Aztec Odyssey

by Jay C. LaBarge

  The Blood Prince walked briskly over to the screen for Guatemala and touched a red indicator about 20 miles southwest of Tikal. Immediately a photograph of the lead archeologist popped up, images of the site before and after, what was discovered there so far, who was funding it, links to related information, and who on site was on Eztli’s payroll.

  “Not so bad, eh, Miguel? We have been adding layers of information to this. Knowledge is power brother! Nothing ever happens in my domain without me knowing it.”

  Eztli turned and sat in back of the conference table facing the screens, put his feet up, and hit the remote. Immediately the screens changed and showed color coded routes of known expeditions led by Narváez, DeSoto, Coronado, and Oñate, as well as other lesser known explorers, right up through modern times.

  “Did I ever tell you the story of draining the lake, hermano?” Eztli asked. Miguel shook his head no, so Eztli continued and put a slide show up on the big screen.

  “The conquistadors heard of a golden man called El Dorado. The legend said he was a chief of the Muisca, in what is now Columbia, and used to coat himself in gold dust every morning. In the evening he would wash it off in the lake, while his servants threw precious objects into the lake to appease the gods.”

  A photograph of a golden barge popped on the screen. “This is in a museum in Bogotá and shows the ritual in gold metalwork. See the Chief in the middle, the attendants around him? I have to admit, I have had my eye on this piece, maybe someday,” Eztli commented, with a gleam in his eye.

  “Eventually the Spanish found where they thought it was, at a place called Lake Guatavita. This was a big lake, but the Spanish, they were determined. So in 1545 they used slaves and formed a bucket brigade, and managed to lower the lake about 10 feet, and found gold worth about $100,000 today. In 1580 another attempt was made, by cutting a notch, which dropped the lake about another 65 feet. They found about $400,000 worth of gold. Now look at this photo, in 1898 a last attempt was made, and the notch was cut deeper. But all it did was leave four feet of muck, which hardened like concrete when exposed to the sun. They never really found anything more.”

  Miguel pounded the table. “Ha, that’s a good one, all that work for just peanuts. Why do you tell me such a sad tale? We make ten times that getting one shipment across the border for the Norteamericanos to choke on.”

  Eztli leaned forward and held Miguel firmly with his gaze. “Because that took vision, it took big balls hermano. You need to think bigger if we are to accomplish grand things.”

  “Yeah, grande cajones, I know you’ve got those,” Miguel sneered.

  “Yes, and tonight I will use them, just wait and see. Draining a lake is child’s play. I would drain an ocean if it got me what I wanted, if it helped to reincarnate the Aztec empire!”

  Chico’s death had left Nick in turmoil, and he spent a sleepless night pondering the implications. There was no way he would have killed himself, not from what he saw and learned the one evening they spent together. Too much passion, too much commitment for Chico to leave his dreams of bringing Mexico’s ancient history to the people unfulfilled. But add in the warning he received from the policeman that evening, it all seemed too much of a coincidence. Nick and Soba had spent the night in a cheap hotel on the outskirts of Mexico City, and as usual he paid cash. He felt safe for the moment and thought that sending the black box tracker on the tractor trailer to Guatemala would buy him some time. But it was time to come clean with Soba, she was now intimately involved in this too.

  As usual he was up before her, so he took Nanook out and followed his nose to a small neighborhood cantina. There was a short line, but when people saw Nanook they stood aside and waved him ahead. Nick ordered two cups of champurrado, a thick traditional Mexican chocolate drink, and some churros, tube-shaped deep-fried pastries. Soba awoke smiling from the fragrance wafting in the air and sat up for her cup.

  “To what do I owe this pleasure, big spender? We didn’t even ruffle the sheets last night,” she cooed. She smoothed a spot on the bed covers and patted it.

  Nick sat, passed her a drink and some churros. “I told you I didn’t believe Chico killed himself, right? He just didn’t seem like the type, had too much going on, way too full of life. When I left him I got warned off by a cop, like he was a bad hombre to avoid. That struck me as odd, to single out the lone American in the crowd. Then Chico turns up dead of suicide, I’m just not buying it.”

