The Codex (42 page)

Finally Tom said, “This isn’t working. We need a new approach.”

They retired to a nearby ledge. The stars had disappeared, and the sky was brightening behind the mountains. It was a stupendous view across a fantastical wilderness of jagged white peaks, like teeth rising from the soft green palate of the jungle. “If we take a look at one of those broken tomb doors,” said Tom, “maybe we can figure out how it works.”

They retraced their steps and, four or five tombs back, came to a broken door. It had cracked down the middle, and one part had fallen outward. Borabay lit another brand, then hesitated at the door.

He turned to Philip. “I coward,” he said, handing him the brand. “You braver than me, little brother. You go.”

Philip gave Borabay a squeeze on the shoulder and took the brand. He went into the tomb. Tom and Vernon followed.

It was not a large space, perhaps eight by ten feet. In the center was a raised stone platform. On the platform sat a mummy bundle, still upright, its legs drawn up to its chin, its arms folded in its lap. Its long black hair was braided down its back, and the dried lips were drawn back from its teeth. The mouth had fallen open, and an object had dropped out. When Tom looked more closely he saw it was a piece of jade carved in the shape of a chrysalis. One hand of the mummy held a polished cylinder of wood about eighteen inches long, decorated with glyphs. Ranged around were a small selection of grave goods: terracotta figurines, broken pots, some carved stone tablets.

Tom knelt down and examined how the door worked. There was a groove in the stone floor; set into the groove were polished stone rollers on which the door rested. They were loose, and Tom picked one out and handed it to Philip. He turned it over in his hand.

“It’s a simple mechanism,” he said. “You get the door rolling and it opens by itself. The trick is, how do you start the door rolling?”

They examined it all around, but there was no obvious answer. When they emerged from the tomb Borabay was waiting for them, an anxious expression on his face.

“What find?”

“Nothing,” said Philip.

Vernon emerged from the tomb holding the cylinder of wood that the mummy had been clutching. “What’s this, Borabay?”

“Key to underworld.”

Vernon smiled. “Interesting.” He carried it back along the passageway to their father’s tomb. “Funny that the stick should fit so perfectly into these airholes,” said Vernon, shoving the stick in several holes, almost losing it in one. “You can feel the air coming out of these holes. See?” He went from hole to hole, testing with his hand the flow of air from each one. Finally he stopped. “Here’s an airhole with no breeze coming out of it.”

He inserted the stick. It went in about fourteen inches and stopped, leaving four inches exposed. Vernon picked up a heavy, smooth rock. He handed it to Philip.

“You do the honors. Whack the end of the stick.”

Philip took the rock. “What makes you think this’ll work?”

“A wild guess, that’s all.”

Philip hefted the rock, braced himself, drew back his arm, and brought the rock down hard against the protruding end of the stick. There was a chunk as he drove the stick into the hole, and then silence.

Nothing happened. Philip examined the hole. The wooden dowel had gone all the way in and stuck.

“Damn it!” Philip cried, losing his temper. He rushed at the tomb door and gave it a savage kick. “Open up, damn you!”

A sudden grinding noise filled the air, the ground vibrated, and the stone door began to slide open. A dark crack appeared and gradually widened as the door moved in the groove along its stone rollers, In a moment, with a clunk, it came to a halt.

The tomb was open.

They all waited, staring into the yawning black rectangle. The sun was just breaking over the distant mountains, pouring golden light across the rocks, at an angle too oblique to penetrate into the tomb itself, which remained in utter blackness. They stood without moving, paralyzed, too afraid to speak or call out. A pestilential cloud of corruption—the stench of death—came drifting out of the tomb.

67

Marcus Aurelius Hauser waited in the pleasing dawn light, his finger stroking the blunt trigger of his Steyr AUG. The weapon was perhaps the most familiar object he knew besides his own body, and he never felt quite normal without it. The metal barrel, warmed from constant contact, felt almost alive, and the plastic stock, polished by his own hands for years, was as smooth as a woman’s thigh.

Hauser had tucked himself into a comfortable niche along the trail that led down the cliff. While he couldn’t actually see the Broadbents from his vantage point on the trail above, he knew they were below and would have to come back the same way. They had done exactly what he hoped. They had led him to old Max’s tomb. And not just one tomb, but a whole necropolis. Unbelievable. He would have found this trail eventually, but it might have taken a long time.

The Broadbents had now served their purpose. There was no rush; the light was not high enough, and he wanted to give them plenty of time to get comfortable, to relax, to assume they were safe. And he, Hauser, wanted to think this op through. One of the great lessons he had learned in Vietnam was patience. That was how the Viet Cong had won the war—they were more patient.

He gazed around with delight. The necropolis was stupendous, a thousand tombs filled with grave goods, a tree laden with fruit ripe for the plucking. Not to mention all the valuable antiquities, stelae, statuary, reliefs, and other treasures in the White City itself. On top of that, there was the half billion dollars’ worth of art and antiquities in Broadbent’s tomb. He would bring the Codex out with some of the lighter stuff and finance his return with the proceeds. Yes, he would definitely be back. There were billions to be made in the White City. Billions.

He felt into his musette bag, fondled a cigar, and with regret allowed it to remain undisturbed. It would not do for them to smell cigar smoke.

One had to make certain sacrifices.

68

The four brothers stood rooted to the ground, staring into the rectangle of darkness. They could not move, they could not speak. The seconds ticked on into minutes as the flow of foul air ebbed. No one made a move to go inside the tomb. No one wanted to see what horror lay within.

And then there was a sound: a cough. And another: the shuffle of a foot.

They were paralyzed, mute with anticipation.

Another shuffle. Tom knew it then: Their father was alive. He was coming out of the tomb. Still Tom could not move, and neither could the others. Just as the tension became unbearable, in the center of the black rectangle, a ghostly face began to materialize. Another shambling step, and now an apparition appeared in the gloom. Another step brought the figure into reality.

