The Mayan Secrets - Cussler Clive - Страница 21

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“That should do fine,” Sam said.

Remi said, “Now it’s our turn to tell you to be careful.”

“That’s right,” said Sam. “If either of you is watched or followed, don’t go to the university. Drive to the police station.”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “Have a successful trip. Call frequently, and come back soon. I promise, Zoltan will think he’s on vacation.”

In twelve hours, Sam and Remi were on a flight heading toward Guatemala City.

Sam and Remi disembarked in Guatemala City and went through customs. They were about to leave the airline terminal when Remi’s satellite phone rang. She answered, and said, “Hi, Selma. You must have tracked our plane.”

“Of course. We’ve found something amazing and I thought you should know.”

“What is it?”

“Do you remember a sort of lump inside the cover of the codex?”

“I do,” Remi said. “It’s sort of a rectangle shape. I figured it was a patch.”

“It’s a sheet of parchment, folded, and then placed under the outer layer and covered with the fig-bark fabric. David and I removed it two hours ago. It’s a letter, written in black ink, in Spanish. It says, ‘To all of my countrymen, blessings. This book and other books of the Mayan people concern their history and their observations about the natural world. They have nothing to do with the devil. They must be preserved as a way to understand our charges, the Mayan people.’”

“Who’s it from?” asked Remi.

“That’s the surprise. It’s signed ‘Fra Bartolome de Las Casas, Prior of Rabinal, Alta Verapaz.’”

“Las Casas? The Las Casas?”

“Yes — the man who convinced the Pope that Indians were rational beings with souls and had rights. He practically invented the idea of human rights. Dave Caine is beside himself with excitement.”

“Does the paper have a date on it?”

“Yes. January 23, 1537. We may not know everything about the codex yet, but this is the second verification of the year it was hidden. We think Las Casas was trying to give the book safe passage, maybe while the man you found took it to that shrine on the volcano.”

“It’s fantastic,” said Remi. “Be sure to make a copy of it.”

“Well, get on with your trip. I just wanted you to know about this. And by the way, your vehicle is parked in the hotel lot under the name Senor de La Jolla. I bought it online, so you’d better look it over before you leave civilization.”

“We’ll do that,” said Sam. “We’ll talk soon.”

Sam and Remi checked into the hotel suite Selma had reserved and collected the documents and the equipment that were waiting for them. Then they went outside to the parking lot behind the building and found the car. It was a ten-year-old Jeep Cherokee with chips and scratches that showed it had originally been red but at some point had been painted over olive drab with a paintbrush. They started it, drove it around the block for a few minutes with the windows closed so Sam’s engineer ears could pick up any sounds that might mean trouble, and then opened the hood and checked the belts, hoses, battery, and fluid levels. When Sam had crawled under and looked it over, he stood again. “Not pretty, but not bad either.” The backseat and the floor behind it provided plenty of space for all the equipment they intended to bring. They stopped at a station, filled the tank, bought two metal five-gallon cans, and filled them too.

That evening, they marked their maps to plot a route up 14N toward Coban, in the north-central part of the Verapaz district, and then on to Xuctzul in the Rio Candelaria region.

In early morning, they loaded their gear, their dive equipment, and the large backpacks that held a small cache of clean clothes and supplies. Each of them also carried a pair of Smith & Wesson M&P nine-millimeter pistols, one in a backpack pocket with six loaded seven-round, single-stack magazines, and the other in a bellyband under a loose shirt.

As the old car moved along the road, it seemed always to be laboring. Alta Verapaz ranged in elevation from one thousand to nine thousand feet. At times, the car seemed to grind upward as though it were dragging itself up by a rope coiled around its axle. At others, the car careened downward while Sam fought for control. They were able to make snack and bathroom breaks in the small towns along the way. Remi, whose Spanish had been getting plenty of practice, used these opportunities to ask about the road ahead. On one of the stops Sam said, “What do you think of our adventure so far?”

She said, “I’m glad we just spent weeks climbing a volcano and then walking from town to town, doing heavy labor.”

“Why?”

“Because now my body knows that no matter how hard this ride is, I should enjoy every second of it, because, when it ends, life could get a whole lot harder.”

At Coban, they spent a night at a small hotel, and slept deeply. They were up early to prepare to leave for Xuctzul. The people they met seemed to be a mixture of Mayan farmers and Hispanic visitors. They knew that the farther from big cities they went, the more likely that they would reach places where people not only didn’t speak English but didn’t speak Spanish either. When they were back in the Cherokee, they found the roads got narrower and rougher by the mile.

After another hour Remi looked at the map and then her watch. “We should be in Xuctzul soon.”

Five minutes later, they drove through the village. It was only about a hundred yards long.

Sam and Remi stepped out of the car at the edge of the village and stood in the gravel road. Sam and Remi looked at each other. The silence was profound. Off in the distance, a dog barked, and the spell was broken. A few people came out of buildings and looked in their direction as though the arrival of a car was an occasion for curiosity. One by one, they lost interest and went back to their homes.

The gravel road turned into a rutted cart path.

“I hope the Jeep is up to this. At least there seems to be a trail, but we’re in for a bumpy ride,” said Sam.

“I hope what trail we have is going in the right direction. I’m not looking forward to blazing one through the jungle,” Remi replied. “I was hoping the machetes were just for show.” Remi looked up at the sky, then at Sam. “It’s a long time before we run out of daylight — at least six hours.”

Each took a drink of water from his or her canteen, took out a machete, put it where it would be easy to reach, and then they began to drive up the trail.

For a time, Sam would periodically check his satellite phone’s GPS to be sure they were still heading in the direction they intended. The trail was winding and required steady climbing as it took them into the highlands of Alta Verapaz. Before darkness came they stopped and pitched their tiny tent, with its floor and zippered netting to keep the insects out. They cooked some dehydrated rations on a small fire and then slept. In the morning, they searched for water and found a couple of gallons that had been caught in a half-hollowed log. They filled two plastic containers, put in their military-grade purification tablets, and secured them in the back of the Jeep.

For each of the next five days they followed the same routine, checking the GPS each day to be sure they were on course. As they drove farther from the populated areas, they were surrounded by squads of chattering monkeys in the trees overhead, flocks of birds flying over at dawn and dusk, and many smaller birds that were invisible in the dense foliage calling out to one another. On the third day, the trail took them down from the crest of a high hill into a valley surrounded by smaller hills, the trail opening up to a surface that had been leveled by human activity.

There were big trees growing in places, and fallen leaves had turned to a thick humus and then become dirt, and then smaller plants had died, rotted, and then been overshadowed by taller neighbors. And even those trees had died, fallen, and rotted, several long generations of them. But the strip of land where this had happened was still flat. Remi and Sam looked at the low hills that rose on their right and then the ones on their left. They got out of the Jeep.

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