Havana Storm

11

The rays of the dive light shimmered through the crystalline waters, illuminating a coarse limestone wall a dozen feet away. No detail was too small to see, Summer Pitt thought, amazed at the clarity. Though she missed the color and warmth of the sea life that made a usual saltwater dive enticing, she relished the opportunity to dive in perfect visibility. Peering up, she watched as her air bubbles floated to the surface a hundred feet away.

The daughter of NUMA’s Director and an oceanographer herself, Summer was diving in a cenote near the coast of Tabasco, a state in eastern Mexico. A natural sinkhole formed in a limestone deposit, the cenote was essentially a vertical, water-filled tunnel. Summer had the sensation of traveling through an elevator shaft as she descended the fifty-foot-diameter cavern. As the filtered sunlight waned, she turned her dive light to the depths below. A few yards away, two other divers were kicking toward the sandy bottom. She cleared her ears and pursued the other divers, catching them as they reached the bottom at a depth of one hundred and twenty feet.

She swam alongside a dark-haired man whose tall, lanky body matched her own. He turned and winked, the joy of the cenote dive evident in his bright green eyes. Her twin brother, Dirk, who shared their father’s name, always showed an extra jolt of liveliness when exploring the depths.

They finned toward the third diver, a bearded man whose shaggy gray hair swirled around his facemask. Dr. Eduardo Madero, an anthropology professor from the University of Veracruz, was carefully examining the bottom. Dirk and Summer had just completed a joint marine project with Madero, assessing an area of coral reefs off Campeche. In appreciation for their help, Madero had invited them to dive in the isolated Tabasco cenote, where he was engaged in his own cultural resource project.

Madero hovered over a large aluminum grid anchored over a portion of the cenote’s floor. Small yellow flags with numbered tags sprouted from the sand, marking artifacts discovered during the formal excavation. Most of the targets of Madero’s excavation were readily visible.

Easing alongside him, Dirk and Summer aimed their dive lights at the partially excavated section. Summer immediately recoiled. A human skull stared up at her, grinning ghoulishly with brown-stained teeth. A pair of small gold hoops glistened in the sand beside the skull, a pair of hand-fashioned earrings once worn by the smiling owner.

Summer swung her light about, revealing a morbid assortment of protruding skulls and bones. Madero hadn’t exaggerated when he cautioned them before the dive that it was like visiting a graveyard struck by a tornado.

The fact that the cenote had been used for human sacrifices seemed apparent, but Madero had yet to identify its occupants. The location was in a region once inhabited by the Olmecs, and later the Mayans, although Madero could not date any finds to either era. A small ceramic figurine had been dated to 1500 A.D., concurrent with Aztec rule farther north, and close to the time of the Spanish conquest.

Gazing at the exposed skull, Summer envisioned the ceremonial human sacrifice that had taken place centuries before on the cenote’s rim. If it was an Aztec ritual, the victim would have been held facing the sky while a high priest plunged a razor-sharp flint knife into the victim’s chest and ripped out the still-beating heart. The heart and blood were offerings to the gods, possibly the warrior deity, who ensured the sun’s daily travels across the sky.

In some instances, the victim’s limbs would be severed and consumed in a ritual meal while the torso was tossed into the cenote. In the case of the Aztecs, human sacrifice occurred daily. The smiling skull looking up at Summer might just be one of hundreds of victims sacrificed from the unknown village that once stood overhead. She shivered at the thought despite the warmth of her wetsuit.

Summer turned and followed Madero as he guided them over several excavation pits, pointing out a basalt grinding bowl, or molcajete, that had yet to be cataloged and removed. After several more minutes surveying the grisly bits of human remains, Madero motioned with his thumb toward the surface. Their bottom time had expired.

Only too glad to depart the submerged graveyard, Summer gently swam toward the surface ahead of the two men. As she followed her trail of ascending bubbles, she brushed along the limestone wall. A wayward kick jammed the edge of her fin against a protrusion, nearly pulling it off her foot. To her left, a ledge jutted from the wall and she propped an elbow against it as she readjusted her fin.

She pushed off from the ledge to continue her ascent but felt a smooth shape beneath her arm. She hesitated, examining the narrow ledge, which was crowned with a thick mantle of silt. As she fanned her hand through the water, she brushed away a layer of loose sediment that swirled upward in a brown cloud. As it began to settle, an image emerged through the murk, a painted butterfly.

Madero approached and glanced at the ledge. A glimmer of recognition sparkled in his wide eyes. He gently brushed a gloved hand over the surface, then dug his fingers into the sediment, tracing the object’s perimeter. Caught on the ledge during its descent, it had no associated cultural context to warrant a more methodical excavation. He scooped the silt aside, exposing a ceramic container roughly the size of a jewelry box. The lone corner not encrusted with sediment featured a tiny butterfly.

Madero motioned for Summer to take the box and ascend. She gingerly lifted it from its perch like the box was a ticking bomb and then kicked toward the surface.

Their limited time on the bottom didn’t require a decompression stop, so she continued finning until her head popped above the calm surface. She floated near a makeshift stairwell as Madero exited the cenote and dropped his dive gear, then returned to take the box from Summer’s anxious fingers. Dirk followed her as she climbed up the steps. They quickly stripped off their wetsuits as the steamy heat of the Mexican Gulf Coast enveloped them.

“The water was amazing,” she whispered to Dirk, “but I could have done without the graveyard tour.”

He shrugged. “Not the worst place to spend eternity, after losing your heart.”

“What did they do with the hearts?”

“Burned them, I believe. They might have left a few in inventory.” Dirk waved an arm about the surrounding light jungle. Madero had found only scattered remains of a temple structure and an adjacent village near the cenote. Little of it was now recognizable. Only a pair of canvas tents, used by Madero and his associates during their periodic excavations, gave any hint of human occupation.

The archeologist had taken Summer’s box to a nearby table. Summer and Dirk approached as he carefully brushed away a layer of concretion with an old toothbrush.

“So what did Summer find?” Dirk asked. “An old box of cigars?”

“No es una caja de cigarros,” Summer replied with a shake of her head.

Madero smiled. “Your Spanish is good.” He kept his eyes focused on the box. “I believe it is in fact something much more remarkable.”

Summer crowded in close to study the artifact. “What do you think it was used for?”

“I really can’t say, but the design certainly appears Aztec. They were wonderful artisans. I’ve viewed a large number of artifacts but never anything like this.” He set down the toothbrush and tilted the box toward Summer.

“The shape is unique,” he said. “A perfect square is much more difficult to create out of clay than a round pot. And look at this.”

He pointed to the seam along the edge of the lid, which was sealed with a gray substance.

“Glued shut,” Dirk said.

“Exactly. It looks like dried latex, which is easily extracted from the local rubber trees.” He picked up the box and gently shook it. A light object rattled inside.

“It’s remained sealed and watertight despite its immersion,” Madero said. “The sediments covering the box must have provided a layer of protection.”

“What do you think is inside?” Summer asked.

Madero shook his head. “There’s no telling. Once we get it back to my lab in Veracruz, we can X-ray it, then remove the latex and open it.”

Dirk grinned. “I still say it’s some musty cigars.”

“Perhaps.” Madero set the box down with reverence. “But I think it could contain something much more significant.”

He picked up the toothbrush and lightly scrubbed the center of the lid, gradually revealing a bright green circular pattern. Inlaid stones of green and blue were impressed into the design. The wing of a bird began to take shape.

“The Aztecs incorporated animals into much of their artwork,” Madero said. “Eagles and jaguars were popular motifs, representing the warrior classes.”

Summer studied the expanding image. “It’s a bird of some sort, but I don’t think it’s an eagle. Were other birds used symbolically?”

“Yes, especially exotic tropical birds. Their plumage was highly valued, more so than gold. The emperor and other nobility would commission elaborate headdresses from feathers of a green jungle bird called the quetzal. Then there is Huitzilopochtli. He was the ancestral deity of the Aztecs, perhaps their most important god. He was a patron of war but also of their home of Tenochtitlan. He was the guiding force for the Mexica in their original migration from Aztlán to Tenochtitlan — what is now Mexico City.”

“And he was associated with a bird?” Summer asked.

“Yes, a blue hummingbird. The image was typically reserved for items of the ruling class.”

Madero blew away the loosened debris and held the box toward Summer. She could now see the stones were pieces of jade and turquoise. They were joined by inlaid bone and pyrite in the shape of a bird in flight. There was no mistaking the animal’s stubby wings and long, thin bill.

It was a blue hummingbird.

12

All eyes were focused on the now cleaned ceramic box. Perched on a steel table in a lab adjacent to Dr. Madero’s college office, its secrets beckoned under a bank of fluorescent lights.

Madero treated the lid’s sealed edges with a solvent, then heated the seams with a small hair dryer. The combined effects softened the natural latex and loosened its bond. Madero tested the gooey material with a plastic putty knife.

“It’s quite sticky,” he said. “I think it will open right up.”

Grasping the lid with a gloved hand, he gave it a gentle tug. The lid popped right off.

Standing on either side of Madero, Dirk and Summer leaned close. A small piece of green felt blanketed a square object inside. Madero pulled away the felt, revealing a tablet of coarse pages.

“It looks like a small book,” Summer said.

Madero’s eyes were as wide as platters. Using tweezers, he opened the blank top page, revealing a colorful cartoon-like image of several warriors carrying spears and shields.

“Not simply a book.” Madero’s voice quivered with excitement. “A codex.”

Summer was familiar with the Mayan and Aztec codices, pictographic manuscripts that recorded their culture and history, but she had never seen one in person. She was surprised when Madero pulled up the first page and the subsequent ones unfolded in accordion fashion. Each contained a pictorial image with multiple glyphic signs.

“Is it Mayan?” Dirk asked.

“No, classic Nahuatl.”

Summer frowned. “Nahuatl?”

“The language of the Mexica, or Aztecs. I recognize the glyphs as classic Nahuatl symbols.”

“Can you decipher it?”

Madero unfurled the codex across the table, counting twenty panels. He photographed each panel first and then carefully studied the images. He kept his thoughts to himself as he moved from one panel to the next. The early panels depicted a battle, while later ones showed men carrying a large object. After several minutes, Madero looked up.

“It seems to describe a local conflict. An account of the battle was recorded in stone, which was split in two and carried away for some reason.” He shook his head. “I must profess to being a little out of my element here. A colleague of mine, Professor Miguel Torres, is an expert in Nahuatl. Let me see if he is available.”

Madero returned a moment later, trailed by two men.

“Dirk, Summer, this is my esteemed associate Dr. Miguel Torres, head of the archeology department. Miguel, my friends from NUMA.”

A bearded man with a smiling cherub face stepped forward and shook hands.

“It is a pleasure to meet you. Congratulations on your amazing discovery.” His eyes darted to the codex. He suppressed his curiosity long enough to introduce the man behind him.

“May I present Juan Díaz of the Cuban Interior Ministry? Juan is here performing research on his own Aztec artifact. Like myself, he is excited to view your discovery.”

Díaz smiled. “Apparently your find is much more interesting than the small figurine I possess.”

“You found an Aztec artifact in Cuba?” Summer asked.

“It likely found its way there through later trade,” Torres said. “While Aztec nautical voyages in the Caribbean are a possibility, we have no recorded evidence of any occurrences.”

The professor turned his attention to the codex. “Eduardo already showed me the ceramic box. A wonderful discovery in itself. But a codex inside as well?”

“Please,” Summer said, “take a look and tell us what you think.”

The archeologist could barely contain his excitement. He slipped on a pair of cotton gloves and approached the codex.

“The paper is classic amatl, constructed from the inner bark of the fig tree, which was then whitewashed. That is consistent with several known Aztec codices. It is crisp, bright, and in excellent condition. Simply amazing, after being submerged for centuries.”

“Fine craftsmanship from the ancients,” Madero said, “as we’ve seen many times before.”

Torres studied the first panel. “It appears similar to the Borturini Codex at the National Anthropology Museum.” He pointed to several symbols below the image of the warriors. “That codex dates from the colonial era.”

“Do you mean the arrival of the Spanish?” Summer asked.

“Yes. In 1519, to be precise. That’s when Cortés landed near Veracruz.”

Torres initiated a running narrative of each panel. A loose tale quickly emerged from the images.

“The Aztecs are mourning some sort of defeat in the early panels,” Torres said. “It was associated with a large number of deaths. It is unclear if the opponent was a regional enemy or the Spanish.”

“Or disease?” Madero asked.

“Quite possibly. Smallpox arrived with the Spanish and ultimately killed millions. I think it references a conventional battle, however. In the second panel, we see a group of warriors dressed in feathers and beaked helmets. These were the cua¯uhtmeh, or Eagle Warriors, an elite group of skilled veterans.”

Torres pointed to a trail of footprints painted across several pages that signified travel. “As a result of the battle, they are taking something of a major journey.”

“Their trip continued on water?” Summer asked, pointing to the next panel, which showed seven canoes at the edge of a body of water.

“Apparently so. The Aztec capital of Tenochtitlan was built on an island in a lake, so we know they used small canoes.”

“These appear significantly larger,” Madero said.

The Cuban Díaz inched forward with interest. “Numerous warriors are depicted in each boat. It also appears they have loaded provisions aboard. And that may be some sort of sail.” He pointed to what looked like a pole with a loose sheet around it.

“Yes, very curious,” Torres said. “I’ll admit, I’ve never seen an Aztec depiction of a large vessel like that. We may have to consider the possibility they were navigating in the Bay of Campeche.”

“Or beyond?” Díaz asked.

“That might explain why we found the codex in Tabasco,” Madero said. “There must have been some connection with their departing or returning point on the coast.”

“There is much we don’t know,” Torres said.

They all studied the next panel, which showed the seven canoes heading across the water toward the sun. The following image showed a single canoe returning.

“Now things get interesting,” Torres said. “The next panel shows an Eagle Warrior, presumably from the surviving canoe, describing his voyage to a stonecutter. Then we see the related images being carved into a large circular stone.”

“It resembles the Sun Stone,” Madero said.

“Where have I heard of that?” Summer asked.

“It was discovered in 1790 during renovations of the Mexico City Cathedral and is now displayed in the National Anthropology Museum. Some twelve feet across, it contains a myriad of Aztec glyphs, many related to known calendar periods.”

“If the scale is accurate,” Torres said, “this stone would be considerably smaller.”

Dirk looked at the image, still contemplating the canoes from the earlier panels. “Any idea about the nature of the voyage?”

“The purpose isn’t clear, but it appears they were transporting something of great significance. That is implied by the presence of the Eagle Warriors as escorts. Perhaps a special offering to one of the deities.”

“Would that include items of intrinsic value,” Díaz asked, “such as gold or jewels?”

“The Aztecs valued and traded such objects, and they are reflected in their religious artifacts, so that would be likely.”

The next panel showed the stonecutter with his handiwork, standing in a house, while men wearing steel helmets and breastplates assemble outside.

“And now the Spanish appear,” Madero said.

“Yes, and they want the stone.” Torres pointed to the next image. “The stonecutter cuts it in half and tries to hide both pieces. The Spaniards find one piece and then kill the stonecutter.”

The next page showed a stone fragment being loaded onto a ship with a large sail. A monkey was depicted above the bow.

