‘You listen. This is job. Be very, very good. Good job.’
Holding him more or less upright, she nodded keenly and – she tried – admiringly. She just hoped he wouldn’t throw up on her.
‘During night I pick up the tray and check the prisoners. Hey, maybe you could do me a helping? A favours?’
Ruby smiled. Favours she could understand. Pedro reached into his pocket for the keys, found them and dropped them on the floor.
‘You must no lose these. We no have spare.’
Bending over to pick them up like a decrepit old man, he just kept going and passed out before he reached the ground. Ruby watched him fall onto the keys, unconscious. She shoved him aside and picked the keys up. They jangled heavily in her grasp, satisfyingly large and clunky, as befitted the keys to a presidential dungeon. She held them tight. The power of life and death lay in her grasp. She would never let Matt forget that.
Saving him would come at a cost, though. She would need to flee with him. No chance to find out if Orlando had any connection to the Sphinx theft. No opportunity to work on the Tikal project. The shining opportunity to further her career beyond her wildest imaginings would be lost. She would never let Matt forget that, either.
* * *
After only five minutes in the broom cupboard Ratty was short of breath. The airless atmosphere in there was slowly cooking him. The cupboard didn’t just contain brooms, of course. He could feel a plastic bucket next to his left foot and something heavy next to the other, possibly a vacuum cleaner. A coat peg dug into his back, and cobwebs tickled the edges of his precious new hairdo. As if he were not in quite enough discomfort, he started to feel the twinge of approaching cramp in his leg.
And yet it wasn’t safe to emerge. The soldiers whose voices, loud in conversation, had sent him scurrying for cover were still within earshot. They might not have challenged him had he passed them by with an air of confidence, but he had panicked and hidden himself, and if he now emerged, half dead, from the hallway cleaning cupboard, questions would have to be asked and his plan would be in tatters.
The cramp hit full on. He lifted his knee and hopped on his good leg in an effort to disperse the excruciation. The second hop landed off-centre, nudging the bucket sideways, toppling two brooms and sending Ratty falling onto the vacuum cleaner before the whole jumble of body and cleaning items burst out onto the floor of the hallway. Rough hands dragged him unceremoniously to his feet. Ratty found himself looking down on two diminutive soldiers, one of whom picked up Ratty’s satchel and thrust it aggressively onto his shoulder.
‘I say, terribly grateful and all that. Got myself in something of a pickle back there.’
The private looked at the corporal with an expression that did not suggest sympathy. This overgrown English schoolboy appeared to have been hiding in a cupboard, listening to their conversation. Those were the facts, and they were sufficient to generate considerable anger. Other circumstances were not deemed relevant, such as the fact that they were talking about soccer rather than grand military secrets, and the fact that Ratty hadn’t paid attention to a word they’d said anyway.
‘Come with us,’ grunted the corporal.
‘Awfully kind invitation, but I was actually waiting for Doctor Mengele. We have a meeting in a few minutes after he’s finished with the President.’
‘Is this true?’ asked the private.
‘The Doctor asked me to wait in one of those bedchambers along the hallway. Became somewhat adrift, what with all these doppelgänger doors.’
‘Why are you here?’ asked the corporal. His tone had become more neutral. Ratty’s idiotic innocence was starting to shine through.
‘I came to assist the Doctor with some Mayan artefacts he is studying.’
‘You are an archaeologist? From England?’
‘More of an historian, but yes, one is the fruit of the loins of Blighty, if you like. Or perfidious Albion if you don’t, ha ha.’
The two soldiers spoke quickly to each other, as much to ascertain the reason for Ratty’s unexpected chuckle as to decide what to do with him. One of them had heard about Mayan stones and other items being kept somewhere in the palace. Ratty’s story had a chime of believability about it. He seemed a harmless foreign imbecile. They decided to throw this catch back into the water.
‘I say, quick adjuration, chaps,’ called Ratty as they began to walk away. ‘It might be helpful to the Doctor if I tootle on over and make a start before he gets there. I know he’s awfully busy. Any idea where one might find the antiquities room?’
