The Death Relic

49

Petr Ulster arrived in Cancún early on Sunday morning — so early that he took a taxi from the private airfield to the hotel because he didn’t think his friends would be awake to pick him up. He waited in the lobby until 8 a.m., when his patience finally ran out. Bubbling with enthusiasm, he simply had to get the adventure started or he was going to burst.

Payne, who’d spent a restless night on the couch, heard the knock on the door at 8.04 a.m. and was less than amused by the disturbance. He grabbed his gun and moved to the door, while Jones covered his position from behind. ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s Petr … Petr Ulster.’

Payne groaned. It was too early for this. ‘What’s the password?’

‘Password? You didn’t tell me a password.’

‘Sorry. You need the password.’ Payne turned and shouted over his shoulder. ‘Come back when you have the password.’

Jones laughed at the scene. He was quite familiar with Payne’s early-morning grumpiness. It hadn’t been an issue in the military — they woke up when they were told to wake up — but in recent years it had become more and more prevalent. ‘You’re not going to let him in?’

Payne shook his head. ‘Not until noon.’

Jones squeezed past him in the hallway and looked through the peephole, just to make sure Ulster was alone. He was standing in the corridor, bags near his feet and confusion on his face. For a moment, it looked like he was going to pick up his luggage and walk away, but at the last second, he paused and scratched his brown beard in thought. One of the best academic minds in the world was standing outside the door, trying to figure out a password that didn’t exist. Jones was so amused that he decided to egg him on.

Jones said, ‘The clock is ticking. What’s the password?’

Ulster, still clueless, took a wild guess. ‘Shovel.’

‘Shovel?’ It was such a random word that Jones opened the door to find out why he’d guessed it. ‘Did you say “shovel”?’

‘Was that correct?’ he asked, hopeful.

‘No, it wasn’t correct. Jon was just messing with you. There’s no password.’

‘Oh.’

Jones greeted him with a hug. They briefly exchanged pleasantries before Jones refocused the conversation on the password. ‘Out of curiosity, why did you guess “shovel”?’

‘Because I told Jonathon I would bring one in case … um … never mind.’

‘In case, what?’

Ulster blushed. ‘I would rather not say. You might think less of me.’

Jones stared at him. ‘Come on, Petr. There are no secrets here.’

Ulster nodded and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘I said I would bring a shovel in case Jonathon shot Maria. You know, to stop her yapping.’ His face flushed from embarrassment. His cheeks were so red that his beard appeared to change colour. ‘Oh my goodness, I can’t believe I just said that. I swear, we were just joking on the phone. I would never condone violence against Maria. I think the world of her.’

Jones laughed. ‘Don’t worry. I believe you.’

‘Please,’ he begged, ‘feel free to check my bags. I am shovel-free.’

‘Petr, relax! I know you were just kidding.’ He threw his arm around Ulster’s shoulder and squeezed. ‘Remember, I’m the guy who bought you a rubber duck shaped like the Swan King. We tend to joke around here. That’s why you like hanging with us.’

Ulster smiled at the thought of the bathtub toy. ‘Is that why?’

‘That’s one of the reasons. You also like it when we shoot bad guys.’

‘I know it sounds barbaric, but I do enjoy a good bloodletting every now and then, especially when I feel imperilled. It happens so infrequently at the Archives.’

‘And the one time it did, we were there to save the day.’

Ulster nodded. ‘That, of course, is why I’m so eager to return the favour.’

‘Maybe too eager. We’re still waking up.’

‘Yes, I figured as much. Shall I leave and come back?’

Jones grabbed a suitcase. ‘Of course not. Come in and make yourself at home.’

‘Are you sure? Because—’

‘Of course I’m sure. But just to be safe, why don’t you wait on the deck? The sun is shining, the birds are singing and you’ll be out of the path of Hurricane Payne.’

An hour later, the four of them were eating breakfast on the terrace. Ulster, who’d had nothing better to do while everyone else got ready, ordered them a Mexican feast from room service: breakfast burritos, scrambled eggs with chorizo, chilli rellenos, jalapeño corn cakes, plus an assortment of fruits, breads and juices. With every bite of food, Payne became less and less irritable. Some people needed coffee in the morning to start their day, but he needed food. Because of his high metabolism, he woke up every day running on fumes.

‘So,’ Payne said after a few minutes of small talk, ‘did you get a chance to read the document I faxed from the consulate?’

Ulster nodded. ‘I did indeed. It was a fascinating read, one filled with secrets and subtext. As I mentioned on the phone, I was familiar with Marcos de Mercado, the young priest assigned to Diego de Landa upon his return to the New World, but this document was a revelation. In fact, I’m fairly confident that its discovery was recent.’

