The Codex

69

From his hiding place, Hauser could hear the murmur of their voices carried up on the wind. He couldn’t make out individual words, but he had no doubt what was going on: They were having a grand old time looting their father’s tomb. No doubt they were planning to take out the smaller stuff — including the Codex. The woman, Colorado, knew what it was worth. That would be the first thing they would take.

In his mind, Hauser ran through the list of other treasures in the tomb. A great deal of Maxwell Broadbent’s collection would be portable, including some of the most valuable items. There were some rare carved gemstones from the Indian subcontinent. There was a large collection of Inca and Aztec gold artifacts, most of which were small, as were the ancient Greek gold coins. There were two extremely valuable Etruscan bronze figurines, each about ten inches high, that weighed less than twenty pounds apiece. All these things could be carried on the back of a single man. Value: between ten and twenty million.

They would be able to carry out the Lippi and the Monet. These two paintings were relatively small — the Lippi was twenty-eight by eighteen inches, the Monet thirty-six by twenty-six. Both had been packed unframed. The Lippi, painted on gessoed wood, weighed ten pounds and the Monet eight pounds. The two boxes that held them weighed no more than thirty pounds apiece. Both boxes could be tied together, strapped on a pack frame, and carried out on one person’s back. Value: upward of one hundred million.

There were, of course, many treasures they could not take. The Pontormo, worth perhaps thirty or forty million, was too large. So was the Bronzino portrait. The Mayan stelae and the Soderini bronzes were too heavy. But the two Braques were portable. The smaller of the two was one of Braque’s earliest cubist masterpieces, which might fetch five or ten million. There was a late Imperial Roman bronze statue of a boy, half life-size, that weighed a hundred pounds — probably too much to carry out. There were Cambodian temple figurines in stone, a couple of early Chinese bronze urns, some Mayan inlaid turquoise plaques… Max had had a good eye, and he had gone for quality, not quantity. Over the years, a lot of art had passed through his hands, and he had shortstopped only the very best for himself.

Yes, Hauser thought, if it weren’t for him the four of them below could remove on their backs artworks amounting to perhaps two hundred million dollars. Almost half the value of the entire collection.

He shifted, stretching his cramped legs. The sun was bright and hot. He glanced at his watch. Five to ten. He had decided to move out at ten o’clock. Time had little meaning out here, but the habits of discipline gave him pleasure. It was, he thought, more a philosophy of life than anything else. He stood up, stretched his arms, and took a few deep breaths. He did a rapid check of his Steyr AUG. It was, as usual, in perfect working order. He smoothed his hair again, then examined his cuticles and nails. There was a rim of dirt under one of them; he scraped it out with the end of his nail file and flicked it away. Then he examined the backs of his hands, which were smooth, hairless, and white and showed only the faintest trace of veins; they were the hands of a thirty-year-old, not a man of sixty. He had always taken good care of his hands. The sun glistened off the array of heavy gold and diamond rings on his fingers. He flexed his hands five times, balling and opening them, and then shook out the creases in his khaki pants, rotated his ankles, rolled his head around on his neck five times, opened his arms wide, and inhaled again. Exhaled. Inhaled. He examined his crisp white shirt. He would consider this op successful if, at the end, his shirt was free of spots. It was such a trial keeping one’s clothes clean in the jungle.

Hauser eased the Steyr AUG back on his shoulder and headed down the trail.