Clive Cussler - The Eye of Heaven

The photos of the artifacts were of little help. They appeared to be pictographs shipped to Cuba, presumably for either safekeeping or forwarding to Spain — which in this case obviously had never happened. The images depicted a procession of warriors and priests, various examples of the deity Quetzalcoatl — a fairly common icon in both Toltec and Aztec symbolism — and finally several tableaus of a pyramid belching smoke into the sky.

There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to why the artifacts had been taken from the mainland nor any indication of what was sensitive or valuable enough about them to warrant the effort. There were similar pictographs covering virtually every Mesoamerican city in Mexico, Belize, and Guatemala.

The first day back, there were no answers, and they decided to pack it in early, still exhausted after their escape from Havana.

“I suppose it’s a pretty safe bet that we’ll never get invited to look for sunken galleons around Havana Harbor,” Sam said as they walked to their waiting taxi outside the Institute.

“It wasn’t like we were on anyone’s short list for that.”

“How about we order room service and get a good night’s sleep? Does that sound reasoned and logical?” Sam asked.

“You make a compelling argument. But first I have a date with a long, hot bath.”

“Whatever the lady wants, the lady gets. That’s my new motto.”

Remi gave him a skeptical look as he held the taxi door open for her. “What did you make of the pictures?”

“Nice composition, decent lighting …”

She nudged him as he got in next to her. “You know what I mean.”

“Ah, if you’re referring to my hopes that they would lead us to our elusive friend’s final resting place, I’m afraid they aren’t really the equivalent of an X on a map, are they?”

“That’s what I thought. They don’t really make a lot of sense to me. Seems like just more of the same,” Remi griped.

“Maybe we should get Maribela and Antonio involved tomorrow. They’re really the experts. At least they can narrow down whether they’re Toltec or Aztec. That would tell us if they’re even relevant.”

“I’m reluctant, but it doesn’t seem like we’re seeing whatever the pattern is.”

“No. But that could also be because we just came off twenty-four hours of breaking and entering, being chased and shot at, traversing the ocean in a speedboat, flying across the Gulf in a prop plane, and jetting to Mexico City.”

“Don’t forget sliding down an old toilet chute,” she reminded. “I won’t anytime soon …”

“If you think of it as a water ride, it’s more palatable.”

Remi crinkled her nose. “Yuck! Just yuck.”

They rode back in comfortable silence and enjoyed dinner in the room. Sam surprised her with her favorite, pomegranate margaritas, and rewarded himself with Don Julio Blanco on the rocks with salt and lime. When they were done, Sam called Selma to see what luck she’d had with the manuscript. Kendra answered the call and the news wasn’t positive.

“No hits so far. We tried an automated run and that didn’t yield anything, so now we’re doing it manually. But it doesn’t look good. According to Pete, the automated sequence would have picked it up if it was a known cipher. So we could be looking at something that hasn’t been seen in that period, which is a whole different kettle of fish.”

“It also could be tied to a different document, in which case we’ll never figure it out,” he said.

“Selma’s going to run it through her sources and see if anything comes up. But most of the ciphers are well understood now, and those that aren’t … well, they’re keeping their secrets.”

“Stay on it, Kendra. I’ll touch base again tomorrow. Has anything else come in?”

“A progress report from Canada. A Dr. Jennings indicated that the preparations are coming along nicely. He said you would understand what he meant and that he’s returning to Montreal as the cataloging continues so he can start raising funds for the restoration. He asked me to thank you for putting Warren Lasch from the CSS Hunley effort in touch with him — apparently, he’s been a godsend.”

“Oh, good. I thought he might be able to help.”

“He’s flying to Canada for a few weeks to assist with the infrastructure preparations and the transport of the ship.” Kendra hesitated. “Oh, and I sent the progress report to your e-mail account, too.”

“Good. Thanks for all the hard work. We appreciate it.” Sam paused. “How’s Selma?”

“Fighting the good fight — you know her, she’s a trouper. She’s getting stronger and more mobile every day, but still needs painkillers at night sometimes if she overdoes it.”

“Is she there?”

Kendra hesitated. “She’s resting right now. Do you want me to go wake her?”

“No. Of course not. Let her sleep. I just wanted to say hello. It can wait.”

“Okay. Is there anything else?”

“No, Kendra. I’ll call again at nine tomorrow morning your time.”

“I’ll be here.”

Remi watched as he ended the call and saw his frown.

“Nothing?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

“Ever the optimist.”

“All part of my childish naïveté.”

“How’s Selma?”

“According to Kendra, holding her own.” Sam relayed the gist of the conversation.

Remi sat in silence for a long moment and then kissed Sam’s cheek. “You’re a good man, Sam Fargo.”

“Fooled you again. My evil scheme is working,” he said, and kissed her back.

“More like fatigue and the margaritas.”

“Gotta love those margaritas …”

The throbbing of the massive diesel engines vibrated the yacht’s salon floor. Janus Benedict paced its length, a snifter of cognac clenched in his hand as he listened in quiet fury on his cell phone. Off in the distance, the white-and-blue buildings of Mykonos dotted the island’s hills as the big ship approached for a week of revelry and meetings with Middle Eastern clients who were willing to pay top dollar for difficult-to-acquire arms.

“Two amateurs gave your professional Cuban intelligence service team the slip? How is that possible? Explain it to me,” he seethed.

“They were tracking them round the clock, but the Fargos must have somehow stumbled across the surveillance because they literally vanished into thin air when they should have been at the hotel,” Percy said.

“Which is an excuse. You know how I feel about excuses instead of performance.”

“Indeed. I’ve already made my displeasure known in the strongest possible terms to the locals. They won’t be getting paid.”

“I’d prefer they were fed to the sharks.”

“Quite. But I’m afraid they rather frown on that sort of thing, even in Cuba.”

“Paying through the nose for poor results is becoming somewhat tedious, Percy.”

“No question.” Percy took a quiet breath. “I did get a rather interesting report from a different Cuban source, though. That same night, someone broke into Morro Castle. The footage from the security cameras captured your friends in the act. The Cubans are livid at being made fools of — the castle is a fortified area, with a military and police presence, and yet your amateurs made it in and out without any effort, from what I can gather.”

“Unbelievable. What did they take?”

“Well, that’s the odd part. According to the locals, everything’s accounted for. As it is, the vault in question held only some naval odds and ends and a few documents. Oh, and some carved stones. Bloody rubbish, all of it, from what I can see,” Percy said.

“Not if they risked breaking into a guarded stronghold. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that those two don’t do anything by accident. I want a complete inventory of that vault. Now would be good—”