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“Throughout history, money has played a part in driving human behavior,” Sam agreed.
Antonio nodded. “There’s little doubt that some of the official accounts are pure invention based on confusion over the original Quetzalcoatl the god and Quetzalcoatl the Toltec ruler.”
“What happened to the more accurate records that were taken by the Spanish, which might have hinted at significant sites?” Remi asked, careful to avoid the use of the word “treasure.”
“All the surviving codices are more mundane. A few made it to Spain, some went down on ships that were routinely lost making the passage, others disappeared.”
“Have you tried to locate any?” Sam probed.
Antonio shrugged. “Of course. We’ve made several trips to Spain, but there was nothing there that isn’t part of the public domain. And there are some in Cuba, but that government’s hard to deal with, even for us as Mexicans. They’re very secretive. Maribela and I were there about four years ago for several months working with their museum. We were shown some pictographs and a manuscript that was said to be written by a conquistador relating to the Aztecs or Toltecs. They refused to allow us to study them closely or even to take photographs. We’ve approached them many times to gain access, or to have them returned to Mexico, but we’re always stonewalled. It’s a shame because that’s our heritage, not theirs.”
“A manuscript? What did it say?” Remi asked.
“I couldn’t tell you. It was unintelligible—probably some sort of cipher, which wasn’t unusual in those days for sensitive documents. Without time to go through it line by line and figure out the code, there’s no way of knowing. But I clearly remember that there were detailed drawings of Aztec, and possibly Toltec, icons, including one of Quetzalcoatl.”
“Have the Cubans tried to decrypt it?” Sam asked.
Antonio shook his head. “I don’t think so. It’s just an old manuscript to them. I got the sense that it’s been there so long that nobody is much interested—until we wanted to take it with us, at which point it became a national treasure.”
“And where do they keep all these Mexican relics?” Sam’s voice was even, no hint of anything but polite curiosity.
Maribela eyed Sam. “In Morro Castle, at the mouth of Havana Harbor. They have a small museum on the grounds, and I guess this stuff got relegated to the basement. I got the feeling that it’s stored there because that’s where it was stored hundreds of years ago, probably after the British handed the island back to Spain.”
Remi took a series of photos. She turned to Antonio. “I can certainly see why everyone’s excited—the tomb network sounds remarkable. You must be thrilled.”
“Yes, it’s one of the first new discoveries in a long time that pertains to the Toltecs—and, given its location, it’s a surprise. It was thought that the Toltecs only built in Tula, but now that must be reinterpreted.” Antonio paused. “We know from legend that Quetzalcoatl was driven from Tollan and embarked on a journey to the farthest reaches of civilization, including the Mayan cities in Mexico and Guatemala, and perhaps even beyond.”
“Do you think the legend of Quetzalcoatl’s tomb has any substance?” Remi asked.
“No, that’s more from some questionable mentions in one of the more obscure codices, as well as some letters to the Spanish King. A wives’ tale.”
“So you don’t think there’s any tomb?”
“It’s doubtful. Everyone from the Spanish to present-day adventurers have hunted for that phantom, only to come up dry,” Antonio said dismissively. “No, the true treasure of the Toltecs is their history, and, unfortunately, that’s just as lost as any burial chamber for a quasi-mythical ruler. Besides which, think about some of the lore surrounding that story. You’ve heard it, right? I mean, come on—an emerald the size of a man’s heart? That would have had to come from Colombia, and there’s no evidence that the Toltecs ever traveled that far south, much less traded there. I’ve concluded that, like so many of the legends from that era, it’s based more on high hopes than anything factual. Sort of the Mexican equivalent of the Holy Grail, and about as likely to exist.”
The inspection of the artifacts took the rest of the afternoon, and Sam and Remi agreed to meet Antonio and Maribela at the Four Seasons for pickup the next morning to explore the underground crypts. In the taxi back to the hotel, Sam called Selma on his cell phone and murmured into it as traffic whizzed by them.
“Selma, I want you to pull up anything you can find on Spanish artifacts in Cuba. Both public and anything rumored.”
“Cuba? Okay. I’ll get right on it.”
“Oh, and for a real long shot, see if there’s anything like an online blueprint for Morro Castle in Havana.”
“Will do. I’ll e-mail you with a progress report when I have something.”
Remi caught his eye as he hung up and dialed another number from memory. “What now?” she asked.
“Well, the Cuba thing has me thinking. Who would have more access to info on Cuba than . . . Rube?”
“Rubin Haywood? Good idea. I’m sure the CIA has a whole wing devoted to it.”
The SUV hit a particularly nasty bump, jostling them. Remi clutched the seat for support and moved her free hand to the gold icon at her neck. Sam waited as the call rang and whispered to her.
“We could use some of that scarab luck right about now. Can you rub it and make a genie appear?”
They laughed, and then Rube’s distinctive voice came on the line.
“Rube. It’s Sam. Your old buddy and pal.”
