The Secret of Osiris: The Alpha and the Omega, Twice Upon a Time, Return to Rostau

By Graham H Rogers

Just what is the connection between the Great Pyramid at Giza, built over 4,000 years ago, and the Roswell incident of 1947? Be assured the answer has nothing to do with aliens, but everything to do with the Egyptian Coffin Text, the Ark of the Covenant, the Qumran Scrolls and the Book of Revelation. Combining these renowned mysteries with the intriguing discoveries of the famous "Face" on Mars and a secret trapdoor in the pyramid, Graham H Rogers' mind-bending trilogy reconstructs the quest of five colleagues who embark on an unprecedented adventure. It draws them away from the Giza plateau and leads them to the heart of American Intelligence at Langley, Virginia. It is here they begin to unravel the message embedded in the pyramid ever since its construction. It was a message designed to change the destiny of mankind at a time in the future when man could respond to its awesome prediction. but, in the wrong hands, it could be used to further America's supremacy over the rest of the world. The Secret of OSIRIS is a tale of many riddles. It is a multifaceted gem of a story and its immense scope will appeal hugely to those who are able to hear different harmonies and seek alternative truths.

• Language: English
• Publisher: G2 Rights
• Release date: Nov 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781782810292

Book preview

Book One

The Alpha and the Omega

Introduction

SECRET PASSAGE POSES PYRAMID MYSTERY

In the 1940s Edgar Cayce, the American clairvoyant, prophesied the discovery, in the last quarter of the twentieth century and somewhere near the Sphinx, of a hidden chamber containing the historical records of Atlantis. Whether recent discoveries in the Great Pyramid of Cheops (Khufu) have anything to do with this is far from certain, but the discovery of a small door at the end of a long, hitherto unexplored, eight inch shaft has set many speculating about what, if anything, might lie behind it.¹

This was the beginning of an article printed by The Times in March 1995. The story was also carried by several other national newspapers and, for a moment, the media buzzed about a secret trapdoor discovered by an engineer called Rudolf Gantenbrink.

Gantenbrink had been commissioned to work on a new ventilation system for the Great Pyramid of Khufu, utilising some original shafts which extend from the King’s and Queen’s Chambers. Although the shafts are only eight inches square, with the advancement of miniature cameras and robotic technology Gantenbrink was able to survey them – allegedly for the first time – and in doing so, discovered a trapdoor about two-thirds of the way up the southern shaft extending from the Queen’s Chamber.

Of course, the media headlines were welcome publicity for the Egyptian Tourist Board having already been endorsed by the Egyptian Antiquities Organisation (EAO) which, given its protective role of censorship concerning any new discovery at the Giza site, was perhaps a little surprising.

However, what Gantenbrink and the media did not know was the EAO had already conducted its own secret survey of the shafts in 1993, before commissioning the engineer to undertake his work. This had been a precautionary measure, which enabled that authority to defuse any controversial implications before it moved into the public arena. Hence, whatever lay behind the secret trapdoor had already been removed from the world’s prying eyes.

The person delegated by the EAO to undertake this otherwise mundane pre-survey, was an Egyptian woman called Israa Qederi. Miss Qederi had excelled as a mature student at London University, and was subsequently recommended to the EAO by her principal lecturer, Doctor Angus Graeme – himself an esteemed expert in Egyptology.

Even so, Doctor Graeme’s generosity was not entirely without ulterior purpose. One year earlier he had persuaded his protégeé to join a team of associates whose combined talents were dedicated to resolving the mystery of Khufu’s Great Pyramid, believing that the Egyptians were deliberately obstructing many of the emerging New Age theories in order to protect their traditional cultural inheritance.

Accordingly, Israa’s loyalty was still very much with her benefactor and his exclusive team when, using her own remote camera mounted on a miniature caterpillar-traction robot, she discovered (before Gantenbrink) the trapdoor.

She immediately contacted Angus Graeme who, knowing Israa would be taken off the case as soon as the EAO learnt of the discovery, advised her that it was imperative to open the mysterious door before she reported the find to her employer. Israa agreed, but there was a problem. Her robot lacked the skills to undertake the complex task of lifting the door. Understandably, Angus did not have an immediate solution to her problem; but, as is often the case, he knew a man who might.

Angus and I met many years ago when I did a part-time lecture course on robotics at the same university. We have remained friends ever since.

The last time we met I was working on a project for British Nuclear Fuels. They wanted a way to inspect, in situ, the tubes of their reactor cores. The use of traditional camera technology was useless, due to the effects of residual radiation. So they had instead invested in a fibre-optic cable with lens attachment, and wanted a suitable robotic vehicle which could carry the device up and down the reactor tubes.

Because of the hostile environment, electronic components were out of the question, and therefore I set about designing a robot which had eight legs, articulated by means of compressed air. I affectionately named it Incey Wincey.

My name is Jonathan Wilden, a freelance consultant engineer specialising in robotic technology. Having made a modest fortune on the stock exchange a few years ago, I now enjoy semi-retirement, only taking on commissions which are of particular interest to me.

Angus had obviously decided that my mechanical arachnid would be quite at home climbing up and down a small shaft in the Great Pyramid and perhaps hoped it might even open the mysterious trapdoor.

Forty-eight hours after his telephone call (and charged with the enthusiasm of unbridled speculation), Angus and I arrived in Cairo and met up with the delectable and equally unbridled Israa Qederi. It was to be the beginning of an adventure that we believe has led us to the most important discovery ever concerning the survival of mankind!

