by Howard Upton
Stopping long enough to check his reflection in the café’s window, he pretended to adjust his clothes and run his fingers through his hair. No one caught his attention or looked like he wanted to kill him, so he began his counter surveillance walk to the Hampton Inn some two and a half kilometers away.
His northerly course turned east as he made a right on Lomas de Vallecillo, allowing only his peripheral vision to see anyone who might possibly be following him. Not detecting anyone, his mind began to drift back to what he had learned at the internet café about the varying cultures and their similarities. The distinctive differences between them provided for serious knowledge gaps that only served to further confuse him about the cartouche and its significance. If he could figure out its value, tracking it would be simpler. Knowing its destination would enable him to head Dugan off at the pass, so to speak.
As he continued walking, he observed more gang graffiti painted on homes and buildings, so typical of third-world Mexico. Bright paint over stucco walls gave the impression of festive neighborhoods. However, the violence many of the people behind those walls lived with was anything but festive. He’d seen this way of life all over the world, and it still sickened him to know a lot of good people would never realize a decent life without fear.
It wasn’t his custom to be unfocused, especially while walking strange city streets, but he couldn’t stop it this time. Chinese, Mayan and Egyptian pyramids. Two in alignment with Orion, one built with an observatory. Three separate cultures, each using hieroglyphs as a part of their written language. All three cultures used a cartouche to fend off evil spirits, and each believed the amulets were magical. The Chinese culture is the one believed to have created or influenced the creation of the cartouche that was stolen, but the link to China is ambiguous given the west’s inability to access a lot of their history. This is driving me bat shit crazy.
He turned left onto Sierra Pena Nevada, stopping only long enough to pull up his socks and to check behind him. No one on either side of the street paid him any attention, nor did anyone make any sudden stops or look his way to see what he was doing. The sidewalks on the block were lined with neatly pruned trees, and newer vehicles parked along the street. As he continued to walk, he decided to take out another disposable phone and make a call.
The day grew warmer as he navigated his northeasterly trek down Sierra Pena Nevada. Familiar ringing in his ear began as the connection was made from his phone to Buddy’s. On the second ring that reliable southern Appalachian accent answered, “Hey, Young Buck. How’re you making it?”
“My brain is going into overload. I’ve been doing some research, Buddy. This is crazy stuff. Do you understand me? I just haven’t been able to piece together the cartouche connection to China, but my research tells me the jewels were used as talisman in both Egypt and Mesoamerica. I realize Egypt wasn’t factored into this deal when we first began the op, but there’s a distinct connection between the three cultures and countries. Information about Chinese cartouches is sketchy, but it looks like they used them a couple of eons ago.”
Buddy hesitated a few seconds before responding, “I’ve been doing research on my end too, Roper. Trying to keep the fire stoked here by finding out why Dugan is so damned hot and heavy for this fucking thing. We know it has some sort of magical power, but we don’t know what it does. I’ve been honest with you about this damned cartouche. Hopefully, you can intercept it and we can get our hands on Dugan and interrogate him. We need to know what he knows.”
“It took you a minute to respond to me. You’ve given me facts. I want your opinion, Buddy, and I want you to be up front with me,” he responded candidly.
“Look kid, I have an idea about this thing...this cartouche...but I don’t have any proof, and I don’t know how it works. Until I get something more tangible about its use, I prefer to keep speculation out of it,” said Buddy.
A red, older model Camaro slowed as it passed. Roper followed the car with his eyes and saw it turn left on a street a few blocks away. He saw nothing unusual about it so he kept walking and talking.
“Not good enough. I want to know what you’re thinking, Buddy. I feel like I’m walking into a shit storm without a hazmat suit, and you’re not even giving me a can of Lysol,” Roper threw back at him.
He could hear Buddy take a deep breath and exhale into the phone. In his mind’s eye, he could see the old spook run his fingers through his hair then scratch his scruffy face as he debated internally what to say, not to mention how much to say.
