The Death Relic

by Chris Kuzneski

  ‘But I thought you said … ah, never mind. You’d know better than I.’

  Ulster encouraged him to continue. ‘Go on. Speak your mind.’

  He shrugged reluctantly. ‘Yesterday on the phone, didn’t you say Hamilton had a theory about the Mayas and the Aztecs? Something about a shared language.’

  ‘Not a language, my boy, but you are correct: I did mention a theory during our conversation. I have to admit, I’m surprised that you remembered. You normally tune me out.’

  ‘It was a quick chat. I didn’t have time to tune you out.’

  Ulster laughed. ‘Unfortunately, the theory Terrence mentioned was quite speculative. As far as I know, he never had definitive proof. He based his entire hypothesis on some shared terminology that he had discovered in the histories of both civilizations.’

  Maria furrowed her brow. ‘What kind of terminology?’

  Ulster explained. ‘As you probably know, the written languages of the Maya and the Aztec were radically different. The Mayan language was a mixture of phonetic symbols and logograms, which are visual characters that represent words. In later years, it evolved into a highly complex language that was used to describe their way of life in great detail. Instead of a pure alphabet, glyphs were used to correspond with nouns, verbs, adjectives and so forth. In many ways, the structure is similar to the modern languages of the Americas.’

  ‘What about the Aztecs?’ she asked.

  ‘By comparison, the Aztec language was rudimentary. It was nothing more than a series of mnemonics and logograms that weren’t meant to be read. It was a language that was meant to be told. Their codices were essentially pictographic aids for recalling events. The details and the flourishes of the story came from the orator, not from the written word itself.’

  Jones frowned. ‘If that’s the case, how could they have shared terminology?’

  ‘The same way that a word in English can have the same meaning as a character in Mandarin Chinese. They may look nothing alike, yet the translation is similar.’

  Jones scratched his head. ‘Then what’s the big deal? If two languages from halfway around the world have similarities, what’s so remarkable about shared terminology between the Aztec and the Maya? I would think it would be a bigger deal if they didn’t share similarities.’

  ‘You are correct. Two languages from the same region should have occasional traits in common, and the Aztec and Maya languages certainly did. But what Hamilton was suggesting went beyond terminology. During the course of his research, he came across what he called “a shared perspective” in the two languages – and that is something entirely different.’

  ‘A shared perspective? What does that mean?’ Maria asked.

  Hundreds of examples from ancient history rushed through his head, but he knew most of them would be far too advanced for Payne and Jones. With that in mind, he chose something from modern history to illustrate his point. ‘For as long as I can remember, there has been conflict in the Middle East. Egypt, Iraq, Israel, Jordan, Lebanon, Saudi Arabia, Syria and so on – they are constantly arguing about every topic under the sun. Correct?’

  Payne, Jones and Maria nodded in agreement.

  ‘Jonathon,’ Ulster said, ‘you have spent a lot of time in that region. If you had to wager, do you think you’ll see peace in the Middle East in your lifetime?’

  ‘Not a chance.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘There’s no middle ground for a settlement. Each country has its own set of beliefs, which prevents them from giving in.’

  ‘In other words, they have different ideologies.’

  ‘For the most part, yes.’

  Ulster nodded. ‘As hard as this is to believe, those countries are less than three hundred miles apart. That’s much closer than the major cities of the Aztec and the Maya ever were. And yet the basic ideologies of those countries are so drastically different they can’t agree on anything.’

  ‘I think all of them would agree with that,’ Jones said, smiling.

  Ulster missed the joke. ‘Now, let’s shine the spotlight on one place in particular: the city of Jerusalem. It is considered a holy city by three major religions: Judaism, Christianity and Islam. In less than one square mile, the Old City contains key sites from all three religions, including the Western Wall, the Temple Mount, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the Dome of the Rock, and al-Aqsa Mosque. Needless to say, this proximity breeds conflict. During its long history, Jerusalem has been captured and recaptured a remarkable forty-four times.’

  Familiar with Ulster’s methods, Payne knew how important it was to keep him on task. Otherwise, he would ramble all day. ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘My point? Ah, yes, my point! Let me ask you a simple question, one with a complex answer. If a terrorist blew up the city of Jerusalem, who would get blamed?’

  ‘A black guy,’ Jones cracked.

  Payne couldn’t help but laugh.

  Maria, who was still trying to understand the concept of a shared perspective, managed to stay focused. ‘Everyone would get blamed. The Jews would blame the Christians. The Christians would blame the Muslims. The Muslims would blame the Jews, and so on.’

  Ulster nodded. ‘One catastrophic event in a single city, yet multiple perspectives. Why? Because all of these groups have different ideologies. And different ideologies lead to different points of view. And different points of view lead to different interpretations. And different interpretations lead to different historical records. As a historian, that leads to an interesting dilemma: how do you determine what really happened? If you’re truly neutral, the odds are pretty good that it will be a combination of all of these accounts rolled into one. Right?’

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘You look for the common ground.’

  ‘But what do you do if there’s only one perspective? Do you trust it?’

  ‘I guess that depends.’

