“. . . Man can remove mountains, but he can’t truly create them. It’s always more important what is there than what isn’t. Landslides, too, can irrevocably alter a landscape . . .”
Reaching the small resort, they walked the garden path between the buildings. Other tourists took no notice of them, and Matt made no effort to signal anyone. It would be futile. He was pretty sure that Tuni was free, though he wasn’t positive. He also didn’t know whether he could outrun both Garza and Fando if he should try to bolt away.
“. . . desert climate versus tropical, coastal versus inland, riverside versus hillside—it’s the nuances of each that combine to sculpt the landscape. Rivers can go from massive to nonexistent in under a century, not to mention . . .”
They came to a well-worn footpath that branched off and led up the bay side of the hill. There was also a cracked concrete road that appeared to wind around to the opposite side. A small sign read “Suites de Colina 30 − 42,” with an arrow pointing left, to the road. Matt turned onto the dirt path and headed up. He reached the summit, and it still didn’t look familiar. But then he saw something that struck him: a guardrail lining the cliff—presumably to keep people from blundering off the edge to their deaths. Its steel posts were sunk into the bedrock.
Rheese said, “This plateau was clearly machine-planed. Might have risen another ten, fifteen meters, perhaps more.”
Garza and Fando stood and gazed out over the blue Gulf of Mexico while Matt poked around. He leaned over the rail and peered down the cliff. Then, without a word, he put his gloved hands on it and vaulted over, disappearing over the edge.
Garza said, “What the f—”
“Did . . . did he just . . . ?” Rheese stammered.
“Little shit’s dead for sure,” Fando said.
Matt walked along the hidden second cliff, pulling apart the hanging foliage in an effort to expose the rock behind it. This was definitely the spot, but maybe the carving had worn away by now. A thousand years of tropical sun and rain and hurricanes was a lot of weathering. The epiphytes, aerial roots, and other hanging flora were too thick and heavy, and a layer of wet, crunchy vines behind them moistened his gloves as he reached in. He was elbow-deep in vegetation when he felt rock.
“Rheese, get down here!” he yelled.
“No shit!” Fando muttered.
“Where the bloody hell are you?”
Rheese squatted under the guardrail, holding firmly on to an anchor post as he craned his neck out over the edge. Matt waved to him from scarcely a body length down. Behind Turner, just a couple of feet back, a sheer cliff dropped away to the crashing surf and wave-polished boulders.
“The ledge is wide enough to stand on,” Matt said. “Just hold on to the plants and shimmy down if you’re afraid to drop.”
“Did you find it? Is it carved?”
“The plants are too thick, but come here—you can feel a whole symbol.”
Rheese crept carefully down until he stood on the ledge and sidled over to Matt. As Garza and Fando held on to the fence above and watched, Matt pulled aside a curtain of vines, and Rheese reached in, his face screwed up in an expression of concentration. Then his eyes widened.
“I’m no expert in runic script, but this feels like an enormous asterisk. I know I’ve seen that symbol before.” He pulled his arm out. “Is there more?”
“I haven’t felt any other spots. Here . . . try over here.”
Matt pulled aside another sheaf of hanging plants as Rheese reached in.
“Ow, damn!” Rheese howled. “Bloody wall is right here—nearly broke my fingers!”
He pulled a thin layer of roots out of the way and wiped away clumps of dark soil. Before them, engraved into the rock, was a vertical line with a short line jutting out from it at a downward angle. They both looked at it in wonder.
“I remember seeing this,” Matt said. “I could probably draw out on paper what the whole thing looks like.”
Rheese looked at him with a toothy grin, and in that instant, Matt could see why the man had gotten into archaeology in the first place. It clearly thrilled him.
“Turner, do you realize what this means?”
“That Vikings were in Cuba a long goddamn time before Columbus?”
“Well, yes, that. But, as an aside to that, no one in the world knows this. . . except us.” Rheese ran his fingers down the carving. “This would be a career maker for someone. Published the world over, name forever associated with the find. Like Carter and King Tut’s tomb!”
