‘There are other clues to its age, besides the weathering. If it was built twelve thousand years ago, that was the Age of Leo. The eyes of the Sphinx at that time would have been looking straight at the constellation of Leo. The constellations have since moved around the sky. It’s as if the Sphinx was built as an eternal marker for that point in history.’
‘If that is so, what are the builders of the Sphinx trying to say?’
‘If I had been able to retrieve those tubes and study their contents, I might know the answer to that.’ She looked him in the eye, searching for a reaction to her deliberately provocative statement, but she couldn’t read anything in his face. She shook herself. Another layer of reality was shouting in her ear. This cosy chat was all well and good, but meanwhile Matt was still in the condemned cell and the moment of his demise was hurtling towards him.
‘Please excuse me, Ruby. There is much I need to do if we are to avoid this month marking the end of mankind’s second advanced period.’
‘And what does that mean?’
‘Simply that the world is going to end. Unless I complete my work, of course.’
Her heart fluttered, not in fear of his banal and unoriginal New Age prediction, but at the thought that she had taken too much of his time and blown her chances of negotiating freedom for Matt. He began dialling a number on his phone.
‘Wait, there’s something else,’ she blurted, holding her hand over his phone so that he couldn’t see the buttons. ‘A friend of mine has been arrested. I understand he’s being held in the palace under a sentence of death. His name’s Matt Mountebank.’
‘Ah, yes. The spy.’
‘He’s not a spy!’
‘He is a famous American Special Forces soldier. What else would he be doing in my military installations?’
‘It wasn’t a military installation! It was an archaeological site. He was only there to visit me. You must have seen him interview me on that documentary ...’ She almost ground to a halt, wretchedly wringing the words out of the usually well-buried side of herself. ‘You ... know we had ... an affair. A relationship. In Egypt.’
‘I see. So he’s a “special” friend, is he?’ Orlando was crowing. She sat on her hands to quell the urge to wipe the smile off his face with a swift slap.
‘Yes. Kind of. Well, he was. It’s pretty much over now.’
‘Of course I have the authority to change his sentence, but men in a position like mine do not change decisions. Especially on my first day in office. It isn’t good for the morale of my people. They need to see my strength and commitment to my word. Therefore, it is out of the question.’
‘Please, Orlando, this is a man’s life we’re talking about. He’s done nothing to hurt you. I’ll do anything. Just don’t kill him.’
‘Not that it matters, given the fate shortly to befall the world, but have you ever considered, Ruby, that death need not mean the end?’
She looked at him in disgust, appalled that a murderer could now invoke philosophy into his facile argument. An unbearable crescendo of sawing and hammering battered her ears. She was in no mood for discussing the afterlife.
‘I’m a scientist,’ she grunted, despondently. ‘Death is the end.’
‘Not necessarily,’ he replied, glancing over her head at the almost completed scaffold.
She followed his eye line. Someone was going to be executed. And soon.
* * *
Otto was seated in a bar on the ground floor of a nondescript hotel, facing someone who in no way at all resembled the Lord Ballashiels with whom he had clashed the day before. His Lordship had been studying a collection of topographical maps and books about Mayan history and glyphic writings, and the result was a mess that covered most of the circular table between them.
‘See those two chaps – guys – at the bar?’ Ratty pointed a finger at two burly, pot-bellied local men enjoying beers and watching a chat show on a television in the corner.
‘Yes, I see them,’ replied Otto.
‘I want you to know that they are with me. You start any kind of kerfuffle and they will spring into action. Trained bunny boilers, both of them.’ He folded a map on which were many handwritten annotations. Ratty’s pattern of folding did not follow the map’s original creases, and Otto seemed visibly pained to witness such a desecration.
‘Of course. I understand,’ pretended Otto. ‘Although I thought the colloquial term “bunny boiler” referred to jealous female killers, its etymology being the American movie Fatal Attraction.’
‘What? Yes, assassins, then. They are assassins. Trained in the ancient art of, er, assassing.’
