The drudgery of the bus ride, as it turned out, was part of the appeal: Tourists unexpectedly liked the idea of boarding a bus, crossing into the forbidding jungle territories, and emerging to find the stonework and artistry of the Maya spread before them like so many desserts on a banquet table. It made them feel like part of the discovery, as if they were explorers themselves. They could pretend to uncover a rich and exotic culture, after enduring four hours of bus travel through lands that would be as alien and foreboding to them as anything they'd ever seen in a film or television program. They could “rough it” across the landscape—albeit in a climate-controlled environment, with bottles of ice-cold soda or Evian, an array of snacks, and the advantage of an onboard restroom—and feel they earned their adventure.
At the end of the day, coming home to white sands and luxury accommodations, to be pampered with massages and fruity beverages, after an eight-hour round trip bus ride and a handful of hours exploring the ancient world … it was a hard package to compete with. Human psychology was a play—the tradeoff was well worth it.
And because of these quirks of human psychology, few travelers had need of CZA, and eventually it lost many of its principle airlines to attrition. Over time, it had become less of a hub on the airport circuit, and more of an outlier. Those airlines that remained were small, and served a very niche clientele.
As it turned out, Kotler was part of that demographic, having flown into CZA numerous times over the past decade. It marked him as being part of a select few, a club with members who spent more time hacking through snake- and insect-infested jungles than reclining on beaches with cocktails in hand.
As of this flight, Agent Denzel was now a part of that club of explorers as well, though he was already grumbling about the upcoming trek through the jungle. He would be thrilled about the snakes.
They traveled light—each with a backpack crammed with everything they thought they might need for such a trip. Within reason, of course. They'd gotten specific instructions from Dr. Graham on what to bring, and what to leave behind. Kotler was more than happy to fall back on Graham's expert recommendations. Graham knew the specifics of this site better than anyone, and knew the inventory of items already available. It was always wise to heed the advice of the local expert.
They made their way through customs, which was a much faster process than either of them were used to when traveling abroad. Fewer travelers flying in meant speedier processing, but it also opened the door to increased scrutiny and questioning, which might have delayed them, had Denzel not presented his FBI badge. Kotler fished his own FBI credentials out of a pocket of his backpack, and the man who scanned them, along with their passports, opted not to press them any further.
“Welcome to Chichén Itzá,” he said in accented English, and let them pass.
Dr. Graham met them at the front steps of the airport, wearing the traditional adventuring archaeologist's gear—khakis from head to toe, and a wide-brimmed hat modeled on the classic fedora. Indiana Jones had set the tone and standard for generations of explorers, and Kotler was no exception. He and Graham could have been members of some adult version of the Boy Scouts, when standing side-by-side. Denzel, on the other hand, was wearing jungle fatigues, and well-worn combat boots, all remnants of his military career. His over-shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a tan T-shirt beneath. The only thing missing were his dog tags, Kotler mused.
Graham was driving a white Range Rover that had seen a fair amount of use in rough terrain, but looked to have held up quite well. The side panels were scratched and dented all along their length, but the suspension seemed true, and the tires were brand new. There was expedition gear strapped to its roof and large canisters of water tied to a rack on the back bumper.
“John,” Kotler said, taking Graham's hand in a firm shake.
“Dan,” Graham replied, nodding. “I was wondering how long it would take you two to finally get here.” He looked to Denzel. “Agent Denzel,” he nodded, extending his hand.
Denzel shook Graham's and then hefted his hiker's pack. “Where can we stow our gear?”
Graham led them to the Range Rover, suggested where they could stash their bags, and the three of them loaded up and drove away from the airport.
They were on the road to Valladolid, a colonial town located 30 minutes from Chichén Itzá, and named for its counterpart in Spain. The quaint Mexican town was nearly three hours from Xi'paal ‘ek Kaah, as the crow flies, but was rather close to the temples and pyramids that served as tourist destinations in this region. Kotler might have lamented missing an opportunity to see the sights, but reminded himself that he was here to explore an entirely new archeological discovery—one that might someday be on that list of tourist sites, visited by the Cancún crowd.
He wondered, briefly, whether or not that was a comforting thought.
The bustling little town of Valladolid was currently serving as home base for Dr. Graham and his team, as they waited out the verdict of the FBI and the rest of the US alphabet agencies. The fate of Graham's entire expedition rested not only on solving Maggie Hamilton's murder, but on determining if Ah-Puch was a legitimate threat—and if so, eliminating it.
Valladolid was a quaint but active town, with a heavy Spanish influence. It was colorful and vivid in some areas, and respectfully monochromatic when it came to its religion. It was populated with a few imposing structures, such as a cathedral built from quarried stone, looming over the colorfully painted shops and cafes and homes of the town, like a stately grandmother overseeing a room full of toddlers.
They arrived at a hotel that was barely large enough to have earned the name, and Graham advised them to leave their gear in the Range Rover, which would be parked behind the hotel in a secured, fenced-in lot.
