The Codex

by Douglas Preston

  His mind drifted once again to his childhood summers at the lake, the battenboard cottage, the crooked dock running into the still water, the smell of woodsmoke and pine. If only he could roll back the clock, go back to one of those long summers and start his life anew. What he would give to do it all over again.

  With a groan of agony he forced it all from his head, taking a sip from the glass of scotch at his elbow. It was gone, all gone. He had to stop thinking about it. What was done was done. He couldn’t turn back the clock. They’d get the Codex, and maybe there would be a fresh beginning for Lampe and no one would ever know. Or Hauser was dead and they wouldn’t get the Codex, but still no one would know. No one would know. He could live with that. He’d have to live with it. Except he would know. He would know that he was a man capable of murder.

  He angrily shook out the paper and began the editorial again.

  At that moment the phone rang. It was the corporate phone, the secure line. He folded the paper down, walked over, and picked it up.

  He heard a voice speaking as if from far away, yet as clear as a bell. It was his own voice.

  Do it! Kill them, goddamn you! Kill the Broadhents!

  Skiba felt as if he’d been punched. He lost all his air in a rush; he couldn’t breathe. There was a hiss, and then his voice repeated, like some ghost from the past:

  Do it! Kill them, goddamn you! Kill the Broadbents!

  Hauser’s voice came on next, the scrambler back on, “Did you catch that, Skiba?”

  Skiba swallowed, gasped, tried to get his lungs working.

  “Hello?”

  “Don’t ever call me at home,” Skiba croaked.

  “You never told me that.”

  “How did you get the number?”

  “I’m a private eye, remember?”

  Skiba swallowed. No point in responding. Now he knew why Hauser had been so insistent on him saying it. He’d been trapped.

  “We’re there. We’re at the White City.”

  Skiba waited.

  “We know this is where Broadbent went. Had a bunch of Indians bury him in a tomb up here that he’d robbed forty years ago. Probably the same tomb he found the Codex in. How’s that for irony? We’re here now, in the lost city, and all we have to do is find the tomb.”

  Skiba heard a muffled thump, distorted by the scrambler into a long squawk. Hauser must have turned off the scrambler at just the right moment to record his words in his own voice. There’d be no stiffing Hauser now out of his fifty million. On the contrary, Skiba had a feeling he’d be paying more, a lot more—for the rest of his life. Hauser had him by the short hairs. What a goddamn fool he’d been, outmaneuvered at every turn. Unbelievable.

  “Hear that? That’s the beautiful sound of dynamite. My men are working over a pyramid. Unfortunately the White City is a big, overgrown place, and Max could be buried anywhere. Anyway, I called to tell you there’s been a change. When we find the tomb and get the Codex, we’re heading west, out over the mountains, through El Salvador to the Pacific. On foot and then downriver. It’ll take a little more time. You’ll have the Codex within a month.”

  “You said—”

  “Yeah, yeah. Originally I was planning to helicopter the Codex out to San Pedro Sula. But all of a sudden we got a couple of dead Honduran army soldiers to explain. And you never know when some tinhorn general’s going to expropriate your property as national patrimony. The only helicopters down here belong to the military, and just to fly out here you have to cross military airspace. So we’re continuing west in an unexpected direction, nice and quiet. Trust me, it’s the best way.

  Skiba swallowed again. Dead soldiers? Talking to Hauser made him feel sick. He wanted to ask if Hauser had done it, but he couldn’t bring himself to mouth the words.

  “In case you’re wondering, I haven’t followed through on your order. The three Broadbent sons are still alive. Tenacious buggers. But I haven’t forgotten. I promise you, I’ll do it.”

  His order. That lump was forming in Skiba’s throat again. He swallowed, just about choked on it. They were alive. “I’ve changed my mind,” he croaked.

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t do it.”

  “Don’t do what?”

  “Don’t kill them.”

  There was a low chuckle. “It’s way too late for that.”

  “For God’s sake, Hauser, don’t do it; I order you not to kill them, we can work this out another way—”

  But the line had gone dead. He heard a noise and turned, his face crawling with sweat. There was his son standing in the doorway, in baggy pajamas, blond hair sticking out, trumpet dangling in one hand. “Don’t kill who, Daddy?”

  49

  That night Borabay served them a three-course dinner, starting with a fish soup and vegetables, followed by roasted steaks and a mess of tiny boiled eggs with baby birds inside them, and then, for dessert, a gruel of cooked fruit. He urged second and third helpings on them, forcing them to eat almost to the point of becoming sick. When the last dish was consumed, the pipes came out against the insects of dusk. It was a clear evening, and a gibbous moon was rising behind the dark outline of the Sierra Azul. They sat in a semicircle around the fire, the three brothers and Sally, all smoking quietly, waiting for Borabay to speak. The Indian puffed for a while, then laid down his pipe and looked around. His eyes, glistening in the firelight, rested on each of their faces in turn. The evening frogs had begun to peep and croak, mingling with more mysterious night sounds—cries, hoots, drummings, shrillings.

  “Here we are, brothers,” said Borabay.

