Jack turned away. Reksnys leered at him, enjoying his reaction. “I found this building myself, years ago when I acquired this land,” he said. “It’s a jungle temple, a sacrificial chamber above a sacred cenote.” He jerked his head towards the dark hole in the centre of the floor. “I scoured this jungle for years, searching for just such a find. What I have come across is truly remarkable. We in the felag guessed at such a thing, but there was never any evidence.”
“Evidence of what?” Jack said.
Reksnys ignored him. “Our sources told us you were searching for the menorah.”
“Sources,” Jack said derisively. “You mean you tortured it out of Father O’Connor.”
“O’Connor was very helpful to us,” Reksnys replied, his voice suddenly shrill. “But not in the way you think. In the Vatican he had become less cautious. Breaking into the Arch of Titus was one step too far. He had a superior who reported everything he did. We already knew about that woman.”
He jerked his head towards Maria and then saw Jack’s half-smile and suddenly narrowed his eyes. “That information is useless to you now. It is of no consequence whether I tell it to you or not, and I only share the story of my discovery with you as a fellow archaeologist.”
Jack looked from side to side. “I don’t see any other archaeologists here.”
Reksnys affected not to hear him. “We heard you had reached as far as Greenland. Of course we knew about the longship in the ice, discovered by my father with the Ahnenerbe expedition in the 1930s. Shortly before he was murdered he told me the full story, how Kunzl had snatched the runestone from him and tried to kill him with his own SS dagger in the crevasse. Fortunately my father had a photographic memory and could reproduce the symbols for a runologist in our pay years later, after the war.”
“I trust the photographic memory of all the women and children he murdered on the eastern front kept him awake at night,” Jack said icily.
“Only counting them.” Reknys snorted, then carried on. “Something made me remember this little temple, something about the glimpse I had years ago of that battle scene, the appearance of the warriors from the sea. When I found it, the temple was swallowed in the jungle and filled with rubble. None of the local Maya will come near the place. Some nonsense about an eagle-god, the return of the king. I remembered Harald Hardrada, the menorah. The cherished dream of the felag. It was just possible. I cleared out the temple myself, stone by stone.” He looked childishly pleased with himself. “It has been a most satisfying hobby.”
“Don’t play games with me,” Jack said coldly, looking back up. “This is more than just a hobby. It’s an obsession. And it’s illegal.”
Reksnys scowled at Jack and snapped his fingers. Loki was on him in a flash, standing chest to chest with him, butting him back, the livid scar on his face turned towards him. Loki was clearly used to intimidating those weaker than himself, but Jack stood a full head taller and stared down at him contemptuously.
“Enough.” Reksnys barked the command and Loki snarled, hands clenching and unclenching, his eyes turned to his father like a dog to its master. “Time for that later.” Loki sloped off, and Reksnys turned to the mural. “And now for the reason you are here.” He walked over and lifted the large wooden panel off the left-hand side of the wall, abutting the rubble. “There.”
It was the final scene. A procession was leading away from the base of the temple. It was the only scene not soaked in blood, though the figures were even more garish, more extravagantly attired than before. Some were human, others supernatural. Musicians sang and beat time, with trumpets and gourd rattles. A turtle carapace split open to reveal a god, pouring liquid from a jar. Others emerged from the shell of a crab, the jaws of a serpent. Warriors and women weaved among rows of torch-holders. A jaguar ate a human heart. A company of mummers performed, writhing, snaking in and out, one dressed as a crocodile and another a crab, with giant pincers raised up high. A team of ball players with protective belts and kneepads jostled each other, one being led back towards the temple by a sacrificial priest. Above the procession were poles with human skulls skewered on them. Some were stripped bare, leering skulls like the sculptures at Chichen Itza. Others were more recent victims, with hair and flesh still on them. Yellow hair. Beards.
In front of the pageant was a space which Reksnys had left covered by a protective cloth. But leading up to it was a line of white-robed women, with sloping foreheads and tied-back red hair, adorned with mountainous headdresses and green feathers from the sacred quetzal bird springing in hoops from their backs.
It was a triumphal procession. Another image flashed through Jack’s mind, an image that seemed unbelievably far removed from the world of the Yucatan-the Arch of Titus in Rome. The procession through the Forum. The triumph of Vespasian over the Jews.
He moved a few steps to his left, Loki’s eyes following him warily. The final depiction was still partly buried under rubble, but was clear enough. It was an abstract shape like a cauldron, its rim marking the end of the processional way. It was the jaws of the underworld, gigantic, gaping, hungry for sacrifice.
Chichen Itza. The Cenote of Sacrifice.
Reksnys moved up to the cloth and put his hand on the lower corner. “I believe that is where we are now. The underworld, the end of the procession. We all know who the vanquished are. I believe the victory procession ended where we are standing now, at the entrance to this cenote below us.” He spoke bullishly, with the utter conviction of the ignorant. Jack caught Maria’s eye again. This time she shook her head. Jack looked back. He realised there was nothing in the painting to identify the setting. It could have been one of dozens of Toltec ceremonial sites. The only connection Jack had with Chichen Itza was the runestone inscription from L’Anse aux Meadows. And that was unknown to Reksnys, safely under lock and key on board Seaquest II.
“I uncovered what you are about to see a mere four days ago, just before the felag exacted its revenge on the one who had betrayed us. A happy coincidence for your colleague here.” Reksnys jerked his pistol towards Maria. “We knew your ship was in the Caribbean and guessed our paths were converging. I thought we might benefit from your expertise. It is the only reason my son did not practise his art on her as well.”
Reksnys stood with his back to the wall, then with one quick movement lifted the cloth up.
There was a stunned silence. Jack felt his jaw drop, then regained his composure. Something Maria had once said came to him, something from rabbinical lore.
Drawn by the divine finger. Drawn by a finger of fire.
It was the menorah.
Seven branches, seven shafts of yellow shining as if they were aflame, shedding lustre like beams of light. At the head of the triumphal procession, raised in front of the Well of Sacrifice.
Jack looked at Maria, who was staring at the image in a trance, as if she were gathering strength from it.
Reksnys abruptly let the cloth drop back, concealing the image, and gave a coarse laugh. “Shocked?”
“I noticed you didn’t look at it,” Jack said coldly. “Or couldn’t.”
“I despise it. I have no wish to behold this object myself. It is a means to an end.” Reksnys nodded at Loki, who pulled Maria up and pushed her across to him. Reksnys kept her at arm’s distance, prodding her with the muzzle of the Luger, a look of distaste on his face. Then he shoved the gun in the small of her back, aimed down. “I know exactly how to do it. A slow, lingering death. Plenty of experience with her type.” He jerked his head towards the rebreathers and dive bags stacked beside the hole in the floor. He looked at Jack. “You are the world-famous underwater explorer, no?” His voice was mocking, sneering. “Now you and your friend will go down into the underworld and find what I desire.”