The Codex (40 page)

61

Marcus Aurelius Hauser felt in his musette bag for another Churchill and selected one, rolling it between thumb and forefinger before taking it out. He went through the sacrament of trimming, moistening, and lighting it, and then he held it out in the dark so that he could admire the big fat glowing tip while allowing the aroma of fine Cuban longleaf to surround him like a cocoon of elegance and satisfaction. Cigars, he mused, always seem to become better, richer, deeper tasting in the jungle.

Hauser was well hidden at a strategic point above the suspension bridge in a thicket of ferns, where he had a good view of the bridge and the soldiers in their little stone fort on the far side. He pushed aside some plants and raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes. He had a strong feeling that the three Broadbent brothers were going to make their break to cross the bridge tonight. They wouldn’t wait; they couldn’t wait. They had to get to the tomb before he did, if they wanted any chance at all of saving some of the masterpieces for themselves.

He puffed contentedly, thinking back to Maxwell Broadbent. He had lugged half a billion dollars’ worth of fine art and antiquities up here, all on a whim. As outrageous at it was, it was perfectly in character. Max was the man of the big gesture, the spectacle, the show. He lived large and he died large.

Hauser remembered back to that defining fifty-day trek in the jungle, those harrowing days that he would never forget as long as he lived. They had heard there was a Mayan temple somewhere up in the Cerros Escondidos in the Guatemalan lowlands. Fifty days and fifty nights, hacking their way along overgrown trails, stung and bitten and scratched, starving and sick. When they stumbled into that Lacandon village, the villagers wouldn’t talk. The temple was there somewhere, all right. No doubt about it. But the villagers were silent. Hauser had just about gotten a girl to the point of talking when Max had thwarted him. Pointed a gun right at his head, the bastard, disarmed him. That was the break, the final straw. Max had ordered Hauser away like he was some dog. Hauser had no choice but to give up their search for lost cities and go home—while Max went on to find the White City. He looted a rich tomb up here, and that tomb, forty years later, had become his own.

It had come full circle, though, hadn’t it?

Hauser enjoyed another long suck on the cigar. In his years in combat, he had learned something important about people: When things got tough, you could never tell who was going to make it and who was going to fold. The big Army Ranger guys in their crew cuts and pumped-up Arnold Schwarzenegger pecs and big-dick talk sometimes fell apart like so much overcooked meat, while the geek in the company, the intel guy or the electronics nerd, turned out to be the real survivor. So you never knew. This was how it was with the three Broadbent kids. He had to hand it to them. They had done well. They would perform this final service and then their road would come to an end.

He paused, listened. There was a faint sound of ululating, whooping, and yelling. He raised the binoculars. Far to the left of the stone fort, he could see a shower of arrows come sailing out of the jungle. One of them struck a klieg light with a distant ping!

The Indians were attacking. Hauser smiled. It was a diversion, of course, designed to draw the attention of his soldiers away from the bridge. He could see his own men huddling behind the stone walls, guns at the ready, loading their grenade launchers. He hoped to hell they could pull it off. At least they had an assignment to fake what they were already good at: failure.

More arrows came sailing out of the forest, followed by another eruption of bloodcurdling yells. The soldiers answered with a panicky burst of gunfire, and another. A grenade went sailing uselessly into the forest, and there was a flash and a bang.

For once the soldiers were getting it right.

Now that the Broadbents had made their move, Hauser knew exactly how it was going to unfold. It was as predetermined as a series of forced moves in chess.

And there they were, right on schedule. He raised his binoculars again. The three brothers and their Indian guide were running low across the open ground behind the soldiers, heading for the bridge. How clever they thought they were, racing with all their hearts and souls into a trap!

Hauser just had to laugh.

