by J; P Voelkel
“Grandpa Murphy?” he guessed.
Uncle Ted nodded. “Life on the farm was too quiet for him. Soon after that photo was taken, he headed to America to seek his fortune, working his passage on a freighter from Dublin to New York. From there, he hustled and brawled his way south until he pitched up in San Xavier. It was still a young country then, like the Wild West, full of adventurers and opportunists. He tried big-game fishing and logging before winning the banana business in a poker game.”
“Grandpa was a gambler?” Max was half shocked and half delighted to be descended from a poker-playing renegade.
“From that day forward, he never gambled again. He devoted himself to building up the business until he had enough money to buy this house. He turned it into the finest mansion on the coast.”
“Why did he want such a big house?”
“He was trying to impress someone.”
“A girl?”
“Her father.”
Uncle Ted jumped up to get another photograph. This one showed a family posing stiffly in their Sunday best. The women wore flowery dresses, pearl necklaces, and shawls. The men wore dark suits, slicked-back hair, and pencil mustaches. To Max, they looked like a family of tango dancers.
Uncle Ted pointed to a stern-looking man. “Don José Pizarro, descendant of the original conquistadores, wealthy landowner, and, most importantly, father of the beautiful Isabella.” His finger moved to a young girl with long black hair and dancing eyes. “Naturally Don José opposed the marriage of his daughter to the son of dirt-poor Irish farmers. But eventually, won over by the Villa Isabella, he gave his blessing.”
“Grandma Isabel was a Spanish aristocrat? Why did Dad never tell me?”
“Think about it, Massimo. ‘Leading Maya scholar is direct descendant of the very people who tried to wipe out Maya culture.’ It doesn’t look good on his résumé.”
“But he could have told me,” said Max indignantly. “It’s my history, too.”
“I bet I know something else he hasn’t told you,” said Uncle Ted. “Your father has a guilty secret. Something that happened when we were teenagers. In fact, it’s the reason he was at Ixchel last week.”
“Go on,” said Max, wide-eyed.
“So Patrick and Isabella were married, and Frank and I came along. We were so close, people thought we were twins. It’s hard to imagine now, but we used to be best friends.”
“Why did you fall out?”
Uncle Ted’s face clouded over. “After Mother died, we pretty much ran wild. Frank’s always been obsessed with the Maya and he’d drag me out for days at a time, looking for Maya ruins in the jungle. In the summer that changed our lives, we were camping with a friend when we discovered a different kind of ruin. Not a Maya temple this time, but a Franciscan monastery from the days of the conquest. There wasn’t much left of it and we wouldn’t have stayed, but it started to rain. So we took shelter in the ruins and built a fire against one of the old walls. I don’t know if it was the heat of the fire, but the wall suddenly collapsed and there, in the rubble, was a small cedar box. We forced it open, expecting to find gold coins and jewels. What a letdown! It was just some rosary beads and an old book wrapped in deerskin! I was disappointed, but Frank was dancing a jig like he’d scored the winning touchdown in the Super Bowl.”
Max groaned. “I’ve seen him do that dance at weddings.”
“Well, this time he had good reason—he’d realized that the old book was the private journal of Friar Diego de Landa! Have you heard of him?”
“Oscar Poot called him the curse of the Maya.”
“He was bad news, that was for sure,” said Uncle Ted. “He single-handedly attempted to wipe out Maya culture. Even the authorities in Spain were shocked, and had him imprisoned in the monastery.”
“Did you find his skeleton in the ruins?”
“No, he was sent back to Spain to face charges.”
“So what happened to the journal?”
“Well, that’s what we argued about. It was one of the greatest archaeological finds of the century, but your father refused to report it.”
“Where is it now?”
“Let’s just say that its existence is known only to a select few.”
Max could not believe his ears. His father had been hiding stolen goods all these years. He was an archaeological outlaw, a desperado in a safari jacket.
“The jacket!” spluttered Max.
