THE MAYA CODEX

by Adrian D'hagé

  ‘There is one other issue,’ Wiley said carefully. ‘When you and I were in Guatemala, one of our assets was based in San Pedro.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Father Hernandez.’

  ‘He kept detailed diaries … ’

  Felici felt a chill run down his spine, but in a habit born of long years of practice, he gave nothing away. ‘Really? I thought Hernandez retired years ago. He must be in his late eighties by now?’

  ‘Early nineties actually, but still very sprightly for his age, or he was the last time he was seen around Lake Atitlán. He and his diaries disappeared three years ago, we think possibly to Peru. He apparently received a tip-off that certain enemies were on to him.’

  ‘Do we know what the diaries cover?’

  ‘Not exactly. But I’m led to believe he recorded a considerable amount of information on this missing codex.’

  ‘So if we find the diaries, they may lead us to the codex?’

  ‘They may. But more importantly the diaries may also contain details of our operations in Guatemala, and Hernandez’ escape from Nazi Germany. The CIA is not the only one looking for Hernandez – Mossad is more than a little interested as well.’

  The blood drained from Felici’s face. ‘It would be extremely unfortunate if these diaries were to fall into the hands of the Israelis or anyone else, Howard. I will ask our papal nuncio in Guatemala City to keep his ear to the ground. Our papal nuncio in Lima can also be trusted, so I will make some enquiries on the possible Peruvian connection.’

  Like two grand masters of the epee and the foil, Wiley and Felici watched each other’s every move, revealing neither their fears nor their plans for the diaries and the missing codex.

  32

  VIENNA

  Aleta lit the fire and poured herself a glass of wine. She was now determined to find the missing figurines and the Maya Codex, whatever it took; but first she would make the nine-hour train journey to Bad Arolsen, a spa town in central Germany. From there she would head to Mauthausen on the Danube, not far from Linz, where her beloved grandfather had last been seen alive. The Mauthausen concentration camp might not yield any clues, but she had to see it for herself.

  Aleta retrieved her folder on the Bad Arolsen records from the bedside table. The six barrack buildings used by Himmler’s elite Waffen SS, who were stationed in Bad Arolsen during the war, now contained shelves of documents stretching for twenty-six kilometres. The card index system alone occupied three whole rooms, providing critical links to medical records, transport lists, registration books and myriad scraps of paper. The records were not yet fully digitised, and in any case, having come this far, Aleta was determined to check them personally.

  Schindler’s list was there, with the records of more than a thousand Jewish prisoners whose lives Oskar Schindler had saved, convincing the Nazis he needed them to work on the production of enamel and munitions. So too were the records for ‘Frank, Annelise M.’ But even more important to Aleta than Anne Frank was her discovery that the Mauthausen concentration camp’s Totenbuchen, or Death Books, were also at Bad Arolsen. She shuddered involuntarily at the thought of finding her grandfather’s name. The Mauthausen Totenbuchen had been meticulously handwritten, and amongst the entries was one that was particularly chilling. Every two minutes, for ninety minutes, by order of the commandant, Obersturmbannführer von Heißen, a prisoner had been shot in the back of the head as a birthday present for Hitler. Had her grandfather met his fate on Hitler’s birthday?

  Aleta rose and wandered over to one of the old heavy bookcases that held a framed photograph of her grandparents. Levi and his tall attractive wife, Ramona, together with Aleta’s father, Ariel, as a boy of ten, and his younger sister Rebekkah. It had been taken in 1937, when the Nazi juggernaut was already massing, but back then they were a smiling and happy family, standing on the deck of a riverboat cruising through a steeply rising gorge on the Danube. Behind them, the vineyards of the famous Wachau wine-growing region rose in rocky slate terraces above the church steeple of the village of Joching. Her father’s smile was mischievous, just as she remembered it.

  Aleta wiped away a tear as the memories came flooding back: sitting on his shoulders as he jogged down to the shores of Lake Atitlán. Together they would paddle the family canoe over to a secret fishing spot. She knew now that it wasn’t secret, and she suspected some of the fish she’d pulled in on her line had been put there by her father when she wasn’t looking, but he had always been able to infuse her life with a sense of mystery and magic. Now, like her grandfather, he was gone. Weary and flat, she headed for the bathroom and shook a purple-pink capsule from the jar labelled Sarafem. The pills and a good night’s sleep would allow her to function, but she knew they would do nothing to help her lack of energy and the pervasive sense of hopelessness that was her constant companion.

