A woman stepped forward to greet me. She was short, maybe a hair over five feet tall. Her body was wiry and dark-skinned. Her hair, black as tar, was tied back in a ponytail. She emitted a prickly, snobbish vibe and I was nearly certain she'd been the one to lob the grave robber insult.
"Call me Miranda," she replied. "I'm leading this dig."
"Cy Reed." My heart raced as I shook her hand. "I've read your books on the Classic Maya Collapse."
"Really?"
Despite my best efforts, she awed the hell out of me. I'd read her name hundreds of times over the last several years. She'd been interviewed on television and praised in newspapers. Countless media outlets had cited her work as gospel. She was famous, as close to a celebrity as one could find in the archaeological world.
"You make an excellent case for the mega-drought theory."
A confident smile formed on her lips. "Thank you."
My brain churned as I tried to think of an appropriate response. I wasn't an expert. But I knew the Classic Maya society had sprung up around 200 AD. It quickly became one of the most advanced civilizations in the world, showing renowned expertise in architecture, sculpture, painting, pottery, and astronomy.
Sometime after 800 AD, the Classic Maya mysteriously vanished from the southern Maya lowlands, abandoning great cities in the process. Close to one hundred theories had been proposed to explain the Classic Maya Collapse, including war, revolts, and disease. But Miranda's extensive work on the subject had convinced most people that human-induced climate change was the primary culprit.
Still, I didn't want to just parrot her opinions. I wanted her to know I could think for myself. "I'm not convinced though," I replied. "If mega-droughts caused the collapse, why didn't the Mayas abandon their northern cities too?"
"Most of those cities were close to the coast and had access to seafood. So, they weren't as dependent on agriculture as their southern counterparts."
"I guess that makes sense. But the mega-drought theory is still hard to imagine. The southern lowlands get so much more rain than the northern ones."
"That's because you're looking at it through modern lenses. The climate was very different back then." She gave me a superior look. "It's very simple. My work proves that one of the most severe droughts of all time plagued the southern lowlands for roughly two hundred years beginning around 800 AD. At the same time, the Mayas were cutting down the jungle to make room for buildings and crops. Deforestation meant less water was transferred back into the atmosphere. This exacerbated the drought and crop yields decreased. The Mayas tore down more trees to plant more crops. And a vicious cycle commenced."
"Okay." I held up my hands. "You win."
"I don't mean to come off as rude. But I take this subject seriously. There's much that modern society needs to learn from the Mayas. Otherwise, we'll repeat their mistakes." She forced a smile. "Well, did you have any trouble getting here?"
"Our boat nearly capsized halfway down the Candelaria River."
She cringed. "That's too bad."
I'd only spent a few minutes with her, but I'd already noticed something curious. Despite her reputation as an environmental guru, she seemed somehow out of place in the jungle.
"Well, we're obviously the salvage experts." I jabbed my thumb over my shoulder. "That's Beverly Ginger. The older gentleman — and I use that term loosely — is Dutch Graham."
She nodded at each of us in turn. "I know you don't do this type of work anymore. So, thank you for making an exception in our case."
For the last couple of years, I'd worked as a treasure hunter and salvage expert. But four months ago, I'd quietly pulled myself out of the field.
"No problem," I replied.
"Do you have anything you need me to sign?"
"Not unless we accept the job."
"I thought you'd already accepted it."
"You thought wrong."
"But you came here. We paid your way."
"And I appreciate that. But I'm not going to accept your job until I see it with my own eyes."
"I guess I can understand that." She put her hands on her hips. "Well, what do you need from me?"
"Do you have your INAH paperwork?"
All excavations on Mexican soil required permission from the INAH, or the Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia. Most archaeologists praised the organization for protecting Mexico's many unexcavated ruins. But having run afoul of it in the past, I saw things a little differently.
The INAH provided a favored group of people — professional archaeologists — with a monopoly on dig sites. Everyone else was left out in the cold. Even landowners weren't allowed to excavate their own properties.
But while I didn't care for the INAH, I wasn't about to cross it. The punishment for doing so was steep, up to twelve years in prison.
"Yes," she said. "Everything is in order."
"Good." I nodded at her two comrades. "Who are they?"
"Rigoberta Canul and Jacinto Pacho. They've worked with me for years. If this site bears fruit, they'll be responsible for the actual excavation."
Miranda was the archaeological equivalent of Alexander Dumas. Dumas had employed a team of assistants to help write most of his works. In fact, The Count of Monte Cristo, one of his most famous creations, was actually the brainchild of Auguste Maquet.
Like Dumas, Miranda employed assistants. They managed her various excavations throughout Central America. When she wasn't writing books or giving interviews, she traveled back and forth between her excavations, providing management and oversight.
I turned toward Rigoberta. She was well nourished, but not fat. Her smooth complexion gave her a youthful appearance, but her demeanor and slow reflexes suggested an older age.
I shook her hand. "And who is this?" I asked with a nod at the tiny Chihuahua cradled in her arms.
"Yohl Ik'nal," she replied happily. "She's named after the first known female ruler in Maya history."
Pacho was much younger, probably in his late twenties. Thick glasses obscured his hazel eyes. His face was etched in a permanent scowl.
He shook my hand with a firm grip. "That's not the only dog around here."
I followed his gaze to a large tree. An old American foxhound napped beneath it. His coat was a fine mixture of black, white, and bronze. "What's his name?" I asked.
"Alonzo."
"He looks tired."
"Nah. He's just lazy."
A few voices drifted into my ears. My gaze shifted to three people standing about twenty feet away from Alonzo. One man stared into the jungle. Meanwhile, the second man and a woman argued loudly. "Who's the loner?" I asked.
"Carlos Tum," Miranda said. "He's sort of an archaeologist."
"Sort of?"
"He doesn't have a degree. But he knows this jungle and its ruins better than anyone. We actually grew up together. I left to pursue archaeology. He stayed behind in order to master the family business."
"What kind of business?"
"Shamanism."
My eyes widened.
"The couple is Dora and Renau Manero," Miranda continued. "They specialize in deciphering ancient Maya hieroglyphics."
"Do they always fight like that?"
"Pretty much."
I studied the clearing. A single dome-shaped tent with multiple openings occupied one end of it. It housed a long table as well as two racks of shovels, trowels, and other tools. A large yellow tractor was parked nearby.
"So, when did the flooding start?" I asked.
"Eighteen hours ago. The tomb has held up so far, but I don't think it'll last much longer."
"Show me."
She walked to the dig site. It had been sectioned off into a neat grid. A single layer of topsoil had been stripped from the earth and placed into metal buckets. Those buckets now sat under the dome tent, waiting to be sifted.