In the morning, they drove to El Centro, the central part of the city, to shop. They found a number of small stores that had been designed, built, and stocked with American tourists in mind. They bought a number of souvenirs, all of them cheap replicas of Mayan artifacts — pots, bowls, wall hangings, mats, and fabrics that more or less reproduced Mayan art and writing. Everything bore images of Mayan kings, priests, and gods, but crudely and garishly painted. At a hobby shop, they bought a water-soluble acrylic paint set that included silver and gold paint and brushes.
At the hotel, Sam went to work on the genuine Mayan pot from the shrine. He painted designs and altered pictures to make the painting on the pot look as cheap and crude as the souvenirs he and Remi had bought. He used sparkly gold paint to cover the pieces of jewelry the Mayan king wore. Parts of his shield and war club Sam highlighted with silver.
When the paint was dry, Sam and Remi asked the concierge at the hotel where they could find a mailing company that would ship their souvenirs home. He replied that the hotel would do this for them. Sam and Remi watched him pad a large packing box, load the pot into it, fill all the spaces around it with the mats, wall hangings, and fabrics, then fill the box the rest of the way with Styrofoam peanuts and seal it up. With the concierge’s help, Sam and Remi filled out the customs declaration, saying the contents were “souvenirs from Mexico,” and declared the price they’d paid to be under a hundred dollars.
They paid the cost of shipping the souvenirs to their house in La Jolla, gave the concierge a large tip, and went off to the beach to do some snorkeling in the shallows after their hot morning in the city.
That night, Sam and Remi called Selma from their room.
“Hi, you two,” Selma said. “What is it this time, a flood?”
“Not yet,” said Sam. “We just wanted you to know that we’ve sent some souvenirs from Yucatan to the house in La Jolla.”
“I’ll watch for them. Is this one big box?”
“Yes,” said Remi. “There’s some pottery, which we really don’t want broken.”
There was a very slight pause, during which they could tell that Selma had understood what the package was. “Don’t give it another thought. Are you on your way home?”
“As soon as we can get a flight,” Sam said.
“Have you given any thought to where you plan to sleep when you get to San Diego? The fourth floor of the house is still a process, not a product.”
“Until yesterday, we’ve been sleeping on the side of an active volcano,” Remi said. “We’ll manage.”
“You could stay at the Valencia Hotel. I can reserve a suite or even a villa. Then each day you can walk home across the lawn or down to the beach.”
“Sounds good,” said Remi. “If we rent a villa, will they let Zoltan stay with us?”
“I’ll see if they can arrange it. I can even bring him there to show them what an exemplary animal he is,” Selma said.
“Maybe that’s not such a good idea,” Sam said. “A hundred-twenty-pound dog who sits when you say sit is still a little scary.”
“I’ll sing his praises, then, and offer to put up a damage deposit.”
“Make sure it’s enough to cover any kindergartners he might eat.”
“Sam!” said Remi.
“We’ll call before we get on the plane.”
Sam used Remi’s computer to buy plane tickets home. Then he researched the names of American archaeology professors specializing in the Mayans. It was a pleasant surprise that one of the most distinguished seemed to be Professor David Caine at the University of California at San Diego. Sam e-mailed Dr. Caine and said that he and Remi had made an unusual find at Volcan Tacana, and attached the Mexican news article about it. He asked Caine if he would meet with them when they returned home. He asked Remi to read the e-mail before he sent it.
She did, and said, “My advice is, click send.”
“You don’t think we ought to include something about ourselves? Maybe list the places we’ve excavated in other countries and so on?”
“Nobody needs to do that anymore. When he reads this, he’ll be sitting in front of a computer. He can Google us and get much more than he wants to know.”
“I suppose.”
Within an hour, Professor Caine answered. He said he would be happy to meet with them and was eager to learn more about their latest find. Remi pointed at the screen. “See that? Our ‘latest find.’ He Googled us first thing.”
That afternoon, Sam and Remi checked out of the hotel and hired a taxi for the ride to the airport south of the city. The driver put their two backpacks into the trunk. As she was about to get into the cab, Remi hesitated for a second.
“What?” Sam said. “Something wrong?”
She shook her head. “Just a guy waiting outside the main entrance. When we came out, he ran.”
“Where to?”
“I don’t know. Down the street, I guess.”
“Could he be a parking attendant going to retrieve somebody else’s car?”
