The Codex

by Douglas Preston

  Skiba rose from his chair, his face red. “How dare you speak these lies to me like this, in my office? Where are you getting this false information?”

  “Mr. Skiba,” said Hauser mildly, “let’s cut the bullshit. I’m a private investigator, and this manuscript will be coming into my possession in about four to six weeks. I want to sell it to you. And I know you need it. I could just as easily take it to GeneDyne or Cambridge Pharmaceuticals.”

  Skiba swallowed hard. It was amazing how fast clear-headedness could return. “How do I know this isn’t some kind of swindle?”

  Graff said, “I’ve checked it out. It’s as good as gold, Lewis.”

  Skiba stared at the huckster in the tasteless suit. He swallowed again, his mouth dry. This was how far they had sunk. “Tell me your proposal, Mr. Hauser.”

  Hauser said, “The Codex is in Honduras.”

  “So you’re selling a pig in a poke.”

  “To get it, I need money, weapons, and equipment. I’m running a big personal risk. I’ve already had to undertake one urgent piece of business. This isn’t going to come cheap.”

  “Don’t hustle me, Mr. Hauser.”

  “Who’s the hustler here? You’re up to your neck in accounting irregularities as it is. If the SEC were to hear about how you and Mr. Graff here have been booking marketing costs as long-term amortizable R&D these past few quarters, you’d both be leaving the building in handcuffs.”

  Skiba stared at the man, and then at Graff. The CFO had turned white. In the long silence, a piece of wood popped in the fire. Skiba felt a muscle twitching somewhere behind his left knee.

  Hauser went on: “When I deliver the Codex to you and you’ve authenticated it, as you will naturally insist on doing, you’ll wire fifty million dollars to an offshore account of my selection. That’s the deal I’m offering. No negotiations—just a yes or a no will suffice.”

  “Fifty million? That’s totally insane. Forget it.”

  Hauser rose and headed for the door.

  “Wait,” Graff called, jumping up. “Mr. Hauser? None of this is engraved in stone.” The sweat was trickling down from his well-groomed scalp as he chased after the man in the cheap suit.

  Hauser kept walking.

  “We’re always open to—Mr. Hauser!”

  The door closed in Graff’s face. Hauser was gone.

  Graff turned toward Skiba. His hands were shaking. “We’ve got to stop him.”

  Skiba said nothing for a moment. What Hauser had said was true: If they got their hands on the manuscript, the announcement alone would turn around their stock. Fifty million, however, was blackmail. Dealing with a man like this was odious. But some things couldn’t be helped. Skiba said, “While there’s only one way to pay a debt, there are a million ways not to pay it. As you well know, Mike.”

  Graff couldn’t quite muster a smile through the sheen of sweat on his face.

  Skiba spoke into his intercom. “That man who was just here, don’t let him leave the building. Tell him we agree to his terms and escort him back up here.”

  He laid the phone back in its cradle and turned to Graff. “I hope for both of our sakes this guy is for real.”

  “He is,” said Graff. “Believe me, I looked into this very thoroughly. The Codex exists, and the sample page is real.”

  In a moment Hauser was standing in the door.

  “You’ll get your fifty million,” Skiba said brusquely. “Now take a seat and tell us your plan.”

  10

  Charlie Hernandez felt drained. The funeral had been long, the interment longer. He could still feel the grit of the dirt on his right hand. It was always hell when one of their own had to be buried, let alone two. And he still had a court appearance and half a shift to get through. He glanced over at his partner, Willson, catching up on paperwork. Smart guy; too bad his handwriting looked like a kindergartner’s.

  The buzzer rang, and Doreen said, “Two people to see, ah, Barnaby and Fenton.”

  Christ, this was just what he needed. “What about?”

  “They won’t say. Won’t talk to anyone but Barnaby and Fenton.”

  He sighed heavily. “Send them in.”

  Willson had stopped writing and was looking up. “You want me—?”

  “You stay.”

