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The pilot, a spry man whose dark brown goatee was sprinkled with silver, hoisted himself in and pulled the door closed. “Welcome aboard,” he said, offering a grin. “Buckle up for takeoff.”
They were pushed back in their seats as the plane accelerated, bouncing across the small waves until it lifted into the sky for the four-hour trip to Cancún, where their G650 awaited.
Once back in Mexico City, Sam and Remi set out to study the images they’d taken at such risk and found themselves viewing a collage of artifacts and four photographs of the manuscript. They’d already discarded the letters from the sailors, which were of historical significance but not much else, and focused instead on the jumble of apparently random letters in the mystery document.
The first thing they did was to send it all to Selma and the team for analysis, although it was with mixed feelings. Selma might have full faith in her niece’s abilities, but Remi wasn’t so sure. It had been a heated topic of discussion and one that had led them to disturbing conclusions.
“She and the team were the only people who knew we were in Cuba, Sam. That’s fact. And we know Selma, Pete, and Wendy are trustworthy.”
“No, so did Lagarde. We have no idea who else he might have told.”
“It’s possible, I suppose, but I have misgivings about Kendra. I have since the very beginning . . .”
“Which might be coloring your perception,” Sam observed. “We can’t just assume she’s feeding someone information about us.”
“I’m not assuming anything. I’m just saying there’s no other way whoever was tracking us could have known where we were staying or about our interest in Morro Castle.”
“Except Lagarde. And everyone he talked to. Come on, Remi, which is more likely? That Kendra’s working for the dark side or that someone in Cuba has a big mouth?”
They had to agree to disagree, but it was with hesitation that Remi sent off the shots of the manuscript, along with the images of the icons, with instructions to subject the manuscript to a comparison of all known sixteenth-century codes.
The photos of the artifacts were of little help. They appeared to be pictographs shipped to Cuba, presumably for either safekeeping or forwarding to Spain—which in this case obviously had never happened. The images depicted a procession of warriors and priests, various examples of the deity Quetzalcoatl—a fairly common icon in both Toltec and Aztec symbolism—and finally several tableaus of a pyramid belching smoke into the sky.
There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to why the artifacts had been taken from the mainland nor any indication of what was sensitive or valuable enough about them to warrant the effort. There were similar pictographs covering virtually every Mesoamerican city in Mexico, Belize, and Guatemala.
The first day back, there were no answers, and they decided to pack it in early, still exhausted after their escape from Havana.
“I suppose it’s a pretty safe bet that we’ll never get invited to look for sunken galleons around Havana Harbor,” Sam said as they walked to their waiting taxi outside the Institute.
“It wasn’t like we were on anyone’s short list for that.”
“How about we order room service and get a good night’s sleep? Does that sound reasoned and logical?” Sam asked.
“You make a compelling argument. But first I have a date with a long, hot bath.”
“Whatever the lady wants, the lady gets. That’s my new motto.”
Remi gave him a skeptical look as he held the taxi door open for her. “What did you make of the pictures?”
“Nice composition, decent lighting . . .”
She nudged him as he got in next to her. “You know what I mean.”
“Ah, if you’re referring to my hopes that they would lead us to our elusive friend’s final resting place, I’m afraid they aren’t really the equivalent of an X on a map, are they?”
“That’s what I thought. They don’t really make a lot of sense to me. Seems like just more of the same,” Remi griped.
“Maybe we should get Maribela and Antonio involved tomorrow. They’re really the experts. At least they can narrow down whether they’re Toltec or Aztec. That would tell us if they’re even relevant.”
“I’m reluctant, but it doesn’t seem like we’re seeing whatever the pattern is.”
“No. But that could also be because we just came off twenty-four hours of breaking and entering, being chased and shot at, traversing the ocean in a speedboat, flying across the Gulf in a prop plane, and jetting to Mexico City.”
“Don’t forget sliding down an old toilet chute,” she reminded. “I won’t anytime soon . . .”
“If you think of it as a water ride, it’s more palatable.”
Remi crinkled her nose. “Yuck! Just yuck.”