“Yeah.” Matt nodded. It was interesting—even a little disarming—to see Rheese in this mode. “You should do it. Hell, find out where they dumped the top of this hill here, and you’ll probably find whatever’s left of a thousand-year-old Viking ship.”
Rheese clapped the dirt from his hands and sighed. “Ten years ago, perhaps. The damage has already been done to my former career. There’s no going back, no, no. I need to load up my new bank account and go where no one knows or cares who I am.”
“You don’t think this is big enough to make people forget all that?”
“Attempted murder? Kidnapping? Fraud? Now this? I’ve gone international, lad. Probably considered a terrorist of some sort in your bloody country. No, no.”
“So what now?” Matt said. “There’s obviously no pirate treasure buried where you thought—you must see that now.”
Rheese frowned. “Hmm, yes. A valid point.”
Matt found a high clump of dirt and root clusters that provided an easy way back up to the lookout point. Crawling up under the guardrail, he wondered, could Rheese actually let him go now? He seemed to have softened a bit. Perhaps getting his teeth knocked out had brought him down to earth a little. But would Garza even let that happen? Fando still appeared to be in shock—no doubt, after losing his brother, he could think of little else.
Crawling up after Matt, Rheese said, “I don’t know what to tell you two. It doesn’t look like this is going where we anticipated. I made no promises, though.” He chuckled nervously. “Probably best to part ways.”
“Part ways?” Garza said.
“Indeed. Call it a day. Move on before we dig ourselves in too deep, and all that.”
“What about that sword you were talking about?” Garza said as he stretched his fingers, curled them into fists, then stretched them out straight again.
“Sayf Allah? There’s really no telling where it could have gone—or even if it still exists today…”
“You’re planning to flip that opal for a profit . . . or find that sword on your own. There’s less payoff now, and you don’t want to share.”
Rheese gave him a wounded look. “That is ridiculous! The thought hadn’t even occurred to me! Think about it! The thing walked off with its owner, separated from the stone that we have. Turner can’t trace where it went after that. Tell him.”
“Yeah, it’s true. I can only read what happened before the opal got put in that tree. I would need another artifact that went on with the sword and stayed with it. Make sense?”
Garza’s nostrils flared as he paced. Matt’s father had told him once what that could mean. “He’s oxygenating his muscles. Perp could be getting ready to run or else to fight. It’s subconscious. Know what that means, boy?”
“Screw that,” Garza barked. “We’re going up that goddamn mountain and finding what we can find. I don’t buy that there’s suddenly nothing up there.”
Rheese said, “But there’s no—”
“You don’t know that! Shit, that sword could be buried right by where the tree was! You don’t know!”
Matt took a subtle step back. He didn’t really want to be seen as with Rheese. Better to let Garza’s anger focus on Rheese alone.
“And you propose what exactly?” Rheese said in his usual snooty tone. “We take shovels up there and just start digging up the mountainside until we find something? We don’t even know where that tree was.”
Garza pointed at Matt, “He does. He’ll
lead us right to it. Won’t you?”
“Uh, well . . . actually, I don’t know. There were just a bunch of trees around us that apparently are gone now. Really no way to identify where that was.”
Garza was breathing deeper, heavier, his big shoulders rising and falling.
“I ain’t stupid, Turner. You found this hill; you can find where the damned tree was. If you can’t, well, in that case, we’ll already have the shovels and a perfect spot to bury you. Your job is to give us a reason not to. Let’s go.” Garza shoved both of them forward and snapped his fingers in front of Fando’s face. “Wake up, man. Let’s go!”
Fando blinked. “My mom, man,” he said. “How’m I gonna . . .”
Garza slapped him on the back and said, “Come on. We can at least make it easier on her by bringing her his cut.”
“Garza, I think we need to have a word,” Rheese said. “I think you may have grown a bit confused over who is in bloody charge here.”
