THE MAYA CODEX

by Adrian D'hagé

  ‘Given what happened here,’ Aleta said thoughtfully, ‘it’s surprising Israel doesn’t show more compassion towards the Palestinians.’

  ‘Some might argue the Israelis have the right to defend themselves against rocket attacks.’

  ‘Yes. But the Israeli attacks in Gaza and Lebanon have been ruthlessly disproportionate: they’ve even bombed schools and UN posts.’

  ‘That can hardly be compared to the Holocaust,’ O’Connor suggested gently.

  ‘Every life is precious. When you flatten places like Gaza, the most populated area on the planet – where one and a half million people are crowded into a tiny area that even the Vatican calls a concentration camp – you’ve made a decision to kill innocent civilians. If it were any other nation raining cluster bombs and white phosphorous on women and children, your people in Washington would be outraged. White phosphorous! A compound that clamps to the skin and keeps burning deep into the body. How do the Israelis justify that?’

  O’Connor didn’t reply, surprised by the ferocity of Aleta’s views. Was it an Arab or a Jew, he wondered, who had said, ‘A man without a country is a man without dignity. And our dignity is more important to us even than our life.’ O’Connor was convinced the awful killing would continue on both sides until the Arab Islamists recognised Israel’s unequivocal right to exist, and the Israelis withdrew from their illegal settlements and returned the land they had occupied since 1967 so a Palestinian state could become a reality.

  They reached the ‘staircase of death’ and Aleta looked towards the cliff. ‘There are 186 steps to the top,’ she said. ‘The prisoners were made to carry huge rocks up these stairs on their shoulders, as punishment.’ Tears welled in her eyes. ‘I think if my grandfather were alive today, he’d be urging the Israeli government and people to take a different course. I’m not blaming the Israeli people – they want peace just as much as the ordinary Palestinians – but the hardliners in the Israeli government will never rest until all Palestinian land is taken by force, and the Islamists will never rest until Israel is wiped off the map. It’s madness, the same mindless madness that gave birth to von Heißen and Mauthausen.’ She wiped her eyes and looked at O’Connor. ‘It’s time we went. There’s less than three weeks to the winter solstice. If we’re going to have any chance of finding the third figurine, let alone lining them up by 21 December, we’ll need to move quickly.’

  O’Connor nodded. It would be touch and go. Together, they walked in silence across the deserted quarry, a quarry where Jews and others had been murdered in their thousands. Their hands touched briefly, and Aleta made no effort to pull away.

  ‘The big question now, I suppose, is how we get to Guatemala?’ she asked as O’Connor pulled out of the car park.

  ‘You’ve just won the job of navigator,’ he said, handing the road map to Aleta. ‘We’ll head back along the Danube to Mauthausen town proper, then north on Route 123 to link up with the E55 into the Czech Republic.’

  ‘Why the Czech Republic?’

  ‘Wiley trusts no one, so he’ll resist taking the German and Austrian police into his confidence, but he’ll still have CIA assets watching the major border crossings. The Czech Republic won’t be high on his agenda as he’ll expect us to exit from either Vienna or one of the big German cities like Frankfurt.’

  ‘So, Prague?’

  O’Connor shook his head. ‘The airports and train stations will be under heavy surveillance, and the CIA chief of station in Prague will have mobilised his own assets. But even the CIA doesn’t have the resources to watch all the docks, and I have a contact in Hamburg. If we can bypass Prague and head back across the border through Dresden and on to Hamburg undetected, we’ve got a chance.’ O’Connor glanced in the rear-view mirror. He’d mentally photographed the cars in the parking lot, and the black Audi that had been parked at the far end was now following at a discreet distance. ‘We’ve got company again.’

  The driver of the Audi waited until the road disappeared into a series of small hills before he closed the gap and lined up the Passat in the sights of his Brügger & Thomet MP9.

  ‘Get down!’ O’Connor yelled. The rear windscreen of the Passat shattered under a withering burst of sub-machine-gun fire. O’Connor swerved from side to side and another burst of fire crackled past the offside of the car into the pine forest. O’Connor floored the Passat, racing up the narrow twisting road, but the black Audi was gaining. Whoever he was, he wasn’t leaving any doubt about his intentions, O’Connor thought, drifting sideways into the next corner, only to be confronted by a massive B-double tanker coming the other way. The mountains reverberated to the blast from the truck’s triple air horns as O’Connor spun the wheel, missing the tanker by centimetres.