“So the Spanish obtained the stone and loaded it on a galleon,” Summer said. “It must be now sitting in the basement of a museum in Seville, collecting dust.”

“I’m not aware of any such artifact,” Torres said. “And the Spaniards got only half the stone. The final panels show more Eagle Warriors transporting the remaining piece and hiding it in a cave beneath a mountain marked with a cow.”

“Any clue where that might be?”

Torres pointed to a page depicting footsteps along a flat-topped pyramid crowned by four large statues.

“That most certainly is the Pyramid of Quetzalcoatl at Tula,” he said, “which is north of Mexico City. After reaching Tula, the footsteps on the next frame indicate they continued farther. It’s difficult to gauge distances, but if the next page represents another day or two’s journey, they might have traveled another thirty or forty miles beyond Tula.”

Madero pored over the final image. “They then buried the stone in a cave, it would seem, near a mountain marked with a cow. That’s very curious.”

“That they would try to hide the stone?” Summer asked.

“No, the fact that they drew a cow. Cattle were not native to North America. They were brought over by Columbus.” He stepped to a file cabinet and returned with a folding road map of the Mexican state of Hidalgo. He pinpointed Tula near the map’s southeast corner.

“It’s probably safe to assume they traveled from the south to reach Tula. The question is, where would they have gone from there?”

He and Torres examined the surrounding place names, searching for a clue.

“Maybe Huapalcalco?” Madero pointed to a town east of Tula. “An important Toltec city that also represents one of the oldest human occupation sites in Hidalgo.”

“If they were traveling from Tenochtitlan, or the Tabasco coast,” Torres said, “they wouldn’t have needed to pass through Haupalcalco. It’s too far east.”

“You’re right. Farther north is a better bet.” Madero dragged a finger from Tula, stopping at a town called Zimapán, almost fifty miles north. He stared at the lettering, lost in thought.

“A cow on the mountain,” he said. “Or is it really a bull? Isn’t there an old Spanish mine around there called Lomo del Toro, or Bull’s Back?”

Torres’s eyes lit up. “Yes! A very early Spanish silver mine, predecessor to the big El Monte Mine west of Zimapán. I worked on a dig at a village site near there many years ago. The bull’s back refers to the rugged top of the mountain. You’re right, Eduardo, it fits the description. The cave could be on this very same mountain.”

“Could the stone still be there?” Díaz asked.

The room fell quiet. Madero finally broke the silence. “It’s a remote area. I think the chances are good.”

“There’s only one problem,” Torres said. “The Zimapán Dam, built in the 1990s, flooded the valley floor west of the mountain. If the cave is located on that side, it may be underwater.”

“Underwater, you say?” Madero turned to Dirk and Summer and winked. “Now, who do we know who could pull off an underwater search of that nature?”

Dirk and Summer looked at each other and grinned.

13

The tranquil expanse of open water appeared much like any other portion of the Caribbean. Only the occasional dead fish slapping against the bow of the Sargasso Sea gave hint of anything amiss. The NUMA research ship cut its engines and eased to a drift in the lightly choppy seas.

Two days had passed since they had slipped into Havana Bay under the watchful eye of a Cuban patrol craft and offloaded the Alta’s injured crew and oil workers. A Cuban Revolutionary Navy tender had pulled alongside and hoisted a diving bell over to the NUMA ship. The Canadian dive team climbed from the NUMA decompression chamber into the pressurized bell, which was transported back to the Cuban ship, where the men would complete their decompression cycle.

Captain Knight waited for the last of his men to debark, then approached Pitt at the gangway. “I hate to think of how many men we would have lost if you hadn’t responded to our distress call. I can’t thank you enough.”

“Lucky thing we were in the neighborhood.” Pitt nodded at the antiquated ambulances beginning to pull away from the dock. “We would have been happy to drop you in Key West.”

Knight smiled. “We’ll be well treated. We’re operating under a contract with the Cuban government, so it’s probably better we’re here to sort through the repercussions. Hopefully, I’ll be able to smooth over the fact that we won’t be able to tap that exploratory well for a while.”

“I wish you luck,” Pitt said, shaking hands.

Moving at a measured pace, Knight stepped ashore, then turned and gave the crew of the Sargasso Sea a sharp salute.

As the gangway was secured and the mooring lines retrieved, Giordino approached Pitt with a box of Ramón Allones Cuban cigars under one arm.

“How did you score those?” Pitt asked. “Nobody was allowed off the ship.”

“I made fast friends with the harbor pilot. They cost me two bottles of Maker’s Mark.”

“I’d say you got the better end of that deal.”

Giordino grimaced. “Not if you consider they were my last drops of booze smuggled aboard ship.”

They stood at the rail, watching the historic Malecón slip by, as the Sargasso Sea made its way out of the compact harbor. Pitt had set foot in Havana years earlier and was struck by how similar the waterfront appeared, as if the march of time had somehow bypassed the city.

The NUMA ship soon found open water. Shedding its Cuban escort, it beat a quick turn around the island’s western tip, backtracking on a southeastern tack toward Jamaica. Reaching one of Yaeger and Gunn’s dead zones, the Sargasso Sea came to a halt and a flurry of activity began. A team of scientists took water samples, lowering collection devices to varying depths and rushing them to the lab.

In the meantime, Giordino prepped an autonomous underwater vehicle. The torpedo-shaped AUV was packed with sensors and a self-contained sonar system. With a prearranged road map, the device would dive to the bottom and skim along the seafloor in a set grid pattern, mapping the contours.

Pitt watched as Giordino released the AUV from the stern A-frame. “When will she be back?”

“About four hours. She’s on a short leash for the initial run, surveying less than a square mile. No sense in running her crazy until we can determine the source of the dead zone.”

“My very next intent.” Pitt migrated to the bridge, where he had the captain hopscotch the vessel around the area, stopping at half-mile increments for additional water samples. When it was time to retrieve the AUV, Pitt grabbed Giordino and ducked into one of the labs. A dark-eyed woman in a blue lab coat motioned for them to join her in front of a computer monitor.

“Do you have some results for us, Kamala?” Pitt asked.

Kamala Bhatt, the Sargasso Sea’s marine biologist, nodded. “We do indeed.”

She took a seat on a stool. “As you know, dead zones are common all over the world’s oceans. They are typically found near the mouth of rivers carrying polluted runoff. But this site, and the others identified by Hiram Yaeger, are far from land. Our initial testing does show a decrease of oxygen levels, but it is less than we would otherwise expect.”

Pitt shook his head. “So there is in fact no dead zone here?”

“On the contrary, the toxicity levels are quite high. It just wasn’t the animal I expected to find.” She pointed to the computer screen, where a bar graph displayed the composition of one of the water samples. “The water tests lower for oxygen content than typically found, but there seems to be another factor that is increasing the impact to aquatic life. I had to delve deeper until I found one element out of place. Its concentration is off the charts.”

“What’s that?” Giordino asked.

“Mercury. Or methyl mercury, to be precise.”

“Mercury poisoning this far from land?” Pitt asked. “Are you sure?”

“We’ve tested all but the last batch of seawater samples, and they all show highly toxic concentrations of methyl mercury. We’ve found bioaccumulation in the plankton, which then works itself up the food chain. We also sampled a number of dead fish, which seem to be present in large numbers, and confirmed the presence of mercury.”

“Mercury is nothing new,” Pitt said. “Industrial air pollution has been increasing mercury levels in the oceans for decades. But this is different?”

Bhatt nodded. “The concentration is exponentially higher. This isn’t just some general acid rain but a specific, localized incident. The only comparable toxicity I can find historically is from Minamata, Japan. A factory there dumped twenty-seven tons of methyl mercury into the bay over several decades, resulting in catastrophic damage to nearby residents and local sea life. Nearly two thousand deaths have been attributed to it.”

“But we’re fifty miles from land,” Giordino said.

“If I had to guess,” Bhatt said, “I would say that someone has been dumping industrial wastes out here.”

“If that’s the case,” Pitt said, “the AUV will show it.”

“The concentration was highest in the water sample where the AUV was launched,” Bhatt said.

“She’s due up any minute,” Giordino said. “Hopefully, the litterbugs left a calling card.”

The trio retreated to the stern deck as the AUV surfaced and was hoisted aboard. Giordino downloaded the sonar data onto a portable hard drive and returned to the lab to review the images. He quickly advanced through the AUV’s acoustic imagery, which showed hundred-meter swaths of the undulating seafloor. There were rocks, sand, and even occasional dunes, but no drums, crates, or other debris. Only an odd series of shadowy lines marred the bottom, concentrated in a slight underwater valley.

“Nothing obvious,” Giordino said, “though those lines might be worth a closer look. It’s difficult to say if they are geological features or man-made.”

“We might be dealing with something that’s buried,” Pitt said, “in which case we’ve got our work cut out for us.”

“I can reconfigure the AUV to perform a sub-bottom profile. That would give us a limited look beneath the seabed, if the sediment conditions are friendly.”

Pitt stared at the sonar screen, knowing the answer to the mystery was there somewhere. He shook his head slowly. “No, let’s move on. It looks to be a sandy bottom here, which isn’t conducive to the sub-bottom profiler. We’ve got two more dead zones to investigate, and I’ll wager the source will be evident at one of those.”

Without debate, Giordino relayed the order to the bridge, knowing from the past that Pitt’s intuition was as good as gold.

14

The battered green panel van turned off the dirt road and pulled to a stop on a high bluff. As a cloud of trailing dust settled, Dr. Torres climbed out of the driver’s seat and spread a topographic map across the hood. Dirk and Summer joined him as he took a black pen and marked an X through a square grid. A half-dozen adjacent grids were already marked.

“That was the last accessible area around the base of Lomo del Toro to survey,” Torres said in a tired voice. “Aside from the two abandoned mine shafts we crawled through, I’m afraid we’ve found nothing resembling a cave, or even a potentially buried one.”

“Dr. Madero told us it was a long shot,” Summer said.

“True. I wish he was here to see for himself.”

“He was disappointed, but he couldn’t get out of a speaking engagement in Mexico City,” Summer said. “We did promise him we’d give it our best effort.”

Torres nodded. He was certain they were in the right place. He and Madero had spent days studying the codex and comparing it to other Aztec documents, as well as reading contemporary Spanish accounts. Bit by bit, they deciphered additional clues that seemed to confirm the Aztecs had carried the half stone to Zimapán.

One notation indicated they had traveled north, presumably from their capital of Tenochtitlan. Another indicated they stopped at Tula along the way. Tula was an ancient Toltec city near the northern fringe of the Aztec empire, just over twenty miles away. The codex revealed the warriors had traveled two days beyond Tula, traversing a steep ravine, before depositing the half stone in a cave near the base of a cow-shaped mountain. Everything pointed to Lomo del Toro.

But two days of searching the dry, rugged region in Mexico’s Central Plateau had led nowhere. After arriving at the mining town of Zimapán, the three drove through the narrow canyon of Barranca de Tolimán, which seemed to align with the Aztec description. At Lomo del Toro mountain, they initiated a search around its perimeter. Much was inaccessible by car, forcing them to hike the rugged terrain. They were now hot, dusty, and tired of dodging rattlesnakes.

They had explored all around the mountain, except for the El Monte Mine facility facing Zimapán, which encompassed the original Spanish digs. With most of its silver and lead deposits having been mined in excavations that stretched back to the sixteenth century, it was now a small operation. Torres conferred with mine officials and a local historian, but no one recalled any stories of an Aztec cave, or even an Aztec presence in the area. Fears that the stone was hidden in an early mine shaft were minimized when they realized the mining operation was high up the mountain.

Torres drank warm water from his canteen and shook his head. “My friends, perhaps the Aztec cow mountain is located elsewhere.”

Dirk produced a copy of the codex page that illustrated the burial site. He gazed from the mountain image to the imposing heights of Lomo del Toro. “The ridge highlines look like a match to me.”

Summer gazed at the mountain and agreed. Studying the photocopy, she noticed a faint line beneath the cave. “What’s that?”

Dirk and Torres peered at the line.

“I didn’t remember that in the original,” Torres said.

“That’s what I thought,” Summer said. “It became more visible in the photocopy.”

Torres studied the line closely. “It would appear to be a river or creek.”

Dirk was already eyeing the topographic map. “The view of the bull is most prominent from either the southwest or the northeast. The northeast area is mostly rolling hills that descend toward Zimapán. To the southwest, where we are now, there’s a natural wash running along the mountain’s western flank.”

“We’ve already searched there,” Summer noted.

“But not here.” Dirk’s finger followed the wash, tracking beneath a low ridge that jutted from the base of the mountain. A half mile distant, the ridge grew into a high, steep bluff. The wash below disappeared into a large reservoir.

“You think the cave is in this small ridge that stretches off Lomo del Toro?”

“No, I think it’s beneath this high bluff.”

“That’s underwater,” Summer said.

“It wouldn’t have been when the Aztecs were here.” Torres’s voice had a new optimism. “The lake was created by a dam built some twenty-five years ago.”

Dirk dragged his finger to the middle of the reservoir. “If you were drawing a picture of the cave from this vantage point, the peak of Lomo del Toro would rise above and just beyond the top of the bluff. The codex image would still fit.”

“Yes, yes,” Torres said, his face lighting up. “Are you up to the task of searching in the water?”

Dirk gave the professor a wink. “Could an Aztec priest carve a turkey?”

15

They plunged into the reservoir from a shoreline ledge, finding the water cool and the visibility clear. Summer involuntarily shivered in the water that was not as warm as the cenote where they had last dived. She hovered a moment at the ten-foot mark to clear her ears, then swam after her brother, who was already descending rapidly. After Torres had found a path to the water’s edge, the siblings had assembled their dive gear in record time, leaving the archeologist to pace the shoreline.

Dirk followed the gradient until it leveled at sixty feet. The lake bed was a bland tableau of rocks and brown mud that resembled a moonscape. Any sign of a riverbed was long since hidden, covered by sediment built up since the dam was constructed. Dirk knew the original watercourse had followed the base of the ridge, and when Summer joined his side, he took off across its steep face.

They could look up the face of the ridge nearly to the surface. They swam in short spurts, methodically surveying the rock wall in hope of spotting a cave-like opening. Numerous times they were deceived by shadows and narrow fissures that led nowhere. Both were strong swimmers, and with little current in the lake, they quickly advanced several hundred yards along the base of the ridge.

The feature gradually sharpened to a near-vertical rise. Dirk was looking ahead to the next contour when he felt Summer grip his arm. She pointed to the rock incline at his side. A small indentation was visible where his fin had knocked away some silt. He stuck his fingers into the crevice and scooped away a thick handful of mud. The water turned murky, but a minute later it cleared and they could see the indentation was a carved step. Summer ran her hand above the cut and found another hollow. Scooping away the mud inside, she exposed it as another step, carved directly above the first one.

She pointed up the face of the rock and began ascending. Every foot or so, she found another step filled with sediment. About forty feet above her, Summer noticed a dark spot and her heart skipped a beat.

It appeared little different than the rock shadows that had deceived them earlier, but she became more intrigued when a pair of fish emerged from the darkness. Dirk followed Summer as she ascended, following the buried flight of steps. Drawing close to the rock shadow, she saw a thick ledge protruding from the wall above her, obscuring the view farther up.

