‘The Chilans and the Ah Kin?’
‘They will do as you say?’
‘No. They will do as their spirit tells them.’
‘But still. They listen to you?’
‘I am a mouthpiece. Yes. That is so. This much they accept.’
‘Then will you offer the gringos back the skull?’
The Halach Uinic closed his eyes. This was the thirteenth skull they were talking about. The skull of power. He had heard tales about this skull for the entire length of his life. Of where it might be hidden. Of the secrets to which it might provide the key. Some thought that it might even hold the answer to what would happen after the time of the Great Change – the date of 21 December 2012 that marked the end of the Maya Long Count calendar.
The Halach Uinic knew that only with this skull in place, and with suitable offerings, would the twelve other ritual skulls agree to sing and tell the Chilans of what might come to pass in the future – of what might come to pass when all was said and done.
You are being a nicanic, the Halach Uinic said to himself – a simpleton. The others priests would do well to tie you up now and throw you into the X’Canche cenote – let you drown upside down as a sacrifice to the gods.
‘I will offer the gringos back the skull. Just as I have offered you back the book that you brought us. Will that satisfy you?’
‘Yes. And when will you do this? Now?’
‘As soon as we reach Ek Balam. I will order the site closed for the day. We will mount the great pyramid together. I will make you both the offer there. In front of the Ahau Kan Mai, the Chilans, the Ah Kin, and the shamans, all of whom I will request to assemble.’
You nodded. What had caused you to make this stipulation? Why had you spoken in this way to the great man? Had you turned mad? In your entire life, you had never spoken back to one in authority. You had surely entered a realm of being beyond even your wildest dreams.
Your stomach gave a sudden lurch, and you found yourself picturing your hut, and the figure of your mother waiting for you in the doorway at the end of the day. You wished to be back in Veracruz, returning from your day’s work, tired but content. You wanted your mother to scrub your back and face with a damp cloth. To tease you about not yet finding a wife to do these things for you. A daughter-in-law to help her in the kitchen and about the hut. To give her grandchildren.
You closed your eyes and you thought of all the money the Halach Uinic had said would be yours if you sold the book to the gringos. Surely the Halach Uinic could copy the book? This way you could take the money with a clear conscience. Wasn’t this what he had been suggesting?
Then you could build a larger house for yourself and your mother. Find a wife to marry, who would honour your mother and make her life a little easier. You might buy a small chayotal. Grow squash and coffee beans. Even run a few cows.
You knew the Halach Uinic was watching you. He had a strange expression on his face. As if he understood the thoughts that were passing through your mind, and was refusing to judge you for them.
66
Alastor de Bale watched the Mexican with what passed for interest. In truth, it had been many years since Alastor had taken an interest in anybody but himself.
He had the wasting disease, cachexia – in Alastor’s case it wasn’t caused by cancer or Aids or any of the other usual suspects, but came about thanks to metabolic acidosis, as a result, his doctors told him, of decreased protein synthesis twinned with increased protein catabolism caused by five or six generations of inbreeding.
Alastor had no idea what any of this meant, nor was he interested enough in his condition to find out. He knew that the cachexia would do for him in maybe two to three years tops, and all that concerned him now was to procure himself a regular adrenalin rush – this was the only thing that cut through the inevitable lethargy, fatigue, and weakness bought about by his condition. And if he read the signs right, the bumptious Mexican he was looking at was definitely going to come up trumps on that score.
‘I can get you anything you want, man. If you can pay, that is. US dollars. Small denominations only. Nothing over a twenty. I get you Uzi. Even Mini-Uzi. I got a Model 12 Beretta. I got a Heckler amp; Koch MP5K. I even get you a Stoner M63. Still in its wrappers. Never used. Guy who ordered it got himself whacked on the way to pick it up.’
‘Handguns?’
‘Anything you want, man. Anything you want. I got Makarov. I got PSM. I got CZ.’
‘I don’t want anything Eastern bloc.’
‘Okay. Okay. I got a Glock 18. I got a Walther P4. I got a Star 30M. I maybe even got a MAB P15.’
‘I don’t want a MAB P15.’
‘Anything you say, man. I get you anything you say.’
‘You got a Beretta 92SB?’
‘What? US military model?’
‘With the extended hammer pin. Yes.’
‘I get you that too.’
It was at this exact moment that Alastor knew that he was about to be taken for a ride. Manna from heaven was all very well, but, like walking on water, you had to believe in it in the first place. ‘We need eleven guns in total. Get me everything we talked about bar the big Uzi. And no Eastern bloc crap, remember?’
‘No. No. I’m not stupid. The customer always king in my book.’
‘How much?’
The Mexican almost drooled. ‘Ten thousand bucks.’
‘Go fuck yourself.’
‘Eh, man. I don’t want to do that. I get girls for that. All sorts. You want girls too? I get you anything you want. Green. Black. Red. White. Pussy on the slant. Pussy straight up. You call it.’
‘I’ll give you five thousand bucks.’
‘Now you got to be kidding me, man. You know how hard it is to get these things into the country?’
‘About as hard as trafficking those girls you told me about. I know all about the tunnels you guys have got below Agua Prieta.’
‘Lower your voice, man. Are you crazy?’ The Mexican didn’t seem too bothered by Alastor’s comments though – his eyes were still flashing dollar signs. ‘Okay. Nine thousand. But that’s my final offer. The Federales are cracking down on illegal guns. We got serious trouble here now. We got extra expenses.’
‘Six thousand.’
‘No. No. Man. That’s impossible.’
Alastor was enjoying the Mexican’s discomfiture. The guy was having to decide just how amenable he could appear to be in order to reel in his prey. Too amenable, and the minnow would run. Not amenable enough, and the same thing happened – Alastor would simply put two fingers up and go someplace else. It would take fine judgement.
So Alastor sat watching the Mexican. Waiting. He had learned that waiting nearly always produced results.
‘You need to eat something, man. You real thin. Too thin.’
‘Six thousand.’
‘Is impossible. But I tell you what. We forget the Stoner, and I can do it for seven thousand straight.’
‘Okay.’
‘Okay?’
‘I didn’t want the Stoner anyway. Too big. Too loud. Too easy to fucking trace.’
‘I thought the same, man, I thought the same.’ The Mexican was sweating now. The thought of the seven
