Clive Cussler - The Eye of Heaven

“My head’s starting to hurt.”

“I know. It’s like trying to grab a greased eel.”

“Still, that’s positive as a starting point.”

“Agreed.”

“I’m thinking we pull up everything we can on this ruler Quetzalcoatl and drill down from there,” Sam said, returning to his desk.

“That’s as good a plan as any. I’ll get the crew on it.”

The next three days were spent digging deeper into the legends surrounding the enigmatic leader of the Toltecs. His reign became the dominant force in central Mexico. The few codices that purported to tell the story of the Mesoamerican civilizations were of limited help and seemed to contradict one another in more than a few places. But eventually a few threads gelled into a common theme. Around A.D. 1000, a ruler had emerged who transformed Toltec society. He introduced amazing leaps in technology, and was often described as resembling a white man, although other accounts had him native-born.

At ten o’clock in the evening, after another long stint of poring over the data, Sam’s pulse quickened as he read an obscure tome that chronicled a legend associated with Quetzalcoatl. He was buried with a treasure unlike any ever seen, with all manner of jade and gold artifacts. The crowning item, a magnificent jewel, was considered as much of a legend as that of El Dorado, the city of gold: the Eye of Heaven, a flawless emerald offered from the Toltecs as tribute to the powerful ruler, rumored to be the size of a man’s heart and possessed of magical properties.

The account was long on hyperbole but short on detail, and chronicled numerous hunts by the Spanish to locate the tomb, all of which ended in failure. Over time, the excitement had faded and the rumor was discounted as one of many that the conquering Europeans had concocted in a bid to secure investors for exploration.

But one thing stood out for Sam: the detailed description of Quetzalcoatl. In this account, he was an old man who died of natural causes, his heavy red beard laced with gray, and he was laid out in a jade-and-gold casket and entombed in a holy place that would forever remain secret.

To an accomplished treasure hunter, the mention of a hidden tomb with undreamed-of riches was like waving a red cape in front of a snorting bull. Sam shut off his monitors for the evening and made his way back upstairs, where Remi had retired an hour earlier. He felt a familiar buzz of anticipation — one that had rarely led him wrong in the past.

He told Remi about his discovery as they sat sipping snifters of Rémy Martin XO cognac by the open doors, the ocean dark other than for the twinkle of distant lights from the occasional vessel working its way north from San Diego Harbor. By the time Sam finished telling her about Quetzalcoatl’s lost tomb, Remi was also excited.

Three hundred yards offshore, near one of the vast kelp beds that hugged the shore, a twenty-eight-foot fishing boat was anchored. Anyone scrutinizing it would have seen two men with their rods in the water doing some night fishing. A more careful study might have noted a directional microphone pointed at the open door of a home on the bluff, and noted a third man in the lower cabin, sitting with headphones on, listening to every word being spoken inside the Fargos’ bedroom.

But there was nobody to notice the men on the boat. The discussion was being recorded and would later be analyzed, along with countless others, and then forwarded to the client. The operatives were seasoned surveillance professionals, well versed in eavesdropping and corporate espionage.

A haze lingered across Mexico City in the predawn glow of a thousand lights. The freeways were already clogged with vehicles on their early-morning commutes, arriving from the dense neighboring suburbs that ringed the vast metropolis.

A tired old garbage truck lurched slowly up a road in the municipality of López Mateos, its engine straining as it made its weekly rounds in the impoverished sprawl ten miles north of Mexico City. Many families lived eight to a twelve-by-fifteen-foot room, and the drug-related violent crime made it one of the more dangerous areas in the region. The truck rolled to a screeching stop when a rumble began from the street beneath. The earth began to shake — at first gently and then with increasing violence.

A nearby brick wall split and collapsed, the top crumbling as the earthquake shook it, and a geyser of water shot from a fissure in the center of the street. The men in the garbage truck watched in horror as several of the two-story cinder-block homes fell in on themselves as though the earth had sucked them into the ground. A few half-naked children ran into the street while the pavement beneath them shuddered. The few working lamps on the building fronts winked out as power cables snapped somewhere down the line. Streetlights rocked before tearing free and crashing to the ground in explosions of glass.

In the distance, the city’s high-rises swayed. Even in a region known for its seismic outbursts, this was a big one. The shaking continued for a full minute before the earth settled to stillness beneath the frightened people.

The street resembled a war zone, with huge cracks crisscrossing the remaining pavement and water mains gushing into the air before pooling in stinking ponds also fed by ruptured sewage lines. Doors opened as neighbors emerged to take stock, the calamity only the latest in a seemingly unending string of bad luck visited upon a population born under a dark star.

The sun inched over the surrounding mountains and cast a dim glow through the sediment that had floated skyward from the demolished buildings. The garbagemen surveyed the ruined street for a while longer and then the driver put the ancient truck in gear and executed a shaky turn before heading back down the rise.

Further research into Quetzalcoatl’s tomb revealed nothing of use, and by late afternoon of the second day it was obvious to everyone that they’d hit a dead end. Sam’s eyes were burning from boring holes through his monitor, searching for the one elusive glyph, a thread that might lead them in a positive direction; now they were out of options. But Sam hadn’t earned his reputation by giving up — his tenacious nature invariably drove him to up the ante when the going got rough.

When Selma joined them, Remi stood to greet her as Sam rubbed a tired hand over his face.

“How’s it going?” Selma asked.

“Just the usual frustrations,” Remi said. “Incomplete accounts, vague hints without any substance, partial reports …”

“Ah, research, how do I miss thee,” Selma intoned.

“How are you? Feeling any better?” Sam asked, turning from his screen.

“You know. Every day brings its own little challenges.”

“The important thing is that you’re making progress,” Remi said.

“Sometimes it doesn’t feel like it,” Selma confessed — a rare admission from the woman who was as indefatigable and hard-charging as they came. She stared off at the ocean and then fixed a smile on her face. “I thought I’d stop in and see how you were making out without me.”

“Not so great, Selma. We’re sort of at the end of our rope on our current line of thinking,” Sam said, and then gave her a summary of their progress — or lack of it. When he was finished, she nodded.

“Well, you know what you’re going to have to do.”

Sam and Remi exchanged a look.

“No …” Remi said.

“Let me make some calls. That won’t hurt me. Truth be told, I’m going stir-crazy, even with the books and TV. I’ll call a few people and put out some feelers. It’ll cheer me up if I can help in my own small way.”

“Selma—” Sam started, but she waved him off.