The Eye of Heaven

  “And that shopping center.”

  Remi pointed to the pyramid. “So you think our chamber could be along the back side? Can we get over there?”

  “Doesn’t look that way. It’s cordoned off. Besides, once we have a permit, we’ll be out here for days while we excavate. I’m sure there’s nothing to see until then—just more dirt.”

  After twenty minutes looking over the Citadel, they headed back to the main entrance, where a row of taxis waited in the sweltering heat for exhausted visitors. As they took the first in line, Remi sneaked a peek behind them, where their shadow was hobbling as fast as he could to the parking lot.

  “Should we wait for him?” she suggested.

  “No. Why make anything easy?”

  “I wonder who he is? Or, rather, who put him up to it?”

  “Someone really frustrated about now. Don’t worry. We’ll ditch them once we have the permit. There are small hotels around here we can stay where we’ll never be found. The trail will end with an empty bag.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  The trip back took an hour, and, after a late lunch at a nearby restaurant, they went to the Institute. Outside, two police cars were parked at the curb, with a few curious students standing near them.

  “I wonder what this is all about?” Remi muttered as they entered the building.

  Maribela was standing at the security desk, talking with a police officer in hushed tones. When she saw them, she disengaged and approached, strain evident on her beautiful face.

  “What is it, Maribela?” Sam asked.

  “It’s Carlos. He’s disappeared. The police say he’s been kidnapped.”

  “Carlos?” Remi blurted.

  Maribela frowned and nodded. “It’s a regrettable part of living in Mexico City. Kidnappings happen all too often.”

  “That’s terrible. What are the police doing?”

  “They’re going through his office to see if there’s anything that could help identify the kidnappers, but it’s purely a formality. These are usually organized criminal gangs that do it for the money. They target the wealthy and the powerful. I’m afraid that Carlos is a little of both, between his family fortune and his position with the government.”

  “Do . . . do the kidnappers usually harm their victims?” Remi asked.

  Maribela’s face clouded further. “Sometimes. There’s no way of predicting it. But we’ll pray that there’s a swift resolution to this and that Carlos is returned to us unharmed. I’m afraid that’s all we can do.”

  Over the next two days, they learned their permit had stalled with Carlos’s kidnapping. Without his pushing to get it done, it had been sucked into the great black hole of Mexico City’s bureaucracy. Antonio visited the Ministry to see what progress had been made, but after a half day there, he returned with a dour expression.

  “Nobody knows anything about it. So I made a new request. But we’ve lost almost a week.”

  “That’s frustrating. It doesn’t sound like there’s much we can do about it,” Sam said.

  “No, unfortunately, this is the system. It’s a bad one, but it’s the one we must work with.”

  “How long do you think this application will take?”

  “Could be as much as a month. Although I highlighted that we have a commitment for funding, which I told them was time-sensitive, so I’m hoping that hastens it along.”

  “A month is too long. Carlos felt he could get it done in a week.”

  “Which he probably could. The problem is that Carlos isn’t here, so we don’t have his contact base to draw upon. He could pick up a phone and take the right person to lunch. I’m afraid I don’t even know who the right person is. I’ve spent my time in academia and in the field.”

  Remi shifted in her seat. “Is there anything we can do to help speed things up?”

  Antonio frowned. “I sincerely wish there was. But I can’t think of anything.”

  Antonio left them and returned to the new find. Sam continued studying the images from the tunnel discovered under the Temple of the Feathered Serpent while Remi pored over the pictographs from the tombs north of town, unearthed during the earthquake. At one o’clock they took a break for lunch and Sam called the clinic to see how Lazlo was faring. The administrator, Isabella Benito, came on the line, and, after exchanging pleasantries, Sam cut to the questions that he and Remi had discussed the prior night.

  “How is he?” Sam asked.

  “Physically, he’s getting stronger, and has made a nearly complete recovery. He’s put on three kilos, and is taking part in the clinic’s exercise program every day.”