“Take the evening to freshen up and rest,” he said. “There's a cantina nearby, if you'd like something for dinner. Then, I suggest we all turn in as soon as possible. I'd like us to be on our way to Xi'paal ‘ek Kaah early tomorrow. We'll leave at sun-up.”
Kotler nodded, and Graham left them to settle into their shared room.
“No other rooms?” Denzel asked, looking at the two single beds with a sour expression.
“I think we're lucky to have one to ourselves,” Kotler smiled. “Don't worry, it's just one night.”
“That's exactly what worries me,” Denzel said.
Kotler laughed. “I'm sure you've spent plenty of nights in uncomfortable places, during your service.”
“Which is why I'm not keen on repeating the experience,” Denzel said. “I could use a shower.” He wandered to the door at the back of the room, closing it behind him as he entered the full bath. Moments later, Kotler heard the squeak of an ancient faucet handle turn, and the sound of running water.
He looked around at his temporary home for the evening, and sighed. There was a sort of nostalgia at work within him, at the moment. How many hotel rooms, just like this one, had he bunked in, around the world? More than he could recall. And every one of them had represented something ineffable—too rich with nuance and the psychic tenor of experience to be practically described in mere words. Rooms such as these signaled an impending adventure, the exploration of the unknown, and the potential discovery of something intrinsically human—more pieces to the puzzle of what it actually meant to be human at all. Kotler's favorite riddle, and one he'd spent his whole life exploring.
Kotler took out his iPad, opening the protective clamshell case that also served as a physical keyboard. The iPad was a better choice of computer, when traveling in scenarios like this one. It was small and compact, for starters, and its battery life could be a great deal better than Kotler's usual laptop, particularly if he left it in airplane mode. Its power needs were slight, as well, with the ability to charge from a 12-volt connection in an automobile, as well as from a wall outlet or even a solar charger. Kotler carried a backup battery with an integrated solar panel, for just this purpose.
He turned on the iPad's Wi-Fi,
but found no hotspots available. He turned on the cellular service, then, and connected. Signal would be non-existent in the jungle. But here, at least, he could update his notes and check email.
There were the usual messages, some from former and current colleagues, with questions about shared projects and ongoing work. The exploration of ‘Atlantis' was still in full swing, and though Kotler's presence there was no longer essential, he appreciated that the team kept him looped in on their discoveries.
The island, which rested in the Indian Ocean near Sri Lanka, was still an unknown to the world at large. And it remained to be seen whether it truly was Atlantis. Thomas Edison had certainly thought that it was, having explored it more than a century ago with his own team, taking away knowledge that informed many of his later inventions and patents. And Gail McCarthy had chosen to believe it was Atlantis, as well, building her assumptions from the beliefs of her grandfather and his business partner, Richard Van Burren. Kotler and Denzel had believed it, too, when they found themselves trapped on the island, running for their lives from mercenaries bent on hunting them down and eliminating them.
Since Kotler had been a part of a more in-depth exploration, however, he was coming to believe the island wasn't Atlantis after all. It might be tied to the mythical lost continent in some way—the existence of which might still turn out to be a complete myth, or the mishmash of other stories gleaned from several millennia of oral tradition. Or it might have been sheer coincidence that this island housed an ancient and advanced culture that was tragically wiped out by a tsunami, somewhere in ancient history.
Time would tell, if they were lucky.
Kotler answered emails from the Atlantis research team, and archived those. He scanned and deleted emails from people soliciting him for various products and services, which immediately took care of half of his incoming email. He also perused the emails from press and media, mostly requests for interviews, filtered through a virtual assistant service he'd contracted for just this purpose. Some of these, he would attend. Some, he would ignore.
He had nearly emptied his inbox of unread messages when he came across one with a cryptic subject line, and an even more enigmatic sender address.
* * *
From: Atlantis Riddle
Subject: Pausing is such sweet sorrow
Dan,
I had expected it would take you some time to decipher my little riddle, but I had no idea it would confound you so completely that you'd rather leave the country than continue to work on it.
But don't worry, I'm not going anywhere. I'm still waiting. When you're done with your Mayan excursion, get back to work. I know you can do it.
Find me.
* * *
The email wasn't signed, but it didn't need to be. Kotler knew instantly that this was from Gail McCarthy. And it had been sent to him directly, not via his VA, and not forwarded from the address he used for spam filtering. Somehow, Gail had tracked down this private and hidden email address, just to reach out and taunt him.
The ‘From' address was clearly a reference to the events surrounding the Atlantis discovery, and the way he and Gail had met. In all of their time together, piecing together the riddle of that island, of Edison's connection to it, of her grandfather and his business partner, it had turned out that the biggest riddle was Gail herself. The pseudonym fit.
This was another swipe at Kotler, another message to tell him that she knew how to get to him, any time, just as she'd had him abducted from the lobby of his apartment. It was another reminder that she was still out there, and still a potential threat.
He frowned. She had certainly picked up a few tricks. The network she'd inherited from Van Burren had given her money, mobility, and untold resources. But when had she acquired hacking skills?
It was more likely she employed someone who knew their way around the darker fringes of the internet. Not so unusual, really, now that he considered it. Her pool of former Special Forces operatives would give her intellectual and technical resources, as well as physical and operational manpower. It made sense.
