The Codex

by Douglas Preston

13

  Philip Broadbent shifted his position, trying to get comfortable in the bottom of the dugout, arranging some of the softer bundles of gear for the fourth or fifth time to form a chair of sorts. The boat slid upriver between two silent walls of green vegetation, the engine humming, the prow cutting the smooth black water. It was like traveling through a hot green cave, echoing with the unholy screeches, hoots, and whistles of jungle animals. The mosquitoes formed a permanent whining cloud around their boat, trailing behind. The air was dense, muggy, sticky. It was like breathing mosquito soup.

  Philip removed the pipe from his pocket, reamed out the dottle, rapped it on the side of the boat, and refilled it from the Dunhill can he had stored in one of the pockets of his Barbour safari khakis. He took his time lighting it, then blew a stream of smoke into the mosquito cloud, watching it cut a clear area in the whining mass, which instantly closed up as the smoke drifted away. The Mosquito Coast had lived up to its name, and even the deet that Philip slathered on his skin and clothes provided less than adequate protection. On top of that it was oily and smelled frightful, and it was probably leaching into his bloodstream and poisoning him to boot.

  He muttered a curse and took another hit off the pipe. Father and his ridiculous tests.

  He adjusted himself, unable to get comfortable. Hauser, carrying a Discman, came back from the prow of the dugout and eased himself down next to him. He smelled of cologne instead of bug juice, and he looked as cool and fresh as Philip felt hot and sticky. He removed the earphones to speak.

  “Gonz has been picking up traces of Max’s passage all day. We’ll learn more when we get to Pito Solo tomorrow.”

  “How can they follow a trace on a river?”

  Hauser smiled. “It’s an art, Philip. A cut vine here, a landing place there, the mark of a barge pole on a submerged sandbar. The river is so sluggish that marks on the bottom persist for weeks.”

  Philip sucked irritably on his pipe. He would endure this one last torture of his father’s and then he would be free. Free, finally, to live the life he wanted to live without that old bugger interfering, criticizing, doling out niggardly parcels of money like Scrooge. He loved his father and at one level felt bad about his cancer and his death, but that didn’t change his feelings about this scheme. His father had done many asinine things in his life, but this took the cake. It was vintage Maxwell Broadbent, this parting beau geste.

  He smoked and watched the four soldiers in the front of the boat gambling with a greasy pack of cards. The other boat with its complement of eight soldiers was fifty yards ahead of them, laying a foul trail of blue exhaust over the water. Gonz, the lead “tracker,” lay on his belly in the prow, staring down into the dark water, occasionally dipping a finger into the water to taste it.

  Suddenly a shout went up from one of the soldiers in the front of their dugout. He had stood up and was pointing excitedly at something swimming in the water. Hauser winked at Philip and leapt to his feet, withdrawing the machete he kept strapped to his waist, and scrambled to the bow. The boat angled toward the swimming animal while Hauser positioned himself, legs apart, in the prow. As the boat drew alongside the now desperately swimming animal he leaned over and, with a sudden movement, slashed into the water with his machete, then reached down and pulled out an animal that looked like a two-foot-long rat. It had almost been decapitated by the blow, its head hanging by a flap of skin. It gave one convulsive jerk and then went still.

  Philip watched with a vague sense of horror as Hauser tossed the dead animal toward him. It landed with a thud on the bottom, the head jouncing free, rolling to a stop at Philip’s feet, mouth open, yellow rat’s teeth gleaming, blood still draining out.

  Hauser rinsed the machete in the river, stuck it back in his belt, and walked back to Philip, stepping over the dead animal. He grinned. “Ever eaten agouti?”

  “No, and I’m not sure I care to begin.”

  “Skinned, gutted, split, and roasted over the coals—it was one of Maxwell’s favorites. Tastes a bit like chicken.”

  Philip said nothing. That’s what Hauser claimed about all the revolting bush meat they had been forced to eat—tastes like chicken.

  “Oh!” said Hauser, looking at Philip’s shirt. “I beg your pardon.”

