The Sphinx

CHAPTER 17

“Many of my countrymen have entered that building and never come out,” Yakov said. “The sky over our heads is the last bit of freedom they ever saw.”

Turcotte was impressed with Lubyanka. In the center of downtown Moscow, it dominated the square that had the same name. Seven stories high, the building was covered with yellow brick, giving it a dour facade. It had taken Yakov several frustrating hours to track down exactly where Lyoncheka’s office was and to set up a meeting. Turcotte had felt every minute of those hours pass by with a sense of impending doom, as if he were in the midst of a high-altitude jump but he had no parachute and the ground was approaching with inevitable disaster.

“There is Dyetsky Mir.” Katyenka nodded toward the large building on the opposite side of Lubyanka Square. “Children’s World. It is the largest toy store in the world. I always thought the contrast of the two buildings facing each other was quite interesting. What is the word… ah, yes, ironic… that is it?”

The three were seated at a small bistro on the south side of the square. The shop was a pathetic attempt to imitate European coffeehouses. Whatever was in his cup, Turcotte doubted a coffee bean had had anything to do with it.

“They even give tours now in the building behind the main one you see,” Katyenka said. “They have a KGB museum there. There is a disco in Lubyanka itself, on the first floor, part of a club for retired KGB. There used to be a statue of Felix Dzerzhinsky… the founder of the Cheka, the first communist secret police… in the middle of the square, but that was taken down in August 1991, when we became enlightened.”

Yakov laughed at that last statement. “‘Enlightened’?” He turned to Turcotte. “I have tried to explain something to you that I do not think can be explained.” He tapped the side of his head. “The Russian mind. It is a very strange place. We lived for so long under the Czars, then the Communists. That was bad enough. But add on top of that the threat from the outside world. The invasions over the centuries. From Napoleon to Hitler.

“You Americans have no idea what we have suffered. You did not even suffer a million casualties in your two-front battles in the Second World War. We don’t know how many of our people died. Some say twenty-seven million. One out of every four men, women, and children. With such threats the desire for power here is different than in your country. You have a Donald Trump… we come up with a Stalin. Money is not an end here, but a means to an end. The end that powerful men in Russia desire is to be able to defeat one’s enemies. To crush them.”

Yakov pointed a long finger at Lubyanka. “When I go in there, remember that.” A waiter passed by, and Yakov barked at him in Russian. Seconds later, there were three vodkas on the table. “Drink,” Yakov said. He lifted his glass and downed it. He nodded at Katyenka. “I will see you later.”

“And you also,” Katyenka said. She stood and walked off, disappearing into the crowd in the square.

Yakov placed a hand on Turcotte’s shoulder. “If I am not back in… let us say an hour, I recommend you go home.”

“What is Katyenka doing?”

“She is checking in with her boss. Remember, she doesn’t work for me and she has to keep up the illusion that she works for the GRU.”

“Make sure you get back here in an hour,” Turcotte said. “I don’t want to have to go in there after you.”

“You go in there after me, that makes two of us not coming out,” Yakov said.

“I’m not leaving without you.”

“Easy to say now,” Yakov said. “You might feel differently in an hour.”

Turcotte checked his watch. “We have eighteen hours. Exactly.” His SATPhone buzzed. He flipped it open.

“Yes?”

“Mike, the key is known as the Spear of Destiny. Either the Russians got it from the Germans at the end of the Second World War or it’s in Egypt. You need to turn around and go back to Russia.”

Turcotte digested that information, before responding. “I’m still in Russia, Lisa. Downtown Moscow to be exact. And if the Russians have it, Yakov and I are on the right trail.”

“Good. I’m going to Egypt to check that possibility out.” She relayed the information she’d gotten from von Seeckt about the Spear and what it looked like.

Yakov was staring at Turcotte across the table, his bushy eyebrows arched in question.

“Be careful,” Turcotte warned.

“You too.”

Turcotte turned slightly away from Yakov. “I mean it. Be careful.”

There was a slight pause. “I know you do. And you know I meant it also. I’ve got to get going. Out here.”

The phone went dead. Turcotte turned to Yakov and relayed Duncan’s information.

Yakov stood. “The KGB must have the Spear. I will find out.”