  ‘Hang on!’ he yelled as he swerved past the rear end of the tanker and onto the other side of the road. O’Connor hit the brakes and the Audi shot past. He dropped the Passat into second and tramped the accelerator, the squealing tyres leaving a line of smoking rubber on the road. O’Connor waited until the valley to the north dropped away sharply before he closed in on the rear of the Audi. In a precision high-speed move, O’Connor veered to the right and tapped the rear fender of the Audi. The Audi spun, and O’Connor and Aleta ducked as the assassin let fly with another wild burst of gunfire. The Passat shot past and O’Connor glanced in the rear-view mirror in time to see the Audi hit a guide post. The car flipped and rolled down the steep embankment in a shower of sparks. O’Connor skidded the Passat to a halt and leapt out of the car. The Audi bounced off a rocky outcrop and dropped another twenty metres, exploding in a fiery ball beside the creek below.

  Aleta’s face was white. ‘Who are these people?’

  ‘When the CIA wants someone assassinated, they usually use one of their field officers, but if they want it done in a hurry, or if the target’s a high enough priority, they employ what’s known in the trade as an “asset”, or, in our case, several assets.’

  ‘And that guy is one of their assets?’

  ‘Was. We’ve gained a little time, but not much,’ O’Connor replied, thinking out loud. ‘They’ve got our licence plates, but if I’m right, and Wiley hasn’t asked the Austrian and German police for help yet, that might prove the difference.’

  ‘And what are customs and immigration going to say at the border when we turn up in a car that’s riddled with bullet holes, not to mention a back window that’s been shot out?’

  O’Connor smiled at her. ‘You’re learning. We’ll graduate you as a spy yet!’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘We’ll need to pick up another car before we cross the Czech border.’

  ‘Hire another one, you mean?’

  ‘Only if we have to. Wiley seems to have the hire-car agencies tapped. We’ll, ah, borrow one.’

  Aleta shook her head.

  O’Connor slowed on the outskirts of the Austrian town of Freistadt and turned west off the E55 towards the Bahnhof. The station was deserted but as he pulled into the car park, he counted six other cars.

  ‘Keep a look out,’ he said to Aleta, as he got out and walked over to an older model nondescript Toyota. He picked the door lock in an instant and tried a small flat-bladed screwdriver in the ignition. ‘Sometimes it works, but not today,’ he muttered as he snapped the plastic cover from the bottom of the steering column, exposing the ignition wiring: three pairs of wires running into the back of the ignition cylinder. O’Connor glanced at the ACC OFF ON START positions on the ignition switch and quickly went through a process of elimination. The green-and-yellow pair would probably provide the battery and accessories, he thought, and he punted on the red pair being power to the car and the brown pair providing the connection to the starter. Within thirty seconds he’d disconnected the green-and-yellow pair, as well as the red pair, bared the wires and twisted them together.

  ‘Und jetzt, das thema von … ’

  O’Connor smiled to himself as the radio burst into action with the theme from the old war movie, The
Great Escape. He quickly disconnected the brown wires and stripped them as well. The ends sparked as he touched them together and the engine fired.

  ‘Follow me,’ he said to Aleta, waiting until she’d got into the driver’s seat of the Passat before heading out of the car park.

  O’Connor pulled off the E55 and drove into a small forest to the north of Freistadt. There they transferred their luggage, containing the precious figurines, to the Toyota, and O’Connor hid the Passat amongst a thick clump of bushes.

  ‘Just in case the owner reports his car stolen,’ he said as he attached the Passat’s registration plates to the Toyota.

  ‘I’m curious …’ Aleta said as they turned back on to the E55 and headed north towards the quiet Austrian–Czech border crossing.

  ‘How I did that?’ O’Connor grinned. ‘Secret men’s business.’

  ‘No – although one day you can show me how – it’s more that there were two BMWs and a late-model Mercedes in that car park. Why did you go for the old Toyota? Less likely to attract attention?’