  Three floors below, Antonio Sodano quietly entered the courtyard to Aleta’s apartment block. Using a lock pick remarkably similar to O’Connor’s, he dealt with the steel security door at the bottom of the stairs. Sodano pulled a balaclava over his pockmarked, rugged face and soundlessly ascended to the landing outside Aleta’s door.

  33

  THE VATICAN, ROME

  Cardinal Felici examined the latest file on Monsignor Jennings, forwarded from the papal nuncio in Guatemala City. A series of photos showed him emerging from a seedy bar in La Línea, a crime-infested, prostitute-ridden, gang-controlled ghetto on the outskirts of the city. The two boys either side of him looked to be no more than twelve. Another photo showed Jennings with the boys, booking into an even seedier ‘motel’, the rooms of which were made out of metal scrounged from shipping containers. Felici closed the file and pondered. So far, the Vatican Bank funding that financed Jennings’ archaeological expeditions to Central America had ensured Jennings’ loyalty, but it might not be enough. He also knew that an appeal to the Jesuit’s faith would be problematic. Felici had known of Jennings’ sexual proclivities for a long time, but this was the first concrete evidence he’d obtained. The papal nuncio had done well.

  The Cardinal’s private secretary knocked on the double doors of the office.

  ‘Monsignor Jennings is here, Eminence.’

  ‘Show him in.’ Felici glanced at his rolled gold Rolex. ‘And order my car for 11 p.m.’

  ‘Certainly, Eminence.’ Father Cordona stood aside for Monsignor Jennings and then closed the door. If he questioned why the Cardinal regularly ordered his car late at night, or why Cardinal Felici maintained an apartment in the fashionable but eclectic Via del Governo Vecchio on the north side of the Tiber, he never allowed it to show.

  ‘Benvenuto a Roma.’ The Cardinal extended his fine, bony hand.

  ‘Grazie, Eminence.’

  ‘I trust it was a pleasant flight?’

  ‘As much as flying can be after 9/11.’

  ‘Of course. Well. I won’t keep you long, but something has come up. Have you come across a Dr Aleta Weizman?’ the Cardinal asked, adjusting his soutane as he sat on one of the deep-blue velvet couches in his office.

  ‘Unfortunately, yes. She was making a nuisance of herself during my address to the conference in Vienna.’

  ‘Did she mention a missing codex?’

  ‘She didn’t, but a journalist did,’ Jennings replied, glancing pointedly towards the cardinal’s cocktail cabinet. ‘A young bimbo from a women’s magazine. I’m not sure why she was there. Like the rest of her colleagues, she showed no interest in my latest research.’

  ‘Do you think Weizman suspects it exists?’ Felici asked, ignoring the Jesuit’s glances towards the whisky.

  ‘While I was in Guatemala City, Eminence, I discovered Weizman had recently visited the Museo Nacional de Arqueologia y Etnologia. There’s nothing unusual in that per se; she is, after all, an archaeologist. But my contact tells me she seemed particularly excited after spending some time in one of the storage areas.’

  ‘And do we know what might have caused her excitement?’

 
Monsignor Jennings shook his head. ‘The next time I’m in there, I’ll make some enquiries.’

  Agitated, Felici fingered his pectoral cross. ‘The closer we get to 2012, the greater focus there will be on the ancient Maya and Guatemala … and the greater focus there will be on the Maya Codex.’

  ‘There’s not a lot we can do about that. I continue to play down 2012, as per your instructions.’

  ‘Your funding from the Vatican Bank depends on you doing just that,’ Felici reminded him.

  Jennings shrugged. ‘The media love a mystery.’

  ‘Which means we must redouble our efforts to recover the codex before somebody else does.’

  ‘That’s easier said than done. The number of remaining Maya who might know the whereabouts of this codex could be counted on one hand, and all of them would be elders.’

  ‘Which is a closed shop.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Money talks in Guatemala, you say? How much will it take?’

  ‘There are still some people in this world who can’t be bought, Eminence.’

  Felici masked his irritation. ‘Do you have any idea who these elders might be?’

