The Codex

by Douglas Preston

  He thought back to his meeting with the CEO and the Hartz board, so very serious, so very Swiss. They were skeptical, of course, but when they saw the page Julian had already translated, their old gray mouths were almost watering. The Codex would bring them many billions. Most drug companies had research departments that evaluated indigenous medicines—but here was the ultimate medical cookbook, all nicely packaged, and Julian was about the only person in the world, apart from Sally, who could translate it accurately. Hartz would have to strike a deal with the Broadbents over it, but as the largest pharmaceutical company in the world it was in the best position to pay. And without his translation skills, what use would the Codex be to the Broadbents anyway? Everything would be done correctly: The company had of course insisted on it. The Swiss were like that.

  He wondered how Sally would react when she learned that the Codex was going to disappear into the maw of some giant multinational corporation. Knowing her, she would not take it well. But once they started enjoying the two million dollars Hartz had agreed to pay him as a finder’s fee—not to mention the generous remuneration he expected to receive for doing the translation—she’d get over it. And he would show her that this was the right thing to do, that Hartz was in the best position to develop these new drugs and bring them to market. It was the right thing to do. It took money to develop new drugs. Nobody was going to do it for free. Profit made the world go round.

  As for himself, poverty had been fine for a few years while he was young and idealistic, but it would become unendurable over thirty. And Professor Julian Clyve was fast approaching thirty.

  58

  After ten hours of hiking into the mountains, Tom and his brothers topped a bare, windswept ridge. A stupendous view of mountains greeted their eyes, a violent sea of peaks and valleys, layered toward the horizon in deepening shades of purple.

  Borabay pointed. “Sukia Tara, the White City,” he said.

  Tom squinted in the bright afternoon sun. About five miles away, across a chasm, rose two pinnacles of white rock. Nestled between them was a flat, isolated saddle of land, cut off on both sides by chasms and surrounded by jagged peaks. It was a lone patch of green, a lush piece of cloudforest that looked as if it had broken off from somewhere else to lodge between the two fangs of white rock, teetering on the brink of a precipice. Tom had imagined it would be a ruin with white towers and walls. Instead, he could see nothing but a thick, lumpy carpet of trees.

  Vernon raised his binoculars, examined the White City, and passed them to Tom.

  The green promontory leapt into magnification. Tom scanned it, slowly. The plateau was heavily covered in trees and what appeared to be impenetrable mats of vines and creepers. Whatever ruined city lay in that strange hanging valley was well covered by jungle. But as Tom scrutinized it, here and there, rising from the verdure, he could make out whitish outcrops that began to take on faint patterns: a corner, a broken stretch of wall, a dark square that looked like a window. And as he looked further at what he thought was a steep hill, he realized it was a ruined pyramid, heavily overgrown. One side of it had been gashed open, a white wound in the living green.

  The mesa the city had been constructed on was, truly, an island in the sky. It hung between the two peaks, separated from the rest of the Sierra Azul by sheer cliffs. It looked cut off until he saw a thread of yellow curving across one of the chasms—a crude suspension bridge. As he examined it further he saw that the bridge was well guarded by soldiers who were using a ruined stone fortress evidently built by the original inhabitants to protect the White City. Hauser and his men had cut down a large swath of forest at the foot of the bridge to give themselves a clear field of fire.

  On the opposite side of the White City, not far from the bridge, a small river ran down from the mountains and poured into the chasm, turning into a graceful filament of white and disappearing into the mists below. As Tom watched, mists billowed up from the chasm, obscuring the suspension bridge and then blocking their view of the White City itself. The mists cleared, then rose again, then cleared, in a never ending ballet of darkness and light.

  Tom shivered. Their father, Maxwell Broadbent, had probably stood in the same place forty years ago. No doubt he had been able to pick out the faint outlines of the city amid the chaos of vegetation. Here was where he made his first discovery and began his life’s work; and this was where he had ended up, shut up alive in a dark tomb. The White City was the alpha and the omega of Maxwell Broadbent’s career.