“Off the record, Buck,” Buddy began, and then once again hesitated, “and I have no research to back this up, you understand? All that investigation you’ve done is similar to what I’ve done here. The missing piece is what is, or was, inside those pyramids. In Egypt they entombed Pharaohs believing the pyramids were the catalyst to the next realm of existence.
In Mesoamerica, the Maya buried their kings and made murals hiding their gods inside their pyramids. In China, their stone warriors were placed underneath a ceiling of pearls made to look like the night sky. These, too, were placed in a pyramid. You are familiar with the Terracotta Warriors my friend?”
Roper listened to Buddy detail some things about what the pyramids housed that he hadn’t considered in his research. “Yes, I’ve read about those old statues. Thousands of them existed from what I’ve read and seen. It’s a pretty impressive collection of art if you ask me.”
“Yeah,” Buddy continued. “In two of the three cultural areas, cartouches were found still inside the pyramids, guarding and protecting what was inside. It’s believed the cartouche found in the biggest of the Giza pyramids had within it a protection spell guarding King Tutankhamen. Anyone who disturbed the tomb would fall victim to its spell. It’s common knowledge that archeologist, Howard Carter, and many on his team, died mysteriously after disturbing King Tut’s tomb. Each reported a strange vibration and thrum from the cartouche guarding the tomb, and each who reported feeling it later died.
“The same is true of several archeologists who disturbed the Mayan ruins, and let me remind you, cartouches were found there as well, remember. Many died grisly deaths that doctors couldn’t explain. It’s been reported that two scientists who were on site when the Chichen Itza pyramid was opened died miserable deaths after their bodies began rotting from the inside.
“Only in China has no one befallen a strange death after disturbing the tomb, but the Warriors remain largely intact. Also, no cartouche was found, but it’s common knowledge in Xi’an that cartouches were used to protect the living or to curse the dead. Only recently have we found the cartouche we believed to have housed that curse. The weird thing is, the cartouche, as you now know, isn’t in China...it’s in old Mexico,” Buddy said.
“That being said,” Buddy continued, “there have been rumors of deaths surrounding a statue not contained within the pyramid. I don’t know anything beyond those rumors and have no idea why this one warrior isn’t inside with the others, but apparently it stands not far from its brothers.”
“So, you believe the cartouche that’s here is the one from ancient Xi’an?” Roper asked, already knowing the answer.
“Yes, and I’ll tell you why. There are several stories about an exodus from a village in Xi’an two hundred years B.C. Some accounts have them heading due west and ending up in northeast Africa, what we now call Egypt. Other legends tell of them heading north and east through modern Russia and crossing what we know as the Bering Strait, eventually making a home in southern Mexico and Central America. I believe both accounts, Buck.
I think some of the villagers wound up in Egypt and assimilated into their culture bringing with them the knowledge of the stars and pyramids, and I believe some headed east leaving their DNA and knowledge behind all the way from Alaska to Central America. Look at the similarities of the people and look at DNA samples taken across those cultures, and you’ll find there is no mistake about this theory.
As with any exodus, a culture’
s belief and learning follow them. I believe the pyramid builders in Egypt were of Chinese origin, as were those in Mesoamerica. And with those spiritual temples came the magic supplied by the Chinese shaman who passed that knowledge along. The only magic missing was in China. I think this magic left with them and has recently been rediscovered,” Buddy said ominously.
“To what end?” asked Roper. “What does this magic do? In the Egyptian and Mayan pyramids, it protected what was in it and cursed those who disturbed them. There’s a bunch of statues in the Chinese pyramid…the White Pyramid as it’s called…with no statues of deities.”
“That’s the crux, kiddo. And this is where it gets stranger, but makes sense if you follow human evolution. The Chinese were spiritual people but not particularly religious. They didn’t believe in otherworldly gods and such, but their beliefs centered on the earth, the sun and the moon. They believed in the elements: fire, water, wood, earth and metal. In these things they based their magic, not so different from European magicians, wizards, witches and warlocks.
