The Sphinx Scrolls

by Stewart Ferris

  The remainder of the journey to the centre of the ancient city was uneventful. The visitors’ car park was bursting with trucks and metal shipping containers. There were pallets of building materials, piles of timber, bags of cement, cranes and excavators. Soldiers and civilians moved like armies of ants, working in dedicated unison, their paths traced by small twists of dust. Ratty parked inconspicuously beneath a tree and looked at the map of the site that the Patient was studying. They faced an obvious complication to their quest: there were thousands of ancient structures spaced over several square miles. The city was clearly on the route between the other four sites, but where within the city would the treasure be hidden? And with hundreds of workers around, how could they investigate and excavate without attracting unwanted attention? Even the mysterious Patient was unable to provide an answer.

  ‘It is not once nor twice but times without number that the same ideas make their appearance in the world,’ he said.

  ‘Well quite,’ replied Ratty. ‘So is that a suggestion as to where we dig?’

  ‘Make the journey then, make it now: you will follow the same path.’

  ‘Provided there’s room to get the Toyota through the trees.’

  ‘You do not understand,’ said the Patient. ‘Think.’

  ‘Not quite got the old grey matter in top gear. The cogs are somewhat seized up.’

  ‘You travel from El Zotz to Topoxté and you arrive here. Or you travel from Paxcamán to Uaxactún, and again you pass by here. What do you see?’

  ‘Crikey. A quiz.’

  ‘Pyramids. Temples. Towers of stone.’

  ‘The Great Plaza,’ suggested Ratty. ‘That seems to be where the tourists used to go. Must be the city centre. The village green. The Trafalgar Square. Is that it?’

  The Patient looked at him with an annoyingly enigmatic expression. Ratty sighed.

  ‘Come on, old bean. Let’s take a gander at this place.’

  Inside the military transport plane the mottled olive bundles hanging from aluminium racks swung to and fro. Matt counted them twice. Fourteen. Enough for everyone on board, including himself. Even as he was putting on his camouflage uniform he still couldn’t believe he had really chosen this option. Part of him hoped it was all a sick wind-up, and that he would simply go to prison after all. He didn’t rate his chances of emerging from the mission in one piece. He tried to think of himself as a journalist embedded with a fighting unit behind enemy lines, surrounded by and protected by soldiers who would do anything to take care of him and get him home safely. But there was a profound difference. None of these soldiers was assigned to look after him. Worse still, some of them even seemed to look up to him. They thought they were going into a conflict with a battle-hardened warrior at their side. He pulled on the black boots they had given him – hoping he was tying them like an old soldier – and sighed. The lie was growing at an exponential rate.

  The briefings were a blur. He knew his life could depend on paying close attention, and that made it even harder to concentrate. There were technical terms he didn’t understand: acronyms and slang that no one thought it necessary to translate. Something about new explosives that weighed less and punched harder than the old stuff. Maps were handed round and co-ordinates shouted out. For a man who had difficulty enough in coping with the simple fact that he was in a flying machine, any words sent in his direction were wasted. His only refuge from the sharp tension within him was humour. When it was time to ask if there were any questions, he put up his hand.

  ‘Yes?’ asked Nichols.

  ‘Do I get air miles on this flight?’

  The ripple of laughter helped to soothe his nerves, and only served to reinforce further his reputation as a cool and fearless soldier among the other men as they passed around the bundles. Nichols handed one to Matt.

  ‘You need any help with this?’ asked the Lieutenant.

  Matt was holding the parachute pack upside down as he shook his head. Nichols turned it around for him and helped him climb into it, checking all of the buckles and fastenings as he did so.

  ‘The rip cord?’ asked Matt.

  ‘Very funny!’ laughed Nichols.

  ‘No, I mean it. It’s changed since my day,’ bluffed Matt.

  ‘You probably trained on the old T-10 design. We’re now on the ATPS – Advanced Tactical Parachute System. It’s a slower landing, forty per cent less impact force, which means we can jump with more kit and fewer injuries.’