The following is our collective account of that adventure.

Cross-Section of the Great Pyramid

¹ Simon Seligman, The Times, London, 28 Janurary 1995.

Chapter One

JONATHAN WILDEN:

Israa ran the video recording which clearly showed the tiny door, set like a portcullis in the shaft. There were two little levers set on the face of the door and pointing horizontally – one to the left and one to the right. All the evidence suggested that the door lifted upwards, but whether the levers were required to turn clockwise or anticlockwise, if at all, remained unresolved.

Time was at a premium, since Israa had only one week left to conclude her surveying project which, of course, had always been considered to be nothing more than a routine precaution, prior to instigating the ventilation contract.

Do you think your robot can open the door for me? enquired Israa, anxiously fluttering her dark eyelashes.

I dearly wanted to say yes to my delightful hostess, but I knew there were a lot of unknowns associated with the task. Did the door, in fact, slide upwards? Would it weigh more than say, ten kilograms?

It’s quite likely there’ll be some frictional resistance, reflected Angus. The sand gets absolutely everywhere.

That’s not so much of a problem, I told them. I can introduce a pneumatic percussion device which should shake out any grit that’s collected in the vertical door guides . . . but I’m more concerned about those two levers. If they operate some kind of locking mechanism, we are stumped; there’s no way I can adapt the robot to manipulate them within the next few days.

Well, it doesn’t make any sense to me, protested Israa. What’s the point in having a door that cannot be opened? The fact that it’s two-thirds of the way up a tiny shaft already makes it virtually impossible to access, so why bother to incorporate an additional obstacle like a locking mechanism?

I’ve got no idea, I conceded. But what other purpose could they serve?

Perhaps they’re not levers at all, but handles put there to provide some means of obtaining a firm grip, reasoned Angus.

In which case, there’s only one other problem to overcome, I concluded. I need a precision engineering workshop where I can undertake the necessary modifications.

Give me twenty-four hours and you’ll have one, Israa assured me, clearly delighted that I had agreed to accept the challenge.

That evening was spent consummating the new partnership over dinner. I learnt that Israa, at thirty-one, had not been married and, since returning to Cairo, had been sharing a flat with a friend called Amineh. They had known each other on and off for a couple of years, having been on several archaeological digs together. Currently, Amineh was between jobs, and so Israa had enlisted her help in undertaking the shaft survey.

I felt obliged to reciprocate by declaring I was forty-five, divorced and living in Newmarket with my cat. I then changed the subject, as it occurred to me that I sounded more like a desperate subscriber to a lonely hearts club.

So, what made you suddenly decide to take a university degree in England? I asked.

I always intended to, replied Israa, but, if you mean why did I leave it so late . . .

No, not really, I said defensively, trying to conceal the fact that it had prompted some curiosity.

Israa spent her earlier years looking after her mother, Angus explained. It’s to her credit that she put her family obligations before her own career.

It’s nothing more than most daughters would do in my country, remarked Israa, modestly. When my father died, we were left without any income and so I had no other choice but to get a job. Mother was ill and unable to work – bless her. Before she died, she made me promise I would go to England and fulfil my ambitions. So that’s what I’ve done.

The next day, Angus returned to England, leaving Israa and me to pursue our urgent task. As promised, Israa arranged the use of a local engineering workshop. We worked closely together as we sorted the various components needed to transform Incey Wincey.

By Thursday, the transformation had been completed. That evening, Amineh joined us and we drank a toast to the pending success of our mission, scheduled for Friday night, after the pyramid was closed to the tourists.

It had been an intensive week, and in many ways I was glad that it had almost come to an end; but I also realised that I was becoming infatuated with a woman some fifteen years younger than myself. It was not like any previous experience I had known. There was no burning passion, no reckless desires, no primitive urgency to have her. In fact, it was nothing along those lines at all. It was more powerful than all of that. It was an almost perfect friendship. The sort that occurs, possibly, only once or twice in a lifetime, when two people experience an immediate intimacy, unasserted by words or actions, but mysteriously bonded by their first moment of contact.

When we arrived at the Giza site the guards of the Great Pyramid checked our passes, making a particular note of my details before listing all the equipment we had brought with us. We were then escorted up to the entrance of the monument, situated on the north face.

I recalled the Tourist Guide Notes:

The Great Pyramid of Khufu (or Cheops) – meaning One belonging to the horizon – stands 137 metres high above a square base, each side being 230 metres long.

The four chambers inside are:

1) THE BURIAL (or SUBTERRANEAN CHAMBER) – cut in natural bedrock, 120 metres below the base.

2) THE QUEEN’S CHAMBER (or LOWER CHAMBER) – measuring 5.2m × 5.7m × 6.13m high and sitting on the 24th course.

3) THE KING’S CHAMBER (or UPPER CHAMBER) – measuring 5.2m × 10.8m × 5.8m high and sitting on the 50th course. This is the most impressive of the chambers, being constructed in highly polished red granite and containing a lidless sarcophagus of red Aswan granite. No body was ever found.

4) THE GRAND GALLERY – a magnificent construction of some 47 metres in length leading up the incline to the King’s Chamber and having a corbelled roof 8.5m high, built in a fine grained Muqattan Limestone.

The present entry (below and to the left of the original entry on the 16th course of the north face) is a forced tunnel cut into the 6th course of masonry by Khalif Ma’Mun, in the 9th century. This tunnel extends some 36m into the pyramid before reaching the junction of the original Descending and Ascending passages.

