The Mayan Secrets fa-5

by Clive Cussler

  “You don’t look happy about all of this progress,” said Remi.

  “I’m worried. We have a copy of the codex, but Sarah Allersby has the original. If she pays the right person, she can get it translated, and I assume that’s what she’s doing. As soon as she can read it, she’ll see everything I’ve just shown you.”

  “You mean she’ll find out where these cities are?” said Sam.

  “And all of the other sites,” said Caine. “While you were in Spain, I asked a colleague”—Caine saw the alarmed look on Remi’s face—“not the one I mistakenly trusted before. This one is a friend I’ve known for a number of years. His name is Ron Bingham. He’s a professor at the University of Pennsylvania who specializes in Mayan technology. He’s one of the world’s best lithicists. He can examine a piece of obsidian and tell you where it came from and how it was used or look at a structure and tell you how and when it was built, where the quarry was, and even how many times it was rebuilt.”

  “Interesting specialty,” said Sam.

  “The point is, his reputation is spotless. Integrity isn’t negotiable and doesn’t depend on the situation. But Ron can get invited to join any expedition in Central America, and a fair number anywhere else. He can’t be tempted by Sarah Allersby.”

  “If you trust him, we do too,” said Sam. “What did he say?”

  “Well, I told him I was planning to visit some of the sites this summer. He said that Sarah Allersby had approached him and several other people he knows to inform them she’s mounting a major expedition that will begin soon. She implied that she knows exactly where she wants to go and what she expects to find there. She’s already hiring people.”

  “What sort of people?” Remi asked.

  “Nobody like Ron. People like him run their own fieldwork. But this, she was promising, was something special. She’s hiring experienced guides, Guatemalan workers who have been trained on archaeological digs in the past, cooks, drivers, and so on. You can be sure there won’t be anybody who could put up resistance to whatever she wants to do or question her methods or how she treats structures and artifacts. It’s her show.”

  “I guess this is the downside of finding the codex,” said Sam. “Even if she hadn’t stolen it, before long everything would have become public.”

  “It didn’t have to be this way,” said Caine. “What we’ve done is hand the worst person in the field of Mayan history a virtual monopoly of the biggest finds over the next twenty-five years. Because of her personal fortune, she can be in the field while legitimate scholars are still writing grant proposals. We’ve also given her enough of a head start to loot at least four great Mayan cities and innumerable other sites. We’ll probably never know how much she quietly sells off in Europe, Asia, and the U.S. and never becomes part of the historial record.”

  “We can’t let that happen,” Remi said. “We’ve got to stop her.”

  Sam put his arm around her shoulders. “Wait a minute,” he said. He spoke to Caine as well as to Remi. “When we were in Guatemala, we barely got out with our lives. I’ve seldom been so glad to get out of anywhere. When we ducked into that cenote, I thought we were going to die. If that unlikely way out hadn’t been there, we would be dead.”

  “I know that,” she said. “I’d try to forget, but I know I can’t. But bringing home that pot with the codex inside brought with it some responsibility. You heard David. Between our finding that codex and the university administration handing it over to impostors, we’ve given a whole field of study over to one nasty, spoiled, lying, thieving woman.”

  David Caine said, “This is really my responsibility. I’ve been planning my expedition for summer, but I’m afraid summer is going to be too late to head her off entirely. I think once I’m on the scene with a group of reputable colleagues, I can prevent the worst excesses. She’s trying to buy a name for herself as an archaeologist. If eight or ten well-known archaeologists are present, she can hardly dismantle features or loot the tombs.”

  “And she’s already working as fast as she can.” Remi turned to Sam. “I’ll never forgive myself if we don’t even try to stop her. About the only thing the Mayans have left is their history. If Sarah Allersby ends up stealing that too, it would be our fault. How are we going to feel in a year when she’s publishing false accounts of her ‘discoveries’ and misleading people about everything she finds?”

  Sam sighed but said nothing.

