The Eye of Heaven

by Clive Cussler

  “Unbelievable. What did they take?”

  “Well, that’s the odd part. According to the locals, everything’s accounted for. As it is, the vault in question held only some naval odds and ends and a few documents. Oh, and some carved stones. Bloody rubbish, all of it, from what I can see,” Percy said.

  “Not if they risked breaking into a guarded stronghold. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that those two don’t do anything by accident. I want a complete inventory of that vault. Now would be good—”

  “I anticipated your request. If you’ll pop into your e-mail account, you’ll find a list, with photos. Although some of the documents have degraded pretty severely after being stored in a dungeon.”

  “Is everyone a complete idiot on that side of the pond? Why on earth would they house something valuable in a room where it would rot?”

  “Apparently, they’ve got their hands full carrying on with the noble Communist Revolution.”

  Janus grunted. “Very well. I’ll look it over and get back to you.”

  He punched the call off and continued pacing, his stomach churning as he weighed his options. He’d heard from his Mexican contact earlier: the Fargos were back in Mexico City and had spent the day at the Institute, where at least he could keep a better eye on them. They hadn’t spotted the surveillance, likely because the Mexicans were using a larger team. He made a mental note to caution his Mexican conduit to avoid doing anything to make them suspicious.

  Janus entered his lavish office and checked his e-mail in-box and read the inventory list with interest. Something had been worth risking everything for.

  No matter. Unbeknownst to even Percy, he had a secret weapon. One he had cultivated with care and which looked ready to finally pay off. He was confident he’d know as much about what the Fargos were working on as they did, just as he’d been able to track them around the globe.

  Janus shut down his computer and rejoined his brother and the entertainment up on the pool deck. For this trip, he’d arranged for five stunning Spanish models, three of whom were blondes. He knew his clients’ tastes well and blondes always eased the way for difficult decisions to be made about expensive ordnance. He ascended the stairs to the upper deck, his handcrafted Italian moccasins soundless on the hardwood steps. Janus approached the table, arms open, a beaming smile on his face, as he eyed the young beauties, his to do with as he pleased before his clients arrived in a few hours.

  “Ladies, please. It’s rude to keep all the fun to yourselves. Slide over. The captain wants to spend some time with his new friends.”

  The girls tittered nervously at his sudden appearance but relaxed when they saw his face. They were experienced and they knew that expression well. An unthinking hunger that was their stock-in-trade.

  As old as the Greek hills they were steaming toward.

  Maribela and Antonio gazed at the Fargos’ Cuban photographs in disbelief, having stopped at the Institute that morning before making their way to the crypts, where excavation was under way.

  “Absolutely remarkable. How on earth did you get these?” Antonio asked.

  “Apparently, friendly persuasion works wonders. You just need to know the secret password and the Cubans couldn’t wait to give us photos,” Sam said. They’d agreed to show Maribela and Antonio the snapshots of the artifacts but not the manuscript.

  Remi sat nearby, her face impassive.

  “Well, you have a career as a politician ahead of you if you want,” Maribela said, the admiration in her smile a little too warm for Remi’s liking.

  “I’m not nearly unscrupulous enough, I’m afraid.”

  Maribela’s musical laugh was like nails on a chalkboard for Remi and she all but groaned as she got to her feet and moved next to Sam.

  “What do you make of the pictographs?” she asked.

  Antonio edged nearer and studied the images. “I’d say definitely Toltec, but the images are unlike any I’ve seen. We’ll need to study them further, of course, but I’m sure.”

  “Is there anything about the subject matter that strikes a chord?” Remi asked.

  “Not really,” he said. “A procession. Quetzalcoatl. Priests or dignitaries. The usual jaguars and eagles. The most unusual is the depiction of the pyramid or temple.”

  “But it doesn’t mean anything to you?” Sam asked.

  “Part of the problem is that much of what we believe is really interpretations, which are subject to change based on new information. We’ve already made some discoveries in the crypts that have us reconsidering our earlier assumptions about the Toltecs.”

