‘Well, that will be up to the Pentagon, and perhaps the White House, sir.’
‘Neither of whom would know shit from clay. Get on to their press secretaries and tell them it’s only a suggestion, but remind them who’s making it. In the meantime I want a team of divers up at Lake Atitlan,’ Wiley said, handing Davis a hard copy of Felici’s report. ‘Hernandez was a qualified high-altitude diver, and I’ve got a hunch he didn’t buy all that gear to go fishing. Any word on Tutankhamen or Nefertiti?’
Davis shook his head. ‘The asset’s got the ship in sight, but no one’s disembarked.’
‘For fuck’s sake! Get Rodriguez on the secure video. I want some answers.’
51
O ’Connor surveyed the busy bus terminal at Escuintla, a rural city of 70 000 people on the border of the Guatemalan highlands and the Pacific Plain. He followed Aleta aboard a chicken bus even more brightly coloured and crowded than the one from Puerta de Hierro. A half-hour later, the bus clawed its way up the narrow winding road that led into the mountains towards Panajachel. O’Connor shook his head as the driver pulled out to overtake another bus belching black smoke, the roof festooned with pots, pans, bicycles, and wicker baskets. Together they approached a blind corner and still the driver persisted, drawing level with the other bus. Suddenly a mini-van appeared around the corner. The bus driver leant on the air horns and the mini-van swerved into the foliage overhanging the road, missing the side of the bus by centimetres. A group of young boys on the bench seat at the back of the bus cheered.
‘Do you have to apply for a licence in this country, or does it come on the back of the cereal packets?’
Aleta smiled. ‘You get used to it. There are T-shirts in Panajachel with ‘I Survived’ on the front and a photo of a chicken bus on the back. I’ll get you one.’
‘We’ve got to get there first,’ O’Connor replied, leaning towards Aleta as a man with a piglet under one arm made his way past them to the front of the bus.
It was midafternoon by the time they arrived at the Panajachel terminal. Aleta and O’Connor shouldered their backpacks and made their way down the cobblestoned main street. Bright-red tuc tucs buzzed up and down, looking for fares. Woven mats and rugs juxtaposed with brightly coloured dresses and pants hung from poles beneath the corrugated-iron awnings above the stores. Power cables and phone lines were festooned around poles in spaghetti-like bundles strung above the street. Wonderful aromas of spices and freshly ground coffee beans filled the air. O’Connor maintained a constant watch on the crowd as they walked down Avenida Santander towards the shore of Lake Atitlan, past vendors sitting underneath their yellow and red umbrellas, with their offerings of mangoes and candied nuts. Aleta smiled at a little boy with big brown eyes. The boy hung on to his mother’s skirt and shyly returned the smile as his mother hoisted a huge basket of bananas onto her head.
They reached a paved-stone path that led down to the jetties, and as they rounded a large tree Lake Atitlan came into view. Across the lake to the south stood Volcan Toliman with Volcan Atitlan behind it, each soaring over 10 000 feet. Clouds streamed off both peaks, giving the impression they might erupt at any moment. Further to the west, the third of Lake Atitlan’s volcanoes, Volcan San Pedro, towered over the little town that had given the powerful mountain its name.
‘?Cuanto a San Marcos?’ O’Connor asked the old boatman.
‘ Ochenta quetzales… for you. For the beautiful lady, sesenta quetzales.’
O’Connor grinned. ‘?Como se llama usted?’
‘Fidel,’ the old mariner replied.
‘Okay, Fidel, let’s go.’ O’Connor stowed the backpacks containing the priceless cargo under the cabin awning and steadied the gunwale for Aleta. The boatman went astern, spun the ten-seater runabout on a quetzale and headed out between two rickety wooden piles.
The high-pitched hum of the Evinrude, and the occasional thwack thwack of the bow hitting the water interrupted the silent splendour of the great lake.
‘Penny, or I should say quetzale, for your thoughts? Does this bring back painful memories?’ O’Connor asked gently.
‘I try to concentrate on the good times. It will be enough if we can find the third figurine and get to Tikal before the winter solstice. My father would have done the same.’
‘Which gives us less than three days… ’
Forty minutes later, they rounded the last little promontory and the boatman eased the throttle.
‘That’s Jose on the jetty!’ Aleta said, pointing excitedly.
‘The shaman? How did he know we were coming?’ O’Connor was instantly alert.
‘Maybe it’s just coincidence?’
Arana waved and Fidel threw him the mooring rope.
‘ Muchas gracias.’ O’Connor thanked the old mariner and slipped him 200 quetzales. Fidel fumbled in his pocket for change.
O’Connor shook his head. ‘ No, para usted. For you.’
‘ Gracias, gracias! ’
‘Mi placer.’
‘Bienvenido a San Marcos!’ Jose kissed Aleta on both cheeks. ‘And you must be Curtis. Welcome.’ Jose adopted a Western gesture and shook O’Connor firmly by the hand. He turned to Fidel, and told him to wait.
‘Come, your rooms are waiting for you.’
‘Separate… what a pity,’ O’Connor said softly. Aleta dug him in the ribs.
Not very far across the lake in the larger town of San Pedro, two ex-navy SEALs, skilled in high-altitude diving and now employed by the CIA as mercenaries, checked into the Mikaso Hotel on the shores of Lake Atitlan.
Arana’s wife, Sayra, set dinner outside in the garden. The house was perched on a rise, a short distance from the lake’s shore. Sayra had prepared a topado: a rich stew of lake crabs and fish, coriander, tomatoes, coconut milk and plantains, a cousin of the banana. After dinner, Sayra retired, leaving Arana alone with O’Connor and Aleta.
‘It’s now the eighteenth of December, Jose. The solstice is less than three days away.’
Arana smiled enigmatically. ‘You have come to the right place, Aleta. As I said to you in Vienna, this is a sacred mission of profound importance. But I must remind you again that the figurine and the codex are fiercely protected, the former by Mother Nature herself, the latter by the ingenuity of my forefathers. More than one fortune seeker has paid the ultimate price. The ancients ensured that the codex would only be found by someone possessing the inner spiritual balance to understand it correctly. That person may be you, Aleta, but we will only know that if you are ultimately successful.’ Arana turned to O’Connor. ‘The Vatican now has a man in San Pedro, the Mayanist scholar, Monsignor Jennings. He’s been appointed to the Catholic church there, and he’s taken over the presbytery that used to be occupied by Father Hernandez.’
‘Aleta and I were speculating that Father Hernandez might actually be Karl von Hei?en, the German SS officer who escaped through the ratlines set up by the Vatican and the CIA at the end of World War Two.’
‘And you would be correct. Von Hei?en was aided by il Signor Felici, a gentleman to His Holiness Pope Pius XII, and father of Cardinal Salvatore Felici. Unfortunately for Cardinal Felici, von Hei?en kept very detailed diaries.’
‘ Aha. It’s all falling into place,’ O’Connor thought out loud. ‘If Cardinal Felici’s past, in this case his father’s involvement with Nazi criminals, ever surfaced, Felici’s career and his chances of becoming the next pontiff would be finished.’
‘Although that’s not the only reason the Vatican is very worried about this part of the world. The Maya Codex threatens the uniqueness of the message of Christ,’ Aleta said.
‘Upon which the Vatican depends for its very existence. I should have a look at Monsignor Jennings’ living arrangements. Is there any way I can get across to San Pedro at this time of night?’ O’Connor asked.
‘Fidel is waiting for you at the jetty. Monsignor Jennings usually drinks at the Buddha Bar. It’s on the shore of San Pedro not far from the main tourist area.’