As we climbed towards the Khalif Ma’Mun opening, I gazed at the massive structure towering above. The moon had cast an eerie shadow and I noticed that I was shivering. I could not discern whether it was due to the cold night air, nervous excitement or the utterly foreboding atmosphere of the giant monument.

Once inside the passage, the air temperature began to rise, as did the humidity. By the time we reached the original Ascending Passage, I was already perspiring.

It was also a physical struggle since the passages were only a metre high and we had to walk in a crouched, ape-like manner which made it awkward to manhandle the equipment.

Things got easier after we had turned off the Ascending Passage, at the foot of the Grand Gallery, and went along the Horizontal Passage which leads to the Queen’s Chamber.

When we reached the Chamber I dropped my cargo alongside the other bags that had been brought by Israa and Amineh and stretched my back and shoulders in relief. My eyes automatically stared upwards to observe the interior of the vault. The artificial lighting, added for the benefit of the tourists, was poor, but I could appreciate the spatial dimensions. The ceiling seemed to loom above, and the floor beneath was rough and unfinished. I had an overwhelming realisation that there were thousands of tons of stone above, below and around me. The actual chamber, however, was devoid of any other notable feature.

Israa’s voice echoed off the masonry as she instigated our preparatory work and, for a moment, I lost my sense of balance, finding it difficult to adjust to the strange environment. I remember envying the guard who had now scuttled back to his comfortable cabin with a half-hearted promise to return later to see how things were progressing.

It took over an hour to assemble all the equipment, including the robot with its trail of pneumatic lines and optic cables, but finally we were ready to scale the tiny shaft.

I operated the robot’s controls while Amineh adjusted the video monitor which would show and record its progress. Israa was making some early documentary notes under one of the lights.

The modifications introduced to Incey had meant sacrificing a pair of its legs in order to adapt them to form the lifting forks now required. This transformation from spider to insect made it less sure-footed than before and I had to undertake some last minute adjustments until the robot settled down to a more rhythmic pace as it continued its climb up the incline of the shaft.

After forty-five minutes, Amineh announced that the robot had reached the Tura limestone surface previously observed. This indicated it was nearing the mysterious door. The tension grew in my stomach as I wiped the perspiration now coursing down my face. I took hold of the controls once more in readiness for the final approach.

There it is! confirmed Amineh, as the camera, mounted on Incey, picked up the first images of the stone door standing in its path.

Because there was nothing with which to compare its true dimensions, the little door looked massive as it filled the VDU screen. I began to doubt whether my little robot could cope with lifting such a mass.

Amineh jolted me back to the job in hand.

You’d better reduce the rate of climb now, Jonathan. It’s difficult to gauge just how far away the robot is from the door, she warned.

OK, I acknowledged, my face locked in a nervous smile as I stared at the VDU.

You’re doing fine, said Israa, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder. Amineh will tell you when you’re a few inches away.

Thanks, said Amineh, who was under a similar strain. Stand by, then . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . halt!

Incey froze like a mantis that had spotted its prey.

We decided to take a break and freshen up. Israa rummaged in one of her bags and produced a couple of towels and some flannels that had been rinsed in lemon water. They were heaven-sent, since the task lighting was raising the temperature in the chamber. After we had wiped away our salted sweat, she handed out cartons of Lucozade and passed around a plastic container full of deliciously moist cucumber and salmon sandwiches. They looked ridiculously out of context. Even so, I was impressed with Israa’s forethought, and grateful for some refreshment – if only to postpone the moment of truth for a few more minutes.

I looked across at the monitor which was holding a steady picture of the lower edge of the door. The division between its lower edge and the Tura limestone floor was almost indistinguishable; no more than the thickness of a postcard.

I had studied this on the first video and decided that the forks to the lifting gear had to be machined to a chisel-edged taper if there was to be any chance of driving them between the door’s lower edge and the smooth floor of the shaft. This, in turn, made them prone to damage if I did not align them exactly on to the fine dividing interface. But there was no more time for idle speculation. With a new compressed air bottle fitted, I slowly opened the valve to the horizontal ram. The lens zoomed in to show the ends of the lifting forks which were now primed ready to be forced under the door. My eyes were burning with unblinking concentration as I watched for the first sign of progress on the monitor. There was none, and I felt tempted to increase the air pressure to the ram; but if I used too much pressure before I was sure the door was lifting onto the forks, I could end up damaging the forks or the pneumatic ram itself.

I decided to introduce some pneumatic percussion. The short bursts of hammering were amplified down the shaft and into the chamber, sounding like spasmodic machine-gun fire.

It’s moving! The forks are going under the door! Amineh called out.

I felt a surge of exuberance, but remained silent as I watched the forks drive up to their hilt before stopping the ram and shutting off the percussion.

OK, Israa reminded us. Bearing in mind we don’t know what’s behind this door, anything could happen, so keep your eyes peeled . . . Can we return the camera lens to its maximum angle so we cover as much of the opening as possible?

How’s that? responded Amineh.

Fine, agreed Israa. Keep the camera focused on the opening. Then, once the door is partly open, focus straight into the void so we can get early feedback.

Don’t forget, I can’t move the robot while it is lifting the door, I observed. So, if there is something behind there, we’ll have to hope that gravity gives us a helping hand. The slope of the shaft is nearly forty degrees which should be sufficient for most objects to slide out.

. . . And bump into Incey! predicted Amineh.

Let’s just get the door open and we’ll take it from there, said Israa.