  ‘Yes, but there’s a technical reason as well. Late-model cars have a radio-frequency identification chip in the ignition that needs a matching key, so you can’t hot-wire them, and some keys have a precise resistance built into them that has to be matched with the resistance value in the car’s memory. There are ways around it, but we won’t need this one for long – we should be in Hamburg tomorrow.’

  Inspector Erich Polzer of the Upper Austria Polizei and his wife alighted from the train and looked around the Freistadt Bahnhof car park.

  ‘Jemand hat gestohlen unser Auto!’ the Inspector exclaimed angrily, and reached for his cell phone.

  43

  SAN PEDRO, GUATEMALA

  The last of the sun’s rays painted the clouds seemingly streaming from the crater of San Pedro, the smallest of the three volcanoes towering sentinel over Lake Atitlán and the villages dotted around the foreshores. The boatman eased his lancha into the jetty at San Pedro, gently nudging the piles. The waters of the lake lapped the pier’s old wooden steps and the boatman threw his hawser with unerring accuracy, securing the stern. Monsignor Jennings, handing the money to the boatman, climbed onto the gunwale and the boat tilted alarmingly. The boatman steadied it against the pier and shook his head as Jennings lost his footing and fell into the lake.

  ‘Imbécil!’ Jennings fumed, flailing back to the jetty and hauling himself onto the steps.

  The old boatman shrugged and placed Jennings’ suitcase on top of the jetty. With an expert flick, he unhitched the hawser from the jetty pile and backed into the inlet.

  ‘Adios, señor!’ The old boatman was still grinning as he headed into the dusk enveloping the smooth waters of the lake.

  ‘Tuc tuc, señor! Tuc tuc!’

  ‘Aquí, señor, aquí!’

  A squabble had broken out between two young taxi drivers, neither of whom could have been older than twelve. One had illegally manoeuvred his tuc tuc under the rope at the end of the jetty, gaining the advantage over the other boy waiting at the rank. Jennings took the option that didn’t involve walking, much to the anger of the boy who’d kept to the rules.

  ‘Que te jordan! Hijo de puta! Fuck you, son of a bitch!’

  Jennings’ driver gave the other boy the bird, opened the throttle and powered the noisy little three-wheeler up the narrow road that led to the town square at the top of the hill.

  ‘Dónde a, señor?’

  ‘La Iglesia,’ Jennings replied, pointing in the direction of the white-washed Catholic church that sat atop one of the foothills of Volcán San Pedro. Jennings, still dripping as he clung to the flimsy metal frame supporting the tuc tuc’s canvas, observed the young driver with interest. The boy’s olive skin was flawless and Jennings began to mentally run his hand up the young man’s inner thigh. The boy weaved artfully between tourists and locals browsing the small roadside stalls that offered everything from woven baskets to tacos, spices to hambuergasas. The local village women, wearing elegant cortes, walked the streets balancing large baskets of fruit and bread on their heads, seemingly without effort.

  ‘¿Como se llama usted?’ Jennings asked.

  ‘Me llamo Alonzo,’ the boy replied as he weaved across the crowded square at the top of the hill, bringing the tuc tuc to a halt opposite the path that led to the church.

  ‘I’m the new priest here, Alonzo. Come and see me,’ Jennings said, tipping the boy fifty quetzales. ‘I’ll make it worth your while.’

  Jennings extended the carry handle on his bag and walked up the path to the steps of the large white-washed colonial building that dominated San Pedro. A stone statue of Saint Peter guarded the cobblestones, and rocks protected gardens filled with luscious palms, brilliant orange hibiscus, white nun orchids and pink confetti flowers. The massive cedar door creaked on its iron hinges.

  A solitary nun kneeling in the front pew turned at the sound of Jennings’ footfall echoing off the white stone walls, and went back to her prayers. Jennings walked up the centre aisle of the church and stopped at the nun’s pew. Sensing his presence, Sister Juanita Gonzales opened her eyes and looked up to find an obese, red-faced man in a dripping safari suit staring down at her.

  ‘Can I help you, señor?’ she whispered.

  ‘Monsignor Jennings.’

  Sister Gonzales shot to her feet, banging her knee on the heavy wooden pew.