  ‘Of course it does. It depends on a lot of things, most of which are so transparent I won’t even bother discussing them. What about two perspectives?’

  ‘The same thing. It depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘Whether or not the perspectives are too similar to be distinct. For instance, if I interviewed two Christians about the bombing of Jerusalem, there’s a good chance they would agree on certain things that were influenced by their beliefs. The odds are pretty good they wouldn’t blame a fellow Christian for the violence. They would blame a Muslim or a Jew.’

  Ulster nodded in agreement. ‘Let’s go one step further. What if you were given two accounts of the bombing, one from a Christian and one from a Muslim, and both of them said the exact same thing? Would that make a difference?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they never agree on anything, yet they agreed on this.’

  Ulster smiled. ‘That, my dear, is a shared perspective. As a historian, you live for that moment when all of your sources – even countries at war – are saying the exact same thing. That is when you know you have probably found the truth.’

  Maria paused in thought, trying to remember how they had started down this path. ‘And Hamilton found something with the Aztec and the Maya? A shared perspective?’

  Ulster nodded. ‘Or so he claimed.’

  ‘On what topic?’

  ‘On what really happened when the Spanish arrived in the Americas.’

  51

  Maria stared at Ulster, waiting for an explanation. ‘What does that mean?’

  Ulster grinned with delight. He loved it when people were passionate about history. ‘In the grand scheme of things, what do we really know about the Spanish colonization of the Americas? After all, it happened five hundred years ago, long before any of us were born. And unlike the Jerusalem scenario, we don’t have multiple accounts to sort through, because the Spanish burned every native codex they could get their hands on. That means everything in our modern history books was written from one perspective: the per
spective of Spain.’

  ‘What are you saying? Hamilton found something contradictory?’

  ‘Not only contradictory, but shared. The last time we spoke, which was a few weeks ago, he hinted that he had found a shared perspective between the Aztec and the Maya that would cast doubt on what really happened in the 1500s. He didn’t talk specifics, so I don’t know what aspect of the colonization he was referring to, but he was genuinely excited about it.’

  ‘He was excited when I talked to him, too. But he was reluctant to tell me the specifics. He was getting ready to, but he disappeared before he had a chance.’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ Payne said, ‘but let’s get back to the artefacts. Could they possibly relate to any of this? I certainly hope so. Otherwise, we just wasted an hour of daylight on a history lesson that could have waited.’

  Having worked with Payne before, Ulster wasn’t the least bit offended by his bluntness. He knew the clock was ticking and Hamilton’s life was possibly at stake. ‘Yes, of course, let’s talk about the artefacts. Obviously, I haven’t examined them in depth, but based on first impressions, I would say the only possible connection between the Aztec and the Mayan relics is one I’m not familiar with. In other words, we’ll need Hamilton or a member of his team to tell us how they are related.’

  ‘Speaking of his team, did you have any luck running down their names?’

  Ulster shook his head. ‘I made a number of calls yesterday evening to colleagues who know Hamilton a lot better than I, and all of them said the same thing. He was working on a passion project that he refused to talk about. As for possible names, no one was forthcoming. Either they didn’t know, or they weren’t willing to tell me.’

  ‘If you had to guess, which one was it?’

  Ulster puffed out his chest. ‘I’d say they didn’t know who he was working with. As you know, I am pretty good at sniffing out the truth.’

  ‘Really?’ Jones said. ‘Because we lie to you all the time.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘No,’ he said, laughing, ‘but I think I just proved a point.’

  Payne rolled his eyes. It wasn’t the time for jokes. ‘Petr, do me a favour. Keep looking through the artefacts. The more we know about Hamilton’s project, the better.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘And Maria, if it’s OK with you, please give him a hand.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said.

  ‘What about me?’ Jones asked.

  ‘Inspect Hamilton’s weapons and make sure they’re in working order. If push comes to shove, I want to know what we can count on.’

  He smiled at the possibilities. ‘Gladly.’

  Nearly twenty hours had passed since he had spoken to Randy Raskin. In the real world, that wasn’t a lot of time. During a mission, it was an eternity. Although he knew his friend was constantly busy, it was unlike Raskin to take so long on such a simple request. Payne decided to call him at the Pentagon to find out why.

  Raskin answered his office line. ‘Research.’

  ‘Hey, Randy, it’s Jon. Do you have a minute?’

  Raskin paused momentarily. Then he cleared his throat as if making a point. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Payne, I can’t assist you today. Perhaps I can transfer your call to another extension.’

  Payne froze. Something was wrong. In all their time working together, Raskin had never referred to him as ‘Mr Payne’ or acted in such a professional manner. Normally, Raskin greeted him with an insult or threatened to hang up on him. He certainly never asked to transfer his call. To Payne, it meant one of two things: either a superior was standing in Raskin’s office, or Payne’s request had infringed upon an active mission of the US Government – in which case, a superior was monitoring Raskin’s calls. Either way, Big Brother was definitely listening in. With that in mind, Payne decided to fish for information without getting Raskin in any additional trouble.