  They appeared in the doorway, a stunning blond and a tall guy in cowboy boots. Hernandez grunted, sat up, smoothed a hand over his hair. “Sit down.”

  “We’re here to see Lieutenant Barnaby, not—”

  “I know who you’re here to see. Please take a seat.”

  They sat down, reluctantly.

  “I’m Officer Hernandez,” he said, addressing the blond. “May I ask what your business with Officer Barnaby is?” He spoke with the practiced voice of officialdom, slow, stolid, and final.

  “We’d prefer to deal directly with Officer Barnaby,” said the man.

  “You can’t.”

  “Why not?” He flared up.

  “Because he’s dead.”

  They stared back at him. “How?”

  God, Hernandez felt tired. Barnaby had been a good man. What a waste. “Automobile accident.” He sighed. “Perhaps if you told me who you were and how I could help you?”

  They looked at each other. The man spoke. “I’m Tom Broadbent, and about ten days ago Lieutenant Barnaby investigated a possible break-in at our house off the Old Santa Fe Trail. Barnaby handled the call, and I wondered if he filed a report.”

  Hernandez glanced over at Willson.

  “He didn’t file a report,” Willson said.

  “Did he say anything?”

  “He said it had been some kind of misunderstanding, that Mr. Broadbent had moved some artworks and his sons mistakenly assumed they had been stolen. As I explained last week to your brother, a crime hadn’t been committed, so there was no reason to open a file.”

  “My brother? Which one?”

  “The name escapes me. Long hair, beard, hippie type—”

  “Vernon.”

  “Right.”

  “Can we talk to his partner, Fenton?”

  “He also passed away in the accident.”

  “What happened?”

  “Car went off the Ski Basin Road at Nuns Corner.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So are we.”

  “So there’s no paperwork, nothing on the investigation up at the Broadbent house?”

  “Nothing.”

  There was a silence, and then Hernandez said, “Is there anything else I can do for you folks?”

  11

  Trash burned in a row of fifty-five-gallon drums along the filthy beach at Puerto Lempira, each sending a stream of acrid smoke into the town. A fat woman cooked on a comal over one of the drums; the smell of frying pork cracklings carried toward Vernon on a fetid breeze. He walked with the Teacher along the dirt street that paralleled the beach, trailed and jostled by a crowd of children, followed in turn by a groveling pack of dogs. The children had been trailing them for almost an hour, crying out “Gimme sweet!” and “Gimme dollar!” Vernon had dispensed several bags of candy and given out all his dollar bills in an effort to placate them, but the generosity had succeeded only in swelling the crowd to ever more hysterical proportions.

  Vernon and the Teacher arrived at a rickety wooden pier that stuck out into the muddy lagoon, at the end of which was tied a gaggle of dugout canoes with outboard motors. Men lounged in hammocks, and dark-eyed women eyed them from doorways. A man pushed up to them, a boa wrapped around his neck.

  “Snake,” he said. “Fifty dollar.”

  “We don’t want a snake,” said the Teacher. “We want a boat. Barca. Boat. We’re looking for Juan Freitag Charters. You sale Juan Freitag?”

  The man began unwrapping the snake and holding it out as if he were offering a string of sausages. “Snake. Thirty dollar.”

  The Teacher brushed past him.

  “Snake!” the man cried, pursuing. “Twenty dollar!” His shirt was almost
falling off his shoulders, it had so many holes. He clutched at Vernon with long brown fingers as he passed. Vernon, fishing in his pocket for change and dollar bills, could only find a fiver. He gave it to the man. The children surged forward, redoubling their hollering, streaming down to the quayside from the teeming barrios above. “Damn you, stop handing out money,” said the Teacher. “We’re going to be robbed.”

  “Sorry.”

  The teacher seized an older child by the scruff of his neck. “Juan Freitag Charters!” he cried impatiently. “Where? Donde?” He turned to Vernon. “How do you say boat in Spanish again?”

  “Barca.”

  “Barca! Donde barca?”