  “We’d love to see what you’ve been up to in our absence,” Remi said.

  Antonio nodded. “Of course. We’ll be heading up there after this meeting. You’re welcome to come along.”

  “It’s still quite grim,” Maribela said, “but now that water service has been restored to some of the affected area, the tension level has receded since you were last there.”

  “Then it’s a date,” Sam agreed, and quickly busied himself with his notes until he caught Remi glaring daggers at him.

  When the siblings had departed to their office, Remi moved away from Sam, her shoes clicking on the linoleum floor.

  “What is it with you every time Maribela’s in the room?” she asked.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about, Fargo.”

  He shrugged. “No, really, I don’t.”

  “She opens her mouth and it’s like you’re a teenage boy at the prom.”

  Sam’s eyes widened. “Why, Remi, is that the green-eyed monster surfacing? You? Really?”

  “Don’t try to deflect. I see how you’re behaving.”

  “You mean how I keep pawing at her?”

  “It’s not funny.”

  His expression softened. “You should know by now it’s you and nobody else.”

  She eyed him distrustfully. “Are you just saying that to make me feel better?”

  “If I was, whatever I said would also be to make you feel better. So if I said no, it wouldn’t be the truth.”

  “See? That’s what infuriates me about you. You can never give me a straight answer.”

  “I just did. Now, can we return to the treasure of a lifetime? Not that I mind living in a Mexican soap opera or anything . . .” Sam pretended to twirl a nonexistent mustache, and, in spite of herself, Remi laughed.

  The ride to the site took forty minutes through the city’s bustling streets. When their SUV pulled up to the crypt entrance, a different contingent of soldiers was guarding the opening. The familiar formality of handing over identification was repeated and soon they were underground, where a dozen earnest students were whisking at pottery with brushes and photographing the finds.

  Antonio led them through the passageway to the largest chamber. “You know, one of the carvings you showed me reminds me of several here. I didn’t want to say anything until I saw them again, but I’d be interested in your opinion.”

  As they arrived, he said something in Spanish to three students who were tagging artifacts. They promptly left, making room for the four of them.

  “Which carving?” Remi asked.

  “I think . . . Yes, here it is. Right here. It’s quite small, so you’ll have to get close to see the detail,” he said, tapping an area of the pictograph with his finger.

  Sam and Remi drew near and studied the area he’d indicated. A group of warriors and priests were paying homage to a pyramid. Above it, a cloud hovered.

  Maribela squinted at the carving. “I could go either way on that. It’s inconclusive.”

  “Looks like some sort of devotional or prayer-related motif,” Sam said. “You can see where the gathering is supplicating, bowing to the pyramid. Is that type of thing typical of Toltec art?”

  Antonio shrugged and frowned. “No more than in Mayan or Aztec. Although we have far more of both of those to evaluate than we do of the Toltec.”

&
nbsp; Remi peered at the pyramid for another moment and then stepped back. “Let’s assume for the moment that this representation is recording the same, or a similar story, to the Cuban carvings. What would that tell us?”

  “Unfortunately, nothing.” Antonio paused. “Except that some unknown party almost five hundred years ago felt there was significance to the depiction. That’s about it.”

  Maribela nodded. “Whether there is actually any meaning attached to it is another matter altogether. I don’t suppose you were able to convince the Cubans to give you the manuscript that was stored there? Maybe some photographs?”

  Sam felt Remi stiffen and stepped in. “We’re working on it, but you know how that goes. We’re lucky we got what we did. If something changes, though, you’ll be the first to know.”

  Maribela held her gaze for a moment and then returned to scrutinizing the procession memorialized in the stone. “We don’t even know whether it’s linked to any of this or not, so perhaps it’s not the end of the world. It could be someone’s inflated account of the riches of the New World or an appeal to the Crown for more money . . .”

  “But didn’t you say it had illustrations of Aztec or Toltec figures?” Sam asked.