Something else nagged at Kotler, however.
Gail clearly had a line on what he was doing at all times. He'd been hacked. Which meant that all of his devices were now a liability.
He would need to change all of his account passwords, and possibly even replace his existing computers and other equipment. Safer and more efficient to do that, at any rate. He couldn't be sure how deep her tendrils bore. Perhaps he could chat with Denzel, and enlist the help of the IT resources of the FBI. He was a consultant, after all. If he was compromised, it could be bad for the Bureau.
But the question that nagged at him was, why the games? Why was Gail taunting him, reminding him of her riddle—the three artifacts she had delivered into his hands. She clearly knew what they were, and how they related to each other. But she was missing a piece. She needed him for a resource she didn't possess.
What did Kotler have that Gail McCarthy did not?
Kotler could think of only one thing: The FBI.
His relationship with Roland Denzel, his connection to the Historic Crimes division, his access to FBI resources. Gail might have a vast network of resources, enabling her to do as she pleased while also eluding capture, but even that dark network had its limits. There was something Gail needed that could only be accessed with FBI credentials.
He filed this idea away, making a mental note. It was obvious, now that he thought about it, but it might not be wise to let Gail know he'd figured it out. If he really had been hacked, he couldn't trust technology, for the moment. He'd have to rely on his own mental resources, and play everything else very close. For the first time, however, he felt he had some sort of leverage—an advantage over his adversary, who always seemed a few steps ahead of him. He would press that advantage, when the time was right.
He archived Gail's message without answering, and closed his email. He'd have to deal with this eventually, but for the moment it did him no good to ruminate on it. He'd let it percolate through his subconscious for a while, let insights come as he focused on other things. He'd solved some pretty gnarled and twisted mysteries that way, over the years, and had made some impressive insights. This was a bit different than exploring a lost culture, or trying to decipher a lost language, but the skills would be the same. Gail had presented him with a knotwork, and he would unravel it, eventually. Or, if it came to it, he'd hack through it, like a Gordian Knot, and sift through the pieces.
For now, he opened the News app on his iPad, losing himself, for the moment, in the current of idiocy that ran through American politics like a contaminated river. Kotler had long ago given up on politics, decided it was a lost cause, irredeemable, except as a source of occasional distraction and amusement. Panem et circenses. Bread and circuses. Keep the masses fed and entertained, and even the vilest empires can flourish.
It only took a few minutes of this to force Kotler to turn away. At least it had distracted him from Gail and her machinations, but it made him feel the grime and grit from the day's travel all the more keenly. Denzel finished up his shower, and emerged from the bathroom wearing a pair of boxer briefs, and toweling his damp hair.
Kotler grabbed his own toiletries and a change of clothes.
“Water went cold a few seconds in,” Denzel grumbled.
“It's ok,” Kotler smiled. “I could use a good shock to the system right now.”
Chapter 7
Masters detested the high humidity and heat of this region. He preferred dryer climates, and higher elevations. He preferred environments in which he could comfortably wear his Stuart Hughes Diamond Edition suit—one of only three in the world. Or, if he were feeling casual, perhaps the Alexander Amosu, a bespoke cut made specifically for Masters. In fact, each of these had been custom made to fit his fit and sleek form, and each was in no way comfortable or practical to wear in the jungles of Mexico.
Instead, Masters found himself in more mundane attire—cottons and oth
er wicking textiles, meant to draw the perspiration away and cool the skin. This last was a myth, as far as Masters was concerned. There was no way to “cool” anything in the oppressive heat and humidity of this God-forsaken place. And this discomfort coupled with the fact that he felt somehow disarmed—as if he'd come to battle without his armor. Or, perhaps more appropriately, without his sword. The right suit was as much a weapon as a garment.
But when one employs guerrillas, one at times finds himself where guerrillas live. And the attire must work for the occasion.
Masters eyed the guerrillas in question, lazily slumped around the campsite, eating food directly from cans, playing cards or sharpening blades on whet stones. They looked back at him, defiantly, and Masters knew they were thinking of money. They were weighing him, determining what he'd be worth in ransom.
That's how people like this functioned. No art. No style. No culture. Everything that entered into their sphere of experience was but a means to an end, and the end was as pointless as the rest of their lives. Any ransom they asked for would be too little, in the case of Masters, and would give them perhaps a few weeks of alcohol or canned goods or some perversion from one of the local towns, to occupy them. It'd be gone and forgotten.
Pathetic. Money, as Masters had always understood, was simply a tool for acquiring more robust offerings. Money itself was worthless, backed more by public perception than anything real. There was no gold, in the gold standard. There hadn't been for decades.
But public perception—that had greater value than most would ever realize. Masters knew better, however. He knew that power, real power, was something given to men like him, by people who had no real understanding of how power actually worked. Power was a gift, from ignorant souls who had no idea they could keep it for themselves, nurture it, and put it to work for them. They traded their power for money, and the illusion that money had any real value.
The Girl in the Mayan Tomb Page 7