  ‘Oh, Father. I’m so sorry, no one told us you were coming,’ Sister Gonzales stammered, her round dark eyes full of concern. ‘I’m Sister Gonzales,’ she added. The beautiful young nun was slim and petite, her long dark hair hidden under the hood of her habit.

  ‘I see,’ Jennings replied irritably. ‘Take me to my quarters.’

  ‘Again, I’m most terribly sorry, Father,’ said Sister Gonzales, hurriedly opening the blinds and windows of the tiny one-bedroom San Pedro presbytery, which commanded sweeping views over the lake. ‘The presbytery’s been vacant ever since Father Hernandez left, so it’s terribly musty. We were planning to give it a thorough spring clean before your arrival.’

  ‘The presbytery’s been vacant all that time?’

  ‘We’ve been without a permanent parish priest since Father Hernandez retired, although he lived here for many years until he left… ’ Sister Gonzales’ voice trailed off.

  ‘And what was the reason for his leaving?’ Jennings probed.

  Sister Gonzales stared at the old wooden floorboards.

  ‘I’m waiting!’

  ‘No one really knows, Father. There are just rumours …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Rumours of his past – that he might have been a Nazi. He left in a big hurry after the Israelis arrived,’ Sister Gonzales added uncomfortably.

  ‘You knew the Israelis were here?’

  Sister Gonzales nodded. ‘Someone in Panajachel warned Father Hernandez the Israelis were coming for him, and he left in a truck before they could get here.’

  ‘A truck?’

  ‘There is a back road that connects with the highway to the south. He took a big crate with him —’

  ‘Containing?’

  ‘No one knows, Father, but it was very heavy. It had to be loaded by forklift.’

  Jennings grunted.

  ‘Have you had dinner, Father? We’re having black beans and tortillas tonight.’ The young nun smiled enthusiastically.

  ‘I’ll eat out. That will be all.’

  Jennings glanced around his new quarters, angry at the task he’d been given. San Pedro was a long way from the delights of the European capitals, and even those in Guatemala, he thought wistfully, remembering the previous night with Reynaldo. Perhaps some of the tuc tuc drivers held some promise. He unpacked his battered suitcase and placed his clothes in the oak wardrobe in the bedroom which was on a mezzanine floor, reached by a wooden staircase. The rest of the flat consisted of a downstairs sitting room with an old couch and a white wicker table and two wicker chairs. The kitchen had a small stove, connec
ted to a gas bottle, and an old Kelvinator refrigerator. The bathroom was equally primitive. Several tiles were missing from the shower recess, which was screened by a yellowed shower curtain.

  He walked back out into the sitting room, oblivious to the stunning vista of coffee plantations running down the sides of the volcanoes to a lake shore dotted with poinsettia trees, banana palms, Mexican honeysuckles, spiny yuccas and a host of other colourful palms and plants. Jennings opened a door under the stairs and switched on the light. The storeroom was dank and dusty; empty save for a pair of scuba tanks and a diving regulator. He lifted the tanks and underneath was an old diary. The Israelis had indeed forced von Heißen to get out in a rush, Jennings thought, as he retrieved the diary from the concrete floor.

  44

  HAMBURG

  O’Connor parked the Toyota in a side street near the Hamburg Hauptbahnhof and hailed a cab to take them within walking distance of the Hansehof, a two-star hotel on Simon-von-Utrecht Strasse. He booked just one room, not wanting Aleta to be any more vulnerable than she already was.

  ‘Bit of a comedown from the Imperial,’ Aleta said with a grin, unable to resist having a dig.

  ‘Yes, but this one’s nondescript, and it has one big advantage at this stage of our journey.’

  ‘And what might that be?’ she asked as O’Connor inserted the key to their room.

  ‘Twin beds.’

  ‘You’re incorrigible.’

  ‘I’ve got one or two things to organise,’ O’Connor said, stacking their suitcases on the luggage rack. ‘Don’t answer the door or the phone. I’ll be back in an hour – two at the most.’

  Aleta flicked on the television and settled in for the CNN news. A young journalist was standing amid the ruins of Salebata village on the southern side of the Pacific island of Samoa.