  Nick paused and took a sip of his champurrado and smiled in surprise. “Wow, a little bitter and spicy, nice. Where was I, oh yeah. It just seems too coincidental. I was just talking with him and then this happens.”

  Soba stopped nibbling on her churro, her eyes widening as she digested the implications. “That means if somebody warned you off, and he turns up dead, then they know where you are? Like right now?” she asked.

  “Wait, it gets even better. Or worse. Remember when we spent the night in El Tepozteco Park, where we drove up the arroyo? That night after we made love and were lying on the ground, I rolled over and saw a blinking red light under my truck. I checked it out, and it was a tracking device.”

  Soba set down her drink and pulled her knees to her chest. “And your truck is right out front. Should we get out of here? Should we call the police?”

  Nick reached out and put his hand on her shoulder. “We’re OK, at least for the moment. Let me explain. I think they placed the tracker when we went through customs, I remember an agent crawling underneath when they brought the dog out, that could have been when they slipped it on. Before we left Cuernavaca I found a trucker headed to Guatemala, and I hid it deep in his shipment. That should put them off our trail, at least for a little bit. They think we’re headed south right now, not here in Mexico City. But there is no telling how deep their tentacles go, I don’t know who to trust. Especially not the police.”

  “So what’s our next move?” Soba asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “Get you safe. Time for you and Nanook to go to ground.”

  They finished breakfast, gathered their things, and Soba made a phone call speaking the Nahuatl language of the Aztecs her father had taught her as a little girl. It was a relatively simple matter for her to reach out to a trusted contact, as she had many scattered about Mexico. They decided the best place for her to disappear for a while would be to melt into one of the tribal communities away from Mexico City, where she would blend in and anyone looking for her would stand out.

  Nick drove her to an agreed upon pick up spot deep in the Nezo-Chalco-Itza slum area, one of the largest in the world. It was easy to get lost in the crowd, his rusted pickup truck certainly gathered no attention here. The man they met was solemn looking but with kind eyes. His little daughter squealed when she saw Soba and ran to her. He gave Nick a set of local license plates from a nearby broken down junker and bent down to rub Nanook behind both ears.

  “Well, this is it for a little while. I can only do what I need to do if I know you are well out of harm’s way. And you’re a little too tall, and Nanook is a little too noticeable, for you both to hide around me,” Nick said with a frown. He didn’t even know exactly where she was going. They had agreed he shouldn’t know. Just in case.

  Soba leaned into him and put her head on his shoulder, with the little girl still wrapped around her leg. “Where I am going I can disappear, we are ghosts among these people. Get word to me when you want to head north and be careful.”

  Nick held her tightly, gave her a single, long kiss, and walked toward his truck. As he opened the door, he looked back, smiled and waved.

  “Come back to me Nick LaBounty. You don’t want to make me chase you in the next life,” Soba said with a grin, though her eyes betrayed something else.

  Nick slowly drove through the maze of streets in the slums, eventually making his way to a major road, and back toward the National Archeology Museum. Before reaching his destination, he pulled off and discretely changed the license plates, putting the old ones behind his
driver’s bench seat. Upon arrival at the museum he walked into the entrance and saw Raúl chatting with the people working behind the counter. Raúl waved and came over and offered his hand and guided Nick back to the secure archives.

  When Nick was sure they were completely alone, he decided it was time to feel Raúl out. He needed to know if he was among friend or foe, so he could react accordingly. It would dictate what he felt free to research, or not, under his supervision.

  “Raúl, what drew you into this field, why make a career out of it? It’s obviously not for everyone, and frankly doesn’t pay all that well.”

  Raúl sat on the edge of a table, contemplating this gringo he had to babysit for who knew how long. He didn’t think he was being bribed, more like subtly challenged somehow. He decided honesty would be the most direct route to cut through whatever bullshit game the Americano was playing.