I started lifting the door using maximum percussion and the slowest of winch speed. At first, the whole shaft seemed to tremble as the camera was vibrating in sympathy, making it difficult to retain a clear picture on the monitor.

The door continued to rise slowly, for the first time in four and a half thousand years. When the gap under the door had increased to nearly one inch, Amineh called out above the noise of the continuing percussion.

Can we do without the vibes? The picture is still blurred and I can’t focus into the void beyond the door.

I’d rather keep it going while we’ve got upward momentum, I responded. If I stop now, the door might jam again and we may not be able to get it restarted!

The stone slab slowly continued to rise until the camera was looking clear through to the other side, but all that was revealed was more shaft, unaltered in breadth and height and lined with the same Tura limestone. It was empty of any artefact.

Then, just at the edge of abandoned hope, Amineh let out an exclamation. I had also seen it, my eyes having been glued to the screen. It was a flash of reflected light that had dropped down in front of the camera lens. I knocked off the pneumatic valves. The immediate silence was followed by a noise resembling that of a bowling alley as the balls rumble down the lanes towards the pins. It was getting nearer, louder and faster. Within seconds I heard something hit the bottom of the shaft and come to rest, somewhere behind the opening in the wall.

Why you shout? called an Egyptian voice from the main passage.

It was the guard returning, as promised, to see if there had been any progress.

You’re just in time to see for yourself, replied Israa as he entered the chamber. We’ve discovered a secret door and managed to open it – most of the way, at least.

So, what’s behind it? enquired the guard, showing some genuine interest.

Not sure yet, replied Israa, as she dragged her eyes from the opening in the chamber wall and pointed to the monitor screen. Would you scan the exposed void, Amineh . . . Go as deep as possible.

Amineh adjusted the searchlight until it focused on a blocking stone further up the shaft.

There’s nothing! remarked the guard. It’s a dead end . . . not very exciting, I think.

With that he shrugged his shoulders and turned to go back to his cabin.

Israa turned to me and put her finger to her lips, knowing how the merest whisper would travel down the stone passage.

I think the door can be lowered now, if you’ve got enough on the video, Amineh.

Yes, I think so . . . No point in wasting film. The last footage was clear enough, she replied, acutely aware of the game we were playing.

Using just a tickle of vibration, I began lowering the door. Israa wandered over to the opening in the wall and inserted her arm up to her shoulder, gingerly searching for the mystery object. I saw her flinch instinctively as her slender outstretched fingers first came into contact with whatever it was. She then carefully took hold of it and pulled it out.

Come and look! she invited. It’s a ball – a very heavy, shiny metal ball!

This has got to be the oldest ‘slot-machine’ ever! giggled Amineh.

I frowned in total puzzlement. The ball was approximately two inches in diameter. It was highly polished, without trace of tarnish or oxidation and it was, as Israa had remarked, particularly heavy – far weightier than I had expected when I picked it out of her hands.

One hell of an ancient marble, I mused, or is it a modern one?

Israa had now retrieved another identical one from the shaft.

I don’t know what to make of them, she said, in bewilderment. They certainly don’t fall into any category of ancient artefact that I’ve ever come across.

I checked the monitor. The door had not dropped properly into place. Amineh suggested that no one would worry about such a little gap, so I settled Incey into reverse action and watched it start its climb back down the shaft. When I looked up again, I noticed Israa was deep in thought.

"Cheer up. At least we found something!" I encouraged.

"Maybe, but as far as I can see, this project has ended in one disappointing flop! Israa declared. I’m certainly not going to present the EAO with two oversized ball bearings and claim it was part of Khufu’s favourite set of Le-Ball which he used every Sunday down the local pub!"

If you ask me, somebody’s taking the proverbial Mick! Amineh joined in, "Symbolic, when you think about it . . . Just a load of old balls!"

I smiled in sympathy.

I knew how they were feeling and I did not want to raise false hopes, but the balls were something of a mystery in their own right. They were not made from any metal alloy that I was familiar with – not with their orange tinge; resistance to oxidation and extremely heavy density. If they had been put there by a prankster, they would have been made from a more common material, I reasoned.

"You’re not honestly suggesting they really are four and a half thousand years old, are you?" checked Amineh in disbelief.

My God! added Israa. They had hardly mastered copper alloys then, let alone some stainless steel alloy, or whatever!

Well, nobody doubted, beforehand, that we would be the first to access the door, I argued. Look at the way we had to use the percussion hammer to loosen it . . . It certainly hasn’t been opened in the past few years, that’s for sure! If we’d found an ancient scroll or some Egyptian artefact, you would have been out of your minds with excitement. Just because we’ve found something completely unexpected doesn’t mean it’s been placed there as a prank.

I was struggling to make some credible argument against the girls’ scepticism but, as I pursued my own logic, it began to make more sense. I decided to push my case to its conclusion.

If they were made from some obvious metal, then I would have to agree that we’ve been set up – for whatever reason; but since the balls are made from some other, unrecognisable material, I would not be too hasty to dismiss it as a joke. Maybe they have come from some hitherto unknown origin!

Israa began to see what I was getting at.

"I know such speculation is forbidden in the historical world of archaeology, but ‘unfamiliar alloy’ does have a ring of alien about it!"

Our conversation was interrupted by a distant rumble. It only lasted a few seconds before all was silent again.

Come on, said Israa, let’s pack up and get out of here. This place is beginning to give me the creeps.