  “That’s the one thing we actually know for sure,” said Remi. “All we have to do is look at the four major sites in the codex that David came to show us. We know the way she thinks. She’s greedy. She’ll start with the biggest one.”

  Sam looked at Remi, then at Caine. “I have to admit, that seems to be the way Sarah Allersby thinks. Which one is the biggest?”

  “I’ll go start packing,” said Remi. “And, this time, I’d like to include a lot more ammunition.”

  Chapter 20

  LA JOLLA

  Russell stood beside Ruiz at the edge of the paved walkway above the beach at Goldfish Point. They could see the big house where Sam and Remi Fargo lived. So far, he and Ruiz had not agreed on a plan that would accomplish their goal or allow them to venture much closer than a quarter mile.

  The problem was that Russell still didn’t look right. His face was plastered with opaque makeup that served to cover the indelible blue ink, but the color wasn’t right. It was the color of a plastic doll. And when he sweated, as he did on this San Diego beach, a very faint tinge of blue began to show through like tinted gesso behind a painting. He looked profoundly strange.

  It seemed to Ruiz that every time he went to a new store to try for the right shade of makeup, he forgot the exact hue of Russell’s skin and got a shade that was wrong. The one before last was a match for Ruiz’s own skin, which made Russell’s face look like a brown mask put on above a pink neck, and it made his ears seem to glow. But the new one, this pink, made Russell look like he wasn’t quite human. Since the habitual expression on Russell’s face since the accident was suppressed rage, he was scary even to Ruiz.

  Even though they were sure the Fargos had never seen their faces, except, perhaps, for a blur on the passing motorcycle in Spain, the blue, or even the cover-up, would draw their attention and the attention of everyone else.

  They waited above the beach, facing in the direction of the water whenever people were near, until the sun went down beyond the ocean. Now that it was fully dark, Russell felt better about moving closer to the Fargos’ house. He had brought a small backpack, like a man who had spent a day at the beach, but it held a 5.56mm Steyr AUG rifle with a forty-two-round magazine and a stubby bullpup stock. Right now, it was broken down into three pieces that could be assembled in seconds without tools. The fourth piece was a factory-made suppressor that permitted it to fire without much more than a clacking from the moving parts and a spitting sound as the projectile left the muzzle.

  Russell and Ruiz walked toward the street where private houses began. The first one on the point was the Fargos’ massive four-story cube with balconies and large windows on three sides. The windows on the ocean side were bigger than the others and gave the impression from a distance that the whole place was a glass box. But as Russell and Ruiz came closer, they could see that each window had steel shutters that could be opened or closed.

  Ruiz and Russell reached the Fargo property and stepped off the road into the grove of pine trees, sat down in the deep shadows, and watched the windows. On the first floor there was a middle-aged woman with short hair, wearing a vintage tie-dyed T-shirt and Japanese gardening pants, working in front of a desktop computer with an unusually large screen. Not far from her, at two other workstations, were a small blond woman in her twenties and a tall, thin man about the same age with close-cut brown hair.

  And then there was the dog. Miss Allersby had mentioned him while they were planning how to get their hands on the Mayan codex. The German shepherd was what had made her decide she wanted only a halfhe
arted burglary to give these amateurs an idea of how much trouble it could be to keep artifacts worth millions lying around the house. When Russell had arrived for the break-in, he had been relieved that the dog was not on the premises.

  Russell knew the house had been equipped with a number of security systems, sensors, cameras, and alarms, so he didn’t dare move in too close and certainly wouldn’t try to get in. All he wanted was a clear shot at each of the Fargos.

  As Russell watched, the dog appeared across the big room on the first floor, walked all the way to the middle-aged woman, and lay down at her feet. Miss Allersby had not exaggerated. He was a fine specimen, with all of the standard German shepherd characteristics. Shepherds had a reputation for a keen sense of smell and fierce loyalty. This one was also a big fellow. And she’d said he was trained for the work. There would be no fooling him with a piece of prime rib and a pat on the head. If this dog got free, he would have to be killed before he got close enough to leap.

