The Mayan Secrets - Cussler Clive - Страница 28
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He sat up and looked around him. “I think we’re in it.”
She turned, stepped in a little circle, and noticed for the first time the rows and rows of tall, bright green leafy plants that surrounded them and extended in all directions, as far as she could see, under the starlit night.
Sam said, “I think we’re in the middle of the biggest marijuana field in the world.”
Chapter 13
Professor David Caine sat in an archive room in the university library, trying to decipher the Mayan glyphs on the third page of the codex. He had seen nearly all of the glyphs in the first two columns before. They were among the eight hundred sixty-one that had appeared in other codices or as carved inscriptions at Mayan archaeological sites and translated in the context of those inscriptions. He had found two glyphs on the first page that he believed had not been found before. In old languages and writing systems, there were always a few words susceptible to competing interpretations. Even in the surviving texts of Old English, there were a few words appearing only once, and scholars had been arguing about them for centuries.
Caine leaned close to the lighted magnifier on the stand above the painted bark page of the codex. He had photographed all the pages, but when there was doubt about a glyph, it was best to look as closely as possible at the original, examining each brushstroke. The two glyphs could be borrowings from another Mayan language, or possibly be the unique names of historical figures or even two names for one man. They could even be variants of terms he knew but had failed to recognize.
There was a loud rap on the door that startled him and destroyed his concentration. He was tempted to shout “Go away,” but he reminded himself that he was a guest in this building. He stood up, went to the door, and opened it.
In the doorway stood Albert Strohm, the vice chancellor for Academic Affairs, and behind him were several men in suits. Strohm was a dynamic, effective executive — the academic vice chancellor was the one who actually ran the campus, while the chancellor spent most of his time on public relations and fund-raising — but Strohm looked today like a man who had been thoroughly defeated.
Caine said, “Hello, Albert,” as kindly as he could. “Come on in. I was just—”
“Thank you, Professor Caine,” Strohm said, giving Caine a stare that held some message — a warning? Caine was sure it had something to do with the men outside. Strohm said, “Let me introduce these gentlemen. This is Alfredo Montez, the Minister of Culture for the Republic of Mexico; Mr. Juarez, his assistant; Steven Vanderman, Special Agent, FBI; and Milton Welles, U.S. Customs.” As he introduced the agents, they held up their federal identification badges.
“Please come in,” said Caine. He was thinking rapidly. Albert Strohm’s formality had been a warning to him to shut up before he said something incriminating. Then he amended it — or, if not incriminating, then something that might weaken the university’s position in a legal matter. He had heard of Alfredo Montez, so he held out his hand. “Senor Montez, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve read your monographs on the Olmec and used them, particularly the ones on blue jadeite, in my own work.”
“Thank you,” said Montez. He was a tall, erect man, with his dark hair combed straight back. He wore an expensive gray suit and highly shined shoes, which made Caine feel a bit grubby in his old sport coat and khaki pants. He noticed that Montez didn’t smile.
Montez said, “We came straight from Mexico City as soon as the Chiapas officials brought this situation to our attention.” He saw that the codex was open on the table where Caine had been working. “That is the Mayan codex, correct?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Found in a shrine on Volcan Tacana?”
“Yes,” said Caine. “It was hidden in a classic period pot. The finders judged it would be safest to remove what they could from the earthquake zone, and then there were attempts to steal the pot, so they brought it here temporarily. Only when we unsealed the pot did we find the codex. If you have time, I’d love to talk with you about the shrine and the codex itself.”
Minister Montez stepped back and turned toward the FBI and customs agents to answer. “No, I’m afraid I’ll have to defer that conversation. For the moment, I’ve heard enough.”
It was as though the legal authorities had been waiting for Caine to say the wrong thing. The FBI man, the customs man, and the assistant stepped to the table. In an instant, Caine knew. As soon as he had admitted the codex had been found in Mexico, anything else he might say became irrelevant. But he had to try to keep them from confiscating it.
“Wait, gentlemen, please. This codex was found, hidden in a classic period jar, with the body of a caretaker, who must have brought it to the shrine to hide. The shrine had been buried by lava in an eruption, then uncovered by last month’s earthquakes. There was an emergency, a national disaster. The finders were there on a humanitarian mission, not searching for artifacts. They only acted to preserve what they’d found.”
Special Agent Vanderman said, “You must be aware that the law and international agreements required them to report the find to the host government and not take it out of the country.”
“Yes, I’m aware. But these people protected the jar and the codex from thieves in Mexico. This isn’t a theoretical argument. The codex would have been on the black market that very day.”
“We’re here now, and these finders are relieved of the responsibility to protect it further,” said Montez. “And so are you.”
Caine was frantic. “Surely you’re not going to confiscate the codex now. I’ve barely had time to examine it.”
“Have you photographed it?” asked Welles, the customs agent.
“That was one of the first things I did,” said Caine. “It was a precaution, to preserve the information.”
“We’ll need those photographs too,” said Welles. “And all copies. Are they in your briefcase?”
“Well, yes,” Caine said. “But why?”
“They’re evidence in a possible federal prosecution. They prove you were treating the codex as your own and that you were taking your time about reporting it to authorities here or in its country of origin.”
“But that’s absurd,” said Caine. “I’ve always reported everything I’ve found in Mexico or anywhere else. There’s never been this kind of haste in any case I know of. The codex hasn’t been here a month.”
Vanderman, the FBI agent, said, “Do you want to hand everything over voluntarily or should we begin to search for it?”
Caine lifted his briefcase to the table and produced a thick, nine-by-twelve-inch envelope full of photographs. He turned to Vice Chancellor Strohm, who looked sick. “Albert—”
“I’m sorry, Professor Caine. The university’s legal staff says the law is clear. The codex belongs to the country where it was found. We have no choice but to comply with the official request for immediate repatriation.”
Agent Vanderman glanced at the photographs in the envelope, but then took Caine’s briefcase too. He said, “We’ll need your laptop too.” He gestured toward the open computer near the codex.
“Why?” asked Caine. “You can’t say that belongs to the Mexican government.”
Vanderman spoke quietly. “It will be returned to you as soon as our technicians have looked through the hard drive.” He stared at Caine for a moment, his eyes taking on the flat, emotionless expression that cops use on suspects. “Just some friendly advice. If there’s anything on the drive about selling, hiding, or transporting the Mayan codex, then you’ll need to hire a good lawyer. I’m sure Vice Chancellor Strohm will tell you that the university’s attorneys can’t defend you in a criminal trial.”
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