  Philip glanced down. A single drop of fresh blood had struck his shirt and was now soaking into the material. Philip wiped at it, which only spread it. “I’d appreciate it if you were a little more careful when tossing around decapitated animals,” he said, dipping his handkerchief into the water and giving the spot a scrubbing.

  “It’s so difficult to keep one’s hygiene in the jungle,” Hauser said.

  Philip scrubbed a little more and then gave up. He wished Hauser would leave him in peace. The man was starting to give him the creeps.

  Hauser slid a couple of CDs out of his pocket. “And now, to stave off the ever encroaching savagery surrounding us, would you care to hear some Bach, or some Beethoven?”

  14

  Tom Broadbent wallowed on an overstuffed sofa-chair in the “executive suite” in the Sheraton Royale de San Pedro Sula, examining a map of the country. Maxwell had flown with all his cargo to the town of Brus Laguna on the Mosquito Coast, at the mouth of the Rio Patuca. And then he had disappeared. They said he had gone upriver, which was the only route into the vast, mountainous, and wild interior of southern Honduras.

  He followed the wandering blue line of the river on the map with his finger, through swamps and hills and high plateaus until it vanished in a web of tributaries pouring out of a rugged line of parallel mountain ranges. The map showed no roads or towns; it was truly a lost world.

  Tom had discovered they were at least a week behind Philip and almost two weeks behind Vernon. He was deeply worried about his brothers. It took balls to kill two police officers, and do it so quickly and successfully. The killer was clearly a professional. His two brothers were surely next on the killer’s list.

  Sally, wrapped in a towel, came out of the bath humming to herself and crossed their sitting room, her glossy wet hair spilling down her back. Tom followed her with his eyes as she disappeared into her bedroom. She was even taller than Sarah ...

  He stepped down hard on that thought.

  In ten minutes she was back out, dressed in lightweight khakis, a long-sleeved shirt, a canvas hat with mosquito netting rolled down around her face, and a pair of heavy gloves, all bought during a shopping expedition that morning.

  “How do I look?” she asked, turning around.

  “Like you’re in purdah.”

  She rolled up the mosquito netting and took off the hat.

  “That’s better.”

  She tossed the hat and gloves on the bed. “I have to admit I’m very curious about this father of yours. He must’ve been a real eccentric.”

  “He was.”

  “What was he like? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  Tom sighed. “When he walked into a room, every head turned. He radiated something—authority, power, assurance. I’m not sure what. People were awed by him, even if they had no idea who he was.”

  “I know the type.”

  “Wherever he went, whatever he did, journalists chased him around. There were sometimes paparazzi waiting outside the gate to our house. I mean, here we were going to school and the damn paparazzi are chasing us down the Old Santa Fe Trail like we’re Princess Diana or something. It was ridiculous.”

  “What a burden for you.”

  “It wasn’t always a burden. At times it was even fun. Father’s marriages were always big news, a time for head shaking and tongue clucking. He married extremely beautiful women no one had ever seen before—no models or actresses for him. My mother, before he met her, was a dental receptionist. He loved the attention. Once in a while, just for fun, he’d take a swing at some paparazzo and have to pay damages. He was proud of himself. He was like Onassis, larger than life.”

  “What happened to your mother?”

  “
She died when I was four. Some rare and sudden form of meningitis. She was the only one of his wives he didn’t divorce—didn’t have enough time, I guess.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I hardly remember her, except, well, as feelings. Warm and loving, that sort of thing.”

  She shook her head. “I still don’t get it. How could your father do this to his sons?”

  Tom stared down at the map. “Everything he did and everything he owned had to be extraordinary. That applied to us, too. But we didn’t turn out like he wanted. Running off and burying himself with his money was his last gasp, trying to force us to do something that would ring down through history. Something that would make him proud.” He laughed bitterly. “If the press ever got wind of this, it would be incredible. Gigantic. A half-billion-dollar treasure, buried in a hidden tomb somewhere in Honduras. The whole world would be down here looking for it.”

  “It must’ve been difficult having a father like that.”

