Ruins Page 5

  “What is it?” Salida said, touching its side and withdrawing his fingers quickly, as if burned. “It’s cold! Even in this heat it’s cold.”

  “This object is a great mystery, Excellency,” Aguilar said. “I have never seen such an artifact before, even with all my archaeological expertise.” In fact, Aguilar had very little archaeological expertise…though it was true enough that he had never encountered such an item before. Xitaclan was home to many unusual things.

  The drug lord leaned toward the strange object, his mouth partly open. “Where did it come from?” He was entranced—and Aguilar knew the deal was assured. A high-priced deal.

  “This artifact came from a secret new dig called Xitaclan, a pristine site. We are in the process of removing many of the most valuable pieces now. Before long, though, I am certain a new archaeological team will arrive to remove more of the objects.”

  Carlos Barreio’s face became stormy. “They want to steal them from Quintana Roo,” he said, “and take them from the land where they belong.” Aguilar hoped the police chief wouldn’t get distracted and plunge into one of his interminable political lectures.

  “Yes, but we will ‘preserve’ what we can before that happens, eh?” Aguilar said, smiling. “And you, of course, are one of our foremost citizens, Excellency Salida.”

  Fernando Victorio Aguilar had grown up on the streets of Mérida. His mother was a prostitute. While he was still young, she had taught him how to steal so they could live in relative comfort. But he had quickly learned that stealing was stealing, whether he stole a piece of fruit from the market or a Mercedes-Benz car. His philosophy, he had said with a laugh one night while sharing a bottle of mescal, was that if you are going to steal a mango, you may as well steal a diamond watch from a tourist and use the money to buy yourself a lifetime supply of mangoes. Stealing was stealing. Why not take the best?

  Despite his upbringing, though, Aguilar had always felt uncomfortable about the thievery. He allowed himself a touch of guilt after seeing the anger, grief, and fear on the faces of the tourists he mugged and the shopkeepers from whom he stole.

  But Aguilar had discovered to his delight that stealing expensive artifacts was a completely different prospect. That was stealing from people who didn’t care, people who were long dead. He could make more money at it, and it wasn’t as risky as robbing a tourist in Cancún.

  Unless, of course, a meddling American archaeology team happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time…

  When Xavier Salida offered to buy the relic, his opening price was already far more than Aguilar had hoped to get. Carlos Barreio could barely restrain himself, but Aguilar still managed to increase the offer by another fifteen percent.

  When the guard led them back out to the parked police cruiser, everyone was happy. The drug lord had brightened visibly after acquiring his new objet d’art, while Aguilar and Barreio were more than satisfied with the agreed-upon price.

  The police chief drove his cruiser back out through the wrought-iron gate and down the long gravel drive. When they reached the dirt road at the bottom of the hill, Aguilar ordered Barreio to stop the car. He turned to talk to his young helper in the back seat.

  “You’ll get out here, Pepe. I want you to return to Xitaclan right away. You saw how much money we earned for this one artifact. There must be more. I trust no one but you. See what you can find at the ruins—and hurry.”

  Pepe climbed uneasily out of the rear passenger door. He reached under the seat to retrieve an old machete he frequently carried with him. “But…you want me to walk there?”

  Aguilar scowled. “You can get there in a day. Two days if you’re slow. Hitch a ride for part of the way, but hurry! Or are you afraid? There’s a big bonus in it for you.”

  Pepe swallowed, then shook his head. “I will do as you ask, Señor Aguilar.”

  “You know where to find me,” Aguilar said. He reached into his case and drew out a stack of pesos. “Here, this is for your family,” he said. “There will be much more, but you shouldn’t carry it all alone. Tell your lovely mother and your sisters hello for me. Perhaps I’ll come and visit them again sometime soon.”

  Pepe stammered his own promises, then fled into the jungle beside the road. Aguilar tugged his floppy-brimmed ocelot hat hard against his head again, then loosened his ponytail, letting his dark hair fall free. He lounged back in the police car’s seat, immensely pleased with himself. He might even reward himself with another shave.

  “Off to Cancún,” Aguilar said. “Let’s spend some of our money, eh?”