“Remember what I said,” Turcotte reminded him.

“I will.” Yakov walked off.

Turcotte flipped open the SATPhone and punched in a new number.

“Billam here.”

“It’s Turcotte. I’m sitting across the square from Lubyanka. Yakov is going in.”

“This guy Quinn is pretty good,” Billam said. “He got us floor plans for Lubyanka. We could land the bouncer right on the roof and work our way down. Any idea what floor you’ll be on?”

“By the time you get there, if I need you, I’ll know.”

“We’re locked and loaded,” Billam said. “We can be airborne in thirty seconds and the pilot of the bouncer says he can get us there in thirty-six minutes.”

“Let’s hope you don’t need to come,” Turcotte said. “I want you to keep on top of Dr. Duncan also. Out here.” He closed the phone and put it in his pocket, then checked his watch.

Major Quinn walked up to Professor Mualama. “How’s the translation going?”

“Most interesting,” Mualama said. He reached into his backpack and pulled out the scepter. “I now know where this goes.”

Quinn stared at the artifact. “That’s Airlia.”

“Yes. I found it in the coffin.”

“Goddamn!” Quinn exploded. “When the hell were you going to tell us you had that?”

“When I knew what it was,” Mualama said.

“We’ve been searching for the key to Qian-Ling and… ”

“It is not the key to Qian-Ling,” Mualama interrupted him. “I knew that from the very beginning. But what I didn’t have to know is where it was the key to and if I could trust you.”

Quinn had seen this before, in the dark days under Majestic. Information was compartmentalized… in this case the threat from Lexina… so much that those who had pertinent information weren’t aware it was pertinent. Secrecy was sometimes a necessity, but always with a cost.

“And you know where it goes?” Quinn asked.

“Yes.”

“Don’t move.” Quinn pulled out his SATPhone and called Duncan.

“We have cooperated with United Nations Alien Oversight Committee as directed by our president and parliament,” the man seated across from Yakov said. His name was Lyoncheka and he wore a very expensive suit, something that was not unusual here in the halls of the FSB headquarters these days. Yakov knew that the reason Lyoncheka could afford such clothes was that he had strong ties with the Mafia here in Moscow. It was the new way.

“It is your organization,” Lyoncheka continued, “that was penetrated. It was your facility that was destroyed. Why do you come to me?”

“Because I believe the KGB withheld alien material and records from Section Four. Material recovered at the end of the Great Patriotic War.”

Lyoncheka leaned back in his deep leather chair. His desk was huge, made of expensive wood. The windows behind him opened onto Lubyanka Square. It was on the third floor, which Yakov knew meant much prestige, because the office of the head of the KGB, now the FSB, was on the same floor, just three doors away.

The KGB had changed its name to FSB, but Lyoncheka had the same look Yakov had always associated with the KGB. A thick, solid body that did not fit well inside the tailored suit, heavy-lidded eyes that rarely made direct contact, and a total lack of anything remotely resembling happiness in his features. The sort of man that would choke his own mother to death if it would advance his position and increase his power.

“The KGB no longer exists,” Lyoncheka said.

“You have all the records from… ”

“No, we don’t,” Lyoncheka interrupted. “Much was destroyed in the change of power from communism. We are a free country now. As such we cannot maintain the type of records the KGB used to have. And”… Lyoncheka smiled without any humor… “there were many incriminating records that could not stand the light of day so the individuals who were mentioned in them spent many a late night shredding and burning.”

Yakov was impressed that Lyoncheka could say that without the slightest hint of sarcasm in his voice. Yakov realized it was time to switch his approach. Appealing to Lyoncheka as a member of the government was obviously futile. He would have to approach the man’s more basic side, the part that worked hand in hand with the Mafia.

As with any other country, there had always been crime in the Soviet Union, and there was crime now in the new Russia. Yakov knew that under the Communists, the top criminals had been in bed with the government, their actions controlled. If anything, since the change, it was now the government that was in bed with the criminals.

In the decade following the fall of communism, the Mafia had grown to the point where it rivaled the government for control of the country. Those who were smart… and ruthless… like Lyoncheka had seen the handwriting on the wall very early on. The previous year Russia had taken in a total of $60 billion in Western goods; over half of that had been imported illegally by the Mafia. Yakov knew that in the streets of Moscow, the murder rate was standing at approximately a hundred Mafia-related killings a day. And no one was being arrested for those crimes.

