“My God, Mamdouh. Professor Hunt would love to hear about this! But even he would never believe such advanced human civilisations from the past,” she said.
The Professor looked her straight in the eyes. “And you think I would? Gail, over the decades I have seen thousands of ancient texts, not just from Egypt but from all over the world. This wasn’t some dream-fuelled flight of fantasy, it was a vision of a future world. It was so real, so tangible, so believable that it can only have come from someone who had witnessed it.
“All of the people in the streets of the mysterious city, the pilots in flying machines, the farmers in the fields and sailors on the strange ships existed. And from the little I saw, it is clear to me that they were wiped out, erased from history.”
Gail could not find the words, her mouth opened and closed slowly like a goldfish.
“When I saw that book I realised what it represented; I knew it couldn’t be shown to the outside world. I don’t pretend to know what wider implications it may have and why the agency would want to cover it up. Whatever religious or political motivations they might have, I simply understood that to reveal it would have been professional suicide. I would have been no better than those who claim that the Great Pyramid of Khufu was built as a landing platform for interstellar spaceships. Here was I, looking at a veritable link between the ancient Egypt I love and something that would destroy everything we think we know about our origins.
“I couldn’t let that happen. As a philosopher, I was frustrated that I would never again be able to see the book, to study and translate its text. But as a man who wanted to earn a living and develop my career, I was relieved that it was being taken off my hands. The responsibility was no longer mine.
“Because of this, I never once felt inclined to reveal this to you, or to anyone for that matter. Over time, I made myself believe that the book did in fact represent little more than a fantasy world. I mean, what will people think thousands of years hence when they discover our libraries full of science fiction? Would they believe that we had really waged war with Mars, that we genuinely conquered the stars or that we could easily travel through time at will?” He paused and let out a long sigh. “That idea helped reconcile my guilt. The belief that it was a work of fantasy got me through the past ten years in one piece.
“Until this morning. When I saw the photos from Mars, it all came back as real as if I had the book in my hands. The smell of the wood, the texture of the pages, the intricate detail of the alien world; none of it was fantasy, it was authentic. That is why I do not think the Stickman on Mars is faked, Gail. I do not believe it is a coincidence. I believe instead that it belongs on Mars, as do the people from the book.”
He stopped talking and they sat in silence for several minutes. He wanted to urge her to respond, but understood that she was overwhelmed by his story and needed time to digest. Eventually, she looked at him.
“Firstly Mamdouh, let me say I do not judge you for what you did. I would probably have done the same as you, otherwise my career as a result would have been entirely different, and I would probably have had to get my doctorate from the Internet rather than from a good university.”
He nodded in reply, as much in gratitude for her understanding as in agreement of her statement.
“Secondly, the photos from Mars prove something else,” she continued.
“What?” he asked. He had not expected her to dwell on the photos from Mars.
“The fact that the pictures from Mars reached the media at all can mean only one thing: that whatever the agency you dealt with is doing to cover all this up, they’ve made a mistake. Somehow, they weren’t as thorough as they should have been, and if they were trying to stop ‘disastrous repercussions,’ then they’ve failed.”
The Professor was about to speak when a noise from outside his office caught his attention. He quickly placed his index finger against his lips. Gail turned round silently to follow his stare.
Two loud knocks on the solid oak door reverberated round the room.
After a moment’s hesitation, Mamdouh stood up behind his desk.
“Come in,” he said, a slight crackle in his voice.
Chapter 41
George woke up to the phone ringing incessantly in the living room. He looked at his watch: six-thirty in the morning.
Bloody hell, Gail, he thought to himself as he stumbled down the stairs. He searched among the empty cans, bottles and food wrappers on the coffee table before finding the remote. One of his friends emerged from the toilet scratching his head.
“What time is it?” he said.
“Six-bloody-thirty, and where did you come from?” he asked as he answered the call.
“Slept in the bath, mate,” came the reply as he looked enviously at the couch, where another body lay comfortably, still unconscious.
George wasn’t listening. The video wall asked him if he wanted to accept a video-call from a private number in Egypt. He cursed under his breath; the one time that he was home-alone and had friends over for a drink, and Gail had to call him first thing. There was no way he could make the room look even half decent for the camera, so he didn’t even bother trying. Instead, he checked his reflection in the preview screen in the corner of the video wall and accepted the call, before focusing his attention on the caller. It wasn’t Gail.
“Mr Turner?” a man in uniform asked. He was standing against a plain white background, his navy blue uniform immaculate. He didn’t wait for George to confirm his identity, and he didn’t look surprised by his attire. To him, all Englishmen looked as scruffy as the half-naked apparition he was talking to. “I am Captain Ahmed Kamal of the Cairo police department. We are looking for your wife, Mrs Gail Turner?” He used a raised inflection at the end of his statement, prompting an answer.
“Well, I assume you’re closer to her than I am, Captain; she’s in Cairo. I spoke to her yesterday evening, but haven’t heard anything since then.”
“At what time did you speak to her, Mr Turner?” the Captain demanded.
George crossed his arms defensively. Two of his friends were now sitting on the sofa behind him, looking at the video wall in bemusement. “Am I being interrogated here?” he said. “Why are you asking me about Gail? Is she OK?”
The policeman looked beyond the camera, as if checking something going on in the background where he was calling from. “We just need to speak to her, Mr Turner. Telephone recordings reveal that your wife was meeting a Professor Mamdouh al-Misri yesterday evening at his office in the Egyptian Museum of Cairo. We would very much like to find her so that she can answer some questions relating to our enquiries.”
George scratched his head. It was too early for this. “I last spoke to her at about six, that’s eight in the evening your time. She was on her way to meet Mamdouh.”
“Mamdouh?” the Captain raised an eyebrow. “You knew him well?”
“Absolutely, we spend a lot of time there, we stay with him whenever we go to Egypt.”
“That’s very interesting.” He looked behind the camera again and made a slight nodding of the head. “Do you know of any reason for dispute between him and your wife, Mr Turner?”
George was taken aback; what a question. “Not really, no. They were both pretty shocked by the photos from Mars yesterday; Mamdouh called her and arranged her flight to Cairo, he wanted to see her as soon as possible.” The policeman was annoying him now, what he really wanted was to call Gail on her mobile to check she was OK. “Anyway, she will be at his house now, they were meeting at the museum but she was going to stay with him as usual. He lives nearby. You’ll find her there, Captain” George had a quick rummage on the coffee table before finding his mobile phone. He tried to call her, out of view of the Captain, but the network immediately informed him that her phone was switched off. “Otherwise, I suggest that you ask the Professor where she is.”