“What jacket?” asked Uncle Ted.
“Dad’s old safari jacket! I bet that’s where he kept the journal! It must be missing with the rest of his notes.”
“Surely he wouldn’t have been stupid enough to bring it back to San Xavier?” Uncle Ted sighed. “If you’re right, Massimo, this is a disaster.”
“Why? Because it’s priceless?”
“No, because it contains a secret that could destroy the world.”
Max made a face. “You’re supposed to be telling me the truth,” he said.
“This is the truth, Massimo. I’ve seen the journal and I can tell you that Friar Landa had no interest in saving souls. He directed all his energies to finding a certain set of stone carvings with supposedly mystical powers.”
“The Jaguar Stones!”
“You’ve heard of them?”
“Oscar mentioned them. But what’s the harm in a few old stones?”
“Landa tortured thousands of men, women, and children to get his hands on them. He believed that if he could gather all five stones together, he would become a living god.”
“But that’s stupid, isn’t it?”
“The point is, Max, that Landa believed it—and so will plenty of other power-crazy megalomaniacs. That journal contains full instructions for using the five sacred stones at the five sacred pyramids. If it falls into the wrong hands, every rogue nation on the planet will be racing to find the Jaguar Stones. Major wars have started for less.”
“I can’t believe Dad’s kept this secret for so long. Isn’t that against some kind of archaeological code of honor?”
“Honor doesn’t come into it. Ever since Frank read the journal, he’s been obsessed by the idea of putting Landa’s instructions to the test.”
“But what good are the instructions without a Jaguar Stone?”
Uncle Ted said nothing.
Max did a double take. “Don’t tell me Dad had a Jaguar Stone?”
Uncle Ted slowly wiped his mouth with a napkin.
Then he carefully refolded the napkin and put it down next to his cup.
He straightened the spoon on his saucer.
He flicked a crumb off the table.
When he could no longer avoid answering Max’s question, he spoke in a whisper.
One word.
One word that changed everything.
“Yes.”
“What!” Max sat bolt upright.
“Frank had the White Jaguar of Ixchel.”
“Where did he get it?”
“From me.”
Max considered this information. “That carved head in the suitcase on the shelf down there—was that a Jaguar Stone?”
Uncle Ted nodded. “The Red Jaguar of Chahk.”
“Where you you getting them from?”
“I think I’ve said enough.”
“But what about your underground cache?”
“It’s not a cache, Massimo, it’s a storeroom. Those limestone caves are the perfect temperature for storing antiques.”
Max narrowed his eyes. “Are you forging Jaguar Stones? You promised you’d tell me everything.” He lay back on the sofa and pulled up the blanket, like a child waiting for a bedtime story.
“It could be dangerous for you to know more, Massimo.”
“If you want me to stop poking around, you have to tell me.”
Uncle Ted sighed. “I’m a smuggler.”
Max’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Are you shocked?” asked Uncle Ted.
“It’s just that Dad always says �
�,” began Max. Then he stopped himself.
“I know what Frank says,” said Uncle Ted. “He says smugglers and looters are the scum of the earth.”
Max nodded glumly.
Uncle Ted laughed. “You must have realized by now, Massimo, that I don’t give a fig for what Frank says. It was partly his fault that I had to start smuggling. Has he ever talked about what happened when your grandpa died?”
“He never talks about the past,” said Max, “unless it’s about the Maya.”
“Patrick Murphy died about twenty years go. I was pursuing my studies at art school in London, and Frank was at Harvard. Neither of us wanted to take charge of family affairs, but Frank insisted it should be me. He said it was my duty as the eldest, but I got the sense he thought my studies were less important. I came back to find the business in tatters. There was a blight in the banana groves and production was at an all-time low. I wanted to close down, but people were depending on me. Lucky Jim’s father was foreman at the time and supporting a huge family. I couldn’t let them starve. I had to find the money to keep things going until the blight was over. So I decided to put my artistic training to good use and start dealing in Maya artifacts. Frank said I was no better than a thieving conquistador. I thought that was rich, given that he was sitting on Landa’s journal, so I called him a few names, too. To cut a long story short, we’ve been like oil and water ever since. He got to live out his dream digging up old pots, while I stayed in San Xavier, packing bananas.”
