Clive Cussler - The Eye of Heaven

“That would be great,” Sam agreed. “We don’t want to get in your way. And there’s certainly enough to see in the Institute vaults to keep us busy.”

Remi nodded her assent, and the group stepped carefully back out to the stinking street, where the sun was now burning through the clouds.

Sam’s phone rang on the journey to the Institute. He glanced at the screen and answered it. “What’s the good word?” he asked.

“I may have something promising for you,” Rube said, “but it’s both good news and bad news.”

“What’s the bad?”

“Cuba’s about as secretive as the Chinese, so everything we have is hearsay and innuendo.”

“Meaning ‘unreliable.’”

“Correct.”

“What’s the good?”

“There’s apparently a store of Spanish antiquities in Havana that the Ministry of the Interior controls. Part of their museums group.”

“I don’t suppose I dare ask how you know about it.”

“Defector. Floated over along with fifty others on a makeshift boat forty years ago.”

“So the information’s that old?”

“That’s not your biggest problem.”

“Why do I suspect that you saved the best for last?”

“Am I really that transparent?”

“Just give it to me straight.”

“It’s located in the subbasement of Morro Castle, which has a contingent of military guarding it round the clock.”

“Do you have any details on the layout?”

“Check your e-mail. But Sam? Just a little advice. The Cubans play hardball, and they don’t like Americans. So if you’re thinking of doing anything stupid, my advice is don’t.”

“That’s not very encouraging.”

Rube exhaled noisily. “When I hang up the phone, you’re on your own, my friend. I won’t be able to help you if you pursue this and run into trouble, and I’d advise strongly against doing anything rash.”

“Noted. Thanks again. I owe you one.”

“Be careful, Sam. You have to be alive for me to collect.”

After spending the afternoon analyzing the material at the Institute and comparing it to the photos from that morning, Sam and Remi called it a day at six and returned to the hotel. Sam logged on to his in-box and spent several minutes studying Rube’s e-mail, which consisted of a set of crude blueprints of Morro Castle, obviously hand-drawn, and a description of the military contingent guarding the fort. Built in 1589 to protect Havana Harbor, Morro was a national landmark, now relegated to a tourist attraction.

Remi sat on the bed while Sam finished up and then raised an eyebrow when she saw the drawing.

“Sam Fargo, I hope you haven’t dreamed up some crazy scheme.”

“Of course not. I was just thinking what a nice time of year it would be to visit Cancún.”

“Which is only an hour flight from Cuba, is it not?”

“What? Really? That’s all?”

“You have a lousy poker face.”

He nodded. “Then it’s just as well I don’t play cards.”

“I knew when you heard about an encrypted manuscript, you wouldn’t be able to resist.”

“Well, now that you mention it, it does seem an awful shame that something as potentially important to the Mexican people is being hoarded by a foreign power.”

“We don’t know that it has any importance. For all we know, it’s a recipe.”

“With a bunch of pre-Columbian illustrations?”

“Don’t forget the letters from seamen. Not exactly promising. Besides which, the Spanish conquest of Mexico went on for, what, a hundred eighty years? So it could refer to basically anything, not necessarily the Toltecs.”

“Fair enough, but do we have anything better to go on?”

“Not yet, but we’re just getting started analyzing the reliefs. Maybe there’s something in the new find that will point us in the right direction—”

“Which will still be here when we get back.”

Remi frowned. “ If we get back.”

“Oh come on. All I’m thinking is that we sneak in, take some photos, and are gone before anyone figures it out. Where’s the harm?”

“It’s a fort, Sam. As in, fort-i-fied . By a regime that’s more hostile to the U.S. than any in this hemisphere. Something tells me that if we get caught, we’re going to be in really hot water.”

“Which is why no part of the plan involves getting caught.”

Remi sighed. “For the record, this is a bad idea. But I can see there’s no point in arguing with you, is there?”

“Maybe to get better at it?”

“I’ve had years of practice and it doesn’t seem to do any more good than it did when we first met.”

“Then we fly to Havana, scope out the fort, and slip into the vault in the dead of night.”

“Right … And just how are you going to do that?”

“I haven’t completely figured that part out yet.”

“Call me when you do.”

That evening, three e-mails came in from the team, but none of them contained anything that Sam and Remi didn’t already know. There was an encyclopedia entry on the legend of Quetzalcoatl’s tomb, describing a casket of jade, mountains of gold, priceless ornaments, and the Eye of Heaven, which to Sam’s trained eye read like the wishful thinking of a teenager. All hidden in a secret tomb in a sacred place, safe from desecration by heathens, which to the Toltecs meant anyone besides themselves.

Next was a doctoral student’s report on a 1587 search expedition that had followed in the footsteps of the original one in 1521. While the group discovered many of the larger Aztec and Toltec cities, it came up empty on the tomb. But the unique fever that accompanies the promise of priceless treasure had taken hold and generation after generation of adventurers sought Quetzalcoatl’s final resting place — as well as the legendary Seven Cities of Gold — and, in South America, El Dorado … all to meet with ruin, disease, and, ultimately, death.

In the early 1920s, according to a third article from a popular journal, another group scoured the temple cities of central Mexico in search of the elusive treasure but never returned from their quest — presumed killed by bandits in a largely lawless land.

After a leisurely meal at the hotel, Sam checked on flights from Cancún and learned that there were several every day to Havana. He read up on entry requirements and discovered that they could easily make it into Cuba with paper visas inserted into their passports, to be removed once they’d left, so there would be no evidence of their ever having been there. After Sam explained the travel arrangements to Remi, they agreed to at least try a mini Cuban vacation and take a hard look at Morro Castle.

Sam’s first act the following day was to send news of their plans to everyone in La Jolla and ask them to find someone reliable in Havana to help them while there.

Next item was the trip to Cancún. Sam instructed Rex to file a flight plan for that evening. Finally, he booked a flight for the next day from Cancún to Havana, after being assured that he could get visas in short order from the Cuban consulate in Cancún.

The afternoon at the Institute went by quickly. They’d already seen most of the carvings online, so there were no surprises. Traffic to the airport was a misery, taking almost as long as the flight to Cancún. When the G650 touched down and the fuselage door swung open, muggy heat flowed into the cabin, the humidity close to ninety percent. A courtesy car whisked them away to the Ritz-Carlton, where, after checking in, they dined at Fantino, the hotel’s upscale restaurant. Remi started with the sweet pea and butter lettuce soup with scallops and chose the black cod for her entrée, and Sam went with the seared ahi tuna appetizer and the porcini-crusted filet mignon, all washed down with a bottle of 2006 Adobe Guadalupe Serafiel Cabernet/Syrah blend.