“So it’s a pattern.” She crossed to the wall opposite him. Brushed it off. “A circular symbol,” she said. “A complex maze, with a stick man above it.”
“The man in the maze,” said Joseph, “signifying life and choice. Choose wisely, and you will find harmony with all things, although the road may be long and difficult.”
“Choice is highly over-rated,” she said, “especially with malicious beasts breathing down our necks, not to mention whatever is howling all the way to hell out there.”
They moved to the north side of the round chamber, opposite the entrance. A fourth protruding stone. A fourth symbol. Joseph blew off the dust.
He frowned. “Square with rounded edges, border of zigzag patterns surrounding a simple face with closed eyes,” he said. “I do not recognize it.”
Outside, the howls intensified. At least three large animals shrieked like demons in a chorus of murderous intent. “It’s Mayan,” she said. “It is Pakal, the glyph for shield.”
She recognized it, all right, but hadn’t seen a carving like this since her research trip to the Yucatan for her doctoral thesis on the conquistadors. “A Mayan glyph, hundreds of miles from Mexico,” she said. “The conquistadors searched this area for Cibola, the legendary lost city of gold, but they didn’t give a rat’s ass about Mayan culture. I think our odds of finding the actual Breastplate Turquoise just went up.” She fished the Mayan knife out of her pack. “The Spaniard who brought the Turquoise here, he must have brought this knife along, too. It’s Mayan. I’m sure of that now.”
Joseph played his fingers over the shield glyph. “The clue to the Turquoise is hidden behind one of these symbols. Four possibilities, one answer.”
“And three potential death traps, if removing the wrong one makes that ceiling collapse.”
The howling stopped with the unexpected abruptness of a trap door slamming shut. She listened for the stealthy pad of clawed paws. She sniffed to detect a musky smell through the lingering wisps of fine sand. Joseph unsheathed his hunting knife, its blade glinting in the beam of his headlamp. “The predator grows silent when it smells its prey,” he said.
“I don’t suppose that means those animals are closing in on the bad guys with guns.”
“The beasts awoke to protect the Turquoise. They are very close.”
“This Mayan knife was used for sacrifices, not defense.” She frowned at the pathetic blade.
“Only a bullet dipped in white ash will kill a Skinwalker,” said Joseph. He wasn’t joking. He faced her. “Which symbol do we look behind?”
She stepped back. “How would I know?”
“You know.”
And the weird thing was, she did know. She could almost feel it, a tingling coming from behind one of the four symbols. “The Pakal,” she said. “We have to look behind the Mayan Pakal symbol.”
Joseph stabbed the blade into the seam around the carved block, wedging it into the crevice. The ceiling peppered them with dust and grit.
“Wait,” she said, “I’ll do this. You stand guard at the portal. Keep watch for those beasts.” This was absurd. Her “tingling” could crush them both.
Joseph’s blade scraped against the rock, clawing at the silence. It was more unnerving than the howls. But at least the ceiling wasn’t collapsing, yet. He jimmied the stone outwards, striving for every millimeter. “The Turquoise stone is called the Yikaisidahi. It is Navajo for It Waits for Dawn, the name of a constellation. And, truly, the Yikaisidahi is of the heavens.”
“I had a hunch, not divine guidance, in choosing the Pakal block,” she said. And she was headed to hell, not heaven, if her hunch killed this kind, old man. “I’m doing this for my father. You don’t owe him. I do.”
He wedged his knife deeper into the seam, levered it back and forth. “I am the guardian, my destiny inherited from my father, and his father before him. Since my son was killed in the war, my grandson was to become the next guardian. I have sworn my life to protect it.” The chamber trembled. “I cannot let the Yikaisidahi Turquoise fall into the hands of the evil ones. The Yikaisidahi can destroy,” he said. “Or it can heal.”
Now he was sounding like her father. “The destroying part I get,” she said. “The jury is still out on the healing.”
He grunted with exertion and pulled his knife back. “It isn’t moving.”