  “Yes, but that wouldn’t be unexpected if it was a coded progress report or the author thought he’d stumbled across something that later turned out to be a false lead,” Maribela explained as she turned from the carving.

  Sam and Remi spent the remainder of the morning poring over the pictographs. At noon, Maribela drove them back to Mexico City while Antonio continued his work. After she dropped them off at the Four Seasons, Sam called Selma’s line as they made their way to their room. Kendra answered the phone again.

  “Oh, I’m glad you called. Selma wants to talk to you,” Kendra said after they’d exchanged pleasantries. “She’s right here.”

  “Well, put her on.”

  Selma wasted no time getting to the point. “I’ll make this short and sweet. I ran through the manuscript all night and came up empty. Whatever it is, it’s not a common code. I also ran some small chunks of it by several academics who specialize in that sort of thing and they couldn’t make heads nor tails of it, either.”

  “Where does that leave us?”

  “I was thinking about it this morning. I talked to your old Cal Tech professor, George Milhaupt, to see if he had any ideas. I know he’s dabbled in cryptology and knows everybody.” Selma hesitated. “He brought up a name and I’m not sure you’re going to like it. He said that probably your best chance is with Lazlo.”

  “Lazlo Kemp?” Sam said, his heart sinking.

  “The one and only.”

  An uncomfortable silence hung on the line, like the aftermath of a bad joke’s failed punch line.

  “But he’s . . . indisposed, isn’t he? Since his, er, mishap?”

  “Yes, ever since the scandal, he’s been off the radar. But I did some digging and apparently he’s given up the hallowed halls of academia for fieldwork. Last anyone heard, he was headed into the Laotian jungle in search of some lost treasure he believed he’d gotten a lead on.”

  “He always had the personality of a treasure hunter, not a professor,” Sam said. “I’m not surprised.”

  “Well, perhaps once he became effectively unemployable, he figured he had nothing left to lose and decided to emulate your success.”

  “He’d mentioned it a few times. But I always thought it was idle chatter.”

  “Obviously, not so idle if the reports are true. Anyway, George said he would be the very best at deciphering your manuscript.”

  “I can’t fault that assessment. He does have a gift,” Sam agreed.

  “I tried to reach him, but none of his numbers work. I even tried his daughter and she hasn’t heard from him for years. Which, by the way, she wasn’t too broken-up about, judging from her last statement before she hung up on me.”

  “Ouch.”

  Selma cleared her throat. “‘If you want to get to the bottom of the manuscript’s message, you’re going to have to find Lazlo. Somewhere in Laos. Maybe. With him, you never know.’”

  Sam exhaled noisily and studied the ceiling before making a decision. “All right, Selma. Thank you. Please put Kendra and the gang on this. I’ll need to know everything I can about where he was last seen, who he was working with, who outfitted him, when he last communicated with anyone . . .”

  “I figured. They’re already on it.”

  “You’re a goddess, Selma.”

  “Hardly.”

  Sam paused. “How’s everything going with you?”

  Her voice sounded serious. “I wouldn’t recommend this if you can avoid it. Hopefully, it won’t take much longer. It’s no joyride.”

  When Sam disconnected, Remi was staring at him from across the room.

  “Did I hear Lazlo’s name mentioned?” she asked.

  “My old professor said that he’s about our best chance at decrypting the manuscript.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  Sam gave her a pained expression. “I wish I was.”

  “What’s he doing after . . . the incident?”

  “Well, he was fired. Nothing like a juicy scandal. Selma says he’s off in the Asian jungle trying to find some treasure he has a lead on.” Sam shrugged. “Why he had to pick the daughter of one of the most powerful newspaper magnates in England to . . . share his company with . . . is beyond me. Talk about bad decision making.”

  Remi frowned. “I’ll say. Wasn’t she about eighteen? And what was he? Fifty?”

  “I think more like late forties, but the booze, well, isn’t kind after a certain point. She was one of his freshmen students,” Sam confirmed. “And she was barely eighteen. But they both said it was consensual . . .”

