by Larry Baxter
The passage led them straight down for a dozen feet, then bent inland. They worked their way against heavy current in a featureless smooth-walled stone fissure—four feet high and thirty or forty feet wide—sometimes finding a tiny crevice in the limestone to hold on to and rest. After about a hundred yards the passage started narrowing and they found themselves swimming hard to even hold position. After a minute Robert pointed back and they let the current float them back to the reef.
After a brief conference on the surface, they swam back to the ribbon and tried the first opening, but the passage turned out to be nearly identical in shape and they had to give up again due to the heavy current. They returned to the beach.
Back on the beach, they stripped off the SCUBA gear, located their picnic basket, and ate a lunch of warm Italian sub sandwiches and Dos Equis.
"Mmmm, nice change from enchiladas," said Teresa. "Prosciutto. Where'd you get Italian?"
"Bribed the hotel chef. His name's Luigi."
"Good job." She yawned and stretched her arms over her head, flexed her body, and settled back into the sand. "This is when I get my nap." She looked straight at Robert with the disturbing eyes and a bit of a smile. Robert felt a warm thrill, did she know the effect she had on him?
"You get your nap, too," she told him. She was fully relaxed like a jungle cat, her eyes now closed.
Robert sat back in the sand but did not nap. He preferred watching Teresa as she dropped off to sleep in maybe ten seconds and began snoring lightly. Their strange errand churned his mind. Maya microscope? They'd find something completely different, some other explanation. Or they'd find nothing at all. It probably didn't matter, CDC would trap the outbreak and nothing would matter anymore. He should take this desirable woman in his arms and forget the science stuff. Except she still seemed to have her "look, but do not touch" sign up. At least the sign seemed to be a little smaller now.
He looked out at the turquoise ocean, its color deepened by the dark coral heads and the passing shadows of the clouds. One or two clouds on the horizon were sheeting rain showers. A hermit crab scurried by on some errand wearing another crab's shell, pausing a moment to stare at Robert with one of his eyes swiveled around on its stalk. Robert stared back. Won that one, the crab broke eye contact and hurried away. Ten or fifteen minutes later, after the wind had completed the job of drying his body and the sun's warmth was making him drowsy, he struggled to his feet.
He put a hand on Teresa's warm shoulder and she shuddered, then awoke and squinted at her wristwatch.
"Rats, back to work. What's your next move, chief?"
He wondered briefly if that was an invitation, then discarded the idea. "I don't know if you noticed, but the entrance to that second underwater hole had been marked up a lot."
"Huh? By what?"
"I'm not sure. In the first hole, the rock was smoothed by ten or twenty thousand years of running water. It was hard to find a place for your fingers. But the second hole, especially near the opening, had sharp-edged longitudinal scratches that looked fresh."
"Analysis, Spock?"
"Beats me. Like something hard or metallic came zipping down the passage, banging into walls. Maybe floating rocks, if rocks floated."
"Not anything that'll eat us?"
"I wouldn't think so," said Robert. "Of course, I've been wrong before. That passage was quite straight, I bet it goes right under us where we're sitting. If we follow a straight path inland we may locate the cenote."
"The one in the glyph on the wall."
"Yes. Artoz didn't know of a cenote here, so it may be buried, or caved in, since the inscription."
They left the heavy gear on the beach, put on their shoes, and walked straight inland through thick, grabby scrub brush. Progress was slow and Robert was about to call it off and get a machete when he stepped into a hole, one leg disappearing up to his pelvis.
"Quit kidding around," said Teresa. "What did you do with your leg?"
"Actually, I used it to locate this hole. Give me a hand, here."
They levered him out and pulled bushes away from the hole, enlarging it to about two feet in diameter. Robert dropped a pebble that hit water almost instantly.
"Only a few feet down. I bet this is it. Let's get the equipment and check it out."
