Havana Storm

78

General Alberto Gutier walked into the office of the vice president and sized it up for himself. It was a spacious enclave on the top floor of the Cuban Communist Party headquarters, featuring a private bathroom and an impressive city view. Gutier took a quick glance out the window at the José Marti Memorial, which stood illuminated against the night sky. The office would do quite nicely, he thought, once the antiquated décor of its current occupant was removed.

Although Vice President César Alvarez was over eighty and in frail health, his mind was still quick. He remained seated behind a large desk as Gutier was escorted into the room.

“Mr. Vice President,” Gutier said, “you are looking well this evening.”

“Thank you, General,” Alvarez said in a raspy voice. “Please, take a seat.”

“Why do you wish to see me at this late hour?”

“The news from the Cayman Islands is not good.”

“It is a terrible tragedy.”

“What is the latest information that you have?” Alvarez asked.

“Nothing more than the official reports,” Gutier said. “There was an explosion on a yacht shortly after the president stepped aboard. No one has seen him since, so it is presumed he perished in the blast.”

“Rescue teams have been unable to identify any remains, so there can be no hope.” The vice president shook his head. “Who would want to harm the president?”

“Who but the CIA?” Gutier said. “They tried to kill Fidel and now they have succeeded with Raúl.”

“What are you saying? You can’t honestly believe it was the Americans?”

“Most certainly. I had in custody the man responsible. He was an American marine engineer who was found with explosives off our shores. Regrettably, he was killed in transit to Havana in a helicopter crash.”

“That is a serious allegation.”

“Do not worry. We will manage the affairs of state confidently together and stand tall against the cultural intrusion by the Americans. Very soon, we will be stronger than you can imagine.”

“We?”

“When you assume the presidency, Cuba will need a new vice president. I stand ready to serve our nation in this capacity.”

“The president had indicated his desire for a succession that includes Foreign Minister Ruiz. I thought, perhaps, you knew that.”

“Ruiz can hardly be appointed to anything now, given his reckless admiration for America.” Gutier gave the old politician a haughty stare. “I need not remind you where the Revolutionary Army would stand on the matter.”

Alvarez returned Gutier’s look with his own wizened gaze. “Yes, I see what you mean. That could indeed prove unpopular.” He looked at his watch as if realizing he’d missed an appointment and rose from his chair.

“General, if you’ll please excuse me for a moment, I’ll be right back.” The aged man shuffled out of the office, closing the door behind him.

Gutier sat back and grinned. The vice presidency would be his. Then it would be only a matter of time before he ascended to the presidency. He would take delight in his first act, demoting Ruiz to serve as a Party representative on a pig farm somewhere in the hinterlands.

His jubilant vision was interrupted by a shuffling sound nearby. A figure emerged from the office’s small bathroom.

Dressed in a gray suit and crisp white shirt, Raúl Castro appeared nothing like the ghost he should have been. “Good evening, General.” Castro settled into Alvarez’s chair.

“Mr. President,” Gutier stammered. “I thought you were dead.”

“Of course you did. Clever of you to blame the CIA when they are the ones who alerted me to your assassination attempt. I didn’t want to believe it, but hearing your aspirations just now confirms the truth.”

“I had nothing to do with that.”

“Of course you did. The official reports from the Cayman Islands all indicate there was a fire aboard the yacht. Nobody said a word about an explosion. Nobody but you.”

Gutier was too stunned to think clearly. “But I saw a video of you boarding the boat just before it exploded.”

Castro smiled. “A nice double, wasn’t he? Jorge Castenada. A deranged farmer who killed his family several years ago and was serving a life sentence in Boniato Prison. He was recently diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, so he didn’t have long to live before you murdered him. Remember the name, though, because now it is yours.”

The door to the office burst open and four security guards charged in, followed by Vice President Alvarez. The guards wrenched Gutier to his feet and cuffed his hands behind his back. As they started to drag him to the door, he cried out to Castro, “Stop. This is a mistake. You must listen to me.”

“Good-bye, Jorge Castenada,” Castro said.

“What do you mean by calling me that?”

Castro held up his hand to halt the guards. He stepped close and looked Gutier up and down with contempt. “Yesterday, General Alberto Gutier was killed in the accidental crash of an Army helicopter off the northern coast. Jorge Castenada, meanwhile, is returning to solitary confinement in Boniato Prison, where he will serve out the remainder of his life sentence without parole.”

Castro nodded and the guards dragged the defeated general out of the office. His screams of protest gradually receded down the building’s back stairwell.

“I always thought the man was vermin,” Alvarez said quietly.

