The Antiquities Hunter

by Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

“You’re laughing at me. Geoffrey laughs at me when I want to sail his boat. He won’t even let me try. He says it’s not something a woman can or could or should do.”

  He moved over and gestured at the tiller. “It’s all yours, Marianna.”

  He let me take the boat all the way to the dock at Isla Mujeres where we debarked and spent the afternoon exploring the colorful clutter of touristy little shops and visiting historical points of interest. I relaxed and let myself believe I really was Marianna Esposito, enjoying a day out with a gentleman friend. Felipe played his part only too well, twice buying me things I admired, and treating me to an elegant lunch.

  I thought I glanced Cruz on several occasions, but a repeat glance always came up empty. Either he’d gotten better at tailing people or my imagination was playing tricks.

  Over said elegant lunch, in a charming and secluded café in which my “date” acquired a table with a stunning view of the Bahia de Mujeres, I steered the conversation back to tomorrow’s trip.

  “So, what shall I wear for our little tour tomorrow?” I figured that was the sort of thing that would concern Marianna.

  Felipe laughed. “Our ‘little tour’ will be a day-long excursion into the wilds of Chiapas, my dear. You should wear sturdy shoes and clothe yourself for hiking.”

  “I hate sturdy shoes,” I lied. “So unaesthetic.”

  “The aesthetic depends entirely upon the woman who wears them. On you, the most unappealing footwear would seem elegant.”

  Oh, gag.

  I wrinkled my nose, then gave my lunch date as piercingly direct a look as I could. “I asked you not to flatter me, Felipe. Despite appearances, I’m not a piece of fluff. Tell me only what you really think of me.”

  The surprise in his dark eyes was followed by mirth. He tilted his head toward me. “As you wish. I think, Marianna, that you are a puzzle that I would love to solve. Tell me, does your Geoffrey tell you what he really thinks of you? Does Cruz?”

  I gazed out across the patio of the restaurant to where the sun sparkled on the far-off waves like sequins on a fairytale ball gown. “Geoffrey . . . flatters everyone he expects something of. Cruz flatters no one. I always know what Cruz thinks of me.”

  Well there was a patent lie if I ever uttered one. I reached reflexively for Saint Boris and gave him a quick rub of repentance for all the fibbing I was having to do.

  “And what does he think of you?”

  “That Geoff pays him barely enough to put up with me,” I said, then dropped Boris and gave Felipe a bright smile. “So, tell me about this site of yours, Felipe. You said one of your employees found it? How’d he happen to do that?”

  He shrugged, no doubt gauging how much to tell me. “He was engaged in surveying Bonampak for an academic team when something caused him to travel a bit further afield.”

  “Something? How mysterious. What did he see?”

  Again the artless shrug. “I have never been quite clear. Something about the sight lines for a minor temple-cum-observatory and the Acropolis. In any event, he followed his instinct and came upon a second site.”

  “Which he told no one about but you?”

  “Why would he? He well understands how much I value loyalty. And I’ve seen no evidence of anyone else having worked there.”

  “So you’re the only one who’s been digging there? What about your associates?”

  “My associates?”

  “The people you mentioned last night at dinner. The people you’re involved with. Do they know where the site is?”

  “My chief expert does, of course. He has had to assess the find. He is also completely loyal to me.”

  “And your investors, do they know?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It may matter to Geoffrey. I’ve told you: he’s a man who likes . . . monopolies.”

  His eyes met mine with sly complicity. “Except where you are concerned?”

  That was a quick change of topic. Was he flirting or being evasive about the dig?

  I smiled. “He believes he has a monopoly there too.”

  “What would he do, do you think, if he found out that were not so?”

  Okay. Where was this headed?

  I gave him an honestly puzzled look. “You mean Cruz? Why would he find out about Cruz?”

  “He may discover you share a room . . .”

  “We share a suite of rooms. And Geoff arranged for that himself. He has this wild notion that someone is likely to kidnap me for ransom or something. He’s a very paranoid man. It comforts him to think that my bodyguard is so close at hand.”