They returned to the beach to gather the SCUBA gear and walked back to the VW van for the submersible flashlights, rope, shovels, and the reel of safety line. As they closed the hatch, a beat-up Lincoln limousine drove up, siren screaming, blue light flashing. A big Mexican federal police officer with a comic handlebar moustache and a less well-dressed policeman emerged and walked towards them.
Moustache leaned against the VW and chewed on a toothpick. He had mirrored aviator's glasses, an ammunition belt, two chrome pistols and an imposing hat decorated with gold braid. His short-sleeved uniform shirt revealed big biceps and a tattoo, "Mi casa es su casa," in a frame of iron bars. The other man, with a nameplate identifying him as Lt. Antonio Martinez, followed a pace behind.
"May I help you?" said Robert. "Here's my driver's license, if that's what you need."
The policeman looked at him, his expression unreadable. Finally he snorted and said, "We don't need your focking driver's license. Ha. I am Colonel Muñoz. I am the commander of the police force for this area. You are the archaeologist?"
"Well, sort of, myself and my associate Dr. Welles. I'm Dr. Robert Asher. We are from Boston, U.S.A."
"Thank you for the lesson in geography. Boston is in U.S.A. I will try to remember. What is your business in Tulum?"
"We're trying to find a Maya inscription which will help us to cure a dangerous virus outbreak."
"And how, exactly, does a Maya inscription fix a virus?"
"It's sort of confusing, but we think the Maya may have known about this virus in the time of Tulum, twelve hundred years ago. We're looking for inscriptions—glyphs—which will tell us more."
"You think I am a simple man? Focking fairy tale? You think I am maybe a complete fool?" said Muñoz more loudly.
"Not at all," said Robert.
"Show me your permit for archaeology." He held out his hand.
"I'm sorry, I didn't think we needed permission, we are not even in the city of Tulum here."
"Get back into your vehicle. Drive away. You need permission for archaeology. You must get the form." The other officer nodded agreement.
"Officer, I can prove this to you, the thing with the virus. We can work through your government, through the United Nations if you wish, but we need to move quickly. This is an important expedition. Many lives may be at stake. We do not want to waste time."
"Waste time? Waste time, is it? So our little stupid regulations are not convenient for the big city archaeologist and his girlfriend. So you can come down here with your dollars and turn them into so many pesos you are rich gringos overnight. So you can buy off the little pain-in-the-ass local policia with your big government." Muñoz' face was getting red. "So the big city archaeologist from Boston, U.S.A. and his whore and the United Nations and the focking President of the focking United States and the goddam Marines think they can walk up and down on the poor little Mexicanos?"
"I must be missing something," said Robert. "What is going on, here?"
"I will tell you what is going to go off. You are going to go off." Muñoz was bellowing at Robert, six inches away, blowing spittle into his face. "If I see you within three miles of Tulum I put you both in jail for six months for trespassing. You will not like my little jail. But some of my other prisoners will be happy."
"Suppose we get a permit for archaeology?" said Robert.
"That is signed by me. I see already that you are not qualified. Do not waste my time. Do not try your Marines or your United Nations or we will have a little war here. Get into the vehicle. Go back to the Alamo and board up the windows. Now. Move. Before I squash you. Rápido."
Robert felt a flash of anger and stepped closer to Muñoz, weight forward, arms s
lightly spread, looking at his eyes. Muñoz moved back to his car, gesturing with the back of his hand as if to an annoying bug. "Rápido. Rápido."
Robert and Teresa got back into the VW and drove back to Akumal.
"Jesus, I thought you were going to hit him for a second. I'm glad you didn't hit him. What in the name of God was all that?" said Teresa.
"Beats the hell out of me. Do you suppose we should have gotten an archaeology permit?"
"I suppose, but I thought they were only if you were digging in a proscribed area, like Tulum City inside the walls. And the penalty is a fine, not a jail term, Muñoz must know that. And we can probably get one, with Dr. Teppin's help, in a few days."
