by Darren Hale
‘They found something?’
‘Seems so…’
‘So, why wait until they leave? Couldn’t they just walk right in and take it from them…’ said Brad pensively.
‘And draw attention to their other enterprise?’ Toni observed, his mouth once again full of cold soup, having found himself another can from somewhere. ‘I doubt it…’
‘Which means their expedition is probably a lot closer to their base of operations than we thought,’ Brad speculated.
18
Friday 13th October:
Rufus tossed his phone onto the desk. It somersaulted end over end before clattering to a halt next to a pile of research papers. He wasn’t entirely sure that such cartwheeling was good for the phone, but after chain-playing The Pogues all morning, he didn’t really care. Thanks to a monumental lack of planning, he’d only downloaded three albums onto it before boarding the plane and was beginning to tire of them all.
And it wasn’t much use to him as a phone…
Not when the nearest cell tower was hundreds, if not thousands of miles away!
He’d toyed with the idea of downloading new files over the Internet, but as Marina had dutifully reminded him, the satellite phone was for essential communications only, and he had no desire to add himself to the professors ever-growing hit list.
Feeling some pangs of guilt relating to his treatment of his one and only companion, the phone, he recovered it and selected the not-so-dulcet tones of some Nickelback instead, then turned his attention to the laptop balanced across his thighs.
‘Rufus – are you still there?’ it enquired anonymously.
Rufus’ hands flickered across the keyboard. ‘Sorry – just had to change the music.’
Brief pause.
‘Those pictures you sent us last week have everyone around here pulling their hair out in frustration. Where did you say they came from?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Why all the secrecy?’
‘Professor’s orders. Besides, not sure I could tell you even if I wanted too...’
‘Well, personally I think you’re all just yanking out chains. We know you’re all really just relaxing in some bar in Rio, having a few drinks and a laugh at our expense.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘You expect us to believe this is genuine?’
‘Well if it isn’t, the joke’s very much on me.’
‘Okay, but if that’s the truth, just remember to mention all of us little people back here when you stand up to accept your Nobel Prize.’
‘That depends on whether or not the little people have anything new to offer me.’
‘Just you wait and see… Amy managed to dig up some old research papers that you are just going to love :-) Will upload them to you shortly.’ There was another brief pause before the message continued. ‘It appears that in 1998 a Doctor James Sampson and his wife Katrina discovered the remains of a settlement in Lamani, Belize. In his paper, he hypothesised that the inhabitants had belonged to some form of Proto-Olmec society, possibly originating from North Africa. The papers contain pictures of artefacts inscribed with hieroglyphics very similar to those in your photos. As luck would have it, Doctor Sampson was something of an epigrapher and claims to have made quite a bit of progress with the translations. Amy has included some notes for you along with the download.’
Pause.
‘So how come I’ve never heard of these papers then?’
‘They were never published. The findings were discredited by the authorities in Belize and the papers were rejected.’
‘Have you been able to get in touch with Dr Sampson directly?’
‘Unfortunately, both he and his wife disappeared whilst working in Egypt, somewhere near the border with Libya, which means that unfortunately, no-one has been able to substantiate their claims.’
‘Sounds ominous.’
‘Yes – they never quite got to the bottom of that one. A rescue party was sent to track them down but found no trace of them. Friends think they may have strayed the wrong side of the border during all that tension out there.’
‘Makes me kind of glad we’re not anywhere near Libya then…’
‘Don’t get too complacent. From what I hear, there are far more bad guys in your part of the world than there are in Libya.’
‘Cheers – you make me feel all warm inside…’
‘Just watch your back is all. Oh yeh – almost forgot. Amy tells me that you had better see to it that she gets a first in her final dissertation.’
‘You can tell Amy that if the papers are as good as she claims, her first is in the bag.’
‘Will do. Stand by… Will upload the files to you now… good luck!’
An information box appeared in the centre of the screen: Downloading 1% complete.
Rufus kicked his feet onto the table and closed his eyes. This was going to take a while.
******
‘Hey, Rufus!’
A tap on the shoulder brought him hurtling back to wakefulness. His body tensed reflexively, almost launching him backwards off his chair, laptop and all.
It was Marina.
‘Jesus – what do you think you’re at woman?’
‘Sorry hon, but if you will have your music up so loud…’
Rufus turned his phone off and removed the earpieces, then quickly surveyed the laptop. The power and satellite cables remained tightly in their sockets, and the download box remained in the centre of the screen, displaying its painfully slow progress.
Happy that all was well, he closed the lid and placed it safely upon the desk.
‘I thought you might fancy a drink,’ said Marina, offering him a mug of wine. The mug had clearly seen better days. Its sides were dinted and scarred, and the enamel had peeled off in places to reveal the tarnished tin underneath. He did however find its rugged simplicity to be somewhat comforting.
‘I see you brought me the posh china,’ he observed with a smile.
Marina shrugged apologetically. ‘Sorry, but it was all I could find.’
Rufus accepted the mug and sniffed it suspiciously, warily appraising the rather pungent bouquet. ‘Is it any good?’