“The stones are meticulously fitted together. Maybe it’s locked in place somehow, with a mechanism.” She looked closer and rubbed the dust from the face of Pakal. “Pakal’s mouth,” she said. “It’s not just a carving. It goes deeper than that.” She held the Mayan knife close to it. “Looks like the blade is a perfect fit. But that can’t be right, not if it means defacing Pakal. The Mayan chief would behead me for sacrilege, after he sliced out my beating heart with this knife. It might trigger the ceiling to collapse.”
“You know what you must do,” Joseph said. “You are not here by accident, Christa. You are the chosen one.”
“You mean the sucker,” she said.
His eyes turned to hers. “Are you ready to cross that line, between reality and faith?”
She wiped the sweat stinging her eye and looked away. Joseph couldn’t possibly know. Her father never spoke of it, not even with his closest friends. She had reached the brink before, but was too frightened to step over that precipice between reality and faith. Even to reach Mom. “I’m here to find an historical artifact,” she said, “not religion.”
Joseph slipped his knife back into its sheath. “You must find one to find the other.”
She wasn’t going to find anything but a shallow grave if she didn’t hurry up. She drew in a deep breath and plunged the Mayan knife into the stone. The tip of the blade hit something solid, hesitated, and plunged in deeper. A clunking sound. The chamber trembled. She was wrong. The chamber was collapsing. “Get out of here,” she yelled. “I’ll pull out the knife. Try to reset the mechanism.” She yanked. It didn’t budge. The knife was stuck. Pakal scowled. She pulled again. The sandstone block shifted. The crack exhaled a cold draft, emitting the dry breath of an ancient time.
She pressed her foot against the wall for leverage and yanked back the Mayan knife. It worked. The full weight of the stone block slid out. They sprang back as it fell with a thud to the ground and cleaved in two. The Mayan knife dropped to the floor. The chamber quaked. Christa grabbed Joseph’s hand as they fought to stay balanced. Then the chamber became utterly still.
A chorus of howls rent the air. She spun around, throwing up her arm in defense. They sounded that close. She directed her headlamp beam through the narrow opening into the night. The dark was alive with guttural, savage voices. A black shadow skulked across the open portal, then another. The beasts cut off their only escape.
CHAPTER 7
The Aquila took on a festive air as the men stowed the lines and began preparations to hoist the anchor. Ahmed could delay no longer. His breaths came short and shallow as his chest tightened. He looked to the sky. Allah forgive me. He had pressed the button.
Nothing happened. No sound beeping. No light flashing. Yet everything aboard the treasure hunter Aquila had changed. The cool sea breeze that had fluttered his djebella teasingly across his breast just moments ago now felt like fingers of death clawing at him before snatching him down, down, to the deep, dark ocean bottom. The sun, once welcomed, even celebrated, now promised the burn of the Christian hell. The laugh of the albatross that had been circling the Aquila all morning now sounded like the cry of a child who has lost his father at sea.
“Ahmed! Ahmed!” Captain Bertoni clanged up the metal stairs to the flying bridge, laughing aloud as he reached Ahmed’s side. He clapped him on the back and, for the fifth time that morning, tugged the velvet pouch from his pocket.
The velvet pouch was new. Ahmed had bought it in the medina and presented it to Bertoni before they left port. “It contains a prayer,” he had told his captain, “that we find the treasure we seek.” Ahmed’s prayer had been answered
, but his soul was damned.
Like a starving dog eyes the bone in the hands of his master, Ahmed watched Bertoni ease apart the drawstrings of the velvet pouch. He watched the pouch’s contents tumble onto his captain’s open palm. The sun glinted on the stunning Emerald, a deep green gem the size of a walnut.
“A cat’s eye Emerald,” Bertoni said, “extremely rare.”
“Unique,” said Ahmed, glad to tell the truth, at least in this, “in all the world.” He fought the compulsion to reach out and snatch away the gemstone, to close this eye of the all-seeing God.
“The Muisca Indians called Emeralds the tears of the moon,” Bertoni said. He blinked away his own unwanted tear. Bertoni was an emotional man.
