The Mayan Secrets fa-5 Page 18

  Ruiz picked up his jacket off the chair and went down the hall to the narrow, cagelike elevator. When Russell heard the elevator’s grating slide to the side to admit Ruiz, he rinsed his face again and looked in the mirror. His face felt hot, that if the blue were removed, it would be glowing.

  The trap had sprung when he had unlatched the briefcase. One spring mechanism had snapped the briefcase open, and the other had pushed the circular bottom of an ink-filled cylinder upward like a piston. It had been sealed at the top with only a layer of wax paper. Ink had shot out onto his face and chest.

  Fiendish. What kind of person thought that way? The trap had required that Fargo figure out in advance that somebody was going to take his briefcase. Russell was sure he hadn’t been spotted. Had Ruiz made some stupid mistake? Or did Fargo always walk around in foreign cities carrying a booby trap?

  Russell rubbed some cold cream all over his face and neck, desperate to soothe his burning skin. He dialed his satellite phone.

  “Hello,” said Sarah Allersby.

  “It’s me,” he said. “We went to San Diego and then followed them to the airport. They flew to Spain. That’s where I’m calling from — Valladolid.”

  “What are they doing there?”

  “We’ve been watching them for a few days. At first, all they did was go sightseeing in the daytime and out to expensive restaurants every night.”

  “By now, they must have hit nearly all of them,” Sarah Allersby said.

  “Pretty near. For eight days, they’ve been going to the University of Valladolid every day. They seem to be really interested in all the old buildings in town. But they’ve been doing some sort of research.”

  “I’m starting to feel uncomfortable. Reassure me. What are they researching?”

  “They go to the History Library and look at old books. Everywhere she goes, she has a big leather purse. After a couple of days, he started carrying a briefcase. They had to leave them with the librarian when they got there and pick them up when they left.”

  “What was in the cases?”

  “I figured they might be pulling a scam. The people who go to these old libraries to steal things like valuable prints or maps or illuminated pages all do it pretty much the same way. They go into a rare book room and read the books. They bring in a razor blade, hide it in one hand, and, when nobody’s looking, run it down a page to cut it loose. Then they slip the page under their clothes. I couldn’t watch them much, so I never saw them do anything.”

  “You’re getting me very nervous about this. Did you find out what books they looked at?”

  “Ruiz went in once right after they left and took a look. The binding on the book said Las Casas. That means ‘the Houses,’ right?”

  She sighed deeply, trying to use up a few seconds to avoid calling him an imbecile. She said calmly, “It’s the name of the Dominican friar who colonized the Alta Verapaz area of Guatemala. He was active around the time when the Mayan codex was buried by the landslide. I’m not sure what they could have thought they were accomplishing by reading about him.”

  “I decided today that I was going to find out exactly what they’d been up to. Ruiz and I got on a motorcycle, and while they were walking in the plaza, we went by them fast. I snatched the briefcase out of Fargo’s hand. It’s a kind of robbery that happens all the time in Spain and Italy. Before the mark knows what happened, the bike is gone.”

  “Were there pages inside the briefcase?”

  “No.”

  “What do the notes say? I’m sure you read his notes.”

  “There were none. The briefcase was a booby trap. As soon as I clicked the clasp, a spring mechanism popped the case wide open, and another spring pushed a piston up a cylinder full of blue ink. It’s all over my face.”

  “Oh, my gosh!” she said. “So he saw you watching them.”

  “I don’t think that’s a fair assumption,” Russell said. “The briefcase might have been only a precaution.”

  “Then he knows about you now, doesn’t he?”

  “He only knows that he got robbed. He can’t know why. They’ve been walking around here at night for over a week, wearing expensive clothes, staying in a fancy hotel, eating in exclusive restaurants. That attracts thieves.”

