“We’ve got nothing planned except digging through it,” Remi said, “so that’s not a problem. How’s Selma?”
“She’s resting at the house. She really wanted to come greet you, but I told her that would make me too nervous.”
“So she’s up and around?”
“Sort of. I don’t think she’s going to be a hundred percent for a while.”
“That’s not unexpected,” Remi said. “I know they tell you to figure on at least six months to be fully recovered.”
“It’s got to be frustrating,” Sam said. “I know how much she enjoys being in the thick of it.”
Kendra nodded. “Let’s just say that she’s a difficult patient. That’s what the doctors said. ‘Feisty’ was actually the word they used most often.”
Remi smiled. “No doubt.”
Kendra led the way into the house, followed by Zoltán and Remi, Sam bringing up the rear. Inside, Selma was sitting and sipping tea, her walker next to her. Zoltán let out a greeting woof.
“Welcome home,” Selma said, smiling.
“Selma. How are you?”
“Oh, you know, always in the fight. I’ve got my trusty walker. But I do have to give in to the wheelchair every once in a while,” she admitted.
“The important thing is that you’re recovering.”
“I wish it wouldn’t take so long. I’m really tired of being so dependent.”
“Kendra has helped out wonderfully,” Sam said, “and we’re between adventures, so you aren’t missing anything.”
Remi nodded. “That’s right. We’re here for the duration. You just need to focus on your physical therapy and getting better. Don’t worry about playing mother hen with us. We’re in good hands,” Remi assured her, glancing at Kendra.
“I’ll try, but it’s become something of a habit . . .”
Sam carried the bags up to their bedroom, and Remi joined him shortly after.
Remi paced in front of the glass wall that faced the blue Pacific beyond the terrace. “I just want Selma to take her time and not try to rush her recovery.”
“We’re all different. We should respect her wishes,” Sam said gently.
Remi stopped and stared out at the ocean, the pristine beauty calming her as it usually did. “You’re right, of course. I just don’t want her to overdo things, to injure herself and get into big trouble. That would make her recuperation time even longer.”
“You know what you need? Let’s head over to the Valencia Hotel and get you a full spa treatment. The whole deal. That always makes you happy. And then lunch on the restaurant veranda, maybe a Kistler Chardonnay, some blue point crab . . .”
“Why, Sam Fargo. Now I remember why I hang out with you.”
“I thought it was my piano playing.”
“And your lovely singing voice.”
He gave her a skeptical frown. “Maybe that’s pushing it.”
“‘To each his own,’ said the man as he kissed the cow . . .”
They spent the morning and much of the afternoon at the hotel, and when they returned home, Remi was in considerably improved spirits. Sam suggested they begin poring through the archive of pre-Columbian lore Pete and Wendy had amassed.
The whole research team was working harmoniously downstairs, Pete leaning over Kendra’s station and pointing at something on her monitor.
When evening came and twilight faded into night, they’d only dented the reams of accounts, many of them conflicting. Sam and Remi agreed that the Toltec society around A.D. 1000 would be where they’d focus their energy, scouring the accounts for anything that hinted at European influence around that time. When they said good night to Selma and Kendra, they were both exhausted but heartened that they’d made at least a small amount of progress in their research.
“Did you see the way Pete was looking at Kendra?” Remi asked as she plumped the pillows in readiness for some well-earned rest.
“Not really. What did I miss?”
“I think he might be taken with her.”
“Pete? Really?”
“That’s what I got. I wonder what Wendy thinks?”
“I’ll defer to your feminine intuition in these matters. Everyone knows men are the last to know these things.”
“It’s one of the endearing qualities of your gender.”
Zoltán watched them from his position at the foot of the bed, his eyes alert, ears pointing straight up.
“At least I’ve got that going for me,” Sam said.
Remi moved behind him and slipped her arms around his chest. “I’m willing to forgive you for putting me on ice recently—at least a little, big boy.”
“Don’t scare the dog.”
“He’s braver than he looks.”
Zoltán, as if following the discussion, closed his eyes with a faint snort.
Sam, check this out,” Remi called, the morning’s second cup of coffee cooling on her desk beside her oversize monitor.
“What am I looking at?” he asked.
“Quetzalcoatl.”
“The feathered serpent god of the Aztecs?”
“Also called Votan by the Mayans.”
“And?”
“He’s described as being white, with red hair . . . and cross-eyed,” Remi said.
“Cross-eyed?”
“Yes. More interestingly, in the Viking sagas that were compiled in the fourteenth century, a Viking explorer named Ari Marson, who was a redhead and was cross-eyed, disappeared around A.D. 980 on his way to Greenland. According to the saga, he was worshipped as a god in a new land ten days’ sail from Vinland.”
“Vinland, eh? And where might that be?”
“According to different accounts, anywhere from Baffin Island to the northeast part of the U.S.”
Sam did a quick calculation. “That would put his landing spot south of the U.S. Which could mean Mexico.”
“Possibly. Some accounts speculate it might have been Cuba. And there are also stories of Quetzalcoatl coming from the east to the Mexican mainland—from Cuba.”
