The Sphinx Scrolls

by Stewart Ferris

  Monika was now part of ESA’s Space Situational Awareness Programme, tracking objects in low Earth orbit and beyond. Satellites, meteorites, and the thousands of pieces of junk that now littered the thermosphere and exosphere, it all had to be tracked and recorded, not only to protect astronauts and spacecraft, but also to be aware of any objects that could fall to Earth. She took her achievement seriously. Unlike the jerks with whom she had the misfortune to share her working environment. Especially unlike Rocco Strauss, the worst of the bunch. She would never have guessed that such a conservative-looking white collar exterior could conceal a mind that was, perhaps appropriately for his job, completely off the planet. Rocco seemed to believe in every conspiracy theory going. Yesterday he’d bored Monika with evidence of Hitler’s retirement years in Patagonia after the war, followed by ‘proof’ that the twin towers were brought down by an experimental energy field weapon rather than by the planes. His latest hypothesis was that the Chinese didn’t have the expertise to send a robotic probe to Mars and to bring it back to Earth with samples of Martian soil, as the world currently believed they were doing. She wondered how he found the time to collect such a vast body of misinformation when he was busy setting up pointless practical jokes. If he wanted a reaction from her, he was going to be disappointed.

  She stared intently at her monitor. She had earlier left the computer guiding TIRA’s vast radar dish to a section of northern sky. But it had moved.

  Someone had pointed it at the planet Mars.

  * * *

  If a city could experience a hangover, Guatemala’s capital awoke to a throbbing humdinger of one. Shop and office workers swept broken glass into the street before opening up. They used blankets to cover the bodies on the sidewalk. Some arrived at work to find their premises reduced to steaming rubble. Despite the destruction of the headquarters of a television station, word had reached the entire population via other media about yesterday’s coup. The trails of destruction that had been gouged through the city all converged on the government buildings and the presidential palace.

  Ruby’s overnight journey back into the heart of the revolution had been bumpy and uncomfortable, hours of insomnia exacerbated by uncertainty and self-doubt. Had she done the right thing in keeping silent about the illicit concealment of her soon-to-be-ex lover? Would it have been better to explain Matt’s presence in the artefact to the soldiers rather than risk his subsequent discovery? Would he still be waiting in there for her when she returned to Tikal? The many ways in which his presence could contaminate a priceless slice of history appalled her. The manner in which Paulo had orchestrated the violent extraction of the artefact sickened her. And her indecision and hesitancy at whether to confess Matt’s presence tormented her. In the grip of oppressive emotional discord, sleep was not an option.

  The presidential palace was as ungracious and unsubtle as a motorway bridge, a modern recreation of Spanish colonial architecture in breezeblock and concrete. Its painted exterior, formerly a vibrant and textured jaundice, had been rendered opaque by the effects of cordite, shrapnel and smog. A familiar, but not unpleasant, smell hit Ruby’s nostrils as she was led into the President’s inner suite, but it wasn’t until she saw the swimming pool dominating the floor space that she recognised the odour as chlorine. President Orlando swam towards his guests and walked up tiled steps, out of the water. Nothing about his demeanour remotely suggested he was embarrassed at conducting his business almost naked. An assistant smoothly passed a large, fluffy white towel to him, which he deftly tucked around his waist, the water from his light brown hair and muscular legs leaving rivulets on the marble floor.

  Having coolly looked his visitors in the eye, the President said nothing. He breathed deeply, then jogged around the pool towards a lavish Victorian Gillows Serpentine desk. The marble floor was wet and slippery; he skidded for a few feet, but managed to maintain his balance and reach his desk in one piece.

  He drank some Evian. A cheerless silence descended while those in the room waited for him to finish.

  ‘It is not easy to achieve perfect physical condition,’ Orlando eventually declared.

  Tired, cynical eyes widened. Ruby blinked to tame the involuntary response, but she could not disagree with his assessment. His body had a dark, even tan, his muscles were well toned, his posture was straight and his nails were manicured. He was clean-shaven and there was not a single strand of grey on the full head of hair that might have given away his age of forty-five years.