* * *
As the setting sun fired its dying rays into the overhead smog in a spectacularly colourful, and rapidly changing, display, the celebrations spread further about the palace. The hallways soon lost their echo, muffled by the presence of soldiers and officials drinking and singing tunelessly and making amorous advances that they would regret in the morning. Many staff now congregated around the staircase that led down to the basement and the cells. There was no way Ruby could risk bringing Matt out in front of them. Returning later in the night was her only option. She briefly experienced a guilty pleasure at this realisation: Matt would suffer for a few hours more. It wouldn’t fully compensate her for the damage his predicament had done to her career opportunities, but it would help. Besides, the delay gave her a chance to continue her hunt for Orlando’s private collection.
This time she easily located the room to which precious packages were rumoured to have been delivered. It was almost directly opposite the chlorine-filled office that the President had so far displayed little interest in using. She tried the handle; the door was locked. Sounds coming from within the room caused her to step away, not wanting to be caught in the vicinity of what must be a restricted area.
The door opened a fraction revealing a nervous rat-like nose.
The door slammed shut again. Ruby banged it impatiently.
‘Ratty? What are you doing there? Open up!’
The nose reappeared.
‘Goodness! Thought you were the Doctor chappy. Come in, old sausage.’
Ratty let her in and locked the door with the key he had taken from Otto. The room was a small office, kept deliberately stark and neutral, with boxes of historical and esoteric literature and maps stacked in one corner, and piles of flight cases to one side. Some of the cases were open, displaying pottery items set into padded foam linings. But Ruby just stared at her friend.
‘What have they done to you?’ she asked him. ‘Why have they put you in that ridiculous outfit? And what happened to your hair?’
‘No time to explain,’ he replied. ‘Rather pushed for time. Although perhaps we could quickly discuss the poetry of Philip Larkin?’
‘Now? Are you crazy? Listen, Ratty, they’ve arrested Matt. He’s in a cell here in the palace.’
He tried not to smile at this revelation. The Mountebank fellow was not Ratty’s cup of tea, and the sooner Ruby found herself a more suitable person with whom to enjoy her romantic liaisons, the better, in his opinion.
‘If you’re after bail money, I’m afraid –’
‘No, Ratty, they’re going to execute him tomorrow.’
‘Golly. What rotten luck,’ said Ratty, silently berating himself for thinking the exact opposite.
‘It’s under control, though. I stole the key to his cell. I’ll let him out when the coast is clear.’
‘Can I be of any assistance in that department?’ he offered in an attempt to redeem his uncharitable instincts towards the American soldier.
‘Just get yourself away from this madhouse. I don’t want you getting in trouble as well.’ She was about to give him a hug and tell him to be careful when the contents of a half-opened flight case caught her eye. She shoved Ratty unsympathetically aside and picked up a clay tube from its foam padding. It looked ancient, greyed by passing eons. And it looked familiar. She pulled back the foam layer and saw others beneath it. Ten of them.
‘Ratty! These are the tubes that were stolen from
the Sphinx!’
He picked one up and turned it around.
‘Is it meant to be empty?’ he asked.
Ruby checked the ends of the tube she was holding. It had been neatly sawn open at the tip. There was nothing inside. The same was true of the others.
‘Quick, Ratty, help me look in these other containers. Perhaps the scrolls are here.’
‘No, old raspberry, I’ve already checked. And there are definitely no scrolls in those two flight cases there.’
She looked at the containers in question. He shuffled in front of them, blocking her view and reminding her of the evasive squirming he had displayed when she was last at Stiperstones Manor.
‘Tell me honestly, Ratty. Did you sell that stele to Otto?’
‘Sell? To that schnitzel-nibbling scoundrel? Absolutely not.’
‘Good. So why are you here?’
‘Me? Here? Awfully glad you asked me that, actually. Yes. Indeed.’
‘Well?’
‘Time has transfigured them into wotnot, eh?’ he continued. ‘Heigh-ho and tinkerty-tonk.’
