“Fellow countrymen, I am but a humble businessman who has been fortunate enough to help in these proceedings in some small way. I know firsthand of your struggles, these are difficult times we are living in. The outside world is ever less embracing of us, and we have our own petty internal squabbles and rivalries. But we can—and must—take care of our own house and be independent as a people again. Independent of those who would exploit us, who would harvest our labor, our natural resources and our creative minds. All to their own benefit, not ours. That is why I have set up the foundations I have, to benefit the people like you who make up the backbone not just of this great nation, but that of our neighbors, our kinsmen, our blood relatives. I tell you we can be an economic powerhouse, prosperous, independent, and culturally vibrant, with a great future for all our children. It is within our own power to become the envy of not just Central America, but of the world.”
The gathered crowd hung on his every word, the excitement and anticipation building. When they heard exactly what they needed to hear, everyone exploded in a mass outpouring of pent up frustration, turning into a frenzy of national pride. Eztli let them work up to a crescendo, then raised his hand until it was quiet and continued.
“All great things start with small gestures. This Ulama court, so like those that graced the villages of our ancestors, is one such small gesture. It is also why I am dedicating myself to a program to honor the old ways. I hereby pledge to build 100 more of these courts from Mexico to Costa Rica and set up leagues with instructors to teach our young people to honor and play the traditional games of our ancestors. And in four years’ time, we will host here in Mexico City, in the seat of ancient Tenochtitlán, athletes competing in each of those sports. We will welcome the world to the first Mesoamerican Games!”
At that the spotlights went off, and the drummers started beating in cadence again. Powerful black lights around the court came on, and two teams, elaborately costumed in body paint, colorful headdresses and warrior gear, stormed the field. A glowing red ball rolled to the very middle, and the players, outlined in bright neon as two teams of skeletons from the black lights, took their positions to the chanting from the crowd.
Eztli smiled broadly in the shadows and raised the microphone to his lips.
“Let the games begin!”
Chapter 30 – July 4
It certainly didn’t feel like a typical Fourth of July. Nick woke up slowly, the sounds of someone down the hall in the communal bathroom rousing him out of his slumber. God, the guy was even more brutal than Charlie had been growing up, better give it a little time to air out. He had found a cheap room near one of the factory sections of the city, catering to migrant workers. With no internet, cable or air conditioning, it was off the beaten path and discrete, exactly what he needed to hide in plain sight.
He had walked to a nearby internet café late last night, full of workers video chatting, texting or reading the local news back home. He had paid cash for access to a computer and logged onto the private university server to see what additional information Dr. Storm had left him. As he lay on the rickety bed, he replayed in his mind what he had learned. Dr. Storm had examined the images of the gold link of the necklace Nick had provided on a digital card, and confidentially shared it with a trusted colleague who specialized in Mesoamerican precious metalwork. They thought it was definitely a part of a larger piece as exhibited by the linkage and wear marks, and displayed an advanced craftsmanship found in few surviving Central American artifacts. The three intricate teardrop inlays appeared to be jade, obsidian, and possibly some type of emerald, but it was impossible to definitively tell via a photograph.
Frankly it was nothing he didn’t already suspect, but it was good to get confirmation from an expert in the field and someone he trusted. Knowing the rope was hemp from the nineteenth century, and the tar that covered it was from the Four Corners region of the Southwest, also confirmed his suspicions.
Nick wondered how Soba was doing, he missed her already, but knowing she was safe put his mind at ease. Her gift of tongues had solved the cryptic letter from Alexandre, and his mind wandered to where he might find the sign of the eagle, snake and cactus within one of the hundreds of pueblos scattered across northern Mexico and the Southwest. He needed to narrow down the field to make this a realistic quest. It was time to get back to the research and better his odds.
He gathered the few things he had brought into the room and went out to his pickup truck. As he sat there for a moment, he looked closely at the worn photograph he’d stuck to the dashboard when he first left Michigan on this trip. Kind of like a fighter pilot with a picture of his family on the instrument panel before he goes into battle, he thought. Old and faded, it showed a nine or ten-year-old version of himself, Charlie, Mom, and Dad in front of the old station wagon. A deserted highway stretched straight out into the distance, an occasional cactus on either side. Mom must have asked some other wandering tourist to snap it. What intuition did you have Dad, what did you learn, what kept bringing you back? What the hell was in that missing journal?
The traffic was lighter on a Saturday morning, and he made good time to the museum. Arriving a few minutes early, Nick waited outside by the beautiful El Paraguas tower, the mists from its cascading waterfall giving him the closest thing to a shower he would have today. He was daydreaming when Raúl walked up next to him with two cups of coffee, offering one.
“Buenos días señor Nick. What do you think we will uncover today?” he asked with a smile.
“Hopefully the right clue amigo,” Nick said, taking a cup and breathing in the fragrance of the steaming coffee. “The right clue.”
