Ruins Page 3

  The artisan had been a master. The design fit exactly with the irregular contours of the chunk of rock. She ran her fingertip along one of the notches, wondering what sort of test Mulder might be putting her through.

  “What do you make of it?” he said.

  “I give up.” She scrutinized the artifact again, but it remained a mystery. “A Christmas tree ornament?”

  “Not even close.”

  “Okay,” she said, taking the question seriously now. “I think I recognize the stone. It’s jade, isn’t it?”

  “Very good, Scully. I didn’t know they taught mineralogy in medical school.”

  “I didn’t know they included mineralogy in behavioral psychology courses either,” she countered, then turned her attention back to the object. “It looks very old. Some sort of mythological figure, maybe? From the books on your desk, I would guess its origin to be…Aztec?”

  “Maya, actually,” he said. “Best estimates date this piece of work to be about fifteen hundred years old. The Maya people revered jade. It was a sacred stone to them, used for only the most precious of objects.”

  “As valuable as gold?” Scully asked, playing along, wondering what he was getting at.

  “Much more valuable. The Maya used to wear it around their loins as a cure for colic and other maladies. They even placed a piece of jade in the mouths of dead noblemen, because they believed the stone would serve him as a heart in the afterlife.”

  “Talk about a heart of stone.” She turned the piece over in her hand. “It’s obvious they put a great deal of effort and intricacy into the carving.”

  Mulder nodded, pushing one of the books out of the way so he could rest his elbow on his desk. “And it had to be quite a challenge for the carvers, too. Jadeite is exceptionally hard and dense, and so craftsmen couldn’t use their traditional flint or obsidian tools.” He reached over to tap a fingernail against the carving in her hands. “Instead, they had to use abrasive powders and disposable tools, dozens of them—wooden saws, bone drills, cords drawn repeatedly across the surface to wear down small grooves. Then they polished the whole piece of jade with gourd or cane fibers. Quite a piece of work.”

  “Okay, Mulder, so this wasn’t a simple figure whittled out of wood for amusement. Somebody really wanted to make this particular object. In that case I take it there’s some significance to the special design? A serpent with feathers. Did the Mayans revere snakes?”

  “Ah,” he said. “Not exactly. You’ll notice that’s no ordinary snake. It’s a famous mythological figure associated with the god Quetzalcoatl. That’s what the Aztec called him. The Maya used the name Kukulkan, a god of great wisdom. Some sources say Kukulkan taught the Maya about calendars and astronomy.”

  He offered her a sunflower seed. She shook her head, so he popped it into his own mouth.

  “The Maya astronomer-priests were so precise in their calculations that the accuracy of their ‘primitive’ calendars wasn’t surpassed until this very century. They even built interlocking gear-machines to make their calendar computations based on overlapping cycles out to fifty-two years. Kukulkan must have been an exceptional teacher…or he knew something the rest of the people didn’t.

  “Their mathematical abilities were extraordinary, too—in fact, they were the only ancient civilization ever to invent the concept of zero. That’s important for balancing your checkbook, of course.”

  “Not my checkbook,” she said.

  With some effort, Scully found a place to sit down, moving a cardboard box filled with plaster casts of huge footprints. She glanced down at the casts but decided she didn’t want to risk asking about them.

  “That’s all very interesting, Mulder,” she said, “but what does a fifteen-hundred-year-old lump of jade in the shape of a feathered serpent have to do with a case? Have people started seeing feathered snakes in their back yards? Or have you discovered some discrepancy in our calendar that can only be explained by ancient Mayan carvings?”

  She handed him back the jade sculpture, and he carefully placed it atop his Central America reference works.

  “Under normal circumstances it wouldn’t have anything to do with one of our cases,” he said, “but this particular relic was recently confiscated at the border of the Mexican state of Quintana Roo, down in the Yucatán. The arrested dealer claims that this artifact came from the archaeological dig of a rediscovered Maya city deep in the jungles, a ruin called Xitaclan.