‘Assassing?’
‘Yes, so watch your step, Doc.’
‘My step? I am seated.’
Ratty sighed. Every attempt at playing the tough guy was deftly deflected by the Doctor. The two ‘assassins’ at the bar cheered as the presenter of the television show put on a feather hat and performed a little dance. One of them slid off his bar stool, stretched his back and staggered off to the toilets, oblivious to Ratty and Otto’s presence. Ratty’s face dropped as he watched the man disappear.
‘To business,’ he declared, regaining focus and putting the maps and books into a small leather satchel at his side. ‘Where are the stelae, old, old – just where are the stelae?’
‘I do not have them, Your Lordship.’
Ratty felt a squirm coming on, but he suppressed it. He folded back the ends of the sleeves of his leather jacket, revealing a fake gold bracelet on each wrist. He looked around the room, then leaned forward and looked Otto in the eye.
‘Look, if you don’t co-operate I’ll give my boys the nod.’
‘The nod? What is the nod?’
‘Er, it’s a bit like a wink, but a dash zingier, don’t you know. Never mind. Don’t play games with me, Doctor.’
‘Games? I don’t play games. Life is too serious for games, Lord Ballashiels.’
‘So where are the stelae?’
‘I am not at liberty to say. And that is not the reason I invited you to meet me.’
Ratty found his nether regions squirming once again, and tried to regain control of the discussion.
‘I think you will find, Doctor, that it was I who invited you to this powwow.’
‘Does it matter?’ asked Otto.
Ratty was unprepared for this latest deflection. He was making no headway at all. The return of the mildly intoxicated bar drinker from the gents’ gave him some relief. Aware that Otto was observing the man’s return, Ratty gave a smile and a hesitant wave towards him. To the aristocrat’s horror, the man returned the gesture with a smile and a wink. He then nudged and whispered something to his companion at the bar who turned around and blew a kiss at both Ratty and Otto while stroking his broad moustache.
‘I was not aware of your personal inclinations, Lord Ballashiels, but I want you to know that I do not judge you.’
How did Otto continue to maintain the upper hand? If this meeting had been held in a public bath he would have drowned, Ratty mused, because it was certainly not going swimmingly. He was no more intimidating to his adversary than a daffodil. Otto’s last comment simply left him speechless.
Otto calmly continued.
‘Lord Ballashiels, one of the reasons I wanted to meet with you again was to offer you, in person, my sincere apology for my behaviour yesterday. Please appreciate that it was an unusual and eventful day, and I experienced stress at levels that compromised gentlemanly conduct.’
‘Quite, quite,’ mumbled Ratty, failing to prevent his old self from snivelling its way to the forefront. He felt his guard lowering. Otto had a point. Strange things had happened yesterday. No one was quite themselves. Remember the plan, he reminded himself. He had a mission to fulfil.
‘I also wanted to inform you, Lord Ballashiels, of the connection our ancestors shared.’
‘Bilbo?’
‘Indeed. Your great-great uncle conducted archaeological works here in Guatemala at t
he same time as my great-great grandfather.’
‘That’s great-great, er, I mean, great.’
‘They were rivals, they had their disagreements, and the prize they sought was divided between them, rendering each half of no practical value. What can you do with half of the stele? Nothing. It does not provide the answers. That is why I have made it my mission to complete the work begun by my ancestor Karl Mengele.’
Ratty twitched uncomfortably at the mention of the name.
‘There is no reason,’ continued Otto, ‘for the feuding of our ancestors to continue today. We live in enlightened times. The German Empire has gone the way of the British Empire, shrunk out of existence by conquered nations demanding their independence. Nineteenth-century nationalistic ideals have no place in the hearts of citizens of the modern world.’
‘Just one question, Doctor. When you say Mengele, of course it’s no relation to the famous concentration camp doctor chappy from the war, is it?’ Rather than waiting for an answer, Ratty then laughed down his own question.
