“How about five hundred years ago?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have Pete and Wendy put together a list of maleo experts.”
“We don’t even know if there is such a thing.”
“There are experts for everything. Ask about hatcheries, concentrations, migration . . . Okay, back to Sulawesi: It’s where the Malagasy lived prior to migrating to Madagascar, and we found Blaylock’s outrigger on Madagascar. That’s two votes for Sulawesi. What do we know about Sulawesi prior to the sixth century?”
Sam heard the rustling of paper. Selma said, “Human settlements as far back as thirty thousand years B.C. Believed to have been part of a land bridge between Australia and New Guinea—”
“More recent,” Sam said.
“As deep as I’ve been able to dig in the past few days, I’ve found very little until the sixteenth century, when the Portuguese arrived.”
“What about the language or the art? Any similarities to either the Aztecs or Blaylock’s Proto-Aztecs?”
“Wendy’s working on a search, but we’re up against the same problem: Except for a few cities, Sulawesi is thousands of square miles of rain forest, dead volcanoes, and not much else. There are places on that island that have never been explored. There’s very little Internet and even fewer online art collections. If we had a few weeks—”
“We don’t. Just do your best. If you find something that looks or sounds even remotely Aztec, flag it.”
“Sam, you have to take a breath.”
“When I’ve got Remi back. Let’s go back to the outrigger. You have the lab report. Remind me: What do we know about the materials used?”
“The wood used was durian. We know where it exists today. I’m working on where it might have grown before the sixth century. Same with the rest of it—the rubber tree, the pandan leaf, the gebang palm . . .”
“Let me guess: There aren’t many experts on those either.”
“Not that I’ve been able to find.”
“How about Blaylock’s letters?”
“We’ve decoded them all. Unless there’s a code behind the code, there’s nothing else there. That applies to his journal, too. How about the Constance letters you found on the Shenandoah?”
“They’re not coded. The first two letters discuss the voyage to the Sunda Strait. The last was probably written shortly before he died. You can read it when we get home. He tells Constance he wished he’d come home to marry her.”
“So sad. How about the maleo statuette you found?”
“It could be emerald or jade or any number of other gems I’m not familiar with. I’ll do a search for minerals endemic to Sulawesi, but I don’t think it’ll solve our problem. I’m going to need access to our server so I can look at everything from here.”
“Sure, give me ten minutes.”
“Good, thanks. What are we missing, Selma?”
“I don’t know, Sam.”
“We’re missing something.”
THREE HOURS PASSED. Sam and Selma talked every twenty minutes, discussing progress, dissecting what they knew, and rehashing what they suspected.
At hour four, Selma called again. “We’ve made a little progress. We found a book by a Norwegian botanist that discusses both the pandan leaf and gebang palm. I talked to him on the phone. He thinks that around the fourth and fifth century, both of them were heavily concentrated in the northern third of Sulawesi.”
“But not restricted to there.”
“No.”
“I just realized what we’re forgetting.”
“What?”
“The codex. Remember the bush the maleo is sitting on?”
“Yes. Damn. How did I forget that?”
“Doesn’t matter. Have Wendy do her thing: Enlarge the image, clean it up, and show it to the Norwegian.”
Sam hung up and returned to his laptop. As he had been on and off for the last three hours, he was scrolling through the gallery of images and scans they’d collected. There were dozens of Constance letters, hundreds of journal pages, the Orizaga Codex, the Fibonacci spirals . . . They all began to blur together.
He switched to Google Earth and continued his scan of Sulawesi, looking for anything that might ring the faintest of bells in his head. Minutes turned into an hour.
He zoomed in on a secluded bay on Sulawesi’s northeastern coast. As it seemed with every spot around Sulawesi, islets and atolls were scattered like confetti.
Sam stopped suddenly and tracked his finger backward, moving the map. He zoomed in again, paused, then zoomed some more. He squinted his eyes. Then smiled. “A hollowed-out flower,” he muttered.
