The Sphinx Scrolls

by Stewart Ferris

  He checked his watch. It was time.

  He opened the door to the adjoining room and indicated to his subject that he was ready. The man strode confidently towards Otto, head held high, sleeves rolled up in familiar readiness. He sat himself on a metal-framed chair and meditated serenely as one injection after another penetrated his arms, then washed down the pills with a large glass of expensive imported mineral water.

  ‘I made it,’ said the man, proudly.

  ‘I congratulate you,’ replied Otto. ‘But it has taken too long to get here, even with the vast resources I have provided. Time is now extremely short and there is much to do. We are a long way from being ready.’

  Otto performed a brief examination of the patient, checking heart rate, blood pressure and body temperature. Most days the examinations were more thorough, but today his subject had other priorities that demanded his attention, and Otto was resigned to a bare bones session.

  All of the medical signs were satisfactory. Otto recorded the results on a laptop, pleased to note that there were no mystifying aberrations from the anticipated long term trends. The subject looked healthy, he had to admit. His skin tone, body fat index and natural hair colour would not have shamed a man half his age.

  ‘I won’t let you down, Otto. We’ll be ready.’

  ‘Good. You can leave, Orlando. Or shall I call you Mr President?’

  The man smiled, returned to the adjoining room and closed the door behind him. The Doctor began the rituals of cleaning, disposing and tidying that followed each of these sessions. The services of a nurse could have helped him with the more mundane duties, but he refused to employ an assistant, partly due to the necessity that his work remain strictly confidential, and partly because something deep inside him gained an Aristotelian pleasure from small rituals.

  His mind turned to other matters while he cleaned. His encounters with Lord Ballashiels had been most troubling. He thought about the handwritten message that His Lordship must by now have read and digested. He thought about the two agents he had sent to His Lordship’s hotel room. That perturbed him further. He thought about what he would say to His Lordship when and if he called. No response came immediately to mind that would earn back the confidence that had been lost.

  * * *

  It wasn’t theft, Matt convinced himself. It was in a good cause. He closed his eyes and screwed up his face in disgust as he reached into the trouser pocket of Anibal’s fresh corpse and pulled out a set of keys. He looked at the brand name on the fob: Ford. It matched the truck parked at the entrance to the jungle clearing.

  Anibal had managed only a few words before his breath failed to come, and Matt wasn’t sure he really understood many of them. The dying man clearly didn’t have a clue who Ruby was. Only the words ‘Tikal’ and ‘aeropuerto’ had been communicated clearly. They were all he had to go on.

  Tikal. That was some kind of ancient thing in the jungle, he thought as he climbed out of the pit. Ruby had mentioned it before, and Matt had seen signs pointing to it. It was no more than a couple of miles away, but the airport he had landed at was at Flores, not Tikal. The idea of an airport at Tikal just didn’t make sense. He couldn’t imagine anyone building an international airport next to Stonehenge, or converting the leaning tower of Pisa into a control tower. Ancient monuments and airports just didn’t go together. Anibal’s mention of an aeropuerto could have been a delusional comment. The convoy he’d witnessed leaving here earlier wasn’t heading for Flores Airport, however.

  He wondered if he ought to chuck some soil onto the bodies below. Maybe say a few words as a mark of respect for three men he knew nothing about. At least show some sympathy for the demise of one of his fans. No, he decided, jingling the keys and running to the road. They were dead and Ruby might still be alive. He had to find her.

  He climbed into Anibal’s pick-up, slid back the seat to accommodate his longer frame and inserted the key that he had taken from the man’s pocket. The rugged six-litre engine roared to life, while the air-conditioning soothed him with fresh, cool air.

  He pointed the pick-up along the dirt road towards Tikal.

  Within a mile there was another sign, and soon enough the entrance gate to the Tikal National Park loomed large above him, an ominous structure not dissimilar to the gates in Jurassic Park. Matt spotted a guidebook seller and pulled over.

  ‘Hey, buddy! There an airport here?’

  ‘Is only one hundred quetzales,’ said the man, now leaning against the pick-up truck. He was short and stocky, a typical modern Mayan, and wore a green Tikal Park uniform.

