Read Online The Aztec Heresy by Paul Christopher - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Paul Christopher
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Mystery & Detective, Suspense fiction, Detective and Mystery Stories, cookie429, Extratorrents, Kat, Archaeologists, Women archaeologists
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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
‘‘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
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