  Jennings shook his head. ‘Not really. Although the most revered elder in the highlands region is a shaman, a Dr José Arana, who incidentally was also at the Mayan conference.’

  Felici got up and walked over to the windows affording a view towards Bernini’s columns surrounding the Piazza San Pietro. He stared out across the now-deserted piazza, hands clasped behind his soutane. The traffic past Vatican City on the Via di Porta Cavalleggeri was still heavy. The sounds of the Italians’ love affair with the horn and motor scooters filled the evening air.

  ‘For the good of the Holy Church,’ Felici said finally, ‘we must recover the Maya Codex for storage in the secret archives.’

  ‘But what if we find it and it does contain a dire warning? The scientific evidence is mounting that the ancient Maya might be right. Should we not alert the world? People might have to move to higher ground.’

  ‘My concern, as yours should be,’ Felici responded icily, ‘is that it may contain material that threatens the one true faith. Our responsibility, Monsignor, is to protect the Holy Church.’

  Jennings shrugged. The Holy Church was the last of his concerns. Nor was he particularly concerned over the warning. Unbeknown to the wider public, scientists had already done some calculations, and Jennings had studied the maps that predicted the catastrophic consequences of a geographic pole shift. Based on that information, he’d purchased a property in one of the very few areas of the world that would provide safety in December 2012. But the possibility of discovering the codex itself had fired Jennings’ interest, and for some time he had been far more focused on doing so than even Felici realised.

  ‘The discovery of the Maya Codex would be an archaeological sensation, Eminence,’ Jennings said. ‘On a par with the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls, the Rosetta Stone, the Terracotta Army and the tomb of King Tutankhamen. Whoever discovers this prophecy will be immortalised in the annals of history.’

  ‘And … ?’ Felici challenged.

  ‘If the codex is found, only to be hidden away in the secret archives, not only will a great discovery be lost to archaeology, but we will have abrogated our duty to broadcast the Maya’s warning to the world.’ Jennings sniffed smugly.

  ‘I would remind you, Monsignor, that the funding for your archaeological expeditions is not inconsiderable. That funding depends entirely on your cooperation.’

  ‘The Vatican Bank is not the only source of funding available for archaeological expeditions, Eminence.’ Jennings had already sounded out alternative wealthy financial backers. It would have been more prudent to remain silent, but prudence had never been Jennings’ strong suit.

  ‘I had hoped it would not come to this,’ Felici said, rising from his seat to retrieve Jennings’ file, ‘but you leave me no alternative.’ He handed Jennings the folio of photographs and watched his reaction with a sense of satisfaction.

  Jennings was speechless with shock, his face ashen.

  ‘Fortunately for you, Monsignor, it is paramount that the image of the Holy Church be protected, and you are more valuable inside the Church than out,’ the Cardinal said, relieving the hapless priest of his file. ‘Now, having resolved the issue of what is to be done with the Maya Codex, there is one other matter which is of the utmost confidentiality.’

  Jennings nodded.

  ‘At the end of World War Two, in order to ensure the defeat of Communism, the government of the United States and the Vatican cooperated to release a number of German scientists and others who had valuable knowledge which could be used to defeat that threat. Amongst them was an officer of Himmler’s SS, Karl von Heißen. In return for his cooperation, he was given a new identity as a Catholic priest in the parish of San Pedro.’

  ‘Adolf Eichmann was another,’ Jennings replied, still reeling over the photographs.

  ‘Eichmann is dead, but von Heißen is still alive, or at least we think he is. You would have known him as Father Hernandez.’

  ‘Yes, I remember him now. He had a thick Spanish accent – but you’re saying he was German?’

  ‘The Spanish schools in Antigua are very good, Monsignor, and von Heißen was given extensive training, but even the schools in Antigua can’t erase cultural backgrounds. That said, in his role as Father Hernandez, von Heißen was very useful in the fight against Communism, and up until now his real identity has remained intact. Unfortunately, like you, he was careless, and we’ve recently discovered he kept detailed diaries.’

  ‘Diaries that could be embarrassing to the Vatican and the US government?’ Jennings sensed an opportunity to recover some ground.

  ‘The diaries may also contain information on the whereabouts of the Maya Codex,’ Felici replied stonily. ‘Either way, we want them back.’

  ‘Do we have any idea where von Heißen might be?’