“He and his brother both, apparently. A healthy lesson, I believe, in where the country shouldn’t go.”

“Minister Ruiz believes greater liberty for the people will prevent his type from gaining power.”

“Perhaps he is right.”

“What next, Mr. President?”

Castro stared out the open door for several moments. “I believe my next order of business is to pay a visit to the harbor docks.”

79

The morning sun washed over the Gold Digger and the Sargasso Sea as they sat moored bow to stern at the Port of Havana’s Terminal Sierra Maestra. Shortly after the Starfish was recovered, a Cuban Navy corvette had joined the two vessels to assist with the rescue efforts. The corvette then acted as a voluntary escort for the ships’ passage to Havana. Military ambulances were waiting on the docks and took the Sea Raker’s survivors to an Army hospital under tight security.

Pitt and Gunn stood conversing on the bridge, upwind of Giordino with a freshly lit Ramón Allones he held tightly in his teeth. A crewman entered with a befuddled look. “Sir, you have a visitor,” he said to Pitt, then stood aside.

Raúl Castro, joined by an aide, walked in without pretense and introduced himself. The startled Americans stepped forward and shook hands, welcoming the Cuban president aboard.

“I’m told you uncovered an unauthorized uranium mining operation in my country and also prevented a great environmental catastrophe,” Castro said.

Pitt nodded. “I’m glad to hear the mining operation was not of your doing. Unfortunately, several lives were lost, and a rather expensive mining ship was sunk, which may accrue to your government.”

Castro shrugged off the liability. “My brother and I used to fish the waters off of Havana and Matanzas. It would hurt me to see harm done to the sea. The thermal vents there are now safe?”

“Yes, though there are still explosives in place at one site that will have to be removed.”

“What about these mercury releases?” Castro asked.

“That is still a problem,” Gunn said. “Both here and to the south of Cuba, there are active toxic plumes.”

“We may have a solution,” Pitt said. “Mark Ramsey believes he can convert one of his underwater mining machines into a type of bulldozer. The machine could fill in a large portion of the currently exposed vents with sediment from the seafloor. This would minimize, if not altogether extinguish, the release of mercury.”

“My government stands ready to assist in any way we can.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Gunn said.

Castro turned to Pitt. “My brother once mentioned your name. You helped save Havana from ruin at one time.”

“It was many years ago,” Pitt said.

“You are a true friend of Cuba.” Castro eyed the box of cigars Giordino had brought to the bridge. “I see you have already partaken in our fine tobacco. Is there anything else I can offer you in appreciation?”

“Mr. President, there is a Spanish shipwreck off of Punta Maisí that we would like to explore. It may be carrying a Mesoamerican artifact that Juan Díaz was pursuing.”

“I’ve been told that Díaz kept a warehouse filled with antiquities, which shall now be turned over to our National Museum of Natural History. You have my permission to explore the wreck, but I’d ask that any artifacts you recover be provided to the museum.”

“Of course.”

Castro turned to leave and Pitt escorted him to the bridge wing. The morning light cast the buildings of old Havana in a swath of gold. Castro waved his arm toward the city.

“This is a very special place. I can tell you, the people of Havana and all of Cuba are grateful for the harm you prevented. It is, I suspect, more than you know.”

“The people of Cuba are worthy of good things,” Pitt said. He observed Castro take in the beauty of the old city and a thought occurred to him.

“Mr. President, there’s nothing more you can do for me, but there is something you could do for Cuba.”

Castro looked at Pitt and nodded. “For Cuba, anything.”

80

That was the target. Algonquin. Haasis wasn’t keen on shooting an unarmed merchant ship, but those were his orders. A single torpedo was to be fired to sink her. Pacific Fleet Command wanted it to look like an accident — to the extent that torpedoing a ship could be so disguised. Fat chance, Haasis thought. But at least in the middle of the Pacific, it would take a significant effort on somebody’s part to prove the truth.

“Weapons Control, prep torpedo one,” he said.

Haasis remained glued to the periscope as a Mark 48 torpedo was loaded into the number one torpedo tube and the tube flooded. The captain looked at the merchant ship for another minute before calmly calling out, “Fire number one.”

A faint swoosh sounded from the sub’s bow, and Haasis counted the seconds for the torpedo to reach its target. The Liberian-registered ship shuddered and a small plume of black smoke arose amidships. With relief, Haasis saw two lifeboats quickly lowered with a full complement of crew. Its keel shattered by the blast, the heavily loaded ore carrier broke into two pieces, which sank simultaneously ten minutes later.

“Nice shooting, gentlemen,” Haasis said. “We’ll show the video in the mess at dinner tonight.”