  ‘No, I just need to know if there’s an airport here.’

  ‘This book contains map of Tikal. Is only one hundred quetzales.’

  Matt found the exact sum in cash and handed it over. He unfolded the black and white hand-drawn map and scanned it for anything that looked like a runway. The area included the Tikal reserve and some of the surrounding Maya Biosphere, but there were very few place names other than those of the temples and plazas of the old city. Cursing, he jumped out and approached the guidebook seller. By now another driver had pulled up and was demanding the man’s attention, so Matt walked over to his hut. Inside was a second stocky man, dressed casually and smoking a cigarette.

  ‘Is there an airport here?’ asked Matt.

  ‘Si,’ replied the man after a cursory glance. ‘El aeropuerto.’

  ‘Speak English?’

  ‘Si, is old. The archaeologists build it when they excavate the place, but noise and pollution from the airplanes is damage the old temples so they build a new one at Flores.’

  ‘How do I get there?’

  ‘Just drive into the reserve and turn right before visitor centre. I no think you can get in there. Is closed since forty years.’

  Matt drove further into the reserve, but there was no sign of habitation, just a narrow dirt track tunnelling into the suffocating jungle. He drove through it for twenty minutes, totally alone in the interminable greenery, before the track opened out into a parking zone, a visitor centre and undiluted sunshine.

  To his right he glimpsed the remains of the airstrip, well on its way towards becoming as ravaged by the ferocious rainforest as the pyramids of Tikal themselves. Nothing would ever land here again. At the far end of the overgrown runway was a large building, an old hangar. The only challenge remaining was working out what to say to people who were sufficiently sadistic to shoot the guys in the matching polo shirts. One thing at a time, he decided. Park the car and watch the scene for a while. See if Ruby was there. Better to make sure than to rush in, all guns blazing. Not that he had any guns.

  Before he had a chance to slow down a loud bang coincided with the pick-up lurching violently towards the trees. Compensating hard, he wrenched the steering wheel round with both hands. Loose gravel and ruts in the track resisted his efforts, and the pick-up careered off the road at a tight angle. Matt jammed the brakes and the wheels locked up, embedding themselves in the soft earth as the vehicle stopped, its front tyre blown apart by a shot from an unknown enemy.

  Taking off a dead guy’s soiled pants was supposed to have been the low point of today, but somehow things had gotten worse. It was like he’d been sucked into the horrible, violent military matrix of his own book. But he knew exactly what to do about it.

  He would run away.

  He threw himself out of the car in a split second, dashing at full tilt into undergrowth. Another shot sang past his ear. His heart rattled. He stole a peek up over the foliage. The dirty white wall of the aircraft hangar protruded past the tree line. Two soldiers staggered around the edge of the roof, apparently in celebratory mood. Their interest in Matt briefly waned, and their attention turned to hunting any examples of wildlife big enough to take a bullet.

  Matt began to wish he had a copy of his war memoirs on him, a quick read of which might instil the sense of heroism that he badly needed. He thought once more of Ruby. Did she need someone to save her? Images flashed through
his mind of the kind of peril she might be facing. He blinked hard, trying to block the horrors from his head, but they simply grew more vivid, more terrifying. And as they did so, he felt a strange sensation rushing through his veins. It was not dissimilar to a slug of rum. It was a sense of euphoria: a pain-killing, fear-diminishing wash of adrenaline.

  He shook himself to see if it would go away.

  It was still there. The courage had come.

  He resolved to creep closer to the hangar, slip past those guards and give Ruby the rescue she was probably praying for. Ducking beneath the sea of ferns, he crawled towards the building. Above him was a small window. He stood up and peeked.

  The murky interior was alive with the buzzing of a cloud of flies. The blur morphed into a toilet. Matt hauled himself in through the ragged opening and fell inside. A pernicious odour stung the back of his throat. He picked himself up and stepped out into the cavernous body of the hangar. It was empty apart from something monstrous silhouetted in the centre. It seemed exotic, ponderous, an immense mass. It drew him like a magnet. He walked over to it, horribly aware of the echo of his footsteps across the hangar floor.

