Clive Cussler - The Eye of Heaven

Lazlo looked toward the window, where motes of dust drifted lazily in the afternoon sun. “I won’t let you down.”

The ride back to the hotel was a quick one, the plaintive lament of a distraught tenor on the taxi radio battling with a mariachi horn section that sounded like it had started happy hour early. Remi gazed at the side mirror as she edged nearer to Sam.

“They’re still following us.”

“At least they’re consistent.”

She furrowed her brow. “What did you think of Lazlo? He seemed lucid to me.”

“You heard the administrator, it could go either way. But for now, my money’s on Lazlo. I think he wants a new lease on life … This is it. Lord knows it beats a hut in some mudhole.”

“I hope you’re right.”

Selma called as they were preparing to go out to dinner, her tone excited. “I spoke with an old friend at the State Department who knows someone who knows someone. They’re going to contact the relevant Mexican ministry tomorrow and see what can be done to put your permit on the fast track.”

“That’s great news, Selma. Didn’t take you long.”

“I had to promise a case of good champagne. She’s a connoisseur, so none of the cheap stuff.”

“If she can make this happen, she’ll get Dom Pérignon.”

“Oh, she’ll make it happen. She’s got a lot of influence with foreign aid programs, including those that are directed at Mexico. Everyone there wants to do her favors. I wouldn’t say it’s a lock, but it’s as close as you can get to one.”

“Then it’s Dom on the menu for her as soon as I can order it.”

“I’ll take care of it. Feels good to actually be doing something useful.”

“Then spare no expense, Selma.”

“Will do. Have a good night.”

“And you as well,” he said quietly and smiled for the first time in what felt like forever.

After a somber dinner Sam and Remi went to sleep early. Several hours later the jarring ring of Sam’s phone shattered the silence of the room. He groped for the lamp switch, groggy, and, after switching it on, stabbed the little cell to life.

“Hello?” His voice was hoarse.

“Sam, old boy. I’ve reviewed the translation of the manuscript and looked over your snaps of the pictographs and I have to say I’m not convinced at the reasoning that puts the tomb where you think it is.”

“Lazlo, do you have any idea what time it is?”

“None whatsoever. Sorry if it’s late. I thought you’d want the bad news.”

“Can we discuss this in the morning?” Sam squinted at the LED display of the bedside clock. “Or later this morning?”

“Absolutely. I just wanted you to know. And I’d very much like to go to the recently discovered tomb to see the pictographs in person. Photos aren’t all they’re chocked up to be.”

“Noted. I’ll call you when it’s light out.”

“Good show. I’ll be waiting.”

Sam switched the light off as Remi shifted beside him. He exhaled softly and she moved closer.

“Still think this was a good idea?” she murmured.

Sam was already asleep.

A battered 1970s-era blue Ford truck loaded with cast-off wooden beams lurched up the dirt road that ran alongside the grounds of the building-supply warehouse on the outskirts of Mexico City. Inside the high cement wall that ran along the lot perimeter sat three vehicles, even though the warehouse was closed to business for the week — a black Cadillac Escalade, a white Lincoln Navigator, and a lifted burgundy H2 Hummer with oversize tires.

Inside the smaller secondary building, Carlos sat bound to a wooden chair, naked from the waist up, his face a brutalized mass of contusions, the chair back barely supporting his slumping weight as he struggled for breath against the ropes. Reginald paced in front of him, his cigarette smoldering, his face contorted with unthinking anger as he weighed the information he’d just received.

Reginald moved back to Carlos and punched him again, the tops of his black driving gloves slick with drying blood. Carlos gurgled; the blow barely registered after having survived so many from his enraged captor.

“I thought you told me that the permit was killed. You lied to me. You’ll regret that,” Reginald hissed, the menace of his threat obvious in every syllable.

Carlos leaned to the side and spat on the floor near Reginald’s handmade shoes. “It … was. When you kidnapped me, it … should have … stalled indefinitely,” he managed, blurring in and out of consciousness as pain ravaged his body.

“Apparently not. Our sources just told us that a permit for the Fargos, in partnership with the National Institute of Anthropology and History, is being walked through and has received the highest priority.”

“I … different permit … not mine. You … had me … days. Must … be … new,” Carlos mumbled, the words barely distinguishable, and then his chin lolled onto his chest as he blacked out.

Reginald punched the side of his head for good measure and then shook his own hand, which was sore from the blows. His fury gradually abated as he studied the unconscious archaeologist. He paced again for a few moments and then he stripped off the gloves and threw them on the floor in disgust before stalking from the room.

In the office next door, a dark-complexioned Hispanic man in his mid-thirties, acne scars pocking his features, regarded Reginald with pig eyes from his seat behind a cheap metal desk. Two younger men sat near the door with Kalashnikov AKM assault rifles in their laps and stared off at nothing.

“Well? Did you learn anything?” asked Ferdinand Guerrero, the Mexico City chief of the Los Zetas cartel, the most violent in Mexico — an international criminal enterprise with tentacles that reached as far away as Africa, Europe, and South America, as well as every major city in the U.S.

“No. He claims it’s not the same … issue … I was concerned about.”

“Maybe he’s telling the truth?” Guerrero asked, his soft voice out of place with his thick, fight-flattened nose and customary sneer.

“It doesn’t matter. His absence hasn’t bought us enough time to get our permit approved.” Reginald kicked the side of another metal desk in frustration, the sound like an explosion in the small space. Their source had gotten them the manuscript and translation. And a little money spread to an assistant with a drug problem and in over his head to Guerrero had gotten a copy of the lost permit, so they knew exactly where in Teotihuacan to target.

“What do you want us to do with him? Let him go free? If his usefulness is at an end …” Guerrero said, shifting behind the desk to study the silver tips of his burgundy Lagarto ostrich cowboy boots.

Reginald fought for control of his emotions and then waved a hand nonchalantly. “I presume you have a means to dispose of him?” He paused, thinking. “He can identify me.”

Guerrero laughed, a phlegmy sound devoid of humor. “You could say we do. Any special timing concerns?”

“Let’s wait till the end of the week so it looks like a kidnapping gone wrong. In fact, if you have someone who could contact the family and make a large ransom demand, that could be money in your pocket,” Reginald suggested. “Easy money for your trouble.”

Guerrero’s eyes narrowed. “I told you the price for arranging this.”

Reginald saw the danger and instantly backtracked. “Of course. Which we’ll be happy to discount from your organization’s next order. I meant additional money — more of a performance bonus.”

Guerrero laughed again and slapped the tabletop. “Ha! You’re a funny man. Much more than your brother, eh? But you talk the same way. A performance bonus!”