  “I can’t believe this,” Sarah muttered. It sounded to Russell as though she was talking to herself. “These people will not go away and leave me alone. They keep pushing and pushing me. Did I tell you they denounced me to the Guatemala federal police? Well, they did. They’re absolutely relentless, like ants. If you block one way in, they’ll find another. They’re persecuting me. I offered them a fair price. They’re the ones who turned me down.”

  “I’m sorry we didn’t stop them in San Diego. Or here, at least.”

  Sarah was feeling more and more sorry for herself. “Have you gotten cleaned up from the ink yet?”

  “Not yet,” he said. “We’ve tried several solvents, but, so far, no luck. I just sent Ruiz out for more.”

  “Russell, I need somebody to rid me of these people. They’ve become vicious now, and dangerous — not only to my reputation and my business, but even to you. That ink trap could just as easily have been acid, or an explosive.”

  “I’m sure he meant me to understand that. Any nonfatal attack is a warning.”

  “We can’t go on this way,” she said. “If someone threatens your life, you’re justified in using any force to save yourself.”

  “I’m not sure the authorities here would see it that way,” he said. She was assuming he’d just kill the Fargos for free. He had been planning to offer that option for a high price.

  She said, “It doesn’t matter what the authorities want. There’s such a thing as natural rights.”

  “I’m afraid that if you decided on an aggressive defense, I would have to charge an additional fee,” he said. “I have to pay Ruiz, and so on.” He waited for an answer.

  When it came, she sounded distracted, distant. “Oh. Yes. I was thinking of you as an equal. But, of course, I had no right to do that. You’re someone who works for me and has to think about money. How does an extra five thousand sound?”

  “I was thinking it would have to be ten,” he said.

  “Oh, Russell. I’d hate to think you called to get me all upset about what they’d done to you so you could take advantage of my sympathy to raise your prices.”

  “No, Miss Allersby,” he said. “I’d never do that. The figure is the minimum I’d actually need. I’ll have to get my color back so I don’t stand out, buy weapons for one-time use in a European country where they’re heavily controlled, pay to dispose of the bodies, find a quiet way out of Spain and back to the U.S., and compensate Ruiz.”

  “All right, then. Ten.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “But you have to do it, not just promise it and take the money in advance.”

  “We’re getting ahead of ourselves. I haven’t gotten rid of my blue face yet.”

  “You may not know this, but cosmetic companies sell opaque makeup that’s designed to cover scars, birthmarks, and discolorations. If the blue doesn’t wash off, you can cover it up until your skin recovers on its own.”

  “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Do. When those horrible Fargo people disappear from my life, I’ll make you glad they did.” He heard the click as she hung up.

  Sarah sat in the big office in the old quarter of Guatemala City. Why was her patience being so sorely tested? These little people, these nothings, were making her life unbearable. Since they had left Guatemala, Diego San Martin had come to her home to tell her that the Fargos had killed several members of one of his security patrols before they had slipped away into the jungle.

  An enraged drug lord was not a pleasant guest. He had labor issues too. If men who worked for him were killed, he had to send big payments to their wives. If he didn’t, the others would become timid and reluctant to do their jobs. If Diego San Martin couldn’t keep
people off the small corner of her land where he was raising and shipping marijuana, he couldn’t make a profit and he would stop the commission he was paying her. In the current international economy, having a large stream of passive income was what kept her business profitable.

  Sarah opened her computer and tapped in the name Bartolomé de Las Casas. She read the entry quickly, and then came to the end. Las Casas had left his whole personal library to the Colegio de San Gregorio in Valladolid. What could a monk’s personal library have been in 1566? The man had been the first colonizer of the north of Guatemala, a friend and teacher of Mayan kings. Could he have left a set of directions to find an abandoned Mayan city? A tomb with a fabulous treasure? All this time, Sarah had been thinking that the way to the next big discovery was going to be a Mayan codex, but it could just as easily be a Spanish priest’s journal. She had never before considered such a thing, but if the Mayans were going to tell anyone a secret, it would have been Las Casas. He was their confessor, their protector.