With a strong kick of her fins, she broached the rim and peered over the top. Just beyond was an oval recess in the rock wall. Neatly concealed by the ledge, and accessible only by the steps when the land was dry, the cave would have been a highly defensible hideaway for its ancient occupants.

Summer waited until her brother joined her on the ledge. She then flicked on a dive light and swam through the slim opening, startling a large bass that darted out of the darkness. Dirk followed her, careful not to scrape the floor with his fins and kick up a cloud of sediment.

The small opening led a short distance before expanding into a house-sized cavern. Removed from the surface light, the interior was black and ominous, save for the thin illumination of their dive lights. The ceiling soared high above them, allowing the divers to float easily while surveying the interior. But there was little to observe. A rock fire pit occupied the center of the cave floor, while an orderly mound of crushed rock was piled against the back wall. There was no sign of the half stone, or any other artifacts.

Dirk swam to a side wall and examined it with his light. Crude scars peppered the surface, indicating the rocks in the pile had been hammered from the wall. He picked up one of the rocks and held it to his dive mask. It was a heavy chunk of granite flecked with silver. Someone had discovered a vein of the ore and made a primitive attempt to mine it. Could it have been the Aztecs?

He pocketed the rock and joined Summer, who was slowly swimming circular laps with her light pointed at the floor. The excitement in her eyes had vanished and she gave her brother a disappointed shake of her head. Dirk pointed toward the entrance and motioned to leave.

Summer followed, keeping her light pointed at the floor. As they crossed the center of the cave, her light caught the fire pit. She had examined it earlier but found only a ring of rocks over a mud floor. Now she noticed there were no charred sticks or signs of charcoal. Nor were the rocks blackened. She hesitated and then noticed the rocks’ alignment. They didn’t actually form a round pit but were instead positioned in a semicircle.

She reached out and snared Dirk’s ankle before he swam out the entrance, then dropped down to the fire pit. He turned his light on her as she glided above the pit and plunged a hand into its center. Summer’s fingers drove through several inches of sediment before reaching a hard surface. Sliding her hand against it, she could tell it was flat.

Her pulse quickened as she scooped the mud from the fire pit in thick handfuls. Fine particles rose through the water, deflecting their lights and turning the visibility to soup. Dirk released a shot of air from his buoyancy compensator and descended to the floor, feeling Summer’s elbow as she continued to sling mud. He felt her movements stop and they both lay quietly, waiting for the water to clear.

It felt like an eternity to Summer, but it was only a minute or two before the water began to become clear. She saw Dirk’s light appear, then the shape of his wetsuit. Together, they turned their lights toward the fire pit, where Summer’s hand still rested. As her fingers came into view, she traced the outline of a large, flat object. Brushing away a thin layer of sand, she pressed her face down to see.

The carved head of a bird gazed back at her, surrounded by an assortment of stylized glyphs like those in the codex. Summer winked at her brother and pointed at the figures.

She had found the Aztec stone.

16

The stone was too unwieldy to carry any distance, so Summer and Dirk left it in place and swam out of the cave. Dirk had carried a small lift bag attached to his buoyancy compensator. He inflated it with his regulator and tied it to a rock near the entrance. The small bag floated to the surface, providing a marker for the cave. Dirk and Summer followed it up, then swam along the ridge wall to where Torres waited impatiently.

The archeologist leaped like a drunken leprechaun when Summer described their find. “It was carved in a semicircle?”

“Yes,” Summer said, “exactly as if it had been cut in half. It was full of carved glyphs, just like the ones in the codex.”

“Fantástico! Can you remove it from the cave?”

“Yes, but we’ll never get it here.” She pointed to a tiny orange speck in the water. Dirk’s float bag lay almost a quarter mile away.

“We’ll have to move the van closer,” Dirk said. He eyeballed the top of the ridge, then borrowed Torres’s topographic map. “If we circle around the back of the ridge, I think we can drive over the top and descend directly above the cave. There’s a tapered gully nearby where we could access the lake.”

Summer nodded. “We could hoist it straight up the face of the bluff. There’s a coil of rope in the back of the van we can use.”

Torres laughed. “We have nothing to lose but my van. Let’s give it a try.”

They loaded their gear and drove around the east side of the ridge, following a weather-beaten dirt track that snaked down the hill to the reservoir’s dam. Finding a moderate incline to the ridge, Torres turned off the track and drove up the hillside. The ground was hard and compact, providing firm traction for the van’s worn tires.

The surface turned to solid rock as Torres reached the top of the ridge. Dirk got out and guided him down the other side and toward the edge, just overlooking the buoy marker. Torres stopped in front of a pile of boulders and stuck his head out the window. “How’s this?”

“Perfect,” Dirk said. “Just remember to put it in reverse when it’s time to leave.”

Torres applied the parking brake and turned off the engine. Summer was already out the door, uncoiling a length of nylon rope. Tying one end around the van’s door post, she flung the remaining line over the side, watching as it splashed into the water forty feet below.

“It’s a hundred-foot line,” she said. “Should be just enough to get us there.”

Dirk unloaded their dive equipment and two thin sleeping pads from their camping supplies.

“Can you grab my new camera?” Summer pointed to an underwater Olympus camera within her brother’s reach.

Torres helped them haul their gear to the nearby gully, which offered a steep but navigable path to the reservoir. “Be very careful, my friends,” he shouted as they prepared to enter the water.

“We’ll bring it up in one piece,” Dirk replied, knowing Torres’s chief concern was the artifact’s safety.

He slipped on his mask and stepped into the water, carrying the sleeping pads under one arm. Summer swam past him, retrieving the dangling rope. They met at the lift bag and dove to the cave entrance, another thirty feet down.

At the fire pit, Summer snapped multiple pictures of the stone in situ. Setting her camera aside, she helped Dirk muscle the heavy stone on top of one of the sleeping pads. Dirk wrapped the other pad over the exposed side, creating a protective cover, which he secured with Summer’s rope. Standing on the cave floor, he pulled the rope to give it a test. With a concerted effort, they slid the bundled stone across the muddy floor.

Nodding at Summer, he dragged the stone out of the cave, while his sister swam above it, guiding it free of any obstacles. Once clear of the entrance, Dirk pushed the stone upright on the ledge, then shot to the surface. They had agreed Summer would stay in the water and monitor the stone’s ascent while Dirk and Torres hoisted it to the van.

Dirk hardly had to assist Torres. By the time he had jettisoned his dive gear and hiked to the van, Torres was pulling like a madman. Adrenaline was clearly pumping through the archeologist’s veins. But his aged muscles began to fade as the stone broke the lake’s surface and Dirk pitched in for the remaining distance. Summer exited the water and joined the out-of-breath men as they removed the rope and pads.

The white half disk glistened under the afternoon sun. Torres dropped to his knees and grazed his fingertips across the surface. The glyphs were crisply cut, though along the edges they had worn thin.

Summer could see the glyphs were carved in bands that would have encircled the entire stone before it was cut in two. “Can you read what it says?”

“Portions,” Torres said with a nod. “This section relays an important journey across the water. Though we are missing half the stone, I suspect we’ll be able to piece together much of its intent.” He smiled. “Between this stone and the codex, you’ve given a pair of old archeologists quite a few years of steady work.”

“Just promise us,” Dirk said, “you won’t keep it all stored away in a dusty archive.”

“Heavens, no. This will easily be the centerpiece at the university’s museum. Which reminds me, were there any other artifacts?”

“No, I checked when I photographed the stone,” Summer said. “Oh, no!” she burst out suddenly. “My camera! I left it in the cave.”

“I’ll get it,” Dirk said. “I need to retrieve my float marker anyway. Maybe you can scavenge something to eat from the cooler while I’m gone.”

“No,” Torres said, “we shall have a celebratory dinner in Zimapán, and the tequila shall be on me.”

Dirk grinned. “A better offer I haven’t had in a month of Sundays.”

He hiked to the water’s edge, donned his tank and mask, and swam to the float. He took a quick glance up and noticed an odd swirl of dust rising atop the ridge. Thinking nothing of it, he emptied his buoyancy compensator and sank beneath the surface.

17

The white Jeep Cherokee came barreling up the ridge like a speeding cheetah, its tires chewing up the incline with ease. Reaching the summit, it made a hasty beeline for the university van. The Jeep’s driver didn’t bother picking an easy descent but drove straight down the ridge and slid to a stop in front of the van. A patch of loose gravel skittered over the edge of the rock face into the water below.

Summer casually kicked the sleeping pad over the stone and stepped in front of it as three men hopped from the Jeep. Each wore a baseball cap, sunglasses, and a black scarf wrapped around his face. Two held automatic handguns, which they leveled at Summer and Torres.

“What is this?” Torres snapped. “We have no drugs or money.” Though they were far south of the major drug cartel homeland states, Torres knew the violent organizations had a long reach.

“Shut up, old man, and stand aside,” one of the gunmen said. He waved his pistol at Summer. “You, too.”

Torres and Summer backed away as the other gunman stepped forward and threw back the cover from the stone.

“Is this it?” he asked.

The unarmed man stepped closer with a measured ease that was in marked contrast to the two men holding weapons. Clearly older than the others, he was the obvious group leader.

He studied the Aztec stone with a patient gaze. Satisfied, he nodded at his accomplices, then pointed to the back of the Jeep. The nearest gunman, who wore a red shirt, opened the deck lid and then joined the other man. They holstered their weapons and hoisted the stone off the ground.

“No!” Torres shouted. “That’s an important historical artifact.”

He stepped forward and shoved the nearest man, who lost his grip on the stone and fell backward. The other gunman let go as the stone thumped to the ground. In an instant, his pistol was back in his hand. Without hesitation, he raised and fired three shots into Torres’s chest.

Summer screamed as the archeologist staggered back. His eyelids fluttered and then he fell to the ground. Everyone else froze as the sound of the gunshots echoed off the surrounding hills.

“Imbécil!” the trio’s leader cried. He grabbed the gun and pointed at the stone. “Rápidamente.”

The two gunmen ferried the stone to the back of the Jeep as their boss kept a watchful eye on Summer. She knelt beside Torres but quickly realized he was dead.

“You killed him for a carved stone!” she cried, rising to her feet.

The two gunmen returned and spoke with their leader in low voices. One produced a knife and cut a short length from the rope. He then reached over and grabbed one of Summer’s wrists.

She swung her opposite elbow and slammed it into the man’s jaw. As he tumbled back, she took a step to run but froze as a gunshot rang out.

It was the group’s leader, firing a shot into the side of the van inches from Summer. He eased the gun sideways, taking aim at her. “The next one won’t miss.”

Logic, and the thought of her brother in the water below, overcame her anger. She remained still as the woozy gunman rose and bound Summer’s wrists behind her. After a quiet conversation with the leader, the gunman in the red shirt approached Summer. “Where is the other man who was with you?”

Summer stared straight ahead and said nothing. The leader strode to the edge of the bluff and stared into the water. Dirk’s float bag bobbed directly below. The water was clear enough that he could just make out the ledge fronted the cave. He gazed back to the mass of small boulders in front of the Jeep. They were in perfect alignment.

He pointed at Summer and motioned toward the Jeep. Red Shirt grabbed her arm and pushed her into the backseat, then helped the other two drag Torres’s body and roll it off the bluff. Summer grimaced as the body hit the water below with a sickening splash. The man with the knife then went to work on the van, slashing each of its tires.

Satisfied with their handiwork, the three men returned to the Jeep. Red Shirt climbed in back and held a pistol on Summer, while the other two sat in front. The leader took the wheel, but instead of backing up, he let the Jeep roll forward against one of the blockading boulders. He put the Jeep in low gear and eased the accelerator, shoving the boulder forward. Smaller rocks in front of it began sliding over the bluff, raining down into the water below. The boulder soon gave way, tumbling into the lake.

The Jeep backed up and took aim at an adjacent wall of rocks stacked high near the edge. The driver nudged at the pile, backing up hurriedly when one slammed onto the hood. Another push broke loose a lower supporting rock and the entire pile cascaded over the side, taking with it a thick chunk of the cliff. The Jeep nearly joined the avalanche, but the driver shifted into reverse and gunned the engine just in time. He turned and headed up the ridge as several tons of rock and debris slid down into the reservoir.

Summer sat stoically, anger showing only in the creases of her eyelids. As the lake vanished in a swirl of dust behind them, she could only pray silently for her brother’s safety.

18

It was a small clay bowl that saved Dirk’s life.

He had left the float bag in place while he swam into the cave to retrieve Summer’s underwater camera. He found it next to the fire pit. As he reached to grab it, his hand dipped into the silt and brushed something smooth and round. Finding a grip, he pulled free a small pottery bowl with the faint image of a snake carved on the bottom.

Slipping the bowl into a pocket on his BC, he probed for more artifacts. He felt nothing but ooze. As a grinding rumble sounded overhead, he glanced toward the cave entrance in time to see its blue glow turn dark. Seconds later, he was enveloped in a cloud of murky water.

Dirk swam blindly to the entrance, feeling his way along the cave floor until colliding with a large rock that blocked his way. As the sediment began to settle, he saw a gap of light to one side. He moved to the opening as a second rumble sounded above him. He considered darting out but hesitated when he heard a large splash. Shining his light through the opening, he saw a cascade of rocks tumble onto the ledge before a new cloud of sediment snuffed out his view.

Dirk could feel the vibration through the rocks as they piled up. It was several seconds before the slide subsided. The rocks from the ridge had knocked loose a large subsurface outcropping, which dumped even more tons of debris onto the ledge. Buried under the avalanche, the cave’s tiny entrance was completely sealed.

Dirk backed away from the entrance and examined his air pressure gauge. The needle hovered just above the red low-air warning marker. He had five, maybe ten minutes of air left.

Trapped in an underwater cave with little air, it would have been a perfect time to panic. But Dirk suppressed any such fears and took a calm breath of air, assessing the situation.

His initial urge was to attack the rock pile and try to dig free. Perhaps Summer was already preparing to dig on the other side. But logic told him he would never make it. The thundering avalanche had dropped so much rock, he would exhaust his air supply long before tunneling out.

If that was his only option, so be it. Then he looked up. The cave ceiling rose in twin fissures that angled up nearly twenty feet. He decided to take a quick look.

Gripping his flashlight, he kicked upward, following the first fissure until it converged in a narrow, jagged point. He backtracked and swam up the second fissure, finding a similar cathedral peak. The walls and fissure appeared to be solid rock. He turned and descended, almost missing it. But out of the corner of his eye, he caught a tiny speck of light.

Swimming closer, he found its source, a small pinhole in the rock wall leading to the lake. He pulled out a Randall dive knife strapped to his thigh and poked the tip into the hole. The light expanded as a small chunk of rock flaked away. Dirk began jamming the knife into the hole, gradually increasing its diameter to the size of a softball.

It was a way out, he knew, but he faced the same dilemma. Could he excavate a large enough hole before his air ran out? He had already used three minutes’ worth. With limited time, the knife alone wouldn’t do the job. He’d need more leverage.

He swam down to the cave floor, approached the ore pile, and searched for a stone he could use as a hammer. He spotted one with a blunt side and plucked it from the pile. Beneath it was a green rock with a near-perfect wedge shape. Intrigued by the shape, he picked it up, then realized that it wasn’t a rock. It was too heavy for its size and had a perfectly round hole in its underside.

