The Codex

by Douglas Preston

  “Are you kidding? He’d knock his own grandmother down to snatch a penny off the sidewalk.”

  “It’s not Fenner, it’s short sellers closing out their positions.”

  “That doesn’t explain more than thirty percent of it.”

  “Contrarians. Odd-lotters. Widows and orphans. Mike, enough. Enough. Don’t you realize what’s happening? It’s over. We’re finished. Lampe is finished.”

  Graff looked at him, astonished. “What are you talking about? We’ll weather this. Once we get the Codex, Lewis, it’ll be clear sailing.”

  Skiba felt his blood run thick and cold at the mention of the Codex. “You really think the Codex will solve our problems?” He spoke quietly.

  “Why not? Am I missing something here? Has something changed?”

  Skiba shook his head. What did it matter? What did anything matter?

  “Lewis, this defeatism is unlike you. Where’s your famous fight?”

  Skiba was tired, so very tired. This argument was useless. It was over and done with. There was no more point in talking. All they could do now was wait: wait for the end. They were powerless.

  “When we unveil the Codex,” Graff went on, “Lampe stock will go through the roof. Nothing succeeds like success. The shareholders will forgive us, and it’ll take all the wind out of the sails of that Dudley Do-Right chairman of the SEC. That’s why I’m concerned about insider trading. If someone said something about the Codex to someone who told his mother-in-law who phoned her nephew in Dubuque—that charge would stick. It’s like tax evasion, it’s what they nail everyone on. Look at what happened to Martha—”

  “Mike?”

  “What?”

  “Get the fuck out.”

  * * *

  Skiba turned out the lights, shut down the phones, and waited for darkness to come. On his desk were only three things: the little plastic pill bottle, the sixty-year-old Macallan, and a clean shot glass. Time to take the big swim.

  56

  The following day they left the abandoned Tara settlement and entered the foothills of the Sierra Azul. The trail began to ascend by fits and starts through forests and meadows, passing some fallow fields overgrown with weeds. Here and there, hidden in the rainforest, Tom caught a glimpse of an abandoned thatched hut, sinking into ruin.

  They entered a deep, cool forest. Borabay suddenly insisted on going ahead and, unlike his usual silent pace, proceeded noisily, singing, whacking unnecessarily at vegetation and stopping frequently to “rest,” which looked to Tom more like reconnoitering. Something was making him nervous.

  When they came to a small clearing, Borabay halted. “Lunch!” he cried and began to sing loudly while unpacking bundles of palm leaves.

  “We had lunch two hours ago,” said Vernon.

  “We have lunch again!” The Indian unshouldered his bow and arrows, and Tom noticed that he laid them down at some distance from himself.

  Sally sat down next to Tom. “Something’s about to happen.”

  Borabay helped the others out of their backpacks and put them with the bow and arrows, on the far side of the clearing. Then he came over to Sally and put an arm around her, drawing her close. “Give me gun, Sally,” he said in a low voice.

  She unshouldered her gun. Borabay then took away all their machetes.

  “What’s going on?” Vernon asked.

  “Nothing, nothing, we rest here.” He began passing around some dried plantains. “You hungry, brothers? Very good banana!”

  “I don’t like this,” said Philip.

  Vernon, oblivious to the undercurrent of tension, tucked into the dried plantains. “Delicious,” he said, his mouth full. “We should eat two lunches every day.”

  “Very good! Two lunches! Good idea!” said Borabay, laughing uproariously.

  And then it happened. Without any noise or apparent movement, Tom suddenly realized they were surrounded by men on all sides, with bows drawn to the limit, a hundred stone-tipped arrows pointing at them. It was as if the jungle had imperceptibly withdrawn, leaving the men exposed like rocks at low tide.

  Vernon let out a scream and fell to the ground and was instantly surrounded by bristling, tense men, with fifty arrows drawn and poised inches from his throat and chest.

  “No move!” Borabay cried. He turned and spoke rapidly to the men. Slowly, the bows began to relax and the men stepped back. He continued talking, less rapidly and at a lower pitch, but just as urgently. Finally the men took another step back and lowered their arrows completely.