“I believe UNAOC would pay for any Airlia-related information,” Yakov said. Thick bushy eyebrows lifted in mock amazement. “Are you trying to bribe me? That is a crime.”

“I cannot bribe you,” Yakov said, “because you say you do not have the information I am seeking. I just mentioned that UNAOC would probably pay for that information. It is you who are making the connection between that statement and yourself.”

“Very cute.” Lyoncheka leaned back and steepled his thick, sausagelike fingers. “I do not enjoy playing word games. Tell me, do you know who destroyed Stantsiya Chyort?”

“I do now. The Ones Who Wait.”

Lyoncheka nodded. “It is a terrible shame. The Americans are having trouble also. Their Area 51 was attacked from the sky, was it not? And there have been reports of a nuclear explosion in the… what do they call it… their heartland? And one of their shuttles destroyed on the ground. Their government vehemently denies such stories, of course. I also understand their fleet off Easter Island has had some trouble?”

“I know nothing of any of that.”

“But you want information from me?” Lyoncheka pulled a bottle out of a drawer and two glasses. He poured a generous amount into both. He shoved one across his desk, and Yakov picked it up.

“To Mother Russia,” Lyoncheka proposed.

“To Mother Russia,” Yakov agreed, but his hand paused at Lyoncheka’s next words.

“I do not think you put your country first.”

Yakov put the glass down on the desk and waited for the other man to continue. “You will toast our country, yet you work for the Americans.”

“I do not work for the Americans,” Yakov said.

“You let your Section Four comrades get killed, yet you immediately go to the American Area 51 instead of coming home. You seem in no desire to avenge the deaths of your comrades.”

“There are larger issues,” Yakov said.

“Larger than Russia?”

“Larger than Russia.”

“There is nothing larger than Russia,” Lyoncheka said flatly.

“The world is larger than Russia,” Yakov argued.

“Not to me.” Lyoncheka took a drink. “Not to me, comrade. I served the Soviet and I serve the new state, but it is all the same to me. The old women cleaning snow off their steps with whisk brooms, the children playing in the parks, the men working in the factories. I serve them.” He abruptly changed directions. “The Americans’ Majestic-12 was infiltrated by these aliens, was it not?”

“Yes. Their minds were affected by an alien computer they uncovered at Tiahuanaco in Bolivia. They brought it back to their lab at Dulce in the state of New Mexico. It directed them to fly the mothership, working most likely because of a program that was activated when they uncovered the guardian.”

“I know all that,” Lyoncheka said. “Don’t you think it highly likely that maybe some of our own people have also been so affected?”

Yakov nodded. “I have always considered that a possibility.”

Lyoncheka lifted his glass, unwrapped his index finger from around it, and pointed it at Yakov. “You think me, perhaps?”

“Perhaps.”

“Would I know if I was?”

Yakov blinked. “I don’t know.”

“And if you were, would you know? Would I?”

Yakov didn’t say anything. He wondered where this was heading.

“Section Four caught one of these human-alien creatures… didn’t you?”

“Years ago,” Yakov acknowledged. “It chose to die rather than be questioned. We autopsied it and found evidence of cloning. And some nonhuman genetic material.”

“Yes, but the others, the humans affected mentally by this guardian computer, they are not so easy to discover. They are just like you and me. The Americans had one on their shuttle crew who killed his shipmates,” Lyoncheka said. “And then there are these Watchers… who blew up that other shuttle. So many groups, so many enemies. And now they are tightening the noose. The American President is threatening our president with retaliation if Stratzyda is used against his country, even though we no longer control the satellite and can do nothing to stop it.

“I am neither progressive, saying let us work with these aliens, nor am I isolationist, saying let us ignore them. You cannot ignore a threat. I am Russian. I say we fight them.” Lyoncheka leaned forward and his voice dropped. “But they are all around us. They have tried to get to me before. You can trust no one.” A large meaty fist slammed down on the top of the desk.