  ‘No problem, Randy. Unfortunately, I’m on the road right now, so I don’t have a list of extensions in front of me. Do me a favour and transfer me to the correct department.’

  ‘Sure thing, Mr Payne.’

  Raskin punched a few keys on his computer and the call was rerouted to a female operator at the George Bush Center for Intelligence in Fairfax County, Virginia. It was only a few miles from Arlington, but a completely different world. One filled with spooks and deceit.

  She answered in a monotone. ‘ID number, please.’

  ‘ID?’ he said, confused. ‘Who am I speaking to?’

  ‘ID number, please.’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am, I’m kind of at a loss right now. I was transferred from a research analyst at the Pentagon to this extension. What department is this?’

  She paused a few seconds before answering. ‘Langley.’

  ‘Langley?’ he said surprised. He had been in Langley, Virginia, twice in the past ten years, and on both occasions it was to visit the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency. The thought of those trips made him squirm. Although he’d worked with a number of operatives over the years – the ‘I’ in MANIACs stood for Intelligence – he found the executive office way too political for his tastes. Based on his experience, they cared more about covering their asses in the media than covering their assets in the field. ‘Is this the CIA?’

  ‘ID number, please.’

  ‘Ma’am, I just told you, I was transferred to this extension by the Pentagon. How do I know what number to give you if I don’t know what department this is?’

  Click. She hung up.

  ‘Thanks, sweetie. You’ve been a big help.’

  Afterwards, he stared at his phone for several seconds. He hoped Raskin would send him a text message to apologize for his professionalism or, better yet, to explain the situation they had stumbled into. But after a minute of nothing, he gave up hope and went to discuss things with Jones. He ducked his head into the garage and said, ‘Hey, DJ, do you have a second?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Jones, who had just started to inspect Hamilton’s weapons. He wiped his hands on a rag as he walked past Maria and Ulster. ‘We’ll be outside. Scream if you need us.’

  Lost in a world of artefacts, they barely noticed his departure.

  Payne waited for him in the driveway. He tried to play it cool by leaning against a stone wall that defined the rear of the property, but his stress level was obvious. Jones could see it on his face and in his posture. Something had happened.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Jones demanded.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You came out here to talk to Randy. Five minutes later, you’re talking to me. Obviously, something’s wrong.’

  ‘You’re right. Something is wrong, but I don’t know what it is.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Randy wouldn’t talk to me.’

  ‘What’s he pouting about now?’

  ‘He wasn’t pouting. He wasn’t allowed to talk to me.’

  ‘Why not?’ Jones asked.

  ‘I don’t know. But he called me “Mr Payne”.’

  ‘He did what?’

  ‘Then he transferred my call to Langley.’

  ‘Langley?’

  ‘Yes, Langley.’

  ‘Shit.’

  Payne nodded. ‘Yeah. That pretty much sums it up.’

  Jones paused in thought. It took a moment for everything to sink in. Even then, the picture in his head was still fuzzy. ‘What triggered their interest?’

  ‘Could’ve been anything: Hamilton’s financials, the serial numbers on the rifles, his disappearance. For all we know, the Agency grabbed Hamilton.’

  ‘Not a chance in hell. The CIA would never abduct an American on foreign soil.’ Jones kept a straight face for less than three seconds before he cracked up. ‘Damn! I thought I could say that without laughing.’

  ‘Come on, DJ, focus. We need to figure out our next step.’

  Jones shook his head. ‘No, we need to figure out his last step.’

  ‘Whose last step? Hamilton’s?’
>
  ‘No. Randy’s.’

  52

  Payne was confused by Jones’s comment about Raskin. ‘What good will that do?’

  ‘You know how the Agency works. They have ten thousand analysts whose sole job is to search data streams for red flags. As soon as one pops up, they make a call and their supervisors intervene. Obviously Randy did something to get noticed. If we can figure out what he did, maybe we can figure out why the CIA is interested in this mess.’

  ‘Why don’t we just call one of our contacts at Langley?’

  Jones shook his head. ‘Randy has higher security clearance than anyone we know at the Agency. Hell, we have higher security clearance than anyone we know at the Agency. If he wasn’t allowed to tell us, then we’re on our own when it comes to Hamilton.’

  ‘Wait. Should we stop looking for him?’

  ‘That depends. Did Randy tell you to stop?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did anyone at the CIA?’

  ‘Not really. They hung up on me.’

  Jones laughed. ‘In that case, fuck ’em! No one told us to stand down, so we have every right to look for Hamilton.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re probably right. But …’

  ‘But, what?’

  Payne pointed at the garage. ‘I don’t think we should tell Petr and Maria.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Technically speaking, we wouldn’t be violating any laws by mentioning the Agency’s interest – especially since we don’t know what their interest is – but I doubt they’d want two foreign nationals to know anything about their involvement.’

  ‘That’s too bad.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Petr would get a boner if he knew the CIA was involved.’

  Payne grimaced. ‘Why are you obsessed with that?’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘Petr’s groin. That’s the second time you’ve used that joke in the last twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, really. Maria yelled at you the last time. She called you crass.’