Dirk held it close to his mask and recognized it as an oxidized copper ax head used to chip ore from the cave walls. The Aztec had been skilled stone carvers, he recalled, crafting statues and temples from the local basalt. Neighboring Mixtec craftsmen in Oaxaca, advanced in the skill of metallurgy, would have traded copper-based tools with the Aztecs. Though the wood handle had disintegrated, the copper head of the ancient ax was still solid.

He quickly swam back to the fissure and put both objects to work. Placing the business end of the ax head next to the opening, he struck the blunt side with the round stone. Muffled by the water, the impact registered as a loud click. Dirk struck it again and a chunk of rock broke away from the opening. The ancient Mixtec metallurgists had mixed tin with the copper when they forged the ax, producing a hard bronze-like metal that was surprisingly effective at cutting stone.

Feeling resistance from the air drawn through his regulator, he began pounding madly at the copper chisel. He didn’t have to check his pressure gauge to know he was drawing on his final air reserves. Striking hard caused the rock wall to stubbornly break away in fist-sized pieces. Pulling the loose rock away revealed a hole that was a foot in diameter.

Dirk took a breath and nothing came through the regulator. His tank was completely dry.

Without hesitating, he pounded the chisel as hard as he could. More fragments fell away, but the opening was still too small. His lungs tightened as a pounding in his head mimicked his banging on the rock. Through the vibrating ax head, he could feel a slight give in the rock wall. But the small, ancient ax felt like a ball-peen hammer tapping against the Hoover Dam.

He dismissed the fear of drowning, slipped off his BC, and removed the steel air tank. Grasping it by the neck, he smashed the bottom against the rock. The wall vibrated but nothing more. He smashed it again. And again. The tank collided with a clatter as Dirk released what little air he had left in his lungs. With a desperate plunge, he tried once more, summoning every ounce of strength.

This time, a small crack appeared — then suddenly a three-foot chunk of wall fell away.

Almost too shocked to react, Dirk let go of the tank and kicked through the hole. The surface was only ten feet away. He stroked upward and broke into the blinding sunlight with a rush, gasping and sucking at the fresh air. He floated in the water for nearly a minute before the oxygen was replenished in his blood and his breathing eased. Trying to relax, he stared at an empty sky, ignoring something in the water that brushed at his side. When his breathing slowed, he turned to see what was nudging him.

It was the body of Dr. Torres.

19

Dirk reacted quickly, swimming to a small rock outcropping and towing Torres’s body behind him. Once on land, he noted the three bullet wounds in the professor’s chest.

Dirk looked up toward the van and shouted Summer’s name. There was no reply. Then he saw a small cloud of dust wafting over the ridge. He ditched his mask and fins, fumbled through Torres’s pockets for the keys, and sprinted up the hill. He saw the frayed rope tied to the vehicle and knew someone had come for the stone. Glancing with fear at the water below, he saw no sign of Summer’s body. She must have been abducted.

Disregarding its four flat tires, Dirk started the van, turned it around, and mashed on the gas. The van lurched ahead, its flattened tires thumping against the wheel wells. Despite the uneven traction, Dirk coaxed the vehicle to the top of the ridgeline. Far below, he spotted a white Jeep driving north on the old dirt road.

He fought the urge to turn down the ridge and follow the Jeep. It would be impossible to catch it in the van’s disabled state. He’d already lost one of its shredded tires. Assuming the van reached the road, the many patches of soft sand would surely snare it for good.

From his review of the topo map, Dirk knew the road wound around several hills along the base of Lomo del Torro before curving west and leading across the Zimapán Dam. The dam spanned a narrow gorge at the ridge’s far end. If he could coax the van along the top of the ridgeline, he would cut off a mile or two and possibly catch the Jeep before it crossed the dam.

He punched the accelerator and rumbled across the ridge’s rounded peak. One by one, the remaining tires shredded off. The steel wheels let out a grinding wail, and every bump and dip rattled through the chassis. Dirk felt like he was riding a jackhammer. In the side mirrors, he could see a trail of sparks erupt whenever the wheels scraped over solid rock.

The ridgeline gradually narrowed, forcing Dirk onto a side ledge that held level for a short distance. The ledge narrowed, then vanished altogether in a jumble of small boulders. Dirk swerved up the slope but struck a patch of soft sand. Feeling the rear wheels start to bog down, he had no choice but to turn downhill to maintain momentum. Narrowly missing one boulder, he slid into a tight ravine. The van heeled to its side, nearly toppling over before an opposing rut rocked it back upright. The van thumped over some smaller rocks, then again found even ground.

Dirk feathered the throttle as the ridge began to taper. Ahead and below him, he could discern the narrow Zimapán Dam. He drove hard down the increasingly steep slope, then slammed on the brakes and spun the wheel. The bent and pitted wheels skidded, digging ruts through the hard-packed surface before the van rocked to a halt. Dirk climbed out and peeked past the hood.

Just three feet in front of the van, the ridgeline dropped away in a sheer cliff. A hundred feet below was the dam’s western approach. An aged asphalt road ran across the top of the concrete structure, curving up another ridge on the opposite side. It was easy to see why the dam had been built here. The steep, narrow gorge was easily obstructed.

The thought was of little consequence as his eyes followed the road to the east. The white Jeep was just seconds away.

20

Summer sat still in the backseat, but behind her back her hands worked furiously. The rope around her wrists was still damp from immersion in the lake. The moisture lubricated her wrists while making the rope more tensile. With every bounce of the Jeep, she flexed and pulled, stretching the binding a millimeter at a time.

Already growing tired of guarding her, Summer’s backseat captor reached over and locked her door and then holstered his gun. Nevertheless, he stared at her with suspicion, or perhaps it was attraction. She countered with a verbal bombardment of questions. From the obvious—“Where are you taking me?”—to the frivolous—“Where did you buy that scarf?”—she harangued the guard. Each query was met with stony silence. The chattering worked as he ultimately turned his head away from her and stared out the window.

Summer eased back the commentary. No point pushing her luck. The gunmen hadn’t hesitated to kill Torres and easily could do the same to her. She was encouraged that the three thieves still kept their faces masked despite the heat. If she could stay calm until they reached a town, maybe she could leap from the car and find refuge. But first she’d have to work free of the rope binding.

Her wishes came true sooner than she hoped. The road gradually improved until the Jeep’s tires met pavement. They’d arrived at the dam, where the road narrowed as it wound across the top of the structure. The driver sped up, then suddenly cursed and stood on the brakes.

As the Jeep shuddered across the pavement, all four occupants shot forward. The hard braking worked in Summer’s favor. Her left hand slipped loose, and as she fell back into her seat, she quickly worked the rope off both wrists. She hadn’t seen the reason for the sudden stop. As she peered out the side window, she gaped in horror.

The green university van had shot off the side of the cliff directly overhead and was descending toward them like a Tomahawk missile. The van arced past the Jeep, striking the edge of the road ten feet ahead, where it smashed nose-first before tumbling hard onto its roof. The compressed vehicle slid another dozen feet before coming to a rest — blocking the roadway — amid a pool of leaking engine fluids.

The Jeep was still skidding when Summer unlocked her door and flung herself out. She hit the pavement running and sprinted to the van, shouting her brother’s name. As she approached the flattened vehicle, her stomach clenched in a knot. Nobody inside could have survived the impact.

She approached the inverted driver’s-side window and crouched to peer inside. There was no one to be seen. The knot in her stomach instantly released.

She had no time to react as she felt the van move. The Jeep had pulled up and the driver was attempting to nudge the wreck aside. Summer stood as the van slid a few inches past her only to find her backseat companion approaching with his gun drawn.

She meekly raised her hands while scanning for signs of Dirk. The sun was in her eyes, but the cliff looked too steep for someone to descend. Seeing no movement on the road they had taken, she glanced in the opposite direction.

They were positioned atop the dam, the reservoir’s blue waters lapping at its concrete face twenty feet below her. Oddly, the terrain on the other side of the high, narrow dam appeared completely dry. There was no powerhouse or any sign of water releases into the steep, tight gorge called El Infiernillo Cañones.

Summer looked back at the guard. With an angered expression, he motioned for her to return to the Jeep. She nodded and took a half step forward when an impulse for survival kicked in. It may not have been her best chance at escape, and perhaps it was no chance at all, but she went for it all the same. With a quick sidestep, she lunged to the guardrail and leaped. The guard reacted instantly. Reluctant to fire his weapon after his earlier tongue-lashing, he grabbed at her with his free hand, just snaring the cuff of her pants. Caught off balance, he was pulled to the rail. He refused to let go of her but couldn’t halt her momentum with his faint grip. As his legs clipped the rail, he plunged over the side.

They tumbled and hit the water together with a loud splash. Summer tried to swim deep, kicking away from the guard. But he maintained his grip on her leg while using his other hand to swing the butt of his pistol at her. She felt like she was in an underwater wrestling match. Figuring that she was the better swimmer, she stroked deeper while kicking to break free of his grasp.

Her hand slapped against the dam and she felt the concrete surface skim across her fingers. The movement was faster than she expected. They were being pulled by a strong underwater current. As the water rapidly darkened, she realized they were being drawn down toward the base of the dam.

A new worry filled her senses. What was causing the undertow? There was no powerhouse or external water flow out the back side of the dam. Absent a spillway, there should have been nothing dangerous about diving down the dam’s interior face.

The fear of drowning overtook her fear of the guard. She relaxed in his grip and then aligned with his efforts to kick to the surface. But the water turned darker, and an increasing pressure in her ears told her they were being drawn deeper into the lake.

Through the murky water, Summer detected a circular opening, about fifteen feet in diameter, that was sucking them toward it. She realized it was a spillway, cut through the base of the dam. The Zimapán Dam had in fact been built to generate hydroelectric power, only its generating station was located at the end of a tunnel some thirteen miles downstream.

The spillway inlet had a grate to keep out large debris, but years of neglect had left it mangled. Nearly half of the grate had been battered inward, allowing an unfettered flow of water.

Summer and the guard saw what was coming and fought to swim clear. But the suction grew stronger, pulling them faster to the opening. Abandoning her instincts, Summer did the unthinkable. She swam toward the inlet.

The guard glanced at her in disbelief, panic filling his eyes as he fought the relentless pull. Too late, he realized Summer had made the smart move. Swimming hard with the flow, she angled across the current just enough to reach the intact section of grating. She snared a metal crossmember and yanked her body toward it.

She slammed against the grate, nearly knocking the last breath from her lungs. The water pressure pinned her alongside some logs, a tire, and other debris. She turned her head as the guard came hurtling past. His scarf and sunglasses had long since been ripped away, and Summer saw the stark terror in his eyes as he failed to break free of the suction. In an instant he was gone, sucked down the black hole where the swirling waters drowned his final screams.

At least someone will be able to recover my body, Summer thought as a yearning for air overpowered her senses.

Clinging to the grate in final desperation, she wondered what was happening atop the dam and if her brother was still alive.

21

Dirk was very much alive, despite a pounding heart and aching lungs. More by luck than ballistic trajectory, he had launched the van off the bluff and onto the path of the fleeing Jeep, aided by a rock on the accelerator and a rope holding the steering wheel. He didn’t wait for the dust to settle before sprinting downhill in pursuit.

He had to backtrack a hundred yards to find a path to the road below. The gradient would have been precarious for someone in hiking boots but was borderline suicidal for someone at a full run wearing water shoes. Several times Dirk lost his footing, tumbling and sliding down the loose terrain. Only his wetsuit protected him from serious injury.

During his descent, he could not see the dam and could only hope the Jeep would still be there. Not that he had a plan of any sort. Weaponless against armed men, he had little hope of stopping them. But he had to find out if Summer was with the men — and still alive.

As he neared the bottom of the cliff, he caught sight of the dam and nearly froze. Summer was standing near the crumpled van. Suddenly she leaped into the lake with a gunman in tow. Distracted by the sight, Dirk lost his footing and fell hard down the hillside.

The tumble cost him valuable seconds. By the time he regained his footing, the Jeep had squeezed past the overturned van. The driver stopped and peered into the water. He stared a moment, then shook his head. Seconds later, the tires spun and the Jeep shot across the dam, its rear end weighed down by the stolen artifact.

Finally reaching the road, Dirk raced to the dam. Blocked by the battered van, the Jeep’s driver never noticed him in his mirror as he drove up the hill. At the smashed vehicle, Dirk peered into the water. Calm and flat, it gave no indication of the human turmoil below.

He raced to the van and pried open a rear door. The interior was a jumbled mess, but he found Summer’s dive tank, BC, and mask. He slipped on the equipment and popped open the tank’s K valve. Something nagged at him and he retrieved the rope. One end was still secured to the doorframe, so he tied the loose end to a D ring on his BC. Hopping over the rail, he plunged into the cool lake.

He flicked on a small light attached to the BC and followed a trail of sediment particles rushing into the depths. Soon he felt the pull of the current. He kicked hard, accelerating with it while searching for Summer.

Still pinned to the grate, she had managed to pull herself to its upper edge. She had been underwater for more than a minute and was approaching a state of hypoxia.

Had there been a ladder or anything else to grip, she might have pulled herself clear of the suction, but all she found was the smooth face of the dam. A flood of desperate, confusing thoughts surged through her mind, pleading for her to try to escape. Perhaps there was hope at the other end of the spillway? She began prying her fingers off the grate when something caught her eye.

A faint light came from above. The light quickly grew brighter until it was joined by a figure flying toward her. Hope and agony struck simultaneously as she recognized Dirk rushing past her and through the open grate. Oddly, his eyes seemed to smile as he vanished into the black hole.

An instant later, she saw the light wavering in the spillway. Through its flashes, she detected a taut rope leading from her brother up to the surface. He reappeared a moment later, hoisting himself hand over hand until reaching the top of the spillway opening. Summer was a few feet to his left, frozen to the grate, her face turning blue.

Bracing his feet against the concrete surface, he pushed off with all his might, springing toward his sister. He released one hand from the rope and reached for her torso. Feeling his touch, she grabbed his hand, then wrapped her arms around his waist.

She yanked the regulator out of his mouth and jammed it into her own, sucking deep breaths. Dirk inflated his BC, pulled them a few feet up the rope, and waited for Summer to pass back the regulator. They shared the tank’s air as Dirk muscled them up the face of the dam. The spillway’s suction gradually waned until they could kick to the surface.

“That was a nasty surprise down there,” Dirk said after they broke into the sunshine.

“You’re telling me. I was about two seconds away from finding out what’s at the other end of the spillway.”

“Likely the spinning turbines of a hydroelectric plant.”

Summer shuddered at the fate of the gunman who had been sucked through the tunnel. “I think I’ve had my fill of this reservoir.”

She swam to the side of the dam, grabbed the rope, and hoisted herself up. Dirk followed suit, gladly ditching the tank and BC when he reached the van.

Summer gazed at the empty road that curved up the hill. “They shot and killed Dr. Torres, then stole the stone.”

“Any idea who they were?”

She shook her head. “There were three of them. One went in the water with me and was sucked through the spillway. They all made an effort to conceal their identities.”

“Professional artifact thieves who weren’t afraid to kill.”

Summer kicked at a small stone. “Dr. Torres was killed before he even had a chance to decipher the stone. Now it’s gone. I guess we’ll never know what it says.”

“Madero can still figure it out.”

“Not without the stone.”

