‘What about the report I e-mailed you about my research into Bilbo’s diary?’
‘Ah, yes, the old electro mail service. Thing is, couldn’t pay the bills. So I, er, didn’t get it.’
‘How could you afford to fly here if you can’t even pay for your broadband?’
‘In anticipation of a hefty wedge from Doctor Otto I took out a loan against the manor.’
‘I thought you were mortgaged to the hilt already.’
‘With one institution, yes, but I found another. Private bank. Happy to take my word as a gentleman. Lent me enough for first class flights, top hotel and all the gin and tonic I can eat.’
‘Isn’t that fraud?’
‘Is it? I wouldn’t know. With Otto’s dosh I’ll pay it all back before anyone notices.’
She exhaled slowly. The report on the diary had taken her many hours to prepare. Her motivation hadn’t been historical curiosity, it was merely to demonstrate to Ratty the importance of keeping the stele in responsible hands. She had learned of Bilbo’s insatiable pursuits of female Mayan descendants, his casual dismissal of the local legends regarding the cursed pair of stelae, and his xenophobic rivalry with a young German engineer and amateur archaeologist named Karl M. – there was no reference in the notes to this person’s actual surname. It seemed they were both aware of the stories surrounding the pair of stelae: Karl M. was desperate to obtain them in the name of von Bismarck and the German Empire; Bilbo was equally keen to dig them up in the name of Her Majesty’s Britannic Empire. Archaeology driven purely by jingoistic pomposity, Ruby had thought as she decoded the drunken, smudged Victorian handwriting and typed it into her laptop.
Further research had revealed that Bilbo’s nemesis, Karl M., eventually located the other half of the stele – some years after Bilbo’s liver had given up the struggle – and brought it back to his homeland. Brief years of Teutonic pride and excitement then dissipated amid the distraction of the Great War.
If the mythologies concerning the pair of stelae were to be believed, then the unification of the stones could lead archaeologists to an as yet unknown site of major importance somewhere in Central America. No complete sense could be made of the inscription on Ratty’s piece without the other half, however. Its display in a Berlin museum was documented until the time when the Nazis came to power, but in the mid-1930s the museum had been closed and the trail went cold.
‘Ratty, my e-mail was trying to tell you that the inscriptions and the legends indicate that when the two stelae are aligned correctly they reveal a series of place names. Your section reveals half of the information. If it’s placed together with the other half, we would have a set of four locations. The point where lines between all of the places intersect is the key. With both pieces of the stele you have the precise location of something that was of value to people thousands of years ago.’
‘Treasure?’ he asked, eyes suddenly widening.
The door began to open again.
‘Listen,’ she continued sotto voce, ‘if this stone ends up on the black market along with its other section then the most significant Mayan site yet to be discovered will be raided for profit and lost to the world. I would never forgive you for that.’
Before Otto could reach for the verification document, Ruby blurted out, ‘I refuse to sign anything.’
‘Doctor Towers, enough. By your attitude I am now convinced that the item is genuine. His Lordship will sell this artefact to me today. Please wait outside whilst we conclude our business. If you then sign this form, I will return you to the airport.’
She counted a few beats in her head, then made her final comment to Ratty.
‘Time has transfigured them into Untruth,’ she said, without the sense of poetry that the phrase deserved. Ratty looked up at her, his expression one of bemusement. ‘Time has transfigured them into Untruth,’ she repeated as she walked out of the room and the villa.
* * *
The Mayan tablet remained in the centre of the ornate desk, stared at by two equidistant men. Outside, the sinkhole widened. The foundations of the villa juddered. A piece of the ceiling fell to the floor and the ceiling fan sprayed plaster dust throughout the room, causing the stele’s usual dark greenish-brown surface to take on a white hue. Ratty hoped the dust would not harm the object, though if anything it made the enigmatic glyphs easier to see. Frankly, the dust – and the possibility of the whole building toppling into a bottomless pit – was the least of his worries because at the moment he was feeling an utter chump.