  ‘I, er, knew that. And the, er, rip cord?’

  ‘Hasn’t changed. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Fine. But how would you explain it if I had my film crew here?’

  ‘You haven’t, though. So I won’t. Just do nothing. You’ll be hooked up. The chute opens automatically. Just bend your knees and keep your tongue in.’

  ‘So what do I do with this?’ Matt indicated the cord with a metal ring attached.

  ‘Reserve chute. Usual procedure. If you don’t see the main chute open after three seconds, this ring releases the reserve. But you don’t wanna do that.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘It’s a faster drop with the reserve. With the kit you’ll be carrying you’ll break your legs.’

  Matt wondered if there was any way to break his legs now and avoid the jump altogether. He went through the motions of preparing for the drop, copying the tightening of straps and connection of clips from the other guys, but in his mind he was sheltering in another place, safe in the warm harbour of Ruby’s arms as she affectionately caressed his neck instead of it being rubbed raw by a parachute buckle.

  * * *

  Beneath the low-level glass conference table, a small fountain gurgled, spewing spotlit water into a channel cut through the floor. Chesterfield sofas surrounded the table, their red leather shining with a glow never possessed when the hides were alive. Three walls bore large portraits of President Orlando in various military and civilian costumes, proudly displaying the medals he had awarded himself. The fourth wall consisted of a giant screen, currently showing a map of Guatemala and its surrounding countries overlaid with patterns of troop movements and the Mayan temples they were targeting. Beneath the screen was a table on which a selection of weaponry was laid out. The floor was carpeted in a plush purple that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a seventies porn movie, and the atmosphere was silently and refreshingly air conditioned.

  Frankly, Otto had expected more tasteful interior design from his President, but this was the interior of a Mayan pyramid and, as such, there was little precedent to follow. The only redeeming feature of the room was a glass cabinet in which ten ancient scrolls were displayed. These scrolls were the raison d’être of all that was happening in Tikal, and Otto’s diligent hand-written translation had become the guiding principle behind all of Orlando’s lavish projects and preparations. The subsequent loss of that translation in the sinkhole had not arrested their progress; Otto and Orlando knew the message and carried it in their hearts.

  Otto proceeded to carry out the tests and treatments upon Orlando. The repetitive and intricate tasks brought him another step closer to healing the pain of the Patient’s defection, although he was confident that they would soon meet here, at Tikal. The Patient had seemed curiously intent on visiting the site described by the stelae, and Otto had finally come to the conclusion that the intersection of the paths was within this ruined city, not outside it. But when and if the Patient showed his face, Otto was determined that it would be for the last time.

  ‘I trust the self-medication went smoothly in my absence,’ stated Otto, drawing a small sample of blood into a syringe.

  ‘You provided me with everything I required,’ replied Orlando, failing to answer entirely to Otto’s satisfaction.

  ‘Yes, but did you manage to take all of the medications at the appropriate times? You know how important it is for maintaining your indestructibility.’

  Otto removed the syringe and swabbed the skin.

  ‘I know, Otto. You have
no cause for concern. But do you not think it is a pity that your tests cannot analyse my mind?’

  ‘Your mind is healthy because your body is in as close to a state of perfection as I have been able to maintain.’

  ‘I am concerned,’ Orlando whispered. ‘I worry.’

  ‘You have a great responsibility. To worry is part of your role as our leader.’

  ‘For you, Mengele. I worry for you.’

  ‘That is not necessary.’

  ‘The sinkhole took your home. I have fond memories of that villa. You were fortunate to survive. I know you have continued your work – from a truck, I believe – and I’m concerned that the quality of your research may have been compromised by the upheaval. That is why my people have been preparing a new medical facility here at Tikal. It is basic, but it will serve the needs of the soldiers and scientists. And there are private rooms reserved for you.’

  ‘I am grateful,’ said Otto. He wondered if the rooms would be sound proof, or whether he would have to resort to medicinal options for silencing the Patient when recaptured. The truck possessed the advantage of being something he could park away from suspicious ears, but to be able to work in a static, stable environment once more would be priceless.

