Clive Cussler: The Mayan Secrets

Russell and Ruiz stared at her.

She said, “Those are men we borrowed from Diego San Martin. If you both leave and that’s all I have to tell him, he’ll kill me. And then he’ll have people find you and kill you. Don’t you know he’s a drug smuggler? He has connections and buyers in the United States and Europe. We don’t have much choice but to salvage this situation so we can give him some good news along with the bad. We can’t give up now.”

“We can’t save a disaster.”

“I’ll double your pay. I’ll also give you a percentage of the money I make on the artifacts from that place. The codex makes it look like a fortress and says that refugees from a city retreated there for a last stand. If they did that, they wouldn’t have left their treasures behind to their enemies. It’s going to be a huge find.”

“Miss Allersby,” said Russell, “people died today. If the police are brought in, anybody involved could be charged with murder. Not only were we the leaders but we’re foreigners.”

“We also don’t know where our attackers came from,” added Ruiz.

Two days later, Russell and Ruiz were apprehended and shackled to the bench seat of the army truck as it rattled along the road toward Guatemala City. Russell kept up a low monologue in Ruiz’s right ear. “It’s good that they’re taking us right to the capital. I don’t want to rot in some provincial jail for six months while the prosecutors take their time getting there and arranging for a trial. If we’re in Guatemala City, Sarah can bail us out before we’ve spent a night — or two nights anyway. And then she’ll make the charges go away. That’s what has to happen now. If we go to trial as the masterminds of this fiasco she dreamed up, we’re going to need a miracle to see the light of day again.”

“Diego San Martin is hiding out. That’s a plus.”

“True, but he isn’t about to let us off the hook. They resent us. And we’re the only Americans. I am anyway. You look like a native and you speak Spanish. I’ll bet they think you are Guatemalan.”

“If you’re up for huge crimes, it’s better to be foreign. They’ll think you must be working for a government and they might not execute you.”

“She just better have all the lawyers out, waiting for us, when we get there,” said Russell. “She swore she would.”

“She said we’d never get arrested too, but, here we are, captured and chained.”

Russell was silent for a few seconds, then said, “She’d better come through after we managed to get his private army wiped out.”

“I know,” said Ruiz. “We’re going to have to take turns sleeping so none of these guys finds a way to kill us.”

They sat in the truck and watched the miles rolling behind the truck into the distance. Russell tried to dismiss from his mind the sight of the few survivors sitting around him in the truck, the hollow look of their dirty, unshaven faces, the sweaty smell of their camouflage battle-dress uniforms, the anger and resentment in their eyes.

He turned his mind to Sarah Allersby. He imagined her in one of those immaculate white silk blouses she wore and a black skirt and high heels. She would be standing by the heavy wooden desk in the two-hundred-year-old building with the thick wooden beams and the big ceiling fans. She would have her golden hair in a tight ponytail, with every strand in place, so it looked like something rarer than hair. She would be holding one diamond earring in her free hand while she clamped the phone to her ear with the other. She would be bringing every bit of her wealth, influence, and reputation to bear on the problem of freeing him and Ruiz. She would say something ridiculous that the government official she was speaking to would want to believe. Russell and Ruiz were just innocent American employees of hers who had gone to the Estancia Guerrero and gotten lost. She would ensure that there were no unpleasant repercussions following their release by flying them out of the country immediately in her private jet. And she would be very grateful to send them away.

At that moment, Sarah Allersby was in the master bedroom of the big Guerrero house. She was wearing a white silk blouse, a pair of black slacks, and a tailored black jacket. She chose a pair of pearl earrings and a pearl choker because she’d be dealing with British Customs. Anyone whose job it was to assess the value of jewelry at a glance would recognize a strand like this — round, silvery white, sixteen-millimeter natural pearls with exceptional luster. They had been found by divers in the Arabian Sea in the fourteenth century. And, for once, the source of a priceless piece wasn’t the fruit of her father’s ancestors’ looting of India. The pearls had belonged to her mother’s family. Her father had bought the earrings in Paris forty years ago.

British officials were the biggest snobs. Even if her name didn’t spring to their minds, they would recognize her as belonging to the class of people who were not to be harassed with petty rules.

She didn’t pack much this trip. Most of her clothes and belongings were still in the closets and the safe. She took only the few things she could gather quickly — the wide, flat jewelry box with the best pieces, a bundle of money in various currencies, and, sealed in its fitted plastic box, the Mayan codex. They all fit in one suitcase. She locked the suitcase, tipped it up on its wheels, and began to roll it toward the staircase.

Her doorman heard the sound, bounded up the stairs, and took it for her. She wondered — did he know? The case held tens of millions of dollars’ worth of jewelry, artifacts, and just plain money. It was worth more than all his ancestors had earned from Adam and Eve until now. She smiled at her thought. It was much better that servants — even loyal ones — not suspect these little moments of vulnerability. She was sure he would have killed her for much less than he was carrying now.

She got into her car, watched him put her suitcase in the trunk, and close it. She said to her driver, “The airport.”

He drove expertly, maneuvering the black Maybach 62 S through the streets of Guatemala City. He never betrayed any stress and seldom even applied the brakes. The ride was smooth and quiet, the way he knew she liked it. As she watched the city slipping past the windows of the car, she felt a small twinge of heartache. She had succeeded in obtaining the Mayan codex — almost certainly the last undiscovered one in existence. By now, she should have been famous. She should have had a warehouse full of gold and priceless pottery.

She would have to persuade Diego San Martin that she had not been the cause of his lost manpower. She would explain that the problem had begun with the man he had met at lunch. Russell had assured her that it would all be easy and safe. There would be no risk of disappointing Diego San Martin because Russell had everything under control. What could she, a young woman, have done differently? How could she have known Russell was so wrong?

She listened to her own silent rehearsal and pronounced herself satisfied. San Martin was like everyone else. He would vent his wrath on someone, but it would not be Sarah Allersby. She remained a very useful ally that would cost him money and be trouble to lose. San Martin just needed an excuse to do what was obviously in his own interest.

The Maybach arrived at the airport and floated past the terminals along the chain-link fences to the special entrance to the private jet hangars. The guard opened the gate as soon as her car was in sight. Some crazy revolutionary wasn’t going to drive up in a car worth nearly half a million dollars and blow up a plane. Her driver took her to her hangar, and she saw the plane had already been towed out. The pilot, Phil Jameson, was going through his preflight check. The fuel truck was driving off down the line toward its next customer. Sarah Allersby’s steward, Morgan, was visible through the lighted windows, refilling the refrigerator and stocking the bar.