‘Lord Ballashiels, I do hope you are not considering wasting my time.’
‘Good Lord, of course not. Wouldn’t dream of it.’ The fresh sweat oozing onto Ratty’s brow made it amply clear that he was thinking of doing exactly that.
‘It is vital, Lord Ballashiels,’ continued Otto, retaining the utmost formality, ‘that the stele comes with me at the conclusion of our meeting. We must reach an agreement.’
‘Absolutely, old boy.’
‘So if you do not consider my offer to be acceptable, it would be appropriate for you to suggest a deal that would satisfy your needs.’
‘Couldn’t agree more, old fruit.’
But Ratty was deeply troubled. He had arrived in the country determined to give in to Otto’s threats and offload this useless piece of stone he had inherited. Selling this stone, or ‘repatriating’ it, as Otto preferred to call it, would resolve his current pecuniary embarrassment, extricate him from any fraud charges that would ensue once the two lenders realised they’d secured their cash against the same property, and keep the banks from throwing him out of the home that had been in his family for centuries. He had been perfectly single-minded about carrying out his plan. Nothing could derail it.
That had remained true until Ruby’s visit, and now he didn’t know what to think. Somehow the few words she had spoken drove a wedge between Ratty’s fears and his conscience.
A thought was forming in Ratty’s mind that history would not look kindly on him should he part company with the stele. Ruby’s simple quotation from a Philip Larkin poem had burrowed deep into his psyche, profoundly disturbing him. He didn’t consciously know why it was having such an effect; he felt it more than he understood it. And what he felt was that his actions in this room would be remembered for a long time. Future generations would talk about how close he had come to making an irrevocably bad decision. Losing the Ballashiels stately home and a short spell in an open prison would be a mere blip in the family’s history compared with shouldering the responsibility for the loss of an archaeological treasure which for all he knew could turn out to be as valuable as the missing Sphinx scrolls. He had to make the correct moral decision.
The danger to his life that would accompany such a decision was something for which he was completely ill-equipped, however. Otto had made clear from the outset that a fair price would be paid for the stele, but that generosity was edged with an unequivocal reference to the powerful men at Otto’s disposal who would think nothing of separating the blue blood from Ratty’s aristocratic body. He was on the precipice and needed to step back.
‘Your price, Lord Ballashiels?’
Ratty wrapped his arms around the stele and dragged it closer to him. Otto was visibly fighting with himself to maintain self-control, endlessly adjusting and readjusting his sleeves.
‘Listen, old boy, I’ve been giving it some thought, and, well, perhaps it’s best if the stele stays –’
Otto stood up and held out his hand, signalling that Ratty should cease talking.
‘I don’t know how I can put this any clearer, Lord Ballashiels. You will sell me the stele today. There is no alternative.’
Ratty pulled the stele still closer, stiffening up inside in preparation for the anger this would trigger. He was fully aware that Otto had two gorillas in suits at his disposal. Feeling irremediably out of his depth, Ratty picked up the stele and hugged it to his chest.
Otto could no longer maintain his composure. H
e stormed out of the room and called for the men he believed were guarding the door. Ratty stood up, still hugging the stele, and paced around. He could hear Otto in the corridor dialling on his phone and screaming for assistance. Why did he need to phone for help? It could only mean one thing: that those security men had gone.
Ratty was torn between his fear of physical violence and the unforgiving sternness of Ruby’s – and perhaps the world’s – eternal disapprobation. Otto might have his toughies back here within a few minutes. It had not escaped Ratty’s notice that the city was virtually deserted today, and there was no functioning police force that would come to his aid should things turn ugly in this room. If Ratty was going to get away from this situation with his body unblemished and his stele in his possession, he would have to make a move that was both brave and smart.
He froze. He had never done anything either brave or smart in his entire life.
He tried spreading his legs apart in what he hoped might look like an aggressive stance, but with the stele still cradled in his arms he was in danger of losing his balance. So the legs came back together again. He tried puffing out his chest, but the difference was imperceptible.