‘Why do you say that?’ Maria asked.

‘I have this wonderful piece of software at the Archives that searches through every scholastic database in the world. I scan my text into the system, then it searches for common words and phrases in every document that has ever been mentioned in the digital world — whether that’s a foreign translation, a short passage, or a quote in a doctoral thesis. In a matter of seconds, I find out if my document has ever been examined. It is really quite remarkable.’

‘Thanks,’ Payne said, ‘I’m glad you like it.’

She glanced at him, confused. ‘What does that mean?’

‘It means I’m glad he liked my software.’

‘Yours?’ she asked.

‘Well, not mine. But my company’s. Petr told me about a problem he was having—’

‘Accessing academic databases in multiple languages,’ Ulster explained.

Payne nodded. ‘And my research and development division tried to find a solution. It took a while to work out the kinks, but after some helpful advice from a friend of ours—’

‘To Randy!’ Jones blurted as he raised his glass of juice.

‘We developed a working prototype for the Archives. It’s still in the beta phase, but someday we hope to release it as open-source software. Then everyone can use it for free.’

‘Why would you do that? Your company could lose millions,’ she said.

‘It’s not about money. It’s about the freedom of historical information. You know, the concept that Petr encourages at the Archives.’

She nodded, impressed. ‘Don’t get me wrong: I think that’s wonderful. I just …’

Payne smiled. ‘Didn’t expect it from me?’

‘Something like that,’ she admitted.

‘Well, maybe one of these days you’ll realize I’m not such a bad guy after all.’

‘I never said you were.’

Worried about the direction the conversation was taking, Jones intervened. ‘Speaking of bad guys, what did you find out about Landa in the document?’

Ulster answered excitedly. ‘Quite a bit! For centuries, scholars have debated why the Spanish Crown would appoint him as the Bishop of Yucatán. After all, he was hated by just about everyone in the New World — the Maya, the soldiers and the clergy — because of his sadistic behaviour. Furthermore, he embarrassed several key political figures in Spain with the auto-da-fé of Maní in 1562. No one could understand why he was rewarded with such a plum role in the colonization of the Americas less than ten years later, but now we know. He bribed his way back to the New World with the promise of treasure.’

‘You think the document is real?’ she asked.

Ulster nodded. ‘Considering the source, I think it’s a logical assumption. Terrence Hamilton is a leading expert in his field. If he had the document in his possession, I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt — at least for the time being. We’ll know for sure once we get to see the original. If we get to see the original.’

Payne grimaced. ‘Right now, that’s a pretty big if.’

‘Why do you say that?’ she demanded.

‘Last night I tracked down a friend of mine who works K&R in Mexi—’

She cut him off. ‘What’s K&R?’

‘Sorry. That means kidnap and ransom. It’s a booming industry in Latin America, and my friend works as a retrieval specialist in Mexico City.’

Jones tried to reassure her. ‘His name is Don Stillwagon. We’ve known him for years. He’s very good at what he does. He knows what he’s talking about.’

She nodded in acceptance.

‘Anyway,’ Payne continued, ‘he’s very familiar with the gangs that run eastern Mexico. He said in 95 per cent of all cases, a ransom demand will be issued within forty-eight hours. After that, the odds of recovery go down significantly.’

Ulster gulped. ‘You mean they’ll kill him?’

‘No, I mean the odds are pretty good that he’s already dead.’

‘What?’ she blurted.

Payne shook his head. ‘Don’t misunderstand me: I didn’t say Hamilton is dead. I said if a demand hasn’t been issued in forty-eight hours, there’s probably a pretty good reason. Most of the time, it means something happened to the target. Maybe he fought back. Maybe he saw their faces. Or maybe he was killed during the abduction. Whatever the reason, the gang chalks it up as a loss and moves on to its next victim. Down here, time is money.’

‘Just like that?’ she asked.

Payne nodded. ‘Just like that.’

Ulster glanced at his watch. It was nearly 9.30 a.m. ‘When was Terrence grabbed?’

‘At roughly 5 p.m. on Friday. That means we’ve got seven and a half hours to go.’

‘That isn’t a lot of time,’ Ulster said.

‘True, but keep something in mind: the odds are pretty damn good they’re not going to call us. They’ll call Hamilton’s family, or his university, or whoever would be willing to pay for his release. For all we know, that call was made yesterday.’

‘Then what should we do?’ she asked.

‘We’re already doing it. We’re following the clues that were left behind. With any luck, we’ll stumble across something significant. And if we do, we’ll be ready to help.’