“To stop them we need something,” Yakov said. “Something from the Archives.” Lyoncheka cocked his head. “What exactly do you need?”

“A key. With it we can stop Stratzyda.”

Lyoncheka remained still for a minute before he spoke. “The Archives you look for exist. I can give you some help. But you must remember, Russia comes first.” Lyoncheka slid a piece of paper across the desk. “Meet me there, this evening.”

Quinn turned the scepter so that the ruby eyes glittered in the overhead lights of the conference room. It was not what von Seeckt had described. “It’s heavy. There’s something inside.”

Mualama nodded. “I suspect it is some sort of machine that functions as a key.”

They both looked up as the door to the conference room slammed open and Lisa Duncan walked in. She had raced back to Area 51 from the Nellis hospital after getting Major Quinn’s report that Professor Mualama had withheld an artifact… a key.

Quinn placed it down on the table, and Duncan picked it up. She wasted no time on recriminations. They had seventeen hours before Lexina’s deadline.

“What do you think it opens?” she asked Mualama.

“I’ve made a barely legible translation of the marker. Knowing that this”… he tapped the scepter… “is a key pulled it all together.”

Duncan had no more patience. “It goes to the lowest level of Qian-Ling?” Mualama frowned. “Qian-Ling?”

“The tomb in China.”

“Dear lady, I know what Qian-Ling is. And there is a reference to China on the tablet.” He pulled out a notepad and flipped through it. “Here. It says: ‘Admiral Cing Ho… In the Year 2038… brought the power and the key. The power stayed. The key was passed on to the ones from the inner sea.’”

“Is this the key to Qian-Ling?”

“I do not think so.”

Duncan closed her eyes to collect her thoughts. “What is 2038 from the Chinese calendar in the Western calendar?” she asked.

Mualama thought for a few moments. “Six fifty-six B.C.”

“Who was this Admiral Cing Ho?” Duncan asked.

“I do not know.”

Duncan looked at the translation for a few seconds. “The power… could that be the ruby sphere we found in the Great Rift Valley?”

“Very likely,” Mualama agreed.

“But if the Qian-Ling key was passed on”… Duncan tapped the scepter… “what is this?”

“A different key,” Mualama said.

“‘A different key.’” Duncan sat down and put her head in her hands. After von Seeckt’s disclosures, she had to force herself to focus. “One thing at a time. You say this isn’t the Qian-Ling key?”

Mualama was patient. “No, I don’t believe so. According to the marker, it is… ”

Duncan held up her hand. “Okay. Do you know where the Qian-Ling key is?”

“If it is the key discussed on the stone,” Mualama said, “it was passed on to those from the inner sea, which means the Mediterranean. In 656 B.C., that could be one of several groups of people. Rome was not yet founded, but the Greeks controlled a good portion of the Mediterranean. The Assyrian Empire, which ruled from Turkey along the crescent of the eastern Mediterranean to Egypt, was still in power, although its capital, Nineveh, was sacked not long afterward, in 612 B.C.”

“In other words, you have no clue where the key mentioned on the stone went,” Duncan summarized.

“That key, yes. Although I suspect there may be other ways to try to track it down.”

“How?”

“This key might lead us to information that will lead us to that key,” Mualama said. “In fact, this key may lead us to the truth. The entire truth.”

“What do you mean?” Duncan asked. “If not Qian-Ling, What is the scepter a key to?”

“I suspect a room. A hiding place.”

“A room where?” Duncan demanded.

“I believe it is the key to the Hall of Records.”

“What Hall of Records?” Duncan asked.

“According to legend,” Mualama said, “there is a hidden chamber that contains the entire lost history of mankind. Going back much further than our current recorded history. To the island of Atlantis and a fantastic kingdom on the island.”

“We know Atlantis did exist,” Duncan said, “so maybe this Hall of Records exists. But wasn’t the Hall destroyed when Atlantis was blasted?”

“Not according to legend.”

“In what form are the Records kept?”