  “And mentally?”

  “Ah, that is always a more difficult process. The psychological dependence on alcohol is insidious, and it has been a major part of his lifestyle for many years.”

  “I understand.”

  “His self-image must be revised so he can imagine a future without alcohol. That, as they say, is the hard part. Unfortunately, many patients don’t make that important transition and instead fall prey to old habits.”

  Sam sighed. “In your opinion, is he stable enough to work on a project with us?”

  “That depends on what you require of him. If you are asking whether he can work here while he’s recovering, the answer is a cautious yes. It could well prove therapeutic.”

  “What about going into the field with us?”

  “Into the field? You mean leaving the clinic before his course here is done?”

  “Only temporarily. Perhaps a day here, two there. What’s your assessment?”

  Benito hesitated as she considered the question. “We’re nearing the point where we would slowly reintroduce him into the outside world. Small steps to acclimate him to a noninstitutional setting. But that would be under carefully controlled circumstances and supervised at every turn.”

  “Then he’s ready to reassimilate?”

  “Yes, but I’m describing going to a restaurant with several of the other patients, accompanied by a counselor. Taking a shopping trip. It sounds like you’re proposing something more . . . demanding.”

  “Señora Benito, Lazlo is foremost an academic. It’s what he lives for. Intellectual stimulation is like oxygen for him. What I’m proposing is to involve him in a project that will fully engage his attention. That will give him a purpose.”

  “If you wish to do so, I have no objection, but you’ll have to take full responsibility for him.”

  “Yes, I appreciate that. If I’m understanding you correctly, you’re saying that he’s probably up to it, but you can’t guarantee that he won’t . . . backslide.”

  Her tone was cautious. “I can’t see anything negative, but honestly, Señor Fargo, none of us can predict a patient’s outcome with complete accuracy, especially at this stage. It’s still very early.”

  “I respect that. Thank you for your candor.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “We’ll be coming by this afternoon to look in on him.”

  Sam hung up and filled Remi in on the discussion. She shut down her computer, a look of concern on her face as she gathered her things.

  “I don’t know, Sam. I mean, he’s delivered a small miracle with the manuscript, but it sounds like he’s still on thin ice.”

  “No question. But I think it would be good for him to work with us, and it certainly won’t hurt to have another set of eyes on the data. What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “There you go again.”

  “Sorry.”

  Remi sighed. “Let’s grab something to eat and go see how he’s doing. If he seems fine, we’ll make the call then, okay?”

  Sam nodded. “You bet. But just in case, you might want to put together a care package for Lazlo.”

  She held up a flash drive. “I’m way ahead of you.”

  Aware of being followed but now resigned to it, they made their way across town to the clinic. Lazlo was sitting up in bed, reading a book, when they arrived.

/>   “How’s the life of leisure?” Sam asked, rounding the bed as Lazlo stood and shook his hand.

  “I’m about bloody ready to crawl the walls with all this clean living. Who knew that virtue could be so boring?”

  Remi smiled. “You look good.”

  “Flattery will get you whatever you desire, young lady. Please. Have a seat. Tell me all about how the hunt for your tomb is going,” Lazlo said, motioning to the sofa. “Can I offer you some water? I’m afraid that’s all I’ve got, unless you want me to ring for some coffee. I’ve given up on a proper cup of tea.”

  They explained their theory. Lazlo followed along, seemingly without effort, asking direct, probing questions that were as precise as they were relevant. After half an hour of back-and-forth, Sam and Remi exchanged a glance, and she leaned forward, hands folded in front of her.

  “Lazlo, we could use some help. How would you like to look over what we’ve gathered and give us your expert opinion?”

  “Well, I’m not sure how expert it is compared to all of you, but if there’s anything I can add to the party, why not? It’s not as though I’m figuring out cold fusion at the moment.”

