Treasure of the Mayan King (2012) (8 page)

“Bang!” Dr. Sova said, clearly enjoying himself. “Did you hear that, ladies and gentlemen? Comandante Solis just had a flashing revelation! If you have not pieced the puzzle together yet, allow me to do it for you. I took advantage of your men and their natural disposition to superstition. All this time they thought it was the evil spirit of King Chac. This morning, via a bit of sleight of hand, I poisoned your water supply.”

“But what about the wailing in the hills, surely you could not have done that!”

Dr. Sova laughed again as he pulled a small black object from his pocket. “This is called a remote control, in case you did not know that. And this…” Dr. Sova held the remote in the air for all to see and then pressed a button on it.

Immediately a wailing sound cut through the air, reverberating from the hills.

“How did you do that?” Comandante Solis demanded in an incredulous tone.

Dr. Sova turned off the wailing sound and returned the remote to his pocket. “Many years ago I read an article about music therapy. It went on to explain how dairy farmers in the Midwestern United States would play music for their cows, such as Mozart, Beethoven, Bach and other classics. They noticed that the cows were actually producing more milk. So I thought to myself, why not do the same for my workers so they can be more productive?

“So when I first came to Palenque, I had special weatherproof wireless speakers installed in the hills that were linked to a CD player in my tent. I had planned to try playing classical music for them, but as time went on I became distracted with other matters and dropped the experiment. Last night, however, I covered my head in my bed sheets so as not to be overheard and I recorded these horrible wailing sounds. Even as I walked around the camp I was able to control the sounds with my remote - and Voila!”

A light went on in Chauncy’s head. “So, you didn’t mean what you said to me last night, Doc?”

Dr. Sova turned and put his hand on Chauncy’s shoulder, a soft smile on his face. “Of course not, sorry mon ami, but I did not want anyone to know in advance what I was planning. There is another language that does not involve the mouth, it is body language. I had to have you believe the ruse as well, otherwise the rebels may have read in your posture that it was a ploy. I certainly could not risk failure, could I? You see, I had already formulated a plan before descending the temple steps to meet the commander. I heard that he was prowling this area and I had already anticipated his visit.”

“Are you going to execute me?” Solis interrupted.

Dr. Sova turned to face the man. “No, of course not, that would only make you a martyr.”

“Are you going to turn me over to the authorities to be arrested?”

“No, that would make you a hero.”

“Then what are you going to do with me?”

“I’m going to expose you for what you are,” Dr. Sova replied with a hint of a smile.

Jumping onto a dining table, he explained in a loud voice that Comandante Solis’s real name was Raul Martinez, an imposter whose sole desire was to enrich himself by plundering archaeological sites. After a pause to allow that to sink in, Dr. Sova also explained that Martinez was not the least bit interested in fighting for the Mayan people because once he was finished with his plans he would abandon them and take the money.

Offering the rebels payment to help clean up the temple site, he explained that when it was completed they would be allowed to go free. In addition, he offered to have the Mayan priests bless the temple to rid the place of evil spirits and appease the gods in an effort to gain forgiveness for ransacking the tomb.

A large cheer arose from the camp when Dr. Sova ordered the rebels released.

With an angry expression, Dr. Sova turned back to glare at Martinez. “This is what you get for attempting to outsmart me! I hope you have learned a vital lesson, miscreant: nobody will ever outsmart me. Nobody! I will release you once we are done with this project. Do me a favor, will you? Take my advice, return to your parent’s house in Mexico City, and go back to school. Get some good grades and maybe - just maybe - you might make a good tour guide in some museum.”

Dr. Sova motioned to Chauncy. They walked in silence for a few minutes, watching the rebels begin helping reorganize the camp. The doctor paused and then spoke to Chauncy. “Let this be a lesson to you, as well, Chauncy. Use your brain to its maximum potential, use it fully and you will see that no man will ever outsmart you - ever!”

In time, King Chac’s remains and artifacts found their way into the Museum of Anthropology in Mexico City.

A book entitled The Mayan Mystery, Solved, authored by Dr. Sova and Chauncy Rollock was shortly thereafter seen on bookshelves, recounting how King Chac’s remains had been discovered; it quickly became a best seller.

They had promised each other that they would reunite to decipher the mysterious riddle on the steps that would lead them to the treasure of the Mayan King. However, Dr. Sova was having personal and legal difficulties with the Mexican government, besides the financial problems and marital strife created by his compulsive gambling. Seeking greater control over archaeological projects in Yucatan, the Mexican officials desired to have more control and oversight at all of Dr. Sova’s digs. Opposed, he insisted that he be allowed to work independently.

The result was a downward spiral of red tape, delays, bad temper and impatience.

Chauncy eventually became involved in his own projects. In time, Chauncy lost contact with the doctor.

Sova’s colleagues abandoned the notion that King Chac had commissioned his workers to carve a riddle on the temple steps. Once the remains of King Chac were taken away to the museum, they closed base camp and left Temple #22 to be refurbished for tourism.

The jungle reclaimed the temple steps, growing over the Mayan inscriptions. Their meaning was lost as Dr. Sova ceased communicating with the outside world. Chauncy assumed that, fed up with the bureaucratic stupidity he so hated, he had simply chosen to vanish.

In the study of Dr. Sova’s hacienda in Merida, deep in his computer files, lay the answer to the greatest riddle of Mayan history, forgotten.

Book Two: The Mayan Code

Chapter One

The sun’s morning light over Guadalajara found its inhabitants already hard at work, driving, bicycling or walking in every corner of the growing city. The rich, the poor, and the shrinking middle class scurried about, surviving by sheer will the many adversities faced by the Mexican people.

