The Codex

52

Hauser poured over the crude diagram of the city that he had drawn over the past two days. His men had surveyed the city twice, but it was so overgrown that making any kind of accurate map was almost impossible. There were several pyramids, dozens of temples and other structures, hundreds of places where a tomb could be hidden. Unless they got lucky, it could take weeks.

A soldier came to the doorway and saluted.

“Report.”

“The sons are twenty miles back, sir, beyond the Ocata River crossing.”

Hauser slowly laid down the map. “Alive and well?”

“They are recovering from sickness. There is a Tara Indian taking care of them.”

“Weapons?”

“One useless old hunting rifle belonging to the woman. Bows and arrows and a blowgun, of course—”

“Yes, yes.” Hauser, despite himself, felt a certain twinge of respect for the three sons, particularly Philip. By all rights they should be dead. Max had been like that, too, stubborn and lucky. It was a potent combination. A brief image of Max came into his mind, the man stripped to the waist, slashing his way through the jungle, his sweaty back peppered with chips, twigs, and leaves. For months they had hacked their way through the jungle, bitten, cut, infected, sick — finding nothing. And then Max had ditched him, gone upriver and found the prize for which they’d been searching for over a year. Hauser went home broke and had to enlist… He shook his head, as if to throw off the resentment. That was past. The future — and Broadbent’s fortune — belonged to him.

The teniente spoke. “Shall I send back a detail of soldiers to kill them? This time we will be sure to finish them, jefe, I promise you.”

“No,” he said. “Let them come.”

“I don’t understand.”

Hauser turned to the teniente. “Don’t molest them. Leave them alone. Let them come.”