The Mayan Secrets fa-5

by Clive Cussler

  “The people here left three weeks ago,” said Justin Fraker. “It’s listed in the British catalogs of discovery too.” He pointed at the image on his satellite phone. “They’ve got a complete description. The map coordinates are identical. And they marked it with a pipe with a red flag that pokes out of the ground below the stairs.”

  “Who are these people who supposedly left three weeks ago?” said Sarah Allersby.

  “The names listed are Samuel and Remi—”

  “Fargo!” she interrupted. “They’re criminals, people who have no qualifications or academic intent whatever. They’re treasure hunters. This is a trick.”

  “The find is listed as a joint project with the University of California,” said Van Muckerjee, the New York Times correspondent. “The University of California would seem to have academic qualifications and academic intent.”

  “I have no more to say about these people,” she said. “I’ll be leaving here in a half hour. I would advise you all to make your way to the helicopter landing area as soon as possible. The pilots will not be flying anyone out after dark.” She turned and began to walk along the path.

  Sarah held her shining blond head high and walked in silence. The chosen group of journalists trotted after her, the photographers racing ahead so they could get a picture of her face with a snarl or a tear. Both sold a lot of papers.

  GUATEMALA CITY

  The next afternoon, Sarah Allersby sat in her bedroom and looked at her computer. Posted on YouTube was a video of Sarah Allersby. She looked beautiful and triumphant as she hacked her way through the brush and stepped onto the great plaza of the old city. Then, almost immediately, things changed. The newspeople were already preparing to surround her, saying in several languages that she was a fraud. It didn’t matter whether the viewer could speak all of those languages because the reporters yelling in his language would tell him the simple version of it: “This site has already been discovered by someone else.” “This city is known.” “It’s already registered with the international organizations.” “You’re trying to fool everyone.”

  As the accusations were repeated and amplified, Sarah walked quietly away from the mob of angry reporters. The reporters ran after her, then ahead of her, taking her picture and accusing her of worse and worse impostures. It went on and on. As Sarah watched on her computer, it made her want to cry for the poor, tormented woman in the video. Then the video faded out, and she saw the title: “British heiress caught in fraud.” Views: 330,129. As she sat motionless, staring at the picture that was as motionless as she was, the number changed to 339,727. She clicked on the X at the corner of the screen to banish the sight, then stood up and walked away from the computer.

  She picked up the telephone and dialed a number she had called only a few times. This time, she was nervous.

  “Hello?” It was the voice of a young woman, probably one of the women who kept appearing on Diego San Martin’s arm at parties and charity events, and then being replaced by another, and another.

  “Hello.” Sarah’s voice was honeyed, and her Spanish was sure and fluid. “This is Sarah Allersby. Is Señor San Martin available?”

  “I’ll see,” the woman said carelessly. She dropped the phone on a hard surface.

  Sarah imagined her from her voice. His women were always models or actresses or beauty contest winners from Mexico or various South American countries. It was astounding how many of them there seemed to be, passing through a capital like Guatemala City — an endless supply.

  “Sarah.” San Martin’s voice was gruff but friendly.

  “Good afternoon, Diego. I wondered if you and I could have a talk tomorrow.”

  “Do you want to come here?”

  “If you don’t mind coming to my house, I would consider it a favor. Just now I’ve been having some bad publicity. I don’t know who might be waiting to follow me around. I’m keeping myself out of sight for now.”

  “All right.”

  “Come for lunch at twelve.”

  The next day, by eleven-thirty, she was prepared. The table that had been set in Sarah Allersby’s garden was superb. She’d had the servants lay out thick white linen, crystal glasses, and the heaviest antique silver, all part of the Guerrero house furnishings. The china was a subdued Wedgwood, cream white, with a pattern of lavender leaves and a gold rim. It was an eighteenth-century pattern she’d learned was in a warehouse in Mumbai that belonged to her family. She had been fond of rescuing things of that sort when she was a teenager — old china and pottery from shipments passing through India that an ancestor had picked up, old paintings and books from English and French houses the family had bought during times of economic disaster. Many of these things had been moved to company warehouses on the London docks, others left in place while the company leased the homes out for various purposes or converted them to hotels.

