"What if Gordons isn't dead?" Remo wanted to know.
"I think he is this time," Smith replied. "And if not, he will be well taken care of by the museum staff. Perhaps Gordons might grow to enjoy being a museum piece. No one will threaten his survival ever again."
"We're taking an awful chance," Remo warned.
"Our job is done. Return on the next flight."
"How about a 'Well done'?" Remo suggested.
The line went dead.
Remo stared at the receiver in his hand.
"How do you like that Smith?" he complained to the Master of Sinanju. "Not even a thank-you."
"Assassins are never appreciated in any age," Chiun said absently. He was paging through an oversize book entitled The Aztecs.
Remo put down the phone, smiling.
"Yearning for the glory days, Little Father?" he asked.
"It is a shame," said the Master of Sinanju. "These Aztecs were the Egyptians of their time. They had worthy kings, princes, and even slaves. Perhaps they may rise again."
"Count me out if they do," Remo said.
"We would have served true emperors, not temporary presidents and disposable presidents of vice," Chiun lamented. "We would have fitted in perfectly." "Only if we wore oxygen masks," said Remo. And when he laughed, his lungs hurt.
Chapter 28
Standing before the expectant crowd, which included the President of Mexico and other dignitaries, Mexican Museum of Anthropology curator Rodrigo Lujan waited nervously as the last guest speaker finished introducing him. Behind him, perched on her basalt dais and bathed in multicolored spotlights, towered the massive tarpaulin-draped figure of Coatlicue.
It had taken a week of hard work by museum specialists to put the sundered pieces of Coatlicue together. They fitted remarkably well. The museum specialists had carefully restored her, using a special concrete paste to repair the bullet holes and knit the sections together. Steel bolts had been necessary to hold the bicephalic head together, but when Coatlicue was carefully raised to her clawed feet, she was whole.
A creditable job of restoration, but the hairline cracks were as if Coatlicue had been scored by stonecutting machetes. It was sad. She would never again be the same.
The speaker finished. Rodrigo bowed at the mention of his name. With a sad heart, he pulled the tarpaulin free of the idol, revealing the brutal elemental beauty of the restored Coatlicue. A gasp of astonishment came from the, assembled audience. Cries of "Bravo!" resounded. Rodrigo looked behind him. He gasped too.
For not a crack was visible on Coatlicue's ornate skin. Even the filled-in bullet holes were invisible. It was miraculous, as if the spirit of Coatlicue herself had taken hold of the stone, healing it until the idol was once again whole.
Rodrigo Lujan bowed in acknowledgment of the applause that washed over him like thunder. But in his heart he gave silent thanks to Mother Coatlicue, whose ophidian eyes he felt on him.
For he was, above all things, Zapotec.