  He looked at the weapons on the table. ‘And so,’ he continued, ‘if I am to have a new laboratory, there is nothing that need concern you from the point of view of medicine.’

  ‘What about dreams?’

  Otto regarded him blankly. The world of dreams was of no interest to him from a medical perspective. They were not quantifiable, so they were not important.

  ‘Dreams as in ambitions, desires, fantasies, or unconscious brain activity?’

  ‘I just want your reassurance that you can still fix me, no matter what.’

  The Doctor showed no reaction to that question. He was still staring at the guns on the table as he handed some pills to Orlando.

  ‘I have the same capacity to care for you that I have always had. Nothing has changed.’

  ‘I have had ... I have experienced ... I, er, have recurring dreams,’ said Orlando with uncharacteristic hesitancy. ‘A conflict. A brightness. A blur.’ He put the vitamins and supplements into his mouth and mumbled, ‘It always ends the same way. Blackness.’ He glugged a glass of water to wash the pills down. The liquid also soothed his throat, dry and rough from the strain of vocalising intimate revelations of personal weakness.

  ‘There is no scientific evidence that dreams are premonitions. Belief in dreams is primitive cultural mumbo jumbo. And you, of all people, have no reason to fear anything.’ Otto edged backwards towards the weaponry table, failing to recognise that morbid dreams might be symptomatic of a gap in Orlando’s medication, that his patient might be slipping from his tight control just at the moment when he needed him most.

  ‘You really think I’m immortal, Mengele?’

  ‘I’ve never used that term,’ replied Otto, checking that Orlando was facing away from him as he silently swiped a pistol from the table and put it into his pocket. ‘You are still susceptible to the natural limitations of a healthy human lifespan, but you are, to an extent, indestructible within that timeframe. I still have the ability to repair you. And if I can’t repair you then I can halt any progression of a malady until such time as medical science is ready to reverse it.’

  Orlando turned his head to face Otto. The President appeared reassured. He had always known of his situation. It gave him two lives, two chances at everything. His personal doctor was running a research programme that stretched back to the 1940s, a quarter of a century before Orlando had even been born. Somehow it was all for his benefit. He had been selected for greatness, to live his life with a unique insurance policy that gave him the confidence to take risks, to fear no one, to take control, to take power. No person could permanently disable him. No disease could strike him down. No accident of nature could harm him. Otto could fix everything. Orlando was like a computer with mirrored hard drives: there was no risk of any data loss.

  And yet at no time in his life had he ever stopped to wonder how his doctor would be able to perform the medical miracles which had been promised to him, should he ever require them. It was a fact of his life that he had grown up with. Issues of legality, morality or practicality did not concern him. He was special, and that was that. Orlando knew he was The Chosen One.

  * * *

  The attempt at moving unseen through the Tikal monuments was spectacularly unsuccessful. It took less than five minutes for Ratty and the Patient to be spotted creeping suspiciously from tree to tree alongside the Maler Causeway. The young Guatemalan soldier who found them froze on the spot, terrified, and then ran to a nearby temple complex where construction and conversion work was taking place. Before Ratty could drag the Patient to a suitable hiding place, a line of soldiers and builders rushed out of the temple towards them. Ratty tried to remain cool, harnessing the wisdom of eastern philosophers and hand-to-hand combat specialists that he had learned in his martial arts training. Sun Tzu was his favourite, and he remembered that a battle could be won before it had begun if one side took the psychological upper hand.

  ‘The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting,’ he reminded himself. Whether that applied to two unarmed men facing a battalion of proper soldiers he wasn’t sure. He glanced at the Patient who showed no fear. In fact, he showed little interest in what was happening. The texture of a ceiba tree had caught the Patient’s attention, and he was running his fingers across its immense, pale bark, oblivious to anything else.