But even Ahmed could feel the palpable energy that the gem emitted. It hadn’t been found in San Salvador’s main strongbox, which held the lion’s share of Emeralds, Turquoise, gold and silver. At the time, Ahmed was afraid, and hoped, that this cat’s eye Emerald would never be recovered. Then, on the last day, they found the smaller strongbox on one, final submersible dive.
Bertoni cradled the Emerald between his thumb and calloused forefinger. He held it to the heavens, letting the sun play through the green, as if looking for an answer. Ahmed ached to tell him that he wouldn’t be the first to seek answers from heaven through the power of the stone. “Do you wonder, Ahmed, why this Emerald was in its own strongbox, kept with a book of some sort?”
Ahmed witnessed the opening of the strongbox. Bertoni had fished the Emerald from a glop of pulp that was once cherished pages. “A Bible,” said Ahmed.
Bertoni raised a bushy white eyebrow.
“Conquistadors weren’t known to bring books with them on their voyages,” said Ahmed. “But if a missionary came along, then he would have a Bible.”
“You rascal,” said Bertoni, a glimmer of green in his eye. “You think a missionary spirited this away, hidden in the pages of his Bible.”
“Only for the greater good,” said Ahmed, intoning a joke when he could not have been more serious. He looked east across the blue abyss. Thaddeus Devlin searched there, in the ruins near his village, for the letter the missionary wrote. Ahmed struggled to keep his thoughts from history and home. His expression might reveal his darkest secrets. Yesterday, when he saw the Tear of the Moon Emerald, he felt the hand of Juan de Salvatierra, the San Salvador’s sole survivor, tearing through the fabric of the centuries to grab hold of him.
In last night’s dark hours, as his crewmates snored, he reviewed his daring plan. This Emerald was, indeed, the seventh stone. Without it, the power of the other six sacred stones was toothless. For five centuries it had rested at the bottom of the ocean, where God had sent it. Now His will was once again undone by man. Thaddeus Devlin had told him the gems and the Breastplate possessed a power that could bring catastrophe upon the Earth. He could not let the Emerald fall into the hands of someone like Mishad and his mysterious patron.
“I heard chatter on the radio last night while the others slept,” Ahmed began, taking that first step on the path to either salvation or damnation.
Bertoni smiled crookedly. “You mean while the others were passed out from drinking,” he said. “There is much to admire about your Muslim religion, that you refrain from alcohol.”
“I couldn’t make out the words, but the signal was strong,” pressed Ahmed, realizing he was talking too fast, too loud. “The pirates are close.” Ahmed said.
Bertoni frowned. “I have no doubt they are.”
“You should arm your crew, now.”
“I don’t know when, or even if, the pirates will attack,” said Bertoni. “My men are mariners, treasure hunters. They can’t do their jobs effectively if they must also be constant soldiers.”
“You’ve said you could never defend against a surprise attack,” said Ahmed, “but, I tell you, the pirates will attack at any moment. They see we are preparing to hoist anchor. That is the way they work in these waters.”
“Then we are lost.”
“The Aquila is well armed,” said Ahmed, “and your men loyal and brave.” And Mishad’s men rangy and backstabbing.
“It’s true that I could not ask for a better crew,” said Bertoni, “but our armory is spare.”
“But I saw it, racks of machine guns, several RPGs.” More than enough to deflect Mishad towards easier prey.
“Almost all sold,” said Bertoni, “at our last supply stop. What good are guns, without food? I needed the funds for this last search. And it paid off, Ahmed. I had almost given up hope.”
A vice tightened around Ahmed’s chest. He sucked in quick, shallow breaths. “How many guns did you keep?”
Bertoni clasped his fingers around the Emerald. “Barely enough to fight off a hungry shark.” It was as if he knew what was coming, the way he looked to the east. He sensed the gunboats approach, as surely as when Ahmed had seen him prepare for a sudden, violent squall before the black cloud even appeared on the horizon. But this time precautions against impending disaster would not save them. His eyes met Ahmed’s. Could he sense Ahmed’s guilt as well? Did he know that he had been betrayed by the man whom he had called friend, this servant whom he had treated like a brother?