  On closer inspection he saw it was dented and distorted. It couldn’t be – but it really was – coated in gold. This object was worth millions. That would explain the guards, then. Might even explain why they were celebrating. For a moment he forgot Operation Ruby. He touched the tattered golden sides, running a hand along the muddy metalwork. It was large enough to accommodate people, but there were no windows, not even a door. At its blunt end there appeared to be a hollow but it was indistinct and full of mud. Maybe it was some kind of sculpture.

  A stepladder had been left leaning against the artefact. On one of the steps was a gun-like object, but its casing was of dusty plastic and on closer inspection it looked no more interesting than a hair dryer. Matt pocketed it anyway, and climbed up quickly, telling himself this was no time for sightseeing.

  One brief look wouldn’t hurt.

  He took hold of the jagged metal of the damaged front section and climbed cautiously onto the top, looking for some evidence of a way inside. This was taking too long, he told himself. He should be looking for Ruby, not indulging his curiosity.

  Just a few more seconds. He needed to prove to himself that this was just a piece of art.

  A piece of art with a crumpled hatch.

  With a tug of the roughly cut edges he lifted it a few inches.

  Matt heard voices behind him. There was only one thing to do. He pulled harder and opened it wide enough to squeeze inside. The hatch fell closed above him.

  He was in a tight, dusty compartment, lying uncomfortably on what felt like sticks and stones. He took hold of the hair dryer-like object from his pocket and pointed it upwards. It would have to do.

  The door above began to open. The dim light of the hangar trickled into Matt’s chamber, bringing with it the sound of a voice.

  ‘... indentations on the side show this. You see this feature? But where is the corrosion? It’s like ore. How is this possible?’

  Matt relaxed. This man spoke in English. He didn’t sound like a soldier. Matt figured he might be able to bluff his way out of here.

  Then a young woman with a British accent spoke up.

  ‘Would you mind not blowing that revolting smoke in my face?’

  Matt spluttered. He thought he had heard Ruby, but he wasn’t sure. Whoever it was had not yet seen him. They were fiddling with the sharp edges of the hatch, trying to open it wider.

  ‘Anything for you,’ said the man’s voice. ‘Hearing your sweet voice is like being tickled by a flower on my –’

  ‘Paulo!’

  The door dropped shut again, sealing Matt inside.

  * * *

  ‘From what I saw earlier I think some of the bones have been crushed in correspondence to the deformation of the gold outer skin,’ Paulo explained. ‘They can’t have been disturbed since their death.’

  ‘So you think ... no, it’s impossible. You’re saying that these bodies have been lying in this thing for, what, thousands of years?’

  Ruby could barely think straight. Her muscles ached. Her head was light. This golden thing in front of her, this beautiful sarcophagus, couldn’t possibly have been constructed in an age when humankind was barely out of the trees. The bones looked like they were from the Stone Age. That was Barney Rubble in there. Humankind’s only achievement from that period of history was smashing rocks together and painting unconvincing mammoths on cave walls. The ability to work with metals was unheard of back then. No one in their right mind would date this artefact so far back in time.

  And yet, there was something about it that didn’t belong in any other time. Its shape shared nothing with subsequent cultures. For an object found in the heart of the Maya Biosphere there was nothing in its lines and curves to suggest Mayan origin. She gripped the door at the top of the artefact once more, and Paulo joined the effort.

  Matt was now certain it really was Ruby’s muffled voice he had heard. When they finally pulled back the hatch, he had composed himself.

  ‘Got your text, Rubes,’ he said, coolly, as if he was having lunch and they had just walked into the restaurant. Both Ruby and Paulo jumped several inches in the air, narrowly missing falling off the ladder that they were precariously sharing.

  ‘Matt!’ screamed Ruby, shaking from head to toe and gripping the rough edge of the hatch so hard her palms began to bleed.

  Paulo, now in control of his reflexes, grabbed her arm to steady her.

  A piercing light fell onto the craft and the people on its back as the main hangar doors rumbled open.

