Alicia stared. With only a small stretch of her imagination she could easily see them at that aforementioned battle of Tenochtitlan, fighting the conquistadors. Cruz approached reverentially and spoke for a while. Alicia understood none of it and kept her eyes sweeping the area, always alert.
After five minutes Cruz finally turned to Crouch. “It’s up to you now. I have done all I can and expressed Rivera’s wishes that they help. But you must convince them that you mean well, that you are the real deal. Otherwise,” he shrugged, “they will give you nothing.”
Crouch nodded, stepping forward. It wasn’t lost on him that the language barrier would severely dent the impact of his speech, but he hoped the sincerity in his voice would shine through in any dialect. He started out by explaining a little of his background, then quickly moved on.
“Carlos Rivera trusts us to do the right thing,” he continued as Cruz translated. “As does Mr. Cruz here. They would not help us if they didn’t believe in us. I have pulled together this entire team, professionals all, to help and we are funded by a man with major contacts inside the World Heritage Committee. Your priceless treasures, if found, would be displayed in a museum in their entirety, not sold off or smuggled away to a private collector as so many are these days.”
Crouch paused to let Cruz catch up, then continued.
“I realize most everyone that has approached you so far were not exactly… genuine, honest people. I can’t prove that we are any different save for the tone of my voice and my choice of words, but I can offer something that you already inherently know — your ancestors were not fools. They will not suffer fools to find their gold. Only a highly professional outfit, richly underwritten, can hope to stand any chance of succeeding. And then only with your help. Do you want your heritage back?”
Cruz’s voice persisted for a minute then fell silent. Alicia gazed into the faces of the elders, seeing nothing there. Not a flicker of expression. Not once did they turn to each other, as if conversing through mental telepathy. But after a while the tallest man with the most weather-beaten skin and deeply crinkled eyes started to talk.
Cruz translated. “Your words are welcome, but strangers are not. Any man can lie, and most very well. There is nothing for you here.” The guide looked a little crestfallen.
Crouch leaned forward. “Carlos Rivera, my friend, said that you might.”
The elder made no move, instead staring at Crouch without let up. Eventually Cruz said, “To me you are still a stranger.”
Alicia scanned the valley once more. It wasn’t that she was expecting trouble, it was that trouble was never far away during operations like this. Truth be told, trouble seemed to cling to her like a besotted high-school senior. In the twilight of her SAS days, and because it was new and cultish at the time, the guys had taken to calling her Veronica, after Kristen Bell in the TV series, because the two women looked so much alike and were beset with misfortune. But that was where the similarities ended. Alicia had escaped the hell of her home before college and even then she could have incapacitated a man with a double strike. It could be said that her formative years had shaped her for war.
The elder expressed himself again. “We have long accepted that our heritage is lost. Perhaps it is better staying where it is.”
Alicia picked up on the charged statement as quickly as Crouch. “Then it does exist? You have proof. Your people and certainly your ancestors would not have wanted it to stay lost. The plan was to return it, yes? Bring the caravans back after the Spanish left. They could not have foreseen what happened. Think carefully, my friend, because this is your chance. Maybe your best chance.”
The elders retreated then stopped in sync. Alicia thought their simultaneous movements a little unsettling. The crowd of villagers at her back continued to grow, men returning from the fields and women and children leaving their houses to examine the newcomers. A light breeze blew through the modest valley.
The elder finally betrayed an emotion, that of weariness, and turned to his fellows. Some rapid-fire conversation ensued which Crouch didn’t look to Cruz to provide a translation for. It would only show bad manners. At last the main elder turned his attention back toward Cruz.
“They speak of the great journey. Seven caravans leaving the capital during that ageless night, heading north.” Cruz’s eyes widened at that as he passed on the information. Crouch fancied the tribe had never imparted so much before. “With prodigious treasures aboard. They speak of the cartwheel, what many call the original pieces of eight, the pre-eminent Aztec treasure of all time and the main item the elders might really want returned. Primarily they speak of each building’s jewels, because as you know every structure was stripped of its underlying gold and jewels and packed separately. The horde, the value, must be immense.”
Crouch betrayed no emotion. “What else do they say?”
“They want us to wait. Wait here.”
Alicia glanced sideways at her team. Russo was as observant as she, constantly scanning the terrain. Healey bore a look of wonder on his face and the glow of fire in his eyes. That’ll do, she thought. Lex shifted his weight from foot to foot as if uncomfortable and no doubt bottling up some kind of complaint. She watched the elders retreat into their cluster of houses.
Crouch didn’t turn around. “Stay alert, people. One way or another we’ll be out of here shortly.”
Sometime later the elders reappeared, shuffling at a slow march, one after the other. The leader grasped something in his right hand, a metal box of the modern world, somehow seeming incongruous out here. With an odd kind of reverence he placed it on the ground at his feet and then knelt before it.
He looked up. Cruz translated as he spoke. “If you know your Aztec history then you will know what a codex is.” He added, “It’s a book written by the ancient Aztecs, largely pictorial but they can contain a version of the Nahuatl language too. The old pictograms can be translated into writing now that the Nahuatl language has evolved.” He smiled at the elder. “There are very few surviving codices from the pre-conquest era.”
“Any that describe their capital’s destruction?” Crouch wondered.
“No. But there are over half a dozen bound manuscripts in existence. The Codex Aubin, Codex Mendoza and Florentine to name a few. If this is a codex” — he indicated the box — “it represents a great treasure in itself.”
The elder opened the box very slowly, reached in and pulled out a sheaf of papers. Cruz’s sharp intake of breath was enough to confirm the man’s suspicions. Now, however, the elder again started to talk, this time with a gravity to his tones.
Cruz blinked, suddenly looking shocked. “What? Are you kidding?” he said in English, forgetting himself before reverting to the elders’ language.
Alicia frowned. “What did he say?”
But Cruz was shaking his head, clearly upset, disagreeing with the elder. After a moment the man put his hand onto the top of the box and threatened to shove the papers back inside.
Crouch raised a hand. “What’s the problem, Jose? Perhaps I can help.”
“I doubt it,” Cruz muttered. “I’m the problem, it seems. Me.”
“You? How on earth—”
Alicia patted a pocket. “I have a gun. I could take you out if needs be.”
Cruz looked alarmed then resigned. “I don’t know what to say, sir. The elder won’t let you take a look at the codex unless you agree to take me with you on this… odd quest of yours.”