“Why didn’t you go back to London when the blight was over?”
“The usual story … cherchez la femme.”
Max looked blank.
“I fell in love,” explained Uncle Ted.
“Who—?” began Max.
“It ended badly. That’s when I decided to forget about pointless concepts like art and love, and throw myself into making money. Maya artifacts are just another commodity to me—like bananas.”
“Dad says—”
“Your father is a hypocrite! In public, he denounces the black market, but in private he’s been blackmailing me to get him a Jaguar Stone.”
Max’s mouth fell open. “You’re kidding!”
“I’m not. He made me swear that if I ever came across a Jaguar Stone, I would pass it straight to him, no questions asked. That was his price for not reporting my smuggling activities. Of course, I never dreamed for a moment that not one, but two Jaguar Stones would fall into my lap.”
“Where did they come from?”
“It was pure chance.” Uncle Ted leaned forward conspiratorially. “One day last year, we’d just set sail with a load of bananas and our ‘special cargo,’ when the local coast guard pulled alongside to board us for inspection. Luckily, we were using the old Chinese smugglers’ trick of towing the loot in a crate underwater. We cut the rope, the crate sank to the bottom of the sea, and there was nothing for the coast guard to find.”
“But didn’t you lose it?” asked Max, fascinated by this master class in smuggling techniques.
“No, that’s the clever bit. We fit our crates with small transmitters. If we have to cut one loose, we can track it with a GPS—a global positioning system. The waters around here aren’t deep, so we just send down a diver to retrieve it.”
“Why don’t the coast guards see the signal?”
“They do. But there are so many environmentalists tracking whales and dolphins with the same system, no one pays any attention. Even so, we thought it would be wise to lay low for a while. So we left the crate and just monitored the signal for several months. That’s when we noticed something strange.”
Max sat up again. “What was it?”
“The crate was moving toward land. You expect things to drift with the current, but this was like a magnetic attraction. Eventually the signal indicated that the crate was no longer underwater. Yet the depth gauge showed it was still way below sea level. It didn’t make sense.”
“Was it in an air pocket or something?”
“I went down with the divers to find out. Tracking the signal, we found ourselves in an underwater tunnel. We followed it for a hundred yards or so, until it opened into a huge cavern. And I mean huge. I’m talking about Madison Square Garden. When we surfaced and shone our flashlights around, we couldn’t believe our eyes. Washed up on the rocks was the wreck of a Spanish galleon. It was the long-lost Espada.”
“That’s the ship that disappeared!”
“Exactly! And can you imagine the riches that were in its hold?”
A ray of sunshine lit up the room, and when Uncle Ted shielded his eyes, he looked like he was blinded by the glare from the Espada’s gold.
“It took us months to bring up the haul. But the best was yet to come. …”
Uncle Ted paused for dramatic effect.
“On our final dive before the tide changed, we found an old sea chest at the back of the hold. It was perfectly preserved in the cave and there, burned into the wood, was the crest of Friar Diego de Landa! Can you believe it?”
Uncle Ted’s face was shining with excitement and Max knew that, this time, Landa’s box had contained more than rosary beads and old books.
“We opened the lid, and a ghostly glow lit up the cavern. Inside the chest, along with a jeweled sword and some solidgold candlesticks, were two—two!—of the legendary Jaguar Stones. One in pure white alabaster and one in ruby-red Mexican fire opal. There in front of me were the White Jaguar of Ixchel and the Red Jaguar of Chahk. What a moment!”
Uncle Ted shook his head at the memory.
