Slowly getting his bearings back, Nick firmly gripped the proffered hand. “Doc, I am flattered you would drop everything to help me out. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Oh nonsense old boy, what I was doing can wait. An old hand like me lives for the accomplishments of his students, especially the exceptional ones,” Dr. Storm replied, clapping Nick on the back. “I am most excited to have you fill me in on the details, we’ll get you on the right track in no time.”
An hour later Nick wandered down to the bar, refreshed from a shower and an energy drink. As he approached, he saw Dr. Storm holding court with the bartender and a group of guests, spinning a tale in Spanish that had them all laughing. He caught the good doctor’s eye and wandered to a seat off to the side with a little privacy. Finishing to his little crowd with a flourish, Dr. Storm walked over and sat with Nick, his eyes dancing with the joy of being in a foreign city with interesting people, on an interesting adventure, with his young protégé.
“You’re looking rather more human my good man, are the accommodations to your liking?” he inquired.
Nick smiled as he faced Dr. Storm. Always such a bundle of optimistic energy, he possessed that unique persona which always managed to make you feel better about yourself, regardless of the topic of conversation. It was a gift his mother had as well, and he found himself unconsciously drawn to those types of personalities.
“Yes, quite nice, thanks Doc. Frankly this is a bit higher end than I am used to. You know, the starving archeologist type.”
“Outstanding. Let’s grab a bite, my friends over there told me of just the right quaint place. We have a lot to catch up on.”
They walked over and through the expansive and elegant town square, the Plaza de España, to an obscure restaurant tucked on a side street with only a few empty, scattered tables out front. “This is the place,” Doctor Storm said, and he talked with the maitre d’ and was led through a narrow doorway into a sprawling room filled with raucous locals and flowing pitchers of Sangria. He turned to Nick with a cocked eyebrow. “Does this meet the palate of the starving archeologist?”
Nick grinned and uttered a one-word reply. “Heaven.”
The next morning they were both up early and made their way to the nearby General Archive of the Indies building, an impressive edifice of Spanish Renaissance architecture. Designated a World Heritage Site in 1987, it was adjoined by both the Seville Cathedral and the Alcázar of Seville. Nick stood with his mouth agape as they worked their way to the main entrance, for here was contained the journal of Christopher Columbus, autobiographical material of the first conquistadors, Pope Alexander VI’s Bull of Demarcation Inter Caetera that divided the new world between Spain and Portugal, and the general archives that revealed the intricate workings of the vast machinery of the Spanish Empire. In short, everything that had historians and treasure seekers making pilgrimages to Seville for centuries.
Nick was feeling intoxicated by the mere proximity of so much history and couldn’t help feeling a bit giddy despite the jet lag, even with such a daunting task in front of him.
Dr. Storm smiled at Nick as he saw his youthful-self reflected in the boyish enthusiasm and shook his head and tut-tutted to himself.
“The information you seek may not exist, or we may not be able to find it in the mountains of information here. But I’m all about us rolling up our sleeves and giving it our best effort. Let’s see if lady luck chooses to smile upon our endeavors,” he proffered, silently rubbing a medallion in his suit pocket of St. Anthony. The Patron Saint of Lost Things, his own mother had given it to him long ago at the start of his illustrious career.
The good doctor made his way to the front desk, where he signed in and said he had an appointment. They were immediately escorted, by two armed guards, deep within the labyrinth of hallways to the office of the Minister of Culture, where Dr. Storm was warmly greeted by an old friend.
“Ah, Philip, so good to see you, it’s been much too long,” said Juan Ramirez, planting a kiss on each cheek of Dr. Storm, then heartily embracing him in a bear hug with a laugh. “Too long my friend!” He nodded to the guards, who saluted and turned on their heels and left, their footsteps in perfect synch echoing away.
“Let me introduce to you my colleague, Nick LaBounty. Nick is about to finish his PhD, if he can clear up this little mystery he has on his hands first,” Dr. Storm confided.
Nick reached out and felt his hand encompassed in a huge mitt and was given a hardy handshake.
