The Mayan Secrets

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, “Policia,” and coasted, looking for the best place to stop. Sam looked out the rear window and saw that as the cab pulled over, the black car pulled up behind them and came to a stop a few feet from their bumper. Two men got out. One walked up beside the window of the cab and held out his hand. The driver handed him his license. The man handed it back and glanced at the Fargos, sitting in the rear seat.

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, “Abra el maletero.”

The driver pressed the button to pop the trunk. The man in back of the car unzipped their backpacks.

“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—narcotraficantes use this as a shipment point, Zetas come to town looking for somebody. Somehow, those two picked you. Maybe you can tell me why.”

Sam and Remi looked at each other grimly. “Just take us to the airport,” Sam said. “We have a plane to catch.”

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.”