The next morning Israa was sitting at the end of the sofa bed where I had been sleeping. She had made coffee and was thumbing through several books.

What are you looking at? I muttered, having been disturbed by the stimulating aroma of her coffee.

New Age speculations about the Egyptian Necropolis, she replied. "There has been some interesting New Age research published over the past years. Some intriguing parallels have been drawn between the relative positions of the pyramids and their alignment with the Orion star constellation, suggesting an advanced and meticulous understanding of their movements relative to our own planet. Such a capability of astronomical measurement can only be supported by a knowledge that was totally out of line with any authorised account of known civilisations that existed during those earliest of times. This, coupled with the relatively sudden appearance of an advanced form of language script, leaves a glaring question mark regarding the source of such knowledge. Clearly, there had to be a source, since the history of all other civilisations has shown that this type of achievement only occurs over many thousands of years of natural development.

"Did you know that the three great pyramids of Khufu, Khafre and Menkaure align, exactly, with the three stars forming the ‘belt’ of Orion (the Hunter), and that the southern shaft of the King’s Chamber aligns with the first star in the belt, Al Nitak, as it was in approximately 2,500 BC – the time generally agreed when the Great Pyramid was built?"

"In short, no! I replied, completely out of my depth. All I know is that no one has yet been able to work out a convincing method of how they could have built such exacting and enormous structures in the first place! I saw a television programme once, where they demonstrated the use of a particularly hard granite ball to fashion the necessary building blocks. They were bouncing this granite ball repeatedly onto the quarried stone. Each impact chipped away another fraction of a millimetre of stone, gradually forming a progressive groove or cut. It seemed a painfully slow process which must have taken months to achieve a few inches in depth. I simply can’t imagine the sort of motivation that would be needed to undertake such a tedious and momentous task – and I mean, to produce just one block! How many blocks are there in Khufu’s pyramid?"

Israa passed me a copy of Peter Lemesurier’s book, The Great Pyramid Decoded.²

I thumbed over several pages before finding the answer.

The estimated volume is given here as 91½ million cubic feet. For the sake of argument, and my mental arithmetic, that suggests something like three million – accepting an average size of about one cubic metre.

Israa laughed. It’s a bit like being at school, again . . . If it takes six men six months to cut one block, how many men would it take to cut three million?

Eighteen million men, I calculated. But they would be standing on each other’s shoulders, one hundred deep!

No one is saying that it was built in six months, Israa pointed out, "but I think you may be better off pursuing your other comment – the sort of motivation that would be needed. If we could find the reason why the pyramids were built, we would have a better understanding as to how they were built. All I know is, it must have been something exceptional, if not unique, to have caused them to do it."

Well, it’s beyond my comprehension, I admitted.

You, and all the experts for hundreds of years, so don’t take it too personally.

We were interrupted by the telephone. Israa got up to answer it. After a few minutes of dialogue in Arabic, she put down the receiver.

We’ve got trouble! she announced. That was the EAO – they want to see me this afternoon.

So, what’s the problem? I asked, still engrossed in Lemesurier’s book.

Apparently our friendly guard at the pyramid last night has reported that we discovered a secret door in the shaft.

But your video will confirm that anyway, I replied.

Yes, but how am I going to explain that all we’ve found is a pair of alien balls!

Look, you said it yourself – you thought it was a hoax. Why not tell them just that? Go on the offensive. Demand an explanation as to why they have been wasting everyone’s time and money on what is obviously a total archaeological farce!

Israa thought it over.

The thing is, I know we’ve only been speculating – somewhat wildly – about alien involvement but, what if it’s true? If I hand over the balls to the EAO, we will never find out the truth.

"So only give them one! I suggested in a flash of inspiration, There’s no way that they will be able to tell how many there were."

That might work. she agreed.

That’s it then, I replied. And I can take the other ball with me to show Angus. God, I wonder what he’s going to make of it all . . . What time do you have to be at the EAO?

Two o’clock, Israa replied.

Good enough. By the time they see the video, I shall be well on the way back to London . . . I wouldn’t want to find a deputation of EAO officials waiting to search my bag for metal balls when I get to Cairo Airport.

Don’t worry. They may check in case you’ve got a golden statue as a souvenir but, they won’t be looking for metal balls . . . unless they were deliberately planted there by the EAO to test my loyalty! You don’t know how paranoid they can get if they suspect someone’s affiliated to a New Age outlet.

"Who gets paranoid? I said, taking hold of her hands. I’m telling you now, the EAO are going to be just as baffled as we are!"

Maybe. But please be careful. I don’t want you to end up in prison for smuggling. The authorities take a very harsh view of such matters. You could be put away for years!

Well I’ll just have to take that chance, but if the worst comes to the worst, I’ll expect to see you on visiting days!

Not if I’m already locked up as your accomplice!

I released her hands in order to give her a hug. The warmth of her body and the fragrance of her raven hair momentarily overwhelmed me as she responded by slipping her arms around my waist. I held on to the embrace, not wanting it to end. After a few seconds, she patted me on the back. I took it to mean that the acceptable duration of intimacy had now expired and released her. What I could not decide was if the allotted time signified something more than a platonic friendship . . . It was a question which preoccupied me for the entire flight back to England.

ISRAA QEDERI:

After Jonathan left to catch his flight back to England, I made a fresh pot of coffee and took advantage of some peace and quiet to prepare my report to the EAO. Amineh was still asleep and unlikely to disturb me for several hours.