“Legend has it that the Emperor, who was once based in Xi’an, sent his tax collector to the village to collect bushels of rice. On this particular season the rain had not been favorable, and rice production was low. The villagers did not have enough rice to feed themselves for the winter, much less pay the Emperor his ransom. As a result, the tax collector beheaded the local shaman’s son and promised to return the next day and continue the onslaught until the taxes were paid.
“It’s said the shaman crafted a cartouche made of all five elements and put upon it a curse to turn the tax collector to stone, as well as the Emperor’s army. I think Dugan wants the cartouche because he believes he can reverse the spell and control the ancient army. That’s my theory, Buck. I know it sounds crazy, but you and I both have seen crazy juju in faraway lands that neither of us like to talk about.”
Roper laughed uneasily before replying, “Buddy, this sounds like some farfetched bullshit for our government to be involved in, either officially or unofficially. I can’t believe I’m chasing a magic amulet that will release the power of a bunch of short Chinamen with bows and arrows. Do you know how silly that sounds?”
Buddy remained serious. “Buck, I do realize that it sounds rather incredulous. But what if the spell was to be partially reversed and the warriors brought back to life, but in an altered state of physicality? What then? Does that sound crazier or would that worry you?”
“What do you mean, ‘altered state of physicality,’ Buddy? Spit it out, man,” Roper demanded.
“Stone warriors not fazed by bullets or current technology. I mean soulless warriors at the command of whoever holds the amulet. That’s what I’m talking about and that’s what I think we’re facing. Short of a nuclear strike, how would that army be dealt with and who could stop it, Buck?
“That’s my theory and that’s what I think we’re dealing with here. China, if they had the cartouche and held its magic, could invade several countries with an army of hardened stone and destroy weaker nations in days. Many Asian countries don’t even have standing armies, and just the fear of the sight of them would be mind-boggling. I think this is what Dugan wants to control, and I believe he’ll sell this army to the highest bidder, and that’s why you have to find this cartouche before he figures out how to reverse the spell, if he hasn’t already.
“And what would happen if a country like Iran or Syria had control of this army? How about Russia or Germany? Control of this army is an unimaginable power, Buck. And think of all the other implications we’ve discussed before – religion falls apart, nations lose control of the masses, hysteria on a monumental level. And if the magic can be reverse engineered, could it be duplicated in the future? Do you see where this is going?”
“Buddy, this whole damned thing sounds like a bad fairy tale and is based upon a lot of ‘what ifs.’ What if you’re wrong? What if Dugan just digs old jewelry and art? Maybe he’s just getting soft,” Roper finished.
“Listen, Buck, there’s something you need to know,” Buddy started.
Roper heard a car slowly creeping up behind him and glanced over his shoulder to see a hint of red. It slowed even more as it approached and the sound of Latin music could be heard bumping through speakers with a cheap sub-woofer.
“I think I’ve got some company, Buddy. I’ll be in touch,” he said as he clicked off his phone and put it back in his pocket.
Arlington, Virginia, USA
July 21, 2013 9:34 A.M.
Buddy put his iPod on his docking station and dialed over to his selection of jazz. Deep base and soothing piano began pouring from the speakers as The Mel Brown Quartet allowed their collective heart and soul to flow through their music. He poured a glass of Merlot, relishing in his own social refinement while still embracing his redneck attitude. He smiled at his own diametrically opposed personality as he savored the fruity black cherry and light oak flavors.
“Son of a bitch, I’m sophisticated. I hate that I ran out of beer though,” he chuckled to himself as he took another sip of his wine. Mel Brown beat his drum and kept time as his other band mates played their instruments, soothing music streaming through his townhouse. Buddy appreciated their musical genius and silently wished he’d learned how to play the piano instead of learning how to manipulate and kill people. I wouldn’t have made as much money, but my sleep would be a lot less restless.