  He paused. “I start story at very beginning, forty years ago, in year before I was born. In that year white man come up river and over mountains all alone. Arrive at Tara village almost dead. He first white man anyone see. They take him in hut, feed him, bring him back to life. This man live with Tara people, learn to speak our language. They ask why he come. He say to find White City, which we call Sukia Tara. It is city of our ancestors. Now we go there only to bury dead. They take him to Sukia Tara. They not know then that he want to steal from Sukia Tara.

  “This man, he soon take Tara woman to be wife.”

  “Figures,” said Philip with a sarcastic laugh. “Father was never one to pass up a little action on the side.”

  Borabay stared at him. “Who telling story, brother, you or me?”

  “Fine, fine, go ahead.” Philip waved his hand.

  “This man, I saying, take Tara woman to be wife. That woman is my mother.”

  “He married your mother?” Tom said.

  “Of course he marry my mother,” Borabay said. “How else we be brother, brother?”

  Tom was shocked speechless as the meaning of Borabay’s words sank in. He stared at Borabay, really looking at him for the first time. His gaze took in the painted face, the tattoos, the pointed teeth, the disks in his ears—as well as the green eyes, the tall brow, the stubborn set of the lips, the finely cut cheekbones. “Oh my God,” he breathed.

  “What?” Vernon asked. “Tom, what is it?”

  Tom glanced at Philip and found his older brother equally thunderstruck. Philip was slowly rising to his feet, staring at Borabay.

  Borabay spoke, “Then after father marry mother, mother born me. I name Borabay, after Father.”

  “Borabay,” murmured Philip, and then: “Broadbent.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Don’t you see? Borabay, Broadbent—they’re the same name.”

  “You mean he’s our brother?” Vernon asked wildly, finally getting it.

  No one answered. Philip, now on his feet, took a step toward Borabay and leaned over to gaze into his face from close range, as if he were some kind of freak. Borabay shifted, took the pipe out of his mouth, and gave a nervous laugh. “What you see, brother? Ghost?”

  “In a way, yes.” He reached out and touched his face.

  Borabay sat calmly, not moving.

  “My God,” Philip whispered. �
��You are our brother. You’re the oldest brother. Good lord, I wasn’t the first born. I’m the second son and I never knew it.”

  “It’s what I say! We all brother. What you think I say when I say ‘brother’? You think I joke?”

  “We didn’t think you meant it literally,” said Tom.

  “Why you think I save your lives?”

  “We didn’t know. You seemed to be a saint.”

  Borabay laughed. “I, saint? You funny, brother! We all brother. We all have same father, Masserai Borabay. You Borabay, I Borabay, we all Borabay.” He thumped his chest.

  “Broadbent. The name’s Broadbent,” corrected Philip.

  “Borabeyn. I no speak well. You understand me. I been Borabay so long I stay Borabay.”

  Sally’s laugh suddenly rose up into the sky. She was on her feet and walking in a circle around the campfire. “As if we didn’t already have enough Broadbents around here! Now there’s another one! Four of them! Is the world ready?”

  Vernon, the last to understand, was the first to recover his presence of mind. He stood up and went over to Borabay. “I’m very glad to welcome you as my brother,” he said, and gave Borabay a hug. Borabay looked a little surprised and then gave Vernon another pair of embraces, Indian style.

  Then Vernon stood aside while Tom stepped forward and held out his hand. Borabay looked at it in puzzlement.

  “Something wrong with hand, brother?”

  He’s my brother and he doesn’t even know how to shake hands, Tom thought. With a grin he hugged Borabay, and the Indian responded with his ritual embraces. He stood back, looking into his brother’s face—and now he could see himself in that face. Himself, his father, his brothers.

  Philip followed. He held out his hand. “Borabay, I’m not one for hugging and kissing. What we gringos do is shake hands. I’ll teach you. Hold out your hand.”

  Borabay held out his hand. Philip seized it and gave it a good shake. Borabay’s arm flopped around, and when Philip released his hand Borabay withdrew it and examined it, as if to check for damage.

  “Well, Borabay,” said Philip, “join the club. The screwed-over-sons-of-Maxwell-Broadbent club. Membership roster growing daily.”

  “What this mean, this screwed-over club?”

  Philip waved his hand. “Never mind.”

  Sally gave Borabay a hug herself. “I’m not a Broadbent,” she said, with another smile, “thank heaven for that.”

  They settled back down around the fire, and there was an awkward silence.

  “What a family reunion,” said Philip, shaking his head with wonder. “Dear old Father, full of surprises, even after death.”

  “But that what I want to tell you,” said Borabay. “Father not dead.”

  50

  Night had fallen, but it made no matter in the depths of the tomb, where no light had reached for a thousand years. Marcus Hauser stepped over the shattered lintel in the deep space and inhaled the cool dust of centuries. Oddly enough it was a fresh, clean smell without a hint of decay or corruption. He shined the powerful halogen beam around, and the scattered glint of gold and jade came winking back at him, mingled with brown bones and dust. The skeleton lay on a stone burial platform carved with hieroglyphics, and it had once been richly adorned.