HE WAS REACHING for the phone when it rang. It was Selma: “You were right, Sam, there are experts for everything. I heard back from a zoologist in Makassar. She claims up until the early seventeen hundreds, maleos were more migratory. Every year they would congregate in the northeast part of the island for a few months.”
On his laptop, Sam was switching between Google Earth and the photo gallery. “Go on.”
“Also, I e-mailed a photo of the codex bush to a curator at the Cibodas Botanical Gardens in Jakarta. He thinks it could be a dwarf durian tree. I pressed him a little, and he thought it was probable the durian had migrated from east to west, which would have put it in Sulawesi about sixteen hundred years ago.”
“Fantastic,” Sam said absently. “Can you get to Google Earth?”
“Hold on. Okay, I’m ready.”
Sam gave her a set of latitude and longitude points. “Zoom in until that island fills most of your screen.”
“Done.”
“Does that shape remind you of anything? Imagine those erosion ridges deeper.”
“I don’t see what . . . Oh!” Selma was silent for a few beats. “Sam, that looks like the Chicomoztoc illustration writ large.”
“I know.”
“It’s just a coincidence. It has to be.”
“Maybe, but it’s in the northeast part of the island—the same place all your experts mentioned. Even if it’s not Chicomoztoc, I think I can convince Rivera to buy into it.”
“And then what?”
“I’ll figure that out when I’m in front of him. Selma, I need you to get me to Sulawesi. And then I need you to get me a seaplane.”
CHAPTER 46
SOUTHERN SULAWESI
SAM EASED THE IKARUS INTO A GENTLE BANK AND STARTED BLEEDING off altitude in preparation for landing. Below and to the right, the airstrip emerged out of the haze. Sam lined the nose up with it, then dropped through a layer of clouds, made a few final adjustments, and touched down. He taxied toward the trio of Quonset huts at the edge of the tarmac and followed the hand signals of a ground-crew member to the fuel pumping station. Sam powered down the Ikarus and climbed out. As Selma had already done the legwork, Sam had but to sign a form. He did this, then walked around the edge of the hut. He dialed star six-nine.
“You’re cutting it close,” said Rivera.
“I’ve only got sixty seconds or so left on this phone. Are you at the spot yet?”
“We’re ten minutes away.”
“Let me talk to my wife.”
“Tell me the location of Chicomoztoc, and I’ll do that.”
“Not until I’m standing in front of her.”
“You’re pushing your luck,” Rivera said.
“And you’ve already tipped your hand. You said it yourself: You’re not going to let us live. You want Chicomoztoc, then these are my terms. Put her on.”
Remi’s voice came on the line. “Sam?”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Where are you?”
“Close. Hang in there.”
Rivera came back on. “We’ll be waiting.”
The line went dead.
TEN MINUTES LATER he was back in the air and heading southeast toward Selayar Island. Another twenty minutes, and he was again dropping through the clouds. Below, the sea was a flat blue. He leveled off at two thousand
feet and followed the coastline until the southern tip of the island came into view. He put the Ikarus down a few hundred yards offshore and taxied toward the beach. Sitting on the side of a dirt road was a pair of Isuzu SUVs. As the Ikarus’s skids scraped the sand, the doors to the SUVs opened and out stepped Rivera, Remi, and the three men from Pulau Legundi.
Sam shut down the engine, climbed out onto the pontoon, and plodded ashore.
“Check him,” Rivera ordered. One of the men frisked Sam, then stepped back and shook his head. “Search the plane, too.”
Sam said, “I’d like to hug my wife.”
“Go ahead.”
Sam let Remi come forward, hoping Rivera would let her out of earshot. It wasn’t to be. “That’s far enough,” he called.
Sam and Remi embraced. He whispered, “Take the number three seat. Grab the sleeping bag and be ready.”
Despite the cryptic nature of the message, Remi simply replied, “Okay.”