  He passed the binoculars to Sally. She examined the White City for a long time. Then she lowered the glasses and turned to Tom, her face flushed with excitement. “It’s Maya,” she said. “There’s a central ball court, a pyramid, and some multistoried pavilions. It’s High Classic. The people who built this city came from Copán, I’m sure of it—probably this is where the Maya retreated after the fall of Copán in A.D. 900. One great mystery solved.”

  Her eyes were sparkling, the sun shimmering off her golden hair. He had never seen her so vital. It was surprising, he thought, considering how little sleep they had been getting.

  She turned and her eyes connected with his, and it seemed to him that she understood what he was thinking. Her face flushed slightly, and she looked away, smiling to herself.

  Philip took the binoculars next and scanned the city. Tom heard an intake of breath. “There are men down there,” he said. “Cutting trees at the base of the pyramid.”

  There was a faint crump of dynamite, and a puff of dust rose up from the city like a small white flower.

  Tom said, “We’re going to have to find Father’s tomb before they do. Or ...” He left the sentence unfinished.

  59

  They spent the rest of the afternoon in the cover of the trees, observing Hauser and his men. One group of soldiers was clearing trees from a stone temple at the base of the pyramid while another group dug and blasted into a smaller pyramid nearby. The shifting winds brought them the faint sounds of chainsaws and, every half hour or so, the distant rumble of explosives, followed by a rising cloud of dust.

  “Where is Father’s tomb?” he asked Borabay.

  “In cliffs below city on far side. Place of dead.”

  “Will Hauser find it?”

  “Yes. Trail down is hidden, but he find it in end. Maybe tomorrow, maybe two weeks.”

  As night fell, a pair of klieg lights went on in the White City, and another set illuminated the suspension bridge and the area around it. Hauser was taking no chances, and he had come well equipped with everything, including a generator.

  They ate their dinner in silence. Tom could hardly taste the frogs or lizards or whatever dish it was Borabay had cooked for them. From what he could see from their vantage point on the ridge, the White City was well defended and well-nigh impregnable.

  At the conclusion of the meal, it was Philip who spoke what was on everyone’s mind. “I think we better get the hell out of here and come back with help. We can’t do this on our own.”

  “Philip,” said Tom, “when they find the tomb and open it, what do you think’s going to happen?”

  “They’ll rob it.”

  “No, the first thing Hauser will do is murder Father.”

  Philip didn’t answer.

  “It’s going to take us at least forty days just to get out of here. If we’re going to save Father, we’ve got to act now.”

  “I don’t want to be the one to say no to rescuing Father, but Tom, for God’s sake, we have an old rifle, maybe ten rounds, and some painted warriors with bows and arrows. They have automatic weapons, grenade launchers, and dynamite. And they’ve got the advantage of defending an incredibly secure position.”

  Tom said, “Not if there’s a secret way into the city.”

  “No secret way,” said Borabay. “Only bridge.”

  “There has to be a second way,” said Tom. “Otherwise, how did they originally build the bridge?”

  Borabay stared at him, and Tom felt a flush of triump
h.

  “Gods build bridge,” said Borabay.

  “Gods don’t build bridges.”

  “Gods build this bridge.”

  “Damn it, Borabay! The gods did not build that bridge, people built it, and to do that they had to be on both sides!”

  “You’re right,” said Vernon.

  “Gods build bridge,” Borabay insisted. “But,” he added after a moment, “Tara people also know how to build bridge from one side only.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Brother, you always so sure you right? I tell you how Tara build bridge from one side only. First, Tara shoot arrow with rope and hook. Get it stuck on tree on far side. Then send little boy across in basket on wheels.”

  “How does he get across?”

  “He pull himself.”

  “How could a man possibly span a two-hundred-yard gap with an arrow trailing a rope and hook?”

  “Tara use special big bow and special arrow with feather. Very important to wait for day with strong wind in right direction.”

  “Go on.”