“Your father came for the White Jaguar last week and took it as if it was his birthright. But no matter. I’ve fulfilled my side of the bargain and I was not expecting to see him ever again—until his son turned up on my doorstep.”
“I’m sorry,” said Max.
Uncle Ted shook his head. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I’ve enjoyed our little chat. I haven’t talked so much in years. Maybe blood is thicker than water, Massimo.”
“Please call me Max.”
“I will try and be a better host, Max.” Uncle Ted smiled ruefully. “When it comes to houseguests, I’ve always agreed with Jean-Paul.”
“Is he one of your servants?”
“Jean-Paul Sartre, the French philosopher. He said, ‘Hell is other people.’ Of course, he said it in French. But my point is, I don’t like visitors at the best of times, and seeing your father always puts me in a bad mood.”
“He has that effect on me sometimes,” said Max.
Uncle Ted roared with laughter. “I’m looking forward to getting to know you, Max. I hope we can make a fresh start.”
Max nodded eagerly.
“But no more nocturnal rambles, okay?” continued Uncle Ted. “I’m selling the Red Jaguar tomorrow night, and I need you to stay in your room. My buyer is a nasty piece of work, and anything could happen.”
Max guessed he was talking about the gun-crazed Spaniard. “No problem,” he said. He had no desire to bump into that cape-twirling weirdo. It was a shame to miss all the excitement, though. “Maybe I could help you?” he suggested.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” said Uncle Ted firmly.
“Let me do something safe, like keeping a lookout. There’s a great view from my balcony, and I could use those night-vision goggles I saw in your office. Please, Uncle Ted; I’d keep out of sight.”
His uncle thought for a moment. “Maybe it’s not such a bad idea. At least I’d know where you were. But you have to promise to stay in your room, whatever happens. These thugs mean business.”
“I give you my word.”
When Raul came in to clear away the breakfast things, he saw them shaking hands and smiled to himself as he loaded the tray. It was a long time since he’d seen his boss look so happy.
“Ah, Raul,” said Uncle Ted, “have you packed the boy’s lunch?”
“What?” said Max indignantly. “You mean, after all this, I still have to go and rake the beach?”
&n
bsp; “Absolutely.” Uncle Ted tried to look stern. “Now get to work.”
Chapter Seven
THIEVES IN THE NIGHT
That evening Max sat on his balcony, waiting for it to get dark enough to try out the night-vision goggles and thinking over everything Uncle Ted had told him. His head was throbbing from information overload. If he were a computer, he would have crashed for sure.
Back in Boston, life had been black and white. Parents led dull lives and went to bed early. Smugglers were low-life jerks. The Maya were dead as dodos.
Here in the jungle, none of that was true.
All bets were off.
How had Uncle Ted put it?
Things are never what they seem around here.
It was unsettling, but also exciting.
Max liked the sense of possibility, the idea that he could reinvent himself. He could be irresistible to girls … he could ace tests without studying … maybe he could—dare he even think it?—be an interesting enough person to make his parents want to spend more time with him.
As he took stock of his current situation, he realized he’d changed a lot already. He’d traveled all this way on his own. He’d survived Lucky Jim’s gun on his neck. He’d even bonded with child-hating Uncle Ted. It wasn’t a bad start. In fact, tonight, standing on the balcony of his rich uncle’s beautiful house, he felt like a new person.
Older, wiser, more mature.
That’s the spirit, he encouraged himself.
He smiled—a sardonic, James Bond kind of smile.
Out here, with the waves lapping the shore and the sounds of the rainforest beyond the garden wall, it was easy to feel like an international playboy.
Max Murphy, Man of Mystery.
It had a ring to it.
Finally the sun was setting, and Max inspected the night-vision goggles. They looked like heavy binoculars attached to a web of straps. It took him a while to get them on, but once he did …
Boy, did they work!
It was fantastic! Everything was cast in a green glow, but he could see almost as well as in daylight. In fact, thanks to thermal imaging and infrared detectors, he could see some things even better than usual.