Masks of the Lost Kings (Suzy da Silva Series)

by Tom Bane

  There was cheering and much blessing as the cavalcade of floats passed by to the chant of flutes and the banging of drums. People were singing and the women wailed with their tongues thrashing from side to side through open lips. One float carried a man in a dress and caked-on makeup who pouted and preened, pulled up his skirt and juggled enormous breasts. Suzy felt like she was back at the raucous Carnaval on Copacabana beach. The man in drag was trying to stir up the crowd, throwing decency aside, reminding the people of Luxor of their fertility god with his enormous penis. It was such a shock amidst all the demure women in their scarves and burkas that it made Suzy laugh out loud as he ground his hips and thrust out his groin. Some of the girls responded. One forgot herself for long enough to follow his lead, plumping up her breasts, pouting and shouting back at him until her friends led her away, laughing. Suzy felt very at home in the joyful crowd, like she was a teenager back in Rio, partying away the nights with her friends.

  The jovial atmosphere melted away as the cavalcade passed by. Exhaustion sank in and she turned and headed back up the now emptying street toward the Sheraton. As she strolled up the street in the red moonlight she sensed someone approaching from behind. Before she could react, a tight ligature coiled around her neck. Suzy saw only blackness.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Bang, bang, bang

  Professor George Logan jerked, mumbled incoherently, rolled over and hit the snooze button.

  Bang, bang, bang

  This time his mind registered the urgent knocking on his front door. Heaving himself upright, he pulled on his dressing gown and peeled back the curtain. A large uniformed police officer was pacing around the front garden while a short, blonde-haired woman in a dark skirt, knee-length boots and leather jacket was banging on the door. A patrol car was parked across the end of his drive and even from indoors he could hear the crackle of the police radio talking to itself, disturbing the early Sunday calm of suburban Boston.

  He hobbled down the stairs, his septuagenarian limbs protesting the athletic call to action.

  Bang, bang, bang

  “Coming, coming,” George shouted, as the banging continued. As he passed the kitchen, he spotted Ben Sanders’ letter and drawing where he had left it on the table. He hesitated. “Coming,” he shouted again, scooping up the letter and stuffing it into the pocket of his robe. Looking around, he carefully placed the drawing of the scarab brooch under a stack of newspapers.

  He had been studying them for hours last night without much success, before he reached the end of the day gave in to tiredness and went to bed. Ben’s words in the letter had been as curt and mysterious as always. “I am indebted to your tutelage,” he had written some time ago, “and I would like to entrust this drawing to you. If you hear of my demise, I would like you to open the drawing and take a long count of it.”

  It was another of Ben’s cryptic, unfathomable taunts, which George always found impossible to resist. When he heard yesterday that Ben had disappeared ten days ago, he had unfurled the secret drawing for a closer inspection. It was a 2:1 scale drawing of Tutankhamun’s scarab breast brooch, expertly drawn in figurative detail on a round piece of paper. George had sat for hours staring at it but its relevance still eluded him. It was a simple rendition of the breast brooch and definitely had a cryptic meaning, but despite all his years of studying such things, he could not figure out the key to unlock it, nor any of the other cryptic messages Ben had sent him.

  Bang, bang, bang

  The knocking was becoming more impatient. He hurried to the front door.

  “Professor Logan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good morning, sir, sorry to wake you.” She held up a Boston Police Department badge. “I’m Detective Christie Hyder and this is Officer Black. May we come inside for a moment? It’s a rather delicate matter concerning one of your former students.”

  “Of course, of course, come in.” George led them into the kitchen. “I’m going to put on some coffee,” George said. “Can I tempt you?”

  “Great, thanks,” Officer Black said, “no milk, one sugar.”

  “No thanks, Professor,” Christie said, looking around the room as George set out two mugs and began scooping coffee into a filter.

  “How can I help you?”

  “It’s regarding the disappearance of your student, Ben Sanders,” Christie explained.

