The Eye of Heaven

25

Lazlo was sitting on his room’s small brown sofa when they arrived. He rose to greet them and moved to a circular table in the corner, where the notebook computer was displaying its screensaver.

“Please, take a seat. I suspect you’ll be here for a while,” he said, indicating two folding chairs he’d obviously requested in anticipation of the meeting.

“You look better, Lazlo,” Remi said, studying his face, noting the clarity in his eyes.

“Thanks, Remi. You’re a persuasive lady — in the best possible way, I mean.”

“So what have you got for us?” Sam asked as he sat next to Lazlo.

“Ah, where do I begin? First, the code. It was a substitution cipher and the original underlying text was written in Latin — or every other word was, alternating with Spanish. That’s more than a little unusual, but it suggests to me that the author wasn’t a conquistador — rather, he was a member of the clergy or an educated nobleman. I won’t bore you with all the technical details; the short version is, I’ve only encountered anything similar from that era once before and that was an encoded document intended for the Pope’s eyes only. I entered it on my list purely out of habit and thank goodness I did. Because when I ran the text through that program, it identified the encryption pattern. And, from there, it was child’s play.”

“Interesting. So it was a priest?” Remi asked.

“You’ll have to be the judge of that.”

“Why didn’t it show up in our database?”

“Probably because you haven’t spent the last two decades compiling the most complete list of encryption techniques ever assembled,” Lazlo said with the slightest hint of a smile.

“So what does it say?”

“Once I translated all the Latin into Spanish, it seems to be a report on an oral tradition the author dragged out of a highly placed Aztec prisoner — a holy man. Perhaps one of the most esteemed. Anyway, this man told the author about a supposedly great treasure that was to be found in sacred ground. Gemstones, rare icons, and something given to his predecessors by one of their gods.”

“A god?”

“That’s what it says. Loosely translated, I took it to mean ‘the Eye of God.’”

Remi sat back. “No. It’s ‘the Eye of Heaven,’ although the Toltecs didn’t have a specific belief in heaven that we can determine. Too little’s known about them, though, to say that with conviction. But I can see how in grappling with a concept like an afterlife, Christians would naturally use words that were the most familiar to them.”

“God, heaven — to my ears, it amounts to the same.”

“Does it offer any direction to where this Eye of Heaven can be found?” Sam asked.

“In a roundabout way. Near as I can tell, it’s in the burial chamber of one of their supreme beings. Unpronounceable.”

“Quetzalcoatl,” Remi murmured.

“That’s close enough.”

“And does it say where this chamber is?”

“Near a holy place dedicated to the god, of course.”

“It comes out and says that?”

“Well, not in so many words. More amid ramblings about winged snakes and suchlike. Haven’t got the foggiest whether you’ll be able to make anything out of it, but I made a copy of my rough transcript and saved it to the flash drive you gave me. It’s all yours, and I hope it points you in the right direction. Although you’ll just give the treasure to the natives rather than pocketing it like any sensible fellow would.”

“That’s right. It’s not about the money. Any percentage that Mexico offers us, assuming we find anything, will go into our charitable foundation,” Remi said.

“I don’t suppose you’d adapt your charitable model to include broken-down, disgraced ex-academics, would you?”

Sam smiled. “Why don’t we take it a day at a time?”

“Can you take us through this line by line?” Remi asked. Lazlo nodded.

Thirty minutes later, they all sat back, a look of puzzled consternation on Sam’s face, Remi’s expression neutral, Lazlo positively beaming with accomplishment.

“It doesn’t really tell us where the tomb is, does it?” Sam said.

Lazlo smiled. “You mean something like ‘Walk fifty paces from the old oak tree, west by northwest, and when you see the split rock, dig’? Not as such …”

“There can’t be that many temples dedicated to Quetzalcoatl,” Remi mused.

Sam shook his head. “Actually, there are. The Toltecs, the Aztecs, the Mayans … they all worshipped him. So, depending on when the tomb was constructed, the body could have been placed in an existing tomb or a tomb being built at the time of the burial. The manuscript doesn’t clarify the timing, does it?”

“No. It just says ‘a chamber beneath a pyramid,’” Lazlo said, pointing to a passage in the translation.

Sam shook his head again. “There are dozens … hundreds, assuming that it’s not one that has yet to be discovered. Seems like every year, they’re finding more Mayan ruins in the Yucatán.”

“Or that it wasn’t one that was destroyed. Like Chulula,” Remi added.

“Not that I wish to dishearten you,” Lazlo said, “but there could also be some confusion in the translation from the original language to Spanish. It could well be that it wasn’t a temple dedicated to this Quetzalcoatl but rather a holy site where he was worshipped alongside others.”