She sighed. Getting a coherent answer from her friend was often a challenge, and right now she lacked the patience to pursue the matter. Her head was starting to hurt. She hadn’t eaten all day and had no desire to waste her remaining energy on an eccentric aristocrat. She was going to need all of her strength to rescue Matt.
‘I’m going to get something to eat, Ratty, then I’m going to free Matt. All hell might break loose after that, so make sure you’re not around. Promise me that?’
‘Off you trot, old condiment, and don’t concern yourself with me.’
The palace kitchen, when she found it, was surprisingly small. The two chefs – both with sodden rings of sweat under their armpits – were still working on the supply of evening meals. From the looks of them, they were more used to cooking outdoors on portable equipment, moving from one rainforest clearing to another. Jungle hygiene clearly did not translate particularly well to the interior of a palace and the men seemed out of their depth, lost in their new surroundings. The floors were filthy with a crust of squashed nachos and flour, plus what looked like blood, and the surfaces were stained and cracked. The smell of tonight’s chilli did little to mask the all-pervading odour of rot, a stench exaggerated by the humidity. A greasy extractor fan half-dangled from the wall, apparently broken, and no windows were open. Ruby looked for signs of fresh food, or indeed anything still in a packet or free from mould, but everything seemed equally hazardous to health.
One of the chefs smiled at her and put together a small heap of his creations on a tray. Reluctantly she accepted the chef’s offerings, taking herself off into a corner to eat a pile of tortillas, cheese and strips of what was hopefully beef. The bits of green might actually be vegetables, she tried to reassure herself. After everything she’d been through, it looked almost edible, and smelled a lot better than the raw ingredients that were decaying around her. She gulped it all down, forced herself to smile and give the thumbs up to the chef, and went to look for a quiet room where she could rest until it was safe to rescue Matt.
The moment she walked out of the kitchen her stomach lurched ominously.
* * *
Ratty placed the two halves of the artefact side by side on a wooden table. Together again after hundreds – possibly thousands – of years apart, the two stone discs were ready to reveal the secret they had so long withheld from the world. The recess in the centre of one half was clearly designed to receive the protrusion from the other. It was a primal concept, as simple and elegant as Nature herself: the mating of male and female. Ratty tried to understand the minds of the people who had carved the stones and started the legends that surrounded them. What kind of phenomenon would be worthy of such travail? Why had it needed to be hidden from view, erased from history until someone worked out how to crack its code?
He had no idea, but he hoped it was something to do with treasure. He desperately needed a hoard of Mayan gold to refill his coffers. Perhaps El Dorado really did exist. Perhaps he would be the first one to pull back the ferns, tilt up his pith helmet and gaze in wonderment at the dazzling sight of thousands of tons of mythical gold. Its value was sure to outshine anything Otto might offer him for Bilbo’s diary. And to claim the elusive grand prize on behalf of the good guys would earn him Ruby’s respect, instead of her resentment when she realised he’d told her a small porky pie about the stelae. Was that stronger motivation than the money? He couldn’t deny the possibility.
‘Time has transfigured them into Untruth’ echoed through his head in search of meaning. Its significance and the great discoveries would come later, however. Otto would soon start to look for him. He needed to act quickly. The twin stones were too heavy for him to carry out of the palace alone. Despite his new tough guy image, he was still the same scrawny person inside, a classic example of an inbred aristocratic weakling. But the stelae themselves were not important, he realised. It was their message that mattered. It was the location they pointed to that was of value. He picked up the part of the stele that rightly belonged to him and mated it to the other piece, half expecting to see a genie appear in a puff of smoke or for heavy granite walls to slide open.
Nothing happened.
Don’t be an oaf, he told himself. These are merely lumps of stone. Now for the important part. He had to line up the inscriptions to create a meaningful message. The difficulty lay in deciding exactly how the inscriptions should be aligned. There were multiple options, like a stone-age version of a bicycle padlock with spinning numbers. The carvings on the Mengele stone now showed that twelve readings could be obtained, according to its alignment with the Bilbo stone. Otto had needed the extra information to be gleaned from Ratty’s uncle’s diary in order to select the correct alignment.