  “Is he blind?”

  Oh, what the hell. “He believes Cruz is gay.”

  Felipe stared at me, stunned, then threw back his head and laughed loudly enough to draw the attention of other diners. I joined him.

  “Truly?”

  I nodded. “Of course, he’s not.”

  “That much is obvious from the way he watches you.”

  My throat felt suddenly tight. Did Cruz watch me in a particular way? Did it matter to me that Cruz watched me in a particular way? I recalled the intensity of his gaze when he’d first brought up the idea of leaving me behind on dig visitation day, and tried to tell myself it was just that he didn’t want me to get taken out on his watch.

  I lowered my eyes, feeling suddenly transparent. I made an effort to get the conversation back on track. “Geoff doesn’t notice things like that. But he would notice if this site has been . . . worked, as you put it. If, say, your associates were also actively removing artifacts. How much has been taken out?”

  “Very little so far. It is remote but close enough to the main site that it would be difficult to exploit openly without drawing attention. We have timed our activities to coincide with quiet times at Bonampak and confined our digging to areas deep within the temple. If the site should be discovered by others, it will at least be some time before they realize it has been looted.”

  Looted. There’s honesty for you.

  “So, if this place is that remote, how are we going to get there? We’re not going to have to backpack in or ride all day in a jeep?”

  “You’ll be comfortable, I promise. A jet will take us to Palenque. From there . . . a surprise.”

  Oh, good. I just love surprises. “Not backpacking,” I said darkly.

  He took my hand, raised it to his lips and smiled. “Not backpacking.”

  Have I mentioned how much I hate when he does that?

  “Well that’s a relief. I don’t mind being a little hot, but I intensely dislike being hot and dirty at the same time.”

  “Ah, perhaps you will not like going down into the tunnels, then. There, you cannot escape the dirt.”

  “But you can escape the heat,” I said. “I don’t mind a few dank tunnels if that’s what it takes for me to see this fabulous treasure of yours.”

  “You could stay aboveground, while—”

  I took back my hand. “While you and Cruz do all the exploring? I don’t think so. I’ll see it all firsthand, thanks.”

  He cocked his head as if assessing me yet again. “You are very competitive, aren’t you? Perhaps that is the friction I sense between you and Cruz, yes?”

  Well, damn. Maybe truth is stranger than fiction.

  “Maybe it is.”

  After lunch we wandered the pier, stopping for flavored ices, then visited the local cemetery—a real tourist hot spot.

  “So you have your own jet, do you?” I asked as we wandered among the antique stones. It seemed less a cemetery than a garden planted with dead people who sprouted evocative statuary. “I’m impressed.”

  “Sorry, no. A charter, only. But the surprise conveyance is mine.”

  I looked up at him aslant. “A surprise you keep in Palenque? That’s hundreds of miles away. Across rugged terrain. Where will we land?”

  “Believe it or not there’s a small airport there. With a runway close to five thousand feet long.”

  I stopped walkin
g and looked at him, my eyes wide. “There won’t be a lot of turbulence will there? I hate turbulence.”

  “As much as you hate sturdy shoes?” he teased.

  “More.”

  “There will not be much turbulence, I assure you. But . . .”

  “But?” I repeated with manifest dread.

  “Have you ever flown in a helicopter?”

  “Once,” I said truthfully. “One of those sightseeing tours of the Grand Canyon. I prefer hot-air balloons.”

  “Alas, I have none. But perhaps, if you were to promise to visit again, I would look into acquiring one.”

  I said I’d think about it.

  The sun was dipping toward the horizon when Felipe turned us back toward the docks and the Alegria. That slender eight miles between island and mainland, I knew, was going to be the most dangerous part of the journey.

  Isla Mujeres means “Island of the Women,” and is so called (my host had explained to me) because of the images of Ixchel found there by explorers. Ixchel was, disappointingly, the Mayan goddess of fertility and the moon. I’d’ve been happier if she were the goddess of something less romantic—like death and dismemberment maybe.