  “It was. I don’t know how many tennis matches I played when he left early because he didn’t want to see me lose. He was a ruthless chess player—but if he realized he was going to beat one of us, he’d quit the game. He couldn’t bear to see us lose, even to him. When the grades arrived he never said anything, but you could see the disappointment in his eyes. Anything less than straight A’s was such a catastrophe that he couldn’t bring himself to talk about it.”

  “Did you ever get straight A’s?”

  “Once. He laid his hand on my shoulder and gave me an affectionate squeeze. That was all. But it said volumes.”

  “I’m sorry, how terrible.”

  “Each of us found a refuge. I found mine first in fossil collecting—I wanted to be a paleontologist—and then in animals. They didn’t judge you. They didn’t ask you to be someone else. A horse accepts you for what you are.”

  Tom fell silent. It was amazing to him how much it hurt to think back on his childhood, even now at thirty-three.

  “I’m sorry,” said Sally, “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  Tom waved his hand. “I don’t mean to tear him down. He was a good father in his own way. Maybe he loved us too much.”

  “Well,” said Sally after a moment, standing up. “At the moment, we need to find ourselves a guide to take us up the Patuca River, and I have no idea where to start.” She picked up the phone book and began leafing through it. “I’ve never done this sort of thing before. I wonder if there’s a listing in here for ‘Adventure Travel’ or something.”

  “I’ve a better idea. We need to find the local watering hole for foreign journalists. They’re the savviest travelers in the world.”

  “Chalk one up to you.”

  She bent over and pulled out a pair of pants and tossed them at him, followed by a shirt, a pair of socks, and a pair of lightweight hiking shoes. They all landed in a pile in front of him. “Now you can take off those macho cowboy boots.”

  Tom scooped up his clothes and went into his room and put them on. They seemed to be mostly pockets. When he emerged, Sally eyed him sideways and said, “After a few days in the jungle, maybe you won’t look quite so silly.”

  “Thanks.” Tom went to the phone and called the front desk. The journalists, it seemed, hung out in a bar called Los Charcos.

  Tom was surprised to find Los Charcos not the cheap dive he imagined but an elegant, wood-paneled affair off the lobby of a fine old hotel. It was air-conditioned to just above Arctic conditions, and the place was filled with the aroma of fine cigars.

  “Let me do the talking,” Sally said. “My Spanish is better than yours.”

  “You’re better looking, too.”

  Sally frowned. “I don’t find gender jokes very funny.”

  They took seats at the bar.

  “Hola” said Sally cheerfully to the bartender, a man with a heavy-lidded face. “I’m looking for the man from the New York Times.”

  “Mr. Sewell? I haven’t seen him since the hurricane, señorita.”

  “How about the reporter for the Wall Street Journal?”

  “We have no Wall Street Journal reporter here. We are but a poor country.”

  “Well, what reporters do you have?”

  “There is Roberto Rodriguez from El Diario.”

  “No, no, I’m looking for an American. Someone who knows the country.”

  “Would an Englishman suffice?”

  “Fine.”

  “Over there,” he murmured, pointing with his lips, “is Derek Dunn. He is writing a book.”

  “What about?”

  “Travel and adventure.”

  “Has he written any other books? Give me a title.”

  “Slow Water was his last book.”

  Sally dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the bar and headed toward Dunn. Tom followed. This is going to be good, he thought. Dunn was sitting by himself in a snug, working on a drink, a man with a shock of blond hair over a beefy red face. Sally halted, pointed, and exclaimed, “Say, you’re Derek Dunn, aren’t you?”

  “I have been known to answer by that name, yes,” he said. His nose and cheeks were flushed a permanent pink.

  “Oh, how exciting! Slow Water is one of my favorite books! I loved it!”

  Dunn rose, exposing a robust frame, trim and fit, dressed in worn khaki pants and a simple short-sleeved cotton shirt. He was a handsome man of the British Empire type.

  “Thank you very much indeed,” he said. “And you are?”

  “Sally Colorado.” She pumped his hand.

  She’s already got him grinning like an idiot, thought Tom. He felt foolish in his new clothes that smelled of a menswear shop. Dunn, in contrast, looked like he had been to the ends of the earth and back.