He pulled the diary from the inside pocket of his leather jacket and laid it on the table next to the stele. The mauve ink which had read ‘Bilbo de St Clair, his Diary. Private. KEEP OUT’ had started to dissolve in the unforgivingly humid interior of the jacket. He rifled through the fragile leaves quickly.
The diary told of the union of the fortress glyphs with the red squares or diamond shapes. Each half of the stele contained both glyphs, in reverse order. When the rows were aligned together, some of the other glyphs could then be read across the two stelae, giving the co-ordinates of the sacred location. It wasn’t a set of simple numbers, of course, like modern map grid references. The division of the world into segments, measured in degrees, minutes and seconds of longitude and latitude, was an arbitrary system, agreed upon by nations for general convenience in relatively recent times. The ancients saw their world in more poetic, hyperbolic terms. The stelae referred to positions relative not to precise sections of the globe, but to named Mayan settlements. Ratty interpreted the glyphs to the best of his ability. He cross-referenced the places named in the glyphs with historical records of place names no longer in use and with topographical maps of the country.
His personal quest was undeniably rather jolly good fun. He felt a closeness to his ancestor, sensing a connection that had not been there before, as if Bilbo were with him now, gin and tonic in one hand, Union flag in the other, ready to guide him to the ultimate archaeological prize.
His hurried research was complete, and an audacious plan occurred to him. It was a stroke of genius, he decided. He would leave the diary for Otto to find. This idea made him especially proud because, of course, the diary he left next to the stele would not be in entirely the same state as it had been when it was originally bequeathed to him. Subtle modifications would lead Dr Otto to a different result from the one Ratty was now pursuing.
He permitted himself a tired smile as he coolly walked from the antiquities room to the underground car park and helped himself to a set of keys from the unguarded rack. Not wishing to exacerbate any trouble he might already be in, he signed the register, putting his name and the registration number of his chosen Mitsubishi Delica into the boo
k and leaving a few quetzales on the desk as a contribution towards the fuel. Besides, those quetzales didn’t matter to him. In a few hours he’d be in possession of unimaginable wealth. The all-terrain Delica could seat eight adults plus their luggage and it could handle the toughest off road conditions, so he reckoned on being able to help himself to a substantial haul.
Only the security contingent at the palace gates now stood between him and riches beyond his considerable capacity for dreams. Twenty soldiers, tired, triumphant and inebriated. Ratty knew that success depended on whether he could make this his finest hour.
The odds of being able to persuade the soldiers to let him through did not appear favourable. These guards were not educated people. They had no inkling of culture, of history, of philosophy. They were not cricketers or connoisseurs or collectors. Ratty would have been just as uncomfortable encountering them drinking and chatting in the King’s Head in his home village. They were, in short, not his kind of people, and even New Ratty lacked the social skills to win over this rabble.
He slowed the Delica to a halt and opened the window. A soldier asked to see his security pass. Dumbing down his classical Spanish to its most colloquial, he began to burble at them.
‘I do like your uniforms. Where do you get them? Do you find them rather hot in this somewhat clement weather? So how long have you all been in the army, then? Do you enjoy it? What’s the most interesting part of this work? Have you always wanted to do this?’
It was a complete failure. He knew he didn’t have it in him to relate to them. His escape was doomed. His attempts at engaging these lowly soldiers were worthy of a monarch on a royal visit making small talk to connect with the plebs – trite, patronising and superficial. None of his questions received an answer.
‘You cannot take this vehicle without a security pass,’ repeated the soldier.
‘Well, now that’s a funny thing, don’t you know?’ continued Ratty. ‘Doctor Otto said I wouldn’t need one as I’m not really leaving. He’s asked me to test drive the official vehicles and write a report, so I’ll be, er, taking them out one at a time, starting with this one. Back in a few minutes.’
The Sphinx Scrolls Page 10