It was, however, the quietness which disrupted my concentration. The silence had caused an empty feeling in my stomach. I put down my pen and went to find a couple of left over croissants. As I reached for a plate out of the cupboard, I registered the smell of tobacco and looked over my shoulder, half expecting to see Jonathan standing behind me. Then, I noticed the half-smoked cigar lying in the ashtray on the worktop.

I smiled as I recalled his embarrassment when I first referred to his smoking habit – not that I had any real objections to it. In fact, it brought back the childhood memories of my father, who also enjoyed a cigar, usually at the end of the day. He would sit in our back yard, under my bedroom window, and allow the blue smoke to fill the evening air. It is now twenty years since he died, and I still miss him, terribly.

Amineh emerged just as I was finishing the summary of my report. It was nearly eleven o’clock. She fetched a glass of water from the kitchen and then hovered in a manner which suggested she wanted to talk. I carried on writing.

Where’s your English friend? she finally asked.

On his way back to England, I confirmed, noticing the implication of her expression your friend.

She obviously disapproved of Jonathan stopping over that night, or at least was annoyed at my presumption that he could. I suppose I should have checked with her first – it was her flat, after all!

You’re keen, she continued, referring to the report I was working on.

I told her about the telephone call from the EAO While she listened, she picked up the mystery ball that had been left on the table in front of me. A few moments later, it dawned on her that there were supposed to be two!

Where’s the other one? she asked with suspicion.

I carefully explained about my concern that the EAO would impose a censorship on our discovery, denying the chance of any further investigation. I then confessed that I had given the other ball to Jonathan to take back to Angus.

Amineh was furious.

What the hell were you thinking? If they see from the video that there were two balls, you’ll be in serious trouble . . . and so will I!

No you won’t, I said. I’d tell them you had nothing to do with it.

And, you think that will make it alright? You know what they’re like . . . They’ll blacklist both of us! It will mean the end of our careers. We could even be sent to prison for smuggling ancient artefacts out of the country . . . How could you do this behind my back, Israa?

I tried to reassure her and, to some extent, was succeeding until I added that Jonathan was sure they would not notice there had been more than one ball.

"Oh well, if Jonathan said so it will be alright, she cut in. The fact that we’ve been friends for years obviously counts for nothing . . . You hardly know him, and yet on his say-so you’ve put us both at risk!"

From that point on, the argument became more and more emotional until it became clear that it was Jonathan who was the real problem. I decided to challenge her on this. She immediately turned it back on me.

What do you think? she demanded. "You were the one who begged to share my flat. I took that to mean something about our relationship, but I can see now that it was just a convenience for you . . ."

I was about to protest when it dawned on me that our relationship actually meant something completely different to Amineh. At first, I was shocked. The possibility of that kind of relationship had, as far as I was aware, never been raised – either in word or deed. The situation seemed to demand some urgent straight talking – literally!

By the time the record was set straight, Amineh was devastated. Any remaining anger she had was totally depleted, such that I began to think I was at least partly to blame for not seeing the situation as it really was. Either way, it was going to be impossible to stay there another night so, amid an atmosphere we could cut with a knife, I packed the few belongings I had and left.

In contrast to the cloudy relationship between Amineh and me, Al Kahlid – my boss at the EAO – made his feelings crystal clear from the outset.

You failed to report the discovery of this secret door . . . You brought in an external resource without my approval and, then, you deliberately removed an artefact from the pyramid without permission.

That’s not fair, I protested. I only kept it a secret from the guards because I didn’t think you’d want them knowing about it . . . I was in the middle of preparing my report to you when you telephoned.

I’ve only got your word for that, he replied, cynically. "I’ll be blunt, Miss Qederi. I was not entirely comfortable about the fact that you were recommended to us by Doctor Angus Graeme . . . He may be a distinguished authority on Egyptian antiquities and have friends in high places within the EAO, but personally I believe he is undermining his own credibility by associating with these so-called ‘New Age’ theorists who are determined to rewrite our history and destroy our unique cultural inheritance.

It would, therefore, be naive to expect that a protégeé of Doctor Graeme’s has not, in some way, been influenced by such radical nonsense. In fact, Miss Qederi, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you have already informed him of your remarkable discovery . . .

I can assure you, I have not told Doctor Graeme nor anyone else about the mysterious ball we’ve found, I said, carefully limiting the statement.

Even if that were to be true, it would not remain so for very long, he countered. No. I’m afraid I’m not prepared to take any chances. You shall have no further involvement in the case.

Are you sacking me? I asked, struggling to sustain my composure.

Kahlid made sure I suffered a few more anxious moments before responding.

You will be transferred, he finally announced. "You will work with Al Anzi, in the archive department. He is currently re-categorising all the EAO’s investigative surveys and records onto a software programme. You will assist him in that work.

"Hopefully, you will use the opportunity to reacquaint yourself with the true facts about Giza and thereby reassure us of your commitment to the EAO and everything it stands for.

Of course, as an employee, you will remain subject to its rules concerning confidentiality. That means you will not mention this discovery to anyone else inside or outside the organisation without my permission. Do you understand?

I squared up to the humiliation and confirmed that I did.

I do hope so, he continued. I shall be recording this matter as a serious act of misconduct. If I discover you are collaborating with Doctor Graeme or any of his associates, I shall dismiss you without further warning.

I spent the rest of the afternoon looking for a suitable B&B to tide me over until I found a flat of my own. In the evening, I telephoned Amineh. I was feeling bad about the way things were left and wanted to reassure her that everything was OK at the EAO.

