The Mayan Secrets

by Clive Cussler

  “Sure. We all lined up, and then . . .” She paused. “José handed his cell phone to the mayor’s brother.”

  “And then he handed the phone back to José. So we know where this came from.”

  “José sent it to a reporter, obviously, along with this article. I’m going to get a better translation than I can do.” She took the phone from Sam, ducked out of the tent, and disappeared.

  When Sam caught up with her, she was sitting beside Christina, who was translating. “The discovery was made by Sam and Remi Fargo, members of a volunteer relief expedition bringing aid to the remote villages on Tacaná . . .” She paused. “He gives you full credit, but he doesn’t leave anyone out. The picture has everyone’s full name, and the narrative seems accurate.”

  “I respect him for his honesty,” Remi said. “It’s just that we thought we had more time before the rest of the world knew.”

  “Well, we don’t,” said Sam. “We’d better decide what to do.” He looked around at the camp. “Where’s José?”

  Remi stood and looked around. “He was guarding the shrine when we came in last night.”

  Sam began to run. He dashed along the plateau, ascended the narrow path until he reached the place where it widened again near the entrance to the shrine. There was Raul Mendoza. “Good morning, Sam,” he said. “Buenos días.”

  “Buenos días,” Sam said. He leaned into the entrance and saw that everything was as it had been. The body was still in its body bags, the pot had not been moved, and the wooden vessels were untouched. He returned to Raul. “Did you happen to see José go by this morning?”

  “No,” said Mendoza. “Not since he was with you last night.”

  “I think we can leave the shrine for a few minutes,” said Sam. “We all need to have a talk.”

  “All right.”

  They went to the camp, where the others were just stowing their tents and gear in their backpacks and putting out cook fires. When Sam and Raul arrived, Remi said, “Apparently, José took off by himself. His tent and gear are gone.”

  “We should talk.”

  “We’ve been talking,” Remi said. “Everybody agrees that we can’t do much to hide the shrine. We can bury the carved stone pillar, but we can’t move it. All we can do is make sure we’ve got the best possible photos of the interior of the shrine and take our friend and his belongings with us.”

  “We should also explain to the villagers what they’ve got here.”

  During the morning, they brought the village mayor and his two closest friends to the shrine, then showed them the article in the Mexico City newspaper. Sam warned them that people would be coming. The ones from the government and from universities should be welcomed and the others kept away, for the present.

  When they were finished explaining and the mayor said he understood, the volunteers left the shrine. Sam carried the Mayan pot across his chest in a rudimentary sling, and the Mendoza brothers carried the body on a makeshift stretcher, just two poles with the body lashed between them. The doctors sealed the wooden vessels, and the remains of the fruits and vegetables found in them, in sterile, airtight plastic bags.

  Every few hours, Sam stopped and drained off some water from the melting ice and made sure the body bags were intact. It took two days of walking to get down the long trail to the village of Unión Juárez, but Maria used Remi’s satellite telephone to call ahead to be sure that a truck was waiting to take them to Tapachula.

  On the bumpy ride back to Tapachula, Sam protected the pot from shock by keeping it on his lap. The Mendoza brothers protected the mummy by holding the stretcher suspended between their knees, where it couldn’t touch the bed of the truck. As they drove to the city, Sam spoke with the others. “I think that at least until the publicity dies down, we’ve got to keep our friend’s location secret. Maria, Christina, I’m wondering if I can ask you for a favor.”

  After some discussion, Sam had the truck take them to the hospital at Tapachula. Dr. Talamantes and Dr. Garza went inside alone. A while later, they returned with a gurney and wheeled the body in, where they could keep it refrigerated in the morgue. When they came back, they had news. While they had been up on the volcano, the city had made great progress. The electrical power had been restored, the roads to the west and the east were open again, and the airport had resumed commercial flights.

