Havana Storm (Dirk Pitt 23)
Page 44
“On January 26th, Martin, our lead diver, uncovered a large inscribed stone that was originally thought to be ballast. With considerable effort, the stone was raised off the bottom and towed to shallow water, where it was brought ashore. The stone appears to be one half of a larger round artifact that was deliberately split in two. Subsequent surveys of the wreck site by the divers failed to locate the other half.”
“I share in his frustration,” Dirk said with a shake of his head.
Summer continued reading.
“The stone is Mexica, as Roy Burns has identified its carvings as Nahuatl glyphs. Its shape and design appear similar to the Calendar Stone, although at a fraction of its size. Its meaning is as yet unknown, although Roy is successfully translating sections at this time.”
“Tell us something we don’t know,” Dirk said.
Summer skimmed the remaining pages. “The next few days were spent winding down the excavation and cataloging artifacts,” she said. “But there’s a bit more on the stone. On January twenty-ninth, he writes:
“Roy has spent the last days studying the Mexica stone and making detailed drawings. His interpretation is necessarily incomplete, but he believes the stone is a map to an island depository associated with the deity Huitzilopochtli. He is quite excited about it, and has taken to calling it Boyd’s Emperor Stone. Quite ridiculous, I’m afraid.
“Those are his words,” Summer said. “No indication of what’s on it, or even a rendering of the map.”
“Burns is right,” Dirk said. “There’s obviously significance to this island depository. Too bad he didn’t give us his piece of the map.”
“This is interesting.” Summer turned to the last page. “The final entry is dated February 1st:
“We received an unwelcome visitor to the camp today in the form of Julio Rodriguez, who apparently has been in Jamaica on a dig near Kingston. He immediately inquired about the Mexica stone. He must have a spy in our local work crew. Fortunately, the stone has already been crated and was out of view on a wagon. Roy and I told him nothing, which stoked his ire and he departed in a tiff. Once again, he is seeking glory on the backs of other men’s toils. Thankfully, we are departing Port Antonio tomorrow, and will be able to decipher the stone’s full meaning back in New Haven.”
Summer closed the journal. “That’s the last entry.”
“So our hunch stands. The second stone is most likely collecting dust in a back room of the Yale Peabody Museum.”
Summer scrunched her nose. “I don’t know. Boyd seems to recognize its importance. One of them must have published a paper on it.”
“I suppose,” Dirk said, “but it could be as forgotten as the stone.”
“We can email St. Julien and the museum tonight,” she said, “and do more digging when we get aboard the Sargasso Sea tomorrow. Assuming Dad doesn’t have a mountain of work waiting for us.”
Finishing their meal, they paid the bill and hopped into the VW for the short ride back to the cottage. Turning onto the coastal highway, they were approached by a battered pickup that rode up on their bumper. Dirk accelerated, but the truck hung on his tail.
Summer glanced in the mirror at the truck’s rusty grill bouncing dangerously close behind. “This guy makes a New York cabbie look polite.”
Dirk nodded and pressed deeper on the gas. The winding road broke into a straight stretch that was free of oncoming traffic. Dirk edged the Beetle to the shoulder and slowed to let the truck pass. But the driver kept on Dirk’s bumper.
“The guy can’t take a hint,” Dirk muttered, forgoing the courtesy and speeding up.
“Maybe he’s taking the highway advice to heart,” Summer said, pointing at a weathered road sign that proclaimed Undertakers Love Overtakers.
The road wound down a small hill and over a bridge that spanned a marshy creek. As they reached the bridge, the truck finally made its move and pulled alongside the Beetle.
Dirk glanced at a tough-looking Jamaican in the passenger seat who flashed an unfriendly grin. Then the man leaned out the truck’s window, pointed a pistol at Dirk, and pulled the trigger.
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The shot whistled by as Dirk instantly stood on the brakes. The truck swerved hard over, smacking into the Volkswagen and driving it toward the meager bridge railing. The Beetle’s left fender tore through the guardrail, shattering its wooden supports like they were toothpicks.
Dirk downshifted, fighting to keep the wheel straight. Summer let out a yelp as they veered off the shoulder, the left tires half hanging over the edge. The popping of the gunman’s pistol sounded over the fray. The Beetle’s windshield shattered as Dirk and Summer ducked low in their seats.
Amid a screech of grinding metal, the VW fell back before the heavier truck could knock it into the creek. Dirk snapped the wheel right, barely escaping a plunge off the road. Finding no oncoming traffic, he swerved into the far lane and stomped on the accelerator.
The Beetle’s turbocharged four-cylinder engine howled as the small car shot past the slowing pickup. The truck’s driver reacted quickly, gunning his own engine. A well-tuned 5.7-liter Mopar Hemi under the hood belied the truck’s shabby appearance and gave it more than enough juice to give chase.
“How did they track us here?” Summer yelled, gripping the dashboard as Dirk pushed the Beetle hard through a tight curve.
“I don’t know, but they’re serious about finding the other half of the stone.”