  “I’m Aztec. Not descended from nobility or anyone special, but that is my lineage. I’m sure we got watered down over time somewhere and I am part meztizo, but I am proud of my roots. And I’m proud to be part the greater tribe called Mexica. In my youth my grandfather used to take me looking for artifacts, not to sell, but to treasure. He told me stories, and it got in my blood, the insatiable curiosity. You know how impressionable a young boy can be. No, it doesn’t pay much señor, and there are many who would pay well for some small favor or bit of information, but I don’t want to be owned, or insult my ancestors. Is that any different from why you got in this field?”

  Nick looked him squarely in the eye. “No Raúl it isn’t, but evidently helping me can put people in compromising positions,” he replied, not yet willing to mention his connection to Chico. “I just need to know that what you are going to see me investigate remains confidential, and not just for my own sake. But for yours too.”

  The discussion convinced Nick that Raúl could in fact be trusted, that he looked up to and was mentored by Carlos Lòpez, the museum director. And Carlos had been recommended by Dr. Storm, there was no better endorsement. When Nick asked about the internal video surveillance cameras, Raúl had laughed aloud. He explained that at this time they were a deterrent, but not even actually hooked up due to tight budgets, as he demonstrated by pulling a camera cable out of the wall that clearly wasn’t connected to anything. “That is why you have been blessed with me. I am the camera on you.”

  The day was spent digging deeper into the archives, Nick methodically researching each expedition in his spreadsheet, filling in the blanks wherever he could. Some were well documented, some only partially, and some not at all. At times Nick would pull up original Spanish documents and get stuck on a phrase or word. Raúl demonstrated his native fluency in Spanish more than once, translating passages. It also turned out he had an excellent eye for deciphering the flowing cursive handwriting, and the older, more formal Spanish prose used in these types of documents. They agreed to meet the next day, a Saturday, to continue the work. All Raúl asked was that they take the Sunday off so he could be with his mother.

  Walking out to his truck, Nick noticed a voice mail notification pop up that he hadn’t been able to receive in the bowels of the museum. He also realized he needed to find a place to crash for the night, somewhere inconspicuous. Plopping down in the well-worn seat of his Chevy pickup, he listened to the voicemail, which was coincidentally from Dr. Storm.

  “Hi Nick, I received your package. Fascinating stuff young man, simply fascinating. Per your note I will keep this short. I put detailed information on the secure server at the University, you know how to privately access that. The short answer is the rope is actually hemp from the nineteenth century. The scrapings are calcified tar, a type naturally occurring in the Four Corners region. We could tell from pollen imbedded within it that it was about 400 years old, give or take. The photos of the item are very intriguing, I won’t comment on them here. Remember Nick, alia vis servare secreta ipse prior. And please give my best to Dr. Lòpez.”

  Nick hung up his phone, pondering the Latin phrase Dr. Storm had used. He was having a hard time translating it, he had too many bits of Spanish and Aztec and Navajo rattling in his brain, so he plugged it into a translator on his phone. If you wish another to keep a secret, first keep it yourself. He sat back and grinned, pithy advice as always from his mentor. Time to get to a cheap hotel somewhere and log into the university server and see what the good doctor really had on his mind.

  All the preparations had been made meticulously for the opening ceremony this evening. Right in the heart of Mexico City a new Ulama ball court had been constructed in exacting detail. Measuring 30 feet by 120 feet with hand hewn stone walls on either side, it was a perfect replica of the courts that had graced nearly every pre-Columbian town in old Central America. Vertical stone rings were affixed to the walls opposite one another, and the Olmecs, Mayans, and Aztecs had all played versions of the popular sport. The object of this bruising game was to move a hard rubber ball using only elbows, knees, hips, and head. There were variations of play and ways to score points, but the game would end if a player actually managed to put the ball through one of the stone hoops. For certain ceremonies, the losing team would be sacrificed to the gods, providing plenty of incentive to play with a religious fervor.