  “You move now,” said Borabay. “Stand up. No smile. No shake hand. Look everyone in eye. No smile.”

  They did as they were told, rising.

  “Go get packs and weapons and knifes. Do not show you afraid. Make angry face but say nothing. Smile and you die.”

  They followed Borabay’s orders. There was a brief flurry of raised bows as Tom picked up his machete, but when he sheathed it in his belt the bows went back down. Tom, following Borabay’s instructions, raked the warriors near them with a baleful stare, and they stared back so ferociously that he felt weak in the knees.

  Borabay was now talking in a lower voice, but he sounded angry. He was directing his comments to one man, taller than the others, with a brilliant set of feathers bristling from rings on his muscled upper arms. He wore a string around his neck, on which dangled as jewelry the detritus of Western technology, a CD-ROM offering six free months of AOL, a calculator with a hole drilled through it, a dial from an old telephone.

  The man looked at Tom and stepped forward. Halted.

  “Brother, take step toward man, tell him in angry voice he must apologize.”

  Tom, hoping that Borabay understood the psychology of the situation, scowled and stepped toward the warrior, “How dare you draw your bows at us?” he demanded.

  Borabay translated. The man answered angrily, gesturing with a spear close to Tom’s face.

  Borabay spoke. “He say, ‘Who are you? Why you come into Tara land without invitation?’ You tell him in angry voice you come to save your father. Shout at him.”

  Tom obeyed, raising his voice, taking a step toward the warrior and shouting at him inches from his face. The man answered in an even angrier voice, shaking his spear in front of Tom’s nose. At this, many of the warriors put up their bows again.

  “He say Father cause big trouble for Tara and he very angry. Brother, you must be very angry now. You tell them to put down bows. Say you no talk unless they put arrows away. Make big insult.”

  Tom, sweating now, tried to push aside the terror he felt and feign anger. “How dare you threaten us?” he cried. “We have come into your land in peace, and you offer us war! Is this how the Tara treat their guests? Are you animals or people?”

  Tom caught a flash of approval from Borabay as he translated—no doubt adding his own nuances.

  The bows came down, and this time the men unnocked their arrows and put them back into their quivers.

  “Now you smile. Short smile, not big smile.”

  Tom flashed a smile, then let his face settle back into sternness.

  Borabay spoke at length, then turned to Tom. “You must hug and kiss that warrior in Tara way.”

  Tom gave the man an awkward hug and a pair of kisses on the neck, just as Borabay had done to him so many times. He ended up with red and yellow paint on his face and lips. The warrior returned the courtesy, smearing more paint on him.

  “Good,” said Borabay, almost giddy with relief. “Everything fine now! We go to Tara village.

  The village consisted of an open plaza of packed dirt, surrounded by two irregular rings of thatched huts of the kind they had slept in a few nights before. The huts had no windows, just a hole in the peak. Cooking fires were burning in front of many of the huts, tended by women who, Tom noticed, were cooking with the French cooking pots, copper braising pans, and Meissen stainless steel cutlery that Maxwell Broadbent had brought them. As he followed the group of warriors into the center of the p
laza, thatched doors popped open and various people came out to stand and gape at them. The small children were completely naked; the older ones wore dirty shorts or breechclouts. The women wore a piece of cloth tied around their waists and were naked above, with their breasts and chests smeared with red. Many had disks in their lips and ears. Only the men wore feathers.

  There was no formal greeting ceremony. The warriors who had brought them in wandered off, going about their business with complete indifference, while the women and children of the village gaped.

  “What do we do now?” Tom asked, standing in the middle of the dirt plaza and looking around.

  “Wait,” said Borabay.

  A toothless old woman soon emerged from one of the huts, bent double from age, leaning on a stick; her short white hair made her look like a witch. She made her way toward them with excruciating slowness, her beady eyes never leaving their faces, sucking on her lips and muttering to herself. She finally arrived in front of Tom and peered up at him.