He turned to the officer of the deck. “Parker, alert the Oregon to the sinking vessel. They’ll be able to pick up the survivors.”

“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said.

He returned to the captain’s side a short time later. “Message sent and confirmed, sir. The Oregon is on her way.”

“Very good.”

“Sir, if I may ask? I recall seeing the Oregon when we were in Osaka a few months ago. She’s a run-down, dilapidated old freighter. How is it this ship is the only one in the area?”

Haasis shook his head. “I don’t have all the answers, son. I just take my orders and follow them to the best of my ability.”

“Yes, sir.”

Yet the order to sink the ore carrier was one that didn’t sit well with Haasis. The captain had been given no explanation, only the required outcome. For the remainder of the Asheville’s cruise, the act gnawed at his conscience and kept him turning in his bunk at night. Not until a month later, after the Asheville returned to Point Loma Submarine Base, was he told the full nature of the mission. The Algonquin was carrying a cargo of high-grade uranium oxide to North Korea, enough to arm dozens of nuclear warheads. After hearing the truth — and accepting a unit commendation on behalf of his boat — the veteran captain never lost a night’s sleep again.

81

It appears someone is guarding the nest,” Gunn said.

He passed a pair of binoculars to Pitt, who stood beside him on the bridge of the Sargasso Sea. The NUMA ship was a dozen miles off the eastern tip of Cuba, sailing through a light sea.

Pitt focused the lenses on a modern survey vessel standing at station a half mile ahead. “We know that Díaz, after stealing Perlmutter’s research documents, sent his mining facility manager to locate the San Antonio,” Pitt said. “That must be him.”

“He’s the last one to be accounted for,” Gunn said. “I hear Perlmutter’s Cuban burglar didn’t fare too well. He was in the country illegally — and being watched by the FBI for industrial spying. They picked him up shortly after Perlmutter’s incident, and he will be sent away for a long while.”

Giordino stepped over as the NUMA ship converged on the other vessel. “Perhaps we should tell those boys thanks for pointing out the wreck site. Saved us a couple of days’ searching.”

Gunn smiled. “I don’t suspect they’d consider it too kindly.”

The bridge radio crackled with a gruff, accented voice. “Calling the American vessel. You are in protected waters. Leave the vicinity at once or you will be fired upon.”

“I told you they’d be touchy,” Gunn said.

“Reason enough to call in our backup friends,” Pitt said. He switched frequencies and made a call to shore, then dialed back to the survey boat. “This is the research vessel Sargasso Sea. You have twenty minutes to vacate the site and make for Baracoa or we will fire on you.”

Pitt’s message was met with a flurry of Spanish invectives.

“More than touchy,” Giordino said, “they’re downright grouchy.”

“Then we better dance a bit until the mosquitoes show up.”

Pitt had the NUMA ship turn away and sail slowly toward the Cuban coastline. Twenty minutes later, the ship reversed course, crawling back within a hundred yards of the survey vessel. Blistering threats again emanated from the ship’s radio, but Pitt ignored them.

Gunn pointed out the bridge window. “They’re showing their firepower,” he said with a nervous twitch.

A half-dozen men in military garb took up position along the survey ship’s rail, pointing assault rifles. One appeared to be wielding a rocket-propelled grenade launcher.

“All crew members off the deck,” Pitt called over the Sargasso Sea’s PA system.

The radio blared again. This time, Pitt recognized the voice of Molina.

“This is your last chance. Leave the area at once or we open fire.”

Pitt could see Molina step out of the bridge. A thumping noise sounded as the Cuban leader yelled to his men. The soldiers froze as the ocean in front of them rippled in a fountain of spray. An instant later, a military helicopter burst by, skimming low over the water just feet from the survey ship. The sky darkened briefly as three more helos arrived and circled the ship, firing into the water along her flanks.

They were a squadron of Cuban Mil Mi-24 attack helicopters from a nearby base. Pitt could hear the lead pilot radioing the survey ship and threatening instant destruction if they didn’t move.

Molina reluctantly obeyed, getting the ship under way and heading to port with an unwanted airborne escort.

Under Giordino’s direction, a side-scan sonar fish was lowered off the stern and the NUMA crew began surveying the seafloor. Within an hour, a small shipwreck appeared on the monitor, not far from the survey ship’s stationary position. Molina had indeed been guarding the nest.

The sonar fish was retrieved while the Starfish, repaired and refreshed, was prepared for launch. Pitt had his two children meet him at the submersible. “This is your hunt,” he told them. “You go down and find it.”

“You don’t have to ask twice.” Dirk quickly climbed into the craft. Summer gave her father a quick hug. “Thanks for indulging us.”