  Remi reached into her purse and extracted the flash drive. “These are photos of all the material we’ve collected. Pictographs from the newly discovered Toltec tombs, everything that’s relevant from the Institute archives, URLs for anything in the public domain, maps—the whole shooting match.”

  Lazlo took the small device. “Well, this should keep me busy for a time, I’d imagine. When are you planning to do your dig?”

  “We’re still waiting for the permit. There was a complication,” Sam said.

  “Oh?”

  He told Lazlo about the kidnapping and the effect it had on their project. Lazlo frowned and shook his head. “Bloody bad luck, that. So you’re stalled?”

  “I wish I could say otherwise, but that’s what we are.”

  “Only ray of light is that it will give me time to get up to speed. Doors closing and windows opening, and all that.”

  “Yes. Well, hopefully, we’ll get the go-ahead soon. When we do, we want you with us,” Remi said.

  Lazlo raised one eyebrow. “You think my jailers will allow that?”

  “If you swear to be on your best behavior, I think they might.”

  “My best behavior is usually everyone else’s worst . . .”

  Sam smiled. “But this is the new you, my friend. And helping us with this find would be a big step in establishing your credentials as a field expert rather than an academic.”

  “Well, if you can convince the dragon lady to let me loose on the world, how can I say no?”

  “That’s what I was hoping you’d say. For now, give everything a look, and get in touch if anything occurs to you. We’ll start with that.”

  “Will do.” Lazlo paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was soft. “I appreciate everything you’re doing.”

  Remi smiled. “You’re helping us. It’s a two-way street.”

  Lazlo looked toward the window, where motes of dust drifted lazily in the afternoon sun. “I won’t let you down.”

  The ride back to the hotel was a quick one, the plaintive lament of a distraught tenor on the taxi radio battling with a mariachi horn section that sounded like it had started happy hour early. Remi gazed at the side mirror as she edged nearer to Sam.

  “They’re still following us.”

  “At least they’re consistent.”

  She furrowed her brow. “What did you think of Lazlo? He seemed lucid to me.”

  “You heard the administrator, it could go either way. But for now, my money’s on Lazlo. I think he wants a new lease on life . . . This is it. Lord knows it beats a hut in some mudhole.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Selma called as they were preparing to go out to dinner, her tone excited. “I spoke with an old friend at the State Department who knows someone who knows someone. They’re going to contact the relevant Mexican ministry tomorrow and see what can be done to put your permit on the fast track.”

  “That’s great news, Selma. Didn’t take you long.”

  “I had to promise a case of good champagne. She’s a connoisseur, so none of the cheap stuff.”

  “If she can make this happen, she’ll get Dom Pérignon.”

  “Oh, she’ll make it happen. She’s got a lot of influence with foreign aid programs, including those that are directed at Mexico. Everyone there wants to do her favors. I wouldn’t say it’s a lock, but it’s as close as you can get to one.”

  “Then it’s Dom on the menu for her as soon as I can order it.”

  “I’ll take care of it. Feels good to actually be doing something useful.”

  “Then spare no expense, Selma.”

  “Will do. Have a good night.”

  “And you as well,” he said quietly and smiled for the first time in what felt like forever.

  After a somber dinner Sam and Remi went to sleep early. Several hours later the jarring ring of Sam’s phone shattered the silence of the room. He groped for the lamp switch, groggy, and, after switching it on, stabbed the little cell to life.

  “Hello?” His voice was hoarse.

  “Sam, old boy. I’ve reviewed the translation of the manuscript and looked over your snaps of the pictographs and I have to say I’m not convinced at the reasoning that puts the tomb where you think it is.”

  “Lazlo, do you have any idea what time it is?”

  “None whatsoever. Sorry if it’s late. I thought you’d want the bad news.”

  “Can we discuss this in the morning?” Sam squinted at the LED display of the bedside clock. “Or later this morning?”

  “Absolutely. I just wanted you to know. And I’d very much like to go to the recently discovered tomb to see the pictographs in person. Photos aren’t all they’re chocked up to be.”