Otto looked him firmly in the eye but said nothing. The look was sufficient. He then continued, ‘One half of the stele came into my possession following the unexpected death in Brazil of my –’ he stopped himself. ‘It came into my possession in nineteen seventy-nine. There was little I could do with it at the time, but with the resources of my client at my disposal I have now been able to reunite it with its long lost twin.’
‘Do go on, old fellow.’
‘Lord Ballashiels, I inherited the stone but no papers, no written accounts. You inherited a stone with a considerable collection of contemporary notes. Those notes made by your great-great uncle may provide the final part of the puzzle, for they are alleged to give context and meaning to the stele.’
‘Are you trying to say, Doctor, that although you have both parts of the stele in your grasp, you don’t actually know how to use them?’
‘Your diary contains, I believe, details of inscriptions, found in a cave, associated with the stele. Carvings that have since been lost to history.’
‘If I might say once again, old boy, it seems to me that you have acquired a new toaster but you can’t work out how to turn it on without the manual.’
‘That, in the shell of a nut, Lord Ballashiels, is correct.’
Ratty felt elated. The race to the treasure wasn’t over yet. Neither man could identify the location of the lost Mayan hoard without the missing part of the puzzle. Otto had the stele but needed the diary; Ratty had the diary but needed the stele. His great-great uncle’s rivalry was reborn, and Ratty was determined that this time around he would score a decisive victory for his country.
* * *
‘Hi, my name’s Ruby. You must be ...?’
She had waited on the back stairs of the palace for over an hour for this opportunity.
‘Oh. Pedro,’ replied the young man, predictably mesmerised by the cleavage she had meticulously arranged to elicit just such a reaction.
He is barely more than a boy, thought Ruby. His uniform was too big for him, as though he had borrowed it from his father, and he wore his gun loosely at his side like a cowboy. He held a tray of unappetising food.
‘Pleased to meet you, Pedro,’ she said, motioning to shake his hand, but realising he was too encumbered with the tray. ‘Shall I take that for you?’
He held the tray tight against his waist.
‘God, this place, eh!’ she said conspiratorially. ‘Can’t even sort out proper uniforms. Complete chaos! Bet General Lorenzo didn’t even tell you I was starting today, did he?’
It took Pedro a couple of moments to tear his eyes from her curves before he blurted out, ‘Who?’
‘Oh, that’s odd. He promised me he’d sort everything out.’
‘What?’
‘I’m your assistant. Lorenzo said to shadow you for the first day and just pick up the job as I go along.’
‘I should ask.’ He gestured vaguely upstairs with his shoulder.
‘The President will vouch for me.’
She was winning him over, but whether it was due to the mention of the President or her undone buttons was unclear.
He looked at the food on the tray, which was getting cold, then at the stairs behind him, which were steep. What harm could a woman do, anyway? He opened the door to the basement rooms and switched on the lights to illuminate the unpainted interior. Ruby peered into the underground corridor, sniffed the stale air and saw a rusty but unbreakable-looking door set in a thick steel frame.
‘So we feed them, right?’
‘And check they no escape.’
‘Obviously. We wouldn’t want that, would we?’
Ruby stood behind him as he picked a large key from the set on his key ring and turned it in the lock of the steel door. When it opened, the impregnability of the cell was only too apparent – the door was several inches thick, armour plated on the outside and inside, with a mortise lock worthy of a bank vault. It swung to ninety degrees to reveal an unfamiliar Guatemalan prisoner standing at the far end of the cell. Seated on a grim-looking bed next to him was Matt.
As Pedro placed the food on the floor, Matt spotted Ruby and stared, his jaw sagging almost to his chest in disbelief. For a brief second their eyes locked and burned with unaskable questions. When Ruby raised her finger to her lips in the classic ‘shh’ gesture behind Pedro’s back, Matt assumed this was the prelude to a carefully honed rescue plan. He sat watching, waiting for her to make some crucial move from her position of advantage behind the soldier. But she did nothing.