“Just remember to come back up on your own this time.”

A short time later, the submersible reached the seabed at a depth of five hundred feet. Gunn had parked the Sargasso Sea right on target. The shipwreck was instantly visible. Dirk guided the submersible over the wreck and inspected its remains.

Perlmutter’s research described the San Antonio as a steam packet built in Belfast in 1887. The years submerged since her sinking had not been kind. The ship’s wood hull and decks had mostly disappeared, leaving little more than a stout keel rising from the sand.

Dirk hovered the Starfish over the wreck’s midpoint, where the San Antonio’s boiler stood upright like a lone sentry in a garden of disintegrating machinery. Off the stern, a bronze propeller glinted under the submersible’s floodlights, the only object appearing to have survived the ravages of time unscathed.

“The marine organisms must have left town on a full stomach,” Summer said. “There’s hardly any wood left.”

“Good thing they don’t like to eat stone. It might actually help in exposing more of the wreck site.”

Starting at the bow, they began a thorough inspection, poking and prodding the Starfish’s manipulator through the scattered debris. Reaching the boiler again, Summer waved her finger ahead. “There it is, leaning against the side of the boiler!”

Dirk eased the Starfish in for a closer look. A large semicircular stone with a carved surface sat upright among the debris, propped against the side of the boiler. It was identical in size to the stone they’d found at Zimapán.

“It must have been on the main deck and slipped down when the ship disintegrated.” Dirk high-fived his sister. “Good going, girl.”

Summer gave him a tired grin. “For all the trouble we’ve endured in finding it, I sure hope it has something to tell us.”

82

It took several hours before Summer got her answer. The process of securing a sling around the stone and attaching several lift bags required two trips to the surface and considerable finessing with the Starfish’s manipulator arm. Assisting the lift bags with a tug on the lines, the submersible helped pull the stone off the bottom and tracked its ascent to the surface.

A crane on the Sargasso Sea gently hoisted the stone aboard, then retrieved the submersible. The ship’s crew and scientists were crowded around the artifact by the time Dirk and Summer made their way over for a look.

“Looks like a perfect match to the stone in Díaz’s office,” Pitt said.

The carvings were less crisp, due to their immersion, but Summer saw much the same patterns and glyphs found on the earlier stone. There was even the completed carving of the bird, which she could see was a heron.

Perhaps more important was the diagram carved at the bottom. It appeared to be a geographic representation of a bay or harbor, with a handful of islands sprinkled about the top. She rubbed her fingertips across the surface, wondering what secret it would reveal.

“Summer, can you kindly stand to the side for a second?” Jack Dahlgren said. “You’re blocking the camera.”

She turned to see Dahlgren standing behind a tripod with a video camera. “Do you have a satellite link with Dr. Madero?”

“He’s standing by on the laptop next to the cylinder rack.”

Summer and Dirk stepped to the computer, which showed a live image of Dr. Madero in his office in Mexico. His head was bandaged, but he smiled broadly.

“Dirk, Summer, I am just seeing the images. They are wonderful!”

“A long time in coming,” Summer said. “How are you feeling, Professor?”

“Fine, just fine. I’m still having occasional headaches, but the doctors say those will go away. It’s a funny thing, waking up in the hospital after being unconscious for three days. My memory had vacated me, but gradually things have come back.”

“We were shocked to learn Díaz had attacked you in your office.”

“An evil man who got what he deserved. I am glad you both are safe.”

“Safe and anxious to learn what the stone says,” Summer said as Pitt and Giordino joined them for the assessment.

“I’ve been able to join a still image of the first stone with one your man Dahlgren just sent me of the recovered piece. It finally allows a rough but somewhat complete translation. Of course, Dr. Torres could have provided a finer interpretation, God rest his soul.”

“What does it indicate?” Summer asked, unable to contain her excitement.

“I’ll summarize as best as I can. It starts with an appearance by Quetzalcoatl, a legendary Toltec ruler, and his army. Motecuhzoma welcomes him but is then killed. There is a rebellion against the intruding forces, where much blood is spilled. Quetzalcoatl is seen to depart during the fighting.

“Afterward, the elders gather gifts and offerings, which are placed in the care of the Eagle and Jaguar Warriors. The offerings are transported in seven vessels across the water to an island marked on the drawing at the base of the stone. There is a representation of Huitzilopochtli, the Aztec ancestral deity. This, along with the image of the heron, suggests they somehow returned to their ancestral home of Aztlán.”

“Any speculation where that island is located?” Dirk asked.

“There is only the image on the bottom — and an indication the voyage may have lasted ten days. Since we don’t know where they started from, or which direction they traveled, it is difficult to wager a guess.”

