched the people walking by the small shops. Café de la Marie on the corner was already full of people enjoying a coffee and petit déjeuner.
He set his coffee down on the limestone fountain base and tore off a piece of his croissant, brushing bits from this shirt. He leisurely looked around at the throngs of people moving through their morning routine.
“What the hell could Robert be on to?” he asked aloud, then self-consciously glanced around to make sure no one heard him. Those passing either seemed not to have heard or were just ignoring him. He scanned the small streets of the square and reached for his coffee.
Just as he was taking a drink, his heart seemed to leap into his throat. In the distance, between passing tourists, he caught the eye of a man glaring at him while talking on a cell phone.
James quickly tried to put the cup down and spilled coffee all down his front. He jumped up, swearing and wiping coffee off of his shirt. When he looked back to the small street where he’d seen the staring man, he had gone.
James’s throat tightened. What the hell? The man gave him a look expressing pure evil. Could it have been the same guy that tried to break in? Dark complexion, dark hair, tight beard, maroon jacket, jeans, possibly Middle Eastern—James had experienced that glare a few times before in Paris. Among its large Islamic population, there were occasional nasty encounters with someone who despised Americans and Western values. But the guy had certainly taken off in a hurry. It was probably nothing—just a petty thief startled in the act.
James took another sip of coffee, dropped the rest of the croissant on the pavement for the pigeons, and walked back to his flat. I’m just still jumpy from this morning, he thought.
DR. SATI AM UNNEFER
CAIRO, EGYPT
The angel took the censer, filled it with fire from the altar, and threw it to the earth …
“Dr. Unnefer!”
A middle-aged man wearing green cargo shorts and a white, short-sleeved shirt leaned over Sati’s desk. His English came with a heavy German accent.
“Professor Kline—so good to finally meet you in person.” Sati shook the hand offered to him and motioned to the chair beside his desk. “Have a seat.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Professor Kline said as he settled into the creaky old wooden seat. Running his fingers through his sandy-brown hair, he continued. “I came immediately upon hearing the news. It’s been quite a long flight over here, and the drive from the airport to your office was no easy task either.”
Sati could understand why Westerners were not comfortable traveling in Egypt these days. He returned the professor’s smile. “Yes, well, many things are in transition right now, as I’m sure you are well aware.”
“Indeed, they are.” Professor Kline removed his glasses and wiped them with a cloth. “We were very happy to hear that things have changed around your office as well.”
“You must be referring to the retirement of Dr. Zaher,” Sati said, leaning back in his chair.
“Well, it’s more that you have been put in charge of things,” Kline said. “Some people don’t appreciate efforts to dig up the past around here, not to mention actual archeological research. You seem as anxious as the rest of us to pursue your interest into the genesis of Egyptian antiquities and the pyramids. I think you are the type of man who is looking to fully explore and unlock whatever mysteries the Great Pyramid may hold.”
“Of course,” Sati said hesitantly. He still wasn’t sure he fully trusted this man; news of his decision to once again begin excavation in the Great Pyramid had spread with alarming rapidity through archeological circles. “And I hope you are aware that many other nations have requested to continue the excavation within the pyramid. I had a hard time determining who would be best to lead this particular excavation. But the Germans were naturally my first consideration. After all, they had performed the original exploration of the shafts.”
“Ah, yes,” Professor Kline said as he put his glasses back on and tucked the cloth back in his pocket. “We were the first to discover the door that leads to the unknown room. A room, as I understand it, that to this date no one understands. Everyone is still asking why this room exists and wondering what purpose it serves. Am I right?”
“Yes, that’s correct,” Sati said. “And since the German team is familiar with the delicate excavation, I decided the Germans should be brought back to finish the job. And you will be the project lead, of course. However,” he added, as he assessed the beaming professor for a moment, wondering how he would react to the forthcoming news, “there is a new wrinkle in our plans. I have been contacted by the United States and have spoken directly to President Brooks, if you can imagine that. The Americans have offered to fund the entire excavation and allow the Egyptian government to maintain all of any excavated findings and then some. It is a gesture intended to help strengthen our new government’s relationship with America and provide some much-needed economic stimulus for Cairo.”
“I have no doubt,” said Professor Kline, forcing a polite smile and shifting uneasily in his chair. His demeanor took a decidedly defensive posture; his enthusiasm seemed to evaporate.
Sati pushed himself forward and sat up straight. “Let’s not play games about this, Professor. I have researched much of your work on the Great Pyramids and Egyptian history in general. While I was very impressed with your theories concerning the Giza complex, I am somewhat surprised that your government would put you forward as a lead archeologist on this project, once again. You and I have many of the same thoughts about the true history of this place and what purpose it served.”
“Well, most would think me a little out in left field, but I firmly believe that this pyramid room will help prove my theories correct,” Professor Kline said. “I think that those in my government realized this, and also want to solve the puzzle. When they asked if I would head this team and act as a liaison to you, I was honored and felt I couldn’t refuse.”
“Out in—left field?” Sati inquired.
Professor Kline laughed. “An American expression. It means outside of what most consider the normal.”
“Well then, I suppose I would be out in left field as well.” The two academics chuckled.