Did he check the video, then?

Yes. It was fine, I said. Admittedly, I held my breath when the balls flashed past the lens, but it was so quick even I couldn’t distinguish that there were two!

Amineh’s tone began to soften.

You’ve been very lucky, she advised me. All I can say is, I’ll keep out of it unless they start to question me. If they do, I’ll have no other choice but to tell them the truth.

Fair enough, I conceded, "but you don’t have to know there were two balls. I could have concealed the second one while you and Jonathan were engrossed in looking at the first one."

And you’d back me up on that?

Definitely, I replied, with all the sincerity I could muster.

OK. Then, that’s how it was . . . So, what are you doing now? Are you coming back?

No, Amineh. It wouldn’t be fair on either of us. But that shouldn’t stop us from remaining friends.

The conversation ran on for several more minutes, and by the time we hung up, I felt glad that our friendship was still intact but – to be honest – more relieved that she was not going to spill the beans!

² Peter Lemesurier, The Great Pyramid Decoded, Element Books, 1996.

Chapter Two

JONATHAN WILDEN:

It was bitterly cold in Newmarket that morning and snow was settling on the pavements. I turned up my collar to protect me from the strong north-east wind – a stark contrast to the Egyptian climate I had enjoyed a month ago – and stamped my boots on the kerb to shake off the slush. As I waited for a break in the busy traffic, my attention was caught by what looked to be a bright pink sari contrasting against the grey snow skies, on the other side of the road. I assumed it was an Asian women, but as the figure drew nearer I saw that it was an elderly man – obviously of some high religious order –striding along with the help of a symbolic shepherd’s crook. I could not resist staring at the spectacle, observing the ornate head-dress and long flowing beard. By the time I had crossed over, the man was walking past me, and so I dropped my gaze in respect before stepping onto the pavement.

It was then that I noticed something very bizarre. My jaw dropped in disbelief at what I was witnessing. The old man was without shoes! His bare brown feet were wet with snow and the pinkness of his soles almost matched the colour of his robes.

I followed the sacred footprints left in the settling snow, checking each impression left by the man’s naked toes until we arrived at the corner café. The man without shoes went in and ordered a tea. I followed and was greeted by Maria who was waiting behind the hot display servery.

Good morning, ’ow are you today? she greeted in her strong Italian accent, before picking up a warm plate and beginning the ritual of remembering her favourite customer’s order. Now, let me see if I get it right? One ’ash brown . . . two sausages . . . one egg . . . yes?

There were days when I would have preferred something different, but ever since Maria had adopted me as her favourite customer, she liked to show her loyalty by remembering my original order. I did not have the heart to spoil it for her.

Maria was in her sixties, as broad as she was short with a wonderful head of strong black hair. She worked every day except Sunday, starting at six in the morning and not finishing until six in the evening. In all the time I had been frequenting the café, I never saw her without a smile on her kind face.

(I find it very humbling to observe how other people cope with the hardships and tedium of everyday life. Of course, as individuals, we all have our downside – our moods and prejudices – our good days and bad days. Most of us have probably dreamt of winning a fortune which would change our life, but somehow, at our place of work, there is usually a cheerful resilience as the routine and familiarity of our job sustains our hope for fulfilment. For that reason, I was sure that I was right to continue with my own business activities despite my financial good fortune. It was not the need for money but the maintenance of contact, communication and commitment with other people that has continued to make my life worthwhile.)

I collected a newspaper from the courtesy rack and sat down at one of the empty tables. I was tucking into my breakfast when, browsing through the paper, I was jump-started into an involuntary exclamation. There, on the tenth page was an article referring to Rudolf Gantenbrink’s ventilation project.

Having recovered from the surprise I smiled to myself as I read the opening paragraph. There was, of course, no mention of the trapdoor.³

When I had finished my meal, I made use of the public telephone hanging on the wall and rang Angus.

Having discussed the topic in the newspaper, Angus changed the conversation.

As a matter of fact, I was going to ring you tonight . . . I know it’s short notice, but I was wondering if you’d like to join me on a trip to Hamburg this weekend?

Hamburg! I reiterated, unsure how else to respond to the unexpected invitation.

Yes, we’ll catch the ferry-liner at Harwich, travel overnight, have a day in Hamburg and then travel back again. I’ll be going past your door, so I could pick you up.

Why not – I’ve got nothing else planned, I conceded. But why Hamburg? What’s it all about?

Hush-hush, I’m afraid. But you’ve no need to prepare anything, just come for the ride. I guarantee you’ll find it interesting.

Angus and I met at the Quy Hotel, near Cambridge. It was the easiest point to rendezvous, being just two minutes off the A14 to Harwich. We had an early sandwich while Angus explained the schedule and purpose of the trip.

I don’t quite understand, I interrupted. You say we’re meeting someone called Boris who’s a Russian ex-military intelligence officer. What has he got to do with the mysterious balls we found?

I know it sounds a bit crazy, but it’s the easiest way of finding out if there’s anything in Don’s story about the Americans.

What story – and who’s Don? I questioned.

"Oh, sorry . . . Don Walker – Head of Chemistry at the University. He said that the analytical results of our ‘ball’ suggests it is possibly one of the artificial isotopes from the . . . actinide series? Anyway, the point is, only a few of these ‘super-elements’ have so far been produced in very small quantities – mainly by the Americans, using a giant particle accelerator. Their work is highly secret, and as a consequence there’s very little information generally available; but Don thinks they have been experimenting with a material similar to our mystery ball for some years.