“I just sent an image of the stone to Yaeger,” Dahlgren said as he also joined the group. “Maybe his computers can find a geographic match.”

“I understand the bit about shipping off some treasured goodies,” Giordino said, “but, Professor, who are these Quetzalcoatl, Motecuhzoma, and Huitzilopochtli characters?”

“Huitzilopochtli is the Aztec’s ancient founding father, a sort of deified George Washington who led a migration of the Mexica to Tenochtitlan. Quetzalcoatl was a legendary Toltec leader who lived centuries earlier. The Aztecs prophesied he would return someday to regain his throne. He was therefore linked with the arrival of Hernan Cortés and his Spanish conquistadors in 1519. Many historians believe the Aztecs thought Cortés was the second coming of Quetzalcoatl. The stone’s inscription would seem to indicate such a belief was true.”

“So if Cortés represented the reincarnation of Quetzalcoatl,” Giordino asked, “then who was this Motecuhzoma?”

“We know him better as Montezuma,” Pitt said.

Summer looked at her father. “So that’s what you discovered in Díaz’s office?”

“It was a guess, but Díaz had a codex page showing a warrior bedecked in jewels and a green feather headdress. I recall seeing photos of a similar headdress attributed to Montezuma.”

“Or Moctezuma, as he’s more accurately referred to these days,” Madero said.

“Díaz knew the connection,” Pitt said, “that’s why he nearly killed you for the stone.”

“What value does Moctezuma add to the mix?” Giordino asked.

“A great deal,” Madero said. “You see, the account on the stone correlates with the Spanish record. Cortés and his force of five hundred men landed near Veracruz in 1519. They soon marched to the Aztec capital of Tenochtitlan, a fabulous city built on an island in Lake Texcoco, which is now the heart of Mexico City.

“Moctezuma personally welcomed Cortés and his troops, but the air was thick with mutual distrust. Moctezuma nevertheless brought to Cortés the treasures of the Aztec empire, which included large quantities of gold.

“Moctezuma was shortly thereafter killed, possibly by his own people, and Cortés was unable to maintain the peace. The Spanish were forced to flee for their lives, barely escaping the angry onslaught of the Aztec warriors.”

“So the Spanish didn’t get away with the gold?” Giordino said.

“Only a small portion of it. Cortés regrouped and returned a few months later and lay siege to Tenochtitlan, ultimately taking the city in a bloody conquest. But the gold and riches had vanished. The whereabouts of Moctezuma’s gold has remained a mystery for centuries.”

“Until now,” Pitt said. “The codex and stones tell us the story. The Aztecs packed their treasure into large canoes and sailed east into the Caribbean. We found the remains of one of their canoes off Jamaica, so we know they exist — and that they were large and seagoing.”

“A remarkable voyage, to be sure. I’ll work up a more thoughtful translation of the stone,” Madero said. “If I find anything noteworthy, I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Summer replied. “Perhaps we can meet at the National Museum in Havana and see both stones together.”

“It’s a date,” Madero said. He disconnected the video link and faded from the screen.

“So the question is, where did they go?” Summer asked.

A silent pause hung over the group, then Dahlgren turned their attention to the laptop computer. “I think Hiram may have something for you.”

A live video feed showed Yaeger in his computer center at NUMA headquarters. “I hear you need some help with your treasure map.”

“I’m afraid the Aztecs didn’t leave us any latitude and longitude coordinates,” Pitt said. “Could you make anything from the diagram on the stones?”

“As a matter of fact, Max gave me an answer in about twelve seconds,” he said, referring to his computer system. “I conducted a search for a comparable geographic configuration, limiting the scope to the Gulf of Mexico, the Caribbean Sea, and both coasts of Mexico. I found about a dozen near misses and one pretty good match.”

He held up a paper showing the stone diagram on half the page and a satellite image of a similarly shaped bay on the other. “Pretty close correlation, if I do say so.”

“It looks dead-on,” Pitt said.

“Are we at all close to it?” Summer asked, elbowing her way to the computer. “Can we get to the site from here?”

“Oh, you can reach the site all right,” Yaeger said, flashing his teeth in a broad grin. “It’s just leaving there that might pose a problem.”

83

Puerto Grande was the name Christopher Columbus bestowed on the large, crescent-shaped bay he discovered in 1494. It remained under Spanish control for the next four hundred years, serving as an important terminus for the export of cotton and sugar. In June 1898, American Marines stormed ashore and captured the environs in one of the first land battles of the Spanish — American War. By then, the inlet had taken the name of a nearby river and was called Guantánamo Bay.