“We still have something almost as good.” Dirk rummaged through the interior of the mangled van. A moment later, he crawled out clutching something.

Summer glanced at it and her face turned red. “No, you didn’t!”

Dirk could offer only a crooked grin as he held up the smashed housing of Summer’s new underwater camera.

22

The house phone rang and rang, and rang some more. St. Julien Perlmutter didn’t believe in answering machines, voicemail, or even cell phones. To his way of thinking, they were all intrusive annoyances. He particularly had no use for such devices on the rare occasion he left his Georgetown house, which usually meant he was eating at one of the capital’s finer dining establishments or engaging in archival research at a national library.

Fortunately for the caller, Perlmutter was at home, searching for an ancient tome on one of his many bookshelves. A behemoth of a man, he was perhaps the foremost maritime historian on the planet. His breadth of knowledge on ships and shipwrecks was legendary, while archivists drooled for the day Perlmutter would expire and his collection of letters, charts, journals, and logbooks might be subject to acquisition.

Dropping into a stout leather chair beside a rolltop desk, he reached for the phone on the tenth ring. Like most objects in his house, the handset was a marine relic, having once graced the bridge of the luxury liner United States.

“Perlmutter,” he answered in a gruff voice.

“St. Julien, it’s Summer. I hope I didn’t catch you in the middle of a meal.”

“Heavens, no.” His voice instantly warmed. “I was just searching for a firsthand account of Christopher Columbus’s fourth voyage to the New World.”

“A serendipitous era,” she said.

“The Age of Discovery always was. I had the pleasure of dining with your father recently. He said you and Dirk were working in Mexico.”

“Yes, we’re still here. And we could use your help. We’re trying to track down a Spanish ship that would have sailed from Veracruz in the early days of the conquest.”

“What was her name?”

“I’m afraid we don’t know. The only clue to her identity is a drawing from an Aztec codex, a copy of which I just emailed you.”

While Summer relayed the discovery of the codex and their travails with the Aztec stone, Perlmutter turned on his desktop computer and pulled up the image.

“Rather slim pickings,” he said. He studied the cartoonish image of a sailing ship with a monkey floating above its bow. “Do your Aztec experts have an interpretation?”

“Nothing definitive. The monkey may relate to the cargo, its route, or possibly a moniker for the ship’s name. We hope it’s the latter.”

“It’s possible, although during that time the Spanish were more apt to name their ships after religious icons. Fortunately, the records of the early Spanish voyages are fairly stout.”

“It’s the stone we’re after, so if you have any thoughts on where it may have ended up, we’d certainly be interested. It obviously has some deep significance to someone.”

“Regrettably, many among us will go to unsavory lengths in pursuit of a simple dollar. I’m sorry about your friend. I do hope you and Dirk will be careful.”

“We will.”

“As for the stone, I’ve been through all the major Spanish maritime museums and don’t recall any mention of such an artifact. I suppose it could have ended up in a private collection. I’ll make some inquiries.”

“Thanks, Julien. We’ll be sure to bring you back a bottle of your favorite tequila. Porfidio, if I remember.”

“Summer, you are an angel. Just don’t let your renegade father near the stuff or it will be a dry bottle before I get within sight of it.”

Perlmutter hung up the phone and stared at the image of the galleon on his computer. As he stroked his thick gray beard, his mind was miles away. Four thousand miles, to be exact.

“There’s only one place to start, my fine furry friend,” he said aloud to the image of the monkey. “Seville.”

23

Pitt gazed out the Sargasso Sea’s bridge window as a large container ship passed to the north. Another twenty miles beyond it lay the green coastline of southern Cuba. He wondered if the toxic effect of the mercury was already encroaching on its shores.

The NUMA research ship was approaching the third dead zone identified by Yaeger. Pitt was bristling at their failure to identify a source. The second site, a hundred miles northeast of the Cayman Islands, had yielded no answers. This current area, like the last, showed extreme concentrations of methyl mercury, though at slightly decreased levels. Because the mercury was more dispersed, it had taken the scientists two days to narrow the peak toxicity to a four-square-mile area.

The muted sounds of efficiency on the bridge were broken by the deep voice of Al Giordino grumbling through an overhead speaker. “Stern deck. AUV is aboard. I repeat, AUV is aboard. Please proceed to the next grid area.”

Pitt beat the captain to the transmitter. “Bridge acknowledged. I’ll meet you in the theater in five minutes for today’s matinee.”

“You bring the popcorn, I’ll bring the Milk Duds. Stern deck out.”

By the time Pitt made his way to the wet lab on the main deck, Giordino was scrolling through the AUV’s sonar images on a large-panel display. Pitt noticed the seafloor was much more dramatic than the earlier sites, with rocky outcroppings and undulating hills and valleys.

He took a seat next to Giordino. “Your AUV got a workout on this run.”

“That’s what she’s made for.” Giordino pointed to an insert on the screen that portrayed the overall search grid and their relative location. “If the drift estimates are correct, there’s a high probability the source of the mercury release is within the quadrant just surveyed.”

“Let’s hope there’s a visible indicator this time,” Pitt said.

They reviewed nearly an hour of sonar images. While the seafloor did flatten, no man-made objects were apparent. Finally, Pitt noticed a shadow on the seabed and had Giordino halt the scrolling.

“Zoom in on that streak,” he said. “It looks like a linear path across the bottom.”

Giordino nodded and enlarged the image. “There’s an even pair of lines. They look too precise to be geography.”

“Let’s see where it goes,” Pitt said.

Giordino resumed scanning. The faint lines appeared in greater concentration in a section of the grid that dipped into a large depression. Pitt was tracking the change in depth when Giordino froze the image.

“Well, lookie here,” he said. “Somebody lost a boat.”

A dark, slender object rose from the bottom, casting a short shadow. Familiar linear tracks edged nearby.

“It looks long and lean,” Pitt said. “Perhaps a sailing boat that’s partially buried.”

“The AUV was running at a low frequency to scan a wider path, so the definition is on the weak side. That blur of a boat looks to be about thirty feet long.”

“Doubtful it’s our mercury source but maybe worth a look.”

Giordino resumed scrolling until the AUV’s records came to an end. Pitt noted the vehicle’s last recorded depth before it returned to the surface.

“I’m afraid that’s all she wrote,” Giordino said. “Some shadowy lines and a small boat.”

Pitt poked a finger at the now blank screen. “The AUV’s depth recorder indicated something of a depression in the middle of that grid. It may be nothing, but if that area is the source of the mercury contamination, it might be worth examining from a broader spectrum. Can a mosaic image of the entire survey grid be assembled? Or at least major blocks of it?”

“Piece of cake. All it will take is a little seat time at the keyboard.”

“Fine, but you better pass it off to someone else. You’ve got a more immediate job.”

“What’s that?”

“Firing up the ship’s submersible,” Pitt said. “I want to see for myself what’s happening down there.”

24

My friends, I am glad to see that you are well.”

Dr. Madero’s relief at seeing Dirk and Summer barely registered in his voice. His face formed a gaunt mask of shock and angst as he ushered them into the lab beside his university office.

“We feel terrible about Dr. Torres,” Summer said. “If I hadn’t found the codex…”

“No, no, it is a remarkable find. Besides, I can say with certainty that Miguel died doing what he loved best.” His voice turned nearly to a whisper. “I’m only sorry that the police have been unable to apprehend the killers.”

“They fished one of them out of the river below the hydroelectric plant,” Dirk said. “Unfortunately, he was so pulverized, there wasn’t much left to identify. Do you have any idea who would have killed Dr. Torres for the stone?”

Madero shook his head and grimaced. “It could be forces from anywhere, maybe even outside the country. We’ve had lots of problems around Tula with the black market trade of Toltec relics. The thieves probably don’t even know what they have.”

“I got the distinct impression,” Summer said, “they knew exactly what they were after.”

“I will remain hopeful that the stone will be recovered,” Madero said in a weak voice, “and Miguel’s death avenged.”

“At least we have the photographs, even if my camera will never work again.” She shot her brother a cross gaze.

“I thought it was a disposable,” Dirk said.

“Yes, it is something.” Madero retrieved a folder with Summer’s photographs of the stone. He displayed one that had been enlarged to show details of the glyph.

“Can you tell us what the stone represents?” Summer asked.

“Much along the lines of the codex.” Enthusiasm returned to his voice. “As you can see from the alignment of the glyphs, the stone was cut or broken in half, your piece representing the left-hand segment. The angular designs along the perimeter represent the sun, which symbolizes life and the present era in Aztec lore. The design is very similar to the Aztec calendar stone, except that the interior glyphs are carved in a top-to-bottom narrative rather than concentric circles.”

“Do the glyphs match those on the calendar stone?” Dirk asked.

“More similar to the Stone of Tizoc. It was a sacrificial altar stone, elaborately carved, but also of a commemorative nature. Yours appears to be carved from the same material, a volcanic rock called andesite. While the altar stone is full of proper names, titles, and places, your stone represents more of a narrative tale.”

Summer looked at Madero with anticipation. “And what exactly is the tale?”

“Regrettably, we only have half, but we can make some speculations.” Madero took a deep breath and pointed to the top of the stone, where several rows of glyphs filled the surface within the sun border.

“Here we see skeletal glyphs, which indicate death and sorrow. Like the codex, it is not clear if this is the result of some regional battle or the arrival of the Spaniards. Then we find an image of Huitzilopochtli, the ancestral deity and war god. He appears to be directing an important procession of some sort, the meaning of which is evidently on the other half. And both the Eagle and Jaguar Warriors again signify an importance to the traveling group.”

Madero rubbed his eyes, then turned back to the image. “Next we find some glyphs indicating water and fishing, which are interspersed with our familiar tracks, indicating travels. The interval spacing suggests to me a voyage, as the codex indicated, that possibly lasted over a week. Then things get interesting.”

At the bottom of the glyphs was a rounded blank space along the stone’s broken edge. Madero pointed out a jagged line running beneath it and two irregular circles inside.

“This is some sort of map. It is my belief they carved an image of their destination. From the portion we can see, it was some sort of bay that contained a number of islands. Unfortunately, we would need the other half of the stone to complete the picture.”

“Could that simply be a rendition of Tenochtitlan?” Dirk asked.

“From what we know, the shape of Lake Texcoco doesn’t seem to match. I had the same thought, particularly when I saw this.”

He pointed to the image of a bird’s head and neck that ran off the broken edge.

“A flamingo?” Summer asked.

“Or maybe a crane,” Madero said, “signifying Aztlán.”

“Professor Torres told us about Aztlán,” Dirk said. “It was the Aztecs’ ancestral homeland, described as an island within a lagoon.”

“Aztlán, the ‘place of the cranes,’ believed to be somewhere north of the Aztec empire, from where the Mexica originally emigrated.” Madero stared at the stone. “I may be falsely extrapolating, but along with the reference to Huitzilopochtli, the message seems clear. A group of important Aztecs made a pilgrimage to Aztlán. The codex would seem to confirm the trip was made across water and that the voyage was successful.”

“Why the pilgrimage?” Summer asked. “And what were they transporting?”

Madero shrugged. “With only half the stone, we’ll be left with an eternal mystery.”

“It may not be for long,” Dirk said.

“What are you saying?”

“We have a lead on the other half of the stone.”

Madero turned pale and Summer laughed.

“It’s still a long shot,” she said. “I consulted a family friend in Washington, St. Julien Perlmutter, who’s an expert marine historian. He has an associate at the General Archives of the Indies in Seville, who produced a registry of ships that sailed to the New World in the early sixteenth century. One of the ships was named the Bad Bear.”

“I don’t understand,” Madero said.

“I didn’t either, at first,” she said. “I sent Perlmutter a copy of the codex page that showed the galleon with the glyph of the monkey. He went through the ship rolls, searching for some connection to a monkey or other primate, but came up empty. Fortunately, Perlmutter’s a stubborn man and he kept looking for an angle. He found it when he researched the word for monkey in Nahuatl.”

“Ozomahtli,” Madero said.

“Exactly. He found what he thinks could be a link to a vessel called the Oso Malo, or Bad Bear.”

Madero smiled. “They do sound similar. It wouldn’t be a stretch to think the Aztecs misinterpreted the Spanish sailors’ name of their ship. That may be an inspired correlation by your historian.”

“He’s been known to work miracles for the right motivation.”

“But identifying the ship won’t produce the stone,” Madero said.

“It might in this case,” Summer said, “as the fate of the Oso Malo is rather compelling. She made only one voyage to Veracruz, in 1525. On her return trip to Cádiz, she sailed into a hurricane and had to make for Jamaica. She nearly made it, before foundering on the north shore.”

“Was the wreck salvaged?”

“We don’t know yet,” Dirk said, “but we intend to find out. Summer and I are flying to Jamaica tonight. We’re scheduled to return to work aboard a NUMA research ship in three days but will use the intervening time to locate and explore the wreck site.”

“We hope any historic salvors would have been interested only in precious metals or jewels and would have tossed aside a broken old stone.” Summer pointed to the photo. “At least we know what we’re looking for.”

Madero looked at the twins and shook his head. “The link to the ship is tenuous at best. I think you are chasing a fantasy. Please, let it rest. Once the first stone is recovered, the academic community will learn of its existence and we shall receive all kinds of leads to the second fragment. It is no doubt in a museum somewhere.”

“Perhaps,” Summer said, “but there is no harm in looking. Besides, I’m not going to Jamaica just so my brother can lie on the beach and drink rum for three days.”

“Spoilsport,” Dirk muttered.

“You two be careful,” Madero said quietly.

“We will, Eduardo.” Summer shook his hand. “We’ll let you know exactly what we find.”

Madero stood motionless as they departed the lab, then turned stiffly toward his office. Out of its shadows, Juan Díaz emerged, holding a gun. A younger man behind him crossed the lab and locked the door to the hallway.

“A very enlightening conversation,” Díaz said. “I’m so glad we happened to be here. Your friends are quite helpful. Perhaps they will be as helpful in locating the second stone as they were in discovering the first.”

Madero stood quietly, fury seething in his eyes. Only moments before Dirk and Summer arrived, Díaz had appeared in his office with the gun to demand the codex. The realization that the Cuban had murdered Torres struck him with a bolt of anger. “The link to the shipwreck in Jamaica is pure speculation,” Madero said. “You’d be wasting your time going there.”

“I admire your attempt at dissuasion, but we both know it’s an entirely reasonable hypothesis.”

He stepped close to Madero and eyed him. “You neglected to tell your friends the true value behind the stone. Why is that? Are you going to plunder your friends’ riches?”

Madero clenched his teeth. “I was just trying to protect them from harm.” He looked at Díaz, a rugged-framed man whose black eyes gyrated like a hungry hawk’s. “How do you know what the stone says?”

Díaz smiled. “I happened to make my own find, which brought me to Dr. Torres. A stroke of good fortune, really, that you happened to share your discovery of the codex. Now, where exactly is that fine document?” The Cuban raised his pistol at Madero.

Madero cautiously slipped a hand into his pocket and produced a key ring, then unlocked a steel cabinet. The Aztec codex, tucked in its felt lining, lay inside a small plastic bin. Díaz gave a slight nod to his companion, then snatched the container.

His attention focused on the codex, Madero didn’t detect the other man lift a stone Olmec statue off the lab bench. With a wide swing, the man brought the statue down across the back of Madero’s head. Madero melted to the ground.

