The Aztec Heresy (21 page)

‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘But you didn’t tell me this. You also did not tell me that the same additive to my cocaine does the same thing, increases its addictiveness a thousand times. You wanted to keep it all to yourselves.’’

‘‘You know there is a limited supply until we synthesize it. There are only the plants close to the temple.’’

‘‘The ones that have grown through many generations, mutating on top of my hydrogen bombs.’’

‘‘We don’t care about the bombs. Just the plants.’’

‘‘So you come to steal them.’’ Guzman sighed. He got up from his desk and went out onto the wide veranda of the headquarters building.

‘‘Fetch the prisoner,’’ he ordered the guard on duty. The man disappeared into the tin-roofed hut and dragged out Harrison Noble, still naked and tied to his chair.

In the sodden courtyard puddles had formed in the mud at the base of a T-shaped scaffold that had been hammered deeply into the soil. A man hung upside down from each jutting arm of the scaffold.

Two of the Blackhawk soldiers had been picked off in the initial ambush, but Tibor Cherka, the leader, and his second in command, a man named Bostick, had managed to survive. Like Harrison Noble they had been stripped of their clothes. They had been hanging upside down in the rain all night. Their hands were chained together and their heads hung a foot or so from the mud.

The rain fell in steady lines down the slanted veranda roof with a continuous sloshing sound. The two Blackhawk men were far beyond making any noise at all, although both were fully conscious.

‘‘So foolish,’’ said Angel Guzman. ‘‘Thinking that you could get away with it using only four men. Now you have left me with this mess to deal with.’’

‘‘We just wanted the plants,’’ moaned Harrison Noble, staring at the two soaking men on the scaffolds.

‘‘To think that the simple yellow allamanda would prove so valuable.
Allamanda cathartica.
It grows like a weed in Mexico, and it will make me rich.’’

‘‘You won’t be able to synthesize it yourself. You need us to refine it.’’

‘‘I think our Cuban friends could do the job quite well. Imagine what access to this celatropamine drug could do to their economy.’’

‘‘You made a deal with my father!’’

‘‘You made a deal with the devil,’’ answered Guzman.

The fat little drug lord with the thinning hair walked over to where the guard was standing beside Harrison Noble’s chair and slid the machete out of the man’s green canvas sheath. The machete was nothing special. It was stained, nicked, and its handle wrapped with black tape. It was two feet long and very sharp.

Without another word or any sort of hesitation, Angel Guzman hefted the machete in his hand, walked down the veranda steps, and crossed the courtyard in the rain. He stopped in front of the T-shaped scaffold and swept the blade around sharply, striking at Tibor Cherka’s exposed waistline with a practiced back-hand like a tennis player. The first strike sliced through flesh to the spine. The second cut took out the spine itself and continued deeper. The third cut, this one a forehand from the opposite side, completely severed Cherka’s torso from the rest of his dangling body.

The torso, still obviously alive, writhed in the mud, Cherka’s mouth opening and closing but making no sound. His organs spilled out as he twisted and turned, eyes bulging.

Harrison Noble, although he hadn’t eaten in some time, vomited into his lap.

Ignoring the thing twisting in the mud, Guzman climbed back up the veranda steps, rinsed the machete off in the overflow from the tin roof, and slid the weapon back into the guard’s sheath. The guard showed no particular expression. Guzman crossed to Harrison Noble and patted him lightly on the shoulder.

‘‘We have done experiments. Hung that way for so long, all the blood rushes to the brain. He will live for six or seven minutes, the brain fully functional, trying to figure some way out of his predicament. It can be quite amusing.’’

‘‘You’re mad!’’

‘‘That’s the least of your problems, Mr. Noble, I assure you. You’re going to have to explain to Daddy why you failed.’’

‘‘You’re letting me go?’’

‘‘In a while. After I’ve had a little more fun at your expense. And when I do I’m even going to send a sample back with you. The plants of course have been moved by now, as have the bombs themselves, but I’m sure your father and I can come to some arrangement.’’

Cherka’s torso had slithered closer to the veranda, leaving a greasy trail of entrails behind.

‘‘I think he wants to talk to you,’’ said Guzman. ‘‘Shall I give him a hand up the steps?’’

Harrison Noble threw up again.

22

Lord William Pilgrim lay prone in the tall grass at the edge of the jungle clearing and watched silently, holding back a scream of very unlordlylike terror as a gooey reddish white stream of inch-long worms slithered over the back of his hand and headed south, roughly in the direction of his belt line.

‘‘I’m going to scream if you don’t mind,’’ he said. ‘‘I’ve had just about enough of this insect stuff.’’