After the quick defeat of the Spanish, the United States entered into a lease with the newly independent Cuban government for a forty-five-square-mile block of the outer bay for use as a naval refueling station. Occupied today by the Naval Station Guantánamo Bay and its unpopular detention camp, the U.S. pays only a few thousand dollars each year to the Cubans under a perpetual lease — rendered in checks that have long gone uncashed by the Castro government.

Summer stood on the bow of the Sargasso Sea, enjoying the sun and breeze as the research ship entered the bay. An Orion P-3 surveillance plane swooped down and landed at a compact airfield to her left, while the ship curled around to the main naval base on her right. The ship eased into an open dock alongside a Navy frigate.

She joined Pitt, her brother, and Giordino in debarking the ship.

Two officers awaited their arrival. To their surprise, standing with them was St. Julien Perlmutter, who had flown down from Washington, the first time he’d been in an airplane in ten years.

“Welcome to Gitmo,” the senior of the two officers said in a forced welcome. “I’m Admiral Stewart, Joint Task Force Commander.”

“Kind of you to welcome us, Admiral,” Pitt said, shaking hands.

“It’s not often I receive a call from the Vice President requesting my assistance in a historical goose chase.”

“I can assure you,” Perlmutter said in his best huffy tone, “there are no geese involved.”

“May I introduce Commander Harold Joyce. Among other duties, he is our de facto base historian. I’m confident Commander Joyce can see to your needs. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Stewart turned and marched off the deck.

“Somebody put some rocks in his porridge?” Dirk asked.

Joyce laughed. “No, he just doesn’t like politicians ordering him around. Especially politicians he once outranked.”

“Vice President Sandecker has been known to stomp on some toes now and then,” Pitt said.

The naval commander, a short man with glasses, gave Summer a friendly smile, then turned to Perlmutter. “Mr. Perlmutter, I am thrilled that you are here visiting Gitmo. I recently read your history of the Roman navy and found it fascinating.”

“You’re one of a small minority, but thank you. Did you have any luck with our request?”

“You indicated that you were looking for a cave or repository on one of the islands. There are several islands in the bay, but only two have any real size or elevation — Hospital Cay and Medico Cay. I hiked around both islands, but I’m afraid I didn’t find anything resembling a natural cave.”

“Perhaps it’s sealed up,” Summer said.

“You may be right.” Joyce said, responding to Summer eagerly. “There was really only one landmark that may be of interest. It’s an old ammunition bunker on Hospital Cay. I didn’t think much of it, but when I did some investigating, I found it was built in the earliest days of the base. It remains locked up, but I could find no inventory records that it was ever actually used for munitions storage.”

“Since we’re here, could we have a look?” Summer asked.

Perlmutter nodded. “I think that would be most judicious.”

“Absolutely,” Joyce said. “I took the liberty of obtaining the old man’s approval. The hardest part was finding a key to the lock. I spent four hours rummaging around the base archives. I don’t think that place has been swept in a century.”

“Any luck?” Summer asked.

Joyce produced a brass key the size of a hardcover book.

“I’ve got a launch waiting at the next dock,” he said. “Let’s go have a look.”

The group squeezed into the launch, and Joyce took them across the bay to a small island at its center. Pitt was surprised to see a small freighter traversing the bay, a Cuban flag flying from its staff.

“Per the terms of the lease agreement signed in 1903, the Cubans have full right of passage through the bay even though it cuts right across our base,” Joyce said. “We used to get refugees floating downstream on rafts, but the Cuban military monitors things pretty tightly now.”

He drove the boat ashore at Hospital Cay, a half-mile-long island with an elevated ridge that ran down its thin length like a spine. The island was arid like the nearby landscape, covered with low shrubs and cacti.

Pitt noticed several deep indentations in the soil near their landing, evidence of an earlier structure. “This place has some history with the base?”

“It sure does,” Joyce said. “This was where the original coaling station was built to refuel the Navy’s ships. It was the reason they wanted the bay. Several large bunkers were built on the ridge, connected to a gurney that ran out to the docks. It lasted until 1937, when the Navy’s coal-burning ships went by the wayside.”

Dirk peered across the now barren island. “They didn’t leave much for posterity.”

“They tore everything down a few years later and the place has sat empty ever since. But one thing they didn’t remove was the munitions bunker. It’s at the north end of the cay.”

It was a short hike to the other side of the island, but they were all sweating under the warm, humid climate when they reached a small cut in the ridge. Joyce led them to a concrete archway embedded into the side of the hill that was sealed with thick steel doors. He placed the big brass key in the lock and tried to turn it, but he couldn’t get the mechanism to budge.