  Ratty stood firm, straightening his leather jacket, slicking back his hair, looking like an underfed bodyguard next to the Patient. An officer emerged from the group of people and marched briskly towards Ratty and the Patient. He stamped his feet on the crushed gravel track and stopped, then threw his arm up into an angular salute. The Patient looked at his new visitor, head slightly cocked in the manner of an inquisitive dog. The officer spun round to face the soldiers and builders behind him. He shouted at them and they stood to attention in an instant, all throwing perfect salutes at Ratty and the Patient.

  Quite a hospitable bunch, thought Ratty. These Guatemalan chaps were charming hosts – attentive and respectful to their guests, if a little over the top in their apparent sincerity. He just hoped that they didn’t ask to see his entry ticket. The discovery that he hadn’t paid to get in might sour the atmosphere of bonhomie.

  He looked across the row of salutes in front of him. Dozens of pairs of eyes were locked in his general direction as he gave them a pathetic wave of his hand. And yet, they were not looking at him. He followed the line of their gaze. Their attention was wholly upon the Patient. An awkward impasse followed, as if they were waiting for a response from the Patient. There is something deeply queer about the whole situation, thought Ratty. Had he inadvertently got himself involved with a Guatemalan army general? Was the Patient a well-known soldier who had gone as potty as a potato and escaped from an institution?

  In the midst of the stifling embarrassment felt by all present, the Patient suddenly began to walk away. Ratty’s neck rotated left and right between the Patient and the line of soldiers and workers, the sweat from his chin dribbling onto the upturned leather lapels on his jacket. He took a deep breath and scrambled after his new friend.

  ‘I say,’ he wheezed, ‘Patient chappy. Any idea what that was all about?’

  ‘Everyone I encounter shows me great kindness and respect,’ replied the Patient. ‘With, it seems, the sole exception of Doctor Mengele. Perhaps that is a natural function of long acquaintance, but it is not an observation recorded by philosophers.’

  ‘Quite, quite. It will be dark soon, so perhaps we could return to our hunt for the ancient crossroads – do you have any thoughts?’

  ‘Nothing exists except atoms and empty space; everything else is opinion.’

  ‘Most helpful.’

  The Patient continued to stride purposefully along the causeway. He walked
as if he had been here a thousand times before; as if he owned the place. Given the reaction of the soldiers they had so far encountered, Ratty began to wonder if the Patient had the title deeds to Tikal stuffed inside his overalls.

  A small wooden sign indicated they were at the North Acropolis. Ratty followed the Patient into the complex of ruins, unnoticed by nearby workers beginning to tunnel into the side of a small temple. From the blackened edge of the North Acropolis a series of ledges and steps led down to the Great Plaza below them, dominated by the enormity of Temples I and II. The two men paused to take in the view. Did these two pyramids mark the spot? If so, the area was too vast for them to excavate, and too conspicuous for them to get away with it.

  Something was pressing into Ratty’s lower back.

  ‘Thank you for returning my Patient to me,’ said a Germanic voice. ‘I trust he has not been bothersome.’

  Ratty turned to see Otto holding something in his right hand that looked suspiciously like a handgun, while in his left was a collection of items including a steel chain.

  ‘No, no trouble at all. Don’t mention it. Remarkable chap, your Patient. And fit as a fiddle.’

  The Patient made no attempt to resist the imposition of a metal collar and chain and the placing of a canvas bag over his head. Ratty felt like he was intruding on a private role-playing session or a meeting of the Grand Lodge. Disquieted and embarrassed, he fidgeted and looked away.

  ‘Goodness, tempus fugit and all that. Best be off.’

  The gun swung back in Ratty’s direction.

  ‘Please accompany me, Lord Ballashiels.’

  * * *

  The cargo ramp opened slowly. Vortexes of cool air picked up everything that wasn’t strapped down. Matt instinctively shielded his eyes from the anticipated bright light, but the doors opened only to blackness. After a couple of hours chasing the sun westwards, they had lost the daylight race. He strapped on the night vision goggles and looked outside again. The blackness was now green, but still devoid of shape and detail. He had been advised that nothing would appear in view until he was a few seconds from the ground. Whether that would give him enough time to avoid landing on a cactus field he wasn’t sure, and didn’t really want to know.