‘Not really,’ said Marina honestly. ‘Raspberries and pears, with an underlying hint of creosote. Okay for cooking and desperate individuals in the middle of the jungle, hundreds of miles from the nearest bar.’
‘Okay – point taken.’ Rufus tentatively tasted the wine, his nose wrinkling in response to the rather coarse flavour. ‘hmm, I see what you mean.’
Marina took a sip from her own mug. She’d already had a few mouthfuls of the stuff and could now swallow it without wanting to spit it straight back out again. ‘Are you planning on coming to the party at all?’
‘Party?’
‘Yes… Well… I guess you could call it that. Angus “liberated” a crate of wine from the kitchen tent when Arno wasn’t looking.’
‘So, what are we celebrating?’
‘Oh, you know Angus… I think he wants everyone to know just how clever he was, finding the body of the king and all that. And the rest of us are, quite frankly, happy to have been given the opportunity to celebrate anything.’
Rufus took another sip of the wine, having stifled the warnings coming from the more epicurean centres of his brain. ‘Unfortunately, I’m not so sure he was that clever after all…’ he mused.
Marina giggled. ‘Because he managed to upset the professor you mean?’
‘No, that wasn’t what I meant… Although he is lucky the professor didn’t put him on the next slow boat back to Rio.’
‘So, what were you referring to?’
Rufus paused to gather his thoughts. ‘I’m not so sure he found the royal tomb is all.’
‘And how would you possibly know that?’
‘Because I think these people were ruled by a queen. And, as far as I’
m aware, the body Angus found was male.’
‘You’ve managed to interpret the stela!’ Marina observed with a beaming smile.
‘Only a very small fraction of it I’m afraid.’
‘But you have managed to decipher some of it?’
‘Yes…’ Rufus grinned.
Marina placed her mug on the table. She was beginning to feel giddy – though it was perhaps just the wine. ‘I thought you said it was impossible to decipher it without some frame of reference to work from.’
‘Yes, I did…’
‘So, don’t keep me in suspense – how did you do it?’
‘A combination of things really... Juliet’s estimate relating to the age of this settlement helped me decipher some of the numerical glyphs, and, as it happens, they’re not entirely different from the system used by the Mayans.’
‘So, you know how old this place really is?’
‘According to the stela, the temple dates back to 2053 BC,’ he replied confidently.
Marina was stunned. ‘You can be that accurate?’
‘Sure…’ Rufus was beginning to wish Marina had brought some snacks to go with the wine – just to remove the taste of it – though, beggars being what they were, it wasn’t going to stop him drinking it.
‘The Mayans developed one of the most accurate calendars known to man,’ he explained. ‘It even accounted for errors due to leap years. Thanks to Juliet, we already know that whoever lived here had a sophisticated knowledge of astronomy, so there is no need to think that their calendar was any less sophisticated.’
‘Okay then Sherlock, what else have you managed to learn?’
‘Well, I don’t think that I can take all of the credit. I emailed some of our pictures back to Amy, and they’ve been hunting the journals for anything that might help us.’
‘And that’s what you were doing before I interrupted you?
‘Exactly… It turns out that Amy has managed to uncover some papers written by Dr Sampson and his wife that may be of use to us.’
‘You mean Amy with the chestnut hair, blue eyes, and pouting lips, that not so secretly has a crush on you?’ gibed Marina playfully.
Rufus ignored the challenge, knowing better than to rise to the bait.
‘So, who are this Doctor and Mrs Sampson?’ she asked.
‘They were both rather keen Egyptologists, specialising in the Early and Pre-dynastic eras of Egyptian history. More specifically, their field of interest lay in the origins and influences of the early Egyptian culture, although they spent many years working along the border between Libya and Egypt, studying the sites of ancient Berber settlements and the culture of the modern day Tuareg nomads. It was their belief that many elements of the Tuareg language and culture have remained unchanged for thousands of years. According to Amy, Dr Sampson and his wife catalogued a rather impressive collection of hieroglyphics from wall paintings in the area, many of which they have been able to translate, thanks to their study of the Tuareg language.’
He paused, waiting for Marina to ask the obvious question.
‘So, how do wall paintings in North Africa help you with the inscriptions here in South America?’
‘Well, strange as it may seem, it would appear that these ancient Berber scripts have a great deal in common with the hieroglyphics seen on the stelae here.’
Marina looked perplexed. ‘How is that possible?’
Rufus took a deep breath, then exhaled it again slowly. ‘I think we have to entertain the notion that migrants from North Africa may indeed have given birth to the first South American civilisations.’
Marina chuckled. ‘Just as the professor theorised. He’ll be happy to know he has your support.’
Rufus gave her that sarcastic half-smile that said “are you kidding” before replying. ‘Probably… But it isn’t an entirely new idea. It’s long been debated as to whether or not the Olmec head carvings are suggestive of African ancestry. Of course, it might also explain why Mayan and Olmec temples have so much in common with the Egyptian Pyramids…’ He left the thought hanging tantalisingly upon the air.
Marina thought for a moment. ‘Have you contacted Dr Sampson in person?’