  ‘I am tuned to such a state of health that I haven’t had so much as a cold in over a decade. That is remarkable, is it not?’

  Heads nodded nervously.

  ‘With the knowledge and technology of cutting edge modern medicine,’ he continued, ‘I believe something wonderful, something magnificent, is upon us.’ Orlando looked at his rather indifferent and perplexed audience. ‘Billions of our ancestors have crumbled to dust. Countless generations have perished. They learn and develop as humans all their lives and then – zap. All over. Back to a blank canvas with the next one. That pattern does not have to be repeated for ever. Ah, but I bore you with my dreams.’

  ‘No, not at all,’ protested Paulo, unconvincingly. ‘Please go on.’

  ‘It is my belief that with the appropriate medical supervision and intervention, our generation could be the first one for which a demise is optional.’

  Heads looked blankly at each other.

  ‘Unless you break your skull on a wet marble floor,’ quietly uttered the lips on Ruby’s face, much to her consternation and frustration.

  Paulo shot her a black look, then glanced at the President with eyes that begged for leniency. Orlando wrapped a clean white dressing gown over his shoulders and sashayed towards the source of the errant words.

  ‘It would take significantly more than that to finish me off. I have health care that is, how can I put this, somewhat unique.’

  ‘Either it is unique or it isn’t. It can’t be “somewhat” unique,’ grumbled Ruby.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ Orlando asked, ignoring her English lesson and looking at her hands. They were still stained red from the cuts she’d received gripping the rough metal on the top of the artefact the previous day.

  ‘I’m sure I’m not the only one here with blood on their hands,’ she replied automatically. There was no measurable gap that Ruby could perceive between those words spilling out and the onset of an all too familiar regret at her inability to keep her thoughts to herself.

  ‘Doctor Ruby Towers, hmm. Welcome. My name is Orlando. What do you think of my new palace? I am lucky that it survived. We did not expect them to put up such a fight, but now this is my home, and I am having it polished and tidied.’

  ‘I noticed them tidying a couple of your victims on the driveway.’

  Paulo glanced at her nervously. Ruby found herself actually biting her lip.

  ‘Please excuse her,’ offered Paulo, ‘it is her hormones talking.’

  ‘You must show respect,’ Lorenzo snapped at Ruby.

  But she continued to stare directly into the President’s face. Paulo looked at his boots. The atmosphere tensed in anticipation of the President’s response, which did not come immediately.

  He walked away, rubbing his hair with another towel. From his desk he picked up his Omega Seamaster watch and a ring, putting them on as he walked back to Ruby.

  With a tight smile, he said to her, ‘I have never killed another man, Ruby. If my soldiers deem it necessary to fire in self-defence then that is their decision, but it has never been my goal to end lives. The opposite, in fact, is true. However, it is worth noting that if no one ever died, you would have no bones to dig up and study in your job.’

  ‘Interesting. Irrelevant, of course, but interesting,’ she retorted.

  ‘Ruby, President Orlando is our host and we are his guests,’ whispered Paulo, just loudly enough for his President to hear him.

  ‘Of course. I’m just a little unused to the etiquette of this cou
ntry. Where I come from we don’t kidnap our guests.’

  ‘She does not realise her place. Where she comes from women speak their minds in the rudest fashion. I will endeavour to teach her some manners,’ Paulo whined.

  ‘I know of your reputation, Ruby,’ said the President, ignoring Paulo. ‘We are honoured to have you in our country.’ He flashed a huge smile, showing almost blindingly white teeth. ‘Anyway, to business.’ He turned to Paulo and Lorenzo. ‘I have been informed of the discovery of the artefact at Tikal. You will organise resources, personnel and equipment to conduct a full examination of it. I want the Tikal hangar equipped within forty-eight hours. Doctor Towers will head the research team, and I will send her there when the hangar is ready. I bid you good day.’