  “I’m sorry, Sam, but he deserved everything he got. And I’m saying that as someone who liked him.”

  Sam nodded, noting her use of past tense. “And a drunk. No question. But he’s also a wiz at ancient documents, which is why George recommended him.”

  Remi shook her head. “Don’t tell me we’re—”

  “Going to have to find him.”

  “The man’s a menace. He’s a walking disaster area. After sticking me on the ice and having me slide down a toilet chute, you’re going to ask me to go in search of some self-centered lush in . . . Where did you say he was last seen?”

  “Laos.”

  “As in Laos, a sweltering, dangerous hellhole on the other side of the world? That Laos?”

  “I hear there are parts that are lovely,” Sam countered.

  “Absolutely not. Not a chance. You are not going to sweet-talk me into going into the Golden Triangle to find him.”

  “Remi . . .”

  “Have you lost your mind? IT’S NOT GOING TO HAPPEN. End of discussion, Fargo. I mean it.”

  The G650’s tires screeched when they touched down on the scorching runway of Wattay International Airport in the Lao People’s Democratic Republic. The flight from Mexico City had taken almost twenty-four hours, with a refueling stop in Hawaii. Kendra had arranged for the necessary permits for the plane to enter Laotian airspace and spend as much time as required on the ground there. The flight crew would remain in Vientiane, the nation’s capital, for as long as needed.

  A car from the Salana Boutique Hotel was waiting at the terminal when they cleared customs. The room was adequate, not lavish, with marginal but functional air-conditioning. After long showers, they ate a light dinner and went to bed early, the half-day time difference between Mexico City and Vientiane hitting them both hard.

  When they awoke after eleven solid hours of sleep, Sam called Kendra, who had found a guide to take them into the hills of Laos to the last place Lazlo had been seen. From what Selma had discovered, he’d arrived in Vientiane and spent a week getting outfitted, visited an acquaintance at the university there, and then gone north in search of whatever had captured his imagination. His last contact with the world had been a coll
ect call to his estranged brother, made from a pay phone in a small town on the banks of the Nam Song River, which was their ultimate destination: Vang Vieng.

  The brother had reluctantly relayed the discussion to Selma. Lazlo had begged him to wire two thousand pounds to the Western Union in Vientiane a month and a half before to help fund his ongoing search and get him out of a “spot of trouble,” as Lazlo had put it. When pressed, he’d said that he’d run afoul of the law in Vang Vieng and would be escorted to Vientiane by the police so that he could pay the outstanding fine he owed. His brother had sent the two thousand with the warning that there would be no more money. Lazlo had assured him it would be more than sufficient and that he was close to a discovery which would end his ongoing financial difficulties forever and make the whole family rich.

  Since then, there hadn’t been any communication, and the brother was afraid that Lazlo had finally gotten himself into a situation he couldn’t readily get out of.

  Their guide turned out to be a young man in his mid-twenties named Analu, who spoke passable pidgin English in a high-pitched, excited voice. He proudly escorted them to his vehicle: a ten-year-old Isuzu SUV with fading red paint and questionable tires. When Sam told him they were bound for Vang Vieng, he smiled, offering a dental display that was every oral surgeon’s dream.

  “You backpacking? Tubing?” Analu asked.

  “Uh, no. We have a friend who we think might be up there.”

  “Lots of people go and get hurt on river. Some die. Every year. Used to be crazy.”

  “Used to be?” Remi asked.

  “Yeah, uh-huh. Big tourist town, many kids party. But now not so bad.”

  “What happened?” Sam asked, curious.

  “Government tear down all river bars.”

  “So there’s no drinking?” Remi said. “That sounds like hell on earth for Lazlo . . .”

  “Still plenty drinking. Lots in town. Same-same but different. And few bars rebuild on water. Friends of police. Family, cousins, brothers, yeah?”

  “I think I understand. So you know the place?” Sam asked.