  “According to official Mexican reports, there have been numerous unexplained disappearances in the area, dating back decades. And because the area is so primitive and isolated, you can bet plenty more of them have gone entirely undocumented.”

  “I’m still not sure I see the connection here, Mulder.” She waited, casually crossing one leg over the other.

  “Most locals won’t go near the place, claiming it’s cursed, or sacred…depending on which translation you use. Their legends tell of vicious feathered serpents, and the god Kukulkan, and the lost ghosts of sacrificial victims whose blood stained the temple stones.”

  Scully shifted on the old, government-issue chair. “I doubt that the Bureau would consider sending us to investigate an ancient Maya curse.”

  “There’s more to it than that.” His eyes grew bright. “A team of American archaeologists had just begun excavating Xitaclan under the auspices of the University of California, San Diego. According to early reports, this one site is untouched and the key to many mysteries of Maya history. It could be the first large-scale construction their civilization attempted. Definitely the site of frequent sacrifices.”

  He smiled, as if delivering a coup de grace. “Also, my preliminary chemical analysis of this object turned up some interesting anomalies, an odd crystalline structure, unidentifiable impurities that imply that this material did not come from the Yucatán near the ruins….”

  She focused on the soft green color of the stone. “You think this thing comes from outer space?”

  He shrugged and brushed a pile of damp sunflower-seed shells into his wastebasket, accidentally leaving several behind. “The archaeology team disappeared without a trace a week ago. No signal of distress, no sign of trouble. You and I get to go find them.”

  “But, Mulder, wouldn’t this normally be handled by the Mexican authorities?”

  Mulder said, “I also received a call yesterday from the father of Cassandra Rubicon, the young woman who led the UC–San Diego team. It seems her father’s an extremely well-known archaeologist himself. He’s made a few phone calls, contacted the FBI field office for San Diego. They heard the words ‘ancient curse’ and ‘Maya ruins’ and passed the case on to me.” Scully met his gaze, and he raised his eyebrows. “I have a meeting with Skinner this afternoon. You and I are going to meet Vladimir Rubicon tomorrow. He’s here, in Washington.”

  Scully glanced at the jade sculpture, at the mythology books, and then at the fascinated expression on Mulder’s face. “I don’t suppose it’ll do me any good to try to talk you out of this?” she asked.

  “Won’t do you any good at all,” he said.

  “In that case, I suppose I always wanted to go to Mexico,” she answered.

  Assistant Director Skinner sat at his desk, ritually tapping his fingertips on the neatly typed forms in front of him. He did not stand when Mulder entered the room.

  That’s usually a bad sign, Mulder thought. On the other hand, Skinner had thrown him a curve enough times that he decided it would do no good to second-guess him.

  The balding man was either a very good friend or the worst kind of enemy. Skinner knew things and passed the information on to Mulder only when he considered it important to do so.

  Right now, Mulder needed to stay in Skinner’s good graces. He and Scully had to get down to the Yucatán.

  Skinner looked at him through wire-rimmed glasses. “I’m not sure you realize just what a sensitive subject you’ve stepped into, Agent Mulder.”

  Mulder stood at attention in front of
his superior’s desk. Keeping his expression neutral, he looked at the framed photographs of the President and the Attorney General on the wall. “I intend to exercise due discretion, sir.”

  Skinner nodded, showing that he had already considered this. “See that you do. As far as the Bureau is concerned, this is an important missing-persons case, relating to possible crimes committed upon American citizens. I have obtained for you and Agent Scully the status of LEGATS, legal attachés sent out of the country operating for the United States Embassy in Mexico City.”

  He held up a finger. “But bear in mind how delicate this situation is, given the current economic and political tensions. The Mexican government is always sensitive to intrusions by U.S. officials on its soil. I don’t need to remind you about the number of DEA agents who have been assassinated by drug lords in Central America.

  “The area you’re heading into, in the state of Quintana Roo, is a political hotbed at this time. The local government is particularly vulnerable because of a violent separatist movement that seems to be growing in force, thanks to an unidentified supply of weapons.”