Díaz stepped over the prone body and turned to his partner. “Wipe your prints off that statue. If we are lucky, the police will think his American friends killed him and stole the codex.”

With a look of smug satisfaction, he tucked the container under his arm and strolled out of the building.

25

The moss-colored water washed over the Starfish, snuffing out the bright Caribbean sunshine. Pitt monitored the ballast tank from the pilot’s seat, while alongside him, Giordino checked the power and life support systems.

“Estimated bottom depth is twelve hundred feet,” Pitt said.

Giordino yawned. “Nearly enough time to slip in a nap before we get there.”

The deepwater submersible descended by gravity alone, making for a lethargic ride to the seafloor. The descent seemed even slower for Giordino, who was deprived of a nap as Pitt needled him about his latest girlfriend, a well-known Washington attorney.

“At least I’m not married to a politician,” Giordino countered.

Pitt halted their descent as the sea bottom came into view. Giordino let out a low whistle. “Looks like somebody was building a freeway down here.”

They had dropped onto one of the shadowy linear images they’d seen on the sonar. In person, the lines were much more defined and clearly not a natural geographic feature. They could only be mechanically made tracks.

Pitt guided the submersible to a wide set of parallel marks and hovered over them. “Someone’s been down here with some heavy equipment, all right.”

“The indentations are over ten feet across,” Giordino said. “I don’t know of many vehicles large enough to make that kind of a track.”

Pitt shook his head. “It’s not from an oil or gas well operation. Somebody was conducting a large-scale mining operation.”

“You think someone was down here scooping up manganese nodules?”

“A good bet. Probably high in gold content.”

Pitt thrust the submersible across the scarred seabed, where two different track marks crisscrossed a wide area. “Do those second tracks look familiar?”

“Now that you mention it, they look an awful lot like the tracks around the Alta’s diving bell.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

As Pitt circled away from the tracks, he noticed the water depth decrease slightly. The depression they’d seen in the sonar image was evident out the viewport in the form of a bowl-shaped indention that dropped sharply at its center. The tracks were most prevalent around this center point.

“Do you think they blasted here?” Giordino asked.

“Kind of looks that way.”

“Whoa, ease off the gas a second. The water temperature just spiked about fifty degrees.”

Pitt eased off the thrusters, nudging the submersible toward the center of the depression.

“Temperature’s still rising,” Giordino said. “Up to one hundred and forty degrees, one-fifty, one-sixty… now dropping.” He tracked it for another minute. “It peaked at about one hundred and sixty-five degrees.”

“It’s a thermal vent,” Pitt said, “right in the heart of their mining grid.”

“Makes sense. Deepwater vents are known for their rich surrounding minerals.”

“I bet this one comes with a high dose of mercury.”

“That must be the source,” Giordino said. “Odd that we’ve never run across high levels of mercury in other hydrothermal vents we’ve examined.”

“Might have something to do with the explosives. There could be a pent-up base of mercury beneath the vents that’s dispersed by a blast.”

“Makes sense. If it’s a natural deposit that was disturbed, that would explain why we didn’t find any overt evidence at the other two sites.”

“If we look closer,” Pitt said, “I bet we’ll find the same telltale tracks and man-made depressions.”

“Now we know what to look for. Let’s get back to the ship. I’d like another look at the last two sites’ sonar records.”

“Sure,” Pitt said, “but first one quick detour.”

Circling the depression, he scanned the depths before goosing the submersible toward a slender brown object jutting from the sand. Hovering above it, they could see it was neither a ship nor a sailboat. It was a large log.

“So much for my sunken boat,” Giordino said. “It’s just a big log that rolled off a cargo ship.”

“Not so fast,” Pitt said. He circled to the other side, where they could see it was actually a dugout canoe.

“Will you look at the size of that?” Giordino said as he reached up and activated an external video camera. “It must be over thirty feet long.”

“That’s a major league dugout canoe,” Pitt said. “It must have been used for interisland travel.”

The canoe was half buried and facing away from the depression, but its interior was free of sand and debris. Pitt eased the Starfish along its length, allowing the video camera to capture a thorough record of the vessel.

“I count ten benches,” Giordino said, “wide enough to seat two oarsmen each, with plenty of cargo room to spare.”

“Probably used by the local Taíno Indians for trading goods.” Pitt pointed to the hull. “Looks like they knew how to modify a canoe for the open seas.”

Carved planks had been pegged to the topsides of the canoe, creating a freeboard that extended an additional ten inches. Both stem and stern featured raised angular end pieces that had been attached to the base log.

“I don’t know what they were carrying,” Giordino said, “but it’s a cinch it wasn’t mercury.”

Pitt nodded. As he swung around the end of the canoe, the submersible’s thrusters blew away a patch of loose sand, exposing a small rectangular stone.

Giordino caught sight of the object. “Something on the bottom there.”

“I see it. Why don’t you try to bring it home?”

Giordino was already activating the controls of the manipulator, extending its silver claw as Pitt brought the Starfish over the object. He easily grasped the stone and pulled it from the sand. As he held it to the viewport, he and Pitt could see it was a carving of a native warrior. The image had squat legs, a large nose, and wore a breechcloth.

Pitt glanced at the carving before purging the ballast tanks to surface. “Possibly of ancient vintage,” he said.

“He kind of reminds me of our high school wrestling coach, Herbert Mudd,” Giordino said.

Pitt grinned. “I’ll wager young Herbert there would have an interesting story to tell, if he could talk.”

The carved warrior remained clutched in the manipulator’s claw, peering into the cockpit as the submersible rose to the surface. Although Herbert would leave the talking to others, the little stone statue would ultimately have a lot to declare.

26

The pinging melody from a sidewalk steel drum band greeted Dirk and Summer as they exited Montego Bay’s Donald Sangster International Airport. Summer listened a moment, then dropped a five-dollar bill into the band’s Rastafarian-knit collection hat, eliciting a nod from the trio. She hustled to catch up to Dirk, who was shrugging off an aggressive taxi driver before making his way to the rental car kiosk.

“Space B-9,” he said to Summer, dangling a set of car keys.

Stepping toward their assigned parking spot, they found a Volkswagen Beetle convertible. “A Beetle?” Dirk asked with a pained expression.

“Best the office could reserve on short notice.” Summer grabbed the keys away from her brother. “I think they’re cute.”

“Cute and functional don’t always go hand in hand.” He stuffed their suitcases into the small trunk. It was too minuscule to hold their dive gear, so Dirk wedged their equipment bags into the backseat floor.

He shook his head. “We’ve still got to pick up our magnetometer and some dive tanks.”

“We can just stack things up,” Summer said, lowering the top.

She slid behind the wheel on the car’s right side and passed her brother a road map. “I’ll drive and you can navigate our way to the dive shop.”

As Dirk climbed in the passenger seat, he grunted something about needing rum. Summer drove the car around to the air cargo office, where they picked up a small crate. She then headed south toward Montego Bay. Summer melted into the late-afternoon traffic. Steering down the road’s left lane, a vestige from Jamaica’s British colonial past, she drove with a focused vigilance.

They motored another five minutes before Summer pulled off the road, her knuckles white. In that short span, they’d been nearly sideswiped by a moving van and rear-ended by a bread truck. “They drive like crazy here!” she blurted.

“Too many potholes,” Dirk said, “or maybe just too much pot.” He hopped out and stepped to the driver’s door. “I’ll take it from here, if you like.”

“Gladly,” Summer said, sliding to the passenger seat.

Dirk took off, a grin forming as he joined the aggressive drivers. Where Summer felt intimidated, Dirk felt a challenge, one he fulfilled at home by racing a 1980s-era Porsche in local sports car club events.

They found the dive shop near one of the luxury hotels on Doctor’s Beach and rented four air tanks, which they piled on top of their other gear in the VW’s backseat. Reversing course, they passed by the airport, leaving the outskirts of Montego Bay behind them as they followed a narrow coastal road along the north shore.

They passed a conglomeration of resorts and scenic plantation houses, a reminder of Jamaica’s slave-produced sugar industry that prospered in the eighteenth century. The traffic and development withered as the road skirted the jungle-kissed waters of the blue Caribbean.

Summer checked the road map. “White Bay should be coming up.”

The road wound through a dense patch of jungle before opening above a shallow cove ringed with white sand. Dirk turned onto a narrow dirt road, escaping a tailgating taxi that had been pestering him since they left the dive shop.

The dirt road curved past a lane of ramshackle houses to a band of beachfront cottages that lined the cove. Mostly foreign-owned vacation retreats, the cottages appeared sparsely occupied.

“The rental agent said the third house on the left.” Summer pointed to one of the bungalows. “The yellow one there, I think, with the white trim.”

Dirk nodded and pulled into the bungalow’s open carport. A gentle surf rocked the beach just a few dozen yards in front of them. “Accommodations right off the wreck site,” he said, gazing at the waterfront. “Can’t get more convenient than that.”

“The keys are supposed to be under the mat and the house already stocked with groceries, so we can stay put and work until the Sargasso Sea makes port.”

“And a workboat?”

“A Boston Whaler with extra fuel tanks is supposed to be waiting at a pier around the cove.”

They unloaded their belongings into the modest two-bedroom bungalow, opening all the doors and windows to catch the afternoon breeze. After hauling the dive tanks down to the beach, they walked to the nearby pier.

They found the workboat tied to the pier, appearing as though it had been sitting there for years. Its fiberglass finish was dulled by the sun and its brightwork was consumed by rust. “Looks like it was built during the Civil War,” Dirk said.

“Same goes for the dock.”

They stepped single file onto the rickety pier, which was little more than a handful of narrow planks atop some rock pilings. Dirk placed their dive tanks in the boat and pulled the starter on the outboard motor. The engine fired on the second pull. “Not the Queen Elizabeth, but it’ll do.”

“The cove is smaller than I expected,” Summer said as they walked back to the cottage under a setting sun. “It looks less than a mile across.”

“With luck, we ought to get it surveyed in a day.” Dirk stopped and stared into the waves. Like his father, he was drawn by an almost primeval need to explore the sea. The remains of the Oso Malo were calling just off shore.

They rose at dawn and shoved off from the dock under a cool breeze. Dirk opened the crate they had picked up from the airport and unpacked a towed magnetometer unit. Once they were under way, a fish-shaped sensor was towed behind the boat. The cable was attached to a small processing station with an audio monitor, which would signal the presence of ferrous metal objects with a high-pitched buzz.

Using a handheld GPS unit to mark their path, Dirk drove the boat in narrow survey lanes across the cove while Summer monitored the magnetometer, adjusting the length of the towed cable to keep the sensor from grounding on the bottom. On their third lane, the monitor shrieked — it was a large target. Dirk cut the motor and Summer jumped over the side with mask and fins for a quick investigation. She surfaced a minute later and climbed into the boat with a frown.

“Somebody lost a nice anchor, but it’s much too new to be from a Spanish galleon.”

“We can fish it out later.” Dirk restarted the motor.

They surveyed until midday, stopping only for a quick lunch at the cottage. Returning to the dock, Summer motioned offshore. “Looks like we have some competition.”

A faded green skiff with a lone man aboard was bobbing off the cove. Clad only in a pair of cutoffs, the man waved at Summer, then slipped on a mask and jumped over the side, clutching a speargun. A minute later, his head popped above the surface for a quick breath of air, then he disappeared again.

Dirk sailed the Boston Whaler to their last position in the middle of the cove and motioned to Summer. She lowered the magnetometer and they resumed surveying as a bank of low clouds rolled in, offering respite from the hot sun. The magnetometer buzzed with small targets here and there but found nothing of consequence. After two more hours, they drew near the other boat. The Jamaican diver pulled himself onto his boat with a long string of silver fish tied to his waist and guzzled a drink of water from a plastic jug. He smiled broadly at the Boston Whaler. “What you looking for, mon?”

Dirk slowed, forcing Summer to reel in the magnetometer.

“A Spanish shipwreck,” he said. “Supposedly sank in this cove in 1525.”

The man nodded. “Samuel show you.”

Without another word, the Jamaican pulled up his anchor and started the motor on his skiff. He chugged offshore, veering slightly east before cutting the motor and tossing out his anchor. Dirk pulled up alongside and followed suit.

“It here,” Samuel said. “Forty feet water.”

“Kind of you to show us,” Dirk said before introducing themselves. “This cove apparently has good fishing all the way around,” he added, eyeing Samuel’s speargun and catch.

Samuel smiled. “All Jamaica good fishing.”

The water was still shallow enough to make out the bottom, and Dirk could see the rising green shape of a coral reef a few yards to the side. The winds began kicking up as a squall crept in from the northwest, turning the surface gray.

Samuel stood in his boat and motioned to Summer. “Pretty lady come with me. I show you wreck.”

“Please do,” she said. She pulled on her mask and fins and slipped into the water first.

Samuel jumped in and dove straight to the bottom. Summer caught up and followed him as he swam a short distance, then pointed to the seafloor. At first, all she saw was a crusty bottom. A subtle mound then took shape, which stretched into the nearby coral mass. Summer fanned away the soft sand, exposing a pair of smooth, rounded rocks. With a tinge of excitement, she recognized them as river rock, often used for ballast in early sailing ships. The large mound in front of her was ballast from a ship that had sunk a long time ago.

Her ears began to pound, telling her it was time to surface. She glanced at Samuel, who was calmly digging in the sand, then kicked to the surface. It was a few short strokes to the Boston Whaler, and she grabbed its anchor line as the boat jostled in the growing seas.

“Any luck?” Dirk asked, poking his head over the side.

“It’s a wreck, all right. Plenty big and all covered up. He put us right on top of its ballast mound.”

“Sounds just what we’re looking for.”

Samuel surfaced a second later. “Is this the wreck you want?”

“I think so. What do you know about it?”

Samuel shook his head. “Not much. It’s called the Green Stone Wreck. People say green stones in its cargo washed up on the beach for many years a long time ago. That is all I know.”

He tossed Dirk a small stone he had dug from the bottom. It was smooth and dark green and had a radiant luster. Dirk looked at it for a moment before sticking it in his pocket and helping Summer aboard. Samuel climbed onto his boat just as the first sprinkles from the squall began to pepper them.

“Thanks, Samuel. This looks like the wreck we’re searching for. We’ll find out tomorrow when the weather clears and we can take a better look.”

Samuel flashed a toothy smile. “I bring tanks tomorrow. We work together. You pay me one hundred dollars.”

Dirk nodded. “You have a deal. But only if you throw in one of your snappers for dinner.”

Samuel picked out the largest fish from his stock and tossed it onto the deck of the Whaler.

“See you in the morning.” He winked at Summer and motored off through the rainstorm.

Dirk turned toward shore and sped to the dock, bouncing hard over the rising swells. The rains struck heavy, dousing the siblings.

“The wreck site looks pretty old,” Summer shouted. “You think Samuel gave us the Oso Malo?”

“I know he did.” Dirk fished the green stone from his pocket and tossed it to his sister.

“That’s green obsidian,” he said. “It was probably mined in Mexico. Dr. Madero showed me an Aztec spearhead made from the stuff. He said it was a highly valued commodity to the Aztecs. Seems likely the Spaniards would have exported some of the stuff during their early days of conquest.”

