The Aztec Heresy (7 page)

Librarie Pierre Jumaire had always specialized in nautical books, and the very tops of the bookcases were decorated with ships in bottles, bits of carved ivory, and a collection of brass navigation instruments, none of which had felt the touch of a duster for more than half a century. On the rare occasions that Jumaire left the shop, he inevitably wore an ancient peaked officer’s cap and a dark blue peacoat that could easily have been worn by Melville’s Ishmael in
Moby-Dick.

As Finn and Billy entered the store, Jumaire was arguing with a customer in a loud voice and waving his arms to illustrate his point. The customer eventually slapped several bills down on the counter, picked up his purchase, and left in a huff, brushing past them and banging the door hard enough to make the little dangling bell at the lintel ring angrily.

‘‘Idiot!’’ Jumaire said to no one in particular.

‘‘Trying to bargain?’’ Billy asked, smiling.

‘‘Ach!’’ Jumaire answered. ‘‘The price is written on the flyleaf of every volume. This is not some bazaar in the souk at Marrakech. Would they argue over the price of a Royale with cheese at McDonald’s? I think not!’’ Finn burst out laughing. Jumaire eyed her severely. ‘‘You are very pretty, my dear, and I have a weakness for women with red hair, but I am quite serious. The fools try my patience endlessly. Would you barter at Hermes or Christian Dior? No again, of course you would not! They throw you out on your pretty little ear. Faugh!’’

‘‘Sorry,’’ said Finn.

‘‘Beautiful women should never apologize,’’ answered Jumaire, eyes twinkling behind his glasses.

‘‘Martin Kerzner sent us,’’ said Billy.

‘‘Really,’’ said Jumaire.

‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘He said you could help us.’’

‘‘Will and can are two entirely different words.’’

‘‘We understand that,’’ said Finn.

‘‘We’re trying to find out what happened to the
San Anton,
’’ said Billy.

‘‘She sank in a storm,’’ answered Jumaire.

‘‘But where?’’

‘‘Ah,’’ said Jumaire. ‘‘As Long John Silver would say, ‘there’s the rub.’ ’’

‘‘We thought you could help,’’ said Finn.

‘‘Why should I?’’

‘‘Because
Cavallo Nero
is trying to find out as well,’’ said Billy.

‘‘Ah,’’ said Jumaire again. ‘‘The fiends from the Vatican. The new great Satan for thriller writers.’’

‘‘You think they’re a fiction?’’

‘‘No, of course not. They’re genuine enough, but they have nothing really to do with the Vatican. There is no sinister conspiracy of albino men of the cloth protecting the secrets of the new millennium via strange messages embedded in the streets of Paris or old paintings. The only thing embedded in the streets of Paris is used bubble gum. It is as it ever was: it is all about money. The Inquisition was about greed and power. It still is.’’

‘‘Will you help us?’’ Finn said bluntly.

‘‘Certainly,’’ said Jumaire with a shrug. ‘‘Why not?’’

‘‘That was easy enough,’’ said Finn. ‘‘Why the sudden trust?’’

‘‘Kerzner told you we were coming,’’ said Billy, suddenly understanding. ‘‘He called to warn you.’’

‘‘Of course. He described Miss Ryan perfectly.’’

The old man struggled to his feet, balancing himself on his canes. ‘‘Turn the sign on the door, throw the bolt, and pull down the blind,’’ he instructed Billy. The reverse of the OPEN sign read
Entrailles pas Fiables
: uncertain bowels. ‘‘It covers a multitude of situations and rarely invites questions,’’ explained Jumaire. He came out from behind the counter and headed through the stacks. ‘‘Follow me, if you please. I have rooms in the back. I’ll make coffee for us.’’

Max Kessler sat in Jack Kennedy’s bomb shelter and examined the file he had assembled on Harrison Noble and his father. It made interesting reading. Noble Pharmaceuticals had begun as a family business almost a hundred years before, trafficking in patent medicines of all kinds but specializing in nostrums, pills, powders, and tonics, a number of them containing opium derivatives, several based on cocaine and one extremely popular concoction used for distress related to ‘‘a particular periodic occurrence’’ named Lady Helen’s Tonic, which contained a healthy dose of heroin. Over the decades Noble Pharmaceuticals added to its fortunes, expanding into a variety of over-the -counter products but maintaining a solid base in patent medicine of all kinds, especially its flagship product, Noble’s Mixture, a cure-all that was still being sold well into the fifties. In 1960 Conrad Noble, the family patriarch, died, and James Jonas Noble took over. His first act was to change the names of almost all their products. Thus, Noble’s Mixture became Nomix, Grady’s Hair Tonic became Brillamine, and Noble’s Liver Pills became Heparine. Under James Noble’s guidance the company slowly phased out the old quack items and began the manufacture of generic prescription drugs, carefully watching the growth of antipsychotics and antidepressants based on the ever-expanding volume of new diseases being listed in the
Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders,
generally referred to as the DSM and presently in its fourth incarnation, DSM-IV, in which ‘‘shyness’’ had become something called Social Anxiety Disorder, or SAD.