  “Are you suggesting that the archaeological team might have fallen victim to political unrest?” Mulder said.

  “I find that more likely than an ancient Mayan curse,” Skinner said. “Or weren’t you going to suggest that?”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Mulder said. “We have to examine every possibility.”

  Skinner picked up a set of travel authorizations and expense vouchers. He passed them across the desk, and Mulder took them, noting that all the signature lines had already been filled in.

  “I expect you to strictly adhere to protocol, Agent Mulder,” Skinner said. “I would urge you in no uncertain terms to hew the line in this investigation.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If you offend anyone in high places, you’ll have more than just the FBI to answer to; you’ll have the State Department as well. That is, unless you get yourself thrown into some Mexican jail first.”

  “I’ll try my best to stay clear of that, sir.” Mulder took the forms and tucked them under his arm.

  “One more thing, Agent Mulder,” Skinner said with an unreadable expression. “Have a nice trip.”

  3

  Offices of The Lone Gunmen,

  Washington, D.C.

  Tuesday, 4:40 P.M.

  “When all else fails, Special Agent Mulder comes to us for the real answers,” said Byers, leaning back in his chair. He straightened his suit and tie, ran a finger across his neat reddish beard, and looked up calmly.

  Entering alone, Mulder closed the door behind him in the dim offices of The Lone Gunmen, a conspiracy exposé publication that purported to know the official truths about a thousand secret plots in which the government was engaged.

  Scully had told him once that she considered the oddball characters who produced the magazine to be the most paranoid men she had ever met. But Mulder had found time and again that the esoteric information the three Lone Gunmen had at their fingertips often led in directions that official channels would never have suggested.

  “Hi, guys,” Mulder said. “Who’s taking over the world this week?”

  “I think Mulder just likes to keep tabs on us,” Langly answered, sauntering across the room with a lazy shuffle that, with a little work, could have been turned into a dance step. Tall and scrawny, inelegantly dressed, he was the type who could easily have fit in with any crowd of computer nerds or roadies for a rock band. “It’s for his own protection,” he added, adjusting his black-rimmed glasses.

  Langly had stringy blond hair that looked as if he washed it in a blender. Mulder had never seen him wear anything other than a ratty T-shirt, usually advertising some fringe rock group.

  “I think he just likes our company,” Frohike mumbled, working with several pieces of extremely expensive camera equipment on one of the metal shelves at the rear of the office. In the background, Langly switched on the big reel-to-reel tape recorders, getting their entire conversation down on tape.

  “Yeah, you three are just my kind of guys,” Mulder said with a disarming smile.

  Byers always wore a suit and a tie. He was soft-spoken and intelligent, the kind of son any mother would have been proud to have—if not for his vociferous opposition to various government organizations and his obsession with UFO conspiracies.

  Frohike, with glasses, close-cropped hair, and rugged features, didn’t look as if he would fit in with any social group. He had a long-standing crush on Dana Scully, but basically it was all talk. Mulder suspected Frohike would turn into a jittering mass of nerves if Scully ever consented to go out with him. Nevertheless, Mulder had been deeply touched when the short-statured man had brought flowers to Scully’s bedside while she lay in a coma after returning from her abduction.

  No identifying sign marked the door to the offices of the Lone Gunmen, and they were not listed in any phone book. The three kept their operation very low-profile. They tape-recorded every incoming phone call and took care to cover their own movements in and around Washington, D.C.

  Nondescript, utilitarian shelves held surveillance equipment and computer monitors. Wires snaking out of the wall provided hard links to any number of network servers and databases. Mulder suspected the Lone Gunmen had never been granted official access to many of the systems, but that did not prevent the three from hacking into libraries of information closely held by government organizations and industrial groups.

  Most of the chairs in the office were filled with boxes of stuffed manila envelopes, preprinted address labels facedown. Mulder knew the envelopes carried no return addresses.