  “Ah, yes, I heard about that. Ben is a former student actually. He studied at Yale and Oxford, then came to Harvard. How can I help?”

  “We understand he was in contact with you immediately prior to his disappearance?”

  “Yes, he was. But there were only a couple of e-mails from him, that’s all.”

  “Can we see the e-mails?”

  “Sure,” he said. “My computer is in the study. You’ll have to bear with me while I get it going. It’s almost as old as me. Is young Ben in trouble, do you think?”

  “We think he may have been kidnapped.”

  “Oh, dear.” George was shocked. Ben had never been a particularly likeable student and George had begun to wonder if Ben’s infuriatingly cryptic messages were meant to challenge his former teacher’s academic standing rather than as an amiable, intellectual challenge, but he couldn’t imagine anyone would want to harm him. “Who would want to kidnap a boy like him? He’s not from a wealthy family, is he? Who would do that?” Christie shrugged.

  “The area of Mexico he was in is an active zone for narco-terrorists. We don’t know any more than that at the moment.”

  “That is very disturbing.” George filled the two mugs with steaming coffee.

  “All we can do at the moment is to find out as much as possible about what he was doing in Mexico.”

  “Quite, quite. Well I may be able to help a little. He had a slightly obtuse theory that the temples of the Mayans encoded some pattern that may have been important. It all sounds a little farfetched but Ben thought he was near to discovering something momentous. I wonder if he managed to find anything before he was taken. You see, I think—”

  “Yes, yes.” Christie interrupted him. “Maybe we can see the e-mails he sent?”

  “Uh, yes, of course.” George gave Officer Black his coffee and carried his own as he left the kitchen. “Let’s go through to my study.”

  “Actually,” Christie paused, “that coffee does smell good. Mind if I help myself?”

  “I’ll get it for you,” George said, turning back toward the kitchen.

  “She’ll be fine,” said Officer Black, his massive frame blocking the doorway. “Let’s get this computer fired up.”

  “Right you are,” George laughed uncertainly and led him into the study.

  “Interesting room,” Black said as he gazed around at the hundreds of trinkets George had collected from his many travels. It was exactly the sort of room you would expect from an old archaeology professor. There were golden Buddhas from Laos, a crystal skull from Peru, a sun shield from Monte Alban, an ebony Egyptian statuette of the Dog god, Anubis, and hundreds of other decrepit and precious treasures. A set of wooden bookshelves was filled with books George had written himself, with titles like “Olmec Oddysey” and “Maat and Modern Man.” Above the shelves sat a trio of small stone Buddhas. Unlike the Laos examples, these were more personal, a legacy of a brief flirtation with Buddhism some twenty years earlier. The birth of George’s son, demanding all his energy and attention, had brought that episode to an abrupt end.

  Christie appeared with a mug in her hand, and she and Officer Black wandered around the room as George powered up his computer, examining things, open-eyed and fascinated by everything they found.

  “I have researched the mythology of Meso-America for over forty years,” George explained, “and these are some of the souvenirs I brought back. My wife insisted they all live in here. Now that she’s passed away, I could probably spread them around the house a bit, but you get used to things being in their place.”

  The ancient computer clicked and w
heezed while George, sipping his coffee, waited for it to warm up. He often finished a whole cup before the flashing C:> appeared on the black screen.

  Officer Black perched on the edge of a cluttered armchair and found himself being stared at by a three-foot, stuffed pygmy warrior.

  “That looks interesting,” Christie said, pointing to a picture of a mask above George’s desk.

  “It’s the jade death mask of the Mayan, King Pacal,” George explained.

  “It looks like a strange, green Spiderman.”

  “The strangest thing about it is that it contains hidden images. There is an animal and a hidden image of King Pacal seated in the lotus position.”

  “How can you see them?” asked Christie, moving closer.

  “You can only see one half.”

  “What do you mean? I can’t see anything.”