‘No… Unfortunately for us, both he and his wife disappeared during the conflict in Syria.’
‘But you’ve managed to decipher more than just a date?’
‘Only a small fraction I’m afraid. The stela appears to chronicle the life of a queen that came to power when she was still very young, somewhere around about 2070BC. It would appear that she was a stranger to these lands and bought great tragedy upon her people.’
‘What sort of tragedy?’ Marina asked, clearly intrigued.
‘We haven’t been able to decipher that part of the text yet, though I’m hoping that with the help of Dr Sampson’s papers, I will be able to shed some light on the subject.’
‘A war perhaps? It would explain all those bodies we found.’
Marina shuddered. Although the ancient South American civilisations had fascinated her ever since she’d first discovered a book on them in the library as a child, she had never ceased to be appalled by just how barbaric they could be. And the bodies in the tomb had been so brutally dispatched...’
‘Except that I can find no references to any battles or wars on either the stela, or inside the tomb, and we found plenty of other bodies in the mass grave, all apparently unharmed,’ said Rufus, referencing the pit in which they’d ultimately discovered at least thirty sets of remains.
‘Well, to tell you the truth, the first impressions are somewhat unnerving,’ said Rufus, summoning the images onto the screen of his laptop.
‘Go on…’
He forwarded through the pictures until he came to one displaying the surface of the cover stone in its entirety. ‘As far as I can tell, this ugly chap is a guardian of the underworld. And the figure opposite… The one that’s been defaced… Is, as far as I’m prepared to speculate, the queen,’ he said, pointing to the two figures at the centre of the image.
Marina frowned. The engravings were criss-crossed with a multitude of deep gouges. ‘And why have they been defaced?’ she asked.
‘I have no idea,’ Rufus admitted. ‘Though my best guess is that it might have had something to do with the great calamity she’d brought upon her people?’
19
Friday 13th October:
The sound of engines reverberated across the water – a noise that was at first barely distinguishable from the susurrus sighing of the wind, though it had rapidly gathered in intensity until it had resembled the not-so-musical qualities of a chainsaw.
Martin trained his binoculars downriver, just in time to see a pair of skiffs burst into view. Propelled by powerful outboard engines, they seemed to skip across the surface of the water, sending waves that rolled high on either bank.
About bloody time!
He zoomed in on the lead boat.
Yep – these were definitely the guys.
He made a mental note to commend Brad when he next had the chance. After so many dead-end leads, it was about time he got it right.
Two men sat towards the front of the boat, each of them dressed in grubby combat fatigues and sporting a Kalashnikov rifle with presumed impunity. A third sat in the stern, one hand resting on the tiller. And between them, a pile of crates firmly lashed to the deck and obscured beneath layers of canvas sheeting.
Martin hunkered down amongst the reeds, warm mud oozing through the fabric of his shirt.
Then, happy that he could not be seen, he exchanged the binoculars for a camera, bringing the figures into sharp resolve with an almost inaudible whir, and capturing them with a press of the button
20
Saturday 14th October:
It was late and Angus knew it. The moist warmth of the morning had already given way to the blazing heat of the day. A quick glance at the cheap Casio watch confirmed his worst suspicions. With a groan, he reached for his clothes, and having given them a quick
flick to ensure that nothing had set up home in them overnight, he dragged them on over his tired limbs.
Then, with his head still mired in the fog of a hangover, he lumbered towards the dining tent.
‘Ahh – Mr McCrae. You are looking well this morning,’ said Juliet, with a wicked smile.
Angus leered back at her. ‘I’ve had better mornings – thank you.’ He snagged a chair and dragged it to the end of the table, his hand slapping against his pocket in an almost subconscious search for a cigarette. ‘Has anyone got a spare fag they can shout me?’
‘You’ve quit remember,’ said Juliet tartly.
‘Ahh – bollocks to that! Today I’ve started a new resolution – to quit quitting. It’s getting far too stressful around here not to have any bad habits at all.’
Arno appeared from somewhere outside his peripheral vision, having retrieved a crumpled packet from his pocket.
‘That’s more like it!’ said Angus, accepting a cigarette from the packet and jamming it between his lips. ‘Cheers, I owe you one.’
Arno offered him a lighter. ‘Actually… After all the mess you created last night, you owe me more than that…’
Angus sheepishly lit his cigarette and as the tip kindled into flame, he sucked in deeply, drawing in a mouthful of the pungent, unfiltered smoke. ‘At least your taste in cigarettes is rather better than your taste in wines,’ he said with a pleased expression on his face. ‘That stuff last night was bloody horrible!’
Arno grinned. ‘Did you really think I’d let you steal the good stuff?’ He extinguished the lighter and dropped it back in his pocket. ‘I use that crap to cook with…’
Juliet suppressed a snigger.
‘So, what’s for breakfast then?’ Angus enquired between puffs.
Arno shrugged. ‘There may be some fruit and orange juice left, if you’re lucky.’
‘Ahh – crap – is there nay coffee left? I’ve a head like ground zero at Nagasaki!’
