The Mayan Codex

87

Athame de Bale watched the group outside the sweathouse. When she cupped her hands behind her ears, she could make out about one word in every three of what they were saying. She clearly heard the words ‘Nostradamus’, prefaced by ‘secret’, and then ‘gift’ – all hidden amongst a pile of other dross.

She could feel her stomach churning in triumph. What was said to the mestizo didn’t interest her. She was only interested in Sabir. Would he have the balls to enter the sweathouse or would he not? Dare she make that assumption? Either way, she would only have the briefest window of opportunity to do what she needed to do.

For the time being the group seemed totally preoccupied with soft-flannelling the mestizo and persuading Sabir that he would really – no really, despite his hysterical protestations to the contrary – benefit from the sweat-lodge experience.

Athame offered up a silent prayer. If only the Maya woman with the spondylus necklace would move to another spot, she would have a free run of it. Lamia and the ex-policeman both had their backs to her, as did the Halach Uinic and the priest who had done the reading. Sabir was too wound up inside his own problems to notice anybody else, and the mestizo was pissing himself with joy at the thought of getting married, and wasn’t looking anywhere but at the big chief.

As if to order, Sabir abruptly twisted on his heel and began to stalk off back towards the pyramid. The Maya woman with the necklace made a ‘cool it’ sign to the Halach Uinic and hurried after him. For a moment, everyone was busy watching Sabir’s antics and not the sweat lodge.

Athame sprinted across the open patch of land between her hiding place and the sweathouse. Without daring to look behind her, she ducked down and slipped through the doorway. The narrow opening was no problem for one of her diminutive size, and she was soon comfortably out of sight of the assembly.

The lodge was in total darkness. Athame slipped a torch out of the side pocket of her backpack and cracked it on, shielding most of the glow with her free hand. She looked wildly around for a hiding place, still unsure whether anyone had caught a hint of movement out of the corner of their eye. A ring of small boulders had been constructed in the centre of the sweathouse in preparation for the coming of the heated stones. It was surrounded by a dozen or so fabric-covered cushions. The sweathouse was built like an igloo, with an internal circumference of maybe thirty feet, and a gap of perhaps seven feet between the circle of cushions and the retaining wall.

Snatching two of the cushions from out of the circle, she wriggled into the farthest corner of the lodge and adjusted the cushions so that they covered the entirety of her four-foot ten-inch frame. She could feel the hard edges of the Walther P4 digging into her ribs through her backpack. Perhaps it was a message?

She reached behind herself and freed the Walther. At eight and a half inches in length, it was a very big gun for a very small woman. A P5 Compact would have been eminently more suitable. But Athame was happy with what she had, even though her tiny six-fingered hands could scarcely span the butt. Two-handed, she could handle it perfectly well.

She cocked the pistol and unhitched the safety. Then she switched off her torch, cradled the weapon against her chest, and settled down to wait.