  The flowers in the vases were from beds not a hundred feet from the table. The old, Spanish-style Guerrero house was the perfect place for private conversations, a two-story brick structure with a courtyard in the center. The tree-shaded court was protected on all sides. No remote sensing device or telephoto lens would be of much use here.

  Sarah looked at everything critically and with a cold eye. The food, the setting, the location of the table, even the likely path of the sun, had to be right. Men like Diego San Martin had little tolerance for inconvenience.

  At exactly noon, her front-door man, Victor, ushered San Martin through the foyer and the French doors into the courtyard, where Sarah awaited him. He was about fifty-five, but he was vain about his appearance and kept himself in fighting condition. He carried a panama hat with a black band and wore a beige linen suit with a pale yellow shirt and blue tie. He looked cool and sweet, Sarah thought, like an Italian ice. He was followed in by two bodyguards.

  She admired the easy, casual way San Martin traveled about with bodyguards. He was never hampered or hemmed in by their presence. When he arrived at a building, one of them would step in first, look around, and open the door for him. When San Martin entered a room, one man stayed at the door to keep it securely under his control and the other stationed himself at a second strategic spot — beside a window or by a staircase — away from the civilians. San Martin always behaved as though the two ice-eyed killers were invisible.

  He took Sarah’s hand and leaned in to kiss her cheek. “It’s wonderful to see a beautiful and noble lady at any time, but to be invited to her home for lunch is a great privilege. And the light here is made for you.”

  Sarah Allersby would never say it, but it had been made for her. She’d had the long table removed today and replaced with a round one because she didn’t want to set off any thoughts of precedence. A man like San Martin would expect to sit at the head of any table, but letting him do it here would be dangerous. He instinctively took charge of things, and she could not let him begin to think of her as an underling in his empire or of her house as territory.

  “Please sit here,” she said, and pulled a chair out. She moved to the chair beside that one, knowing that it would make the place she’d chosen for him desirable.

  Once they were comfortably seated side by side, she nodded, and the waiter poured some wine for both of them. She tasted it, then said, “Leave us. I’ll ring.” The waiter moved off toward the kitchen. She said, “I’ve invited a trusted associate, who’s waiting in the library. His name is Mr. Russell. May I bring him in?”

  “All right.” San Martin turned toward his two bodyguards to be sure they’d heard. They said nothing but headed into the house and across the foyer. After about a minute, they returned with Russell and resumed their posts.

  Sarah said, “This is Mr. Russell, and this is Mr. San Martin. Diego, Mr. Russell has helped me and members of my family a number of times and his discretion is absolute. I wouldn’t invite him today if I didn’t trust him with my life.”

  Diego San Martin took the wine bottle out of the ice bucket and looked hard at Russell. Sarah l
ooked hard at Russell too, imagining what San Martin was thinking. Was she imagining just a faint tinge of blue remained on his face?

  Russell picked up his wineglass and held it out so San Martin could fill it. Both men’s faces were empty and serious, each staring into the other’s eyes. Neither man’s hand shook. “Thank you,” said Russell.

  “Well, gentlemen,” said Sarah. “While we’re having a chilled drink together, let me bring up my problem, and then I’ll ring to have the food served.”

  “Excellent idea,” said San Martin. “Right to the point.”

  “A few weeks ago, an American couple named Sam and Remi Fargo began to spy on me. They went into the country around the Estancia Guerrero and then onto the Estancia itself. They were the ones your security people saw near the sacred cenote in the ruins of the ceremonial center. I believe they wounded or killed about a dozen of your employees.”

  “Yes,” San Martin said. “Their visit was an expensive one for me.”

  “They also visited the Estancia itself and saw your marijuana crop and the coca trees. They came to this house to complain about them to me.”