“Pleased to meet you señor Nick, welcome,” replied Juan. He closed the heavy door, sat behind an immense mahogany desk and motioned for them both to sit. “Now tell me all about what it is you so determinedly seek.”
An hour later Dr. Storm and Juan were reminiscing and laughing about past fond times, adventures and acquaintances. While they talked, Nick wandered about the office, looking at a wide variety of interesting artifacts laying about, and framed photos of Juan with dignitaries from around the world. There was one that caught his eye in particular, in front of the pyramid of Chichen Itza. Juan stood proudly with his arm around what looked like the past President of Mexico, and someone of Aztec or Mayan decent, judging from the jade inlays of his teeth.
After bidding adieu and walking with an escort to the archives, Nick looked at Dr. Storm and asked, “Is there anyone in this field you don’t know, Doc?”
“The longer one stays in a specialty, and the more one travels for expeditions, research, and conferences, the smaller the world gets. There is a camaraderie, an esprit de corps, and frankly a closing of ranks, among those who want to do the noble work of bringing the light of the past to the present. Because make no mistake, there is a darkness out there, an evil which confronts us. It is in those who would destroy the treasures of the past like ISIS recently did, or selfishly hoard stolen artifacts in private collections that never see the light of day or seek to pervert the past for their own disingenuous ends,” Dr. Storm reflected, a deep, creeping sadness upon his face.
“Ah, it reminds me of Archeology 101 with Dr. Storm,” Nick laughed, trying to break the mood. “Because those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”
“Indeed they are, and it is up to us to break the vicious cycle my friend.”
So began a systematic search of the General Archive of the Indies, much in the same manner as Nick had conducted in Mexico City. The systems here were better financed, which allowed for more accurate cataloguing and cross referencing. The stability of the government also helped, although Spain was experiencing its own share of turmoil, as the Catalonians and the Basques were each seeking greater autonomy or outright independence. Several hours were spent familiarizing themselves with the rudiments of how to navigate the vast holdings, and then with the structure of the actual archives.
“Remember, the Spanish were exacting in their record keeping. The shipping manifests will tell what was shipped from where to where, and what was lost in transit. It was such manifests that led Mel Fisher to the mother lode of the Atocha off the Florida Keys. But manifests will never tell us what wasn’t shipped, or what was shipped but never declared. And what you seek was supposedly never discovered, and therefore never made it to Spain,” Dr. Storm reflected. “So we are looking for rumors and innuendos of the treasure that wasn’t, of any Cibola or El Dorado or other myth in northern Mexico or the Southwest USA.”
Nick smiled, it was always good to have the clarity and perspective of his respected mentor and friend. “Which brings us back to Cabeza de Vaca traipsing across the Gulf of Mexico to the Pacific and telling those in Mexico City what he saw,” Nick replied. “And Fray Marcos, who claimed to have sighted the Seven Golden Cities of Cibola in the distance after being led there by someone from Cabeza de Vaca’s party, and Fray Marcos then leading Coronado on a later expedition. And all the rest, ad nauseam. Numerous expeditions chased this, even to recent times. But even if it were based upon myth, there may be an underlying kernel of truth. Somewh
ere in these archives there must be breadcrumbs that will lead us to it.”
Dr. Storm grinned as he noticed Nick rubbing the pendant of his necklace. “Let’s hope the mice haven’t eaten all the crumbs. Time to get to work.”
Chapter 31 – July 8
The three of them were safely ensconced in the War Room in the basement of Eztli’s Mexico City mansion, laying out elaborate plans for their ever-expanding empire. Montezuma’s Mission Control for Mesoamerica, Eztli liked to joke. Miguel simply called it the Führer Bunker, never missing a chance to poke fun at his brother. Javier ignored them both, as it provided an impenetrable sanctuary and was a technological marvel, able to effectively manage their diverse holdings and monitor friend and foe alike.
