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have finished up. Now there was an even bigger prize, and Khan had already put the mask of Tutankhamun on the table as a price for his cooperation in the Hindu Kush. But it was one thing to offer a priceless icon, and quite another to actually hand it over. In Crowley’s world, the sly little general had a use-by date. Thoughts of the Jewish dealer turned his attention back to the Euclid Papyrus, and he made his way past the Van Gogh to a glass display case on the far wall. Crowley had brought in a renowned expert from the Egyptian Supreme Council of Antiquities, ostensibly to advise on the preservation of a minor papyrus scroll he had purchased legally some years before. The EVRAN CEO had listened intently while the papyrologist explained that like the masterpieces at the other end of the gallery, papyrus was also vulnerable to oxidation, hydrolysis and acidosis, and to light. The pigments and metallic inks used by the ancient Egyptians often contained arsenic, which was especially sensitive to light and could fade entirely. In the past, the salt content of the Egyptian soil in the Nile Valley had provided a natural defence against microorganisms and fungi, so under the careful guidance of the papyrologist, Crowley had ensured that the environment of the Valley of the Kings had been faithfully replicated.
    Crowley stared at the priceless fragment, browned by the centuries and secured between two pieces of three-millimetre glass by Japanese paper tabs and wheat starch paste. The contents of even this small fragment were explosive, and Crowley was in no doubt the scribe had been guided by a very high-ranking Egyptian official, perhaps Ay himself, the grand vizier or prime minister of Egypt when the nine-year-old Tutankhamun had been installed as pharaoh in 1332 BC. Crowley and many professional Egyptologists suspected that Ay might have been responsible for the king’s death at the young age of eighteen. Recent X-rays of Tutankhamun’s mummified body had revealed that the boy king had suffered a massive blow to the back of the head, and it was Ay who had most to gain from the king’s death, succeeding him as the penultimate pharaoh of the eighteenth dynasty of the New Kingdom.
    The eons had turned the ancient black ink to grey, but it was still legible, and for the umpteenth time, Crowley wrestled with the translation of the hieroglyphs: pintail ducks and scarab beetles, feathers and claws, interspersed with male and female figures, ropes and bowls, and signs for water. Crowley possessed an intimate knowledge of both the alphabetic elements and the logographic representation of whole words. To the EVRAN CEO, the first words on the Euclid fragment were clear enough.
    The ancient text was headed ‘Pyramids – Construction’. But under the sub-headings of ‘Purpose’ and ‘Energy’, the text made no sense, and the scribe appeared to have coded the contents list of what presumably followed on the missing pages.
    As he often did on his way out of the gallery, Crowley opened the small combination safe that was set into the rock wall near the door. It contained just one thick file, and he extracted the beautifully crafted red leather folder that was embossed with gold letters: ‘Pharos – A New World Order’. Crowley felt the power coursing through his veins as he thumbed the manifesto. It was all coming together.

    Eight thousand kilometres away, at the direction of Crowley’s executive assistant, Rachel Bannister, Area 15 was working on a critical task. Crowley had recruited Juan Pablo Hernandez, a brilliant young hacker who had served time for busting into some of the most sensitive areas of the CIA. Hacking personal computers and mobile phones was now part of Area 15’s suite of capabilities.
    Hernandez’s agile fingers flew across the keyboard. The target was an odd one – a Professor Marcus Ahlstrom, a Nobel Prize–winning nuclear scientist – but Hernandez didn’t question it. He was now earning more money