“Interesting. What’s that?” Sam asked, pointing at another image on the screen.
“It’s an image of Quetzalcoatl as a white man with a beard.”
“But I thought that the worship of Quetzalcoatl was far older than the tenth century.”
“It was,” Remi agreed, “but there was a great deal of confusion when the Spanish arrived. They got a lot wrong, and that was complicated by the religious climate in Europe. So they simply changed things they didn’t like.”
“And the victors get to write the history books.”
“Exactly—and as far as the dates in the sagas go, those are considered unreliable, too. In other words, 980 could have been 1080 and simply been changed during one telling in its oral tradition—or whoever drafted the written account could have remembered it wrong.”
Sam nodded. “But back to Vikings on the East Coast. Do I not recall a Viking coin being found in Maine back in the fifties?”
“I saw that, too. There’s still some debate about whether it’s a hoax or not.”
“There’s always debate. That’s what makes this so much fun. Cutting through all the opinions and guesswork and discovering the truth.”
Remi leaned back. “If we take this at face value, then it’s possible that Quetzalcoatl was, in fact, a Viking.”
“In some accounts, he came from the east in longships with shields on the sides. And among the many forms of knowledge he brought was the use of metal—specifically, iron—which the Vikings were expert at. Maybe we should be focusing on this Quetzalcoatl fellow.”
Remi nodded. “I’m way ahead of you. But this gets even more confusing. A famous ruler of the Toltecs in the eleventh century was either believed to be a reincarnation of Quetzalcoatl or was deified as a god. Again, that’s largely speculative, because the Aztecs eradicated most of the Toltec records. But this ruler, Topiltzin Ce Acatl Quetzalcoatl, ruled the Toltec capital of Tollan, which is now called Tula, in
central Mexico. He was credited with bringing all sorts of knowledge to the Toltecs, including growing corn and working with metal, and improving their masonry skills by quantum leaps. And he’s referred to in some accounts as being a white man with a beard who favored long robes and animal skins.”
“My head’s starting to hurt.”
“I know. It’s like trying to grab a greased eel.”
“Still, that’s positive as a starting point.”
“Agreed.”
“I’m thinking we pull up everything we can on this ruler Quetzalcoatl and drill down from there,” Sam said, returning to his desk.
“That’s as good a plan as any. I’ll get the crew on it.”
The next three days were spent digging deeper into the legends surrounding the enigmatic leader of the Toltecs. His reign became the dominant force in central Mexico. The few codices that purported to tell the story of the Mesoamerican civilizations were of limited help and seemed to contradict one another in more than a few places. But eventually a few threads gelled into a common theme. Around A.D. 1000, a ruler had emerged who transformed Toltec society. He introduced amazing leaps in technology, and was often described as resembling a white man, although other accounts had him native-born.
At ten o’clock in the evening, after another long stint of poring over the data, Sam’s pulse quickened as he read an obscure tome that chronicled a legend associated with Quetzalcoatl. He was buried with a treasure unlike any ever seen, with all manner of jade and gold artifacts. The crowning item, a magnificent jewel, was considered as much of a legend as that of El Dorado, the city of gold: the Eye of Heaven, a flawless emerald offered from the Toltecs as tribute to the powerful ruler, rumored to be the size of a man’s heart and possessed of magical properties.
The account was long on hyperbole but short on detail, and chronicled numerous hunts by the Spanish to locate the tomb, all of which ended in failure. Over time, the excitement had faded and the rumor was discounted as one of many that the conquering Europeans had concocted in a bid to secure investors for exploration.
But one thing stood out for Sam: the detailed description of Quetzalcoatl. In this account, he was an old man who died of natural causes, his heavy red beard laced with gray, and he was laid out in a jade-and-gold casket and entombed in a holy place that would forever remain secret.
To an accomplished treasure hunter, the mention of a hidden tomb with undreamed-of riches was like waving a red cape in front of a snorting bull. Sam shut off his monitors for the evening and made his way back upstairs, where Remi had retired an hour earlier. He felt a familiar buzz of anticipation—one that had rarely led him wrong in the past.
He told Remi about his discovery as they sat sipping snifters of Rémy Martin XO cognac by the open doors, the ocean dark other than for the twinkle of distant lights from the occasional vessel working its way north from San Diego Harbor. By the time Sam finished telling her about Quetzalcoatl’s lost tomb, Remi was also excited.
Three hundred yards offshore, near one of the vast kelp beds that hugged the shore, a twenty-eight-foot fishing boat was anchored. Anyone scrutinizing it would have seen two men with their rods in the water doing some night fishing. A more careful study might have noted a directional microphone pointed at the open door of a home on the bluff, and noted a third man in the lower cabin, sitting with headphones on, listening to every word being spoken inside the Fargos’ bedroom.
But there was nobody to notice the men on the boat. The discussion was being recorded and would later be analyzed, along with countless others, and then forwarded to the client. The operatives were seasoned surveillance professionals, well versed in eavesdropping and corporate espionage.