He was almost more horrifying than a corpse. The figure halted before them unsteadily, blinking his eyes. He was stark naked, shrunken, stooped, filthy, cadaverous, smelling like death itself. Snot ran from his nose; his mouth hung open like a madman’s. He blinked, sniffed, blinked again in the dawn light, his colorless eyes vacant, uncomprehending.

Maxwell Broadbent.

The seconds ticked by, and still they remained rooted to the ground, speechless.

Broadbent stared at them, one eye twitching. He blinked again and straightened up. The hollow eyes, sunken in great dark pools of flesh, were darting from each of their faces to the next. He took a long, noisy breath.

No matter how much he wanted to, Tom could not move or speak. He stared as their father straightened up a bit more. The eyes roved once again across their faces, more penetrating. He coughed, the mouth worked a bit, but no sound came. Broadbent raised a trembling hand, and finally a cracked sound came from his lips, They leaned forward, straining to understand.

Broadbent cleared his throat, rumbled, and took a step closer. He inhaled again and finally spoke:

“What the hell took you so long?”

It roared out, ringing off the cliffs, echoing back out of the tomb. The spell was broken. It was their old father, there in the flesh after all. Tom and the others rushed forward and embraced the old man. He gripped them fiercely, all at once and then each one in turn, his arms surprisingly strong.

After a long moment Maxwell Broadbent stepped back. He seemed to have expanded to his usual size.

Jesus Christ,” he said, wiping his face. “Jesus, Jesus Christ.”

They all looked at him, unsure how to respond.

The old man shook his great gray head. “Christ almighty, I’m glad you’re here. God, I must stink. Look at me. I’m a mess. Naked, filthy, revolting!”

“Not at all,” said Philip. “Here, let me give you this.” He pulled off his shirt.

“Thank you, Philip.” Maxwell put on Philip’s shirt and buttoned it up, his fingers fumbling clumsily. “Who does your laundry? This shirt is a disgrace.” He attempted a laugh and ended up coughing.

When Philip began taking off his pants, Broadbent held up a large hand. “I’m not going to strip my own sons.”

“Father—”

“They buried me naked. I’m used to it.”

Borabay reached into his palm-leaf pack and pulled out a long piece of decorated cloth. “You wear this.”

“Going native, am I?” Broadbent awkwardly fitted it around his waist. “How do you tie it up?”

Borabay helped him tie it around his waist with a knotted hemp cord.

The old man knotted it and stood there, saying nothing. Nobody knew what to say next.

“Thank God you’re alive,” said Vernon.

“At first I wasn’t so sure myself,” Broadbent said. “For a while there I thought I’d died and gone to hell.”

“What, you? The old atheist now believing in hell?” said Philip.

He looked up at Philip, smiled, and shook his head. “So much has changed.”

“Don’t tell me you found God.”

Broadbent wagged his head and clapped a hand on Philip’s shoulder. He gave it an affectionate shake. “Good to see you, son.”

He turned to Vernon. “And you, too, Vernon.” He looked around, turning his crinkly blue eyes on each of them. “Tom, Vernon, Philip, Borabay—I’m overwhelmed.” He placed a hand on each of their heads in turn. “You made it. You found me. My food and water were almost gone. I could only have lasted a day or two more. You’ve given me a second chance. I don’t deserve it but I’m going to take it. I did a lot of thinking in that dark tomb ...”

He looked up and out over the purple sea of mountains and the golden sky, straightened up, and inhaled.

“Are you okay?” Vernon asked.

“If it’s the cancer you’re talking about, I’m sure it’s still there—just hasn’t kicked in yet. I’ve still got a couple of months. The son of a bitch got into my brain—I never told you that. But so far, so good: I feel great.” He looked around. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Tom said, “Unfortunately, it’s not going to be that simple.”

“How so?”

Tom glanced at his brothers. “We’ve got a problem, and his name is Hauser.”

“Hauser!” Broadbent was astonished.

Tom nodded and told their father all the details of their respective journeys.

“Hauser!” Broadbent repeated, looking at Philip. “You teamed up with that bastard?”

“I’m sorry,” said Philip. “I figured ...”

“You figured he’d know where I went. My fault: I should have seen that was a possibility. Hauser’s a ruthless sadist, almost killed a girl once. The biggest mistake in my life was partnering with him.” Broadbent eased himself down on a shelf of rock and shook his shaggy head. “I can’t believe the risks you took getting here. God, what a mistake I made. The last one of many, in fact.”

“You our father,” said Borabay.

Broadbent snorted. “Some father. Putting you to a ridiculous test like this. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I can’t understand what got into me. What a damn stupid, foolish old bastard I’ve been.”

“We haven’t exactly been My Three Sons,” said Philip.

“Four sons,” said Borabay.

“Or ... perhaps there are more?” Vernon asked, raising one eyebrow.

Broadbent shook his head. “Not that I know of. Four fine sons if only I’d had the brains to realize it.” He fixed his blue eyes on Vernon. “Except for that beard, Vernon. Good Christ, when are you going to trim that hairy appendage? You look like a mullah.”

Vernon said, “You don’t look too clean-cut yourself.”

Broadbent waved his hand and laughed. “Forget I said that. Old habits die hard. Keep your damn beard.”

There was an awkward silence. The sun was rising higher above the mountains, and the light was turning from gold to white. A flock of chattering birds flew past, dipping and rising and swerving in unison.

Tom turned to Borabay. “We need to think of our plan of escape.”

“Yes, brother. I think of this already. We wait here until dark. Then we go back.” He glanced up at the clear sky. “It rain tonight, give us cover.”

“What about Hauser?” Broadbent asked.