Tears of the Jaguar (40 page)

“I’m not an expert,” said Deborah, seemingly for the hundredth time. She shot Nick a glance, but he showed no response to this news of her past, which, she suspected, meant he already knew about it. Unaccountably, the fact that he had never said so annoyed her. “I’m especially
not
an expert on Uxmal,” she added. “I’ve never even been here before.”

“That’s how you pronounce it?” said Jones. “Well you’re more of an expert on
Oosh-mahl
,” Jones said, mimicking her pronunciation of the word, “than we are. You’re the best we have till the others get here. That could take a couple of days, maybe longer. So let’s walk.”

They moved briskly from the hotel to the archaeological remains, passing through the ticket and orientation area with a flash of Jones’s badge, through the quadrangle of souvenir stores and facilities, and then up a long path that stepped gradually up to the site itself. It was hot outside after the shade of the hotel, and the air was alive with the steady rasping buzz of insects.

At the perimeter fence were low-slung derelict buildings. They moved along a narrow paved way flanked by trees, probably the original
sacbe
route. To one side was a shallow circular reservoir, and up ahead was a massive, looming pyramid with curved sides and a broad ceremonial staircase up the side facing them.

Deborah couldn’t help but smile. She had hoped she would get to see this during her visit, and it was, if anything, more impressive than the pictures she had studied. She had known it was here, but it was still a surprise and a privilege to see it, like glimpsing a jaguar. From down here the pyramid looked almost impossibly
sheer, the stairway close to vertical and the rounded sides pointing up like the entire mountainous structure had pushed up from the world below. The stonework was immaculate, and the combination of the proportional elegance of the thing—its balance and regularity—coupled with the extraordinary engineering required to raise it in a world without modern machinery, electricity, or even metal tools took Deborah’s breath away.

“That’s the Pyramid of the Magician,” said Deborah, unable to keep a note of awe out of her voice.

The CIA man paused and gazed at it for a moment and something of his professional demeanor slipped away as he shaded his eyes.

“Cool,” he said, meaning it. “And that’s like a thousand years old?”

“Give or take,” said Deborah.

“Huh,” he said, admiring.

“Any word on Bowerdale?” said Nick. Deborah thought he sounded impatient.

“No,” said Jones, turning to him.

Nick seemed to give him a searching glance and Jones opened his hands.

“Look,” he said. “You say you want me to trust you and I’ve said I will, but that means you have to trust me too. So when I say I don’t know where Bowerdale is, that’s because I don’t know where Bowerdale is. OK? He can’t have gotten from Valladolid to Uxmal in time to kill James, so he’s not a suspect anyway. We’ll catch up with him later.”

“And this Dimitri character,” said Nick, pressing. “Is he real or did Alice make him up?”

Jones gave Deborah a swift look.

“You realize you are helping your government in a very delicate situation,” he said, “and that while your assistance is appreciated, were you to reveal hereafter anything of a delicate or sensitive nature, it might be considered grounds for charges of treason?”

“I’m aware,” she said. “So?”

“He’s real,” said Jones.

Deborah stared.

“You know him?” said Nick.

“In a manner of speaking,” said Jones. “Dimitri is not his real name. He’s a Serbian freelancer.”

“Freelancer?” said Deborah. “Which means what?”

“Hit man and gun runner,” said Jones. “Linked to Bosnian atrocities in the midnineties.”

“Gun runner?” said Nick, emphatically persistent. “As in, an arms dealer?”

“That’s classified,” said Jones.

“Didn’t we just have this conversation?” said Nick.

“There are some things I am not at liberty to reveal,” said Jones.

“Bollocks,” said Nick, pausing under a shady tree where a pale iguana with dark vertical stripes lounged. “You might be able to demand her help,” he said, nodding at Deborah, “but if you want the assistance of Her Majesty’s government, you’re going to have to be a bit more forthcoming, mate.”

“Why are you pursuing the stones?” demanded Jones.

“They are of ancient cultural significance to the Crown,” said Nick.

“OK,” said Jones.