They separated. Sam gave her a reassuring smile, then she stepped back to Rivera’s side. The man Rivera had sent to search the plane waded ashore. “There’s nothing aboard. No weapons. Just some sleeping bags, blankets, and camping gear.”
Sam said, “In case we have to stay overnight.”
“That’s a relic of a plane,” said Rivera. “Are you sure it will get us where we’re going?”
“Not even remotely,” Sam replied, “but it’s what you get for a twenty-four-hour deadline. We can cancel the trip if you’d like.”
“No, we’re going.”
“I can only carry three of you.”
“Fine. What’s our destination?”
“A bay on the eastern coast. As far as I can tell, it doesn’t even have a name. It’ll take us two and a half hours.”
“If anyone is waiting for us, I’ll shoot you both.”
“And die in the resulting crash,” Sam replied. “I have to admit that has a certain appeal.”
“I can fly a plane as well as you can fly a helicopter. Let’s get moving.”
SAM SHOULD HAVE COMPENSATED for the Ikarus’s edge. It was closer to three hours before the coastline appeared through the windshield. Sam put the plane through an abbreviated checklist and began his descent. He banked gently to the north and pointed the nose at the mouth of the crescent-shaped bay. In the rear seat beside Remi—who, as instructed, had taken the seat behind Sam’s—Rivera leaned forward for a better view.
“It’s a small bay,” he remarked.
“A quarter-mile wide at the mouth and three-quarters of a mile at its widest. Six islands.”
“And you’re sure Chicomoztoc is one of them?”
“I never said I was sure. It’s my best guess based on everything we know. You seem to be forgetting that we managed to do in a few weeks what you couldn’t accomplish in almost a decade.”
“Belated congratulations,” said Rivera. “How did you find it?”
“Long story, but in a minute you’ll see what put the frosting on the cake. The question is, will you recognize it?”
As Sam dropped the Ikarus through a thousand feet, they passed between the headlands and into the bay.
“Where is it?” Rivera asked.
“Patience.”
A minute later Sam turned the nose slightly off center to let the thickly forested island pass beneath the starboard wing. “Out the side window,” he said.
Rivera leaned sideways and looked down. “This is it?” he asked incredulously. “It’s tiny.”
“Three hundred yards across and two hundred feet off the water.”
“It’s not big enough to be an island.”
“An islet, then. Either way, it’s what you’ve been looking for.”
“Why is the center concave?”
“It’s called a caldera. You’re looking at an extinct volcano,” replied Sam. “You still don’t see it, do you?”
“See what?”
“Remi?”
With a nod of approval from Rivera, Remi leaned over his shoulder and looked out the window.
Sam said, “Squint. Think ‘big hollowed-out flower.’”
A beaming smile spread across Remi’s face. “Sam, you found it.”
“We’ll soon find out. Do you see it yet, Rivera?”
“No.”
“You’re familiar with the traditional illustration depicting Chicomoztoc? Imagine that illustration viewed from above. Now imagine the points of the island rounded and more pronounced.”
After a few moments Rivera murmured, “I see it. Amazing. Amazing! Take us down!”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, damn it, take us down!”
“Whatever you say.”
Passing through two hundred feet, Sam banked the Ikarus one last time, following the bay’s western shoreline until the plane’s nose was again pointed north. Thirty seconds later, the pontoons kissed the surface; the Ikarus’s fuselage shivered and the windows rattled. Sam kept a slightly nose-up attitude, bumping over the surface as his speed bled off.
He watched the needle drop to sixty knots, then fifty. When it slid past forty knots, he said, “Remi, how many sleeping bags do we have?”
She leaned forward in her seat, picked up the pile of bags, and placed them in her lap. “I’ve got three.”
“And I’ve got one,” Sam replied, pointing to the bag stuffed between his seat and the passenger seat. “Rivera, how many do you have?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Sam’s eyes flicked to the dashboard. The needle hit thirty-five knots. He turned toward the man in the passenger seat. “How about you?”