Above the urban hubbub, a helicopter made its way toward the city’s center. Since military aircraft crossed the sky almost daily, the citizens below paid little attention.

In the city’s center was the infamous federal prison, La Penitenciaria, or La Peni, as the locals called it. It was well known that La Peni was currently host to Jose Padilla Madrid, leader of one of the largest Mexican drug cartels. The prison itself was a converted castle. A leftover from the Spanish conquest, the gigantic structure was as large as a city block.

The helicopter, bearing its prominent military emblems, changed course and moments later was hovering above the courtyard. Guards in the turrets, more curious than alarmed, shouted questions among themselves. Outside the prison street vendors and other passersby paused and pointed upwards.

The guards’ questions were answered as two doors opened on opposite sides of the helicopter, and before they were fully extended, machine guns from inside opened fire.

Glass and concrete shattered as the helicopter concentrated its fire on the turrets. The frightened screams from the civilians below were barely heard above the ear-splitting burst of machine gun fire. While most of the guards fled, a brave few opened fire at the aircraft, their pitiful weapons drowned out by the helicopter’s own arsenal.

A small object was tossed from the aircraft. When it hit the ground, a bright light was accompanied by a thunderclap of noise that boomed through the other sounds. The few brave guards who had been shooting at the helicopter tumbled to the ground, incapacitated by the flash-bang. Two smoke grenades hit the courtyard and within moments the area was blanketed in acrid smoke.

Unseen by anyone, a black-clad man rappelled from the aircraft. The instant his feet touched the ground inside the courtyard he was on the move, deftly maneuvering the rocket launcher he was carrying into firing position. He dropped to one knee and fired at the iron gates leading into the interior hallway of the prison. The helicopter had stopped firing, and in the semi-silence the explosion was ear-shattering.

The intruder was inside before the echo of the explosion had died away. Loading a second rocket into his launcher, another explosion ripped apart a second set of iron gates.

Strapping his rocket launcher to his back, he pulled out a pistol and sprinted to one of the cells blasted open by the last rocket. Kicking the twisted metal doors and removing a gas mask, he stepped inside shouting to the prisoner who had taken shelter beneath his cot.

“Are you Jose Padilla Madrid?”

“Si,” the prisoner responded, smiling as he stood up. Even in prison garb his aura of power wasn’t diminished.

“Come, Mr. Madrid. It’s time to check out of this hotel.”

Madrid donned the gas mask provided by his rescuer and followed him quickly into the hallway and through the haze in the courtyard. Less than five minutes after the helicopter had appeared over the courtyard Madrid was inside. The large guns rolled back, the doors closed, and the helicopter moved upward and disappeared from sight.

An hour later a black Ford pickup came to a stop not far from the prison walls, the lights on top flashing red and blue. A tall, thin middle-aged man stepped slowly and deliberately out. His olive complexion, thick graying hair and perfectly trimmed gray mustache were instantly recognizable to the onlookers, who moved aside as Captain Gustavo De Leon strode purposefully toward the gates.

Nicknamed “The Incorruptible,” he had a reputation for refusing to bend to the drug dealers’ wishes, even though he had been approached many times with lucrative - and very illegal - offers. His love for his country far exceeded any desire to attain riches.

A no-nonsense man who took great pride in his position, it seemed he always wore a scowl on his face. No surprise, for his job offered any reason to be happy. With serious crime increasing daily, he was broken-hearted that his country seemed to be caught in an evil vortex of violence.

As a captain of the Mexican military force, it was his responsibility to investigate the incident that had just occurred and assess the damage. As he neared the gates he shook his head, murmuring to himself. This was no small incident: in a matter of minutes the Mexican authorities had lost their most prized prisoner. The last thing he needed to hear was that the military had been involved in this operation.

The gates were opened for him and he entered the prison courtyard. He stood there for a moment, surveying the scene from behind his dark aviator-style sunglasses. He was amazed at the degree of damage. Fires were burning; smoke was thick in the air. Shattered glass, rock, stucco and other debris filled the courtyard. As he walked around the perimeter he looked into a hallway past a twisted iron gate. Water from broken pipes ran everywhere and would flood the lower levels before long, if they weren’t flooded already. Cries and moans could be heard from the injured.

He glanced back over his shoulder. The crowd of civilians had probably been standing there since the word had spread that the shooting had stopped. The director of the prison, Martin Verdugo, came out to speak to Captain De Leon. The captain gestured, summoning the director to him so that they would be out of earshot of others.

His face grim, Captain De Leon asked, “How many are dead, Mr. Verdugo?”

“Fortunately we have no dead,” the director answered, wringing his hands nervously. “However, there are at least eighteen wounded, two seriously, sir.”

De Leon stared at the director for a moment. The man was in his mid-sixties, short and heavy. He was obviously nearing retirement, and just as obviously knew he was in the international spotlight because the whole affair had taken place on his watch.

“Are the prisoners under lock and key?” De Leon asked brusquely as he a made hand gesture.

“Yes, Captain, all is secure for now.”

“Was there any structural damage?”

The director paused to swallow. “Currently there are still some fires out of control, sir. Two iron gates destroyed; we’re standing by one of them. The other is deeper inside the prison near the holding cells. In addition, some of the plumbing and electrical has been destroyed or damaged. The lookout turrets were shredded and suffered extreme damage. Water damage, smoke damage to furniture, windows destroyed - oh, and there is much bullet damage to the walls, sir.”

“Could you or anyone else identify the men in the helicopter?” De Leon asked as he looked around.

“No sir. Not only did it happen so quickly, but all of the men wore black gas masks and hoods.”

The captain nodded slowly and thought for a minute. “The guards, Mr. Verdugo,” he said at last. “I desire to interview them as soon as possible, especially those that were not injured. Do you understand?”