The Eye of Heaven

14

A slate sky drizzled on the windshield of Antonio’s Suburban. The morning mist was a regular occurrence that time of year in Distrito Federal, or DF, as the inhabitants referred to Mexico City. Traffic was a snarl as they made their way north of the city center into the impoverished colonia of López Mateos.

Antonio turned, and a block up they found themselves facing two military vehicles flanked by heavily armed soldiers, their M4 rifles at the ready.

“This is our protection,” Antonio explained as he slowed the SUV. “The police requested backup from the military when shots were fired at them last night. Probably just kids, but everyone’s on edge.”

He pulled up onto a crumbling curb next to a corner market covered with spray-painted gang tags. Heavy grids of rebar were bent across its broken windows. A soldier bearing sergeant’s stripes approached as Antonio opened the driver’s door and presented his identification to the hardened veteran, who peered distrustfully at it before waving him forward. Maribela turned to look at Sam and Remi.

“It’s showtime — isn’t that how they say it?”

“Indeed,” Remi said.

Yellow tape cordoned off a brown-dirt slope leading into a chasm beneath the street. Sam and Remi held their breath at the stench of accumulated sewage as Antonio disappeared into the gloom. The distinctive roar of a gas generator started up, and two portable lights flickered to life inside.

“Come on. It’s about fifteen feet farther in,” Maribela called.

Remi swallowed hard, almost gagging, and then followed the two Mexican archaeologists, Sam immediately behind her.

Ahead was a breach in a stone wall, where the rocks had collapsed inward into the space beyond. Antonio climbed through the opening and the three of them followed. Another light was set up on a tripod positioned at the junction of three passages.

Antonio waited until they caught up with him and then explained, “Each of these passageways leads to a burial vault. Probably the most significant one is just ahead. You’ll see the pottery and other items — they’re numbered, and we’ve left them where we found them so we can do a more careful examination in the next few days. Be careful as you walk — the floor’s uneven.”

They approached the first crypt as a group, their footsteps echoing in the confined space, the air filled with the scent of wet earth and decay. Antonio bent over and flipped a switch box lying by his feet. A bank of work lamps illuminated the end of the tunnel, their eerie glow reflecting off the chamber walls.

Remi gasped as a root brushed her shoulder.

Sam took her hand. “Little creepy, isn’t it?”

The room was small, no more than twelve by twelve, with a stone podium that had been the final resting place of a Toltec dignitary at the far end. Pots, ceramic figures, masks, and obsidian tools lay strewn on either side of it, with grid lines of white twine now strung over them to accurately map their positions. The most striking feature was the pictographs that covered every inch of wall space — the entire room was a Toltec art treasure. Sam stopped short of the pedestal, taking in the breathtaking display, and felt Remi inch closer, as their eyes roved over the tableau.

Maribela said, “These possessions were likely collected in an orderly pile, but, over the centuries, earthquakes have had their way with them. Although the crypt is in remarkably good shape, what’s most surprising are the carvings. Very much like the other Toltec sites we’ve mapped … but I’ve never seen them in this abundance.”

Sam and Remi approached the nearest wall. Sam took a small flashlight from his pocket and twisted it on.

A somber face glowered back at him, an elaborate headdress atop its head, a stylized club in one hand and a serpent in the other. Sam moved to another, where a jaguar stood ready to pounce in front of a depiction of a temple. Next to it, a procession of warriors. Below it, men leading animals on leashes. Figures constructing a towering pyramid. On and on, scene after scene.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Remi whispered. “The condition’s remarkable.”

Antonio nodded. “We’re hoping that as we excavate, we’ll find even more. The mud you see on the floor is from leakage over time, which is inevitable. But most of the area is as pristine as I’ve ever seen.”

“What’s your theory on who the mummies were?” Remi asked.

“Probably priests, but very highly placed — possibly the religious leaders of their era. Why they’re buried south of Tula is a mystery.”

“Was it customary to entomb the religious leaders in such elaborate crypts?”

“Little is actually known about their civilization, so there are still more questions than answers. It will take many months, if not years, to fully document this find — assuming that the city doesn’t shut us down. The street running overhead is a problem, although we can probably buy one of the nearby buildings and create an entrance there. But that takes funds …”

They moved to the other crypts, which contained more carvings and more artifacts. Remi took photographs of all the images for later study, amazed by the sheer quantity. The amount of work involved had to represent years of skilled artisan time.

After three hours of exploration, Antonio signaled that they were going to take a break and return to the surface.

Maribela led the way.

“We have a group of students coming in this afternoon to help us with the excavation. You’re welcome to stay, if you like, but it will get crowded. And, frankly, you’ve seen most of what there is to see so far. Perhaps you’d like to spend some time at the Institute with the artifacts there?” Maribela suggested. “I can drive you while Antonio takes care of things here.”

“That would be great,” Sam agreed. “We don’t want to get in your way. And there’s certainly enough to see in the Institute vaults to keep us busy.”

Remi nodded her assent, and the group stepped carefully back out to the stinking street, where the sun was now burning through the clouds.

Sam’s phone rang on the journey to the Institute. He glanced at the screen and answered it. “What’s the good word?” he asked.

“I may have something promising for you,” Rube said, “but it’s both good news and bad news.”

“What’s the bad?”

“Cuba’s about as secretive as the Chinese, so everything we have is hearsay and innuendo.”

“Meaning ‘unreliable.’”

“Correct.”

“What’s the good?”

“There’s apparently a store of Spanish antiquities in Havana that the Ministry of the Interior controls. Part of their museums group.”

“I don’t suppose I dare ask how you know about it.”

“Defector. Floated over along with fifty others on a makeshift boat forty years ago.”

“So the information’s that old?”

“That’s not your biggest problem.”

“Why do I suspect that you saved the best for last?”

“Am I really that transparent?”

“Just give it to me straight.”

“It’s located in the subbasement of Morro Castle, which has a contingent of military guarding it round the clock.”

“Do you have any details on the layout?”

“Check your e-mail. But Sam? Just a little advice. The Cubans play hardball, and they don’t like Americans. So if you’re thinking of doing anything stupid, my advice is don’t.”

“That’s not very encouraging.”

Rube exhaled noisily. “When I hang up the phone, you’re on your own, my friend. I won’t be able to help you if you pursue this and run into trouble, and I’d advise strongly against doing anything rash.”

“Noted. Thanks again. I owe you one.”

“Be careful, Sam. You have to be alive for me to collect.”