The door slammed shut and was locked again. Matt found himself wondering if he had imagined it all. For her sake, he hoped he had.
* * *
The armoured Mercedes re-entered the palace grounds at precisely four in the afternoon. Otto flashed a security pass at the guards, plainly unhappy that to do so necessitated opening the window and letting in heat. He was already sweating profusely despite the efforts of the car’s air conditioning system. The constant stop-start nature of the journey had caused him more stress than he cared to experience immediately prior to the administration of injections – it wasn’t conducive to a steady hand. But he had arrived. He would be no more than five minutes late by the time he had made his way to Orlando’s office.
What he was going to do with the English aristocrat who had accompanied him on the journey, dressed eccentrically in black like a modern day Zorro carrying a school bag, he wasn’t sure. The conclusion of their dealings was not possible until he had finished with Orlando, but Otto was determined that the paths of Orlando and Ratty should not cross.
He drove into the underground lot and parked the Mercedes among the government fleet of Mitsubishi Delica minibuses, robotically pocketing the ignition key as he exited. His quivering hands then fumbled for the same key in his jacket pocket, rejecting the first one he pulled out before finding the Mercedes key once more and hanging it noisily on the rack. Normally this would be manned by a civil servant diligently signing official vehicles in and out, but it was currently abandoned owing to the man’s recent violent demise, in common with many of his co-workers. Nevertheless, Otto could not help but sign the book and record his mileage before walking up to an inconspicuous service entrance.
Ratty observed Otto’s behaviour closely, noting where he had placed each key.
Inside the palace, Otto gave Ratty a firm instruction: ‘You are to wait where I tell you to wait, Your Lordship. Please do not move from there until I come for you. It will be no more than an hour. You are a gentleman and I will treat you with the respect your position deserves, so there will be no guards or locked doors. You are my guest here at the palace and it would be inappropriate to confine you to your room by forceful means. You may study your books and your maps. I will then take you to the stele. Please understand how important it is that you do not leave the room.’
The room was a compact bedroom on an upper level. Its grey, porcelain tiled floor blended seamlessly with
the off-white painted walls, accented by burgundy red drapes and cushions. There was an en-suite bathroom, a television on the wall and a bottle of water on the dressing table.
‘You bash off and do your doings,’ chirped Ratty, deliberately standing on Otto’s shoelace. ‘Don’t worry about me.’
The Doctor noticed his lace had become undone and immediately crouched to tie it properly, taking several attempts to get each side of the bow precisely the same length as the other, and failing to register his guest’s ingratitude as the key in his jacket pocket was gently removed from him.
Deep down, Otto sensed he was being naïve, but the pressure to keep his appointment with Orlando distorted his thinking. As he reached the bottom of the stairs he was sure he heard the squeak of a door handle turning on the floor above, but in a property with fifty rooms and hundreds of people he wasn’t going to give in to paranoia and retrace his steps.
* * *
The faux-Versailles hall had evolved into a makeshift bar where palace staff congregated, starting to focus their new lives and enjoying free looted drinks. With no one specifically charged with cleaning the glasses, the only thing to do was to rinse them out with white wine and throw the waste into a bucket. One of these unlovely receptacles had already been accidentally kicked over, and the stench of sticky shoes, sodden beer mats and body odour started to pervade the air. The party was growing. Word of free drinks spread effortlessly around the blood-stained corridors of power. The triumphant administration had much to celebrate.
Well into his second bottle of Château DeFay, Pedro was lowering his defences against the relentless onslaught of female flirtation.
‘So,’ Ruby breathed sexily, trying not to model herself too obviously on Marilyn – after all, she had no intention of sticking around to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to Orlando, ‘tell me more. About this job. What happens next?’
Pedro gulped directly from his bottle and began to fall in slow motion. Ruby caught him and, with some difficulty, sat him up straight, trying to ignore the bubbles of wine he was snorting. Then he perked up, waving one hand as if giving a lecture.
The Sphinx Scrolls Page 9