“He’s a very sweet man. We collaborated on some research years ago and I don’t think he’s ever forgotten how well we got along. Anyway, he’s got his hands full right now because after the big earthquake a repair crew fixing some broken pipes in the street discovered a new find—a series of subterranean vaults connected by a tunnel system that was exposed by the quake. They appear to be Toltec, but it’s all very preliminary because the area near the ruins is still in disarray. He invited you both to fly in and meet with his two senior researchers—and, if you like, to go through the new find together.”
“Selma, you never cease to amaze me,” Sam said, shaking his head in awe.
“Well, it’s not all that amazing. All I had to do was remember what the country code for Mexico was and call in a favor. Let’s not make it more than it is.”
“When can we go?”
“Apparently, most of the city is fine, but some areas were pretty hard hit and whole blocks were flattened. The quake measured a 7.8, but the damage was localized. He basically said you could come down whenever you want. Your reputation opens a lot of doors.”
“You didn’t tell him what we’re working on, did you?” Remi asked.
“No, I just told him that you were researching the Toltecs and Quetzalcoatl and how the Aztecs and later the Spanish twisted the Toltec legends. That gives you a pretty broad canvas on which to paint. But it will also explain why you might be more interested in some lines of inquiry than others.”
“You’re a genius,” Sam said.
“Seriously, this might get you closer than doing the digging online. As you know, that only takes you so far . . .”
Remi nodded. “And then you have to get your hands dirty. We know, Selma.”
“I don’t know what to do with myself when my hands are clean for this long,” Sam agreed. “I’d say it’s time to head south of the border. Ai yai yai!”
Remi gave him a mock frown and shook her head. “I’m afraid he might have already been prepping for the trip by nipping at the tequila.”
“Nonsense. I’m sober as a judge,” Sam insisted.
“That explains a lot,” Remi countered, and they all laughed.
“Kendra? Looks like it’s time to get the pilots off the beach and warming up the plane,” Sam called out.
“When would you like to take off?” she asked from her workstation near the windows.
Remi and Sam looked at each other, and Remi shrugged. “Tomorrow morning? Say, at eight? That will put us in Mexico City by noon local time.”
“Will do. How about hotel?”
“I think last time we were there we stayed at the Four Seasons in the Zona Rosa district. As I remember, it was very good, and centrally located.”
“Consider it done,” Kendra said. She definitely shared the same orderly genes with Selma, they’d discovered, and with time they’d grown to appreciate her quiet, straightforward style. “Any special requests?”
“Selma will give you the rundown on the usual we like to take into the field on something like this,” Remi said. “It’s pretty basic. She’s got the list.”
“Great. Then I’ll get right on it.”
The rest of the day sped by as they prepared for their trip, and both Sam and Remi were more than ready for a final celebratory meal at their favorite restaurant in San Diego, an Italian place in the Gaslamp Quarter. They took Sam’s newest acquisition, a black convertible Porsche 911 Turbo 918 Spyder Cabriolet that he rarely had time to drive. He dropped the top, and Remi leaned back in the soft leather seat as the warm evening breeze blew through her hair. He worked through the gears with enthusiasm as the powerful engine catapulted them down the on-ramp and onto the freeway.
“Easy there, Hoss,” Remi cautioned as the downtown skyline rose ahead of them.
“Sorry. I keep forgetting how responsive the gas pedal is on this thing.”
“I think we already passed liftoff. You can ease up.”
“Your wish is my command.”
Sam slowed to a sane pace and soon they were handing the keys to a valet and entering the restaurant. The owner greeted them like long-lost relatives and escorted them to the private corner table they favored. His wife came over to say hello and suggested a special tasting menu of the chef’s specials for the night, paired with a bottle of 2009 Sassicaia—arguably Italy’s foremost Super Tuscan red wine.