Garza swept up a handful of the rust-colored creatures and popped them into his mouth. He chewed happily and swallowed.

‘‘Dear God!’’ Billy whispered, appalled. Finn, lying beside him on the other side, plucked one of the worms off his wrist and sucked it between her lips.

Billy gagged.

‘‘Maguey worms. Caterpillars, actually,’’ explained Finn, smiling. ‘‘They’re the worms you find in the bottom of bottles of Mescal.’’

‘‘Much better fried in butter with a little garlic, ’’ added Garza. ‘‘Lots of protein as well.’’

‘‘Jij eet smegmakaas!’’
muttered Guido, who’d watched the whole procedure, eyes wide.

‘‘You’re both wussies,’’ Finn said and grinned.

‘‘Can anyone explain why we’re all lying here in the bushes eating bugs and whispering? ’’ Eli Santoro asked. He reached under his eye patch with his index finger and scratched.

‘‘Because we’re being careful,’’ answered Garza, the Mexican spy. He squirmed a little, dug into the backpack beside him and took out a very sophisticated pair of Steiner military binoculars. He scanned the clearing for a long moment and then handed the compact device to Finn. She stared through the ultra-clear lenses, concentrating on what at first glance appeared to be a low hill at the far side of the jungle clearing. The hill was four-sided with a tall, almost chimney-like protrusion just off center. It was covered in undergrowth and was topped by several tall, spreading acacia trees, their thick roots like claws digging into the jungle soil with dark, gnarled fingers.

‘‘A temple perhaps?’’ Garza said quietly.

‘‘Too small,’’ murmured Finn, scanning the shape. ‘‘Less than fifty feet square.’’

‘‘A natural formation?’’ Billy asked.

‘‘The jungle here is flat as a tortilla,’’ said Finn. ‘‘Yucatán is basically a single limestone plateau. Anything sticking up like that is sticking up for a reason.’’

‘‘A sacrificial altar,’’ Eli Santoro said.

‘‘You’ve been watching too many Mel Gibson movies,’’ Garza said. ‘‘The Mayans didn’t spend every last minute cutting people’s hearts out. They had an empire to run, among other things. Commerce. Trade. Agriculture. A whole military subculture.’’

‘‘Science,’’ said Finn quietly, focusing the binoculars on the dark scar in the soil directly in front of the mound. ‘‘It’s a miniature
coyocan
.’’

‘‘What is this
coyocan
?’’ Guido asked, flicking one of the maguey caterpillars off his wrist with a faint shudder.

‘‘It’s the Mayan word for snail,’’ explained Finn. ‘‘That thing’s like a chimney. Get close enough and I’ll bet you’ll find what’s left of a spiral staircase inside that tower. An observatory. There’s a massive one at Chichen Itza.’’

‘‘Why have such a thing here?’’ Garza asked.

‘‘I don’t know,’’ said Finn. ‘‘And why is it so small? As though they were trying to keep it hidden. A secret.’’

‘‘Maybe that’s exactly what they intended,’’ answered Garza.

‘‘What about your bombs?’’ Finn asked, handing Garza the binoculars.

‘‘Gone,’’ answered the Mexican. ‘‘You can see where the excavation was.’’

‘‘Inside the temple thing?’’ Billy asked.

‘‘Doubtful,’’ said Garza, peering through the glasses again. ‘‘There’s a trail off on the right. It looks as though they were dug up and then dragged off somewhere to the north.’’

‘‘All right,’’ said Billy. ‘‘You’ve seen where your bombs have gone, we’ve surveyed the temple thingee, and I’m being eaten by mosquitoes and every other kind of nasty creature your wretched Yucatán Peninsula has to offer. Can we consider the survey done and beat a hasty retreat?’’ The Englishman sighed. ‘‘What I wouldn’t give for a pint of Thwaites Best Mild right now.’’

‘‘We’re not going anywhere just yet,’’ said Garza. ‘‘We’re talking about World War Three, not a couple of firecrackers.’’

‘‘And I want to know why there’s a Mayan observatory in the middle of nowhere,’’ said Finn.

‘‘Everywhere around here is the middle of nowhere,’’ grumbled Billy.

Garza continued to scan the clearing with the binoculars. Finally he put them down and turned to Finn. ‘‘In some ways I agree with his lordship,’’ said the Mexican. ‘‘Guzman and his men must be nearby. To remain here is foolish bravado. I could be back here in force within four or five days. It would be safer if you and your friends were not here at all.’’

‘‘This man Guzman has already moved your bombs once. He could do it again,’’ responded Finn. ‘‘You said there was a chance the Cubans were involved. Could they get the bombs to the coast? Get them to Cuba?’’