  Ulama had been banned by the Spanish nearly 500 years before due to religious and ritual aspects, just one more facet of the old ways eradicated forever. A recent surge of interest in reinvigorating indigenous cultural traditions across the region was now taking hold, as the masses tired of incompetent politicians, ever escalating drug violence, and perpetual poverty. Nostalgia for the simpler and more prosperous ways of the ancestors was growing, and this new ball court would also serve as a venue for other resurrected games and practices, a sort of ancient town center. Other such ball courts had been popping up recently across Mexico, Belize, Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua, and even as far south as Costa Rica in recent years. But the one in Mexico City, right near the seat of traditional Aztec power, would be the show piece.

  Farseeing in his ambitions, Eztli had been discretely funding them throughout the region via a series of untraceable shell companies. The planting of seeds of political unrest and the cultivation of a sense of unifying Mesoamerican patriotism also served his ultimate interests. The gala tonight in Mexico City, however, was meant to garner attention on the world stage. It was time for the man behind the curtain pulling all the strings to make his presence known.

  A long, jet black Mercedes pulled up to the red carpet, which had been set up to ceremoniously showcase each arriving luminary. As an elegantly dressed servant opened the rear door, Eztli emerged in a black tuxedo with a gold hilted walking cane, the round handle of which was crafted in the image of a skull, of Huitzilopochtli, the Aztec God of War. Smiling gracefully as the paparazzi snapped photographs, he slowly made his way to the grand stand, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries along the way. A second man had emerged from the same car and accompanied his boss, with two more men with earpieces from a second car walking discretely behind them both.

  Finally breaking away from the crowd, Eztli turned to his companion and spoke in a hushed tone. “Bread and circuses Javier, bread and circuses, just like the Romans did to keep the masses happy. Now that we’ve got some misdirection working, we’ll stir up some pre-colonial nationalism. That’ll really get things riled up. Always remember, chaos is our friend.” He smiled deeply, enough to show the jade inlays in his teeth.

  Javier Hernández nodded silently to Eztli, betraying no emotion. Javier had risen through the ranks of the drug empire alongside the Blood Prince, always slightly more in the shadows. Where Miguel managed the muscle and enforcement side of the business, Javier’s talents lay in laundering and investing the obscene amount of wealth accumulated and executing Eztli’s far reaching plans. He cast a veneer of respectability over operations, and divested investments across a wide variety of legitimate enterprises. Lately he made sure Eztli was shown as the benefactor to schools and hospi
tals, charities and orphanages. In the parlance of business, he was laying the groundwork and building the brand.

  Javier had seen the advantages of utilizing digital currencies such as Bitcoin well before they had become mainstream in popularity, realizing the untraceable firewall they provided for moving vast sums away from prying eyes. Like Miguel he had Eztli’s complete trust and was a confidant of high IQ who could conceptualize and execute complex stratagems. Their unique skills complimenting one another, the triumvirate efficiently and ruthlessly ran an ever-expanding empire that directly employed thousands, and indirectly employed tens of thousands more.

  Eztli and Javier were the last VIP’s to arrive, the timing orchestrated to the second. Everything about tonight had been carefully choreographed and practiced. They worked their way to a platform full of politicians, celebrities and business moguls, each trying to burnish their own star by being affiliated with the dedication of the premier Ulama ball court in the land. Being associated with the masses was both good politics and good business. The Mexican Minister for Cultural Affairs gave an address to the gathered crowd, which was well beyond capacity, thanking many for their contributions and efforts. At the end he made sure to acknowledge the foundation so generously spearheaded by Eztli, nodding to him, without whose efforts none of this would have been possible.

  The speech concluded, a video showing how the game would have been played in ancient times was cast onto a huge screen in behind the podium, to the accompaniment of a line of drummers in traditional Aztec war dress marching out onto each side of the field. In the film, as soon as the ball finally went through the vertical stone hoop, a lingering image of Tenochtitlán in all its glory filled the screen, and then faded to black. The drumming abruptly ceased, and all spotlights immediately shifted to the center of the field, where Eztli stood alone with a microphone.