The meal was relaxed, each dish perfectly prepared and presented, beginning with a bruschetta to die for, followed by braised sweetbreads, veal ravioli in a truffle sauce, and three preparations of shrimp. By the time Sam and Remi were sipping glasses of limoncello, they were ready to burst, and both agreed that they would sleep well after the wonderful meal.
The G650 descended through the cloud covering on final approach to Benito Juárez International Airport in Mexico City. When they broke through the last of the clouds, the city was a few thousand feet below them. Torrential rainfall blanketed the buildings and roads. As the aircraft touched down, its tires threw a rooster tail of water into the air, and then they taxied to the jet charter building. All around them vehicles raced through the downpour, headlights beaming and flashers blinking, bearing luggage and fuel and provisions for the outbound commercial jets waiting in line for their chance to brave the storm.
A black GMC Yukon waited for them outside the terminal’s glass-and-steel entrance. The driver held the door open for them, loaded the luggage, and then circled around to slip behind the wheel. Once they were in traffic, the streets were jammed with vehicles. Water rushed along the surface, potholes the size of televisions filled with ominous black water. The locals shambled down the sidewalks, wearing plastic parkas and toting umbrellas, as they picked their way along the uneven concrete. Outside of a discount pharmacy, a forlorn figure wearing a plush chicken suit stood under an overhang, waving a yellow foam sign with Abierto printed on it in large red letters.
“If the treasure-hunting thing bottoms out, I could always do that,” Sam commented.
“I’d pay extra to see you in that outfit, regardless of the circumstances.”
“I don’t know. It might lower property values in La Jolla.”
“Coward.”
“I am not.”
“Chicken.” She put her hands under her armpits and flapped her elbows. “Pwuk-pwuk-pwuk . . .”
He eyed her with good humor. “Are you trying to tell me something? Because you’re getting this rooster’s attention.”
“It’s either the chicken suit or nothing.”
“If I didn’t know you were kidding, I’d be seriously worried.”
“Kidding?” Remi asked with raised eyebrows.
“Never mind.”
They checked into the hotel. After unpacking their bags, they called Carlos Ramirez, who spoke in heavily accented English. He told them that they could come by at any point that afternoon and he’d be happy to introduce them to the others researching the new find. Sam and Remi grabbed lunch in the hotel restaurant and then had a taxi take them to INAH—the National Institute of Anthropology and History—located next to the Cuicuilco Ecological Park in the city’s southernmost reaches.
Carlos Ramirez met them at the security desk in a stylish, immaculately cut dark gray suit. He wore his salt-and-pepper hair longish, and a dapper mustache framed his upper lip, which was perpetually curved in a smile.
“Ah, Señor and Señora Fargo. Welcome, welcome. I’m glad you didn’t let the weather scare you off,” he said, shaking hands with them.
“Compared to some of the places we’ve been recently, this is paradise,” Sam said.
“A little rain never kept us away from anything important,” Remi assured him.
Carlos led them upstairs to his office. “I have a suite here, in addition to one at our headquarters in the historic district. But truthfully, I spend most of my time here. I prefer academia to bureaucracy. Of course, fieldwork is my first love. But there is less opportunity for that now that I’m in a position of responsibility
.”
The office was expansive, with a conference table at one end surrounded by burgundy leather-upholstered chairs, and a large oval desk near a bank of windows overlooking the park. “Please, have a seat, and I’ll call the others and make introductions. But before we do that, tell me all about what I can help you with.”
“As Selma might have told you, we’re researching the Toltecs,” Sam explained, “specifically around the A.D. 1000 era. We figured since this is where they were located, we should come to Mexico and do some in-person nosing around.”
“Your accomplishments precede you. We as a nation are in your debt for saving the Mayan Codex on our behalf. Anything I can offer you in the way of assistance is yours for the asking.”
“Well, I shouldn’t think that this will be nearly as dramatic,” Remi said. “I’m afraid much of what we’re doing is going over old ground. But it’s all part of the job, and we prefer to be thorough.”
“Yes, of course. Where would you like to start?”