“So this Dimitri,” Nick pressed. “He’s dealing in what, antiquities?”

“That’s right,” said Jones.

“You’re lying,” said Nick.

Deborah thought Nick was right. Jones had looked hurriedly back to the pyramid. But then Nick wasn’t telling the truth either, or not all of it. So she did.

“The Brits think that the stones and other objects buried here might be the lost English crown jewels that were supposedly melted down and sold off by Oliver Cromwell between 1649 and 1658 when the monarchy was restored.”

Both men stared at her, both aghast, if for different reasons.

“You want him to come clean,” she said to Nick, “then so should you.”

“That wasn’t your call,” he said.

“No,” she said. “Nothing is, but here I am. Now it’s your turn,” she said, turning to Jones.

“Wait,” he said, wrapping his brain round the idea. “You think we’re looking for a lost crown?”

“Several,” she said. “There wasn’t one English crown. There were lots. Some had special authority in terms of coronation, but each king or queen added wealth to the royal regalia—usually riches and gifts they received from other monarchs or items they commissioned themselves. So yes, that’s what he’s looking for. Now, what about you?”

“Well,” he said. “Gold and precious stones are worth a lot of money. Money drives war and terrorism. If this Dimitri gets a major cash haul, it’s guaranteed most of the money will go into guns that ultimately will be bought by terrorists.”

“This can’t just be about money and guns or you wouldn’t be here,” she said. “There’s more to it than that. What is it?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

“You’re lying,” said Nick again. He turned on Deborah. “Thanks,” he snapped. “So you blew my interest without getting anything in return. Brilliant.”

Jones said nothing, but he couldn’t contain the shadow of a smile.

Terrorism?

She let her thoughts swirl, looking from the pyramid, and suddenly it struck her.

“It’s not just the monetary value of the stones,” she said.

“You said it was a matter of national security,” Deborah said. “You keep talking about terrorism, and you have only ever referred to the grave goods as gems. You haven’t mentioned the metal, the bones, or any of the other things we’re looking for: only the stones. Now our analysis said the gems weren’t that valuable, so it can’t be about their intrinsic value as precious stones. But we’re talking about naturally occurring crystals, right? And there are lots of uses for crystals. In industry, for instance.”

“And in weapons technology,” added Nick.

“Bowerdale worked for the military,” said Deborah. “He did topographical survey work on the White Sands missile range in New Mexico.”

“That’s it, isn’t it?” said Nick, looking at Jones.

“Missiles?” said the CIA man. “I don’t see the connection.”

“It’s not just missiles they test at White Sands,” said Nick. “They work with military lasers there, some of which are built around crystals. The US Army has been working on the development of solid state military lasers for years.”

Kenneth Jones said nothing and was very still.

“Lasers, yes,” said Deborah. “I read something about how the rare combination of chrome and iron in a ruby might enhance a laser’s optical properties...”

“But the crystals used in lasers are manufactured, surely?” said Nick. “They aren’t naturally occurring, and there’s no way a primitive culture—Mayan or English—could artificially manufacture crystals of any kind.”

Jones looked away again.

“I have the original specs for the crystal scanned by Aguilar,” said Deborah, “and those for the Malkin Tower stone. I’m sure British intelligence could figure out why Dimitri wants them based on that information.”

“Transfer that information to a foreign power and you’ll spend the rest of your life in prison,” said Jones, stern but clearly on the defensive.

“Aguilar sent it out the day we found it,” said Deborah. “He contacted people all over the world trying to match the signature because the stone was so unusual. Anyone who wants to know already does. They just don’t have the stones themselves, and you’re going to need me to find them.”

Jones held her eyes for a long moment, then nodded.

“OK,” he said. “You want to know everything? Fine. But this stays between us on pain of serious charges leveled...”

“Yes,” said Deborah, “we know. Get on with it.”

Jones took a long breath, then said, “Lasers stir up specific kinds of atoms and light comes out. If you reflect those photons back into the excited atoms, still more light is generated, but this time the light comes out only in one direction. All the light has the same wavelength and color—depending on the gain
medium, which determines the types of atoms used. Direct all that light and it will incinerate whatever you target. Not surprisingly, the military has been chasing lasers for decades, but they couldn’t generate the power required to do what we wanted them for.”

