The Sphinx

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The face of the Sphinx gazed enigmatically over the sand, the weathered and battered stone bathed in the rays the rising moon. The two men approaching the statue halted, dwarfed by the large stone sculpture towering over them, their feet sinking into the desert. Beyond the shoulders of the Sphinx, the missive bulk of the three Giza pyramids filled the western horizon.

“Abul-Hol,” one of the men said in Arabic, the words coming from inside the deep folds of the hood he had pulled over his head. “The Father of Terror,” he repeated in English.

The head of the statue was twenty feet wide and almost the same in height. The neck and shoulders disappeared into sand that swept like an ocean around it.

“Impressive.” The other man spoke Arabic also, but with an accent that indicated it was not his native tongue.

“The body is even more impressive,” the Arab said. “It has been buried for many, many years.”

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