“We’d like to look at the existing collection of artifacts and any documents you have that pertain to the Toltecs . . . or their most famous ruler, Quetzalcoatl.”
“Absolutely. Unfortunately, there isn’t nearly as much as we’d like. The Aztec priests destroyed most of the records of his accomplishments. To complicate matters, the Spanish, whether deliberately or accidentally, further distorted the records until what we know about him is likely wrong.”
Remi nodded. “Then you understand the problem we’ve been having. We’re hoping you have material that’s not online, which might shine some additional light on Toltec civilization, as well as their leader.”
“Actually,” Carlos said, “you couldn’t have arrived at a better time. From what we can gather, the newly discovered crypts that surfaced after the earthquake promise to provide exciting new information about their civilization. Of course, it’s far too early to tell, but we’re hopeful. This looks like it was hidden underground deliberately, which the Toltecs only did with their most valued sites—and it’s well south of Tula, so completely unexpected.”
“We’d be honored to see it as soon as possible,” Remi said.
“Let me call in the archaeologists who are heading up that dig. You’ll be working closely with them. They’re two of our best.” Carlos dialed his phone and spoke a rapid-fire stream of Spanish. “They’ll be here shortly. Maribela and Antonio Casuela. Brother and sister. Remarkable intellects and experts on the Toltecs.”
A soft courtesy knock sounded through the door a couple of minutes later. A tall woman in her early thirties entered, followed by a man around the same age. That they were siblings was obvious from their facial features. What neither Remi nor Sam was prepared for was how physically arresting they were. The woman’s long ebony hair seemed to gleam from its own light source, highlighting her smooth caramel-colored skin, high cheekbones, pearl-white teeth, and flashing chocolate eyes. The man was equally stunning, his strong jawline and rugged profile resembling that of a model or a cinema star rather than an academic.
The woman spoke first, extending her hand to Remi. “Señora Fargo. How nice to meet you. I’ve followed your exploits with delighted surprise for years.”
Carlos beamed at them. “Remi Fargo, this is Maribela Casuela.”
“The pleasure’s all mine,” Remi said, her eyes roving quickly over the woman’s flawless form, her sensible black slacks and red blouse hugging her curves in a way that most women only dreamed of.
“And you must be Sam Fargo,” Maribela said, offering her hand to Sam, her palm cool to the touch, her voice musical.
Sam could have sworn that a small electric current passed between them when their skin touched and quickly turned to the brother. “Antonio, right?”
“It’s a thrill. A real thrill,” Antonio said as they shook hands.
“But, please. Use our first names. I hate formality,” Remi said as the newcomers took the offered seats next to Sam.
Carlos filled them in on what the Fargos were interested in, and their eyes lit up at the mention of the recently unearthed crypts.
“It’s remarkable,” Antonio said. “We’ve both been inside, and the carvings alone will make for years of study. It seems as though there’s an interconnected series of tunnels to at least four burial chambers. We’ve already removed the mummies. The insight that this undisturbed find should offer is unique. I’m sure you’ll find touring it an amazing experience.”
“And, of course, you’re welcome to review everything we have on the Toltecs and Quetzalcoatl,” Maribela added, “although most of it is well covered in the academic journals, so there won’t be many surprises.”
“How is the area around the new discovery?” Sam asked.
Carlos frowned. “It’s controlled chaos. We’ve cleared the entry point and there are police guarding it, but the neighborhood is still a disaster area. Over a hundred people lost their lives in that colonia alone. Rudimentary services have yet to be restored, and there’s been some looting. Rescue teams are working through the buildings, but it’s not a good situation.”
“Is there any danger of pilfering of the tombs?” Remi asked.
“The hope is, no,” Antonio replied, “but the police are very poorly paid, so anything is possible. We’ve cataloged all of the precious items, and have an effort under way to move them here, but it’s slow going because we want to adequately document the state of the find. There’s a fine line, as you know . . .”
Remi nodded. “First, do no harm.”