He looked at his clock, considered the time of morning, shrugged his shoulders and took another sip of wine as he sorted through his messy refrigerator looking for leftovers. Years earlier he would have reasoned with himself to justify drinking alcohol during the morning hours. Nowadays, Buddy hummed a few bars of Alan Jackson and Jimmy Buffet’s duet, “It’s Five O’clock Somewhere,” and drank without thought.
Before lumbering to his computer, Buddy decided he’d be a normal human being and chase his wine with some coffee. The coffee maker stood at the ready, and he filled the reservoir with water and added eight scoops of his favorite blonde roast to make the brew. As it percolated, he made a peanut butter sandwich.
“Yep. Sophisticated is what the hell I am!”
He poured a cup of coffee, took another sip of his Merlot then put the hot coffee to his lips and took a little drink. The burn chased the black cherry flavor all the way to his stomach. A steady finger touched the power button on his laptop and the booting process began. The normal Windows start up commands flashed across the screen as he waited patiently while the little circle signifying the loading process spun relentlessly.
A blue screen with icons appeared on the monitor. He moved the cursor over the Internet Explorer icon and opened the window. He toggled through his favorites and opened his personal bulletin board account. Keeping things as mundane and generic as possible kept Big Brother from being interested, even though he was a part of the U.S. machine. He saw there was a message awaiting him, so he clicked on it.
Change in plans. Asset tracked. Asset will be removed after pick up. Will discuss any additional funding required once the gift has been transferred.
“FUCK ME,” Buddy shouted! His fingers ran across his key board as rapidly as he could.
Negative. Asset is not to be removed at this time. He could prove valuable when the gift has been acquired. Confirm receipt ASAP.
Buddy punched the number to the disposable phone and listened to it ring. After five rings and a recording telling him that the number he had reached did not have an active voicemail account, he hung up. He redialed one more time as he became more and more anxious. The sound of distant ringing began...two rings...three rings...four rings...five rings...an automated voice. “Damn it,” he muttered and hung up again. The old spook sat and stared at his computer trying to will his previous e-mail to be read and a reply sent back to him. Nothing appeared on his monitor before he shut down the computer. He drank the rest of his wine in one gulp.
Monterrey, Mexico
July 21, 2013 12:03 P.M.
The
red Camaro rolled past Roper and stopped. He fought the urge to reach for the Colt 1911 in his waistband until it became necessary to do so. Streets and sidewalks were curiously empty, and yards were devoid of kids, parents or pets. Roper stood his ground and moved his right foot back assuming a hidari shizentai position – a left foot forward natural stance.
Four Latinos ranging in age from their mid-twenties to mid-thirties piled out of the car. Each wore jeans and sneakers, two wore tank tops, one a button down, ornately designed short sleeve shirt, and the last a fancy western looking long sleeved shirt. All wore blue bandanas on their heads. Fancy Shirt took the lead and approached Roper.
“You lost, vato? Whachoo doin here, ese?” Fancy Shirt asked, his accent heavy.
Roper eyeballed him and waited several seconds before replying. “I’m just walking.
What can I do for you men? I’m not looking for trouble.” he began.
“Orale. You found trouble, gringo. You hear me, cracker? We are trouble,” Fancy Shirt boasted. He took a step toward Roper, his gang of three circling the man. “You look like a cop from up north. Why’re you in our neighborhood, ese? We don’t need no fuckin American cops here, comprende?”
Roper felt his heart rate kick up a few notches, and his adrenaline began pumping, making it a little more difficult to speak. Adrenaline has a way of taking a human’s body to a more primordial state, which normally doesn’t include perfect diction. He reminded himself to control his breathing so he could try to talk his way out of the confrontation, or in the very least buy himself some time.
He turned slowly watching each of the men, keeping an eye on their hands. Should one motion as if he were drawing a weapon, things were going to get messy. Roper couldn’t help but wonder at the likelihood of being followed and attacked for a second time while in Mexico. He would work out the “who’s and why’s” when he finished with the four thugs now confronting him.
