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  Chapter 13

  SAN DIEGO

  Professor David Caine sat in an archive room in the university library, trying to decipher the Mayan glyphs on the third page of the codex. He had seen nearly all of the glyphs in the first two columns before. They were among the eight hundred sixty-one that had appeared in other codices or as carved inscriptions at Mayan archaeological sites and translated in the context of those inscriptions. He had found two glyphs on the first page that he believed had not been found before. In old languages and writing systems, there were always a few words susceptible to competing interpretations. Even in the surviving texts of Old English, there were a few words appearing only once, and scholars had been arguing about them for centuries.

  Caine leaned close to the lighted magnifier on the stand above the painted bark page of the codex. He had photographed all the pages, but when there was doubt about a glyph, it was best to look as closely as possible at the original, examining each brushstroke. The two glyphs could be borrowings from another Mayan language, or possibly be the unique names of historical figures or even two names for one man. They could even be variants of terms he knew but had failed to recognize.

  There was a loud rap on the door that startled him and destroyed his concentration. He was tempted to shout “Go away,” but he reminded himself that he was a guest in this building. He stood up, went to the door, and opened it.

  In the doorway stood Albert Strohm, the vice chancellor for Academic Affairs, and behind him were several men in suits. Strohm was a dynamic, effective executive — the academic vice chancellor was the one who actually ran the campus, while the chancellor spent most of his time on public relations and fund-raising — but Strohm looked today like a man who had been thoroughly defeated.

  Caine said, “Hello, Albert,” as kindly as he could. “Come on in. I was just—”

  “Thank you, Professor Caine,” Strohm said, giving Caine a stare that held some message — a warning? Caine was sure it had something to do with the men outside. Strohm said, “Let me introduce these gentlemen. This is Alfredo Montez, the Minister of Culture for the Republic of Mexico; Mr. Juárez, his assistant; Steven Vanderman, Special Agent, FBI; and Milton Welles, U.S. Customs.” As he introduced the agents, they held up their federal identification badges.

  “Please come in,” said Caine. He was thinking rapidly. Albert Strohm’s formality had been a warning to him to shut up before he said something incriminating. Then he amended it — or, if not incriminating, then something that might weaken the university’s position in a legal matter. He had heard of Alfredo Montez, so he held out his hand. “Señor Montez, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve read your monographs on the Olmec and used them, particularly the ones on blue jadeite, in my own work.”

  “Thank you,” said Montez. He was a tall, erect man, with his dark hair combed straight back. He wore an expensive gray suit and highly shined shoes, which made Caine feel a bit grubby in his old sport coat and khaki pants. He noticed that Montez didn’t smile.

  Montez said, “We came straight from Mexico City as soon as the Chiapas officials brought this situation to our attention.” He saw that the codex was open on the table where Caine had been working. “That is the Mayan codex, correct?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Found in a shrine on Volcán Tacaná?”

  “Yes,” said Caine. “It was hidden in a classic period pot. The finders judged it would be safest to remove what they could from the earthquake zone, and then there were attempts to steal the pot, so they brought it here temporarily. Only when we unsealed the pot did we find the codex. If you have time, I’d love to talk with you about the shrine and the codex itself.”

  Minister Montez stepped back and turned toward the FBI and customs agents to answer. “No, I’m afraid I’ll have to defer that conversation. For the moment, I’ve heard enough.”

  It was as though the legal authorities had been waiting for Caine to say the wrong thing. The FBI man, the customs man, and the assistant stepped to the table. In an instant, Caine knew. As soon as he had admitted the codex had been found in Mexico, anything else he might say became irrelevant. But he had to try to keep them from confiscating it.

  “Wait, gentlemen, please. This codex was found, hidden in a classic period jar, with the body of a caretaker, who must have brought it to the shrine to hide. The shrine had been buried by lava in an eruption, then uncovered by last month’s earthquakes. There was an emergency, a national disaster. The finders were there on a humanitarian mission, not searching for artifacts. They only acted to preserve what they’d found.”

