e symbol of the Mexica Tenochca movement since the day Garza had founded it, this statuette had become a rallying cry for the wave of nationalism that had swept him into office. Should its credibility be called into doubt . . . It was a question Garza didn’t dare entertain. The thought that a lost nineteenth-century warship could destroy everything that he’d built was unacceptable. All of it gone because of a trinket or artifact found by a random snorkeler, who in turn shows it to someone with a passing interest in history, who then asks an expert. A falling domino that destroys a nation’s restored pride.
THE BUZZ OF THE INTERCOM on Garza’s desk shook him from his reverie. He turned off the case’s halogen light and returned to his desk.
“Yes?” he said.
“He is here, Mr. President.”
“Send him in,” Garza said, then turned and sat down behind his desk.
The double doors opened a moment later and in strode Itzli Rivera. At six feet tall and one hundred fifty pounds, Itzli Rivera appeared unsubstantial from a distance—gaunt in the extreme, his narrow face of angles and planes dominated by a hawk nose—but as he came closer Garza reminded himself how deceptive Rivera’s appearance was. It showed in the hard set of his eyes and mouth, in his steady, purposeful gait, and in the taut muscles and the tendons of his bare forearms. Even without knowing the man, an astute observer could easily see Itzli Rivera was no stranger to hardship. Of course, Garza knew this to be true. His chief operative had indeed visited hardship upon many poor souls, so far most of them political opponents who didn’t share Garza’s vision for Mexico. Luckily, it was easier to find a virgin in a brothel than it was to find an incorrupt member of the Senate or the Chamber of Deputies, and Rivera had a knack for finding a man’s weakness, then shoving the dagger home. Rivera was himself a true believer, having rejected his Spanish name, Hector, in favor of Itzli, which in Nahuatl meant “obsidian.” A fitting name, Garza thought.
A former major in the Grupo Aeromóvil de Fuerzas Especiales, or Special Forces Airmobile Group, GAFE, and former Secretariat of National Defence’s S-2 Intelligence Second Section, Rivera had left the army to become Garza’s personal bodyguard, but Garza had quickly seen Rivera’s wider potential and had put him to work as his own private intelligence and operations director.
“Good morning, Mr. President,” Rivera said stiffly.
“And to you. Sit down, sit down. Can I get you something?” Rivera shook his head, and Garza asked, “To what do I owe this visit?”
“We’ve come across something you may want to see—a video. I asked your secretary to cue it up.”
Rivera picked up the remote from his desk, aimed it at the fifty-inch LCD television on the wall, and hit Power. Garza sat down. After a few seconds of silence, a man and woman in their mid-thirties appeared, sitting together before an ocean backdrop. Off camera, a reporter was asking questions. Though Garza’s English was fluent, Rivera’s technical people had added Spanish subtitles.
The interview was short, no longer than three minutes. When it was done, Garza looked to Rivera. “And the significance is?”
“Those are the Fargos—Sam and Remi Fargo.”
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“Do you remember last year, the story about Napoleon’s Lost Cellar . . . the lost Spartans?”
Garza was nodding his head. “Yes, yes . . .”
“The Fargos were behind that. They’re very good at what they do.”
This got Garza’s attention. He leaned forward in his chair. “Where was this interview taped?”
“Zanzibar. By a BBC correspondent. Of course, the timing could be a coincidence.”
Garza waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t believe in coincidences. And neither do you, my friend, or else you wouldn’t have brought this to me.”
For the first time since entering the office, Rivera showed a trace of emotion—a thin shark’s smile that never reached his eyes. “True.”
“How did you come across this?”
“After the . . . revelation . . . I had my technical team create a special program. It monitors the Internet for certain key words. In this case, ‘Zanzibar,’ ‘Tanzania,’ ‘Chumbe,’ ‘Shipwrecks,’ and ‘Treasure.’ The last two, of course, are the Fargos’ specialties. In the interview they were adamant that the trip was simply a diving vacation, but . . .”
“This close to the last incident . . . the British woman . . .”
“Sylvie Radford.”
Radford, Garza thought. Luckily, the idiot woman had had no inkling of the significance of what she’d found, treating it as nothing more than a trinket, showing it off around Zanzibar and Bagamoyo, asking locals what it might be. The necessity of her death had been unfortunate, but Rivera had handled it with his usual care—a street robbery turned murder, the police had concluded.
What Ms. Radford actually found had been the thinnest of threads, one that would’ve required careful and expert teasing lest it snap. But the Fargos . . . They knew all about following random threads, he suspected. The Fargos knew how to uncover something from nothing.
“Could she have told someone what she found?” Garza asked. “The Fargos have their own intelligence network of sorts, I would imagine. Could they have gotten a whiff of something?” Garza narrowed his eyes and stared hard at Rivera. “Tell me, Itzli, did you miss something?”
The gaze that had withered many a cabinet secretary and political opponent left Rivera unfazed; the man merely shrugged.
“I doubt it, but it is possible,” he said calmly.