  “Interesting.”

  “They have also gone to some trouble to get me arrested on the charge of stealing a Mayan codex from them and for attempting to have them killed by Mr. Russell. I had the charges dropped, but only after days of humiliation and a public court appearance.”

  San Martin sipped his wine. “That must have been unpleasant.”

  “Yes. They’re a potential threat to me, so I’m afraid to let them go on this way. But they’re even more of a threat to you. They’ve already found your operation on the Estancia. I know you feel people should solve their own problems instead of bringing them to you, but I think these people are a problem we share.”

  He laughed. “You’ve learned to know me so well,” he said. “You’re a perceptive woman. You may actually be the perfect woman.”

  She laughed too. “Of course I am. Being a woman is all I do.” She refilled the glasses.

  “All right. Tell me how I can be a good friend to you. And then we’ll have lunch. I promise to give you my answer when we’ve finished.”

  “Mr. Russell? Can you help me explain?”

  Russell was filled with appreciation of her cunning. She knew that San Martin would be most comfortable with her as the ultra-feminine woman who appeared not to know the violent details. He also knew that San Martin had no interest in knowing him, so he had to be brief. “Miss Allersby has a list of Mayan sites that she planned to visit. At one of these sites we had a group of five men clear and guard a helicopter landing area so Miss Allersby could bring journalists with her to see the ruins. The men were heavily armed. Yet they had disappeared by the time Miss Allersby arrived. And we now know that the Fargos visted the site before she did.”

  “Thank you,” said San Martin. He turned to Sarah. “And now let’s do justice to your beautiful table and have the lunch you’ve planned.”

  Sarah rang the little silver bell by her, and the lunch was served. There was poached salmon with a caper sauce and asparagus. The wine that was poured with it was a 1998 Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame. There was sorbet to cleanse the palate before the salad was served, in the French manner, after the entrée, and then small, delicate pastries with strong espresso.

  As Señor San Martin finished his coffee, he sat back in his chair. Sarah Allersby looked at the servants, gave a little flip of her hand, and they dissolved into the doorways along the side of the house that led to the kitchen and pantry. Then she poured another cup of espresso for San Martin.

  San Martin looked at Russell with eyes so cold and devoid of feeling that they looked dead. “I’ll try to find out what happened to your five men. The forest is a dangerous place, and not everybody with a gun works for me. If the Fargos are responsible, the five might be in jail somewhere.” He handed Russell his calling card. “Here, Mr. Russell. Come and see me tomorrow afternoon. I’ll supply you with a small army of professionals who won’t be troubled by a couple of American tourists.”

  Chapter 26

  ALTA VERAPAZ, GUATEMALA

  Sam and Remi loaded their backpacks into a Jeep. This time, it was a rental car and a few years newer. They drove the narrow, winding road toward Santa Maria de los Montañas, the town where they had jumped off the marijuana truck and been helped by the priest and the doctor.

  As they drove, Remi said, “Do you think we’re having an effect on her?”

  “Sarah Allersby?” Sam said. “I’m sure we are. We’ve visited the six biggest, and probably most important, undiscovered sites mentioned in the codex and registered them. That burns them for her. She can’t claim to discover them if we did.” Sam drove on for a minute. “The police in Belize say the five men who attacked Tim’s helicopter haven’t talked yet, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she hired them to control access to that Mayan site.”

  Remi said, “I know she’s angry. In fact, if nothing else had happened, seeing herself ridiculed in the European magazines would have been plenty. People envy the rich bad-girl celebrities who are always in the tabloids, but envy isn’t the same as admiration. There’s a complicated mixture of feelings involved. Whenever one of these women gets embarrassed or hurt, a lot of the people who were busy fawning on them are delighted to see it happen.”

  “She’s pretty sophisticated. The fickleness of crowds can’t be a surprise to someone like her.”

  “I know,” said Remi. “I’ve just been thinking about her and feel this isn’t going right. We’re locked in a competition with her, and I’d like to be able to foresee a happy ending, but I don’t.”