“Knocking missiles out of the sky,” inserted Nick.

“Among other things, yes,” said Jones, “although our goals are pretty modest right now. We’ve tried chemical lasers fuelled with ethylene and nitrogen trifluoride, but they’re too bulky and the chemicals have to be constantly replaced. If these things are going to be successful, they need to generate at the very least a hitting power of about a hundred kilowatts: enough to detonate an incoming mortar round. The chemical lasers didn’t come close, nor did the free electron lasers that were supposed to arm Reagan’s Star Wars program in the eighties. So we went back to the solid state lasers that we were working on back in the sixties using slabs of artificially created corundum: specifically ruby. We’ve made big strides, but the power output is still low, and the crystals heat up too much, so you need a minute or more of cool-down time between each burst, which is no use in a battlefield situation.”

“And you think,” said Nick, “that the gemstones we found in Ek Balam, of which there are more somewhere in Uxmal, are better.”

“That’s what it amounts to,” said Jones. “We don’t know exactly what they are because we haven’t seen more than those low-level tests you performed, but the chemical composition is extremely unusual, and yes, the combination of iron and chrome might well enhance the optical properties in ways significantly improving the capability of the laser. But it’s the crystalline structure that’s getting
the attention, because it looks like it might lead to considerably less phonon scattering, slower heating, and faster cooling cycles. That means more power ready for rapid use and reuse. Personally, I’m skeptical, but there is no question that they are very fine, very rare stones without flaws, and it is possible—
possible
—that they may be considerably more efficient than those we have been working with. If they are, we can use them and, more importantly, learn to replicate them. But, like I said, I’m skeptical.”

“It hardly matters how they work at this point,” said Deborah. “It’s about what this dealer—Dimitri—thinks and what he is prepared to do to get hold of them.”

“It’s also about who he might sell them to,” added Nick.

“He might sell them to us,” said Jones. “But only if we offer him the most. More likely, they’ll end up in the hands of military scientists in rogue nations or undesirable organizations. We have intel to suggest he’s talking to practically everybody; and you can imagine what top brass thinks of rogue nations or terrorists building portable military lasers faster and more powerful than ours.”

“If they could bring down a shell or missile,” said Nick, thinking aloud, “they could bring down aircraft.”

Jones nodded.

“With a single burst,” he agreed. “With a rapidly cycling laser you could knock down an entire squadron in seconds while covering your ass from anything incoming. You can do a lot of things with a powerful, rapid-fire laser. If someone—a terrorist organization, for instance, could get hold of a weapon like this, particularly if it’s relatively small and mobile—well, it would be a game changer. We can’t let that happen. If there are more gems buried around here, we need to find them before Dimitri does.”

Blood and tears
, thought Deborah.

“So where do we look?” asked Nick.

Jones looked at Deborah. “I was kind of hoping you could tell me,” he said. “Deborah?”

How the hell should she know? She wasn’t an expert on Uxmal, wasn’t even an expert on the Maya. Hell, she wasn’t even really an archaeologist! She was a museum director. She knew less about this place than all of the people who worked for her. What did she know that could possibly help them now?

Edward Clifford
.

She knew more than any of the others about him, and suddenly, as she stepped out into the sun and gazed up at the pyramid whose base they were skirting, she thought that that might be enough.

Maybe. Just maybe
.

She shielded her eyes and stared. The pyramid had stepped levels, and in the center was an opening in the tapering shape of the typical Mayan arch, above it what looked like chambers and structures on the top.

“We start there,” she said.

“The Pyramid of the Magician?” said Nick. “There are dozens of structures on this site. Why there?”

“Because the Pyramid of the Magician is only one of its names,” she said. “The first archaeologists to come here were told a legend about how the pyramid was built in a day by a man who came from the nearby village of Kabah. He was unusually small, something the Maya, for some reason, associated with mystical power. The other name for the structure is the Pyramid of the Dwarf.”