“We have received unprecedented coverage from the opening of the Ulama ball court, very positive feedback. This is nicely positioning you in the public eye as someone who gets things done, cuts through the bullshit of red tape and bureaucracy. A benefactor to the common man,” Javier commented.
Eztli smiled knowingly, many disparate things from years of planning were steadily and stealthily coming together. “Now that I have come out from behind the curtain, it is important to keep a steady presence up, and only in the most favorable light,” he said, seated at the head of the conference table. “Work our contacts in the press, ensure that we slowly build this to a crescendo across all media. I want the timing to coincide with our other plans.”
“Will do, Tlanahuatihqui,” Javier replied, respectfully calling Eztli the word for leader in the Aztec language. “We will build and polish your image in the public eye. And I will also get the press to keep sowing discontent among the agitators. That will keep pressure on the government to stamp out fires, which will continue the backlash for the current administration. Revolution in the air and blood in the streets, that should have the people looking for a leader to straighten things out. They will look to a real patriot, a savior, to better their plight and make them proud once again.”
Miguel had been sitting impatiently, and got up and walked nervously about, irritated at the formal way Eztli and Javier conducted business. He had known them both since they were nothing, street rats and peons, no better than he. But they had grown and flourished in their roles, thrived in the growing complexity of the drug empire, while he seemed stuck in his. He hated deferring to his younger brother, having never really accepted him in the dominant position of telling him what to do. And Javier, he needed to be taken down a peg or two, hard. After all, he wasn’t even family. But despite it all he had to admit, running the enforcement and being the muscle appealed to his ego and his sadistic side. Perhaps they were playing to their innate strengths after all. He too could play the long game, as long as it ultimately benefited himself.
“Hey, I’ve got something you can polish too,” he spat out. “We just lost a fricking tunnel under the border, and this one was no decoy tunnel. The goddamn DEA found it, and I don’t know how. They either upped their technology, got lucky, or we have a fucking rat.”
“I don’t believe in luck,” Eztli immediately retorted. “And with what we did to the last rat we found, I’m not sure anyone would risk it right now. If they have new tech, we need to know so we can take the proper countermeasures. This next year is critical, we need that revenue stream uninterrupted. Find out what you can Miguel.”
Miguel stopped pacing and stared at the large video screen on the wall outlining their drug routes leading into the United States, and the amount of traffic and revenue carried on each. “Tunnels are getting too risky anyway, we need other methods. We can’t fly it in anymore, haven’t been able to do that effectively in years, they shut that down damn near cold. We’ve increased our shipments by truck and ship, hiding the drugs in everything imaginable, but the seizure rate is climbing, despite our best efforts.”
“Yeah, in fresh fruit that one time, that was a great idea. The trucks got held up, the fruit rotted, and the drugs were exposed. Could have seen that one coming,” Javier wryly commented.
Miguel shot him a look. “We have to be creative, we have to try all new options. The drones are working, but their capacity is limited, and the border patrols are now constantly on the lookout for them. The mules we use work well, but they can only carry so much. People are getting desperate, we have no lack of candidates, but the border is flat out getting tighter.”
Calming himself, Miguel attempted to turn his anger to charm. “Funny, we lost another mule when the rubber busted and the drugs got into his system. He had one nice trip, then went bye-bye. We need something bigger, something harder to detect, something that can move tonnage.”
Eztli sat patiently listening, and then toggled the control panel. Suddenly the image on the large screen in front of them changed, and a photo came into focus. It was of a conning tower of a small submarine cutting through the sea, with two sailors crowded tightly together sharply saluting toward the camera.
Miguel smiled broadly and looked at Eztli, then laughed aloud. “Are you telling me what I think you’re telling me? Because if so that’s big cajones, game changing cajones if you are!”
“Recently decommissioned by Venezuela, destined for the scrap heap. Their oil revenue is in shambles, they are so pathetically broke they couldn’t even afford the upkeep. You grease the right palms in Caracas, we make their problem go away, and it magically becomes our asset. Poof!” Eztli said, making fireworks gestures with his hands for emphasis. “Comes with a crew too, only too eager to get the hell out of there. We pay them very well, they take care of their families back home, everybody wins.”