  The four shared a cab that wound through recently cleared and half-repaired streets to the airport. While Sam paid the driver, Christina Talamantes said, “Sam, Remi, we’ll miss you both.” She hugged them, and then Maria Garza did the same. “But it will be good to fly to Acapulco so we can get back to our own work.”

  “We’ll miss you too,” said Remi. “In a couple of weeks, some people from our foundation will be in touch.”

  Christina looked puzzled. “Why?”

  “This won’t be the last disaster,” said Sam. “But maybe our foundation can help in advance to prepare for the next one. We want you and Maria to tell us what needs to be done and to decide how to spend the money.”

  Maria, who was usually the shy one, threw her arms around Sam and kissed his cheek. When she released him, she hurried off toward the terminal. Christina smiled, and said, “As you can tell, we’ll be delighted.” She turned and trotted after Maria to catch up.

  Sam and Remi sat down in the airport bar. Sam said to Remi, “You know what I’d like? To drink something that’s ice-cold. It’s been a while.” He ordered two bottles of beer, and called Selma.

  “Hello, you two,” she said.

  “Hi, Selma,” said Sam. “We’re back in Tapachula, at the airport, and it’s time for us to go somewhere else. Can you find us a resort on the Pacific Coast that hasn’t been affected by the earthquake?”

  “I’ll do my best. Keep your phone where you can reach it.”

  Before they had finished their beer, Sam’s satellite phone rang. “Selma?”

  “The very same. You have tickets waiting for an Aeromexico flight to Huatulco in forty-five minutes. It’s close but not damaged at all. Your hotel is Las Brisas, which is a very good one on the beach, and your room has a balcony overlooking the ocean. I’ve rented a car for you and you pick it up at the airport.”

  “Thanks, Selma.”

  In Huatulco, Sam and Remi signed for the car and drove to the Las Brisas Hotel. They went to the pool to soak and lie on long deck chairs, drinking margaritas. After about an hour, Remi turned to Sam, lifted her sunglasses, and said, “If you were to invite me to a great dinner at seven o’clock tonight, I would try to find time in my busy schedule to accept.”

  They bought new clothes in the shops at the hotel and went to the restaurant at seven. Sam ordered pheasant in almond red sauce and Remi had seafood posole with snapper, cod, and shrimp. They selected an Argentine Malbec and a Chilean Sauvignon Blanc to go with them. They had Mexican tres leches cake and polvorónes de Caulle, a local type of cinnamon cookies, for dessert.

  After dinner, they walked on the beach and then went to the bar on the patio to sip a Cabo Uno Lowland Extra Añejo tequila that had mellow undertones of vanilla. Remi said, “Thanks, Sam. I like it when I can tell you remember I’m a girl and not your old army buddy.”

  “Not a likely mistake unless I get hit on the head.” He sipped the aromatic, powerful tequila. “This is a nice change for both of us. Living in a tent and spending your days burying sewer pipes is only fun for so long.”

  They finished their tequila, and Remi stood, stepped behind Sam’s chair, put her hands on his shoulders, and leaned down to kiss his head, letting her auburn hair fall to both sides of him like a silky curtain for a second, then straightened. “Shall we?” she said.

  They walked, holding hands, to the entrance and went up in the elevator. Sam opened the door of their room but suddenly put his arm out to keep Remi from entering. He turned on the light and stepped in. The room had been ran
sacked. His pack and Remi’s had been poured out on top of the bed. The closet doors were open, and the extra pillows and blankets had been swept off the shelf to the floor. Sam said, “Luckily, we didn’t use the room safe. What’s missing from the packs?”

  Remi pushed some of her clothing aside, opened a zippered compartment in the pack, then stepped back and looked around the room. “Not a thing. I don’t bring fancy jewelry on boat trips, and our only expensive gear is the satellite phones and dive watches. We had them with us.”

  “I’m not missing anything either.”

  “Please tell me you still have the receipt from the parking attendant,” she said. “The pot is in the trunk of the car.”

  “Here’s the receipt.” He held it up so she could see it.

  “Let’s check anyway.”