  Russell watched the middle-aged woman go to a filing cabinet across the room, and the dog followed her there too. He looked as though he had been given an order to protect her. He leaned close to Ruiz. “I don’t see the Fargos.”

  “Neither do I,” said Ruiz.

  “We’ll give it a little while longer. If she shows signs of letting the dog out, we’d better go.” He was distressed. Where were the Fargos? He had come so far, covered with greasy makeup, hoping to kill them. They had to be here. They had to.

  The dog stood up suddenly in a single motion, his strong legs simply straightening under him. He walked to the front window and stared down into the darkness. He must have heard or seen them. Now he was making some kind of racket, probably growling.

  The woman came to the window and looked in the direction she thought the dog was looking. Then she went away from the window, and Russell and Ruiz slipped out of the grove of pines to the street. The two men kept moving, trying to run quickly, as Russell pulled the nineteen-inch barrel out of the stock of the Steyr AUG and shoved both pieces into his pack, then slung it over his shoulder.

  They reached the ocean end of the street before the grove of pines lit up behind them. There seemed to be floodlights on every tree, aimed downward at the very spots that a man might mistake for a safe, sheltered vantage.

  After another minute of running, they reached the concrete walkway above the beach. Ruiz looked at Russell, and his face took on a look of distaste. “You’ve got to get out of the lights, man. You look like a blue vampire.”

  Russell glanced down and saw that the sweat soaking the front of his shirt was mixed with the pink makeup. First Russell and then Ruiz vaulted over the railing and walked on the sand.

  “How can they be gone?” said Russell. “Where would they even go?” But he knew they were gone. He knew it as well as he knew anything. If they’d come here from Spain, home had only been a pit stop. They had eluded him again. They were where they could cause the most trouble, in Guatemala.

  He waited until he and Ruiz reached his car. He had parked in a lot far down the beach. When he got there, he found a ticket on the windshield under the wiper. The check mark indicated he was parking after hours. He looked around him and saw the sign, unobstructed and bright under the streetlight: “Lot closes at 8:00 p.m.” He hadn’t noticed the sign when he had driven in.

  He supposed that he should be relieved that he hadn’t found the Fargos, taken a shot at one of them, and left, a parking ticket on record to show he’d been here. But he wasn’t capable of being relieved about anything. This was another gratuitous annoyance, an infuriating obstacle laid in his path, in case being blue hadn’t been enough.

  He looked out each of the car windows, checked the mirrors, and saw no police cars, but he decided to drive with extreme care. He knew it was a bad idea to rely on luck, or even probability, when things were going badly. If he lingered or sped off in a rage, a cop would surely come by, pull him over, shine a flashlight on his blue face, and start asking questions he and Ruiz couldn’t answer. He drove out of the lot and turned toward the freeway.

  He speed-dialed the number on his satellite phone. He knew she would have hers with her at all times, even when she was asleep, so when she said, “Yes?” he was neither surprised nor relieved.

  “Hello. I’m on the road going away from the Fargo house. There’s the older woman you met when you were there, the big dog, and two young people who seem to be employees too. No Fargos.”

  “No Fargos?”

  “No. I called to warn you. I’m afraid they might’ve gone back to Guatemala.”

  “What do you think they’re doing?”

  “I don’t really know. But now I’m wondering if they really did find something in the library in Spain. Maybe they had it in the wife’s purse, and he was just using the briefcase to keep us from going after it.”

  “That sounds possible,” she said.

  “Well, I just wanted you to know that you’d better be ready for them to show up down there.”

  “I want you to come here. Can you get a late flight tonight or early tomorrow?”

  “Uh, I’m a little uncomfortable talking about this. My face is still blue.”

  “You haven’t gotten rid of that yet?”