“Originally built by North Korea, Yugo-class, diesel-electric, four-man crew, displaces 100 tons,” Javier added. “Designed for coastal infiltration, perfect for drug running. Tell him the best part Eztli.”
Miguel looked at his brother questioningly. “Well, out with it!”
“If we like how this works out, they have a second sub waiting on death row for the scrap heap, ours for the right price. Think of it, we could run one out of Baja and one in the Gulf, a two-ocean fleet. That’s why it pays to think big!”
A servant discretely brought lunch, and the triumvirate toasted to the success of their new nautical endeavor while laughing and making pirate growls to one another. Eztli even posed as a jaunty Captain Morgan, his foot on a chair and his glass raised high. They ate and discussed more mundane business, before turning to the one matter still pressing on Eztli’s mind.
“What do you mean you lost him? Lost him! I said I want eyes on him, was I not explicitly clear? He couldn’t have just disappeared. I need to know what the hell he is up to, and I need to know now!” Eztli fumed, staring hard at his brother.
“We had him, we tracked him through customs, down to Cuernavaca, and our cops on the take leaned on him a little to see what they could learn,” Miguel replied defensively. “We can’t control where he fucking goes if we want him to lead us to something.”
“Well maybe they leaned a little too hard, and now the rabbit runs, all the way to Guatemala! He could be anywhere, there are literally hundreds of archeological sites scattered down there.” Eztli angrily stubbed out his half-smoked cigar, and he wasn’t one to leave a fine cigar unfinished.
Javier noticed it and raised an eyebrow. His boss wasn’t just mad, he was starting to boil, and Miguel would only escalate things like the jealous older brother he was. Miguel almost seemed to take a perverse joy in baiting Eztli, perhaps because he was the only one who could get away with it. But that would lead to an unproductive meeting, and they had much to accomplish. Javier tried to rein things back in and pointed to the large screen which showed the exact path the tracking mechanism had traveled, now sitting idle in Guatemala City.
“Perhaps this Nick now knows he’s being watched. That was inevitable, he’s no fool. But a gringo with a tall Navajo girlfriend and an oversized white mongrel mutt can’t remain unseen for long. Too much baggage. We have eyes and ears all over, they will turn up. They c
an’t go off the grid forever. Be patient,” he counseled.
Eztli had been about to go at it with Miguel, put him in his place, but slowly reflected it would accomplish nothing. He would address it, but now was not the time. He stood up from the conference room table and went through the ritual of clipping the end of his cigar and relighting it, puffing deeply, all the while slowly regaining his composure.
“Maybe he didn’t plant it in the tractor trailer in Guatemala. Maybe this is all a head fake. He could have planted it while he was in Cuernavaca to get us off his trail, and if that is the case, he could still be there, or he could be anywhere. And now he will be more discrete. Like you said, he is no fool,” Eztli reflected.
“We’ll up the ante with our sources, make it enticingly rich for our feet on the street,” Javier said as he nodded to Miguel, who finally nodded back. “He can run, but he can’t hide. Not indefinitely.”
“Alright, keep the pressure up and keep me informed. I want to know what he’s up to, and this time let’s not let him know we are back on to him. Let him think he has lost his tail. We’ll let the rabbit do the heavy lifting and lead us to this treasure cache of Cibola, if it really exists. Am I perfectly clear Miguel? Comprende hermano?”
“Clear as a bell. And once he leads us there, his ass is mine,” Miguel replied through clenched teeth, a hard gleam in his eye.
She reached the top of the small mountain and sat, catching her breath, looking back down on the broken trail she had climbed from the east. She squinted at the wide horizon stretching out before her and enjoyed the cooling morning updraft. The exertion had felt good, the knots in her tense shoulders working their way out from the strenuousness of the climb. She couldn’t see the ocean from here, it was still a bit too far away, but she thought perhaps she caught a scent of salt water carried upward on the thermals, or maybe it was just her imagination.
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