“Sure. That’s probably it,” she said. “I guess I’m a little jumpy today. Some of the experiences we’ve had lately…”
They got into the backseat, and the driver said in English, “Which airline?”
“Aeromexico.”
The cab dove off down the long driveway toward the federal highway. The airport was about ten miles away and the traffic was moving steadily, so they made good time. They looked out at the Gulf of Mexico and enjoyed the ride.
Just as they could see the airport ahead to their right, a black car came speeding up behind them. It pulled up beside them, and a stern-faced man in a dark suit gestured to them to pull over.
Their driver muttered,
The second man stood behind their cab and to the right, with his hand on the gun in the holster at his belt. Remi whispered, “The guy back there is the one I saw running before.”
The man beside the driver said,
“What are you looking for?” asked Sam.
The man beside the driver glanced at him but said nothing. Sam opened the door an inch to step out, but the man threw his hip against it and slammed it shut, drew his gun, and held it on Sam.
Sam sat back in his seat and kept both hands in his lap. The man backed away from the window.
The cab driver said quietly, “Please, senor. Those men are not policemen. They’ll shoot all of us.”
They waited until the men put the two backpacks in the trunk of the black car, then got in and drove away. Sam said, “Who were they?”
“I don’t know,” said the driver. “Most of the time, we don’t have to deal with people like that. Everybody knows they’re here—
me
When they arrived at the circular drive in front of the terminal, Sam handed the man a large tip. “Here. You earned this.”
As they entered, Remi said, “They had to be after the you know what.”
“I know,” said Sam. “If I ever run into Jose Sanchez again, I’ll be sure to thank him for all the free publicity he gave us. Let’s get to our gate before somebody else tries to murder us because of that stupid article.”
The flight home took eight hours, including a stop at Dallas — Fort Worth. As they flew in above San Diego after dark, they looked down at the lights of the city. Remi held Sam’s arm. “I missed this place,” she said. “I miss my dog. I want to see what they’ve done to our house.”
“It’s good to have a chance to rest up between vacations,” Sam said.
She pulled back and looked at him. “You’re already thinking about leaving again, aren’t you?”
“I’m delighted to be home,” said Sam. “I don’t have any specific plans to go anywhere.”
She leaned against him again. “I guess that’ll have to do for now. No specific plans means we won’t be leaving tomorrow.”
“True,” he said. “As of today, we don’t even own any luggage.”
Chapter 6
LA JOLLA
On their first day back from Mexico, Sam and Remi walked from the Valencia Hotel with Zoltan, their German shepherd, through the ground floor of their house at Goldfish Point, marveling at the newly remodeled building. Nothing revealed to the uninformed eye that a few months ago the house had been attacked by an assault force of more than thirty men armed with automatic weapons. The thousands of bullet holes that had pierced the walls and splintered the hardwood, the dozens of broken windows, the front doors that had been battered open with a pickup truck were all long gone. Everything was new.
Only the upgrades might have hinted to an astute observer that a battle had taken place here. The steel shutters that they’d had in the original design in case of a once-in-a-century Pacific storm were replaced by a set of thick steel plates that were designed to come down by force of gravity and lock at the press of a button. The surveillance system now included cameras mounted on all sides of the house and even in the tall pine trees at the edge of the grounds. As they walked the floor, Selma sounded like a tour guide. “Please notice that every window is now double-paned safety glass. I’m assured that a man couldn’t break them with a sledgehammer.”
Selma walked straight to a bookcase, tugged out a particular book, and the case opened like a door. Sam and Remi followed her into a passage and swung the door shut. “See?” she said. “The light goes on when you open the bookcase. The rest is just the way you designed it.” She led them to a stairway that led to a steel door with a combination lock. Selma punched the code in and the door unlocked. She opened it and took them into a concrete chamber. “We’re now under the front lawn.” She pointed at the ceiling. “You’ll notice that the ventilation comes on automatically, and the lights. They laid two hundred feet of concrete culvert, seven feet in diameter, to make the shooting gallery.”
“We prefer the term ‘firing range,’” said Remi.
“That’s right,” said Sam. “If we call it the shooting gallery, we’ll have to give people the chance to win Kewpie dolls and teddy bears.”
“Suit yourselves,” said Selma. “If you’ll look behind you, you’ll see that I had them install two extra-large gun safes so you can store guns and ammunition here. And, over here, behind the bench rest, is a workbench for cleaning and adjusting weapons.”