  The bloody Fargos might have discerned the one way to confound her. Of course, just the fact that they had beaten her to an idea didn’t mean the idea was worth anything. The whole idea depended on something that might not have happened at all. Had Las Casas learned any secrets from the Mayans? Probably. Had he written them down and left them in his library of hymnals and catechisms and tracts? Who knew?

  She had to get going now, to choose her destination and begin assembling the components of her first expedition. The idea of being beaten to a major discovery by a pair of inquisitive, jealous, and resentful upstarts was maddening.

  Sarah picked up her telephone and called the vice president in charge of the financial arm of her company.

  “Yes, Miss Allersby?” he said. The Spanish-speaking employees of her companies had been instructed never to address her as Señorita because it sounded disrespectful to her English-trained ears.

  “Ricardo, I need a favor.”

  “Certainly, Miss Allersby,” he said. “If you ask me, it’s not a favor. It’s my job.”

  “I would like you to run credit checks on an American couple. The names are Samuel and Remi Fargo. They live on Goldfish Point in La Jolla, California, which is a section of San Diego. I want to know exactly what charges they’re making on their credit cards and where.”

  “Do you have any identifiers? Social Security numbers, dates of birth? Anything like that?”

  “No. But you can buy them from their banks, can’t you?”

  “Of course, Miss Allersby, or from middlemen.”

  “Then go ahead. They were here in Guatemala a couple of weeks ago. Their hotel will probably have made copies of their passports and will certainly have their credit card numbers.”

  “Yes, Miss Allersby,” he said. “I’ll find out where they are and what they’re doing and call you.”

  “Good. Wait a few hours after that and run their credit again once each day so we can pick up any changes.”

  “Certainly, Miss Allersby.”

  She hung up and turned her attention to planning her expedition. She made long lists of things that needed to be done and, under them, the people she would order to do them. After about two hours, her cell phone rang again.

  “Hello.”

  “Miss Allersby, it’s Ricardo Escorial. Samuel and Remi Fargo charged some airline tickets a few hours ago. They flew from Madrid to New York. In the afternoon, they’ll arrive and take a flight from New York to San Diego.”

  “Are you sure they got on the flight at Madrid?”

  “Quite sure,” he said. “Otherwise, by now there would be a refund or an additional charge for a change in reservations.”

  “All right. Call me with an update tomorrow.” She hung up, then dialed another number.

  “Hello?” It was Russell’s voice again. He sounded as though he had been asleep.

  “Hello, Russell. It’s me. After the Fargos painted you blue, they took a plane to New York. They’re booked on a second flight to San Diego in the late afternoon. So don’t waste your time searching the tapas bars, looking for revenge. Go home and take care of this problem.”

  Chapter 19

  LA JOLLA

  It was early morning, and Remi and Sam sat at an outdoor table overlooking the Pacific at the Valencia Hotel, only a few hundred yards from their house, where they often ate breakfast with Zoltán, their German shepherd. They’d already finished a morning run along the beach and now they were having cups of espresso and a breakfast of smoked salmon on bagels with capers and onions. Zoltán had eaten his breakfast at home before they’d gone out and was content at this hour with a bowl of water and a few of the biscuits that Remi carried in her pocket for treats. When Sam and Remi had finished, they paid their bill and started walking across the vast green lawn and on toward their house.

  Zoltán, always alert, stopped and stared in the direction of the beach, then moved forward again to lead the way home. Remi said, “What is it, Zoltán? Did you see somebody that Sam painted blue? The one I wish you’d paint blue is Sarah Allersby,” she added. She looked at her watch, then at the stretch of lawn ahead. “We’d better move a little faster. David Caine will be there in a few minutes.”

  “Selma will let him in,” he said. “Before he gets here, we should talk about what we’re willing to do on this project and what we’re not willing to do.”

  “Have we given adequate consideration to painting Sarah Allersby blue? I, for one, don’t think so,” she said.