The man opened his mouth to reply but the words never came out. In one fluid motion, Sam dropped his right hand diagonally down, punched the man’s seat-belt release, then grabbed the sleeping bag, brought it to his chest, and shoved the stick forward.
The Ikarus nosed over and slammed into the water.
CHAPTER 47
HAVING NEVER INTENTIONALLY CRASH-LANDED BEFORE, SAM had a plan that was a combination of gut instinct and a fair grasp of physics. Traveling at thirty knots—roughly thirty-four miles per hour—the Ikarus had enough kinetic energy to throw everyone inside violently forward against their seat belts but not enough to throw the seaplane into a nose-over-tail tumble.
The impact was also enough to rip the passenger seat and the seat behind it free of the mounts that Sam had preloosened before leaving the airstrip.
Rivera’s man in the passenger seat, already unbelted, was driven headfirst into the windshield, snapping his neck and killing him. Rivera, still belted in, flew forward and slammed into the back of the passenger seat, while Sam, clutching the sleeping bag in front of his face and chest, smashed into the dashboard. In the backseat Remi’s impact was cushioned by two sleeping bags. She was the first to regain consciousness after the impact.
SHE RELEASED HER BELT and heaved herself forward between the seats. She grabbed Sam by the shoulders and eased him backward. Water was gushing into the cabin through the hole left in the windshield by Rivera’s man. Already nose down in the water, the Ikarus began tipping forward under the weight of its engine, lifting the tail from the water.
“Sam!” Remi shouted. “Sam!”
His eyes snapped open. He blinked a few times, looked around. “Did it work?” he asked.
“We’re both alive. I’d call that a success.”
“What about Rivera?”
Remi looked at Rivera, who lay slumped forward, bent at the waist.
“Unconscious or dead. I don’t know and I don’t care. We need to think about leaving, Sam.”
“How about right now?”
“Great!”
Sam braced his feet against the dashboard, fighting gravity, then punched the button to release his seat belt. He tried his door. It didn’t budge. He tried again. “My door’s jammed. Try Rivera’s door.”
“He’s blocking it.”
Sam pressed with his legs and arched his back, sliding
his upper body into the backseat. “Get his belt.” Remi hit the release. Rivera slid forward into Sam’s outstretched hands. He let gravity do the rest, and Rivera tumbled headfirst onto the remains of the passenger seat and his dead friend.
Remi crawled across the seat and grabbed the door handle. “Are you ready?”
“Whenever you are.”
“Deep breath!”
SHE MUSCLED THE DOOR OPEN. A column of water surged into the cabin. They let the cabin fill up, then Remi shoved off and swam out. Sam was halfway out the door when he stopped and turned back. He kicked into the front seat and started probing the floorboard with his hands. Under the dead man’s left boot Sam found what he was looking for: the semiautomatic pistol the man had been holding. He tucked it into his belt.
He made his way back out and kicked for the surface. He broke into the air beside Remi. Ten feet to their right the plane’s tail was jutting straight out of the water.
“It’s not going down,” Remi said.
“Probably a pocket of air in the tail. I’m going back down to see what I can salvage. My plan didn’t include that part. I’ll meet you on the beach.”
Sam took in a lungful of air, flipped over, and dove. His outstretched hand found the leading edge of the wing, and he pulled himself across the fuselage, then down into the doorway.
He stopped.
Rivera was gone. Sam looked into the tail section, saw nothing, and checked the front seat again. He saw movement out of the corner of his right eye and turned his head. A shadow rushed toward his face. He felt something hard strike his forehead. Pain flashed behind his eyes, and everything went dark.
“SAM!” HE HEARD DISTANTLY. The voice faded, then returned. “Sam!”
He felt hands on his face. He knew that touch: Remi. He forced his eyes open. She was leaning over him, her auburn hair dripping onto his face. She smiled. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Very funny. None. I’m okay. Help me sit up.”
“Just stay there. You’ve got a nasty gash on your forehead.”