  “No. I’ve used every solvent I know of and every kind of wash. I’m still blue. The makeup helps, kind of.”

  “I’m going to get one of my doctors to call you. He’s very good and will know your problem, so don’t hang up on him. He’ll have a colleague in Los Angeles who will see you.”

  “What can a doctor do about this?”

  “If I were to guess, I’d say a chemical peel to remove the outer layer of skin that’s been dyed and leave nice new skin uncovered. But I’m not a doctor. He is. His name is Leighton. Whatever happens, I want you in Guatemala City by Thursday. And I want your friend Ruiz so you understand what people say to you.”

  “All right,” he said. “We’ll be there. Thanks for your help.”

  “It’s not a favor, Russell. I need somebody reliable to be here to keep the Fargos from ruining this opportunity for me. This is going to be the most important project of my life, and these people are malicious. No matter how graciously I’ve treated them, both at their house and my own, or how generous my offer, they’ve decided to be my enemies. I need you to make them aware of what a bad idea that was.”

  Chapter 21

  BELIZE

  Sam and Remi could not tell how much influence Sarah Allersby might have with the authorities in Guatemala, but they decided she was unlikely to have anyone watching Belize for their arrival. They flew into Punta Gorda on a private jet and took a bus down the coast to Livingston, then paid a fisherman to take them upstream on the Río Dulce to Lago de Izabal, across the border in Guatemala. A visitor could enter any of the four countries of the region and deal with customs officials only once, then pass freely to the others.

  They hired a second boat to take them the length of the lake. It was a vast expanse of blue-gray under a layer of clouds, and in the distance, beyond the shore, there was a wall of blue mountains. The trip was beautiful, and standing on the deck of the boat was a relief after so many miles on the road.

  Sam and Remi were better prepared for their trip into the high country of central Guatemala. They had enlisted in advance the cooperation of like-minded officials: Amy Costa at the U.S. Embassy in Guatemala City, and Commander Rueda of the Guatemalan national police. If the Fargos were to find any evidence that Sarah Allersby was violating the laws of the country regarding the transporting of antiquities, or had possession of the codex from the Mexican volcano, Rueda would arrest her. If necessary, he would fly in a squad of rangers to a remote area to do it.

  Sam had spoken to Amy Costa on a conference call. “He agreed to that? What caused the change of heart?”

  “It’s always hard to know,” said Amy Costa. “We ask for cooperation and we always hope to get it. This time we will.”

  After Sam and Remi hung
up, Remi rolled her eyes. “You really didn’t notice?”

  “Apparently not. Notice what?”

  “She walked us past about thirty offices full of old married cops and went right into the office of this handsome guy about her age who couldn’t keep his big brown eyes off her.”

  “You’re saying our State Department official is fraternizing with a Guatemalan cop?”

  “No, I’m saying she’s every bit as smart as she looks.”

  Now they were back in Guatemala, and both of their satellite phones were programmed with the embassy number and the office of Commander Rueda. The lake was thirty-one miles long and sixteen miles wide, and as they reached the end at El Estor, Sam and Remi both felt good. Sometimes covering thirty miles in the highlands could take several days of hard climbing.

  At El Estor, they hired a small boat to take them up the Polochic River, which fed the lake from the west side. It was one hundred fifty miles long, a winding, narrow stream bordered by jungle that came all the way down to the water like a green wall. It was navigable upstream as far as the town of Panzós, with an unpaved road to take them on from there.

  As they moved up into the heart of the region, the forest was deeper and thicker, and the few settlements they saw seemed random, like places where people’s gasoline or enthusiasm had run out and they had decided to build shelters and stay.

  Once again, Sam and Remi had come armed. They still had their Guatemalan carry permits, and Selma had arranged to have four semiautomatic pistols purchased and waiting for them in Punta Gorda. As they had on their first trip, they carried one each in their packs and the others in bellybands under their shirts. They brought considerably more nine-millimeter ammunition, including ten loaded magazines each.