  Borabay said quietly, “Do nothing.”

  She raised a withered hand and gave Tom a blow across the knees, then whacked him across the thighs, once, twice, three times—surprisingly painful blows for an old lady—all the while muttering to herself. She then raised her stick and struck him across the shins and again on the buttocks. She dropped the stick and reached up and groped him obscenely between his legs. Tom swallowed and tried not to flinch as she made a thorough check of his masculinity. Then she reached up toward Tom’s head, making a motion with her fingers. Tom bent slightly, and she grabbed his hair and gave such a yank that tears sprang to his eyes.

  She stepped back, the inspection apparently complete. She gave him a toothless smile and spoke at length.

  Borabay translated. “She say contrary to appearance you are definitely a man. She invite you and your brothers stay in village as guest of the Tara people. She accept your help for fight against bad men in White City. She say now you in charge.”

  “Who is she?” Tom glanced at her. She was peering up and down, examining him from head to toe.

  “She is wife of Cah. Look out, Tom, she like you. Maybe she come to your hut tonight.”

  It broke the tension, and they all laughed, Philip most of all.

  “What am I in charge of?” Tom asked.

  Borabay looked at him. “You now war chief.”

  Tom was stunned. “How can that be? I’ve been here ten minutes.”

  “She say Tara warriors fail in attack against white man and many killed. You white man, too, maybe you understand enemy better. Tomorrow, you lead fight against bad men.”

  “Tomorrow?” Tom said. “Thanks, really, but I decline the responsibility.”

  “You not have choice,” said Borabay. “She say if you do not, Tara warriors kill us all.”

  That night the villagers lit a bonfire, and a party of sorts got under way, starting with a multicourse feast, which arrived on leaves, culminating in a tapir roasted in a pit. The men danced and then gave a hauntingly strange orchestral performance on flutes, led by Borabay. Everyone went to bed late. Borabay roused them a few hours later. It was still dark.

  “We go now. You speak to people.”

  Tom stared at him. “I have to give a speech?”

  “I help you.”

  “This I’ve got to see,” said Philip.

  The bonfire had been heaped with fresh logs, and Tom could see that the whole village was standing, silently and respectfully, waiting for his speech.

  Borabay whispered, “Tom, you tell me to get ten best warriors for fight.”

  “Fight? What fight?”

  “We fight Hauser.”

  “We can’t—”

  “Be quiet and do what I say,” Borabay hissed.

  Tom gave the order, and Borabay then went through the crowd, clapping his hands, slapping the shoulders of various men, and in five minutes had ten warriors lined up with them, decked out in feathers, paint, and necklaces, each with a bow and quiver.

  “Now you give speech.”

  “What should I say?”

  “Talk big. How you going to rescue Father, kill bad mans. Don’t worry, whatever you say, I fix up good.”

  “Don’t forget to promise a chicken in every pot,” said Philip.

  Tom stepped forward and looked around at all the faces. The hubbub of talk died quickly. Now they were looking at him with hope. A shiver of fear ran through him. He had no idea what he was doing.

  “Er, ladies and gentlemen?”

  Borabay flashed him a disapproving look and then, in a martial voice, cried out something that sounded a lot more effective than the feeble opening he had managed. There was a rustling as everyone came to attention. Tom had a sudden feeling of déjà vu—he remembered Don Alfonso’s speech to his people when they left Pito Solo. He had to give a speech like that, even if it was all lies and empty promises.

  He took a deep breath. “My friends! We have come to the Tara lands from a distant place called America!”

  At the word America, even before Borabay could translate, there was a rustle of excitement.

  “We have come many thousands of miles, by plane, by dugout, and on foot. For forty days and nights we have traveled.”

  Borabay declaimed this. Tom could see he now had their undivided attention.

  “A great evil has befallen the Tara people. A barbarian named Hauser has come from the other side of the world with mercenary soldiers to kill the Tara people and rob their tombs. They have kidnapped your head priest and killed your warriors. As I speak, they are in the White City, defiling it with their presence.”

