Clive Cussler: The Mayan Secrets

Sam and Remi drove Rueda and his aides to the helicopter. Just as Rueda was about to board, he took Sam and Remi aside. “This probably isn’t going to mean anything, but I have to tell you that the two men who tried to kill you a few weeks ago were among the men captured. After two days in a prison near the capital, they killed two men who were about to leave on a work release assignment and took their places. We think they’ve left the country, but we’re not sure.”

“We’ll keep our eyes open,” said Sam. As the rotors began to turn, he and Remi stepped back to avoid the wash of air and watched them depart. Sam reached for his cell phone and called Selma.

“Sam and Remi, I was worried about you,” she said. “Did you get everything resolved?”

“I did,” said Sam.

“Has David Caine arrived yet?”

“David Caine? Is he coming?”

Selma said, “He was always planning to come. Final examinations ended on Friday. It’s June, Sam. You’re studying the Mayans and nobody has a calendar?”

“Oh,” he said. “I guess we should have remembered.”

David Caine arrived at the head of a convoy of Land Rovers, which made their way up the hill with relative ease and then pulled up in a row on the street just beyond the church. Caine jumped down and threw his arms around Sam and Remi. “I’ve heard what you two did. You’re amazing.”

“Thanks,” said Remi quietly. “What you and your colleagues will find here is more amazing. But you’d better let us smooth the way before you do any exploring. In the meantime, smile at everybody, talk to them about anything except archaeology, and be patient. We’ve already cleared the way for a public meeting where we can introduce you.”

Sarah Allersby was bored in London. In Guatemala City, she had been the center of attention. In parts of Europe, she had been invited to everything — Rome, Athens, Berlin, Prague. Even in Paris she had been to the best places with sought-after young people.

But now because of the ridiculous court order, she was not permitted to leave rainy, cold, damp London. Worse, the social climate in London had not been warm. She’d had such bad press for the past couple of months, with the accusations that she’d looted Mayan tombs, claimed to discover sites that had already been registered, and used a Mayan codex she wasn’t supposed to have.

Beginning a day ago, rumors about her had begun to circulate, and she was being associated with some huge drug bust in Central America. People had already canceled their RSVPs, so the welcome-home dinner party she was throwing for herself was dissolving. She could hear the fear in their voices. They had been scared their precious reputations would be tarnished if they shared hors d’oeuvres with mad, bad Sarah Allersby. A year ago, any of them would have come to her party even if they’d had to crawl to her house on their knees.

She stood in front of the big mirror by the door and inspected herself as she buttoned her navy blue coat. The buttons were gold, and the coat looked like a piece of an eighteenth-century naval officer’s uniform. She half turned to present her profile to the mirror, stepped to the door, and opened it. The .308 caliber bullet pierced her forehead and passed through the back of her skull, destroying her brain so fast that she never heard the report of the rifle, if there was one.

Through the rifle scope, Russell could see that she had fallen backward, and the heavy front door had begun to swing closed. It had been stopped by one of her feet, so it looked as though it had been partially opened by someone about to leave who had gone back in to get something.

Russell put down the rifle while Ruiz closed and locked the window and then drew the curtain. Russell quickly dismantled the rifle and placed it in his suitcase. He and Ruiz hurried down the back staircase, then into the kitchen and out the back door to the garden. It was midmorning, so there were cars and people on nearby streets, but nobody seemed to have noticed anything.

The house they had been in was for sale. It was only one number down and across the street from Sarah’s and it was the same kind of place. Four million pounds was what they’d been asking. Russell and Ruiz had spent only about an hour in the house and had worn rubber gloves.

As Russell rushed through the back garden — such a British thing in itself — he felt satisfied. Sarah had broken her promise and let him and Ruiz go to a Guatemalan jail. So now she had received her payment. Russell got into the car that they’d left waiting at the curb, and Ruiz drove. Ruiz seemed to be better at driving on the wrong side of the road. He stopped the car on the way so Russell could drop the pieces of the rifle in a series of trash cans.

At Waterloo station, they stopped in a men’s room to change clothes and wash their hands. They took the big yellow-and-white Eurostar train to Paris. It would take them three hours to get there, but they had premium first-class tickets, and the ride promised to be restful. And anything was better than the prison they’d escaped from in Guatemala.

The train chugged slowly through London and its inner suburbs and then gained speed. After about an hour, it entered the tunnel under the English Channel, and the windows went dark.

Santiago Obregón looked from the passageway of the train at the two Americans in their premium seats. They appeared to be sleeping. It was astounding to Obregón that these two imagined that Diego San Martin would let them waste nearly a hundred of his men and go off to Europe in safety. He was grateful to them for killing Sarah Allersby because otherwise he’d have had to do it.

Obregón sat across from the Americans in their compartment as though he belonged there. He reached into his briefcase and took out his tool, a CZ P-07 Duty pistol with a factory-threaded muzzle and special high sights to provide a view over the sound suppressor. He shot the two Americans in the chest quickly to preclude resistance.

He stood and shot the first American in the head to be sure he died and then aimed the gun at the head of the second. The man addressed him in Spanish. “Who are you? Why kill us?”

“Why do you kill?” said Obregón. “For money.” He pulled the trigger. He pressed his pistol into the right hand of the dead man. Then he went out and moved to another car. Before too long, they would be arriving in the Gare du Nord.

The town meeting was held in the church, with Father Gomez presiding. At the end, he said, “You have all heard the arguments for allowing the archaeologists to excavate the stronghold and all the reasons not to permit it. You will each take a piece of paper and write Sí or No and put it in the collection box.”

The people lined up and voted. When they had finished, Father Gomez, Dr. Huerta, and Andreas, the new mayor, counted the votes. The town had voted overwhelmingly to allow Dr. Caine’s team to dig.

In the morning, at seven, the members of the expedition were joined by Father Gomez at the head of a delegation from the town. As they started the long climb up the narrow path, Father Gomez said, “Dr. Caine, there are things you need to know and this is my first chance to tell you. You know this place is sacred to the local people. The ones buried up there are not strangers, they’re ancestors. They were the rulers of the city of Kixch’ent and the survivors of a great war against a city about thirty miles to the east in about 790 A.D. When it became apparent that they were terribly outnumbered and losing, they gathered a group of loyal warriors, along with the most valuable things they owned. They carried them here.”