The roar of distant speedboat engines skimmed over the waves, the sound reverberating off the Aquila broadside. Bertoni snapped up his trademark binoculars. Mathew Joy, who had been known to fix his beloved vessel’s engine cooling system with an empty can of Guinness and a strip of duct tape, called them Bertoni’s x-ray vision glasses. The machinist joked that Bertoni’s penchant for using them for gazing over the empty sea was his way of looking for sunken treasure. These were the men Ahmed had betrayed.
“God help us,” Bertoni said, “eight pirates, all armed with semi-automatics, probably sidearms as well. Two runabouts, outsized outboards.” He dropped the binoculars to his chest. “One of them is shouldering an RPG launcher.”
“Pirates!” Thomas shouted from the pilot house, finally spotting the runabouts. The Aquila’s klaxon blasted the air, shooting spears of fear into the men on the deck below. For a moment, it was as if time had stopped, the men frozen in place. Then, as one, they raised their faces towards Bertoni.
The captain squared his shoulders. He gestured towards the four men who had been assigned sidearms this morning. “Owen, Charles, take positions on port side. Barzillai, Benjamin, starboard!” He yanked a set of keys from his pocket and tossed them down to Isaac. “Get the rifles, on the double. Fedellah, Obed, Pollard, go with him. Bring every last bit of ammunition. We’ll need it.” He twisted back towards the pilot house. “Thomas, shut off that damn alarm!”
The buzz of the pirates’ outboards roared into a crescendo. The scrappy runabouts approached rapidly, hulls bashing over the waves, the pirates standing on the deck as if nailed to it, their knees absorbing the shocks.
Bertoni let the Emerald drop off his palm, back into its velvet pouch, and tightened the silk ties. He reached for Ahmed’s hand. The captain pressed the soft velvet into Ahmed’s palm and cupped his calloused hands over it. “Take the Emerald,” he said. “Go to the engine room, to the hiding place that I showed you, the one used by the smugglers who once owned this ship. Hide in there.”
“I will not hide,” countered Ahmed. “I will fight, with you. You need every man.”
“I need you to keep this Emerald. Do not let the pirates have it. Promise me, Ahmed.”
“I promise,” he said. “I will never let this Emerald fall into their hands. To do that, I must fight.”
“To do that, you must live.”
“They know I am on board.”
“I will tell them that you were killed and fell overboard. If anything should happen to me, take the Emerald to my father, in Milan, Antonio Bertoni, in the Villa Bertoni, north of the city. Ask any Milanese. They will know him.” Ahmed felt the desperate press of his captain’s hands. “My father must know that I made real my dream. This is proof. Promise me, Ahmed.”
“I promi
se you that your father will know his son is a good man, a great man.”
“Go now, before it’s too late.”
Bertoni released him and clambered up the stairs to the pilot house. Ahmed called after him, but he had quickly ducked into the pilothouse. Ahmed could see Thomas shouting maydays into the radio microphone. Help would never arrive in time. He clutched the Emerald in its pouch, the velvet soft, the Emerald hard, in his hand. He had no time to think. Bertoni gestured sternly at him through the pilothouse window. “Engine room,” he yelled. “Now!”
Bullets ripped through the conning tower’s port windows. Shards of glass exploded across the gangway. A force smacked Ahmed in the thigh. He cried out in agony as his leg collapsed beneath him. He fell to the deck, blood seeping from his thigh.
CHAPTER 8
Thaddeus woke with a start. Pain stabbed his back. It came back to him in a flash. The camp had been attacked at dawn. He had raced to save Ambar and took a slug in his back. He rubbed his eyes to clear his vision. Muktar stooped over him, his expression grave, his gray and white striped kaftan splattered with blood. Thaddeus grabbed Muktar’s wrist. “How long have I been out?” he asked, his voice hoarse. He had to shake off the dizziness. He had to find that letter and clear out before more people were hurt because of it.
Muktar braced his arm beneath Thaddeus’s shoulders. “Less than one hour,” he said. He held a terra cotta vessel to his lips. “Drink this. Just one little drink.”
The cool water felt like life on his parched throat. “Where am I?”
The Seventh Stone Page 4