  Borabay translated, and there was a loud murmur of agreement.

  “We are here, the four sons of Maxwell Broadbent, to rid the Tara people of this man. We have come to save our own father, Maxwell Broadbent, from the darkness of his tomb.”

  He paused for Borabay’s translation. Five hundred faces, lit by the firelight, gazed at him with rapt attention.

  “My brother here, Borabay, will lead us up to the mountains, where we will observe the bad men and make plans for an attack. Tomorrow, we will fight.”

  At this there was an eruption of an odd sound like rapid grunting or laughing—the Tara equivalent, it seemed, of cheering and clapping. Tom could feel his monkey, Hairy Bugger, scrunching himself down into the bottom of his pocket, trying to hide.

  Borabay then spoke to Tom, sotto voce. “Ask them to pray and make offering.”

  Tom cleared his throat. “The Tara people, all of you, have a very important role to play in the coming struggle. I ask you to pray for us. I ask you to make offerings for us. I ask you to do this every day until we return victorious.”

  Borabay’s voice rang out with these declarations, and it had an electric effect. People surged forward, murmuring in excitement. Tom felt a kind of hopeless absurdity wash over him; these people believed in him far more than he believed in himself.

  A cracked voice rang out, and the people instantly fell back, leaving the old woman, Cah’s wife, standing alone, leaning on her stick. She looked up and fixed her eye on Tom. There was a long silence, and then she raised her stick, drew it back, and gave him a tremendous blow across the thighs. Tom tried not to flinch or grimace.

  Then the old woman cried out something in a wizened voice.

  “What’d she say?”

  Borabay turned. “I do not know how to translate. She speak a strong Tara expression. It mean something like: You kill or you die.”

  57

  Professor Julian Clyve propped up his feet and creaked back in his old chair with his hands behind his head. It was a blustery May day, the wind twisting and torturing the leaves of the sycamore tree outside his window. Sally had been gone now for over a month. There had been no word. He hadn’t expected to hear anything, but Clyve still found the long silence perturbing. When Sally left, they both expected the Codex would usher in one more academic triumph in Professor Clyve’s life. But after thinking about it for a we
ek or two, Clyve had changed his mind. Here he was a Rhodes scholar, a full professorship at Yale, with a string of prizes, academic honors, and publications that most professors didn’t accumulate in a lifetime. The fact was, he hardly needed another academic honor. What he needed—let’s face it—was money. The values of American society were all wrong. The real prize—financial wealth—did not come to those who deserved it most, to the intellectual movers and shakers: the brain trust that controlled, directed, and disciplined the great stupid lumbering beast that was the vulgus mobile. Who did make the money? Sports figures, rock stars, actors, and CEOs. Here he was, at the top of his profession, earning less than the average plumber. It was galling. It was unfair.

  Wherever he went, people sought him out, crushed his hand, praised him, admired him. All the wealthy people of New Haven wanted to know him, to have him to dinner, to collect him and show him off as evidence of their good taste, as if he were an Old Master painting or piece of antique silver. Not only was it disgusting, but it was humiliating and expensive. Almost everyone he knew had more money than he did. No matter what honors he gained, no matter what prizes he won or monographs he published, he still wasn’t able to pick up the tab at a reasonably good restaurant in New Haven. Instead they picked up the tab. They had him to their houses. They invited him to the black-tie charity dinners and paid for the table, brushing off his insincere offers of reimbursement. And when it was all over he had to slink back to his two-bedroom, revoltingly bourgeois split-level in the academic ghetto, while they went home to their mansions in the Heights.

  Now, finally, he had the means to do something about it. He glanced at the calendar. It was the thirty-first of May. Tomorrow the first installment of the two million from the giant Swiss drug company, Hartz, was to arrive. The coded e-mail confirmation should be coming from the Cayman Islands soon. He would have to spend the money outside the United States, of course. A snug villa on the Costiera Amalfitana would be a nice place to park it; a million for the villa and the second million for expenses. Ravello was supposed to be nice. He and Sally could take their honeymoon there.