  Oh, then there were the pirates who purportedly left their women on the island while they sailed around having a rare old time. Felipe regaled me with legends of Henry Morgan and Jean Lafitte and buried treasure. Then came the tales of Fermin Mundaca, after whom Felipe clearly styled himself. This was a man who made his fortune selling Mayan slaves and pirating about, and who named his hacienda Vista Alegre.

  Sound familiar?

  Mundaca had a lady love, Felipe told me as we wandered back down to the docks. Her name was Martiniana Pantoja and she was the most beautiful of five beautiful sisters. This stunning brunette was called La Triguena—The Brunette.

  Pretty snappy with nicknames, these old Spaniards.

  “But a woman like that, well . . .” Felipe shrugged and lifted me aboard the Alegria, his hands lingering at my waist. “Poor Mundaca wasn’t the only man to fall in love with her.”

  Oh, goodie. An allegory.

  “He was so in love with her that he dedicated the arches of his hacienda’s gates to her, naming them ‘The Entrance of the Brunette’ and ‘The Pass of the Brunette,’ in the vain hope that his wealth and power would win her heart.”

  “The vain hope?” I asked, extricating myself from what had become an embrace.

  I hastened to the stern and slipped under the tiller.

  He sent a teasing look after me and went on. “Ah, yes, for you see, he was older than she by some years. She married a man closer to her own age. Legend has it that Fermin Mundaca slowly went mad with loss and grief, and died alone and broken, in Merida. We walked by his empty tomb in the Isla Mujeres cemetery.”

  “The one with the Jolly Roger carved on it,” I recalled.

  “Yes. He carved the skull and crossbones with his own hands, they say, in memory of his glory days as a pirate.”

  “Yo-ho,” I said. “The pirate’s life for me.”

  He put his hand over his heart and pretended to collapse at the helm. “You mock my pain, La Triguena. For you will marry a younger man and you are the lover of a younger man, while I . . .” He let out a great sigh.

  I laughed, and when he reached for me, I leapt up and said, “Oh, look! The moon.”

  It had risen before the sunset, a great silver ghost at the horizon, looking almost translucent in the aqua sky. I danced a couple of steps away and raised my hands so that the moon was suspended between them like a luminous ball. I looked back over my shoulder at Felipe as he steered us out onto the waters of the Bahia de Mujeres.

  “What was the name of that goddess again?” I asked.

  “Ixchel,” he said, and shook his head.

  “What?”

  He opened his mouth as if to speak, then shook his head again and turned his attention to steering the boat.

  I stood with my hands on the roof of the cabin, looking over the bow as we navigated the smooth waters near the island. I hoped I presented a romantic picture for him to enjoy, but knew I couldn’t hold the pose forever.

  Sure enough, when we got out into the open waters of the bay, the breeze picked up, the waves got choppy, and the boat began to bob like a bath toy. It was hard to keep my feet. I was contemplating climbing forward again and playing at being a figurehead when Felipe slipped up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist.

  I jumped almost out of my skin. “Felipe!” came out in a yip. “Who’s driving the boat?”

  “You sail a boat, Marianna. You don’t drive it.”

  He murmured that into my ear, his hands moving over the suddenly very thin gauze that covered my torso. His lips were on my neck again, then on my shoulder, caressing.

  “Ixchel,” he whispered.

  Great, Gina. Now what?

  Unless Cruz was in one of those far-off motor launches with a harpoon, or skulking under the Alegria in scuba gear, I was on my own out here. Alone on a boat in a flimsy piece of gauze with an amorous pirate who enjoyed pretending that I was a Mayan fertility goddess. Under the circumstances (that I needed to keep this man on friendly terms with me) I couldn’t even threaten him with my black belt.

  “Don’t tell me you have autopilot?”

  “We’re anchored, amor.”

  Some detective I was. With all the chop and wind, I hadn’t detected that we’d stopped moving.

  “Come below with me,” he murmured.

  “Oh, but Felipe—the sunset and the moon—if we go below, we won’t be able to see them any more.”