62

Sally had crawled within two hundred yards of the soldiers guarding the bridge. She lay behind a fallen tree trunk, her Springfield resting on the smooth wood. All was quiet. She hadn’t said good-bye to Tom; they had simply kissed and gone. She tried not to think about what was going to happen. It was a crazy plan, and she doubted they’d ever get across the bridge. Even if they did, and were able to rescue their father, they’d never get back.

This was exactly what she didn’t want to be thinking about. She turned her attention to the rifle. The Springfield ’03 dated back to before World War I, but it felt right, and the optics were excellent. Chori had taken good care of it. She had already calculated the distance from her hiding place to where the soldiers were hunkered down inside the ruined stone fort—210 yards—and she had adjusted the scope accordingly. The ammunition Chori had given her was standard military issue .30-06 with a 150-grain bullet, so no additional calculations were necessary, even if she had the adjustment tables handy, which she did not. She had also adjusted the knurled windage knob to her best estimate of the wind conditions. The fact was, 210 yards was not much of a challenge for her, especially with a stationary target as large as a man.

Since she had arrived at the log she had been thinking about what it would mean to kill another person and whether she could do it. Now, as the action was minutes from beginning, she knew she could. To save Tom’s life she would do it. Hairy Bugger was sitting in a little cage made of woven vines. She was glad he was there to keep her company, although he’d been fretting and grumping at Tom’s absence and his own imprisonment. She took out a handful of nuts, gave a few to Bugger, and ate the rest herself.

It was about to begin.

Right on schedule she heard a distant yell from the forest on the far side of the soldiers, followed by a chorus of whoops, shrieks, and ululations that sounded more like a hundred warriors than ten. A shower of arrows flashed out of the dark woods, aimed high so they would come down on the soldiers at a steep angle.

She quickly fitted her eye to the scope to see the action better. The soldiers were scrambling in a panic, loading their grenade launchers and getting in position behind the stone wall. They began firing back, disorganized panicky bursts aimed willy-nilly at the wall of forest two hundred yards away. A grenade went sailing uselessly toward the forest, falling short and going off with a flash and bang. More grenades followed, bursting in the treetops and ripping the branches off the trees. It was an unusually incompetent display of military prowess.

To her left Sally saw a flash of movement. The four Broadbents were running at a crouch across the open area toward the bridgehead. They had two hundred yards of brush and fallen tree trunks to negotiate, but they were making good time. The soldiers seemed fully occupied with the feint attack on their flank. Sally continued watching through the scope, ready to provide covering fire.

One of the soldiers rose and turned to get more grenades. Sally aimed for his chest, finger on the trigger. He scurried back, dodging the rain of arrows, took two more grenades from the can, and came back—never having looked up.

Sally’s finger relaxed. The Broadbents were now reaching the bridge. It spanned a gap of six hundred feet, and it had been well engineered, with four cables of twisted fiber, two above and two below, carrying the load. Vertical cords between the upper and lower sets of cables formed a kind of support for the surface of the bridge itself, formed from pieces of bamboo lashed midway between the two sets of cables. One by one the Broadbents swung underneath it, climbing out over the chasm on one of the lower cables, sidestepping their way and using the upright cords as handholds. The timing was right: The mists were rising heavily, and within fifty yards the four brothers had disappeared. The attack continued for another ten minutes, with more yells and showers of arrows, before dying away. It was a miracle. They had gotten across. The crazy plan had worked.

Now all they had to do was get back.

63

The rickety bamboo bridge stretched ahead of Tom, swaying and rattling in the updrafts, trailing vines and pieces into the great chasm that yawned below it. The mists were rising thickly, and Tom could see only twenty feet ahead of him. The sound of the waterfall echoed up from below like the deep distant roar of a furious beast, and the bridge shook with every step.

Borabay had gone first, Vernon was next, then Philip. Tom had followed last.