Matt winced inside. As much as he despised Rheese, it was painful to see him so clueless. Maybe he was in charge once, but not any longer. This was Garza’s show. In fact, Matt could think of no good reason why they needed to keep Rheese around any longer. If they really were killers—a strong possibility, from what he had seen so far—they probably planned to get rid of both of them the moment they had what they wanted. Fortunately, they hadn’t yet decided the opal was enough for just the two of them.
Garza turned around suddenly, his mouth an inch away from Rheese’s eyes. “I ain’t confused, Doc. We’re just continuing our business, as planned.” He turned and walked to the van. “We have to make a stop before we go.”
Rheese seemed to get it, or maybe he was just intimidated enough not to argue. Fando threw Garza the keys and took the backseat. Rheese sat on the middle bench, beside Matt, which Matt found ironically appropriate.
“We got two hours back to Havana, Matthew,” Garza said. “Maybe you want to spend your time wisely.”
NINETEEN
Matt fast-forwarded past everything he had already experienced, until the next imprint forced him to halt. In the past, he’d tried several times to push past an unread imprint, but it had always been beyond his control. It was as if the story—even the person’s dreams—demanded to be known. This he had learned as a child sleeping in other people’s beds. The worst part of it was that it seemed that the only things anyone imprinted while asleep were nightmares. These could be fascinating when not one’s own, but these days, the abstract, herky-jerky nature of dreams tended to irritate him more often than frighten him. It was one thing to have a nightmare, and quite another to relive someone else’s without being in an actual dream state. The imprints streamed by at dizzying speed and jumped chaotically from subject to subject.
As the new imprint came into focus, Matt was pleased to find that it was still Haeming’s.
He is not in the place he called “Southland,” nor does he yet seem to be aware of such a place. He has successfully crossed the Atlantic to “Helluland,” “Markland,” and now looks on with wonder at Leif Eriksson’s houses in “Vinland.” Beyond the crowns of trees, five or more smoke plumes rise separately in the distance. The land is beautiful, warm, and beckons him in a way he has not felt of other places. But it belongs to others, and he would not become a conqueror. They would sleep here the night, gather water and supplies, and continue south. His new land, the one he promised to his people and their families, would be home to nothing but the trees and the wild.
TWENTY
Jess Canter threw his duffel to the floor and flopped down on the motel bed. He had been on the phone for eight of the past nine hours. The group had filled out piles of paperwork at the U.S. Interests Section office. Formerly the U.S. embassy building, USINT was situated on prime real estate on the northern coastal edge of Havana. They’d planted that building as close to D.C. as possible without getting wet. Jess had met with Hernán Conserrate, a short, balding man whose face and head seemed to have a perpetual shine. He had been the management officer at USINT for the past decade. After a quick briefing, Hernán had taken Jess outside to a small private courtyard, where he jotted down a name and phone number.
“You can get whatever supplies you need from this man,” he said. “I don’t know where he’s doing business these days, but call that number and tell him you were referred by Julio Iglesias. He is shamelessly expensive, but it is because there are no other options in country, and he knows it. If he asks, don’t tell him anything about what you’re doing—he’s nosy and not to be trusted. I haven’t heard of it happening before, but he could very easily report your group if he thought there was a reward in it for him.”
Each of the two motel rooms had two twin beds and a couch. They all squeezed into one room for a few minutes, and Jess told everyone they were going to stay in the area until they had intel directing them elsewhere. As it was, Matt’s iPad had yet to connect to any more Wi-Fi access points, and they had already checked out the hotel where it linked up before. Their motel was nearby, though, so Roger, Núñez, and Chuck Kohl were to canvass the area, show pictures to passersby and shop owners, and pass out cards with a phone number to call. Paul would stay with Jess and go through the phone book, calling hotels.
“Got it?” Jess asked the group.
Paul said, “No hablo español.”
Núñez said, “Just tell ’em you speak English, and if they don’t, they’ll put someone on who does.”
“Sí, comprendo,” Paul replied.
“Whose number do we give people to call if they see or hear something?” Chuck asked.