  ‘He retired in San Pedro, but he was apparently tipped off that Mossad were finally on to him and he had to leave in a hurry – perhaps to Peru.’

  ‘So the trail has already gone cold.’

  ‘Perhaps. Nevertheless, you are to make some discreet – very discreet – enquiries. As a cover, you are being assigned to the same parish of San Pedro on Lake Atitlán, which has been without a permanent priest for some time. Your primary aim remains the discovery of the Maya Codex, and you’re to leave for Guatemala tomorrow. Father Cordona has your travel documents. Should you need to make contact, the papal nuncio in Guatemala City has secure communications, but even he does not know the real purpose of your return. In the meantime, these photographs will remain in my safe, Monsignor.’ Felici waved the file at Jennings. ‘I do hope you won’t give me an opportunity to use them.’

  34

  VIENNA

  Antonio Sodano quietly raked the pins of the lock to Aleta’s apartment. Encountering the same problem O’Connor had experienced, he changed to a finer pick and raked them again. He held the tension with his torsion wrench and lifted the final pin over the shear line and turned the cam. Sodano eased open the cedar door and listened. A light was coming from the left, and he could hear the sound of running water. He silently moved forward and peered around the corner of the hallway. In the bathroom at the end of the corridor a woman was cleaning her teeth. She matched the photograph he’d been given. She was tall and shapely, standing now, examining her teeth in the mirror, an outline of her breasts straining against her nightshirt. He felt for the gag in his pocket and withdrew back into the front hallway.

  Aleta turned off the light and headed towards her bedroom.

  Sodano flattened himself against the wall and waited. The woman passed without looking into the hallway. He took two steps, clamped his right hand over her mouth and wrenched her hair back with his left.

  Aleta let out a muffled scream and Sodano winced as she bit hard into his hand.

  ‘Schlampe! Bitch!’ He bundled
Aleta into her bedroom and pinned her to the wall. Aleta’s eyes widened in fear as she felt the knife against her throat.

  O’Connor found both the heavy double wooden doors to the courtyard and the steel security door at the bottom of the steps to Aleta’s apartment ajar. Fearing the worst, he drew his Glock 21 and silently bounded up the staircase, two stairs at time. The front door was unlocked. O’Connor paused at the sound of voices from inside.

  ‘Not so feisty now, are we?’ Sodano sneered as he ran his free hand up Aleta’s inner thigh.

  Aleta spat in his face.

  ‘You’re going to regret that, bitch.’ Sodano moved the knife back against Aleta’s neck and fondled her breasts.

  O’Connor eased his way up the hall and cautiously looked around the door jamb, only to make immediate eye contact with Aleta. Her sharp intake of breath was enough. Sodano reacted in an instant, whipping Aleta around in front of him and pressing the knife harder on her neck. ‘Drop the gun, O’Connor, or she gets it. Now!’

  O’Connor reluctantly threw the Glock onto the floor in front of him. Sodano’s use of his name was instant confirmation that Aleta was not the hitman’s only target.

  ‘Now step back.’ Sodano shoved Aleta to one side. She stumbled on the rug beside the bed and for a moment, as he tried to hold her, Sodano was distracted. O’Connor swung his right leg in a roundhouse kick to Sodano’s ribcage, pushing powerfully with his left leg. Sodano grunted in pain, releasing Aleta. The knife arced harmlessly through the air, clattering against the wardrobe. O’Connor head-butted Sodano and then fought for balance as the tough little Sicilian hooked his leg behind O’Connor’s right knee. They tumbled out into the lounge room, each searching for grip. Sodano drove his knee into O’Connor’s thigh and they crashed against the fireplace. O’Connor slammed his elbow against Sodano’s throat and rolled onto his back, wrapping his right arm around the Sicilian’s neck. In the classic special forces choke, O’Connor secured his upper left arm on the struggling Sodano’s shoulder and applied his left forearm and hand to Sodano’s neck, forcing it forward. O’Connor squeezed his arms towards one another and Sodano’s eyes bulged with fear. O’Connor held the mafia hitman’s throat until the lifeblood drained from Sodano’s face and his head fell limp in his hands. When O’Connor was certain his assailant was dead, he rolled Sodano onto the floor, and gasped for breath. Aleta stood above him, Sodano’s knife in one hand.