  “You need a mirror to see it. Here.” He rummaged around to find a dusty old shaving mirror that he kept for just this purpose. Taking the image of Pacal’s jade death mask from the wall, he laid the mirror on the top of it.

  “Watch carefully. I lay the mirror on the three circular points just beneath the eye of Pacal and at this angle … Now come closer. Look in the mirror and what do you see?”

  “Wow!” she sounded amazed. “It’s a face or an animal!”

  “I’ll be damned,” Officer Black added, as he peered over his colleague’s shoulder.

  “It’s an image of King Pacal as the Bat god, Camazot,” George chuckled, always pleased to be able to open people’s eyes to new things.

  “Amazing!” Black said. “It just comes out of nowhere.”

  “That is really stunning,” Christie agreed, her professional persona forgotten for a moment. “What does it mean?”

  “It’s called a Mayan transformer. I discovered it twenty years ago. The meaning of the Bat god is still the subject of dispute in archaeological circles. In fact, most academics refuse to accept the Mayan transformer hypothesis that there are hidden images in the death mask, but whenever I show normal folks like you, there is never any disagreement at all. They can see it instantly.”

  “Does this have anything to do with the research Ben Sanders was doing?” Christie asked.

  “Only by cosmic coincidence. Ben told me that he was visiting Pacal’s tomb before he disappeared.” George winced. His wife had always told him he was careless and too often spoke without thinking. This enthusiasm, however, was one reason he was so immensely popular with his students.

  Christie shot a glance at Black. “Can we see that e-mail from Ben, too?”

  “Yes, uh, let’s see.”

  George accessed the Internet and opened his inbox. His mind was racing now. None of Ben’s e-mails had mentioned Pacal’s tomb, so how was he going to explain how he knew about it?

  “OK,” he said, as after a long pause the results came up on the screen. “Here are the three e-mails from Ben. Let’s print them off.” Christie snatched the sheets from the printer the moment they emerged.

  “What do you know about the Horus Corporation?”

  George blinked at the unexpected, abrupt change of topic, puzzled as to why the Boston Police should ask.

  “I think Ben mentioned it once,” he said, brushing his top lip with his fingers. “They were funding his research in some way and I think they paid for other scholarships as well. Really, you should contact Professor Henry Piper at Oxford. He would know better. Ben was only my student for his undergraduate years, and then he went to Oxford to study for his PhD with Piper.”

  “We are in touch with Professor Piper,” Christie said, “but I would ask you not to inform him of our visit here today.”

  “Of course, of course,” George said, gnawing at a fingernail. “I haven’t spoken to him for years anyway.” Clearly this inquiry was more than just a local police matter.

  “Have you had any other correspondence with Ben in the past six weeks?”

  “No,” George lied. “He was a secretive lad. He could be a little cryptic, as you will see from those emails. It was quite unusual of him to contact me as frequently as this, to be honest.”

  “Was Ben agitated or worried before his disappearance?” Christie asked.

  “He was excited—who wouldn’t be? But he was quite a focused character. He was high-strung and very competitive, but nothing harmful. Oh dear, I shouldn’t be talking about him in the past tense, should I?”

  “Did you reply to these?” Christie asked, leafing through the pages.

  “Yes, but I don’t have the replies saved on my computer.”

  Christie looked up from her reading and stared at him, eyes narrowed, for an uncomfortable moment. Her face relaxed. “That’s OK. But where does he mention this King Pacal’s tomb?”

  “Isn’t it in there?” George swallowed hard. His wife had always said he was a hopeless liar. He blushed under Christie’s gaze. “That’s surprising. As you can see, there are no other emails from him.”

  Christie and Officer Black both remained silent for a few moments and George forced himself not to say anything for fear of giving himself away yet again. Eventually the silence became oppressive.

  “In your experience,” he said, “do people survive these sorts of kidnappings?”