Maribela eyed her. “And what is your background, may I ask? I think I read that you’re an anthropologist?”
“That’s correct, a physical anthropologist, although it’s been years since I was involved with academia. I much prefer being in the field, too.”
“Of course. There’s nothing like the thrill of being first, is there?”
“No. I’ve been very fortunate that my husband here shares that passion,” Remi said, clasping Sam’s hand possessively.
Antonio and Maribela gave them a tour of the artifacts and photos they’d amassed in the basement of the large building. Many of the items were already familiar to Sam and Remi from images on the Internet.
“One of our frustrations,” Maribela remarked, “is that the Toltecs didn’t have a written language, so any history is oral tradition recorded at a later date. And sporadic pictographs. But you can see by the glyphs they had an elaborate grasp of symbolism, although there is much disagreement as to how to interpret many of the images.”
Antonio nodded. “Just as there are conflicting accounts of the mythical ruler of the Toltecs, Ce Acatl Topiltzin, who is often referred to as Topiltzin Quetzalcoatl or just Quetzalcoatl. Over the years, the accounts have become so badly garbled it’s difficult to know what to believe. For instance, some insist he was a mythical figure with no basis in history. Others claim he was the first ruler of the Toltecs. Still others say that he was believed to have been the divine reincarnation of the original Quetzalcoatl, the premier deity of Mesoamerica.” Antonio pointed to a collection of carved depictions of a stern man with a large head and what appeared to be a beard.
“It’s all very confusing,” Sam agreed. “Especially the beard. Unknown among American native people, right?”
Maribela smiled. “Correct. And made more difficult by the few Spanish accounts of Aztec lore and the civilization’s history. We know that these were heavily altered versions of the oral tradition. Another problem is that there were no doubt some interpretation problems. Many of the existing documents were created by the Franciscan monks or the conquistadores, who quite simply botched the accounts.”
Antonio moved next to his sister. “Not to mention that some records were secreted away because they contradicted the official histories. We know the Spanish tended to remove anything that they thought might lead to legendary treasures. Not that it did them much good, but it shows a systematic approach to looting the legacy of the Mayans and Aztecs for both
financial gain and to curry favor with the King of Spain so that further expeditions could be funded.”
“Throughout history, money has played a part in driving human behavior,” Sam agreed.
Antonio nodded. “There’s little doubt that some of the official accounts are pure invention based on confusion over the original Quetzalcoatl the god and Quetzalcoatl the Toltec ruler.”
“What happened to the more accurate records that were taken by the Spanish, which might have hinted at significant sites?” Remi asked, careful to avoid the use of the word “treasure.”
“All the surviving codices are more mundane. A few made it to Spain, some went down on ships that were routinely lost making the passage, others disappeared.”
“Have you tried to locate any?” Sam probed.
Antonio shrugged. “Of course. We’ve made several trips to Spain, but there was nothing there that isn’t part of the public domain. And there are some in Cuba, but that government’s hard to deal with, even for us as Mexicans. They’re very secretive. Maribela and I were there about four years ago for several months working with their museum. We were shown some pictographs and a manuscript that was said to be written by a conquistador relating to the Aztecs or Toltecs. They refused to allow us to study them closely or even to take photographs. We’ve approached them many times to gain access, or to have them returned to Mexico, but we’re always stonewalled. It’s a shame because that’s our heritage, not theirs.”
“A manuscript? What did it say?” Remi asked.
“I couldn’t tell you. It was unintelligible—probably some sort of cipher, which wasn’t unusual in those days for sensitive documents. Without time to go through it line by line and figure out the code, there’s no way of knowing. But I clearly remember that there were detailed drawings of Aztec, and possibly Toltec, icons, including one of Quetzalcoatl.”
“Have the Cubans tried to decrypt it?” Sam asked.
Antonio shook his head. “I don’t think so. It’s just an old manuscript to them. I got the sense that it’s been there so long that nobody is much interested—until we wanted to take it with us, at which point it became a national treasure.”