Nick had already read and reread every published account of any related Southwest treasure expedition he could find. His dad had kept a collection of books in the old steamer trunk at the foot of his bed that stirred the imagination of any young boy. Nick had added to the collection himself when he went to college and had been expanding it ever since. He was to a point where he considered himself an expert on the topic, at least within the geography he was targeting. There was a large body of research already done, much of it excellent and meticulously researched. He had spent a good deal of time verifying the annotated bibliographies for resources, and in turn researching the original resources themselves. He even investigated theories which were not so conventional, including the Lost Tribes of Israel wandering North America, or shipwrecked Egyptians building Aztec pyramids, or aliens using superior technology to advance Mesoamerican civilizations. Not that he bought into any of it, but they had their own original resources which were worth reading and might in turn lead to something credible if properly interpreted.
The morning was spent drilling into the Mexican digital resources and doing every key word search that might yield any related documents. Nick and Raúl brainstormed every relevant word they could think of. Raúl helped with the more complex Spanish translations, which they plugged into the computer queries. A few more documents came to light, which upon examination yielded little useful information. Most of what they disclosed was already known and had already been written about and documented by noted scholars, archeologists or adventure novelists looking to cash in on a sensational topic. A smaller portion of undocumented resources yielded a few tantalizing details, but no linkages to anything concrete. So far it had all been a frustrating dead end.
The afternoon concentrated on cross referencing resources, and it soon became apparent that there was much information the Mexicans had which wasn’t digitized or even catalogued. In the tumult of violent times and ongoing drug wars, the various government administrations struggled to find the funding to make it priority. It made the search cumbersome, and Nick and Raúl reviewed what other sources existed where across Mexico. The only saving grace was that the majority of it seemed to be in and around Mexico City. But a top down examination of descriptions of the catalogues led Nick to conclude that there was little that might be useful to him, not unless he wanted to d
evote a lifetime to pawing through massive troves of non-catalogued documents. He had hit the proverbial brick wall.
“The right lead could be hidden somewhere in here Raúl, I just don’t know if there is a way for one gringo to uncover it in one lifetime.”
Just then a door closed to the room they were in, and they both looked up to see Dr. Carlos Lòpez had walked in and listened to the end of their conversation.
“Or it is simply not here. As might be expected, there are deeper resources held by the conquerors than the conquered. After all they got to write the history that survives. Maybe you need to turn your search around and approach it from the other end.”
The three of them sat watching the large screen television just off the inner courtyard of Eztli’s mansion, gauging the public’s reaction to last night’s performance. A servant silently poured more Dom Pérignon all around, after all Eztli had an audience to play to today.
“The Mesoamerican Games, the press seems to be eating it up,” Javier commented. “I like it, it transcends petty arbitrary borders.”
Eztli grunted, having to constantly disguise his real intentions to the outside world grated on him. “I should have named it what it really is, the De-Colonization Games. The press would have had a field day with that one.”
“True,” Javier replied, “But Mesoamerican puts the right spin on it, it’s marketable. All a means to an end.”
Eztli walked by Miguel, whose boots were up on a fine linen tablecloth. He swept them off the table and fixed him with a stare. “Decorum brother, if we want to meld competing countries into a single empire, we need to exude class and leadership. And that’s not something one simply turns on and off.”
“You’re in a mood today,” Miguel retorted, sitting up. “Who pissed in your champagne?”
“Today the games to reinforce the ancestral ties between all our countries. Tomorrow unrestricted free trade and immigration zones to tie us all closer together. Then a real Central American coalition that is economically strong and independent. And finally a single, unified country, from Mexico to Costa Rica, the way it always should have been,” Eztli said, his voice rising.
“Yeah, with you leading it. Why not have some real cajones and roll Panama into it too?” Miguel teased. “Don’t you want to really stick it to the Norteamericanos?
“Yes I do brother, but they won’t let their influence over the Panama Canal out of their grasp that easily. It is too vital to their strategic interests. First we need world opinion on our side, and that requires playing the long game. Dominos fall one at a time, not all at once hermano. Be patient, we’ll show them what Montezuma’s revenge really is.”
By early afternoon, Eztli had sent Javier and Miguel off to carry out very specific orders. He was expecting a visit from someone and wanted no one around when that visitor arrived. Shortly after 2 p.m. the guest was announced, and Eztli walked him through the vast mansion to his library, where he closed the door and they sat across from one another.
“Tell me Professor, what exactly do the test results reveal?” Eztli inquired. It was obvious he was not a patient man and wanted to get straight to the heart of the matter.
Dr. Rojas shifted uncomfortably in his chair. His background was as a forensic biologist, and he was widely noted in Mexico for his experience in DNA analysis. He had been recruited directly by Eztli both for his expertise, and for his discretion. After all, he had been well financed by Eztli over the years, and several prominent cases had hung on his testimony. Fortunately for Dr. Rojas, the outcomes of those cases had coincided with Eztli’s business interests. So far it had been a successful, symbiotic relationship.
“Well, I can confirm without a doubt you are descended from Aztec blood,” Dr. Rojas replied, clenching a rolled-up document tightly in his hands.
“Good, good. And does it tell us anything else? Is it perhaps from a royal bloodline?” Eztli inquired. Because if he had a link to Aztec royalty, even a tenuous one, it would lend great credibility to his ultimate aspirations. He smiled, thinking of the spin Javier could put on that one.