Summer examined the stone and nodded. “If it had any value, they probably would have loaded it aboard a galleon.”

They tied up the boat and walked back to their cottage, wearing confident grins despite the pelting deluge.

27

I think Samuel likes you,” Dirk teased as they walked toward the pier the next morning.

“Well, he’s a good swimmer,” Summer said. “And he does have nice teeth.”

“Nice teeth? That’s what you look for in a man?”

“Some things are nonnegotiable. Bad teeth is one of them.”

“Haven’t you heard of corrective dentistry?”

“I suppose you’re right. Bad teeth are probably easier to fix than a bad personality.”

They hopped in the boat and motored into the cove. The rainstorm had long since passed, leaving a nearly flat sea. True to his word, Samuel was waiting at the wreck site with a small stock of air tanks. Dirk pulled alongside and tied up to his boat as Summer gazed over the side. She could see clear to the bottom, easily spotting Samuel’s anchor wedged in the sand.

“Good morning,” the Jamaican said. “You enjoy the fish?”

“Yes, though my brother overcooked it. I see you brought plenty of air.”

“You ready to dive?”

“Yes, we are,” she answered. “I’m happy to see you’ve brought us better weather.”

“My pleasure.” Samuel grinned. “So, what you look for? Gold or silver?”

“Sorry to disappoint you but there’s no treasure, at least as far as we know. We’re looking for a carved round stone.”

Samuel’s broad mouth turned down. “Okeydokey. I help you find that, too.”

They dove to the bottom, where Dirk and Summer surveyed the ballast mound. Using a reeled tape measure, they computed its width and length to the point where it was swallowed by a large coral outcropping. Dirk motioned toward the surface.

“I wasn’t counting on a hungry swath of coral,” he said after climbing into the boat.

Summer floated in the water alongside Samuel. “According to St. Julien’s data, the Oso Malo was seventy feet long. We’ve got at least half that length clear of the coral.”

“I guess thirty-five feet is better than nothing.” Dirk yanked the starter pulley to a gas-powered water pump that he’d rented the day before after canvasing a half-dozen dive shops in Montego Bay. He threw an intake hose into the sea and passed a second nozzle and hose over to Summer. “You ready to dig?”

“Give me a second to hit the bottom.” She inserted her regulator and submerged. Dirk gave her time to position herself at one end of the ballast mound, then turned on the valve that cycled seawater through the pump.

A blast of water sprayed out the nozzle in Summer’s hand, which she used to jet away the loose sand covering the ballast mound. Samuel watched as she began clearing a foot-wide path along the top of it, revealing a pile of smooth river rock.

Blasting away the overburden was slow and physically taxing, so the three took turns manning the waterjet, working in thirty-minute shifts.

Summer documented the excavation with a new underwater camera that Dirk bought her and recorded notes in a journal. It took the better part of the morning to reach the coral abutment, where they exposed a portion of the ship’s timbers.

After lunch, they scoured a second trench a few feet to the side. Dirk had nearly completed a third trench on the opposite side when the jet stopped spraying. He surfaced to find the pump motor silent.

“Did you shut it off?” he asked Summer, who sat next to Samuel by the pump.

“No, it ran out of gas.” She sloshed a near-empty fuel can. “We’ve barely enough left to get back to shore.”

Dirk pulled himself aboard, stripped off his dive gear, and allowed himself a moment’s rest. “I think that pretty much ends it anyway. I had nearly finished the third test trench. With the three, the odds were good we would have exposed the stone if it was there. I’m afraid that if it’s still on the wreck, it’s embedded somewhere in the coral.”

Summer frowned. “If it’s in the coral, we’ll never find it.”

“You still have many interesting artifacts,” Samuel said. He pointed to a towel spread on the boat’s floorboards. It was covered with objects exposed by the test trenches, mostly pieces of broken porcelain and corroded nails and fittings. Several chunks of green obsidian also glistened in the sun.

“At least nothing suggests the wreck is anything other than the Oso Malo,” Summer said. “This should make for a nice exhibit at the National Museum of Historical Archaeology in Port Royal.”

“We find stone tomorrow,” Samuel said.

“No, Dirk’s right.” Summer shook her head. “The stone should have been visible on top of the ballast mound. It’s just not there — or lost to the coral. I’m afraid we must leave Jamaica tomorrow anyway.”

Dirk fished out his wallet from a dive bag and gave Samuel two hundred dollars, thanking him for his help.

“You two crazy,” he said with a smile. “If you must leave, then Samuel buy you drink first.”

“At the moment, I’d like nothing better,” Dirk said.

They pulled up anchors on their respective boats and motored to the stone pier. Under Samuel’s direction, they piled into the Volkswagen and headed toward Montego Bay. They had driven but a short distance when he had them pull up to a small building. A faded sign on the roof proclaimed it the Green Stone Bar & Museum.

“Green Stone,” Summer said. “That’s what you called the wreck.”

“Yes. Maybe they have your stone. I know they have cold beer,” Samuel said with a grin. “I live in the next village over.”

The bar was empty, save for a black dachshund sleeping in the corner. To Dirk’s and Summer’s surprise, the interior was filled with nautical artifacts. Rusting anchors, cannonballs, and porcelain dishes adorned the walls, while a dusty fishing net covered the ceiling. A high wooden shelf sagged under dozens of pieces of green obsidian identical to those they had found on the wreck site.

“These artifacts must be from the Oso Malo,” Dirk said, examining a pewter plate stamped with a three-towered castle beneath a crown — a Castilian mark.

The sound of clinking bottles emanated from a back room, and an old man emerged with a case of beer. His hair and beard were dusted white, but he moved spryly in a loud aloha shirt.

“Afraid I didn’t hear you come in,” he said. “What can I get you kids to drink?”

“Two Red Stripes, and a daiquiri for the lady,” Samuel said, smiling at Summer.

“Works for me,” she said.

They moved to the bar as the man mixed Summer’s drink and passed chilled bottles of Red Stripe beer to Dirk and Samuel. They smiled when the old man opened a third beer for himself.

Taking a sip of the Jamaican brew, Dirk motioned toward a barnacle-encrusted sword mounted over the bar. “We were on the wreck of the Oso Malo today, but it looks like you beat us to it.”

The bartender’s eyes lit up. “I haven’t heard her called by that name in years. She was always known locally as the Green Stone wreck, or the Emerald Wreck, although, of course, there were no emeralds on her.”

“What do you know of the green stones she was carrying?” Summer asked.

“Simply green obsidian. It’s a pretty rock, but there’s nothing inherently valuable about it. Of course, the sixteenth-century Spaniards may have felt differently. It was apparently prized in Mexico, so they loaded up a ship with the stuff. Unfortunately for us,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “they sent the gold and silver in another direction.”

“We understand,” Dirk said, “the ship was sailing from Veracruz to Cádiz when it ran afoul of a hurricane.”

“That’s right. She blew aground just off White Bay. Despite being so close to shore, most of the crew drowned. Only four men made it ashore alive, later finding refuge at a Spanish settlement called Melilla.”

“Did the Spaniards salvage the wreck?” Dirk asked.

“Not as far as anyone knows. It took three years before the survivors even made it back to Spain. By then, the ship was all but forgotten, since she wasn’t carrying gold or silver. She lay there undisturbed for almost four hundred years until discovered by an American archeologist around the turn of the century.”

“An American?” Summer asked.

“Ellsworth Boyd was his name. He had excavated a number of early Taíno Indian sites on the island. He was conducting an excavation in the area when the locals told him about the stones fishermen pulled up in their nets. He came to the bay and hired Jamaican free divers to pull up what they could.” He waved a hand toward the rock-laden shelves. “Lots of green obsidian.”

“Do you know what became of the other artifacts they recovered?”

“You’re looking at most of them. Boyd shipped a few items to the Yale Peabody Museum in New Haven but the bulk remained here. This stuff would have probably gone, too, but Boyd died shortly after the excavation. Some of his associates, my great-uncle included, decided to establish a museum here in his honor. It became a bit neglected over the years, but after inheriting ownership, I’ve done what I can to keep it going.”

Dirk revealed their interest in the ship. “Do you have any recollection of a large semicircular stone with Mesoamerican inscriptions that may have come off the wreck?”

The bartender gazed at the ceiling. “No, I can’t say that rings a bell. But you might want to take a gander at Boyd’s journal of the excavation.”

Summer’s eyes widened. “He left a record of his work on the Oso Malo?”

The bartender nodded. “Yes, it’s quite detailed.”

He stepped into the back room and emerged a minute later with a thin leather-bound book caked with dust. “Been sitting on the shelf awhile,” he said, “but you’re welcome to borrow it.”

Summer cracked the cover and read aloud the handwritten title page: “‘A record of the excavation of a Spanish shipwreck in White’s Bay, Jamaica, November 1897–January 1898, by Dr. Ellsworth Boyd.’”

She flipped through the pages, finding detailed entries and elegant hand-drawn images from each day of the excavation.

She gasped. “This is fabulous. If he found the stone, he surely would have recorded it in this journal.”

Samuel leaned over Summer’s shoulder to view the journal. “This your lucky day.”

Dirk drained his beer and slapped the empty bottle on the bar. “Let’s order some dinner and see what the good doctor has to tell us.”

“I’m afraid we don’t serve food here,” the bartender said, “but there’s a good seafood joint down the road called Mabel’s. Their grilled snapper is a winner. You can take the journal with you.”

“Thank you,” Summer said. “That’s very kind of you, Mr… uh…”

“My name’s Clive, but most people call me Pops,” he said with a wink. “Keep the book for as long as you like. I ain’t going anywhere.”

Samuel paid for the drinks, and the trio stepped outside into the fading glow of the late-afternoon sun.

“Join us for dinner, Samuel?” Dirk asked.

“No, must get home before the wife gets angry.” He shook Dirk’s hand, then gave Summer a hug. “Good-bye, my friends. I hope you find what you are searching for.”

“Need a lift?” Summer asked as he started to stride away.

“No thanks. I walk from here. Good-bye.”

Dirk and Summer waved as they climbed into their car.

“To Mabel’s?” Dirk asked.

Summer nodded, clutching Boyd’s journal tightly in her hands. “Let’s hope the grilled snapper there is served on a stone platter.”

28

Slightly larger than a walk-in closet, Mabel’s Café was an open-air diner shaded by a high thatched roof. An early dinner crowd of locals had already infiltrated the place, forcing Dirk and Summer to scramble to find an empty table facing the ocean. A brassy waitress with braided hair brought them a couple of Red Stripes and they both ordered the house snapper. While they waited, Summer opened the journal and began devouring its contents.

“Boyd writes that he was searching for the remains of an early Spanish settlement on the Martha Brae River when he was told of the Green Stone Wreck. With the help of some local fishermen, he located the site. He says a large portion of the hull was visible from the surface, which he attributes to the force of a hurricane that struck the island a few months earlier and uncovered the wreck.”

“He’s probably right,” Dirk said. “Little of the wreck would have survived in these warm waters if exposed to the elements for four hundred years.”

“Boyd didn’t have the resources to hire hard-hat divers, so he relied on local free divers to excavate the site. Working through the winter, they retrieved and cataloged over a thousand artifacts.”

Summer turned the page to find a drawing of the wreck as Boyd found it. The entire keel and crossmember supports were visible, as were several sections of the hull.

Dirk eyed rows of ballast rock and noted a small coral outcropping near the stern. “Looks nothing like that today. At that point, the coral was just encroaching the site.”

“A lot can change in a hundred years,” Summer said.

The waitress arrived with their plates of grilled snapper, accompanied by a side of boiled okra and festival, a cylindrical blob of fried dough. Summer dug in with a fork in one hand while continuing to scan the journal.

The succeeding pages described the daily results of the excavation, with occasional drawings of the more interesting artifacts. Aside from the ship’s heavy iron fittings, including anchors, chains, and a pair of small cannon, the bulk of the raised artifacts were chunks or carved pieces of the Mexican green obsidian.

Near the end of the journal, Summer turned the page and nearly choked on a mouthful of okra. In the center of the page was a rough rendering of a large carved stone in the shape of a semicircle.

“He found it!” she gasped.

Dirk gazed at the drawing and smiled.

“Looks like a perfect match to the stone you found at Zimapán. Unfortunately, he didn’t make a very detailed drawing.”

Summer nodded. Aside from the partial image of a bird, Boyd had depicted no detail from the stone. She flipped ahead to the last page but found no additional illustrations.

“No luck,” she said. “He must have known it was Mesoamerican. I wonder why he didn’t devote more attention to it.”

“What does the narrative say?”

Summer recited the remaining text.

“I share in his frustration,” Dirk said with a shake of his head.

Summer continued reading.

“Tell us something we don’t know,” Dirk said.

Summer skimmed the remaining pages. “The next few days were spent winding down the excavation and cataloging artifacts,” she said. “But there’s a bit more on the stone. On January twenty-ninth, he writes:

“Those are his words,” Summer said. “No indication of what’s on it, or even a rendering of the map.”

“Burns is right,” Dirk said. “There’s obviously significance to this island depository. Too bad he didn’t give us his piece of the map.”

“This is interesting.” Summer turned to the last page. “The final entry is dated February 1st:

Summer closed the journal. “That’s the last entry.”

“So our hunch stands. The second stone is most likely collecting dust in a back room of the Yale Peabody Museum.”

Summer scrunched her nose. “I don’t know. Boyd seems to recognize its importance. One of them must have published a paper on it.”

“I suppose,” Dirk said, “but it could be as forgotten as the stone.”

“We can email St. Julien and the museum tonight,” she said, “and do more digging when we get aboard the Sargasso Sea tomorrow. Assuming Dad doesn’t have a mountain of work waiting for us.”

Finishing their meal, they paid the bill and hopped into the VW for the short ride back to the cottage. Turning onto the coastal highway, they were approached by a battered pickup that rode up on their bumper. Dirk accelerated, but the truck hung on his tail.

Summer glanced in the mirror at the truck’s rusty grill bouncing dangerously close behind. “This guy makes a New York cabbie look polite.”

Dirk nodded and pressed deeper on the gas. The winding road broke into a straight stretch that was free of oncoming traffic. Dirk edged the Beetle to the shoulder and slowed to let the truck pass. But the driver kept on Dirk’s bumper.

“The guy can’t take a hint,” Dirk muttered, forgoing the courtesy and speeding up.

“Maybe he’s taking the highway advice to heart,” Summer said, pointing at a weathered road sign that proclaimed Undertakers Love Overtakers.

The road wound down a small hill and over a bridge that spanned a marshy creek. As they reached the bridge, the truck finally made its move and pulled alongside the Beetle.

Dirk glanced at a tough-looking Jamaican in the passenger seat who flashed an unfriendly grin. Then the man leaned out the truck’s window, pointed a pistol at Dirk, and pulled the trigger.

29

The shot whistled by as Dirk instantly stood on the brakes. The truck swerved hard over, smacking into the Volkswagen and driving it toward the meager bridge railing. The Beetle’s left fender tore through the guardrail, shattering its wooden supports like they were toothpicks.

Dirk downshifted, fighting to keep the wheel straight. Summer let out a yelp as they veered off the shoulder, the left tires half hanging over the edge. The popping of the gunman’s pistol sounded over the fray. The Beetle’s windshield shattered as Dirk and Summer ducked low in their seats.