  Carlos Barreio wore a hard, satisfied grin on his face. “Spend your own share,” he said.

  “I intend to,” Aguilar answered, and they drove off down the narrow dirt road through the thick trees.

  5

  Museum of Natural History,

  Washington, D.C.

  Wednesday, 10:49 A.M.

  The stone jaguar stared at the spectators with eyes that were disks of polished green jade. Fangs of sharp flint were embedded in its open mouth; the scarlet paint on its stylized body of sinuous curves had weathered and faded over the centuries. A placard identified the statue as a relic from the tomb of a Maya high king in the city of Uxmal.

  “Reminds me of a cat my neighbors used to have,” Mulder said.

  A crowd of third grade schoolchildren led by a harried-looking teacher bustled through the Pre-Colombian Treasures exhibit room, yelling and playing tag despite the teacher’s strenuous efforts to keep them quiet and respectful.

  Mannequins dressed in bright feathered headdresses and ritual loincloths stood in front of colorful backdrop paintings that showed squarish ziggurats and the encroaching jungle. In another mural, Spanish Conquistadors arriving from the eastern sea looked like spacemen in their gleaming silvery armor.

  Speakers mounted within the dioramas pounded out tinny recorded drumbeats, flute calls, and Indian chanting, as well as the sounds of jungle birds and insects. Tinted lights simulated Central American sunsets.

  In the middle of the exhibit hall a carved limestone stela—or at least the plaster reproduction of one—towered nearly to the ceiling rafters. Bright spotlights shone down on the high-relief glyphs and exotic carvings that depicted the Maya calendar and astronomical markings.

  Scully bent over to scrutinize a strange stone sculpture within a rectangular Plexiglas case: a squatting scarecrowish figurine with a long chin and hooked nose, wearing what appeared to be a charcoal brazier on his head. Scully glanced at her watch, then at her partner, and raised her eyebrows.

  “Archaeologists deal with centuries at a time,” Mulder said. “You can’t expect a guy like this to even notice if he’s five minutes late for a meeting.”

  As if on cue, a thin weathered man appeared behind them, peering over Scully’s shoulder to look at the sculpture of the hooked-nose man. “Uh, that’s Xiuhtecuhtli, the Maya fire god. He is one of the oldest deities in the New World.”

  The man’s wide, strikingly blue eyes carried an owlish expression of unintentional surprise, as if he was on the verge of knowing what to say but hadn’t yet figured out how to articulate it. A pair of reading glasses dangled from a chain around his neck. He continued his lecture.

  “This fellow was the lord of passing time. Ceremonies in his name were particularly important at the peak of a fifty-two-year cycle. On that night the Maya would put out their fires in the entire city, making it dark and cold. Then the high priest would kindle a brand-new blaze.” The old man’s eyebrows went up, and his thin lips curled in a devilish smile. “That special fire was kindled on a prisoner’s breast. The victim was tied to an altar, and the fire blazed, consuming his still-beating heart. The Maya believed that the ceremony kept time moving forward.”

  “Of course,” Scully said.

  The man extended his hand. “You must be the FBI agents. Uh, I’m Vladimir Rubicon. Sorry I’m late.”

  Mulder shook the proffered hand, finding the old archaeologist’s grip s
trong and firm, as if from a lifetime of moving heavy stone blocks. “I’m Special Agent Fox Mulder. This is my partner, Dana Scully.”

  Scully shook his hand, while Mulder studied Rubicon’s demeanor and the details of his features. The old archaeologist had a narrow chin accentuated by a thin goatee. Unkempt hair hung long about his ears, its whiteness tinged with brownish yellow where blond had not yet turned entirely gray; it looked as if he had spilled coffee in his hair and beard.

  “Uh, I thank you for meeting with me.” He fidgeted nervously, as if he didn’t know how to come to his point. “If there’s anything you can do to help find my daughter Cassandra and bring her back, I would be forever in your debt.”

  “We’ll do our best, Mr. Rubicon,” Scully said.