‘‘There are rumors . . . ,’’ said Garza hesitantly.

‘‘Rumors?’’

‘‘Foolishness. There is talk of a phantom submarine that Guzman uses to transport his narcotics.’’

‘‘A Cuban submarine?’’ Eli Santoro scoffed. ‘‘They don’t have enough gasoline to put in the limo Ted Turner gave him a few years back, let alone a submarine. That’s crazy talk.’’

‘‘The Cubans have some close friends in Venezuela. Sympathetic ones. Don’t let your patriotism blind you to reality. If Fidel wants to keep a submarine in play, he has the means to do so. The idea is one my office takes quite seriously.’’

‘‘So they could get the bombs out of Yucatán?’’

‘‘It’s possible.’’

‘‘You must have had a plan,’’ said Finn. ‘‘You had some idea of what you were going to do. You can’t tell me you came in blind.’’

‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘So what was the plan?’’

‘‘Disable the bombs. Destroy the plutonium cores if necessary.’’

‘‘Disable as in explode?’’

‘‘Remove the cores, explode the mechanisms. One thing we know for sure, the Cubans have no nuclear program.’’

‘‘But they could trade the plutonium.’’

‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘Can you do it by yourself, without your men?’’ Billy asked.

‘‘With some help. Someone who knows a little of electronics.’’

‘‘That would be me,’’ said Eli.

‘‘Some physical strength.’’

‘‘Hello there,’’ said the big bald Dutchman. ‘‘
Ik heet
Guido Derlagen.’’

‘‘This is Mexico’s problem. I cannot have you involved,’’ said Garza, shaking his head.

‘‘What about the necessary explosives?’’

‘‘In the pack,’’ said Garza. ‘‘Two shaped charges.’’

‘‘And radiation?’’ Billy asked. ‘‘You weren’t wearing those badges for nothing.’’

‘‘It is not really a problem, at least in the short term,’’ Garza explained. ‘‘The cores in the bombs are covered in hexagonal plates of explosive. Plutonium can be obtained from special-purpose plutonium production reactors, or as a by-product of commercial power or research reactors. The plutonium produced by special-purpose production reactors has a relatively low plutonium-240 content, less than seven percent, and is called weapons grade. Commercial reactors may produce plutonium with Pu-240 with concentrations of more than twenty percent and is called reactor grade, but because it must be handled remotely it is not economic to make bombs with. Weapons grade really means cheap. A pair of rubber gloves would be good enough. The cores only need to be separated from the shaped charges. Sinking them in a cenote would be good enough for the time being.’’

‘‘How about the observatory over there?’’ Finn suggested.

‘‘What do you mean?’’ Garza asked.

‘‘I’ll bet that structure is seated directly over a cenote pool,’’ said Finn. ‘‘It’s often how Mayan and Aztec astronomers worked. They used a cenote pool or an artificial disk of still water to reflect the night sky for easier study. They even had numbered grids in some of them with painted lines or rows of stones as dividers to map the entire sky.’’

‘‘What are you suggesting?’’ Garza asked.

‘‘You, Guido, and Eli see if you can track down the bombs. Billy and I will find the entrance to the temple. I can almost guarantee a cenote for your plutonium. We drop the cores in the pool. The perfect hiding place, at least for a little while. Until you can call in the cavalry. ’’ She turned and glanced at Eli and Guido. ‘‘Did you find any tools back at the campsite?’’

‘‘Couple of folding shovels, mountaineering axes. Some rope, trowels. A few flares. Basic stuff. Nothing fancy.’’

‘‘It should be enough. There won’t be much blocking the entrance. It doesn’t look like the structure’s been overbuilt very much, if at all. Virgin territory.’’

‘‘Then what?’’ Billy asked, lying between Garza and Finn. ‘‘A game of whist perhaps?’’

‘‘We run like hell,’’ said Finn.

23

Cardinal Rossi, dressed in a natty pair of Greg Norman single-pleat golf shorts, a dark blue Ben Hogan golf shirt, and a top-of-the -line pair of FootJoy shoes, addressed the ball carefully and whacked the little white orb two hundred yards down the fifth fairway of the Windsor Downs Golf Course on Cat Cay. He watched its flight, tilting his head slightly as the ball arced over the expansive sod and headed toward the green. Not bad for an old man with a bit of bursitis.

‘‘Looks like God’s on your side,’’ James Noble said, grumbling as the ball dropped straight as a die.

‘‘Always.’’ Rossi smiled. ‘‘One of the perks of the job.’’ He dropped his titanium driver into his golf bag and began pulling the cart down the fairway. ‘‘Heard from your son lately?’’