  “Your timing is good, Agent Mulder,” Frohike said. “We’re about to mail out our new issue. We could use some help dispersing them through a couple dozen mailbox drop points.”

  “Do I get a sneak preview of the contents?” he said.

  Langly popped an old reel-to-reel magnetic tape from one of the recorders, labeled the flat metal canister, and installed a new backup system. “This one’s a special issue of TLG. Our ‘All Elvis’ number.”

  “Elvis?” Mulder said in surprise. “I thought you guys were above all that.”

  “No conspiracy is beneath us,” Byers said proudly.

  “I can see that,” Mulder answered.

  Langly took off his glasses and rubbed them on the tail of his T-shirt, which advertised a concert tour by the Soup Dragons. He blinked small eyes at Mulder, then put the black-rimmed glasses back on. “You won’t believe what we’ve uncovered, Mulder. You’ll have a whole new take on it after reading our historical retrospective. I did most of the research and writing myself on this one.

  “We think that Elvis is being positioned as a messiah figure—by powerful persons unknown to us. You can find similar instances all through history. The lost king who reappears after his supposed death to lead his people again. Could be a strong basis for forming an insidious new religion.”

  “You mean like legends of King Arthur promising to come back from Avalon?” Mulder said. “Or Frederick Barbarossa sleeping in a mountain cave until his beard grows all the way around the table, at which point he’ll return to save the Holy Roman Empire?”

  Langly frowned. “Those two are misfires, because the messiahs in question never did come back, as promised. However, take Russia, for instance—Tsar Alexander II defeated Napoleon and supposedly died…but for years the peasants told of seeing a wandering beggar or a monk who claimed to be the real Tsar. It was quite a popular legend. And of course there are the Biblical accounts of Jesus Christ dying and coming back to continue leading his disciples.

  “We don’t need to remind you how many supposed Elvis sightings occur daily. We believe they have been staged, to provide the foundation for a fanatical new cult.”

  “Everybody wants an encore,” Mulder said. He reached for one of the manila envelopes and slid out the issue to study the photo of Elvis on the front cover. He scanned the first article. “So what
you’re telling me is that somebody is trying to establish the birth of Elvis was in reality the Second Coming.”

  “You know how gullible people are, Mulder,” Frohike said. “Think about it. Some of Elvis’s songs have a very New Testament feel to them. ‘Love Me Tender,’ for instance. Or ‘Don’t Be Cruel.’ Could almost be part of the Sermon on the Mount.”

  Byers leaned forward. “And if you think about placing it in a modern context, any hit single reaches far more people than the Sermon on the Mount ever did.”

  “Ah,” Mulder said, “so what was Elvis really trying to say with ‘Jailhouse Rock’ or ‘Hound Dog?’”

  “Those took a little more work,” Langly said. “Our interpretations will be in the next issue. You’ll be surprised.”

  “I already am.”

  Byers shrugged and shifted in his chair. “We don’t make judgment calls, Agent Mulder, we just report the facts. It’s up to our readers to draw their own conclusions.”

  “About you guys, or about the conspiracies you report?”

  Frohike pointed a large camera and clicked a picture of Mulder. “For our files,” he said.

  Mulder held up the newly printed issue. “Can I keep this copy?”

  “Yours should be in the mail,” Frohike said.

  “Why not go ahead and buy an official subscription, Mulder?” Langly suggested. “Put some of your FBI salary to good use.”

  Byers smiled. “No, for someone of Mulder’s stature, we should make sure he gets a comp copy of each issue. Besides, I’d be uncomfortable having his name and address on our mailing list.”

  “What, you’re afraid you couldn’t sell the list of addresses to Publishers Clearing House then?”

  “Our readers are a certain type of person, Mulder,” Byers said. “The type who might not want their names included among others who are also interested in the conspiracies we expose. We take great efforts to ensure that our mailing list can’t fall into the wrong hands. Each of the three of us keeps a third of the names in separate electronic files with separate passwords on separate computer systems. We can’t access each other’s records. We just bring in the mailing labels, already printed.”