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?"