Sam slowed to a sane pace and soon they were handing the keys to a valet and entering the restaurant. The owner greeted them like long-lost relatives and escorted them to the private corner table they favored. His wife came over to say hello and suggested a special tasting menu of the chef’s specials for the night, paired with a bottle of 2009 Sassicaia—arguably Italy’s foremost Super Tuscan red wine.
The meal was relaxed, each dish perfectly prepared and presented, beginning with a bruschetta to die for, followed by braised sweetbreads, veal ravioli in a truffle sauce, and three preparations of shrimp. By the time Sam and Remi were sipping glasses of limoncello, they were ready to burst, and both agreed that they would sleep well after the wonderful meal.
The G650 descended through the cloud covering on final approach to Benito Juárez International Airport in Mexico City. When they broke through the last of the clouds, the city was a few thousand feet below them. Torrential rainfall blanketed the buildings and roads. As the aircraft touched down, its tires threw a rooster tail of water into the air, and then they taxied to the jet charter building. All around them vehicles raced through the downpour, headlights beaming and flashers blinking, bearing luggage and fuel and provisions for the outbound commercial jets waiting in line for their chance to brave the storm.
A black GMC Yukon waited for them outside the terminal’s glass-and-steel entrance. The driver held the door open for them, loaded the luggage, and then circled around to slip behind the wheel. Once they were in traffic, the streets were jammed with vehicles. Water rushed along the surface, potholes the size of televisions filled with ominous black water. The locals shambled down the sidewalks, wearing plastic parkas and toting umbrellas, as they picked their way along the uneven concrete. Outside of a discount pharmacy, a forlorn figure wearing a plush chicken suit stood under an overhang, waving a yellow foam sign with Abierto printed on it in large red letters.
“If the treasure-hunting thing bottoms out, I could always do that,” Sam commented.
“I’d pay extra to see you in that outfit, regardless of the circumstances.”
“I don’t know. It might lower property values in La Jolla.”
“Coward.”
“I am not.”
“Chicken.” She put her hands under her armpits and flapped her elbows. “Pwuk-pwuk-pwuk . . .”
He eyed her with good humor. “Are you trying to tell me something? Because you’re getting this rooster’s attention.”
“It’s either the chicken suit or nothing.”
“If I didn’t know you were kidding, I’d be seriously worried.”
“Kidding?” Remi asked with raised eyebrows.
“Never mind.”
They checked into the hotel. After unpacking their bags, they called Carlos Ramirez, who spoke in heavily accented English. He told them that they could come by at any point that afternoon and he’d be happy to introduce them to the others researching the new find. Sam and Remi grabbed lunch in the hotel restaurant and then had a taxi take them to INAH—the National Institute of Anthropology and History—located next to the Cuicuilco Ecological Park in the city’s southernmost reaches.
Carlos Ramirez met them at the security desk in a stylish, immaculately cut dark gray suit. He wore his salt-and-pepper hair longish, and a dapper mustache framed his upper lip, which was perpetually curved in a smile.
“Ah, Señor and Señora Fargo. Welcome, welcome. I’m glad you didn’t let the weather scare you off,” he said, shaking hands with them.
“Compared to some of the places we’ve been recently, this is paradise,” Sam said.
“A little rain never kept us away from anything important,” Remi assured him.
Carlos led them upstairs to his office. “I have a suite here, in addition to one at our headquarters in the historic district. But truthfully, I spend most of my time here. I prefer academia to bureaucracy. Of course, fieldwork is my first love. But there is less op
portunity for that now that I’m in a position of responsibility.”
The office was expansive, with a conference table at one end surrounded by burgundy leather-upholstered chairs, and a large oval desk near a bank of windows overlooking the park. “Please, have a seat, and I’ll call the others and make introductions. But before we do that, tell me all about what I can help you with.”
“As Selma might have told you, we’re researching the Toltecs,” Sam explained, “specifically around the A.D. 1000 era. We figured since this is where they were located, we should come to Mexico and do some in-person nosing around.”
“Your accomplishments precede you. We as a nation are in your debt for saving the Mayan Codex on our behalf. Anything I can offer you in the way of assistance is yours for the asking.”
“Well, I shouldn’t think that this will be nearly as dramatic,” Remi said. “I’m afraid much of what we’re doing is going over old ground. But it’s all part of the job, and we prefer to be thorough.”
“Yes, of course. Where would you like to start?”
“We’d like to look at the existing collection of artifacts and any documents you have that pertain to the Toltecs . . . or their most famous ruler, Quetzalcoatl.”
“Absolutely. Unfortunately, there isn’t nearly as much as we’d like. The Aztec priests destroyed most of the records of his accomplishments. To complicate matters, the Spanish, whether deliberately or accidentally, further distorted the records until what we know about him is likely wrong.”
Remi nodded. “Then you understand the problem we’ve been having. We’re hoping you have material that’s not online, which might shine some additional light on Toltec civilization, as well as their leader.”