Dr. Rojas nervously cleared his throat. “No, it isn’t royalty, at least not to Montezuma’s lineage. But definitely Aztec, yes Aztec. Although there is one more thing.”
“Jesús Cristo, out with it man, can’t you see I’m busy?” Eztli bellowed.
Dr. Rojas squirmed slightly in his seat. “It isn’t pure Aztec. It would appear there are mixed, err, there are other, bloodlines within it. Spanish blood, sir. Catalonian to be exact,” he said, handing the document over with a trembling hand.
His face turning red, Eztli grabbed it, the rage silently building within him. It simply couldn’t be, this was not possible! He examined the document page by page, and saw the probabilities and permutations, the maps which highlighted areas of common ethnicity, the paths of migration, and where relations might live today. Including some distant ones that were in Spain.
Breathing slowly and deeply to regain his composure, he turned and smiled at the doctor. “We are sure of these results? There is no room for error?”
“No, I ran and reran them myself. As you asked I did not share this with anyone, and I knew you would want the results double checked. It is as accurate as current science allows. I would stake my professional reputation on it,” Dr. Rojas replied, finally showing some semblance of a backbone.
“Good, good. It is important that this be as accurate and unbiased as possible. The truth will always serve my purposes. After all, are we not a nation of many ethnic groups? Aztec and Mayan, Zapotec and Mixtec, Otomi and Totonac. Certainly the Spanish left their footprints here, as we all have. Tell me Doctor, how far back does my Spanish blood line go?”
Dr. Rojas pointed to the lineage path on the maps. “This shows that a distant relative of yours likely came over around the time of the conquest. You have traces of some of the oldest Spanish blood in the country! But as you can see from the percentages, your lineage was pure Aztec before that, and Aztec ever since.”
“Outstanding Doctor. I think good work like this deserves some insight into a very confidential project I have been working on, for the benefit of the whole country. I want to show you an exquisite collection that very few have seen. Please come with me, it’s down in my basement.”
It was one of those obvious ideas which in hindsight made him think he had blinders on. Dr. Lòpez had been talking with Nick’s old mentor Dr. Storm, and they had been down this path of creative thinking before, of taking a complex problem with multiple variables and turning it on its head. Yes, dummy, approach it from the other end.
Nick squinted and peered out the small window, nothing much to see but a few wispy clouds and the wide cobalt blue Atlantic Ocean below. At least he had a window seat and didn’t have to worry about people crawling over him to get out to the bathroom or stretch their legs. Better yet the flight wasn’t sold out, and there was an open seat next to him. If you have to fly in economy, you might as well have a little elbow room.
Before he had left the museum on Saturday, they had formed a plan of action. The Spanish were meticulous record keepers, as the King always wanted to insure he received the Quinto Real, or royal fifth, of all treasure found or precious minerals mined in the New World. Royal blood money, which provided the means to fund the religious wars he so zealously prosecuted. There were troves of these records scattered across the world, from Mexico City to the Library of Congress to the Vatican, but the most promising for his immediate purposes seemed to be in the belly of the beast, in Spain. Dr. Storm would meet Nick in Seville on Monday to help open institutional doors, provide his expertise and also a little good old-fashioned moral support. His native level fluency in Spanish wouldn’t hurt either.
Nick had spent Sunday packing and rushing to the airport a little hung over from his 4th of July celebration, which had spontaneously happened when he bumped into some ex-pats out at a cantina. All he was after was a burrito and a beer, but sometimes evenings have a way of taking
on a life of their own. It had felt good to vent a little steam from the pressure that had been building, and things seemed to finally be falling into place, so why not celebrate a little? Viva América!
He had been surprised there was no direct flight from Mexico City to Seville and would have to change planes in Madrid. But the well-traveled Dr. Storm had made all the flight arrangements for him with frequent flyer miles, and here he was, flying the friendly skies. With the layover, it was 14 hours to Seville, so once Nick had his fill of cramped sleep, he dug back into his research via the in-flight wifi. The place he and Dr. Storm would initially search would be at the Archivo General de Indias, or General Archive of the Indies, which housed the important documents from the Spanish Empire in the Americas and the Philippines. The archives had previously been scattered across Spain in places such as Simancas, Cádiz and Seville, but in 1785 had been consolidated to the single Seville location by royal decree. Nick assiduously studied what was available online to get familiar with what resources would be available, as he wanted to maximize his time on the ground.
In Madrid he never left the airport, so when he finally touched down in Seville, he was excited to see the architecture and people of the city. He had been to Barcelona once, but never to Seville, and being in a new place always made his pulse quicken. On the cab ride the jet lag inevitably set in. The length of the flights and flying against time zones made him a bit upside down by the time he arrived at the hotel early Monday evening. As he checked in at the front desk, an immaculately dressed older gentleman with a neatly trimmed gray beard walked briskly from the bar across the great room and pumped his hand in a firm handshake.
“My how good it is to see you, young man. This is quite the adventure you have me on,” Dr. Storm enthused. “You do look like you rode in the overhead bin. Why don’t you freshen up a bit and meet me back at the bar and we’ll conspire on our next steps!”
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