  Paulo and Lorenzo bowed awkwardly and clumped out of the room.

  ‘It has taken me longer than planned to gain control of this country,’ Orlando said, now addressing Ruby. ‘There are now but a few weeks remaining. I must work fast. So must you. These are exceptional times. Much remains to be done before ... well, let me say simply that this is why your project at Tikal must proceed at a pace that may appear unprofessional.’

  ‘A few weeks until what?’ Ruby could not help asking.

  ‘Ruby, while I have you here as my guest I would appreciate the chance to discuss archaeology with you,’ he said, apparently changing the subject.

  ‘Look, I never agreed to ...’ began Ruby before the sound of approaching footsteps climaxed with a bold knock that drew Orlando’s attention from her. The doors slid open and a soldier marched in, delivering a couple of pieces of paper to the President.

  Orlando gestured to Ruby to take a seat at the far end of the room. From her new position she tried to overhear the hushed conversation between the President and the soldier. Some of the words floated into her ears, but they remained isolated, unconnected with each other and without any kind of significance. The word ‘justice’ was the only thing she understood with any clarity.

  Orlando signed two pieces of paper with his dominant dashing squiggle, handing one copy to the soldier and putting the other on the desk. The man wheeled round before marching out of the room, nodding politely to Ruby.

  ‘Let’s get away from my office. There will be too many interruptions.’

  He led her through a side door to a small ante-room. There was an uncomfortable-looking chair, a stainless steel trolley with some shiny surgical items laid out neatly and some locked cupboards. This room in turn led through to the magnificent library that the previous President had converted into a centre for emergency planning. A patch of sunshine found its way through the smog, spilling through the open French doors onto the maps, documents, telephones and televisions scattered all over the long desk and on the floor. Clearly the room had been abandoned in a hurry. This mess of papers and technology represented tangible proof to Orlando of his personal triumph. Ruby could see he was thoroughly pleased with himself.

  ‘Your own career I find fascinating, Ruby,’ he said, stepping outside and putting on a pair of $4,000 Moss Lipow sunglasses.

  ‘You do?’ Ruby was forced to squint, having been separated from her $40 sunglasses the previous day.

  ‘So. I know that you are from England. You have degrees from the University of Cambridge and you recently dug inside the Sphinx and found ten scrolls.’

  ‘I assumed they were scrolls. The clay tubes were stolen, so I’ll never know for sure what was inside.’

  ‘They were scrolls.’ He looked at her with a certainty that she found curious, but she was too tired to infer any deeper meaning.

  ‘After the Sphinx project was cancelled I returned to England and worked in a museum before coming here at the request of the United Nations. UNESCO.’

  ‘It is my duty to inform you that you are mistaken.’

  ‘I hardly think so. I work for the UN. Paulo is my boss.’

  ‘Paulo Souza?’

  ‘Yes, Paulo Souza.’

  Orlando permitted himself a faintly disturbing chuckle.

  ‘It may surprise you to learn that the same Paulo Souza has never had any connection with the United Nations.’

  ‘That’s impossible. I’ve been working with him for weeks.’

  ‘It makes no difference. You now have the privilege of being in my employment. Come, Ruby. There is more to see.’

  ‘No. This is nonsense. I was asked to come to Guatemala by the UN. I have a contract. Signed by Paulo. He’s been with them for –’

  ‘He has been working for me for many years,’ cut in Orlando. ‘He will never be a great actor, but his little deception appears to have been a success.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Please accept my apologies for misleading you, Ruby, but it was the only way we could get you into our country and under my wing. You will get used to working for me.’

  A rare moment of speechlessness came over Ruby. Things began to fall into place. The lack of a permanent office, the excuses she had been given about communication problems when she had wanted to contact New York, the isolation she had endured. The job offer, the interview, the paperwork – all a sham. She felt stupid. Embarrassed. The gentlemanly profession which worked on the trust of decent people had let her down.