Every time a new DSM mentioned a new disease, Noble found a drug for it or adapted someone else’s. Prozac and Paxil became Danex, Zoloft became Antipan, and Celexa became Cytoloft. A drug by any other name made billions. By the year 2000 Noble Pharmaceuticals was the eighth largest drug manufacturer in the world, and their motto, ‘‘We Feel Your Pain,’’ had been adopted by
Late Night with David Letterman
and spoofed regularly on
Saturday Night Live.
The humorless lawyers for Noble Pharmaceuticals assured James Noble that he had grounds for a lawsuit, but the CEO told them not to be silly, it was free advertising on an enormous scale.

Harrison Noble, James Noble’s only child, was only a faint reflection of his father, and some of the gossip columnists said the only things he’d inherited from his father were a strong chin and a weakness for blondes. A student at Yale and a member of Skull and Bones only because of his father, Harrison Noble had no particular interests except spending his trust fund and seeing how many debutantes he could sleep with, until he started sleeping with the daughter of the president of the United States and managed to get her pregnant. The silencing of the scandal of both the pregnancy and its termination led to an ultimatum from his father about making something of himself, which in turn resulted in Noble Ventures, ostensibly an oceanographic foundation funded by Noble Pharmaceuticals but really nothing more than an excuse to provide a platform for a series of ill-advised treasure-hunting expeditions and a way to indulge Harrison Noble’s passion for scuba diving and island hopping through the Caribbean. It also managed to fulfill his father’s desire for keeping his son out of dangerous political bedrooms. The connection between the younger Noble and a drug czar like Angel Guzman led Max Kessler’s analytical intellect down a number of intriguing avenues and bore closer attention, especially if, as Max Kessler surmised, Harrison Noble was acting for his father. Like the taped door at the Watergate Hotel that led to Nixon’s resignation, Max knew the tip of an iceberg when he saw it.

8

Pierre Jumaire poured coffee and set out a plate of petit fours in his simple kitchen, then sat down with Finn and Billy. ‘‘I’m still not sure of the importance of the Codex,’’ said Billy.

‘‘Beyond its intrinsic value as a historical document, the Cortéz Codex was proof of Cortéz’s treason. He was hiding a vast treasure from King Charles. In those days the monarchy received a
quinto,
one-fifth of any plunder from any expedition to the New World. By that time Cortéz himself was so powerful that the only way to deal with him was by having him excommunicated by the Inquisition, in which case all his lands and treasures would be forfeit to the Church, which would in turn pass on an agreed-upon proportion to the crown. It was exactly the kind of thing the Nazis did to the Jews in the thirties and Roosevelt did to the interned Japanese after Pearl Harbor. Government -sanctioned theft, all neat and tidy and done according to the laws of the day.’’

‘‘Follow the money,’’ murmured Finn.

‘‘Generally a wise course to follow as a historian, ’’ said Jumaire. He sipped his coffee, then lit another of his foul-smelling cigarettes.

‘‘Why would anyone be interested in the Codex now?’’ Finn asked.

‘‘Because it is a treasure map, of course,’’ answered the bookseller. ‘‘You’re proof of its interest yourself.’’

‘‘I don’t buy that,’’ answered Finn. ‘‘You and your friend Brother Kerzner haven’t been hanging around on the off chance that someone’s going to come looking for a five-hundred-year-old scrap of parchment.’’

‘‘It’s actually tree bark,’’ said the bookseller mildly.

‘‘Called
amatl
. Made from a fig tree, usually
Ficus padifolia,
’’ she answered just as mildly. ‘‘As I said, a public education from Ohio can be quite good.’’

‘‘Touché,’’ Jumaire said and laughed. ‘‘I apologize.’’

‘‘Apology accepted,’’ said Finn. ‘‘But you still haven’t answered my question.’’

‘‘Tue-mouches,’’
said Jumaire.

‘‘Flypaper,’’ translated Billy.

‘‘I don’t get it,’’ said Finn.

‘‘A lure,’’ explained the old man. ‘‘We are aware of the interest
Cavallo Nero
has in such things. The more we know of their activities, the better.’’

‘‘Forewarned is forearmed,’’ said Billy.