  He chuckled. I could feel the trembling of his diaphragm against my back. Among other things.

  “Yes, but if we make love up here, everyone will see us.”

  “Oh, but imagine it—the setting sun, the rising moon.”

  His breath was hot on my ear and I could tell he was imagining it quite vividly.

  “If that’s what you wish . . .”

  He let go of me to take off his light jacket and I leapt to the gunwale, laughing. I had one out and one out alone and I took it. I lifted my skirts, executed a pirouette, and fell overboard.

  When we returned to the docks below Revez’s hotel, I was wrapped in his jacket—which was thoroughly soaked—and my teeth were chattering like castanets, more from adrenaline-laced relief than cold. The romantic mood had fled, and along with it any resemblance I might have had to either the goddess Ixchel or La Triguena.

  And miracle of miracles, as I set foot on the dock, there was Cruz, looking appropriately vexed. He squared off in a delicately prickly pas de deux with Revez, executing his part flawlessly.

  “The trip is off,” he stormed convincingly toward the end of the set-to. “Geoffrey will—”

  “Geoffrey will get his wedding present,” I snapped between castanet clicks. “He wants us to see this site and we’re going to see the site.” I turned to Revez. “I’m sorry, Felipe. I really am. But now you know. I can’t dance.”

  He looked at me enigmatically, then took my damp hand and kissed it.

  “Dancing,” he said, “is overrated. I will see you—both—in the morning?”

  “You’ll see us both,” I repeated, glaring at Cruz.

  He favored Revez with a stiff nod and brusquely steered me into the hotel, up to our suite, and into the living room. We stood there in complete silence for a good five count, just staring at each other, then simultaneously burst into laughter.

  I contacted Greg as soon as my teeth stopped chattering and told him everything I’d gleaned about Revez’s plans for the next day: the chartered jet, the helicopter I suspected he kept at Palenque. On the actual location of the new site I was lamentably sketchy. Felipe had been talkative, but vague. It would take an archaeologist or maybe even a cartographer to decipher what it was about the sight lines at Bonampak that would lead an experienced digger to suspect a satellite site lay beyond what had already been mapped and surveyed.

  Greg de
cided his team would work out of Palenque, where they would contrive to look like a documentary film crew. The plan called for Cruz to record as much information as possible via the high-tech gizmos he’d packed among his shaving gear, and hand it all over to Greg when we returned to reconnect with the charter jet. Greg expected Rodney to have a flight plan for it by the next morning, and possibly even get the info on Revez’s copter—good to have, in the event that he decided to use it to disappear at some point.

  “It’s too bad,” Greg told me, “you couldn’t have found out where he planned to land the helicopter. I guess Rod will have to check for a flight plan.”

  “Won’t that arouse suspicion?”

  “Possibly, but I think he can use his documentarian persona to wangle some information.”

  “Why? We’ll have the GPS unit.”

  “And if something happens to it or you’re forced to leave it behind for some reason?”

  “Yeah. I see your point: trust in technology but tie your camel.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Sorry, I couldn’t get the landing coordinates, Greg, but Revez is being understandably cagey and longitude and latitude just don’t make real good pillow talk.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Never mind. Long story.”

  There was a moment of hesitant silence on the other end of the line. Then Greg said, “Look, Gina, I’m not real happy about sending you out there. Neither is Cruz.”

  “Yeah, well, it looks like I’m going regardless.”

  “You don’t have to. I’d understand—shit, I think any of us would understand—if you wanted to opt out. If you told Ellen—”

  “I’m not a quitter, Greg. I’m going through with this. I’ve reminded Cruz, and I’ll remind you: I’m a trained detective. I won’t let you guys down.”

  Greg made an exasperated noise. “Gina, for the love of God! That’s not what this is about. I’m not afraid you won’t perform well. I’m afraid you’ll end up in harm’s way. Cruz is right—when there are large amounts of money involved, people do crazy things.”

  “I know that, Greg. Trust me, I know that only too well.”

  “Pillow talk?” Cruz repeated when I hung up my cell phone.

  “It’s an expression.”