  “Won’t you join me for a drink?”

  “It would be an honor,” cried Sally.

  Dunn guided her into the banquette next to him.

  “I’ll have what you’re having,” she said.

  “Gin and tonic.” Dunn waved at the bartender and then glanced up at Tom. “You’re welcome to sit, too, you know.”

  Tom took a seat, saying nothing. He was starting to lose his enthusiasm for this idea. He did not like the red-faced Mr. Dunn, who was looking very intently at Sally—and not just at her face.

  The bartender came over. Dunn spoke in Spanish. “Gin and tonic for me and the lady. And—?” He glanced at Tom.

  “Lemonade,” said Tom sourly.

  “Y una limonada,” added Dunn, his tone conveying exactly what he thought of Tom’s choice of beverage.

  “I’m so glad to have run into you!” Sally said. “What a coincidence!”

  “So you read Slow Water,” said Dunn, with a smile.

  “One of the best travel books I’ve ever read.”

  “It certainly was,” said Tom.

  “You read it, too?” Dunn turned to him with an expectant look.

  Tom noted that Dunn had already polished off half his drink.

  “I certainly did read it,” said Tom. “I especially liked the part where you fell in the elephant shit. That was hilarious.”

  Dunn paused. “Elephant shit?”

  “Wasn’t there elephant shit in your book?”

  “There are no elephants in Central America.”

  “Oh. I must be mixing it up with another book. Beg your pardon.”

  Tom saw Sally’s green eyes fixed on him. He couldn’t tell if she was angry or suppressing a laugh.

  Dunn turned in his chair, placing his square back to Tom, devoting his attention to Sally. “You might be interested to know I’m working on a new book.”

  “How exciting!”

  “I’m calling it Mosquitia Nights. It’s about the Mosquito Coast.”

  “Oh, that’s just where we’re going!” Sally clapped her hands in excitement, like a girl. Tom took a sip, regretting his choice of drink. He was going to need something a little stronger to get through this. He should never have agreed to let Sally do the talking.

  “There ar
e more than five thousand square miles of swamps and highland rainforest in eastern Honduras that remain completely unexplored. Parts of it are not even mapped by air.”

  “I had no idea!”

  Tom shoved the lemonade aside and looked around for the waiter.

  “My book chronicles a journey I took along the length of the Mosquito Coast, through the maze of lagoons that mark where the jungle meets the sea. I was the first white man to make the trip.”

  “Incredible. How on earth did you do it?”

  “Motorized dugout. The only mode of transportation in those parts besides foot travel.”

  “When did you make this amazing journey?”

  “About eight years ago.”

  “Eight years?”

  “I’ve had a bit of publisher trouble. You can’t rush a good book, you know.” He polished off the drink and waved his hand for another round. “It’s tough country down there.”

  “Really?”

  Dunn seemed to take this as his cue. He leaned back. “For starters, there are the usual mosquitoes, chiggers, ticks, blackfly, and botfly. They don’t kill you, but they can make life a trifle nasty. I had a botfly bite once, on my forehead. Felt like a mosquito at first. It began to swell and turn red. Hurt like the devil. A month later it erupted, and inch-long botfly maggots started squirming out and dropping to the ground. Once you’re bitten, the best thing to do is let it run its course. If you try to dig ’em out you only make a muck of it.”

  “I sincerely hope the experience didn’t affect your brain,” said Tom.

  Dunn ignored him. “Then there’s Chagas disease.”

  “Chagas disease?”

  “Trypanosoma cruzi. An insect carrying the disease bites you and shits at the same time. The parasite lives in the shit, and when you scratch the bite you infect yourself. You aren’t aware anything is wrong—until ten or twenty years later. First you notice your belly swelling up. Then you become short of breath, can’t swallow. Finally your heart swells up—and bursts. No known cure.”

  “Lovely,” said Tom. He had finally got the waiter’s attention. “Whiskey. Make it a double.”

  Dunn continued looking at Tom, a smile playing about his lips. “Are you familiar with the fer-de-lance?”