‘‘Something like that.’’

‘‘And has somebody from the Black Knights been sniffing around?’’ Finn asked.

‘‘Let’s just say you’re not alone in your interest, ’’ said the old man coyly.

‘‘You’re making this sound like a dangerous proposition,’’ said Billy.

‘‘
Cavallo Nero
has been known to be somewhat extreme in its methods,’’ agreed Jumaire.

‘‘So you’re warning us off?’’

‘‘No, merely informing you of the reality of the situation.
Cavallo Nero
is of the opinion that they are sanctioned by God Himself.’’ Jumaire glanced at Finn with a smile. ‘‘Or Herself. Thus anything they do can be justified. The Inquisition can do no wrong since they are in fact the arbiters of what is right. An extension of Papal infallibility. Very convenient.’’

‘‘Do you know where the
San Anton
sank?’’ Finn asked bluntly. ‘‘I want to know what all the fuss is about.’’

‘‘So be it.’’ The old man paused. ‘‘By most estimations it sank off Key West, Cayo Hueso as it was known then, the Island of Bones. In fact, the likelihood is that it managed to turn north and run before the hurricane for some time before it sank.’’

‘‘Which was where?’’

‘‘The North Cape of Bimini Island, fifty miles off Miami.’’ He smiled, this time unpleasantly. ‘‘Coincidentally, less than a thousand yards from the Bimini Road.’’

‘‘The Bimini Road?’’ Billy frowned.

‘‘Edgar Cayce. Atlantis.’’ Finn sighed. ‘‘Woo-woo territory.’’

‘‘Very impressive,’’ said Jumaire.

‘‘That Ohio - public - school - education - thing again,’’ said Finn. ‘‘You can’t beat it.’’

‘‘Woo-woo?’’ Billy asked.

There was no direct flight from Paris, so Finn and Billy headed back to London through the Chunnel, caught a BA jumbo out of Heathrow, and then spent ten hours and four time zones droning down the entire length of the North Atlantic Ocean eating stale food on plastic trays and alternately listening to Bruce Springsteen and watching Bruce Willis save the world again, this time without any hair at all. Columbus had a hard time getting to the Caribbean, but by the time Finn arrived in Nassau she was pretty sure she’d rather have sailed on the
Santa Maria
than flown on British Airways.

They arrived, bleary-eyed and yawning, at Lynden Pindling International Airport at ten in the morning local time. After going through customs they walked into the scruffy waiting room and headed for the doors. A pair of workmen were shifting a big Kalik Beer display while an airport janitor dusted off a huge fading cardboard effigy of Daniel Craig as James Bond that had been there since the movie opened and refused to leave. Some joker had scribbled ‘‘mashup boy’’ across the figure’s chest in marker and added a Hitler mustache to 007’s upper lip. The superspy wound up looking like a very stern version of Charlie Chaplin with a gun.

They stepped out into the bright hot sun in front of the airport. The air was like a physical blow and Finn dragged in a lungful of the island scent; a mingling of rotting vegetation, exotic perfumes, and the salt of the surrounding sea. As promised, Sidney Poitier was there to meet them in his battered old Toyota taxi.

‘‘Good mornin’, good mornin’, how are you this mornin’?’’ The old man shook his head. ‘‘This what worl’ travelin’ does for you then I want no part of it,’’ continued Sidney, eyeing Finn and Billy as they dragged themselves into the old car. ‘‘You look like somethin’ unhappy the kitty-cat put in the sandbox.’’ He peered at them in the rearview mirror. ‘‘You going to the boat?’’

‘‘Please,’’ said Finn, letting her head fall back against the seat. Sidney industriously hammered the car into gear and jerked away from the curb. The old man wrestled the rattling car around Killarney Lake, then brought it staggering down John F. Kennedy Drive to West Bay Street and the string of aging hotels that stood in a long, well-manicured row along Cable Beach, the unbelievably turquoise ocean stretching out to the horizon beyond.

They reached the outskirts of Nassau ten minutes later, which was like coming in the back door of any small town in the Caribbean: pastel-colored buildings surrounded by crumbling stucco walls topped with razor wire, classic, old-fashioned resort hotels on the beach side of the street, and potholes everywhere. They passed a few of the pint-sized, privately owned jitney buses ferrying tourists into town from Cable Beach, tumbling out rake-and-scrape and goombay music from blaring loudspeakers set over the windshields. Through breaks between the buildings and the palms, they saw half a dozen overweight-looking cruise ships, sparkling white except for the crimson blot of the old
Big Red Boat,
once the Disney flagship but now owned by an obscure cartel of Spanish businessmen.