“So what does that leave us?” Remi asked.

“Looking for a chamber beneath one of hundreds of pyramids,” Lazlo said. “At least it was clear that the chamber was beneath the pyramid and not incorporated into the walls.”

“Which assumes that was accurate. It sounds like the Aztec priest wasn’t sure about the exact location, either.”

Lazlo nodded. “True. The manuscript states pretty clearly that it’s founded on hearsay. As are most of these accounts, really.”

Sam groaned and stood. “Nobody said this would be easy, did they? Lazlo, you’re a prince among men. Seriously.”

“Good show, old chap. If only my sanctuary here afforded the odd gin and tonic for toasting purposes … but I suppose Nurse wouldn’t allow that.”

“It’s for the best, Lazlo,” Sam said softly.

“I expect that even if I don’t live any longer, it’ll seem like an eternity — and an arid one at that,” Lazlo teased, and then gave them both a look of resigned acceptance. “Seriously, though, I appreciate your help in all of this.”

“We have an ulterior motive. We’re hoping we can convince you to look over our shoulders and help us find the tomb. Maybe peruse the photos from the earthquake site, see whether you concur with our interpretation of the pictographs?”

“I’d be delighted, of course. You have but to ask.”

“That’s the spirit.”

As their taxi drew near the Institute, Remi took Sam’s hand in hers and exhaled quietly. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out.”

“We usually do, don’t we?”

“Kind of our thing, right?”

“Exactly. But we might need some help on this one. How do you feel about approaching Carlos about it?”

“I’d rather not. Let’s see what we can come up with on our own first. And don’t forget our secret weapon — the one and only Lazlo,” Remi said, her tone not entirely confident.

Sam nodded and squeezed her hand. “Maribela and Antonio certainly seem like they could narrow it down for us if anyone could …” Sam glanced at the side mirror, as he’d been doing periodically since leaving the clinic. “Do me a favor, would you? Tell the driver to keep going past the Institute,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“I’ve seen the same car behind us on the way to the clinic and now here. A black Toyota. I think we’re being followed and I want to find out for sure.”

Remi leaned forward and had a brief conversation in Spanish with the driver, who nodded and continued south.

“What did you tell him?” Sam asked.

“To take us to the best breakfast restaurant he knows in the area.”

“An enterprising choice.”

“Hopefully, tasty too. I could use some eggs and a cup of strong coffee.” She glanced at the mirror on her side. “What do we do if we are being followed?”

“Good question. Maybe try to corner them and find out who it is and why they are following us?”

“That hasn’t always worked out well in the past, has it?”

“Fair enough. Then what’s your vote?”

“We go about our business and lose them when it matters. I don’t see much harm in anyone knowing we’re at the hotel or that we’re doing research at the Institute. It’s not like we’re an unknown quantity in Mexico.”

“Nice to have the brains of the operation thinking clearly. My instinct is to charge in, guns blazing,” Sam admitted.

“Which has its merits in some circumstances, I’ll grant you. But we don’t have any guns.”

“Always pouring cold water on my fun, aren’t you?”

“It’s my life’s work.”

They continued on for another six minutes and then the driver coasted to the curb in front of a popular restaurant, judging by the crowd inside. They walked in and the hostess showed them to a table by one of the large picture windows. The tantalizing aroma of freshly cooked food and dark coffee permeated the room. Sam’s mouth started to water as he took his seat. A glance at the street confirmed that the Toyota had taken up position fifty yards down the block, ending any arguments about its role.

“Sam, I know you don’t like hearing this, but there’s only one person who knew we were in Cuba and now here.”

He nodded. “Not really. Lagarde knew. He had our bags delivered, remember?”

“It’s not Lagarde, I’m telling you. It has to be Kendra.”

“Let’s say you’re right. That’s a difficult situation.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Stop relying on the office until Selma’s back full-time.”

“Why don’t we just fire her?” Remi said. “It makes me furious that she’d spy on us and sell us out. Selma’s own family …”

“How do you think it would make Selma feel if we let Kendra go? No, I think we have to keep it to ourselves and offer as little information as possible from now on. I don’t want to break Selma’s heart.”

A waitress arrived and Remi ordered coffee for them both. Sam pretended to study the menu.

“Know what you’re going to have?” Remi asked.

“Huevos rancheros. Those are on the menu, right?”

“Might help if you weren’t holding it upside down.”

“Come on, my Spanish isn’t that bad.”

“If you say so. Just let me order or you’ll wind up with a hard-boiled pig snout or something.”

“Bacon makes everything better.”

“So we don’t fire Kendra?”

Sam shook his head. “And no pig snout.”

“Phooey.”