Remi said, “You seem to have taken a lot of interest in this project. You never used to care for guns.”
“Our experience with Mr. Bako, Mr. Poliakoff, and Mr. Le Clerc and their friends has caused me to acquire an affection for firearms that I didn’t feel before.”
“Well, thank you so much for watching over all this construction,” Remi said. “What’s at the other end?” Remi pointed at the far end of the range.
“That’s a sheet of steel set at a forty-five-degree angle to deflect rounds downward into the sand so there will never be a ricochet.”
Sam said, “Did they put in the other exit?”
“Yes. Behind the sheet of steel is a second stairway that leads up into the stand of pines near the street.”
“Great,” said Sam. “Let’s go back upstairs and see how the wiring changes for the new electronics worked out.”
“I think you’ll be pleased,” Selma said. “They’ve been working on it for months and finally finished last week. Instead of one emergency generator, there are now four, for different circuits supporting various functions. This is now a very difficult house to deprive of electricity for even a second.”
They came up to the short corridor, through the bookcase door, and back into the office. Selma said, “That’s funny, that wasn’t here before.”
Sam and Remi looked where she was pointing. It was a large cardboard box. “It’s our souvenirs from Mexico,” said Remi.
Wendy Corden was working at one of the computers in the area across the room. “That came a few minutes ago. I signed for it.”
“Thanks,” said Sam. He lifted the box up onto a worktable, giving it a gentle shake. “I didn’t hear anything broken.”
“Don’t even say that,” said Selma. “I can’t believe you shipped it that way — just mailed it home like a… a piece of crockery.”
“You had to be there to appreciate our choices. People kept trying to steal it.”
Selma produced a box cutter from a desk drawer and handed it to Sam. “Can we see it?”
Sam opened the box. He removed some of the packing peanuts, then some of the wall hangings and mats.
Selma unrolled one of them, then two others. “These are truly dreadful,” she said. “That king looks a bit like Elvis — who was, come to think of it, The King.” She unwrapped a small pot. “And look at these — sparkly paint in case this warrior gentleman isn’t fancy enough.”
Remi laughed. “I think those were the inspiration for Sam’s improvements to the real pot.”
Sam reached in and gently lifted the genuine Mayan pot. He set it upright on the table. Selma moaned. “That is horrifying. Gold and silver paint? That’s vandalism.”
“It comes off,” he said. “I read one time that a lot of great Egyptian art got to Europe disguised as cheap replicas. The trick still works.”
Sam used his cell phone to dial Dr. David Caine’s office at the university. “Dr. Caine?” he said. “The delivery I was waiting for has arrived. Would you like to take a look?”
“I’d love the chance,” Caine said. “When can I come?”
“Anytime from now on. We’ll be here until evening.” Sam recited the address.
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
Sam terminated the call and then turned to the others. “He’ll be here in an hour. I’d better wipe this sparkly paint off right away or he’ll be as horrified as Selma.”
An hour later, their guest arrived. Dr. David Caine was in his mid-forties, very fit and tanned, wearing jeans and a summer-weight sport coat over a black polo shirt. As he stepped through the doorway into the vast office space, he saw the pot on the table across the room and could barely draw his eyes away from it. He stopped and shook Sam’s hand. “You must be Sam. I’m Dave Caine.”
Remi stepped up. “I’m Remi. Come this way. I can tell you’re dying to see the pot.”
He followed her across the open hardwood floor, but when he was still six feet from the pot, he stopped and stared at it for a moment, then walked around it, looking at it from every angle. “I read the article and looked at the pictures you sent me, but seeing one of these in person is always a moment,” he said. “I always feel a bit of excitement. The pottery, the paintings, always contain a little bit of the personality of the artist. When I see a water pitcher shaped like a fat little dog, it’s like going back in time to meet the potter.”
“I know what you mean,” Remi said. “I love that too, when the actual human being is staring back at you from a thousand years ago.”
Caine came in toward the table and looked closely at the pot. “But this one is different. It’s obviously a prime piece, classic period. A day in the life of the king of Copan.” He straightened and looked at the Fargos. “You know that discoveries like this have to be reported to the government of Mexico, right?”
“Of course,” said Sam. “We were in the middle of a natural disaster and there wasn’t any reasonable, safe way to do that or any authorities who had time to deal with it. We’ll return the pot when we’ve had a chance to learn what we can about it.”