“I don’t know, but whatever form it was, I believe it was kept in the Ark of the Covenant,” Mualama said. “Ms. Duncan, you must bear with me. I have spent many years tracking down legends and rumors. My translation of the runes was tainted by my own knowledge, so some of what I think I know will disagree with some of what your UNAOC scientists think. I don’t… ”

“Professor,” Duncan interrupted him. “I have seen many strange things in the past month. Things I never dreamed existed. So please, speak freely. My belief is that by the time our scientists figure all this out, it will be much too late. As you say, perhaps this Hall of Records will tell us where the Qian-Ling key is, and we desperately need that. I trust your intuition… you did find the grave site, after all. And I do want the full story of how you did that when we have some time.”

“All right,” Mualama said. “I believe this record of history is contained in the Ark of the Covenant. I believe for most of its existence the Ark was stored inside the Hall of Records. I also believe, though, that this record may have had other names throughout our history.”

“Where is this hidden Hall that holds the Ark?” Duncan asked.

“According to the marker, it is located under the Highland of Aker, in one of the six divisions of the Duat, along the Roads of Rostau.”

Duncan simply stared at Mualama, waiting for him to say it in English.

“I believe what we are looking for is hidden underneath the Great Sphinx on the Giza Plateau.”

Giza again, Duncan thought. All the more reason to go there now.

Mualama continued. “The Sphinx has always been something of an enigma. Archaeologists can’t agree on when it was built, but they do agree that it was constructed at an earlier time than the three large pyramids behind it.”

“How much earlier?” Duncan asked.

“Anywhere from five to six thousand years before the pyramids,” Mualama said.

“So it could have been built at the same time that Atlantis was flourishing under the Airlia,” Duncan said. She signaled with her hand to Major Quinn, who began quietly accessing one of the portable computers built into the conference tabletop as they spoke.

Mualama responded to Duncan’s statement. “Yes. There are those who claim the Sphinx is twelve to thirteen thousand years old, dating to around 10,000 B.C.”

“Do you think it is that old?” Duncan asked.

“I have been there,” Mualama said. “I believe it very well could have been built that long ago. Have you ever thought about Egypt’s history?”

“What do you mean?” Duncan asked.

“Egyptologists.” Mualama’s voice showed his contempt. “There is so much they ignore or don’t think about. The alignment with the stars of the entire Giza complex. Even though the pyramids were indeed built around the time they say, they never quite explain the alignment with the various star systems that the shafts in the three pyramids have. The alignments suggest that while the pyramid complex was built in the Fourth Dynasty, between 2613 and 2494 B.C., it was planned around 10,450 B.C. With modern computers that can scroll back through the star charts… using a method called precession… this is obvious, but no one speaks of it.

“But the most fascinating thing, the most amazing ignored fact, is the lack of development in ancient Egypt. It’s as if we are supposed to believe that for almost four thousand years of rule, nothing changed, nothing developed. The civilization just sprang fully formed into being with the reign of the Pharaoh Menes and pretty much stayed at the same technological level all that time. Think of it. If you were an archaeologist a thousand years from now and you excavated Cairo, would you not be able to see a vast difference between buildings from the nineteenth to twentieth centuries? Just a hundred years. But we look over the course of thousands of years in ancient Egypt and all is the same. You know how they date the Sphinx? Someone scribbles a name in hieroglyphics somewhere and the ‘experts’ say, aha, it must have been built then!

“They ignore the state of the rock, the construction, the weathering, and they focus everything on the stela between the paws. The dating of the Sphinx, according to the experts, is all based upon a single syllable on a stela found between the paws. Even though the experts agree that the stela is not of the same age as the Sphinx, that it was placed there later. It is dated to the Pharaoh Thutmosis IV, who ruled from 1401 to 1391 B.C., who tried to clear the Sphinx of the sand that constantly surrounded its body.

“He put a stela, a stone tablet, between the paws, and on the thirteenth line it has the word Khaf, which Egyptologists say refers to the Pharaoh Khafre, who ruled between 2520 and 2494 B.C. and thus must have built the Sphinx, according to their inductive logic.

“I have seen this stela. You cannot even read the writing anymore, as the stone has deteriorated so badly over the years. The only way they even have an idea what was written there is that someone made a copy of what was written. So it is a case of a copy of writing on a stone not contemporary with the Sphinx, all relying on one word, being the leading case for dating the Sphinx to the realm of Khafre.

