“The Great Sphinx is called the ‘father of terrors’ by the Arabs, which is a strange title. One has to wonder where that name came from. It sits on the west bank of the Nile and looks to the east, into the rising sun.
“The main body of the statue was carved out of a huge, solid, limestone rock. I don’t know the exact dimensions,” Mualama said, “but it is quite large.”
“The face is nineteen feet from the top of the forehead to the bottom of the chin.” Major Quinn was looking at his laptop screen. “It’s slightly wider than high. The body length is a hundred and seventy-two feet and the total height from base to top of the head is sixty-six feet.
“According to official and accepted records,” Quinn continued, “it was built around 2,500 B.C. and the likeness is that of King Khafre. But we all know that we have to read official records with a jaundiced eye,” he added.
“That is indeed so,” Mualama said. “One interesting aspect about dating the Sphinx is that a study of the surface concluded that the base and the stones on the temple wall around it were eroded by water. As we all know, the Giza Plateau lies on the edge of the Sahara Desert, a region which has been dry for nine thousand years. However, there is speculation that before that time, about ten thousand years ago, the area was heavily vegetated and the Nile much larger than it is now, forming lakes. Which might account for the water erosion.
“Another interesting aspect is that although the main body of the Sphinx was carved out of a solid block of limestone, the base, the paws, and the wall around it were made of blocks of limestone, much like the Great Pyramid. The difference is that the blocks around the Sphinx are much larger than those used in the pyramids. The largest weigh two hundred tons. If one wonders how the ancient Egyptians moved the blocks that made the pyramids, you truly have to marvel how these huge blocks were transported so long ago. Modern engineers are stumped as to how this could have been done, as there are only two cranes in existence today that could move such heavy stones.
“It is believed that there is an entrance to a network of underground tunnels between the paws of the Sphinx. If the Ark is hidden anywhere, I would say it is underneath. According to legend, there are two gateways to the Roads of Rastau, one on land and one in the water.”
Duncan put the scepter down. “We can sit here all day and chat about the Sphinx, but I think the best thing is we take a look. Professor Mualama and I will go to Egypt.”
“What about permission?” Mualama asked. “The Egyptian government has had most curious policies regarding investigating the Sphinx, particularly the network of tunnels that are supposed to be underneath it.”
“I’ll contact UNAOC and have them get in touch with the Egyptian government,” Duncan said.
“Egypt is slightly to the right of center,” Mualama said, “as far as the isolationist movement goes. The Muslim fundamentalists are very much against having anything to do with the Airlia.”
“I’ll emphasize to UNAOC that this has the highest priority,” Duncan said. “It’s all we can do.”
“There is something else,” Mualama said.
“What?”
Mualama pulled out an oilskin-wrapped package. “This manuscript. It is written in Akkadian, an ancient tongue.” He briefly gave Duncan the background of the papers and Sir Richard Francis Burton. “If we can translate this, it might be of use. I believe it will be important with regard to whatever is inside the Hall of Records. It might also talk of the key you seek.”
“Why did you hold the key and this manuscript back from us?” Duncan asked, although she already had a good idea what the answer would be.
Mualama confirmed her suspicions with one word. “Trust.”
“Major Quinn?” Duncan pointed at the manuscript. “Think you can find someone who reads Akkadian?”
“I can try.”
The door to the conference room opened and an enlisted man handed a file folder to Major Quinn. He opened it and checked the sheet of paper inside. “What is it?” Duncan asked.
“The results of the tests you requested the UNAOC doctors perform on von Seeckt and the results from the examination of the Airlia skeleton.” He pulled the paper out and handed it to Duncan.
She scanned the two pieces of paper. “Goddamn!” she exclaimed. She tapped Mualama on the arm. “Let’s go.”
The sniper had been in position for forty-eight hours. He sat in the room the way he had been trained, the muzzle of his weapon two feet from the window. Only amateurs would rest the barrel on the window and allow the end of the weapon to poke out. The room was dark, and he was invisible to anyone peering at the window from the outside.
He had a perfect angle of fire along First Avenue. The previous day he had counted the flags that lined the edge of the United Nations from Forty-second Street to Forty-eighth. One hundred and eighty-five, in alphabetical order, from Afghanistan to Zimbabwe, north to south. Even at the place that was supposed to help unite the world, each country had to fly its own flag.
The sniper had pulled the dresser over to just in front of the window, and the bipod for his weapon rested on it, the metal legs scratching the finish, but that was the least of his concerns. He had the butt plate swung up and resting on top of his shoulder, taking the rest of the weight of the M93.
The weapon, with ammunition, topped out at twenty-six pounds. He had broken it down into three parts… detachable stock, receiver with barrel, and magazine… to carry it to the room. Then he had carefully reassembled it. The scope was bolted to the top of the barrel, and he had zeroed it in the previous week at a farm in upstate New York. The barrel was made of match-grade chrome alloy with a matte black polymer finish. There was a large flute at the end to reduce some of the muzzle blast signature.
The gun was so big and heavy because it fired a .50-caliber round. A half inch in diameter and almost six inches long, it was the bullet that fighter planes in World War II had fired from their wing guns. Using that large a round gave the gun a range of over a mile, although the kill zone the sniper had delineated for his target was only six hundred meters away. The large caliber ensured that when the bullet hit, it would do devastating damage. In fact, the primary use of the M93 was not called sniping but strategic operations target interdiction… using the weapon to hit critical components in such systems as microwave relay towers or on jet fighters sitting on a runway.
But a bullet was a bullet, the sniper’s instructors had harped at him during his training.
He removed his eye from the scope and checked the watch lying flat on the desktop. The target window was open. He had been given a folder that said this was the earliest the subject left. The sniper used his right hand to pull up on the bolt and slide it back. The top bullet on the magazine of ten slid up, and as he pushed the bolt forward, it slid the round into the magazine well, seating it tightly in place.
He put his right hand on the pistol grip, curling three fingers and his thumb around it as his forefinger slid through the trigger guard and lightly touched the thin metal sliver.
He leaned forward and peered through the scope. He began to control his breathing, taking long, shallow breaths. He could maintain this position for hours if needed. He could feel the rhythm of his heart and let it become like a metronome inside his head.
For a moment that rhythm sped up. He pulled his head back and shook it, feeling a spike of pain bisect his brain. He looked about, as if surprised at his current situation, the gun, the muzzle pointing down First Avenue, the United Nations to the left, then the eyes glazed over, his face twitched in pain, and he leaned back into position. Slowly the twitching stopped, the tension went out of the face.