Obviously, there’s no way we are going to get any information from the Yanks, so I asked myself how else can we get hold of potentially top secret information without leaving ourselves vulnerable to charges of espionage and, following some positive lateral thinking, I came up with the idea of asking Boris. After all, next to the Americans, who else would be best informed of what they are doing than a Russian spy? And since the Russians can only tell us what they already know, we could not be accused of accessing anything of a secret nature because the ‘secret’ has already been exposed!

I shook my head.

That sounds almost plausible, Angus. So you simply got on the blower to Boris and asked him to spill the beans!

"More or less. Since the demise of the Soviet Union, the whole KGB network has fallen apart. Boris was pensioned off – if that’s the right term – a few years ago. I met him at an international convention last year. We were promoting a student exchange and he was one of the Russian delegates.

We just hit it off and have kept in touch ever since. He’s quite a character, really. Anyway, I told him the situation and he promised to find out what he could. Of course, the same logic applies to him. There can be no harm in Boris talking to us about the secrets of our allies because that’s not betraying any Russian secret, is it?

I had to laugh at Angus’s reasoning. It was verging on the ridiculous but in truth stopped short at pure genius.

We left Cambridge in plenty of time to reach Harwich and catch the 16.30 cruise-liner bound for Hamburg.

The two-berth cabin was well appointed and adequate for its purpose. We stowed our overnight bags and then, after a brisk turn around the deck, made our way to the lounge bar for an early evening drink.

I found the whole experience provided an excellent opportunity to unwind and go with the flow! When it came to dinner, we both delighted in the famous smorgasbord buffet, including fresh shellfish, salmon and herring as well as hot and cold meats, followed by mountains of cheeses and tempting desserts.

Angus and I returned to the table several times to replenish our plates with different foods which we consumed and compared with continuous enthusiasm for most of the evening. The food, of course, was accompanied by a selection of wines that inevitably ensured neither of us would have difficulty in sleeping. Fortunately, we had plenty of time to recover in the morning, before the liner docked in Hamburg.

Boris was in his late fifties, about five foot six, of slim build with coarse white hair which had been typically cropped short and underlined with a pair of heavy rimmed spectacles which magnified his black sparkling eyes.

So what have you found out, Boris? prompted Angus, after the waiter had delivered three pots of foaming beer to our pavement table.

After swallowing some beer, Boris leant forward with his forearms resting on the table. He turned the beer mug slowly in his hands whilst pursing his foam-tainted lips. Angus and I waited patiently until Boris finally commenced his oratory.

I can confirm, from the information you sent, that the material is definitely not a naturally occurring mineral – not natural to this planet, anyway . . .

Angus and I looked at each other in eager anticipation but allowed Boris to continue.

. . . Theoretically, however, it is recognised as occupying the position of 115 in the periodic table of elements – probably an extension of the actinide series.

So far, so good. Boris appeared to be confirming Don Walker’s deductions.

Boris then explained how scientists have always suspected that some elements, if they could be produced beyond the atomic number of 113 or 114, would become stable once again – unlike the isotopes numerically preceding that position, which are artificially produced from uranium and are radioactive.

I needed some clarification.

Excuse my interruption, Boris, but I’m not clear on this. You said the material is not found on Earth and yet it is identified as belonging to the actinide series of elements. Are you therefore saying that the material we have found has been artificially produced? I asked.

Theoretically it is possible to synthesise a super-heavy element like 115, but to go so high up the table has always been considered beyond the realms of practicability. Even a lesser element such as 102 is immensely expensive to produce, and after an extremely long period of particle bombardment, you still only end up with micrograms of the substance. So, to produce Element 115 on the scale that your mystery ball represents is – how can I say – beyond the horizon of our most ambitious scientists . . . but, theoretically, it is possible, yes!

Boris paused again and scanned our blank faces.

OK! he announced cheerfully. "Let me take a moment to clarify just what all this is about.

"I take it you both remember, albeit vaguely, your science lessons at school concerning the periodic table of elements and how it is a structured format of all the elements, initially, to be found on Earth.

"It starts at the ‘first period’ with the element – hydrogen – whose atomic number is 1. It has one electron which occupies the first available ‘orbit’ position. The next is helium – atomic number 2 – which has two electrons occupying the first available orbit position. Because this orbit can only hold two electrons, the next element begins a new line on the table called the ‘second period’. And so it builds up as, electron by electron, the series progresses numerically from the ‘first period’ to say, period five which ends with 54 – xenon, the fifth in the vertical column of inert gases and shown on the far right-hand side of the table.

"All the elements included from atomic numbers 1 to 54 exist in one form or another on this planet and are stable rather than unstable or ‘radioactive’, except 43 – technetium – which is very unstable and no longer found naturally, but can be easily produced artificially.

"So far, so good but, please, bear in mind that we are less than halfway to our theoretical Element 115!

As the atomic layers build up, we move into the next period, which starts with atomic numbers 55, caesium and 56 barium – before coming to a special series known as the lanthanides 57-71. Again, one of these, promethium, is unstable and has to be produced artificially. The period then continues with elements 72 to 86 including the rare metals such as gold, mercury and lead.

Boris had been busily sketching out the periodic table on a napkin as he continued to explain how the system worked.

"Finally we come to the last – or should I say, latest – of the horizontal periods, number seven, which mainly comprises the actinide series starting at atomic number 89 – actinium – and moving on to 92 – uranium.

"These