  Hauser stepped over and picked up a gold ring, shaking out the fingerbone that it still encircled. It was magnificent, set with a piece of jade, carved into the shape of a jaguar head. He slipped it into his pocket and sorted through the other items left with the body—a gold collar, some jade pendants, another ring. He pocketed the smaller gold and jade items as he took a slow turn around the burial chamber.

  The corpse’s skull lay at the far end of the burial platform. Sometime in the span of centuries its jaw had come loose and fallen wide open, giving the skull a look of astonishment, as if it couldn’t quite believe it was dead. The flesh was mostly gone, but a mess of braided hair lay loosely on the dome of the skull. He reached down and picked the skull up. The jaw swung down, hanging by dessicated threads of cartilage. The front teeth had been filed to points.

  Alas, poor Yorick.

  He swept the light over the walls. Dull frescoes, obscured by lime and mold, were painted on the walls. Pots lay in a corner, filled with dust, jostled together and broken by some ancient earthquake. Small roots had penetrated the ceiling and dangled in tangled masses into the dead air.

  He turned toward the teniente. “Is this the only tomb in here?” he asked.

  “On this side of the pyramid. We still have the other side to explore. If it is symmetrical perhaps there is another one like this.”

  Hauser shook his head. He wouldn’t find Max anywhere in the pyramid. It was too obvious. He had buried himself like King Tut, in an unobvious place. That was how Max would do it.

  “Teniente, gather the men. I want to talk to them. We’re going to search this city from east to west.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hauser found he was still holding the skull. With one last look he tossed it aside. It struck the stone floor with a hollow pop, bursting as if it had been made of plaster. The lower jaw rolled, giving a few crazy turns before coming to rest in the dust.

  A brute search of the city with dynamite, temple by temple. Hauser shook his head. He wished his man would get back from scouting the Broadbents. There was a better way to do this, a much better way.

  51

  “Father’s still alive?” Philip cried out.

  “Yes.”

  “You mean he hasn’t been buried yet?”

  “I finish story, please. After Father stay with Tara for year, my mother born me. But Father, he talk about White City, go up there for days, maybe weeks at a time. Chief say it is forbidden, but Father not listen. He search and dig for gold. Then he find place of tombs, open tomb of ancient Tara king and rob it. With help of bad Tara mans he escape down river with treasure and disappear.”

  “Leaving your mother barefoot with a baby,” Philip said sarcastically, “just like he did his other wives.”

  Borabay turned and looked at Philip. “I telling story, brother. You and flapper take five!”

  Tom felt the shock of déjà vu. You and your flapper take five was a pure Maxwellism, one of his father’s favorite expressions, and there it was coming out of the mouth of this outlandish, tattooed, earlobe-stretched, half-naked Indian. His mind reeled. He had gone to the very ends of the earth and what had he found? A brother.

  “I never see Father again—until now. Mother die two years ago. Then little while ago, Father come back. Big surprise. I very glad to meet him. He say he dying. He say he sorry. He say he bring back treasure he stole from Tara people. In return, he want to be buried in tomb of Tara king along with treasure of white man. He talk to Cah, chief of Tara people. Cah say yes, okay, we bury you in tomb. You come back with treasure and we bury you in tomb like ancient king. So Father go away and later come back with many boxes. Cah send men to coast to bring up treasure.”

  “Did Father remember you?” Tom asked.

  “Oh yes. He very happy. We go fishing.”

  “Really, now?” said Philip, irritated. “Fishing? And who caught the biggest fish?”

  “I did,” said Borabay proudly. “With spear.”

  “Bully for you.”

  “Philip—” Tom began.

  “If Father had spent any time with Borabay,” Philip said, “he would have come to hate him just as much as he hates us.”

  “Philip, you know Father didn’t hate us,” said Tom.

  “I almost died back there. I was tortured. Do you know what it feels like to know you’re going to die? This was Father’s legacy to me. And now we suddenly have this painted Indian as an older brother, who goes fishing with Father while we’re dying in the jungle.”

  Borabay said, “You finish being angry, brother?”

  “I’ll never finish being angry.”

  “Father angry man, too.”

  “You can say that again.”

&
nbsp; “You son most like Father.”

  Philip rolled his eyes. “Here’s something new, a psychoanalyzing jungle Indian.”

  “Because you most like Father, you love him most and he hurt you most. And now you hurt again because you find you not oldest son after all. I oldest son.”

  There was a short pause and then Philip broke into a harsh laugh. “This is too much. How could I feel myself in competition with an illiterate, tattooed Indian with filed teeth?”

  After a pause, Borabay said, “I continue story now.”

  “Be my guest!”

  “Cah arrange everything for Father’s death and funeral. When day come, there is big funeral feast for Father. Big, big feast. All Tara people come. Father there, too. Father enjoy his own funeral very much. He give many presents. Everyone get cooking pots and pans and knives.”

  Tom and Sally looked at each other.

  “He would love that,” said Philip. “I can just see the old bastard lording it over his own funeral.”

  “You right, Philip. Father love it. He eat, drink too much, laugh, sing. Father open boxes so everyone can look at white man’s sacred treasures. Everyone love sacred Mother Mary holding baby Jesus. White man have beautiful gods.”