Otto turned the door handle to come back in. Ratty was going to have to do his valiant and ingenious thing, whatever that was, right away. He took a deep breath and hurled himself backwards at the closed window, intending to make a fast and dramatic escape of the type he had seen performed by well-paid actors in the picture houses. When he bounced back onto the floor, curtains swishing behind him, stele still tightly clasped in front of him, he was more than a little surprised. Looking up, he was further astonished to note that Otto was approaching him with a large loaded syringe in his hand.
Have courage, Ratty told himself, before realising the sight of the needle was making him feel faint. He looked away and his strength returned. When he glanced back the needle was out of sight. Otto had been distracted by the dishevelled drapes and was fussily straightening them with his left hand, holding the needle at his side with the other. From his prostrate position on the floor, Ratty took the opportunity to flick a ladylike kick at the newly-aligned curtain, causing the frustrated doctor to start again. By the time the curtains were hanging to Otto’s satisfaction, Ratty had scrambled to his feet, temporarily abandoning the stele in order to put some distance between himself and the needle that once more threatened to enter his personal space.
‘I say, old chap, had all the inoculations before I came out here. Jolly kind of you and all that, but really no need.’
‘This won’t hurt you,’ said Otto in a doctorly tone. ‘My serum has proven completely harmless in tests.’
‘Your serum? Jolly impressive. Didn’t know you were into the old medical research malarkey.’ Ratty was aware that by reversing slowly around the room, keeping out of Otto’s reach, he was leaving the stele unguarded on the floor, but Otto wasn’t paying it any attention just yet. ‘Personally,’ continued Ratty, trying to keep a dialogue going for long enough for him to complete a circuit of the room and get back within reach of the stele, ‘I’ve never been keen on mice.’
‘Mice? I never said anything about mice,’ declared Otto.
‘Don’t approve of bow-wows and little monkey fellows getting roped into all that testing, either. Not my cup of tea at all.’
‘Nor mine. Animal testing is a waste of time. You cannot beat the real thing. Now be still.’
‘Look, it’s getting awfully late. If you wouldn’t mind putting that disagreeable pointy thing away?’
Ratty was now back where he had left the stele and picked it up with a rapid swoop. The needle rushed towards him as he did so, bending uselessly as it hit the stone.
‘The stele remains with me, Your Lordship. Please put it down.’
‘I’m terribly sorry, but I really ought to point out that a contractual sale has not actually taken place and therefore the item remains my property, and furthermore ... ouch!’ Otto had slapped him across the face as if demanding a duel. ‘I say, that brought tears to the old mince pies, what, what. Almost gave me a shiner. Ho-hum. Look, I don’t want to appear rude but I really ought to be going. It’s been jolly nice meeting you and thank you so much for the fondant fancies.’
He reversed towards the corridor.
‘My assistants will be here very soon,’ declared Otto, pointing at the front door. ‘Put the stele down and we can resolve this like the gentlemen that we are. My assistants, however, are not gentlemen and I cannot be responsible for their actions.’
Ratty continued edging backwards along the corridor, avoiding the steps down to the basement, towards the rear of the building where he hoped there might be another exit.
‘I say, old boy, what’s that behind you?’
‘Your simple trickery will not work with me,’ responded Otto.
‘Delectable gilt frame on that painting. Fits awfully well in this colonial villa. Just a mite wonky, though.’
Otto resisted the burning temptation to turn around.
‘I can assure you, Lord Ballashiels, that every painting in this villa has been hung with a spirit level to ensure absolute accuracy. Put the stele down, Your Lordship. Allow it to be repatriated. It is the honourable course.’
‘Quite, quite. Sort of stuck to the old digits, though. Can’t seem to let go. Oh well, perhaps another time?’
Otto began to reach out to try to grab the stele, easily matching Ratty’s pace as he reversed along the corridor towards the back door.