“Let me see that key, young man.” Perlmutter bulled his way to the door. Grabbing the key, he applied some of his four-hundred-pound mass to bear. The lock gave a grinding click and he shoved the door open.

The interior was completely empty. The room stretched twenty feet into the hillside, with walls made of tightly laid stone. There was no treasure or even ammunition present. The group crowded in and looked around in disappointment.

“So much for Montezuma’s treasure,” said Summer with disappointment in her voice.

“Obviously, robbers cleaned it out,” Joyce muttered sadly.

“Not the first time thieves have been at work,” Perlmutter said. “The pyramids were emptied, too.”

“Probably three thousand years ago,” Pitt said absently as he began walking around the chamber, tapping the stones while studying the tight fit of the seams.

Perlmutter gazed at him, “Looking for a hidden door?”

Pitt spoke as he rapped the stones with the big brass key. “Strikes me as odd there’s no remnants or indication that anything was ever stored in this chamber. It’s as though it was scrubbed clean.”

Giordino aimed his light on the concrete floor. “Puts my house to shame.”

It took Pitt forty minutes before finding a different dull sound instead of the cling of solid rock.

Giordino went to the launch and returned with a toolbox. With a hammer and chisel, he and Pitt attacked what soon became a loose stone.

Taking turns, Pitt and Giordino carved a hole on one edge of the stone. Jamming the chisel deeper in the hole, Dirk and Al used a large screwdriver to pry the stone from the side. Sweating and on the verge of exhaustion, they slid the stone forward by an inch. Working from the other side, they moved the stone again. Giordino pushed everyone aside and manhandled the large stone onto the floor.

For a long moment, they all stood silent and stared at the space beyond. It was as if they were all afraid to peer beyond the wall and find nothing there. Pitt then pushed a flashlight inside and swept its beam across the darkness. Unable to contain her excitement, Summer pushed her face into the opening. “I see a jaguar,” she said in a hushed voice, “I think it’s standing guard.” She turned and gave her brother and father a knowing grin.

Unable to resist, Dirk moved Summer’s head aside. “And enough gold to fill Fort Knox!” Taking turns, they hacked through enough stones to create an opening large enough to pass through.

Summer was the first to enter, stepping into the chamber. A large yellow and black-spotted feline greeted her, its jaws frozen open. Summer moved her light lower, illuminating a carved figure of a native warrior beneath the jaguar-skin headdress.

She stepped past the carved warrior. A long dark cavern sparkled with an amber reflection under the beam of her flashlight.

Gold.

It was everywhere, in the form of carved figurines, gilded spears and shields, and jewelry draped upon stone plates and bowls. A large wooden canoe was wedged against one of the walls, filled to its gunnels with gold objects, jewel-encrusted masks, and elaborate carved stone disks.

The others followed Summer in and gaped at the artifacts.

Joyce couldn’t believe his eyes. “What is all this?”

Pitt pointed to a large cotton cloak covered in jewels and bright green feathers. “The treasure of Montezuma.”

Summer hugged her brother. “It’s a small redemption for Dr. Torres.”

Perlmutter gazed at the artifacts with child-like wonder. “It’s all true,” he murmured.

Pitt strode up to the big man. “St. Julien, I believe you may have been holding out on us. You knew it was here all the time, didn’t you?”

Perlmutter smiled. “I wasn’t eager to rewrite history, but there is no disputing the facts. As we now know, it seems a Spanish commando force aligned with the archeologist Julio Rodriguez blew up the Maine in order to obtain the Aztec stone. The autopsy report on Ellsworth Boyd was the clue. It indicated he died from a gunshot wound, and you very likely found on the wreck itself the Spanish revolver that caused it.”

“It would seem Rodriguez was on his way here in the San Antonio,” Pitt said.

“He had performed fieldwork years earlier on a Taíno Indian site in Guantánamo Bay, so he knew the local geography. I believe the diagram on Boyd’s stone was sufficient to trigger recognition once he had possession of it and he was beating a path here.”

“But if the San Antonio sank with the stone, how did the U.S. know where to find it? And why is the treasure still here?”

“It’s apparent that Boyd knew the significance of the stone,” Perlmutter said. “His partner was an expert in Mesoamerican cultures, so they quickly latched onto the link with Moctezuma’s treasure. I suspect he was returning to New York with the stone to raise funds for a search. Instead, his ship broke down in Santiago and he was chased to Havana by Rodriguez and ultimately killed for it on the Maine.