A haze lingered across Mexico City in the predawn glow of a thousand lights. The freeways were already clogged with vehicles on their early-morning commutes, arriving from the dense neighboring suburbs that ringed the vast metropolis.
A tired old garbage truck lurched slowly up a road in the municipality of López Mateos, its engine straining as it made its weekly rounds in the impoverished sprawl ten miles north of Mexico City. Many families lived eight to a twelve-by-fifteen-foot room, and the drug-related violent crime made it one of the more dangerous areas in the region. The truck rolled to a screeching stop when a rumble began from the street beneath. The earth began to shake—at first gently and then with increasing violence.
A nearby brick wall split and collapsed, the top crumbling as the earthquake shook it, and a geyser of water shot from a fissure in the center of the street. The men in the garbage truck watched in horror as several of the two-story cinder-block homes fell in on themselves as though the earth had sucked them into the ground. A few half-naked children ran into the street while the pavement beneath them shuddered. The few working lamps on the building fronts winked out as power cables snapped somewhere down the line. Streetlights rocked before tearing free and crashing to the ground in explosions of glass.
In the distance, the city’s high-rises swayed. Even in a region known for its seismic outbursts, this was a big one. The shaking continued for a full minute before the earth settled to stillness beneath the frightened people.
The street resembled a war zone, with huge cracks crisscrossing the remaining pavement and water mains gushing into the air before pooling in stinking ponds also fed by ruptured sewage lines. Doors opened as neighbors emerged to take stock, the calamity only the latest in a seemingly unending string of bad luck visited upon a population born under a dark star.
The sun inched over the surrounding mountains and cast a dim glow through the sediment that had floated skyward from the demolished buildings. The garbagemen surveyed the ruined street for a while longer and then the driver put the ancient truck in gear and executed a shaky turn before heading back down the rise.
Further research into Quetzalcoatl’s tomb revealed nothing of use, and by late afternoon of the second day it was obvious to everyone that they’d hit a dead end. Sam’s eyes were burning from boring holes through his monitor, searching for the one elusive glyph, a thread that might lead them in a positive direction; now they were out of options. But Sam hadn’t earned his reputation by giving up—his tenacious nature invariably drove him to up the ante when the going got rough.
When Selma joined them, Remi stood to greet her as Sam rubbed a tired hand over his face.
“How’s it going?” Selma asked.
“Just the usual frustrations,” Remi said. “Incomplete accounts, vague hints without any substance, partial reports . . .”
“Ah, research, how do I miss thee,” Selma intoned.
“How are you? Feeling any better?” Sam asked, turning from his screen.
“You know. Every day brings its own little challenges.”
“The important thing is that you’re making progress,” Remi said.
“Sometimes it doesn’t feel like it,” Selma confessed—a rare admission from the woman who was as indefatigable and hard-charging as they came. She stared off at the ocean and then fixed a smile on her face. “I thought I’d stop in and see how you were making out without me.”
“Not so great, Selma. We’re sort of at the end of our rope on our current line of thinking,” Sam said, and then gave her a summary of their progress—or lack of it. When he was finished, she nodded.
“Well, you know what you’re going to have to do.”
Sam and Remi exchanged a look.
“No . . .” Remi said.
“Let me make some calls. That won’t hurt me. Truth be told, I’m going stir-crazy, even with the books and TV. I’ll call a few people and put out some feelers. It’ll cheer me up if I can help in my own small way.”
“Selma—” Sam started, but she waved him off.
“I’ll let you know if I hear anything. Now, get back to work. You’ll never make it if you keep finding excuses to slack off,” Selma teased, and then without another word expertly turned her walker and slowly made her way back to her rooms with a familiar e
xpression of determination on her face.
Sam exhaled noisily and stood, stretching his arms overhead and rolling his head to get the kinks out of his shoulder and neck muscles. Remi went back to her screen while Sam got his fifth cup of coffee and then pushed one of the glass doors open and moved onto the wraparound terrace for some welcome salt air. Gulls wheeled in the blue sky overhead, riding an updraft from the sea, and a few boats worked the edge of the kelp forest. Gluttonous seals competed with the anglers for the ocean’s bounty, and Sam watched as their oily black heads popped out of the water here and there before submerging again for another run at the fish.
Not a bad life, he thought. Simple. Go for a swim, fresh fish for lunch again, then maybe a siesta on a nice rock while the sun warmed you. The seals definitely had it figured out. Better than going blind staring at pictures of ancient ruins, trying to find clues to untangle one of history’s enduring mysteries.
With a final glance at the late-afternoon sky, he reluctantly returned to his computer and continued with his search for the meaning of the unintelligible carvings he’d been studying.
Two hours later, Selma emerged with a look of triumph on her face.
“Congratulations. You’ve been invited by the National Institute of Anthropology and History in Mexico City to study their inventory of Toltec artifacts. An old friend and colleague of mine, Carlos Ramirez, is in charge of the effort there. He’s the director of Antiquities and the cousin of one of the ministers of the interior, as well as being on the university board.”
“Selma! That’s wonderful,” Remi said, rising from her seat.