"How much do you think the book's worth, General?"
Zacul shrugged while his nervous fingers tapped double time. "In dollars, not much. Not to a collector. But I am a student, and it's a thing I would like to have."
"Then I'll give it to you as a gift when I return for the first shipment. A present of good faith. It's in Costa Rica now. Safe."
Zacul liked that. Ford could see it in his face. "Very generous, but since I'm to have it anyway, why not tell me where it is so I can send a man to bring it? That way I can begin my study of it immediately, and, of course, it would finalize our business agreement."
Playing along, Ford said, "I'm going to have to think about that one, General. After the treatment we've received, I mean-—"
Zacul nodded, looking at Suarez, that same expression of reproach, the same act. "Colonel, these men should have been treated as guests, not as criminals. This man has been beaten. Not by you or your men, I hope?" Speaking in English for their benefit.
Apparently it was a familiar role, and Suarez didn't bother to hide the smirk. "It seemed a necessary thing at the time, General."
"That is not the way I wish to run my army. A man must be judged fairly, not in some bar in Utatlan. I am very disappointed. From now on, these men will be treated as my personal guests. And you may consider yourself confined to quarters for the rest of the morning. "
Suarez saluted smartly, then ambled off toward the lake-shore where he began to give orders to soldiers who were unloading boxes from several small boats.
Zacul was already bored with them. His attention wandered; he dropped the fake formality and kept lighting cigarettes. He had more important things to do than play host to two profit whores—Americans at that. That was fine with Ford. It meant he believed their story. That he paid them any attention at all was an indicator of how badly he wanted the book.
They had followed him through the camp to the hillside where men on scaffoldings were digging out the remains of at least one great pyramid, maybe another, though Zacul said it was too soon to tell. He led them up stone steps, like gray dominos, then through a low postern. It was cool inside the temple and smelled of earth and bat guano. There were vines growing out of the walls.
"There have been many earthquakes since the time of the conquistadors," Zacul told them. "You can see how this temple has been damaged. But in its historical value, I think this find equals that of Tikal in Guatemala. As presidente, I have proclaimed it a national preserve, the Julio Zacul Park of Kings, in honor of our great revolution and the Maya people. There will soon be tours on those small carts such as you have in the United States."
As president? Tours on small carts? Something behind those glassy eyes had lost a hinge, was swinging back and forth through reality. The guy was already living in the future.
Tomlinson was on his tiptoes, studying'the wooden lintel above the entranceway, saying "This is zapote wood, as strong as iron but it lasts longer." Speaking to Ford but to convince Zacul he knew what he was talking about. "Take a look at this, Doc—" He was touching a small carving that had been etched outside the frame of the lintel's intricate glyph-work. The carving was very old, roughly done, and graphically obscene. "It's a graffito. The Mayan workers loved graffiti. Probably close to nine hundred years old. I bet it used to drive the priests crazy."
"More than a thousand years old," Zacul put in sharply, not contesting Tomlinson's expertise but to establish his own as superior. He looked at Ford. "This man calls you Doc. As in doctor?"
"That's right," Ford said, but offered no further explanation. He told Zacul he hoped the lintel would be included in the first shipment; said he felt they could auction it for thirty, maybe forty thousand dollars. Zacul said it would be worth at least eighty. He said it in a way that left no room for discussion. Zacul told them the lintel would be cut out of the doorway and ready for the first plane.
Zacul led them down the hill, not commenting on the other digs going on near the main temple. He spoke to his men in a barking Spanish, filled with slang and profanities which illustrated his personality more clearly than his formal English. Some of the work areas were screened from sight by awnings and an odd smell drifted from them: ether and gasoline. Once, when the general walked away for a few moments to speak with a worker, Tomlinson whispered, "Cocaine kitchens. Smell the fumes? They make the stuff right here. "
Ford nodded. It was something Tomlinson would know by smell.
As they finished the tour, Zacul still had given no indication they had found the calendar or were even looking. But Ford knew they must be close. They had already salvaged at least two of the emeralds—the stones he had found back on Tequesta Bank. Ford wondered if they had found any more since Rafe's theft.
The question was soon answered.
Zacul led them to a clearing in which a great canvas awning had been raised and encircled with concertina wire. Two guards stood at the entrance holding assault rifles while, inside, several men wearing rubber gloves worked over vats that were probably filled with acid. Beyond the work area was a large storage site studded with Maya stelae, large and small, like a graveyard. The folding tables were covered with stone carvings and ornate pottery. At the rear of the area was another one of the portable fiberglass huts, this with a third guard standing at the door.
Ford guessed the concertina wire and the extra guard had been added after Rafe's last visit.
Zacul told Tomlinson to look all he wanted; asked him to give him an idea of what some of the smaller stelae might be worth. The question was too innocent, implying a lack of expertise that Zacul would have never admitted even if it were true. It was a test; the test Wendy Stafford had warned him about back in Costa Rica, and now it was up to Tomlinson.
Tomlinson walked slowly along the stone rows, stopping here and there, squinting at glyphs, touching some of them. He seemed to pay special attention to the first row, a dozen stones no higher than his thighs.
Finally he said, "Stelae this size are the easiest to sell. They're portable enough for people to display them easily in their homes, but still big enough to be impressive. Real works of art." He was squatting, one hand on a stone, looking at Zacul. "I guess the median rate for one of these stela might be nine grand; probably average around eight if you spread them around, market them right."
Ford winced at the expression on Zacul's face. "Then you would pay me approximately four thousand American dollars apiece for those stones?" Like he was springing a trap.
Tomlinson stood. "It's up to Dr. Ford what he pays you, but I couldn't recommend he pay more than a couple hundred or so apiece. The stones in this row are copies. They're good copies, but it still adds to the risk. I'm just telling you what they'd sell for if we found the right buyers. It would be dangerous, though. If collectors got word Doc was pushing bad goods, it could mess up his whole operation. He'd make money up front but he'd lose in the long run when word got around."
Ford was so relieved he had a hard time manufacturing the proper indignation. "What are you trying to pull here, Zacul? I offer you a fair business deal and now you try to push off fake stuff on me. I don't like that. It's bad for everyone concerned."
Zacul was anything but meek. "You said you don't trust me? Well, I don't trust you. It is an easy thing for two men to say they have come to my camp to buy artifacts. They might come for other reasons and have absolutely no knowledge of what it is they're pretending to buy. I test in my own way—" Now he looked pointedly at Ford. "—and you will not use that tone of voice with me again." He let the stare linger before saying to Tomlinson, "How did you know these pieces are counterfeit?"