  Paulo’s behaviour now made sense. Her entire Guatemalan experience now made sense. Everything made sense. And yet nothing made sense. Why was she so important to a newly installed Third World dictator? How could someone with such a capacity for evil and brutality even have been aware of her existence?

  Ruby’s thoughts were distracted by a large, rare orchid in an ostentatious chrome planter. One of the pure white petals of this Lycaste skinneri – the national flower of Guatemala – displayed a perfectly circular bullet hole. Another bloom hung by a fibre, its stem half-severed.

  ‘An appropriate symbol for your country,’ said Ruby.

  Orlando followed her line of sight.

  ‘Mice. Let us walk around to the back. I prefer to conduct my affairs outside. A lifetime of habit, I suppose.’

  A scraping noise made Ruby turn. A body dropped from the arm of a mechanical digger into the back of a truck on the main driveway. It landed with an indifferent thump, devoid of dignity. Paying no attention, Orlando walked on along the elegant and mostly undamaged patio that surrounded the palace.

  ‘Don’t you have stuff to do?’ called Ruby, chasing behind him. ‘You know, doing Hitler impressions and killing people?’ The turmoil in her stomach caused by the uncertainty as to Matt’s fate was making her even snappier than usual.

  Orlando laughed and patted her affectionately on the shoulder. Her whole body tensed and she fought the urge to spit at him as he invited her to sit with him at one of the garden tables.

  Orlando’s comment about the scrolls finally cut through her tiredness.

  ‘You seemed pretty sure that what I found in the Sphinx contained scrolls,’ she said, trying to avoid a mildly accusatory tone. ‘You can’t know that because they are lost to the world.’

  ‘Indeed,’ he replied. ‘The scrolls are lost to the world.’ Before she could push him further on his remarks, he changed the subject. ‘You have also worked in Antarctica,’ he said. ‘Tell me why you went there.’

  ‘It’s not something I’m proud of. The science was weak from the start and the whole premise of the dig was dubious.’

  ‘You didn’t find Atlantis, then?’ mocked Orlando.

  ‘Some members of the team were convinced there were good reasons for believing we might find traces of former habitation. A lost civilisation. Call it Atlantis if you will. I wasn’t convinced, but I went along because I wanted to see Antarctica.’

  ‘Why look for Atlantis at Antarctica?’

  ‘I’m sick of defending that dig. Can we talk about something else?’

  Orlando said nothing, just relaxed in his chair and waited for her to continue. She sensed he was using subtle control techniques over her, but was too fatigued to put up much of a fight.

 
; ‘This was not my theory,’ she groaned. ‘Basically, Plato described Atlantis as an island continent beyond the entrance to the Mediterranean Sea, which has to be in the Atlantic if he was correct. He said the State of Atlantis was an advanced seafaring nation which, according to legend, disappeared under water at what we now know to be the end of the last Ice Age, about twelve thousand years ago. As the polar ice melted, sea levels rose around the world, which is why every society on Earth has a collective memory of a devastating flood, usually passed down through the generations in story form. The Judeo-Christian story of Noah’s Ark is very similar to native American legends from long before the two cultures ever met. The global flood was a fact, but it didn’t last for just forty days, it was permanent. So it’s entirely sensible and logical to deduce that towns or even whole nations might have been lost. But the difficulty with the Atlantis myth is that we know there are no submerged continents in the Atlantic.’

  She paused and looked to see if Orlando had become comatose with boredom. He lifted his sunglasses to the top of his head. Surprisingly his eyes were lit with enthusiasm, giving her the confidence to continue.

  ‘All we have is an actual ice-covered continent at the southern end of the ocean. The theory that my colleagues wanted to explore was that rather than flooding, tectonic movement shifted Atlantis south over the pole where it consequently froze over. But we couldn’t find any evidence beneath the ice of previous human occupation. Surprise, surprise.’

  Orlando leaned even further back in his garden chair, face tight as though he was teasing her, keeping something back.

  ‘Do you believe in the legend of Atlantis at all?’ he asked.