  He gestured toward the exhibit, looking tired, and sad, and worried. He seemed to be avoiding a conversation he dreaded. “I volunteer at the museum in the afternoons, since my courseload is light this semester. I don’t really have time for it, but it’s an investment in our future to keep new students interested in archaeology. It’s the only way we old diggers can maintain job security.” He forced a laugh, and Mulder got the sense it was a joke he used often.

  “We’ll need to find out more information about your daughter, Dr. Rubicon,” Mulder said. “Can you tell us what exactly she had discovered at this new site? What was she looking for, in particular?”

  “Of course. Uh, let’s see…” Rubicon’s eyes widened again. “Xitaclan is a magnificent city, judging from the photographs Cassandra sent up. The find of the decade for pre-Colombian artifacts. I wish I could have been there.”

  “If it was such an important find, Dr. Rubicon, why was such a small team assigned to it?” Scully asked. “The UC–San Diego expedition doesn’t appear to have been terribly well equipped or funded.”

  Rubicon sighed. “Agent Scully, you overestimate the importance universities place on unlocking the past. Would it surprise you to learn that there are an estimated one thousand sites still unexcavated in the Yucatán, Guatemala, and Honduras? That area of the world was the center of Maya culture where, uh, the greatest cities of the New World were built.

  “Think of the Yucatán as ancient Greece, but barely scratched, abandoned in place. In Greece the land has been exploited for thousands of years. Old-hat stuff. In much of Central America, though, the jungle still reigns supreme. The encroaching rain forest has swallowed up all the old cities like a protective blanket, covering them from the eyes of man.”

  Mulder cleared his throat. “Dr. Rubicon, I understand that the Indians in the area have some strange legends and superstitions about the old abandoned city. I’ve heard talk about Maya curses and supernatural warnings. Do you think it’s possible that your daughter in her excavations has perhaps discovered something…unusual? Something that might have gotten her into trouble? Are you aware of the numerous reports of missing persons in that area of the Yucatán?”

  Scully sighed and kept her comments to herself, but Mulder looked at the old archaeologist with intense interest.

  Vladimir Rubicon swallowed, but raised his chin, as if searching for strength. “I am fully aware of the numerous disappearances—and it terrifies me that my Cassandra has fallen prey to some awful fate. I have seen many strange things in this world, Agent Mulder, but, uh, I’m more inclined to believe Cassandra ran afoul of black market artifact smugglers. There’s quite a brisk trade in selling off antiquities to private owners. Since my daughter and her team were uncovering an unexploited archaeological site, I think it would have drawn the black marketeers like parasites.”

  He scratched his goatee and looked at Mulder with a concerned expression. “I’m more afraid of men with guns than I am of any myth.”

  Near the Conquistador mural, one of the children on the field trip pushed open a side door marked “Emergency Exit Only,” setting off the fire alarm. The teacher hurriedly dragged the wailing boy away as sirens screeched through the room. The other children scurried like panicked chicks around a mother hen. A security guard came running.

  “Sometimes I think it would be more peaceful for an old archaeologist to be back out in the field again,” Vladimir Rubicon said, toying with the glasses hanging around his neck. He forced a smile, turning first to Scully, then to Mulder. “So, uh, when do we leave? How soon can we expect to be at Xitaclan? I’m anxious to find my daughter.”

  “We?” Scully said.

  Mulder put a hand on her arm. “I’ve already cleared it, Scully. He’s an expert in the geographical area, as well as the field in which Cassandra was working. He knows Maya ruins as well as any guide we could find.”

  “I’ve got money saved. I’ll pay my own way.” Rubicon’s bright blue eyes took on a desperate look. “Can you really feel what I’ve felt since Cassandra’s disappearance…not knowing whether she’s alive or dead, where she might be?”

  Mulder looked at Scully, who was staring back at him. Suddenly it became clear to her how much her partner empathized with the old man and his search for his lost daughter. Years ago, Mulder too had lost someone very close….

  Mulder swallowed. “Yes, Dr. Rubicon,” he said. “You may not believe me, but I can understand exactly what you’re going through.”

  6

  Miami International Airport, Florida

  Thursday, 1:49 P.M.