“But he had already told the Cuban Consul General and the captain of the Maine all he knew,” Perlmutter said. “I discovered several communiqués related to the Maine’s sinking that referred to what was called ‘Boyd’s Find.’ Hence the urgent chase and sinking of the San Antonio by the American fleet. Rodriguez lived just long enough after he was pulled from the sea to point the finger at Guantánamo. The military records are quite abundant, after that point, on the strategic necessity of capturing Guantánamo Bay.”

“Are you saying the Spanish — American War was initiated over Moctezuma’s treasure?” Pitt said.

Perlmutter nodded. “It was a key factor any way you slice it. The Maine was sunk on account of it, as was our response to invade Cuba.”

“So why was it left here?”

“The powers in Washington didn’t want to upset the newly independent Cuban state. On top of that, the U.S. gained an immediate boost as a new world power by its decisive defeat of the Spanish fleet here, and in the Philippines.

“So instead the discovery was covered up. President McKinley figured it would be better to wait a few years before revealing its existence, so he ordered the treasure kept under lock and key until after he left office. Perhaps he didn’t count on Theodore Roosevelt succeeding him.”

“Roosevelt became aware of the treasure?”

“Absolutely. But he had a personal motive in squelching the find. As the hero of San Juan Hill, Roosevelt didn’t want his own legacy tarnished by a perceived greedy lure for treasure. On top of that, things were deteriorating in Mexico during the last years of his presidency. Insurrection was growing against the Mexican leader Porfirio Díaz, which would eventually lead to the Mexican Revolution. Roosevelt knew that the Mexican public would be outraged at news that the U.S. possessed Moctezuma’s treasure, aggravating an already sensitive border situation.”

“So he buried the whole matter.”

“Quite literally. Roosevelt ordered the treasure sealed where it was. Records of its discovery were purged, and those few who knew of its existence were sworn to secrecy… not to mention banned from ever setting foot on Guantánamo Bay again. I was clued in when I stumbled upon an Executive Order signed by Roosevelt directing the construction of a secret sealed repository on the base for so-called sensitive items.”

“And after that, time eventually eroded its memory.”

“Precisely.”

Summer stepped up to the two men carrying a carved stone figurine of a heron with jeweled eyes and a gold bill. “Isn’t it beautiful? The craftsmanship is remarkable.”

“There’s enough gold here to pay off the national debt,” Dirk said.

“It’s quite a collection,” Perlmutter said. “I just hope World War Three doesn’t break out over its disposition.”

“Dirk and I have it all figured out,” Summer said. “One third will go to the National Museum in Havana, one third will go to the Xalapa Anthropology Museum in Veracruz, and one third will go to the Smithsonian in Washington, with the requirement that the full collection rotate every five years.”

“That sounds like an equitable plan,” Pitt said, “but what if the Navy wants to keep it all?”

Summer smiled a wicked grin, then reached an arm around Commander Joyce and pulled the diminutive man close. “In that case, we may have to take a lesson from the Aztecs and cut out a few hearts.”

84

The knock at the door of the hillside home startled its occupants, who seldom received visitors anymore.

“I’ll see who it is,” Salvador Fariñas said to his wife, who was in the kitchen filleting a fish for dinner.

Fariñas opened the door and stepped outside to converse with the visitors. After several minutes, he poked his head back through the doorway and called to his wife. “Maria, you better come see.”

Maria wiped her hands on her apron and strode outside with an impatient gait. She found a delivery truck parked in their drive and two men unloading numerous thin crates.

Fariñas was opening one of the crates with a screwdriver when he noticed his wife. “Maria, they’ve come back! They’ve come back to you!”

She approached with a confused look as he pried off the crate facing. Inside was a painting of an old woman holding a bouquet of flowers. Maria instantly recognized the portrait of her mother, one she had painted forty years earlier. “My painting of Mama,” she murmured.

She looked to the truck and the other crates being offloaded. “These are all my paintings?”

“Yes!” Fariñas said. “They all have been returned.”

Her eyes glistened. “I don’t understand.”

A switch seemed to flick on inside the woman, banishing the tired and defeated heart she had carried for the past several decades. With her husband, she eagerly pried open the crates, looking upon her works as a mother to her children.

When the last crate was unloaded, one of the deliverymen approached. “This is for you, Señora Fariñas.” He handed her a thick envelope. “Have a nice day.”

“Thank you,” she replied, opening the envelope. Inside was a note and a thin object wrapped in brown paper. She pulled open the note.

She unfurled the brown paper to find a fine Kolinsky sable-hair artist’s brush inside.

Tears began cascading down her cheeks. She dabbed them away with her apron until regaining her composure. Then she raised the brush in the air and in a powerful voice said, “Absolutamente!”