  “I am sure he will be fine, sir.” She had reverted to her official police voice. George sensed she wasn’t that happy what he was telling her but couldn’t yet work out why. “We have a lot of experience in dealing with these sorts of situations. You have been very helpful.” She pointed at Officer Black. “If you think of anything else, please contact Officer Black.” He handed George his card and patted his shoulder.

  “Sorry to disturb you on a Sunday morning, sir,” Black added, as they headed toward the door.

  “It’s fine. Would you let me know when you hear any news about Ben?” Black nodded.

  As he closed the door behind them, George took a deep breath. He hurried back into the kitchen and went to retrieve Ben’s drawing of the scarab brooch. He lifted the newspapers. It wasn’t there. He did a more forensic search, spreading the newspapers across the kitchen floor one by one. Nothing. The drawing of the scarab brooch had disappeared. He thought back to Christie and how she’d been left alone in the kitchen.

  “Damn! She’s taken it!”

  The kitchen table stood in full view of the window. Black must have seen him hide the drawing when he was pacing in the garden while Christie was banging on the door.

  Pulling himself to his feet he slumped into one of the kitchen chairs and thought hard. Why would such an obscure drawing interest the police? He remembered the Officer’s card and picked it up. It was smudged in one corner. Odd, he noted, that it only had his cellphone number. It was unfortunate he no longer had the drawing but it was unlikely they’d make head nor tail of it without Ben’s accompanying cryptic message, the one that was nestling in the pocket of his bathrobe.

  His hand darted back into his pocket, to check that it was still there. It was. Standing up he went across to the window and lowered the blind, then poured himself another cup of coffee before sitting back down at the table with the letter, and a pencil and pad. He was determined to solve Ben’s puzzle.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Suzy’s vision blacked out and the rhythmic beats of the carnival were reduced to a distant thud. She held onto consciousness as the pain scythed down through her carotid artery, the pressure of the ligature arresting the blood flow to her brain. She wedged the fingers of her right hand into the gap between the assassin’s rope and her neck, giving herself an extra millimeter to prevent the guillotine veil of unconsciousness. To her adrenalin-fueled senses it seemed to her that her attacker was a man.

  Changing tack with the speed of a black mamba, he dropped the rope, and suplexed her to the floor, her body arcing through the air and smashing onto the pavement. His full weight landed on her neck in a brutal and merciless maneuver. But now she had a chance, because ground-fighting was her game.

  She
sensed that he was edgy, perhaps surprised that she hadn’t succumbed instantly to his attack, but this made his moves even less predictable. He switched the fulcrum point, nullifying her right hand defense, changing from strangle to choke, using his forearm and sinking it into her windpipe just below the Adam’s apple. The blood flowed back into her brain but she was now struggling desperately for air, her lungs exploding.

  “Chokes kill; strangles just make you sleep.” She could hear the words of her jiu-jitsu master echoing through her head. The choke was tightening like a belt across her trachea. Twelve seconds more of this and she would be dead. She found herself counting down to her final moment: twelve, eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six—

  In a flash the force abated. Was he teasing her, allowing her to savor her last seconds on earth? She felt a sharp stab hit the back of her neck, making her reverberate with a cold shiver.

  Spread-eagled in the dirt, her fingertips brushed against the edge of a rock. She willed every muscle in her arm to stretch, to ignore the pain. In one final pull she managed to reach the rock and flick it into her palm, swinging around in the same movement to ram its sharp edge into the assassin’s temple behind her. His grip broke for a split second. That was all Suzy needed to reposition and sink her teeth down into his forearm as deeply as she could, making him recoil in pain.

  She spiraled out from his grapevine leg grip and leaped up like a cat. Her vision had returned and her attacker appeared to be a Bedouin woman in a black burka, eyes concealed by a metal mask. No, it wasn’t a woman—her senses had been right. His stance gave him away as he leaned against the wall holding his forearm in pain. This was a man. A knife was lying by her right foot. He must have dropped it. Was that what had caused the pain in her neck?