  Special Agent Vanderman said, “You must be aware that the law and international agreements required them to report the find to the host government and not take it out of the country.”

  “Yes, I’m aware. But these people protected the jar and the codex from thieves in Mexico. This isn’t a theoretical argument. The codex would have been on the black market that very day.”

  “We’re here now, and these finders are relieved of the responsibility to protect it further,” said Montez. “And so are you.”

  Caine was frantic. “Surely you’re not going to confiscate the codex now. I’ve barely had time to examine it.”

  “Have you photographed it?” asked Welles, the customs agent.

  “That was one of the first things I did,” said Caine. “It was a precaution, to preserve the information.”

  “We’ll need those photographs too,” said Welles. “And all copies. Are they in your briefcase?”

  “Well, yes,” Caine said. “But why?”

  “They’re evidence in a possible federal prosecution. They prove you were treating the codex as your own and that you were taking your time about reporting it to authorities here or in its country of origin.”

  “But that’s absurd,” said Caine. “I’ve always reported everything I’ve found in Mexico or anywhere else. There’s never been this kind of haste in any case I know of. The codex hasn’t been here a month.”

  Vanderman, the FBI agent, said, “Do you want to hand everything over voluntarily or should we begin to search for it?”

  Caine lifted his briefcase to the table and produced a thick, nine-by-twelve-inch envelope full of photographs. He turned to Vice Chancellor Strohm, who looked sick. “Albert—”

  “I’m sorry, Professor Caine. The university’s legal staff says the law is clear. The codex belongs to the country where it was found. We have no choice but to comply with the official request for immediate repatriation.”

  Agent Vanderman glanced at the photographs in the envelope, but then took Caine’s briefcase too. He said, “We’ll need your laptop too.” He gestured toward the open computer near the codex.

  “Why?” asked Caine. “You can’t say that belongs to the Mexican government.”

  Vanderman spoke quietly. “It will be returned to you as soon as our technicians have looked through the hard drive.” He stared at Caine for a moment, his eyes taking on the flat, emotionless expression that cops use on suspects. “Just some friendly advice. If there’s anything on the drive about selling, hiding, or transporting the Mayan codex, then you’ll need to hire a good lawyer. I’m sure Vice Chancellor Strohm will tell you that the university’s attorneys can’t defend you in a criminal trial.”

  Strohm didn’t meet Caine’s gaze.

  Caine stood, helplessly watching them pack up the codex, his notes, his photographs, and his computer. He turned to the two Mexican officials. “Minister Montez, Señor Juárez,” he said. “Please believe me, this was never a scheme to do anything unethical. The people who found the codex risked their lives to protect it during a time of catastrophe. They alerted the mayor of the nearest village. They called me in and I immediately began consulting with scholars all over the world, including Mexico.”

  Montez said, “You should know that neither I nor the Mexican government can countenance what you’ve done here. The steps you and your friends took seem to have left out the only legitimate autho
rity, and the legal owner of the artifacts. Saying that the only way to protect the codex was taking it to the United States is presumptuous and paternalistic.” He stepped past Caine and the others, with his assistant, Señor Juárez, following.

  After that, the men from the FBI and customs seemed uncomfortable. They took only a minute to finish packing up and walk off, leaving only Strohm and Caine in the room.

  “I’m sorry, David,” said Strohm. “The university had no choice but to cooperate in a situation like this. Of course we’ll do everything possible to vouch for you and support you. We’ll also vouch for the probity of your conduct. But, you know, you might want to consider what Agent Vanderman said.”

  “You mean find a criminal lawyer?”

  The vice chancellor shrugged. “It’s a lot easier to get a court to decide in your favor on the first try than to get the next court to reverse the first’s decision.”

  * * *

  Outside the building, the officials drove off in a plain coal black Lincoln Town Car. They reached the San Diego Freeway and turned south in the direction of downtown San Diego, but then stayed on the freeway, took the Balboa Park exit, and drove into the vast parking lots of the San Diego Zoo. They went to an area of the largest lot that was far from the pedestrian entrance and where a solitary second black car waited. They pulled up beside it, and both drivers lowered their backseat windows.