  The boy, frightened, pointed a dirty finger toward a cinderblock building across from the pier.

  The Teacher released him and hurried along the dusty quayside, Vernon following, pursued by children and dogs. The door to the office was open, and they went in. A man behind a desk got up, went to the door with a flyswatter, swatted the pursuing children away from the door, and slammed it. By the time he had resumed his seat, he was all smiles. He had a small, neat head and body and blond, Aryan features. But when he spoke, it was with a Spanish accent.

  “Please accommodate yourselves.”

  They took a couple of wicker chairs, next to an end table piled with copies of scuba magazines.

  “What can I do for you, gentlemen?”

  “We want to rent a couple of boats with guides,” the Teacher said.

  The man smiled. “Scuba diving or tarpon fishing?”

  “Neither. We want to go upriver.”

  The smile seemed to gel on the man’s face. “Up the Patuca?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see. You are adventure travelers?”

  The Teacher glanced at Vernon. “Yes.”

  “How far do you wish to go?”

  “We don’t know yet. A long way. Perhaps as far as the mountains.”

  “You must take motorized dugout canoes, because the river is too shallow for a regular boat. Manuel!”

  After a moment a young man came in from the back. He blinked in the light. He had fish blood and scales on his hands.

  “This is Manuel. He and his cousin Ramón will guide you. They know the river well.”

  “How long will it take to get upriver?”

  “You can go as far as Pito Solo. One week. Beyond that is the Meambar Swamp.”

  “And beyond that?”

  The man waved his hand. “You do not want to cross the Meambar Swamp.”

  “On the contrary,” said the Teacher, “it’s quite possible we do.”

  The man inclined his head, as if humoring crazy Americans was all in a day’s work. “As you wish. Beyond the swamp are mountains and more mountains. You will need to take at least a month of supplies and food.”

  A wasp buzzed in the whitewashed room, tapping on the cracked window, swinging around, and colliding with it again. With a lightning motion the man smacked it with the flyswatter. It fell to the ground, writhing and stinging itself in agony. A polished shoe was extended from under the desk and ended its life with a little crunch.

  “Manuel! Get Ramón.” He turned to the Teacher. “We can outfit you here, señor, with everything you need. Tents, sleeping bags, mosquito netting, gas, food, GPS, hunting gear—everything. We can put it all on credit card.” He laid his hand reverently on a brand-new credit-card machine connected to a shiny jack in the wall. “You do not worry about anything because we take care of it all. We are a modern operation.” He smiled. “We give you adventure, but not too much adventure.”

  12

  The car hummed northward through the San Juan Basin Desert toward the Utah border, along a vast and lonely highway between endless prairies of sagebrush and chamisa. Shiprock towered in the distance, a dark thrust of stone into blue sky. Tom, driving, felt a great relief that it was over. He had done what he promised, he had helped Sally find out where his father had gone. What she did next was up to her. She could either wait until his brothers came out of the jungle with the Codex—provided they found the tomb—or she could try to catch up to them herself. He, at least, was now out of it. He could get back to his life of peace and simplicity in the desert.

  He cast a surreptitious glance at her sitting in the passenger seat. She had been silent for the past hour. She hadn’t said what her plans were, and Tom wasn’t sure he wanted to know. All he wanted to do was get back to his horses, to the routine of the clinic, to his cool adobe house shaded by cottonwoods. He had worked hard at creating the undemanding life he wanted, and he was more determined than ever not to let his father and his crazy schemes overturn it. Let his brothers have the adventure and, if they wanted, let them even keep the inheritance. He had nothing to prove. After Sarah, he wasn’t about to jump into deep water again.

  “So he went to Honduras,” Sally said. “You still have no idea, no guess, as to where?”

  “I’ve told you all I know, Sally. Forty years ago he spent some time in Honduras with his old partner, Marcus Hauser, looking for tombs and picking bananas to earn money. They got swindled, so I heard, buying a fake treasure map of some kind, and they spent a few months tramping through the jungle and nearly died. They had some kind of falling-out, and that was that.”