“Something that is interesting about the stela is a line that says the Sphinx is the embodiment of great magical power from the beginning of time. Even most Egyptologists agree that there were three eras to ancient Egypt if one studies the texts of the early Egyptians. The first was the time of the Neteru, or gods. Most people consider this not a real time but rather a mythological time, which saw the gods go through various struggles, ending with the accession of Horus, the son of Isis and Osiris. The second phase was that of Shemsu Hor, which means the followers of Horus. This ended when Menes unified the Upper and Lower Kingdoms and started the first dynasty of pharaohs. All our focus has been on the time from Menes forward, because it was believed that the two earlier ages were mythical, but what if they were real?

“What if the Neteru were the Airlia? In myth, the Neteru were said to have fair skin and red hair, most unusual for that part of the world, but very fitting for the Airlia, don’t you think? And what if the Shemsu Hor were the humans who survived Atlantis and began civilization in Egypt?”

“What you’re saying,” Duncan interrupted, “is that if the Great Sphinx was built around 10,000 B.C., then it might have been made by the Airlia.”

“Or humans who followed the Airlia’s orders. There is much about the Sphinx that is strange. Because it lies in the shadow of the Great Pyramid, the Sphinx has not had as much attention paid to it as it should. It is quite remarkable in its own right.

“First you must consider what a sphinx is. No one quite knows whose face is that on the Sphinx. In fact, it is very likely that the original face was altered at a later date during one of the many restorations of the Sphinx.

“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.

Below, Peter Sterling, the head of UNAOC… the United Nations Alien Oversight Committee… exited the main UN building and headed for his car waiting at the curb on First Avenue. His patrician face was lined with the stress of the past weeks, but he walked with a bounce, his mood lightened by recent inroads he’d made on the Security Council. He almost had them convinced that the UN should take a tougher stand on all interactions with the guardians, the Airlia on Mars, and all other factions involved with the aliens. While the isolationist movement was gaining ground in the General Assembly, Sterling hoped to sway the Security Council to pass a resolution to allow UN-sanctioned forces to try to track down The Mission, to completely isolate Easter Island, and to resume digging at the destroyed American research facility at Dulce, New Mexico to discover what had been down there.

The Remington trigger was set at 2.5 pounds pull. The sniper drew in a long, shallow breath and held it. The reticles were centered on target, leading very slightly to account for the target’s pace. His mind was in rhythm with his heartbeat, and in the space before the next beat, he smoothly pulled back on the trigger.

Sterling’s mind was focused on how to get the Russian on his committee, Boris Ivanoc, the number-two man, to be more enthusiastic in getting his Security Council member to vote for the resolution, when the .50-caliber bullet made that the last thought he would ever have.

The half-inch-wide bullet splintered through skull on the right side of Sterling’s head, plowed through the brain, and took the entire left side of the head with it as it exited, splattering the sidewalk beyond for twenty feet with blood, brain, and fragmented pieces of bone.

The sniper had no doubt the target was dead. But he wasn’t working on the rules he had been trained on. The fact that something overrode years of repetitive training echoed somewhere in the back of his brain, like a leaf blowing in the wind, but he couldn’t grab on to it.

He pulled the bolt back, placing another round in the chamber, and aimed. Two cops were moving tentatively toward the body, everyone else having scattered. The sniper centered the reticles on what remained of the target’s head. He didn’t bother to wait between heartbeats… the target was stationary and at a range where he would hit one hundred times out of one hundred. He pulled the trigger.

The bullet smashed into the remains of the head and effectively finished decapitating Sterling. The two cops dove for cover, screaming into their handheld radios for backup.

The sniper removed the butt plate from over his shoulder and put the rifle down on the desk almost reverently. He walked over to the window. People were pointing up, having a general idea of where the shots had originated from due to the loud report of the .50-caliber weapon. He climbed up onto the windowsill in clear view of those below and teetered there for a second.

He paused as a memory fought through the alien conditioning. He remembered visiting the United Nations as a child, on a school trip to New York City. He tried to pull up more of the memory, but a black curtain slid down over that part of his mind.

He stepped out into space. He felt no fear as he fell the fifteen stories. The impact of the pavement brought an instant of release from the conditioning, the horror of what he had done, of what had been done to him. Then he died.