The Eye of Heaven by Clive Cussler
“And where do they keep all these Mexican relics?” Sam’s voice was even, no hint of anything but polite curiosity.
Maribela eyed Sam. “In Morro Castle, at the mouth of Havana Harbor. They have a small museum on the grounds, and I guess this stuff got relegated to the basement. I got the feeling that it’s stored there because that’s where it was stored hundreds of years ago, probably after the British handed the island back to Spain.”
Remi took a series of photos. She turned to Antonio. “I can certainly see why everyone’s excited—the tomb network sounds remarkable. You must be thrilled.”
“Yes, it’s one of the first new discoveries in a long time that pertains to the Toltecs—and, given its location, it’s a surprise. It was thought that the Toltecs only built in Tula, but now that must be reinterpreted.” Antonio paused. “We know from legend that Quetzalcoatl was driven from Tollan and embarked on a journey to the farthest reaches of civilization, including the Mayan cities in Mexico and Guatemala, and perhaps even beyond.”
“Do you think the legend of Quetzalcoatl’s tomb has any substance?” Remi asked.
“No, that’s more from some questionable mentions in one of the more obscure codices, as well as some letters to the Spanish King. A wives’ tale.”
“So you don’t think there’s any tomb?”
“It’s doubtful. Everyone from the Spanish to present-day adventurers have hunted for that phantom, only to come up dry,” Antonio said dismissively. “No, the true treasure of the Toltecs is their history, and, unfortunately, that’s just as lost as any burial chamber for a quasi-mythical ruler. Besides which, think about some of the lore surrounding that story. You’ve heard it, right? I mean, come on—an emerald the size of a man’s heart? That would have had to come from Colombia, and there’s no evidence that the Toltecs ever traveled that far south, much less traded there. I’ve concluded that, like so many of the legends from that era, it’s based more on high hopes than anything factual. Sort of the Mexican equivalent of the Holy Grail, and about as likely to exist.”
The inspection of the artifacts took the rest of the afternoon, and Sam and Remi agreed to meet Antonio and Maribela at the Four Seasons for pickup the next morning to explore the underground crypts. In the taxi back to the hotel, Sam called Selma on his cell phone and murmured into it as traffic whizzed by them.
“Selma, I want you to pull up anything you can find on Spanish artifacts in Cuba. Both public and anything rumored.”
“Cuba? Okay. I’ll get right on it.”
“Oh, and for a real long shot, see if there’s anything like an online blueprint for Morro Castle in Havana.”
“Will do. I’ll e-mail you with a progress report when I have something.”
Remi caught his eye as he hung up and dialed another number from memory. “What now?” she asked.
“Well, the Cuba thing has me thinking. Who would have more access to info on Cuba than . . . Rube?”
“Rubin Haywood? Good idea. I’m sure the CIA has a whole wing devoted to it.”
The SUV hit a particularly nasty bump, jostling them. Remi clutched the seat for support and moved her free hand to the gold icon at her neck. Sam waited as the call rang and whispered to her.
“We could use some of that scarab luck right about now. Can you rub it and make a genie appear?”
They laughed, and then Rube’s distinctive voice came on the line.
“Rube. It’s Sam. Your old buddy and pal.”
“Sam! Long time. What, are you in D.C.? Want to buy me dinner?”
“Have to take a rain check on that, Rube. No, this is more of a fact-finding call.”
“What is it this time?”
Sam took him through what he was looking for, and Rube remained silent for several seconds after he finished.
“It might take a while, but I can put an analyst on it. I hear they can do some amazing things with computers these days.”
“Data’s only as good as whoever fed it in.”
“Ain’t it the truth. So that’s it? You want to know about any Cuban archaeological caches in Morro? Kind of an obscure area of inquiry, even for you . . .”
“I’m just trying to keep our relationship fresh and spontaneous.”
“Ahem. I’ll have you know I got a promotion.”
“Really? Congrats.”
“Thanks. I’d tell you my new title, but then I’d have to kill you, so best to not ask.”
“Good to know.”
“All right, buddy. I’ll put the elves to work. Still got the same e-mail?”
“Some things never change.”
When Sam hung up, Remi slid closer. “What did you think of our new associates? That Maribela is a stunner, isn’t she?”
“Who? Oh, the sister? I hadn’t noticed.”
Remi elbowed him. “Did you know when you’re lying, your eyes give a telltale flicker?”
“Who are you going to believe, me or my lying eyes?”
“I was just saying . . . She’s not what I expected.”