  From the backseat of the waiting car came a woman’s voice with an educated British accent. “I assume it all went swimmingly?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Special Agent Vanderman. He got out of his car, carrying a large briefcase, got into the backseat of the other car, and sat beside Sarah Allersby. He placed the case on the seat between them, opened it, and showed her the codex, wrapped in clear plastic.

  “Did you get everything? All of his photographs, his notes, and so on?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “The administrators fell all over themselves to cooperate, and so when we all trooped in, Caine looked like he’d been poleaxed. He gave us everything without much of an argument. I guess he assumed his bosses had already verified who we were.”

  “They may have,” said Sarah. “The names on your identification cards were the names of real officials.” She looked more closely at the briefcase. “Is this everything?”

  “No.” He got out and reached into the backseat of the other car, then handed her a computer. “Here’s his laptop. That’s everything.”

  “Then it’s time for you four to get moving. Here are your itineraries.” She handed him four printed airline itineraries. “Destroy your fake identification before you reach the airport. You’ll each find a rather pleasing bonus in your special bank accounts tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Aren’t you going to ask how much?”

  “No, ma’am. You said we’d be pleased. I have no reason to doubt that, and, if I’m wrong, haggling won’t help.”

  She smiled, displaying perfectly straight, professionally whitened teeth. “You’re very wise. Stick with our company and you’ll also be rich.”

  “I intend to,” he said. He turned and got into the backseat of the other car and nodded to the driver. The car began to move immediately.

  Sarah Allersby watched the other black car drive off, then latched the briefcase and set it on the floor. She couldn’t keep from smiling as her own car moved off more slowly. She wanted to laugh aloud, to get on the phone and tell a few friends how clever she had been. She had just acquired a Mayan codex, an irreplaceable and priceless artifact, for about the cost of a middle-of-the-lot American car. If she included the price of the false identification cards and badges, the plane tickets, and the bonuses, it was, at most, the cost of two cars.

  Maybe when she got back to Guatemala City tonight she would get on the secure scrambled phone line to London. Her father would be amused. He didn’t much care about the art or cultures of non-European people — he referred to them as “our brown brothers,” as though he were a colonist out of Kipling — but a good deal on any commodity was what he lived for.

  Chapter 14

  GUATEMALA

  The cannabis plants grew in rows, planted like corn, with the stalks as tall as a man. There were irrigation hoses between rows with holes in them to soak the roots.

  Remi sat on the ground and put on the sneakers that Sam had placed in the waterproof bag for her. Then she took two of the pistols from the bag, handed one to Sam, and stuck the other in the waistband of her shorts and pulled her shirt down over it. She said, “I think I know who those men who attacked us were.”

  “Me too,” Sam said. “They must patrol the area to be sure outsiders don’t reach the fields.”

  “Let’s see if we can call home,” Remi said. She tried her phone, then Sam’s. “The batteries are dead. We’ll have to walk out of here.”

  “If the drug farmers let us,” Sam said. “They’re not going to like us any better than the men at the cenote did.”

  They heard the sound of an engine. It was distant at first, but it grew louder. After a moment, they could hear squeaking springs as a stake truck bounced along the dusty road between two fields of crops.

  Sam and Remi ran into the forest of tall cannabis stalks and moved away from the sounds. They crouched low and watched. The truck bounced up and coasted to a stop, and a middle-aged man in blue jeans, cowboy boots, and a white shirt got out of the passenger side of the cab. He walked one row into the field and selected a marijuana plant. He looked closely at a bud and tested it. He stepped out toward the truck and nodded, and a dozen men jumped from the back of the truck to the ground. They moved along the rows of plants, harvesting the ripe buds.