  “When little boy across, man shoot second arrow with rope. Little boy tie two ropes together, put rope around little wheel—”

  “A pulley.”

  “Yes. Then with pulley man can pull across many things. First he pull across heavy cable in basket, which uncoil as it go. Boy fix heavy cable to tree. Now man can come across on heavy cable. Now man and boy on far side. Man use second pulley to pull across three more cables, one at time. Now four cables across canyon. Now more men cross in basket—”

  “That’s enough,” interrupted Tom. “I get the picture.”

  They fell into silence, the impossibility of their situation sinking in.

  “Have the Tara warriors tried to ambush them and cut the bridge yet?”

  “Yes. Many die.”

  “Have they tried burning arrows?”

  “Cannot reach bridge.”

  “Let’s keep in mind,” said Philip, “that if the bridge is cut, Father’s also trapped inside.”

  “I’m well aware of it. I’m just going over our options. Maybe we can offer Hauser a deal: Let Father out and Hauser can keep the tomb and its riches. We’ll sign it all over to him and that’s that.”

  Tom said: “Father would never agree.”

  “Even if it meant his life?”

  “He’s dying of cancer.”

  “Or our lives?”

  Philip looked at them. “Don’t even think of trusting Hauser or making a deal with him.”

  “All right,” said Vernon, “we’ve eliminated getting into the White City by some other route, and we’ve eliminated it by a frontal attack. Anybody here know how to build a hang glider?”

  “No.”

  “That leaves only one course of action.”

  “And what’s that?”

  Vernon smoothed out a place in the sand near the fire and began to draw a map while he explained his plan. When he was finished, Philip spoke first.

  Philip shook his head. “This is a crazy plan. I say we go back, get help, and return. It may take them months to find Father’s tomb.”

  Borabay interrupted. “Philip, maybe you no understand. If we run away now, Tara people kill us.”

  “Bosh.”

  “We make promise. Cannot break promise.”

  “I didn’t make any bloody promises, that was Tom. Anyway, we can slip past the Tara village and be long gone before they even know we’re missing.”

  Borabay shook his head. “That coward way, brother. That leave Father die in tomb. If Tara catch you, death for coward slow and ugly. They cut off—”

  “We’ve already heard what they do,” Philip said.

  “There not enough food and water in tomb to last much longer.”

  The fire crackled. Tom glanced through the trees. Below and almost five miles distant, he could see a trio of diamond lights clustered in the White City. There was another faint explosion of dynamite. Hauser and his men were working around the clock. They really were up against the wall. There were no good options and only one mediocre plan. But it was the best they were going to get.

  “Enough talk,” said Tom. “We have a plan. Who’s in?”

  “I’m in,” said Vernon.

  Borabay nodded. “I’m in.”

  “I’m in,” said Sally.

  Now all eyes were on Philip. He made an angry gesture as if to sweep them all away. “For heaven’s sake, you already know what my answer’s going to be!”

  “Which is?” Vernon asked.

  “For the record, it’s no, no, no! This is a James Bond plan. It’ll never succeed in real life. Don’t do it. For God’s sake, I don’t want to lose my brothers, too. Don’t do it.”

  “We have to, Philip,” said Tom.

  “No one has to do anything! Maybe this is blasphemy, but isn’t it just a little bit true that Father brought this down on himself?”

  “So we just let him die?”

  “I’m just asking you, please, not to throw your lives away.” He threw up his hands and stomped off in the darkness.

  Vernon was about to shout a reply, but Tom touched his arm and shook his head. Perhaps Philip was right and it was a suicide mission. But Tom personally had no choice. If he didn’t do something now, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself later. It was as simple as that.

  Their faces flickered around the firelight, and there was a long, uncertain silence.

  “There’s no reason to wait,” said Tom. “We leave tonight at two A.M. It should take us a couple of hours to get down there. Everyone knows what they have to do. Borabay, you can explain to your warriors their role.” Tom glanced over at Vernon. The plan had been his, Vernon’s, the brother who never took the lead. He reached out and grasped his brother’s shoulder. “Good going,” he said.