‘That picture really doesn’t look awfully level to me,’ said Ratty, looking once again over Otto’s shoulder. ‘It seems frightfully skew-whiff.’
The Doctor gave in to the temptation to look back, overwhelmed and distressed to note that Ratty was correct about the angle. Now that the imperfection had been brought to his attention its adjustment could not be delayed. The picture had to be straightened. As immutable forces started to take control of Otto, he sought the strength to resist from the rational side of his mind, but even here, his command was weakening. He scrambled to recall a useful epithet of advice from Aristotle, reassuring himself that it was up to him whether or not to act in any particular way. He carried his own moral responsibility for his actions, Aristotle told him, and therefore he possessed the power of decision, of choice, of control. The philosopher, however, could not prevent him from losing that control. A mountain of instinct finally crushed his rationality. Unable to restrain himself, he returned to the painting and straightened it, almost weeping in frustration as he stood back to check that it no longer offended the aesthetic sensibilities that ruled his life.
In so far as the word meant anything in this city, Ratty was safe. He escaped through Otto’s garden, climbed over a half-collapsed brick wall into what remained of the neighbouring property, skirted dangerously close to the edge of the almost bottomless sinkhole, and then opened a gate on to a backstreet. Not only had he eluded the Doctor, he had been both brave and smart. Ratty glowed with pride. All he had to contend with now was the sickening prospect of the bankruptcy, homelessness and disgrace that would be his reward should he manage to flee the country in one piece.
* * *
Ruby landed at Flores Airport, in the heart of northern Guatemala’s rainforest. Paulo Souza wasn’t there to meet her, but, given her unpreventable late arrival, it was not surprising that he hadn’t stuck around. This was just as well since she had fallen into a deep sleep moments after take-off and hadn’t even glanced at his site report. She climbed into a waiting tuk-tuk, pulled out the laser printed pages and held them tight in the breezy open cab, but with exhaust fumes and grit spitting at her face she soon gave up trying to read.
Before the cell phone coverage ceased entirely she sent a text to Matt. He would be landing in the capital any minute now, expecting her to be waiting dutifully. Fat chance. She had briefly considered not telling him where she had gone, motivated by her ongoing resentment at his inability to overcome the thieves at the Sphinx, but it was on
ly fair to give him the option of following her to Flores and on to the jungle site where he could tag along until she had finished for the day. The whole trip including flight and tuk-tuk ride would only take him an hour or two.
The entrance to the jungle clearing was marked by a scattering of vehicles and a man in a white suit who smoked a dusky, oily-looking cigar without the use of his hands. The Oscuro Presidente was clamped ferociously, yet somehow stylishly, between his lips. His eyes squinted as the rising smoke caused sunbeams to flash across his face. The cigar wiggled up and down in acknowledgement of Ruby’s arrival.
Like most Guatemalan men of Mayan descent, Paulo Souza was shorter than Ruby. His stocky frame and strong, square features would have suited a wrestler. At forty-eight, the majority of his life had been spent against a background of either all-out civil war or very fragile peace frequently punctuated by clashes fought in the name of ideology, greed or hunger. It had instilled in him a somewhat blasé indifference to danger. Despite his often desperate experiences, his eyes still danced with a youthful energy. His roguish half smile – a magnet for Guatemalan women – did nothing for Ruby. Like it or not, though, he was her new boss and she had to exude a degree of civility in his presence.
Paulo paid Ruby’s tuk-tuk driver and walked immediately along a dirt track into the gloomy forest. Ruby followed some paces behind like a petulant child. Sweat ran down her back, soaking into her belt. Her shirt clung to her skin, sodden pores deprived of air. A simple ‘Hello, how was your trip?’ from Paulo would have helped her mood. A waggling cigar just didn’t do it for her.
‘You should not have left your hotel today,’ he mumbled from the side of his mouth.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘It is too dangerous for a lady.’
Somehow in that one sentence he had managed to hit her with everything she disliked about so many of the men she seemed to encounter in this country.
The Sphinx Scrolls Page 3