  The harvest proceeded quickly. Sam and Remi had to stay out of sight. When they were sure it was clear, they ran across a gap to the next field. After they had slipped into that field, they heard another engine sound approaching. This time, it was a tractor towing a wagon containing more men, who jumped down and began to harvest the second field.

  For hours, Sam and Remi moved from one field of the huge plantation to another, avoiding the harvesters, their trucks and tractors.

  The trucks began to pass them again, moving in the other direction. Sam and Remi made their way down a long row of plants in the middle of the field, walking parallel to the roads and maintaining their distance. They came to a forest of bushes, all seven to ten feet tall. “Interesting,” Remi whispered. “They look a lot like a blackthorn, don’t they?”

  “Could be,” said Sam. “All I know about the blackthorn is that it’s what the Irish use to make a shillelagh. Also that it looks like a coca tree. And this is a coca tree.” He picked a leaf. “See? You look for two parallel lines on each side of the rib.”

  “How do you know about that?”

  Sam shrugged and gave Remi a sly smile.

  When they reached the end of the coca grove, they could see a single-file line of about twenty trucks and tractors waiting to pull up to barnlike buildings. Sam and Remi kept to the fields as they moved to the side and around the buildings.

  Sam pointed at the trucks and whispered, “I think that’s our way out.”

  Remi said, “Maybe, but look at all the guards.” Walking the perimeter of the tie-down area were men who carried rifles that looked like AK-47 assault weapons on slings. Sam and Remi could see the curved, thirty-round magazines.

  “Interesting,” said Sam. “They’re all facing inward, watching the guys covering the loads of marijuana. They’re not protecting the operation, they’re making sure the farmhands don’t steal any of the product. It’s inventory control.”

  Remi said, “Maybe we could just sneak to the road and walk out of here.”

  Sam shrugged. “Would the men who tried to kill us in the forest neglect a road?”

  “Probably not,” she said. “I guess it’s got to be a truck.”

  “Let’s pick one that’s already been loaded, covered, and parked.”

  Sam and Rem
i made a wide circle around the compound, staying among the tall plants and watching the activities in the center. They avoided the spots where a turning truck might sweep its headlights across them, and they stayed far from the buildings where men were hanging, bailing, and loading marijuana.

  Sam and Remi stayed under their cover until they were beyond the parked trucks. It looked hopeless. There was a guard standing by the front bumper of the first truck in line, which was fully loaded and tied down. From his tired slouch, he seemed bored. The sling that held his rifle went from his left shoulder across his chest to his right hip, so he would need an extra second or two to bring it around and fire.

  Sam and Remi put their heads close, whispered for a few seconds, and then separated and left the woods at the same moment about ten feet apart. They walked silently, but quickly, and converged on the guard from both sides at once with their pistols drawn. The guard turned in Remi’s direction, saw her, and began to tug at his sling to lift it over his head to free his rifle, but Sam was beside the man too quickly and pressed his gun to the man’s head. Remi stepped closer, grasped the sling, and took the rifle away from him. Without warning, Sam hooked his left arm around the man’s neck from behind in a choke hold and held it until he lost consciousness. Sam and Remi each took an ankle and dragged the man into the nearby woods. Sam took the man’s pants and put them on, then put on the man’s straw hat. Remi held the rifle and watched the trucks while Sam took the man’s shirt, tore it, and used it to tie and gag him, then bind him to a tree.

  They stepped out of the woods together, Sam holding the AK-47 rifle the way the guards held theirs and wearing the guard’s hat and pants. They walked between two of the already loaded trucks, then picked one, quickly letting their silhouettes be engulfed by the silhouette of the truck. They looked in each direction, trying to see where the other guards were, but couldn’t see any of them from there.

  Then, coming along the front of the trucks, was another guard. “Guard,” Sam whispered. Remi crouched beside one of the big truck tires. Sam held the AK-47, his left hand on the forestock and his right just behind the trigger guard, pushed the safety off, and stepped a couple of paces in front of the truck in a bored, slouching posture, his eyes turned in their sockets to watch the guard’s behavior.