  Vernon smiled back. “I feel like we’re in The Wizard of Oz here.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve found my brain. Tom, you’ve found your heart. Borabay’s found his family. The only thing is, Philip hasn’t quite found his courage.”

  Tom said, “Somehow I don’t think a bucket of water is going to take care of Hauser, either.”

  “No,” murmured Sally, “that it won’t.”

  60

  Tom rose from his hammock at 1:00 A.M. The night was black. Clouds had blotted out the stars and a restless wind rustled and mumbled through the trees. The only light came from the ruddy heap of embers in the fire ring, casting a reddish glow on the faces of the ten Tara warriors. They were still sitting in a circle around the fire, not having moved or spoken all night.

  Before waking the others Tom collected the binoculars and stepped out of the trees to take one more look at the White City. The lights were still on at the suspension bridge, the soldiers in their ruined fort. Tom thought of what lay ahead. Perhaps Philip was right and it was suicide. Perhaps Maxwell Broadbent was dead in his tomb and they were risking their lives for nothing. All that was beside the point: He had to do it.

  Tom went to wake the others only to find most of them up. Borabay unbanked the fire, piled in fresh sticks, and put a pot on to boil. Sally joined them soon afterward and began checking her Springfield by the light of the fire. Her faced looked drawn, tired. “You remember what General Patton said was always the first casualty of a battle?” she asked Tom.

  “No.”

  “The battle plan.”

  “So you don’t think our plan is going to work?” Tom asked.

  She shook her head. “Probably not.” She looked away, then back down at the rifle, giving it an unneeded polish with the cleaning rag.

  “What do you think’s going to happen?”

  She shook her head wordlessly, sending waves through her heavy gold hair. Tom realized she was very upset. He placed his hand on her shoulder. “We have to do this, Sally.”

  She nodded. “I know.”

  Vernon joined them at the fire, and the four of them drank their tea in silence. When the tea w
as gone, Tom glanced at his watch. Two o’clock. He looked around for Philip, but his brother had not even come out of the hut. He nodded to Borabay, and they all rose. Sally threw the gun over her shoulder, and they shouldered small palm-leaf backpacks containing a supply of food, water, matches, camp stove, and other essentials. They set off single file, Borabay in the lead, the warriors bringing up the rear, moving down through the grove of trees and out into the open.

  Ten minutes down from the camp, Tom heard the sound of running from behind, and they all stopped and listened, the warriors with their arrows nocked and drawn. In a moment Philip appeared, breathing hard.

  “Here to wish us luck?” Vernon asked, an edge of sarcasm in his voice.

  Philip took a moment to catch his breath. “I don’t know why I would even think of joining this harebrained scheme. But damn it, I’m not going to let you go off to your deaths alone.”

  61

  Marcus Aurelius Hauser felt in his musette bag for another Churchill and selected one, rolling it between thumb and forefinger before taking it out. He went through the sacrament of trimming, moistening, and lighting it, and then he held it out in the dark so that he could admire the big fat glowing tip while allowing the aroma of fine Cuban longleaf to surround him like a cocoon of elegance and satisfaction. Cigars, he mused, always seem to become better, richer, deeper tasting in the jungle.

  Hauser was well hidden at a strategic point above the suspension bridge in a thicket of ferns, where he had a good view of the bridge and the soldiers in their little stone fort on the far side. He pushed aside some plants and raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes. He had a strong feeling that the three Broadbent brothers were going to make their break to cross the bridge tonight. They wouldn’t wait; they couldn’t wait. They had to get to the tomb before he did, if they wanted any chance at all of saving some of the masterpieces for themselves.

  He puffed contentedly, thinking back to Maxwell Broadbent. He had lugged half a billion dollars’ worth of fine art and antiquities up here, all on a whim. As outrageous at it was, it was perfectly in character. Max was the man of the big gesture, the spectacle, the show. He lived large and he died large.