Amid a screech of grinding metal, the VW fell back before the heavier truck could knock it into the creek. Dirk snapped the wheel right, barely escaping a plunge off the road. Finding no oncoming traffic, he swerved into the far lane and stomped on the accelerator.

The Beetle’s turbocharged four-cylinder engine howled as the small car shot past the slowing pickup. The truck’s driver reacted quickly, gunning his own engine. A well-tuned 5.7-liter Mopar Hemi under the hood belied the truck’s shabby appearance and gave it more than enough juice to give chase.

“How did they track us here?” Summer yelled, gripping the dashboard as Dirk pushed the Beetle hard through a tight curve.

“I don’t know, but they’re serious about finding the other half of the stone.”

The VW hit a large dip in the road and bounded into the air. The rear bumper scraped the pavement on their return to earth, sending a trail of sparks flying. Summer turned and watched the pickup wallow through the same dip, its driver nearly losing control.

The Beetle was faster through the corners, but the truck easily gained ground on the straightaways. Charging down a straight section, the truck approached and smacked the rear end of the Volkswagen. The Beetle skittered, but Dirk maintained control and gained separation on the next bend.

“Do you know where this road goes?” Summer shouted.

“I know it runs along the north coast to at least Port Antonio, but that’s a ways off. If we come to a sizable town first, we can try and lose them or find the police.”

Summer noticed a road sign indicating that the town of Ocho Rios was eighteen kilometers ahead. “Maybe we can find police there.”

The VW approached some slower traffic, which Dirk hopscotched between oncoming vehicles. The truck followed suit but lost ground in the process. Dirk was forced to slow as they entered the town of St. Ann’s Bay, the site of the island’s first Spanish capital. A handful of ornate Georgian buildings peppered the town center, giving Dirk and Summer promise of finding police assistance. Their hope was short-lived as the sound of gunfire again erupted behind them.

“Get down!” Dirk said, glancing into the rearview mirror.

The pickup had somehow bypassed a row of cars and was right behind them. The passenger was now leaning out the side window, firing. Whether by faulty aim or the mistaken belief that late-model Beetles were still rear-engined, the shooter fired three rounds harmlessly into the trunk.

Dirk stomped on the gas and blasted through a stop sign, barely avoiding a fruit truck. “Apparently our friends don’t hold the local constables in high regard.”

“We’ll have to try for Ocho Rios,” Summer said. “I think that’s a port of call for cruise ships, so there will definitely be a police presence.”

Dirk maneuvered past a stopped bus and sped out of the town, leaving the truck wedged behind. The coastal road cleared of traffic, and Dirk nudged the Volkswagen north of ninety miles per hour. In another ten minutes, they’d reach the larger city.

“Try calling the Ocho Rios police,” Dirk said. “Find out where they are and tell them we’re coming.”

“Nine-one-one?” Summer asked.

“I think it’s the inverse here, one-one-nine.”

Summer started to dial when Dirk stood on the brakes, causing the phone to fly out of her hands. Rounding a bend, he had spotted a tour bus stopped on the road ahead. Oncoming traffic had also stopped, allowing a throng of tourists returning from the beach to clog the road while boarding the bus. Additional buses up the road were exiting a side parking lot.

“This isn’t good,” Dirk said, seeing there would be no quick resolution to the bottleneck. He quickly scanned the road for a possible exit or point of concealment.

They had only one choice. Just shy of the bus, a small dirt road angled into the jungle. If Dirk could get the VW up the road before the pickup turned the corner, their pursuers might think they’d gotten ahead of the stopped traffic.

Dirk let off the brakes and accelerated toward the parked bus.

Summer threw her hands on the dash to brace for an impact. “What are you doing?”

She fell silent as he stomped on the brakes and yanked the car in a blunt right turn. Screams erupted from the frightened tourists boarding the bus, but their cries were muted by the Beetle’s screeching tires as it slid in an arc, then shot up the dirt road. Dirk held his breath as the car bounded up and into the jungle. He glanced to his right and down the highway to see if they had been detected.

The nose of the pickup appeared just around the corner, pursuing at high speed. A second later, the Volkswagen was lost under cover of the thick brush. The car bucked and shimmied over the rut-filled road, which looked like it hadn’t been used in the last decade.

“Do you think they saw us?” she asked.

“I don’t know, but I sure hope not. We’re certainly not going to outrun them on this road.”

A hundred yards behind, the pickup’s driver had missed seeing the Volkswagen turn. But he didn’t miss the fresh skid marks that led to the side road nor the light cloud of dust floating above it. With a shark-like grin, he wheeled onto the side road and barreled up its washboard surface.

Ahead, the road climbed through thick foliage that clawed at the VW’s blue paint. Summer saw a vine-covered sign with an arrow pointing to Dunn’s River Lookout. As they turned through a tight switchback, she peered behind them and caught a faint glimmer of steel through the bushes. “Bad news. They’re still on our tail.”

Dirk nodded, battling the Beetle to keep it from getting high-centered. He had no idea where the road would lead, but he knew their time on it would be short.

“Worst case, we stop and take to the jungle,” he said. “Head downhill to the road. If we get split up, let’s meet at the Green Stone Bar.”

Summer tried to smile. “First drink’s on you.”

Dirk coaxed the Beetle up a short hill, then stopped. The road ended in a clearing just wide enough for a car to turn around. Tall trees encircled the clearing except to their left, where a shallow river rushed by. They were effectively boxed in as the pickup truck roared up the hill behind them.

Dirk looked at his sister.

“It would seem,” he said with a grimace, “that we’ve reached the end of the line.”

30

Summer gazed at the loose sandals they both wore, dreading a sprint through the jungle. Hearing the roar of the approaching pickup, she reached for the door handle. “We better get going.”

Instead, Dirk put the car in gear and drove forward. “Wait,” he said, looping the car around the dead end. He angled toward the wide, shallow river and stopped at its gravel bank.

“What are you doing?” Summer asked.

“That’s Dunn’s River.”

The rusty sign down the road had registered in Dirk’s mind. He knew that one of the major tourist attractions in Jamaica was Dunn’s River Falls, a terraced waterfall that visitors enjoyed climbing by linking arms in large groups. It explained the bevy of buses below.

“Let’s get across the river,” he said. “We can hike down the other side and hop a tour bus at the bottom.”

Too late, an engine roared and the pickup came flying over the crest. The truck was traveling much too fast — on a collision course with the Volkswagen. Dirk punched the accelerator, driving off the bank and into the river.

The truck just slipped by the VW as the driver mashed on the brakes and slid to a stop in front of a mature mango tree.

Inside the Beetle, Dirk kept the accelerator down and continued across the river. The bed was relatively flat and shallow, and the car easily bounded toward the opposite side.

“Don’t these things float?” Summer asked.

“You’re thinking of the original Beetle,” Dirk said. “I don’t know about the new models. Nor do I want to find out.”

They had slogged about thirty feet across the river when they heard a splash behind them. To Summer’s dismay, she saw the pickup truck follow them into the river. Another pop sounded behind them, and Dirk heard a whistling an instant before the dashboard disintegrated in front of him.

“We’re not going to beat them across,” Summer said, her voice tightening.

Dirk came to the same conclusion. He hadn’t counted on the pickup following them. With its lower clearance, the VW would bog down or stall sooner than the truck. Glancing in the mirror, he yelled at Summer to hang on, then turned downriver.

They had entered the river above the head of the falls and it was only a short distance to the first rocky terrace — about a three-foot drop to a small pool. With the Beetle’s drive wheels still finding traction, he centered the car with the falls and drove off the edge.

The front wheels struck an inclined rock that pitched the car’s nose up and the car landed in the pond nearly upright. The impact sent a wave splashing over the falls beyond.

Though the water nearly covered the wheels, the Volkswagen kept running, and Dirk steered it forward. He and Summer looked back to see the pickup truck hesitate at the top of the falls, then follow them.

“They’re crazy,” Summer shouted over the water’s roar.

Dirk shook his head. “Guess we need to be crazier.”

He coaxed the VW across the pond to the next falls. Unlike the first, it was a continuous descent of nearly seventy feet that angled down a series of terraced ledges. Dirk checked to ensure his sister was safely buckled in, then aligned the Beetle and drove over the edge.

The initial plunge was the sharpest, a ten-foot drop onto a narrow terrace. The VW landed nose-first, crunching the front end, but bounced up and forward. The air bags deployed with a puff of white smoke as the car skipped over the next ledge.

The Beetle bounded like a hopping frog down a long series of inclines and ledges. A group of tourists watched in shock as it tumbled past them. It caromed from one boulder to another, its tires bursting and suspension imploding, yet it remained upright. Momentum carried the VW down a long, slick rock, where it slid thirty feet through a rush of water.

Dirk and Summer’s wild ride ended at a final set of steeply terraced falls. The battered Beetle descended the incline amid a screech of metal. Striking the bottom terrace, it did a slow forward flip, splashing wheels-up into a large pool. The inverted car floated peacefully for a moment — and then sank from view.

A nearby Jamaican tour guide abandoned his clients and waded toward the steam and bubbles that marked the VW’s resting place. He froze as something under the water grazed his shin. Then the tall, lithe figure of Summer emerged, clutching a red journal. A second later, Dirk popped to the surface a few yards away and swam to his sister.

The Jamaican gasped. “You both alive? It’s a miracle.”

“The miracle is called an air bag,” Dirk said. “You okay, sis?”

Summer gave him a weak smile. “I’ve got a wrenched shoulder and a sore knee, but everything else seems to be working.”

“Look out!” One of the tourists pointed toward the top of the falls.

Dirk and Summer saw the pickup tipping over the ledge. The driver had pursued the Volkswagen to the precipice of the second falls, then stopped to watch the Beetle’s descent. But a boulder underneath had given way, leaving the truck teetering on three wheels. The driver tried backing up but more rocks broke loose. The truck hung in midair for a moment, then plunged over the falls.

With its heavier front end, the truck hit the first terrace nose-first and flipped over. Crashing down the next incline, the truck then somersaulted all the way down the falls. Wheels and bumpers went flying in all directions. The passenger was tossed out the window midway, his body colliding with a limestone boulder that snapped his spine.

The driver rode the pickup all the way to the bottom as it struck the pool with a colossal splash. The cab was completely pulverized. As the truck settled into the water, Dirk knew the driver was dead.

“Might be a good time to get out of here,” he said, grabbing Summer’s arm and pulling her to the riverbank. They staggered past a group of stunned tourists, who stared at the truck’s sunken remains as if waiting for its dead occupant to emerge.

Climbing down the remaining falls, Dirk and Summer found a Montego Bay resort hotel bus idling in the parking lot and casually boarded it. They hunkered down in the back row, trying to avoid the gaze of the tourists following them, who chatted excitedly about the vehicles they saw plunge down the falls.

When the bus got under way, Summer noticed her brother’s wide grin. “What’s so amusing? We almost got killed back there.”

“I was just thinking about the look that will be on that guy’s face.”

“What guy?”

“The guy at the car rental counter when we tell him where to collect the Volkswagen.”

31

The bungalow was dark as the intruder crept onto the porch at two in the morning. He stopped and listened for sounds from within. All was silent, aside from the lapping of the nearby surf. He gently placed his palm on the knob and twisted. It turned freely. He eased the door open an inch and peered inside.

The room was almost pitch-black. An open rear window allowed in just a hint of ambient light, revealing that both back bedroom doors were closed. It was better than he had hoped.

The intruder slipped into the house and closed the door behind him. He took a tentative step forward — and a bright floor lamp snapped on. Wheeling around, he squinted toward it. Through the spots dancing in front of his retinas, he saw Dirk sitting in a chair facing him, holding a speargun in his lap. A row of empty beer bottles on an adjacent coffee table testified to the patience of his ambush.

“It’s quite a nice weapon,” Dirk stated. He pointed the loaded speargun at the man. “A KOAH. They cost about six hundred dollars in the States. Not the tool I would expect a simple fisherman from Trelawny Parish to carry, let alone leave behind in his boat.”

“They pay me well, Mr. Dirk.” Samuel’s bright teeth gritted in anguish.

“How about you drop your gun,” Dirk said. It was a command, not a request.

Samuel nodded, pulling a Smith & Wesson revolver from his waistband and setting it on the floor.

“I like you and your sister,” the Jamaican said, rising slowly. “I not come to hurt you.”

“But you would for a price.”

“No.” Samuel shook his head.

“I don’t think your friends had the same conviction. Are they both dead?”

Samuel gave a solemn nod.

Dirk swung the speargun toward the coffee table. Partially hidden by the beer bottles lay the red journal of Ellsworth Boyd. Dirk placed the tip of the speargun on the book and nudged it toward Samuel. “Here’s what you’re after. Go ahead and take it.”

Samuel hesitated.

Dirk glared at him. “If you would have asked a few more questions while we were drinking at the Green Stone Bar, you could have saved us both a lot of trouble.” The fatigue of the day’s events, along with the beer, showed in his bloodshot eyes.

Samuel extended an unsteady hand toward the journal.

As his fingers grazed the cover, Dirk slapped down the speargun’s tip. “One thing I need to know first. Who’s paying you?”

“A man in Mo Bay I work for sometimes.”

“What’s his name?”

Samuel shook his head. “He’s my cousin. Just middleman, not important to you.”

“Then who’s paying him?”

Samuel shrugged. “The top boss man? He’s from Cuba. And he likes antiquities and shipwreck artifacts, like you. That’s all I know.”

“A Cuban, you say?”

“Yes. He flew here in Army plane, not stay long.”

Dirk nodded and released the journal.

Samuel gently picked it up and tucked it under his arm. “I got to know,” he said. “Where’s the stone that everybody wants?”

“Most likely, in an American museum. Where your Cuban friend won’t be able to touch it.”

Samuel shrugged. “I hope you find it first, not him. My cousin says he’s crazy.”

The Jamaican backtracked to the door and turned the handle. “Good-bye,” he said, his eyes staring down in shame.

“Good-bye, Samuel.” Dirk clicked on the speargun’s safety and set it down.

Samuel closed the door behind him.

A minute later, Summer emerged from her bedroom wearing an oversized Scripps Institute of Oceanography T-shirt. She covered a yawn. “I thought I heard voices.”

“I just gave Samuel the journal.”

“You what?”

“It’s what Díaz was after. Now he doesn’t need to kill us in our sleep.”

“Juan Díaz, the Cuban we met in Mexico?”

“One and the same. He hired Samuel to monitor us and paid for the thugs in the pickup. No doubt he’s behind the theft of the stone at Zimapán.”

“Díaz…” A look of bitter disappointment crossed her face. “He was the leader of the thieves who took the stone? How could I have been so blind?”

“We met him only briefly. You told me they all wore disguises and that the top guy hardly spoke.”

“Still, I should have recognized him.” She sat on the couch in shock. “He’s responsible for the death of Dr. Torres. But why would a Cuban archeologist kill over an Aztec artifact?”

“He may not even be an archeologist. It could be he’s operating an artifact smuggling operation. There’s big money in black market antiquities. Both sections of the stone together could be worth a lot of money to a collector… Or it could be something else.”

“What’s that?”

Dirk stared at the speargun with a faraway gaze. “Perhaps, just perhaps, Díaz knows exactly what the Aztecs were carrying when they sailed to Aztlán.”