Blood Sun by David Gilman

academic-looking types flitted across the main yard toward the east end of the building. That was where the offices were. Was the man he’d come to see in there?
    He unfolded the city tourist map. There were more than thirteen acres of buildings, and the place he wanted was not shown. He did not have time to search for it. They would be closing the doors to the public in less than half an hour. Max approached a security guard.
    “I’m looking for the Anthropology Library,” he said.
    The man, used to questions all day, simply nodded, pointing through the huge main doors. “Across the central hall, through room twenty-four, down the north stairs. It’s there. And it’s about to close,” he warned.
    Max was already moving. A massive Roman lion built of stone, standing meters high, guarded the entrance. Maybe it once stood at the gates of the Colosseum, watching bloody fights to the death. He moved into the building’s central hall. It was vast, the size of Wembley Stadium. Max hoped there were no modern-day gladiators waiting to attack him.
    The skeleton framework forty meters above his head supported the glass ceiling, but the opaque glass now stopped any semblance of city lights coming through. A honeycomb roof, trapping everyone below. Max felt like a worker bee desperately trying to complete his task. Huge wooden doors stood open before him. Other side rooms were being closed by the security staff, heavy chains and padlocks rattling through handles, securing interleading glass doors. Max lengthened his stride. He dared not miss this meeting. He ran through thegallery, past the exhibition cases. The room was labeled LIVING AND DYING . He hoped that wasn’t a bad omen.
    Max found the north stairs. The last few tourist stragglers were making their way out of the building’s rear entrance. Another security guard stood ready to lock up. Max had left it too late. The glass doors to the library were on his left and they were locked. Max rattled them. A keypad was the only way in. There were still lights on inside, but no sign of anyone.
    “Hey!” the security guard called. “It’s closed.”
    “I have to see someone. I have an appointment. He’s expecting me.”
    “Not at this time of night, son. C’mon. Think you’d better be off.”
    Desperation triggered a surge of energy. Max rattled the glass doors, pushed his face against the slim join between them and shouted into the book-filled room. “Please! It’s Max Gordon! I must speak to you!”
    “All right! That’s enough.” The security guard moved quickly toward him. A shadow appeared behind Max. An older man, wispy hair unkempt, wearing a rather dilapidated jacket over a faded cardigan, unlocked the door.
    “Evening, Freddie,” he said to the guard. “My fault. Entirely my fault. I was expecting this young man.” He waved the guard away in gentle dismissal. As he ushered Max into the library, Max noticed there were crumbs clinging to his front; some lay captured by the spectacles hanging from a cord round his neck.
    “I was just having an Eccles cake and a cup of tea while perusing an extremely boring unpublished manuscript on theelongated shape of Mayan heads. The writer thought such deformed heads indicated they were originally extraterrestrials. Any fool knows they bound their children’s heads to misshape them.” He brushed a crumb from the corner of his mouth. “I was expecting you, wasn’t I?”
    “Yes, sir. My name is Max Gordon, and I wanted to talk about Danny Maguire.”
    The old man straightened up. Any guise of dreamy forgetfulness suddenly cleared from his eyes.
    “And you have brought the khipu with you?” he asked eagerly.
    Charlie Morgan watched Professor Blacker stack manuscripts and files into the crook of his arm. He switched off the library lights and made his way to the door where she waited.
    “I think you may have wasted your time, Officer,” Blacker told her as he clicked the door closed. “I doubt this boy you’re