“Mayan cyanide store?” Veyron asked.
“Yes, Mayan. I do realize that cyanide wasn’t utilized in mining until the 17th century in Europe, but there has been evidence over the years that both the Mayans and the Aztecs discovered the benefit cyanide served in separating raw mining materials such as gold and silver, centuries earlier. My guess is that a recent drilling or explosions from the nearby silver mine most likely damaged the old store, sending its lethal poison into the Gulf.”
“I want you, Veyron, to head up a team of engineers to work out the solution to remove any additional poison from the cracked wall. Then work out a way to fill the entire area with concrete, so that if we miss anything, it will be another thousand years before the stuff escapes again.”
“Got it,” Veyron acknowledged.
“Tom, once someone checks you out and makes certain you’re fit to dive again, I want you to head up a team to search the pyramid and what appeared to be the King’s Tomb.”
“You don’t want to run it?” Tom asked, his surprise clearly evident in his face.
“I do, but my first mission must be to resolve this marine catastrophe.” Sam grinned. “I have a number of personal reasons why I’m intent on exploring the pyramid’s hidden secrets, but it can’t be my priority. I’m going to need to make some calls, and manage the overall project from topside. Don’t forget, we have less than a month until we’re in the midst of hurricane season. It might sound straightforward, but don’t forget we’re working in up to 400 feet of water, inside a narrow tunnel. We have no way of knowing how stable the pyramid’s walls are, or what’s on the other side of that cracked wall.”
Veyron raised his left hand, only slightly, as though he had something to say.
“Yes, Veyron?”
“Why don’t we just back fill the entire pyramid with concrete? It would be less risky, and I’m sure whoever’s buried down there wouldn’t mind being just that little bit more… how do I say? Snug?”
“We may have to if our first option becomes too difficult or unsafe, but I believe this site holds far too many secrets and insights into the Mayan culture to be forever buried in thousands of tons of concrete. During the Spanish conquest, the Catholic Church and colonial officials, guided by Bishop Diego de Landa, destroyed Maya texts wherever they found them, and with them the knowledge of Maya writing. The writings on these walls may hold a wealth of information about pre-Spanish Mayan culture, which I would hate to see buried for eternity.”
“Okay, I’ll do my best to preserve it,” Veyron acknowledged.
Returning to the cyanide problem, Sam continued, “For all we know, the mine has been stockpiling the waste product from their silver mine in an underground tunnel, with no idea that one day it would break into a pyramid. Make no mistake ladies and gentlemen, this is a serious undertaking, with deadly consequences for the world’s marine life.”
Veyron said, “Regardless of who owned the cyanide once upon a time, I believe it is safe to say that the silver mine is somehow responsible for the damage that caused the leak. And if they have been dumping cyanide for years, we better know now rather than later, before we drill into something that we shouldn’t.”
“Good thinking,” Sam said. “If I know big mining, they’re going to drag this thing on through every loophole possible until the EPA forces their hand. It’s going to be nasty, but I’ll make the call. TRY and get hold of the owner, Michael Rodriguez, first, and see if we can get around some of the red tape.”
Tom grinned mischievously, “I don’t think that will be necessary.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I think that’s his helicopter approaching now.”
Chapter Four
Michael Rodriguez flew into Mexico that morning on his private jet. It was hot, but unlike Spain, which enjoyed the cool breeze off the Adriatic Sea at the entrance to the Med, Mexico always seemed dry. It was one of his least favorite mines, but there was no avoiding it today.
Nothing ever happened without his knowledge — on any one of his 43 prized mineral mines. He was an owner who maintained a very active control of the day to day workings of each of his mines, and prided himself on his ability to ensure their efficiency and the loyalty of his employees.
Rodriguez Mining Inc. was started by his grandfather in 1928. Originally, a single gold mine in South Africa, which he’d bought after luck granted him a relative fortune with the discovery of the Royal Clipper, an 80-ounce gold nugget. As the world turned to ruin and the great depression struck solid in 1930, he bought up a number of mines at prices below the value of their inventory. It was a gamble that paid huge dividends in the lead up to the Second World War in 1939, when Germany began stockpiling gold and iron ore.
By the time Michael’s father took over in 1962, the company was already rich. But by embracing the newer drilling technology, he drove the company to be one of the most profitable mining conglomerates in the world, with mines on every continent.
History teaches us that the first generation of entrepreneurs make the money, the second improve on that money, and the third — loses it all. If, somehow, the third generation manages to keep the wealth inside the family from becoming lost in gluttony, greed and temptation, then the family often goes on to being generational old money, such as the Rothschilds, the Waltons, or the Arnaults of the world. The families entire nations borrowed money from.
It was his plan, among others, to place the name of Rodriguez beside those names of the uppermost echelon of rich.
He had flown in immediately when he heard that the Maria Helena was snooping near his mine. He had a fair idea what they were after. It had been all over the world news that the Dead Zone had increased since last year by a factor of nearly 100.
Michael couldn’t have cared less about the environmental losses, but where unexplained environmental accidents occur, local mines often got the blame. No, he would have to show a presence at the investigation if he wanted to keep Rodriguez Mining Inc. above board. It was a small price to pay for what he wanted in the long run.
His private jet had just stopped rolling on the tarmac at Mexico’s Ciudad Del Carmen International Airport, when he stepped off it and boarded a company helicopter. The best way, he decided, to keep things in his favor, was to meet the crew of the Maria Helena in person.
Immediately, before they sought him.
Within twenty minutes, the company helicopter landed on the rear deck, next to another helicopter on board the Maria Helena. While the rotors slowed, Michael, not prone to waiting for anything, stepped out and walked towards the crew behind the decking — where the man who held the outcome of all his dreams, stood waiting for him.
Sam watched the stranger approach.
He was maybe ten years Sam’s senior, but bounded out the helicopter like a much younger man, paying no attention to the spinning rotary blades above his head. It was a sign he was confident around helicopters, or lived in such a world that he believed himself above the possibility of harm. His height was average, and although approaching his mid-forties, Sam guessed, his athletic stride and upright posture displayed the remnants of someone who had once been a boxer. And none of the usual signs of someone who’d inherited nearly 25 billion dollars, such as a team of bodyguards, or flab from a lifetime of inactivity and excess.
“Good morning. Which one of you is Sam Reilly?” he asked, holding out his hand. The man wore a confident smile, and spoke like a man who was used to being listened to. Despite his Spanish origins, he spoke perfect English. His voice betrayed a very slight trace of a Boston accent — the latter being most likely the result of his Harvard education.