  “The idea is growing on me. But, seriously, we’re reaching the point where we may decide something is the next logical move but not want to do it. If a person takes enough risks, the time could come when he loses.”

  “Who are you and what have you done with my husband?”

  Sam smiled. “I know I’m usually the one who wants to do something rash. But I can’t forget what it felt like that day when our only way out was to dive into an underground river.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” she said. “By the way, that was pretty romantic when you tried to give me your air tank. I don’t know if I’ve ever given you adequate credit for that. Who knew that the way to a girl’s heart is through her lungs?”

  “Let’s talk things over with David, hear what he thinks but make a decision about what we do only after we’ve taken some time to think it through.”

  “Okay.” She looked up at Sam as they walked, then suddenly stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.

  “What was that for?”

  “You know.”

  * * *

  They let Zoltán lead them home and arrived just as David Caine’s car pulled up in front of their house. He got out carrying a big, string-tied accordion envelope under his arm. He shook Sam’s hand, hugged Remi, and patted Zoltán.

  When they were inside, he said, “What you’ve done — deducing that a copy might have existed and then going to find it — was brilliant. And I’ve always been an admirer of Bartolomé de Las Casas, but even he has risen in my estimation. The copy he made seems to me to be nearly perfect. Tracing and copying a hundred thirty-six pages of pictures and symbols that he couldn’t have understood must have taken months. But as far as I can tell, he missed nothing.”

  They went to a long table in the first-floor office area, and Caine laid out a series of digital images from Sam and Remi’s library transmission. He had enlarged the images so it was possible to see each pen stroke and every mark on the vellum, including pores on the outer side of the hide.

  Sam and Remi recognized the four-page map of the Mayan sites, with its text of Mayan glyphs and its stylized pictures.

  Remi pointed at the first spot they had explored. “There’s our swimming pool, the cenote, where we had the shootout.”

  Next, Caine laid out a series of enlarged satellite photographs of the same territory, placing each one under its Mayan representation. “Here’s the way these places look from above.”

  Then he set out one more. “And here’s what I’m exc
ited about — excited and worried.”

  “What is it?” asked Remi.

  “You remember I said at the beginning that it looked like there were a few major sets of buildings on these maps?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Well, I used aerial photographs and satellite images to see if there was anything in those locations to correspond to the drawings. Here are some of the results.”

  “There are certainly buildings,” said Sam. He pointed at the photograph. “These hills, here and here, are too tall and steep to be anything but large pyramids.”

  Caine laid out three more pairs of photographs. “Here are codex entries for four large complexes that modern scholars don’t know exist.”

  “How big is the city?” Sam asked.

  “It’s impossible to tell from photographs,” said Caine. “There are possible stone ruins within a mile or two in each direction. Does that mean we’ve discovered a city that was three to five miles across? Probably not. But, then, what have we discovered? There’s only one way to find out.”

  Remi looked at the aerial photographs and satellite images. “These things are so deeply hidden by the trees and vines and bushes. You can hardly see them even when you’re standing on them.”

  “That’s why so many sites are still undisturbed,” Caine said. “Buildings look like hills covered with vegetation. But the codex tells us which hills aren’t hills. You two have made a huge contribution.”

  “I’m just glad it wasn’t wasted effort,” said Sam.

  “Hardly,” said Caine. “Using the codex you found in Mexico and the copy you found in Spain, we’ve managed to discover at least five important sites — the complex around the cenote you explored and four ancient cities. The past fifteen years has already been the most productive period of Mayan studies ever. Your find is going to trigger a lot of excavations in short order. I can tell already that just studying the copy of the codex will teach us more about the written languages too. Even that will take years, of course. Linguistic studies require a number of people working to understand one specific grammatical quirk or unfamiliar vocabulary term and then others using that breakthrough to understand other texts. And proper excavation of a city is a job that has to be done with brushes and sifting screens, not bulldozers. We won’t live long enough to see all of the important discoveries you’ve made possible.”