  “And you’re sure he didn’t find anything?”

  “That’s what he always said. The mountains of southern Honduras were uninhabited.”

  She nodded, her eyes looking ahead at the empty desert.

  “So what are you going to do?” Tom finally asked.

  “I’m going to Honduras.”

  “All by yourself?”

  “Why not?”

  Tom said nothing. What she did was her business.

  “Did your father ever get in trouble for looting tombs?”

  “The FBI investigated him on and off over the years. Nothing stuck. Father was too smart. I remember once when the agents raided our house and seized some jade figurines my father had just brought back from Mexico. I was ten at the time, and it scared the hell out of me, the agents pounding on the door before dawn. But they couldn’t prove anything and had to return all the stuff.”

  Sally shook her head. “People like your father are a menace to archaeology.”

  “I’m not sure I see a big difference between what my father did and what archaeologists do.”

  “There’s a big difference,” said Sally. “Looters wreck a site. They remove things from their context. A dear friend of Professor Clyve was beaten in Mexico while trying to stop some local villagers from looting a temple.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, but you can’t blame starving people for trying to feed their children—and taking exception to some norteamericano coming down and telling them what to do.”

  Sally set her lip, and Tom could see she was angry. The car hummed along the shimmering asphalt. Tom cranked up the A/C. He would be glad when this was over. He didn’t need a complication like Sally Colorado in his life.

  Sally shook her heavy gold hair back from her head, unleashing a faint scent of perfume and shampoo. “There’s something still bothering me. I just can’t get it out of my head.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Barnaby and Fenton. Doesn’t it seem strange to you that right after they investigate your father’s so-called robbery they come up dead? There’s something about the timing of their ‘accident’ that I don’t like.”

  Tom shook his head. “Sally, it’s just one of those coincidences.”

  “It doesn’t feel right to me.”

  “I know the Ski Basin Road, Sally. Nun’s Corner is a hellacious curve. They aren’t the first ones to get killed there.”

  “What were they doing on the Ski Basin Road? Ski season’s over.”

  Tom sighed. “If you’re so worried, why don’t you call that policeman, Hernandez, and find out?”

  “I will.” Sally slipped her cell phone out of her bag and dialed. Tom listened while she was transferred half a do
zen times, from one slack receptionist to the next, until she finally reached Hernandez.

  “This is Sally Colorado,” she said. “You remember us?”

  Pause.

  “I wanted to ask you a question about Barnaby and Fenton’s death.”

  Another pause.

  “Why did they go up there to the ski basin?”

  A very long wait. Tom found himself trying to listen, although he felt it was a waste of time.

  “Yes, it was tragic,” Sally said. “And where were they about to go on this fishing trip?”

  A final silence.

  “Thanks.”

  Sally slowly shut the phone and looked at Tom. Tom felt a knot in his stomach; her face had gone pale.

  “They went up to the ski basin to check on a report of vandalism. Turned out to be phony. Their brakes failed on the way down. They tried to slow themselves down by banking off the guard rails, but the road was just too steep. When they reached Nun’s Corner they were going close to ninety.”

  “Jesus.”

  “There wasn’t much left of the car after the four-hundred-foot drop and explosion. No foul play is suspected. It was especially tragic, coming as it did the day before Barnaby and Fenton were about to go on the tarpon-fishing trip of a lifetime.”

  Tom swallowed and asked the question he didn’t want to ask. “Where?”

  “Honduras. A place called Laguna de Brus.”

  Tom slowed, checked his rearview mirror, and with a screech of tires, manipulating both the brakes and the gas, pulled a one-eighty.

  “Are you crazy? What are you doing?”

  “Going to the nearest airport.”

  “Why?”

  “Because someone who would kill police officers could sure as hell kill my two brothers.”

  “You think someone found out about the hidden inheritance?”

  “Absolutely.” He accelerated toward the vanishing point on the horizon. “Looks like we’re going to Honduras. Together.”