  Vladimir Rubicon made a fuss, insisting that it would be no trouble, no trouble, as he graciously offered to take the center seat between Mulder and Scully. His form was lanky, but he seemed good at folding it up to fit into tight places. Probably, Mulder thought, because of an early career filled with squeezing through tight openings, sleeping in cramped tents, or huddling under trees in the rain while he worked in the field as an archaeologist.

  As passengers filed onto the airplane, Mulder took the window seat as usual, hoping to catch a glimpse of something interesting outside. He scanned the rows of other passengers on the specially chartered flight and saw shimmering rows of blue-white hair and musty suit jackets that had been out of style for so long they were bound to come back in fashion any day now.

  But instead of being primly nervous elderly people who sat quietly in their seats as if waiting for church services to begin, this group of retirees was as rowdy as kids on a school bus. Each one wore a self-adhesive “Hi! My Name Is:” tag.

  Thinking back on all the cases he and his partner had worked on together, Mulder leaned over to the aisle seat to speak to her. “Scully, I’m not sure we’ve ever encountered a situation as frightening as a senior citizens chartered flight to Cancún.” He buckled his seatbelt, ready for a wild ride.

  After they were airborne, the flight took them away from Florida’s clear and sunny skies, past the Keys, heading southwest across the Caribbean toward a horizon decorated with cloud cover over the Yucatán. Scully sat back and closed her eyes, snatching a moment of quiet relaxation.

  Mulder remembered their very first case, flying out to Oregon to look into the mysterious deaths of high school students who, Mulder was convinced, had been abducted by aliens. During their flight, the plane had lurched and lost altitude. He had remained confident and calm, while Scully gripped the arms of her seat.

  Sandwiched between them, Vladimir Rubicon slid his half-glasses onto his nose and squinted at a notepad. He scribbled names, places, people he remembered from previous expeditions. “It’s been a long time since I’ve worked down in Central America, but Maya work is one of the cornerstones of my career,” he said. “Perhaps some of my old contacts will be able to help us get out to Xitaclan. Uh, it’s not on any map, you know.”

  “Tell me a little bit about your former work, Dr. Rubicon,” Scully said. “Anything I would have heard of? I’m afraid I’m not as familiar with archaeology as I’d like to be.”

  The old archaeologist smiled at her and tugged at his yellow-gray goatee. “Those words are music to an old man’s ears, my dear Agent Scully!

  “My primary research interest lies in the American So
uthwest, particularly the Four Corners area of northern Arizona, New Mexico, southern Utah, and Colorado. The pueblo-building Indians there had a spectacular culture, which still remains quite a mystery.” His half-glasses slid down his nose, and he nudged them back into place.

  “Like the Maya, the Anasazi Indians had a vibrant and thriving civilization along with other cliff dwellers in the Southwest—but they inexplicably dwindled from a thriving, burgeoning culture to become pueblo ghost towns. Other groups around the area had extensive trade—the Sinagua, the Hohokam, the Mogollon—and left behind significant ruins you can see in many national monuments, especially Mesa Verde and Canyon de Chelly.

  “I made my own fame—if you can call it that—unearthing and reconstructing sites in northern Arizona around Wupatki and Sunset Crater. Most of the tourists in that part of the country just head out to the Grand Canyon and ignore all the historical areas…which is good news for us archaeologists, since tourists tend to have sticky fingers, wandering off with fragments and souvenirs.” He cleared his throat.

  “I was personally fascinated by Sunset Crater, a large volcano near Flagstaff. Sunset Crater erupted in the winter of 1064 and virtually wiped out the bustling Anasazi civilization, knocking it to its knees—sort of like Pompeii. Their culture never fully recovered, and when extreme droughts ruined all their crops another century later…well, that was all she wrote for the Anasazi. If memory serves me correctly, I believe the place was finally turned into a national monument because some Hollywood filmmaker wanted to fill the crater with dynamite and blow it up for a movie.”

  Scully folded down her tray table as the flight attendant came by with a cart of beverages.

  “The Native Americans scattered around the Southwest after Sunset Crater erupted nine hundred years ago…but on the positive side, the volcanic ash made the surrounding area much more fertile for the farmers. Until the drought came, at least.”