  They took the elevator to the parking garage, found their rental car, and opened the trunk. There was the pot and Remi’s computer, wrapped in their jackets, and the airtight packages of seeds and husks with the wooden vessels the Mayan had used.

  “Everything is here,” Remi said.

  “Whoever it was apparently didn’t see the car or didn’t connect it with us or couldn’t get to it.”

  “What do you think is going on?”

  “I don’t think it was a regular hotel room robbery. I think somebody recognized us from the newspaper article, or the viral Internet version, and figured we had something valuable from the shrine.”

  “The pot?” she asked.

  “It might be valuable, and it’s the only thing in our possession, but they couldn’t know that, whoever they are.”

  “Then the thing to do is get out of here,” she said. “We need to make sure these people don’t follow us.”

  Sam said, “We’ll check out right now and move to another hotel.”

  “Where?”

  “On the other side of the country.”

  “Sounds far enough.”

  “Wait here. I’ll go up and use the express checkout and bring the packs down here by the back stairs.”

  “While you’re doing that, I’ll call Selma and let her know where we’re going.” She paused. “Where are we going?”

  “Cancún.” He hurried into the hotel.

  In a half hour they were on the road in the rental car, beginning the nine-hundred-mile drive from Huatulco to Cancún. It was now late in the evening so there was little traffic. Sam drove hard, watching to be sure they weren’t followed. Remi took her turn driving after two hours, and they kept going until four. They pulled over at a closed gas station in Tuxtla Gutiérrez and slept until it opened at eight, filled the tank, and drove on to Centro on the Gulf Coast. All day they kept changing drivers at intervals until they reached Cancún. They checked into the Crown Paradise Club, showered, and slept until morning.

  In the morning, they drove to El Centro, the central part of the city, to shop. They found a number of small stores that had been designed, built, and stocked with American tourists in mind. They bought a number of souvenirs, all of them cheap replicas of Mayan artifacts—pots, bowls, wall hangings, mats, and fabrics that more or less reproduced Mayan art and writing. Everything bore images of Mayan kings, priests, and gods, but crudely and garishly painted. At a hobby shop, they bought a water-soluble acrylic paint set that included silver and gold paint and brushes.

  At the hotel, Sam went to work on the genuine Mayan pot from the shrine. He painted designs and altered pictures to make the painting on the pot look as cheap and crude as the souvenirs he and Remi had bought. He used sparkly gold paint to cover the pieces of jewelry the Mayan king wore. Parts of his shield and war club Sam highlighted with silver.

  When the paint was dry, Sam and Remi asked the concierge at the hotel where they could find a mailing company that would ship their souvenirs home. He replied that the hotel would do this for them. Sam and Remi watched him pad a large packing box, load the pot into it, fill all the spaces around it with the mats, wall hangings, and fabrics, then fill the box the rest of the way with Styrofoam peanuts and seal it up. With the concierge’s help, Sam and Remi filled out the customs declaration, saying the contents were “souvenirs from Mexico,” and declared the price they’d paid to be under a hundred dollars.

  They paid the cost of shipping the souvenirs to their house in La Jolla, gave the concierge a large tip, and went off to the beach to do some snorkeling in the shallows after their hot morning in the city.

  That night, Sam and Remi called Selma from their room.

  “Hi, you two,” Selma said. “What is it this time, a flood?”

  “Not yet,” said Sam. “We just wanted you to know that we’ve sent some souvenirs from Yucatán to the house in La Jolla.”

  “I’ll watch for them. Is this one big box?”

  “Yes,” said Remi. “There’s some pottery, which we really don’t want broken.”

  There was a very slight pause, during which they could tell that Selma had understood what the package was. “Don’t give it another thought. Are you on your way home?”

  “As soon as we can get a flight,” Sam said.

  “Have you given any thought to where you plan to sleep when you get to San Diego? The fourth floor of the house is still a process, not a product.”