“Mine,” Roger blurted. “Sorry—mine, please. It should work here. I had international roaming added. Let me just make sure it works.” He pulled his phone from his backpack and saw a big “SOS” where the signal strength bars belonged. “Crap.”
Paul peered over his shoulder. “If you just had your plan changed, you might have to reboot it for it to take or whatever.”
Roger turned the phone off, waited a few seconds, then turned it back on. After a minute, the signal bars began to flash and change colors.
“That looks promising,” he said, and then a big envelope appeared in the middle of the screen, and the phone chirped at him. “Hang on, I have some messages here . . .”
Ears in the room perked up. He tapped the SELECT button, and two messages were listed: one from Beth’s phone, the other from a number he didn’t recognize. He turned the phone to the side as he opened the message from his wife.
Let me know when you are there safe. Bring our baby home.
He clicked back and went to the second message.
Havna silvr van 2 guys guns + rheese
“Oh, my God, it’s from Matt!” he shouted. He reread it aloud. “Call in this number! Where’s five-one-two?”
“That’s Austin,” Paul said.
Roger read off the whole number to Jess, who repeated it into his own phone.
“Silver van,” Chuck said. “Would have to be a rental, right? Núñez, can you call up all the rental car places around here? Start with the airport ones.”
She nodded and grabbed the phone directory.
“Good boy,” Roger said, smiling. “Son of a gun, that’s good. He knew what information was most valuable that he could text out quickly.”
“You gonna text back?” Chuck asked. “Ask him where he is now?”
This brought groans and snickers.
Without looking up from his phone, Paul said, “Logical.”
Chuck realized the stupidity of the question and shut up without another word, but socked Paul in the shoulder for good measure.
* * *
A half hour later, they had gathered some solid leads. Only two silver vans had been rented in the past twenty-four hours: one to a large family of Italian nationals, the other to a local named Ernesto Guevara. Mr. Guevara prepaid with cash for two days, though he still had to provide a credit card to guarantee the vehicle. The Visa card belonged to
one Fernando Solorzano, a U.S. citizen and former Marine, honorably discharged two years ago. Since then, he had no employer on record, nor any paycheck from which taxes were withheld. But he had somehow received $112,000 in total income during that time and paid the appropriate taxes.
“Mercenary work,” Jess theorized.
“Do they have any kind of tracking devices in their vehicles?” Roger asked Núñez.
“I asked. Sorry, no.”
“I’ve got this Solorzano’s credit and debit cards all tagged now,” said Jess. “If he uses any of them, we’ll know within minutes. Also waiting on a call back from Customs to find out who else he flew here with, but at a glance they couldn’t find any record of him traveling under his own name in the past year, or Ernesto Guevara, for that matter.”
“Well, if we get a call on a credit card hit, what do we do?” Roger asked. “Call the Cuban police? We have no weapons, and Matt’s text says they do.”
Paul offered, “I can throw rocks like a motherf—”
“I have a contact,” Jess interrupted. “Could be sketchy, though, so I say we all go. Just need to make a call. Núñez, would you do the honors?” He handed her the note from Hernán Conserrate. “Tell him you were referred by Julio Iglesias.”
She stared at him, unamused. “Seriously?”
“He sings that song ‘Hero,’” Paul said.
“Seriously, yes,” Jess confirmed.
She pulled out her phone, then thought better of it and grabbed the hotel phone. As she dialed, Jess and Roger huddled close to listen.
A man answered. “¿Mande?”
Núñez softened her voice, suddenly sounding very ladylike and pleasant—a dramatic change from her usual harsh monotone. “Nos derivó Julio Iglesias. ¿Nos puede usted conseguir equipo para investigación?”
She listened and cupped the receiver. “How many and how big? Ten—half-and-half?”
The men nodded. She resumed the voice: “Diez . . . la mitad grandes y la mitad pequeños, más las pilas.”
She pointed at her watch and held up a hand inquiringly. Jess mouthed, Now.
The Opal (Book 2 of the Matt Turner Series) Page 14