“But seriously,” continued Kline, “I can of course work with the U.S. team. I am well aware that there were many other countries vying for this privilege. I appreciate the opportunity to finish what we started, and I assure you, I will do nothing without your approval.”
“I appreciate that, Professor Kline,” Sati said with a nod, “and that is why I am choosing your team. I need an expert on the inside. That will be you.”
“Very good then,” Professor Kline replied as he stood up, clearly relieved. “The rest of my team will be ready to begin as soon as you say go, assuming that works for the Americans. If there is nothing further, we will begin our preparations.”
“No, I have nothing more to discuss,” Sati said. “Until then …” He stood up to lead his guest to the door.
Sati watched him as he made his way down the hall. He hoped he had made the right choice with this man, and in partnering with the Americans. They’d given him a very generous offer—but their help was never simply charitable. They expected information. It always seemed to him as if the Americans were staring down their noses at you, waiting for a chance to further their imperialist agenda.
The next day, Sati was in his office going over the excavation details when suddenly, his door was thrust open, slamming it into the wall. A picture fell, shattering on the floor. Sati leapt to his feet in surprise.
Dr. Zaher stood framed in the doorway. He glared at Sati, entered the room, and slammed the door shut behind him.
“How could you do this?” the retired Antiquities Minister hissed, his finger pointed accusingly at Sati. “How could you betray your country like this? How could you allow the Americans to come into our country and pillage our people’s greatest work?” Spittle flew from his mouth as he ranted.
Sati stared in shock for a moment, wondering how the news had reached the ears of his predecessor so quickly. Then, seating himself again as calmly as he could, he turned his full attention to his previous employer.
“What are you talking about?” he asked, straightening his shirt. “Have you forgotten that I—we—deal with unearthing the mysteries of ancient Egypt? It is our duty to research the things we find. That is why this office, this position, is here.” He spread his arms wide. “It is our duty to find things that will benefit our people and our country.”
“We are Egyptians and Muslims, Sati. We have created great things, done great things, built great things!” Zaher’s face became flushed. “I don’t know what these Americans think they are going to find, or why they are involved in this. But I know all about that German, Kline. He is like the many other fools who have come here thinking they are going to find proof that our people’s greatest works were not built by Egyptians, but by some fantasy spacemen or ancient European people. A man like that has no business here, and he especially should not be given a chance to excavate the pyramid. Have you learned nothing from me, Sati?”
Sati narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice. “I have learned much, Dr. Zaher.” He stood slowly and began making his way around the desk. “I have learned how you kept many new revelations from being discovered. How you constantly prevented teams from investigating further when their conclusions did not match yours. I even learned how you kept secrets from me!” He glared into Zaher’ eyes and motioned toward the wall that had hidden the files he’d found.
Dr. Zaher sat down heavily, seeming to deflate. When he spoke again his words were nearly a whisper, almost as if he were talking to himself.
“I left you with this responsibility because I thought you wanted the same things I wanted,” he said, shaking his head with his arms limp in his lap. “Now you are telling me that you are like all the others who came here to desecrate the works of our people and Allah. You will bring on a religious war with these things you are doing, Dr. Unnefer.”
Sati uncrossed his arms. “I am not trying to desecrate anyone or anything. Nor do I seek to start a war. I am only trying to find the truth, and I am prepared to accept it—whatever it may be. If this discovery points to a solely Egyptian origin, then so be it. If it does not, so be it. We are not the dictators of history. Our history is what it is. That is what I thought we were here to do: to discover the truth about the past.”
There was a long pause. Zaher searched Sati’s eyes. “And what if it is not of this earth, whatever you find?” he whispered, his tone suddenly pleading. “Are you willing to shame the Muslim world with such a claim? You, who piously wears his robes? Do you not understand that you will be shaming the great prophet by doing something like that? Is that worth it, Sati?”
Sati sighed as he made his way back around the desk and into his chair. He knew Zaher was right; such a discovery would do much damage to Islam. But he’d spent his whole career trying to uncover proof for his beliefs, and he knew his allegiance to scientific truth was every bit as strong.
“One cannot live in fear of the truth, Dr. Zaher,” he said after a long pause. “All these years you were in charge of this office and did that—look at what it got you. Whenever a discovery came about that conflicted with your beliefs, you snuffed it out. Is the world better off for that? Are we not fighting still amongst ourselves? Has cleaving to the notion that Egyptians built these pyramids done anything to unify Islam? I have been waiting my whole career for this opportunity. There is no way I can give up this opportunity to finally find the truth. It may upset the imams, and it may not. But in the end, either way, it will be the truth.”
Dr. Zaher’ face turned a deeper shade of red and tinged almost purple as he slowly stood. “You are a fool, Sati,” he growled. “If I had known this sooner, I would not have made you my successor. You were wrong to deceive me, and you have done wrong in deceiving the rest of the Muslim world. You will be judged for your actions.” He turned and walked to the door before shouting back over his shoulder: “Especially for collaborating with the Americans! They are a treacherous people that will only bring Egypt, Islam, and yourself to ruin. Watch your back, Sati.”
With this last warning, Zaher slammed the door behind him.