  “Until yesterday, we’ve been sleeping on the side of an active volcano,” Remi said. “We’ll manage.”

  “You could stay at the Valencia Hotel. I can reserve a suite or even a villa. Then each day you can walk home across the lawn or down to the beach.”

  “Sounds good,” said Remi. “If we rent a villa, will they let Zoltán stay with us?”

  “I’ll see if they can arrange it. I can even bring him there to show them what an exemplary animal he is,” Selma said.

  “Maybe that’s not such a good idea,” Sam said. “A hundred-twenty-pound dog who sits when you say sit is still a little scary.”

  “I’ll sing his praises, then, and offer to put up a damage deposit.”

  “Make sure it’s enough to cover any kindergartners he might eat.”

  “Sam!” said Remi.

  “We’ll call before we get on the plane.”

  Sam used Remi’s computer to buy plane tickets home. Then he researched the names of American archaeology professors specializing in the Mayans. It was a pleasant surprise that one of the most distinguished seemed to be Professor David Caine at the University of California at San Diego. Sam e-mailed Dr. Caine and said that he and Remi had made an unusual find at Volcán Tacaná, and attached the Mexican news article about it. He asked Caine if he would meet with them when they returned home. He asked Remi to read the e-mail before he sent it.

  She did, and said, “My advice is, click send.”

  “You don’t think we ought to include something about ourselves? Maybe list the places we’ve excavated in other countries and so on?”

  “Nobody needs to do that anymore. When he reads this, he’ll be sitting in front of a computer. He can Google us and get much more than he wants to know.”

  “I suppose.”

  Within an hour, Professor Caine answered. He said he would be happy to meet with them and was eager to learn more about their latest find. Remi pointed at the screen. “See that? Our ‘latest find.’ He Googled us first thing.”

  That afternoon, Sam and Remi checked out of the hotel and hired a taxi for the ride to the airport south of the city. The driver put their two backpacks into the trunk. As she was about to get into the cab, Remi hesitated for a second.

  “What?” Sam said. “Something wrong?”

  She shook her head. “Just a guy waiting outside the main entrance. When we came out, he ran.”

  “Where to?”

  “I don’t know. Down the street, I guess.”

  “Could he be a parking attendant going to retrieve somebody else’s car?”

 
“Sure. That’s probably it,” she said. “I guess I’m a little jumpy today. Some of the experiences we’ve had lately . . .”

  They got into the backseat, and the driver said in English, “Which airline?”

  “Aeromexico.”

  The cab dove off down the long driveway toward the federal highway. The airport was about ten miles away and the traffic was moving steadily, so they made good time. They looked out at the Gulf of Mexico and enjoyed the ride.

  Just as they could see the airport ahead to their right, a black car came speeding up behind them. It pulled up beside them, and a stern-faced man in a dark suit gestured to them to pull over.

  Their driver muttered, “Policía,” and coasted, looking for the best place to stop. Sam looked out the rear window and saw that as the cab pulled over, the black car pulled up behind them and came to a stop a few feet from their bumper. Two men got out. One walked up beside the window of the cab and held out his hand. The driver handed him his license. The man handed it back and glanced at the Fargos, sitting in the rear seat.

  The second man stood behind their cab and to the right, with his hand on the gun in the holster at his belt. Remi whispered, “The guy back there is the one I saw running before.”

  The man beside the driver said, “Abra el maletero.”

  The driver pressed the button to pop the trunk. The man in back of the car unzipped their backpacks.

  “What are you looking for?” asked Sam.

  The man beside the driver glanced at him but said nothing. Sam opened the door an inch to step out, but the man threw his hip against it and slammed it shut, drew his gun, and held it on Sam.

  Sam sat back in his seat and kept both hands in his lap. The man backed away from the window.

  The cab driver said quietly, “Please, señor. Those men are not policemen. They’ll shoot all of us.”

  They waited until the men put the two backpacks in the trunk of the black car, then got in and drove away. Sam said, “Who were they?”