They sidestepped along the bottom cable, keeping out of sight below the surface of the bridge. Tom followed his brothers, moving as fast as safety would allow. The main cable was wet and slippery from the rising mist, the twisted fibers spongy and rotten, and many of the vertical cables had broken, leaving gaps. Every time a gust came up from below, the bridge swayed and shuddered, and Tom had to stop and cling until it had passed. He tried to focus on just the few feet of bridge in front of him and nothing else. One step at a time, he said to himself. One step at a time.

A rope, more rotten than most, gave way in his hand, and he experienced a brief sway of terror over the abyss before he could grasp another. He stopped, letting his hammering heart subside. As he cautiously moved forward, he began testing each rope with a tug before trusting it as a handhold. He looked ahead. His brothers were shadowy forms moving ahead of him, partially obscured in mists, bathed in a kind of shifting half-light from the powerful spotlight shining behind them in the fog.

The farther they edged out on the bridge, the more it shook and swayed, the bamboo squeaking and the cables groaning and sighing as if alive. In the middle of the bridge the wind currents grew stronger, buffeting them as they blew upward. Once in a while a turbulent gust caused the bridge to shake and twitch in the most terrifying way. Tom couldn’t help but think of Don Alfonso’s story of the bottomless chasm, the falling bodies turning around and around forever, disintegrating into dust. He shivered and tried to keep from looking down, but in order to place his feet he was forced to look into a dizzying space that plunged downward into columns of mist that disappeared into a bottomless dark. They were almost at the midpoint: He could see where the bridge reached the lowest point of its curve and began to rise back up to meet the far side of the chasm.

An exceptionally strong gust of wind billowed up, giving the bridge a sudden shake. Tom tightened his grip, almost slipping off. He heard a muffled cry and saw, ahead, two pieces of rotten cord drop into the chasm, spinning wildly in the updraft; and then Philip was suddenly dangling, holding on to the cable by the crook of one elbow, his feet twisting and milling over the void.

Oh my God, thought Tom. He hastened forward, almost slipping himself. There was no way his brother was going to be able to hold on like that for more than a few moments. He arrived at a point just above his brother. Philip was dangling silently, trying to throw his leg up and over, his face twisted, unable to speak with terror. The others had disappeared into the mists.

Tom crouched, one arm wrapped around the cable, the other trying to hook under Philip’s arm. His own feet suddenly shot out from underneath him, and he momentarily dangled over the abyss before righting himself. He felt his heart pounding in his chest; his vision clouded with terror, and he could hardly breathe.

“Tom,” his brother choked out, his voice as high as a child’s.

Tom flattened himself on the cable above Philip. “Swing,” he said to Philip, keeping his own voice calm. “Help me. Swing your body up. I’ll grab you.” He reached down with one arm, ready to snag Philip’s belt.

Philip tried to swing himself back up and snag his feet on the cable but couldn’t get a purchase, and the effort caused his arm to slip. He let out a short cry. Tom could see Philip’s white knuckles clutching the cable, his hands locked together. A keening sound of terror escaped his lips.

“Try it again,” Tom shouted. “Swing your body up. Up!”

Philip, grimacing, swung, and Tom tried to grab his belt, but his foot slipped again, and for one terrifying moment his leg dangled in space and he was holding himself on by one rotten cord. He hauled himself back up, trying to calm his pounding heart. A piece of bamboo, jarred loose by the activity, fell down, down, slowly turning around and around until it vanished from sight.

He’s got about five seconds, thought Tom. This would be Philip’s last chance. “Swing up. Give it all you’ve got, even if you have to let go. Get ready. One, two, three!”

Philip swung, and this time Tom let go with one arm, holding on to the rotten cord with the other, which allowed him to lean out far enough to snag Philip’s belt with his hand. For a minute they were suspended, the two of them, most of their combined weight on the cord, and then with a tremendous heave Tom pulled Philip up on the cable, and he fell upon it, hugging it like a life ring.

They remained there, clutching the cables, both too terrified even to speak. Tom could hear Philip’s harsh gasps.

“Philip?” he finally managed to say. “Are you okay?”