“Neither’s the brother. Not as ugly as the sister, but still.”
They rode past the colorful façades of stores and apartments in silence, both lost in their thoughts, which now centered around a mythical ruler and his final burial place and the hurdles they would have to surmount to have any chance at finding it.
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 mor
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.”
After spending the afternoon analyzing the material at the Institute and comparing it to the photos from that morning, Sam and Remi called it a day at six and returned to the hotel. Sam logged on to his in-box and spent several minutes studying Rube’s e-mail, which consisted of a set of crude blueprints of Morro Castle, obviously hand-drawn, and a description of the military contingent guarding the fort. Built in 1589 to protect Havana Harbor, Morro was a national landmark, now relegated to a tourist attraction.
Remi sat on the bed while Sam finished up and then raised an eyebrow when she saw the drawing.
“Sam Fargo, I hope you haven’t dreamed up some crazy scheme.”
“Of course not. I was just thinking what a nice time of year it would be to visit Cancún.”
“Which is only an hour flight from Cuba, is it not?”
“What? Really? That’s all?”
“You have a lousy poker face.”
He nodded. “Then it’s just as well I don’t play cards.”
“I knew when you heard about an encrypted manuscript, you wouldn’t be able to resist.”
“Well, now that you mention it, it does seem an awful shame that something as potentially important to the Mexican people is being hoarded by a foreign power.”
“We don’t know that it has any importance. For all we know, it’s a recipe.”
“With a bunch of pre-Columbian illustrations?”
“Don’t forget the letters from seamen. Not exactly promising. Besides which, the Spanish conquest of Mexico went on for, what, a hundred eighty years? So it could refer to basically anything, not necessarily the Toltecs.”
“Fair enough, but do we have anything better to go on?”
“Not yet, but we’re just getting started analyzing the reliefs. Maybe there’s something in the new find that will point us in the right direction—”
“Which will still be here when we get back.”
Remi frowned. “If we get back.”
“Oh come on. All I’m thinking is that we sneak in, take some photos, and are gone before anyone figures it out. Where’s the harm?”
“It’s a fort, Sam. As in, fort-i-fied. By a regime that’s more hostile to the U.S. than any in this hemisphere. Something tells me that if we get caught, we’re going to be in really hot water.”
“Which is why no part of the plan involves getting caught.”
Remi sighed. “For the record, this is a bad idea. But I can see there’s no point in arguing with you, is there?”
“Maybe to get better at it?”
“I’ve had years of practice and it doesn’t seem to do any more good than it did when we first met.”
“Then we fly to Havana, scope out the fort, and slip into the vault in the dead of night.”
“Right . . . And just how are you going to do that?”
“I haven’t completely figured that part out
“Call me when you do.”
That evening, three e-mails came in from the team, but none of them contained anything that Sam and Remi didn’t already know. There was an encyclopedia entry on the legend of Quetzalcoatl’s tomb, describing a casket of jade, mountains of gold, priceless ornaments, and the Eye of Heaven, which to Sam’s trained eye read like the wishful thinking of a teenager. All hidden in a secret tomb in a sacred place, safe from desecration by heathens, which to the Toltecs meant anyone besides themselves.
Next was a doctoral student’s report on a 1587 search expedition that had followed in the footsteps of the original one in 1521. While the group discovered many of the larger Aztec and Toltec cities, it came up empty on the tomb. But the unique fever that accompanies the promise of priceless treasure had taken hold and generation after generation of adventurers sought Quetzalcoatl’s final resting place—as well as the legendary Seven Cities of Gold—and, in South America, El Dorado . . . all to meet with ruin, disease, and, ultimately, death.
In the early 1920s, according to a third article from a popular journal, another group scoured the temple cities of central Mexico in search of the elusive treasure but never returned from their quest—presumed killed by bandits in a largely lawless land.
After a leisurely meal at the hotel, Sam checked on flights from Cancún and learned that there were several every day to Havana. He read up on entry requirements and discovered that they could easily make it into Cuba with paper visas inserted into their passports, to be removed once they’d left, so there would be no evidence of their ever having been there. After Sam explained the travel arrangements to Remi, they agreed to at least try a mini Cuban vacation and take a hard look at Morro Castle.
Sam’s first act the following day was to send news of their plans to everyone in La Jolla and ask them to find someone reliable in Havana to help them while there.
Next item was the trip to Cancún. Sam instructed Rex to file a flight plan for that evening. Finally, he booked a flight for the next day from Cancún to Havana, after being assured that he could get visas in short order from the Cuban consulate in Cancún.