  ‘Who are you?’ hissed Paulo.

  ‘He’s with me,’ sighed Ruby.

  Paulo could see the silhouette of a man walking towards them. A look was sufficient to tell Ruby to shut the hatch with Matt still inside. The two drunken guards had shimmied down from the roof and now stood, with some difficulty, at the doorway. Lorenzo walked towards the artefact, grinning broadly.

  ‘Keep still,’ Ruby whispered as she closed the hatch.

  ‘Come down,’ said Lorenzo, stroking back his blond hair.

  Smears of her blood marked her short passage down the aluminium rungs. Paulo tried his best not to stain his suit as he followed her, but soon gave in to the inevitable.

  ‘If we are going to be of any use to you, Paulo and I need more time to assess this find.’

  ‘Perhaps. But what we discover is something special. You are probably no aware the President is arrested this morning. Guerrilla forces signed a deal with the army. General Orlando the Indestructible is new President. We have big celebrations. Is General Orlando – President Orlando – who now owns this artefact.’

  ‘Oh no – this is a UN find. Right, Paulo?’

  Her boss looked at the floor, saying nothing.

  ‘UN? Hah! No matter, you are both honoured. The President would like to see you. My men will take care of this while you are gone.’

  ‘I can’t leave,’ objected Ruby, cutting in front of him, hands clasped tightly together to mask the burning pain. ‘This find has been disturbed by your soldiers. Parts of it may need to be protected from moisture in the air. There is a radiation risk. You should all keep away from it. I must do a detailed check to see if any permanent damage has been caused.’ Her voice had begun to wobble. Matt was in trouble. She had been blabbering on, desperate for a ruse to get everyone out of there long enough for her to guide Matt to safety.

  ‘Of course,’ said Lorenzo. ‘You start in a few days. Come.’

  She considered Matt’s chances if these trigger-happy soldiers found him hiding inside the object they were supposed to be guarding. Not good. Should she confess to his presence and try to defuse the inevitably tense stand-off that would result? They might still shoot him, but if she said nothing then at least there was a slim chance that he could get away without being seen. It felt like his life was in her hands and it wasn’t a responsi
bility she appreciated. To tell or not to tell. It tore her up inside.

  As Lorenzo shuffled her towards the waiting car, she made her decision.

  Tuesday 20thNovember 2012

  The random shape was not dissimilar to the coastline of Italy. Monika Loewe almost thought she could see a Venetian lagoon forming around a white button as the still-steaming coffee stain spread unhurriedly across her shirt. It was typical of her to see it as if from an orbiting satellite, she pondered, at once detached from the situation and yet profoundly angry that she had lowered her guard and become a victim. Again. She thought she had made her deficiency in the sense of humour department perfectly clear after the first incident. It was reasonable to expect some form of initiation ceremony for a new employee, but this was just juvenile. She looked around her at the grinning faces of her colleagues. Each possessed a science doctorate. It was pathetic. She put the half-empty cup of coffee on her desk and reset the sabotaged gas lift switch under her chair so that it could now take her weight without plummeting down to the floor.

  Monika Loewe had just achieved her dream job with the European Space Agency, and already she loathed it. Her ambitious goal had kept her motivated during the difficult decade she had spent waitressing in seedy Hamburg bars to pay her way through graduate and postgraduate college. She never stopped to count her tips at the end of each shift; her only desire was to rush back to her bedsit and study. The cumulative effect of thousands of hours of lost sleep was etched upon her face. Wrinkles had come early. There was no space for laughter lines.

  Beating a hundred other applicants to this job at the Tracking and Imaging Radar at Wachtberg, not far from Bonn, was a significant moment in her life. Her mother would have been proud had she lived to witness it, but the excesses of the student culture in the mid-1970s had finally caught up with her. A degree in Medicine hadn’t given her the common sense to look after her own body, and she had slipped away just weeks before her daughter’s moment of triumph. Whether there existed a father to make proud, Monika had no idea. Her mother had always forbidden any enquiry into the matter. But as the wretchedness she felt at her mother’s passing evolved into a more bearable ache in her soul, she’d begun to wonder.