  “Noted. I’ll call you when it’s light out.”

  “Good show. I’ll be waiting.”

  Sam switched the light off as Remi shifted beside him. He exhaled softly and she moved closer.

  “Still think this was a good idea?” she murmured.

  Sam was already asleep.

  A battered 1970s-era blue Ford truck loaded with cast-off wooden beams lurched up the dirt road that ran alongside the grounds of the building-supply warehouse on the outskirts of Mexico City. Inside the high cement wall that ran along the lot perimeter sat three vehicles, even though the warehouse was closed to business for the week—a black Cadillac Escalade, a white Lincoln Navigator, and a lifted burgundy H2 Hummer with oversize tires.

  Inside the smaller secondary building, Carlos sat bound to a wooden chair, naked from the waist up, his face a brutalized mass of contusions, the chair back barely supporting his slumping weight as he struggled for breath against the ropes. Reginald paced in front of him, his cigarette smoldering, his face contorted with unthinking anger as he weighed the information he’d just received.

  Reginald moved back to Carlos and punched him again, the tops of his black driving gloves slick with drying blood. Carlos gurgled; the blow barely registered after having survived so many from his enraged captor.

  “I thought you told me that the permit was killed. You lied to me. You’ll regret that,” Reginald hissed, the menace of his threat obvious in every syllable.

  Carlos leaned to the side and spat on the floor near Reginald’s handmade shoes. “It . . . was. When you kidnapped me, it . . . should have . . . stalled indefinitely,” he managed, blurring in and out of consciousness as pain ravaged his body.

  “Apparently not. Our sources just told us that a permit for the Fargos, in partnership with the National Institute of Anthropology and History, is being walked through and has received the highest priority.”

  “I . . . different permit . . . not mine. You . . . had me . . . days. Must . . . be . . . new,” Carlos mumbled, the words barely distinguishable, and then his chin lolled onto his chest as he blacked out.


  Reginald punched the side of his head for good measure and then shook his own hand, which was sore from the blows. His fury gradually abated as he studied the unconscious archaeologist. He paced again for a few moments and then he stripped off the gloves and threw them on the floor in disgust before stalking from the room.

  In the office next door, a dark-complexioned Hispanic man in his mid-thirties, acne scars pocking his features, regarded Reginald with pig eyes from his seat behind a cheap metal desk. Two younger men sat near the door with Kalashnikov AKM assault rifles in their laps and stared off at nothing.

  “Well? Did you learn anything?” asked Ferdinand Guerrero, the Mexico City chief of the Los Zetas cartel, the most violent in Mexico—an international criminal enterprise with tentacles that reached as far away as Africa, Europe, and South America, as well as every major city in the U.S.

  “No. He claims it’s not the same . . . issue . . . I was concerned about.”

  “Maybe he’s telling the truth?” Guerrero asked, his soft voice out of place with his thick, fight-flattened nose and customary sneer.

  “It doesn’t matter. His absence hasn’t bought us enough time to get our permit approved.” Reginald kicked the side of another metal desk in frustration, the sound like an explosion in the small space. Their source had gotten them the manuscript and translation. And a little money spread to an assistant with a drug problem and in over his head to Guerrero had gotten a copy of the lost permit, so they knew exactly where in Teotihuacan to target.

  “What do you want us to do with him? Let him go free? If his usefulness is at an end . . .” Guerrero said, shifting behind the desk to study the silver tips of his burgundy Lagarto ostrich cowboy boots.

  Reginald fought for control of his emotions and then waved a hand nonchalantly. “I presume you have a means to dispose of him?” He paused, thinking. “He can identify me.”

  Guerrero laughed, a phlegmy sound devoid of humor. “You could say we do. Any special timing concerns?”

  “Let’s wait till the end of the week so it looks like a kidnapping gone wrong. In fact, if you have someone who could contact the family and make a large ransom demand, that could be money in your pocket,” Reginald suggested. “Easy money for your trouble.”