"There's more than that going on," said Robert. "Colonel Muñoz must have some other action going. Maybe he was looking for a bribe."
"Well, he didn't even give us a chance to offer one. But he did say that thing about the dollars and the pesos, maybe he does want money."
"It's pretty clear that we don't know what's going on. I think we could use a local expert."
"In what? Permits?"
"No, in bribing cops," said Robert. "Suppose Dr. Teppin knows anybody that bribes cops in the Yucatán? He knows a lot of people."
* * *
Back at the hotel they turned on the videophone, called Teppin, and filled him in on the day's events.
"Don't go back there until we figure this out," he said. "More than eight hundred people have died from the Austin virus. The death rate is increasing. We could certainly get you out of jail but it would take a few days at a minimum. We have to find a faster way."
"Any advice?" asked Robert.
"I think you are correct, you need a local expert. Somebody that could handle a bribe, somebody who would know what the police are doing."
"Dr. Teppin, do you possibly have any contacts in the Information Technology department of a large company?"
"Certainly. Tom Huang at Pennex Drugs, for instance."
"I bet his database privileges are spectacular. I bet he could look up about any fact online anywhere."
"If Tom does not have access, he can hack into any computer in a few hours, maximum. Where are you heading with this line of inquiry, Robert?"
"If we could find somebody that was running a business here, or at least handling some financial transactions in the Yucatán, and also was a proven lawbreaker and also had plenty of capital, we probably would have our local expert."
"Good thought. Hang on, I will call Huang on the ISDN line."
A minute later, another small face appeared on the screen. "I'm Tom Huang, Robert. Dr. Teppin filled me in. How can I help?"
"Can you patch me into the IRS database?"
"Sure, I've got that bookmarked. It's a biggie, don't be surprised if it seems sluggish. And don't chat with anybody while you're in there, we're not supposed to have access. You'll be read-only, they're pretty careful about write privileges. Your password is, let me see, FLUID RANGER. Ready now?"
"Any time."
In a few seconds, Robert's computer screen changed to the IRS home page. He selected the search engine and keyed in "tax evasion" "fugitive" and "Yucatán." After a minute of thinking, the computer presented the records of a man named Phillip Schwartz, a fugitive from IRS and SEC prosecution, estimated net worth six hundred seventy-five million dollars, last known location Yucatán Peninsula, extradition denied by the Mexican government.
"Score!" said Robert.
Teresa was looking over his shoulder. "That's enough capital for me. I'll see if he has a telephone number." She picked up the telephone.
"So will I," said Robert, punching keys.
"No listing," said Teresa.
"I got it," said Robert. "Dr. Teppin, Tom, thanks," said Robert. "We'll check out this guy. He looks perfect."
"I'll be in my office all afternoon, if you need some more names," said Huang.
Chapter 18
* * *
Cartegena, November 4
Ernesto sat in a straight chair tilted at a steep angle against the wall, with his feet resting on a long table where he had arranged his monthly paperwork. It was not an easy job, controlling an enterprise of nearly five thousand people, especially since the quality of his help was so bad.
Production rates, processing rates, purchasing kerosene and gasoline and amyl sulphate, making sure the aging fleet of trucks and planes and boats was at least half-assed working. Recruiting, enforcement, motivation, and the constant circling dance with the various law enforcement organizations: who to bribe, how much to bribe, when to move the processing plants, setting up blind cutouts and disinformation, enforcing the rigid compartmentalization and military need-to-know control.
He could use a break. He rammed a clip into the silenced Glock nine mm and squeezed off a few rounds into the pistol target hung on the warehouse's wall. This practice kept his shooting accurate and kept the flunkies from barging in unannounced. The cinder block walls kept the rounds from escaping to downtown Cartegena, although a few thin spots were developing.
His private phone rang. "Yeah, what?"
"Scramble," said the voice. Sounded like Muñoz.
"OK, scramble code four," said Ernesto and flipped the switch.
