Steve Martini - The Arraignment

“Yes.”

“And he taught the Mayas the battle tactics of the Spaniards. Leading a Mayan army, he defeated the Spaniards at a place called Cape Catoche. When the Spanish government learned of this, they wanted him dead.”

“But what’s this got to do with the Rosetta?”

“This man Guerrero lived and fought the Spaniards for twenty years until they killed him in 1536. They shot him with an harquebus, a kind of primitive musket. Guerrero knew that sooner or later the Spaniards would kill him. He also knew that they would destroy Mayan civilization as he knew it. So he had the scribes prepare a secret codex. A great Mayan book of hieroglyphs. This not only told their history and listed their rulers, but it also described the various city states that existed before the Spaniards came and how they interacted with one another.

“But the important part, what no one had ever done before, because they could not, was that Guerrero translated the hieroglyphs into Spanish. He included this translation as part of the codex.”

“The Mexican Rosetta,” I say.

“Yes. People have been able to work out a majority of the hieroglyphs, but they cannot be absolutely certain they are correct. And there are still twenty maybe thirty percent of the hieroglyphs that remain a mystery. These are the more complex and important ones. They may reveal things about the Mayas that have been lost and forgotten for centuries.”

“You know a lot about this,” says Herman. “Why?”

“I have been trying to purchase the Mejicano Roseton for three years. Without success. I have made a great deal of money constructing buildings and doing business. I wanted the Mejicano Roseton to remain in this country. It is part of its heritage.”

“So who has it?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “For years it was believed to be in the possession of Indians in Chiapas. The Mexican government has been dealing with a kind of indigenous independence movement there for some time. About ten months ago, I was told that it had been sold, to raise money for arms and food. The Mexican Army was closing in on the Indians. They did not want it to fall into the hands of the government, where it would be put on display in Mexico City. So they sold it.”

“And you don’t know who bought it?” I ask.

“No. But I believe that my sons may have it.”

“That don’t make any sense,” says Herman. “Why the note telling you to bring it?”

“Herman, let him finish.”

“What note?” says Ibarra.

“Never mind. Go on.”

“It is just that I found out that my sons were negotiating with this man Metz to deliver the Mejicano Roseton to an American buyer. According to the information I had, this buyer was represented by Mr. Rush.”

“That’s why you wrote the letter?”

“Yes. I wanted him to know that I knew what was going on. And that I intended to stop it.”

Nick’s only contact to the world of art and collectibles was through Dana. And the only one she knew with connections sufficient to peddle something on the scale of the Rosetta was Nathan Fittipaldi.

“But something of the scale of the Mexican Rosetta would be impossible to display in a museum. Even a private collector would have to hide it,” I tell him.

“Private collectors, people who have that kind of money, often have private collections; they show a few trusted friends and keep it as a secret. There are those who would be willing to exercise patience, to hold it and wait. A museum might possibly take it.”

“They’d never be able to exhibit it. The Mexican government would be all over them.”

“Probably. But it would come down to a legal claim,” says Ibarra. “The museum would probably say that the Rosetta had been in a storage crate for decades. I have heard that such things happen. It shows up as an indistinct item on an old bill of lading. The document may date to the nineteen twenties.”

“Meaning that the item was found in an earlier expedition?”

“Exactly. Museums have warehouses filled with such items. They might not catalogue them for decades. Who is to say it wasn’t there? They simply claim that they did not realize its significance until they opened the crate and examined its contents. Of course my government would demand its return. But it is unlikely that they would succeed. The Indians of Chiapas might complain and tell the world that they sold it only months before, but who is going to listen to them?”

“So you think your boys got it?” says Herman.

Ibarra shrugs his shoulders. “I believe it is a possibility.”

“Maybe we should go down and ask ’em.” Herman looks at me.

“The last time we went down there, we had three cars and six men with guns. This time it’s just you and me.”

“Yeah, but last time I wasn’t motivated,” says Herman. “Besides, people at that trailer look like they just crawled outta mud huts. The brothers wouldn’t be able to trust ’em in the jungle with bullets. Their guns probably all rusted up.”

“I don’t know. The one they had pointed at the back of your head looked pretty good.” I turn my attention back to Ibarra. “What do you know about a place called Coba?”

“It’s an archeological site. Very large, more than seventy kilometers square, I believe. Maybe two hours south of here, in the jungle. Why?”

“Does it draw a crowd, many tourists?” I ask.

“No. Very few in fact. Most of what is there remains to be discovered. It is still covered by jungle. They don’t expect to uncover it all for perhaps another fifty years.”

“That’s why they picked it,” says Herman.

“Who?”

“Your sons, if they’re to be believed,” says Herman.

“Have you ever been there, to Coba?”

“Yes. Two or three times.”

“Do you know a place there called the Doorway to the Temple of Inscriptions?”

He thinks about this for a moment. “The tourist literature, they give all kinds of names to these ruins to get the tourists excited. You know, get them thinking about men with whips and fedoras in leather jackets so they will visit.”

“What else did the note say?” I look at Herman.

“Place had painted walls or something.”

“Oh, you mean Las Pinturas. Yes, I know where that is. A stone structure with a small room on top. Inside of this room there are columns with painted hieroglyphs and inscriptions carved on the walls. They retain some of the dyes and stains put on by the Mayas.”

“Could you take us there?”

“I suppose I could.” He looks at Herman, probably thinking that a trip to Coba is better than getting shot.

“You got any people can help us?” says Herman.

“What, to kill my sons?”

“No, no. They show up, I do that. Less you wanna help. I’m thinkin’ maybe drive cars, play lookout. I mean somebody ain’t gonna sit and stare at whipped cream on a camera all afternoon.”

“I have people,” says Ibarra.

“Yeah. Seen your people.” Herman slips his pistol back into the fanny pack and drops it in the bag. “Still I suppose we better go back upstairs, wake up ladle-head. See if he figured how to undo his belt buckle yet.”

We pull out of the parking lot at the glass pyramid just after four in the morning, nearly two hours before dawn.

Herman is scrunched up on a couch that runs the length of the passenger compartment along one side of Ibarra’s stretch limo.

We left the black Suburban in a private area of the hotel’s underground garage. The cops in Cancun and probably the Mexican Federal Judicial Police will be looking for the two Suburbans that are now missing from the scene of Julio’s murder. Residents in the condo are sure to have seen the three vehicles parked there together.