  Sam said, “The ideal end would be if she would stop pretending to be an archaeologist and send the codex she stole to the Mexican government.”

  “Of course. But do you honestly think we’ll wear her down enough for that?”

  “Not likely,” he said.

  “So maybe what we ought to be doing is thinking of ways to steal the codex back and return it ourselves,” said Remi.

  “I have been.”

  “Really? What have you thought of?”

  “I’m stuck on phase one — finding out where she keeps it.”

  In the afternoon, Sam and Remi approached Santa Maria de los Montañas in the only way possible, from the road that rose drastically upward from the valley below. The Jeep climbed back and forth up the hairpin curves, unprotected by guardrails, followed by a long, straight rise through thick forest to the crest. The trees on the forested upper altitudes kept drivers from seeing much of the road ahead.

  When they were nearly to the last stretch of road before the rise, Remi pointed at a spot that was bare except for bushes and brush. “I think that was the place where you landed when we jumped off the marijuana truck. Want to do it again in daylight so I can get a picture for my scrapbook?”

  “Thanks for offering, but I think I won’t have trouble remembering.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Remi. “Can we stop at the church and see Father Gomez?”

  “I think we have to,” Sam said. “We said we’d let him know how our meeting with Sarah Allersby went.”

  When they reached the top of the hill, they parked on the plaza near the old church, then walked to the small house behind it that served as the priest’s home and office and knocked.

  In a moment, Father Gomez appeared at the door. He smiled. “Señor and Señora Fargo. I’m delighted to see you again.”

  “Thank you, Father,” said Sam. “We thought we’d stop by for a talk.”

  Father Gomez said, “I can tell from your serious expression that the news will not bring me joy. But we must talk. Do you have time to have tea with me?”

  “Of course,” said Remi. “We’d be delighted.”

  “Come in, come in,” he said, and ushered them into his simple office with its dark wooden furniture. If it weren’t for the open laptop computer, the room could have been from the sixteenth century. He led them into a small
, old-fashioned dining room, with a long table in the same dark, heavy wood. An elderly lady, with brown skin, pronounced Mayan features, and her gray hair tied in a tight bun, entered the room.

  Father Gomez said, “Señora Velasquez, this is Señor Fargo and Señora Fargo. They’ll be joining us for tea.”

  Señora Velasquez brought out plain white china and utensils, which Father Gomez and the Fargos arranged on the table. After Señora Velasquez brought the tea and cookies, she returned to the kitchen.

  “Won’t Señora Velasquez join us?” asked Remi.

  “It’s not her custom,” Father Gomez said. “In a small town parish, when people meet with the priest, they like privacy. Please, Señora Fargo, will you pour for us?”

  “I’m happy to,” Remi said. She took over the ceremonial role, pouring the tea and distributing the cups on saucers.

  “Now,” said Father Gomez, “are you ready to tell me what happened when you went to visit Miss Allersby?”

  Remi and Sam told him the whole story, beginning with Sarah Allersby’s visit to their house to buy the Mayan codex and ending with the ambush that awaited them at the burned landing patch outside the ancient Mayan city. “We’ve learned a lot about Sarah Allersby. She intends to use the map in the Mayan codex to locate and pretend to discover all of the most promising sites. We’re using the same information from Father Las Casas’s copy to get to each of the sites first. A professor at the University of California in San Diego uses our photographs and GPS data to register them with the international archaeological organizations before she can reach them.”

  Father Gomez looked troubled. “I’m sorry that she has turned out to be such a selfish, misguided woman. Do you think the authorities will force her to stop letting narcotics traffickers use her land?”

  Sam sighed. “I’m told by responsible people in Guatemala City that things will get better in time. The existence of the Mayan site near the fields is known now. And the fields themselves have been drawn to the attention of the national police. But improvements happen slowly, and Miss Allersby has some powerful friends who can make it even slower.”