"Something kind of interesting in Tulum," said Muñoz, his voice choppy from the scrambling.
"You gonna make me guess?"
"I ran into a couple kids, like maybe college kids, said they were archaeologists, poking around near the dry entrance to your cave. They were talking like they knew about the cave and needed to get into it, something about looking for a cure for some disease, some big underground Maya cave or something. Sounded like garbage to me, but they were pretty excited about the whole thing."
"They find the entrance?" said Ernesto.
"Don't think so, they weren't wet or anything, and I called Lopez, he's seen nothing."
Ernesto slammed a fresh clip into the Glock and emptied it at the wall, into the thin spot. Maybe he could punch one through. "Well, fuck. Exactly what I need. I don't suppose you can handle this yourself?"
"No problem. They need a permit for archaeology on government land. They won't get it. And I'll make sure they can't get anywhere near the place."
Ernesto thought for a minute, jacking the slide of his automatic back and forth. What were they after? Only one way to find out. Let 'em in. Find out what they want. "No, give 'em the permit." He smiled to himself. "We'll crank up the security a notch, maybe staff up a little, and welcome them to our humble warehouse, if that's where they wanna go." He hung up the phone and called Lopez.
That evening he found a reference to a virus outbreak in the newspaper. Something in Texas, big news in the U.S., not too much of a problem for him, but the article said the origin might be in the Yucatan. Was that a coincidence? But why the hell does an old limestone cave have anything to do with a virus? He thought about it carefully for a while. Stupid enough to be true. Maybe there's more in that cave than we know about. Something they want. Something we should have.
If they really could get a cure for the Texas virus from his cave, it's his cure. After all, his guys discovered the cave. So, let 'em in, watch 'em, see if they find some secret formula or something, scoop 'em up, bring 'em down here and set up production. We got plenty of production capability. Sell it in the U.S. for prices that'll make their noses bleed. Christ, that might be worth, what, two hundred million U.S.? Maybe more, especially if the thing spread. And even fairly legal, if nobody missed the archaeologists. Make it look like an accident.
He picked up the phone and talked to one of his science guys.
Chapter 19
* * *
Playa del Carmen, November 4, present day
Teresa rang the number.
"Sí?"
"I'm looking for Mr. Phillip Schwartz."
"Mr. Schwartz is hardly ever at home. May I ask who is calling?"
"My name is Dr. Teresa Welles, and this is a medical emergency."
; Robert waggled his eyebrows at her, she gestured back with the OK sign. Ah, yes, he thought, major medical emergency back home.
After a minute a rough-edged voice came over the phone, "Schwartz here. You've got fifteen seconds."
"I hope you've been following the news from Austin. The virus. We're researchers from Boston. There's some evidence that the ancient Maya may have found a cure; we're tracing a connection between an old glyph that looks exactly like a modern representation of the charge pattern of the virus molecule. If we find a connection, we may get a clue to a cure. Now we've got a problem with the local law. We hoped you could help."
"That's the all-time stupidest thing I ever heard."
"You won't even listen to us?"
"I didn't say that. I said that's the all-time stupidest thing I ever heard. Come on over, nobody would make up anything that stupid. And I like talking American. Even Boston American. How much money do you want, did you say?"
"We don't want money. We need to investigate an archeological site for clues. The cops won't let us near the site, and we need someone who knows the protocol for dealing with the Federales."
"Aha! And you think, for some reason, that would be moi? What chutzpah! What je ne sais quoi! How did you get my name?"
"We, um, tapped into the IRS database, Mr. Schwartz."
"You can do that? Suddenly I find you interesting. Call me Phil. Would you mind erasing my records?"
"Sorry, read privileges only," said Teresa.
"Where are you now, exactly?"
"We're in Akumal."
"Perfect. I'm just past Xél-Ha, just a few miles up the street. Join me for lunch, here at my luxurious pied-a-terre. How many are you, did you say?"