pdouglas.thecodex-第64部分

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ba　he　was　pretty　sure　he　could　extract　more　than　fifty　million　from　him；　perhaps　a　lot　more。　Switzerland　would　be　a　good　base　to　operate　from。　That　was　how　Broadbent　himself　used　to　do　it；　launder　questionable　antiquities　through　Switzerland；　claiming　they　were　from　an　〃old　Swiss　collection。〃　The　masterworks　couldn't　be　sold　on　the　open　market…they　were　too　famous　and　Broadbent's　ownership　too　widely　known…but　they　could　be　quietly　placed　here　and　there。　There　was　always　some　Saudi　sheik　or　Japanese　industrialist　or　American　billionaire　who　wanted　to　own　a　beautiful　painting　and　who　wasn't　too　particular　where　it　came　from。
　Hauser　abandoned　these　pleasant　fantasies　and　turned　his　attention　back　to　the　ground。　More　dew　swiped　from　a　leaf；　a　spot　of　blood　on　the　soil。　He　followed　the　traces　into　a　ruined　gallery　and　turned　on　his　lamp。　Moss　scraped　from　a　stone；　an　imprint　in　the　soft　ground…any　idiot　could　follow　these　tracks。
　He　followed　the　signs　as　fast　as　he　could；　putting；　as　they　said；　as　much　pressure　on　the　trail　as　possible。　As　he　emerged　into　a　broad　forest；　he　saw　one　particularly　clear　trace；　where　they　had　stirred　up　some　rotten　leaves　in　their　headlong　flight。
　Too　clear。　He　froze；　listened；　and　then　crouched　and　minutely　examined　the　ground　ahead。　Amateurish。　The　Viet　Cong　would　laugh　at　this　one：　a　bent　sapling；　a　loop　of　vine　hidden　under　leaves；　an　almost　invisible　trip　wire。　He　took　one　careful　step　back；　picked　up　a　stick　lying　conveniently　nearby；　and　lobbed　it　at　the　trip　wire。
　There　was　a　snap；　the　sapling　shot　up；　the　loop　jerked。　And　then　Hauser　felt　a　sudden　breath　of　air　and　a　tug　on　his　pantleg。　He　looked　down。　Embedded　in　the　loose　crease　of　his　pant　was　a　small　dart；　its　fire…hardened　tip　dribbling　a　dark　liquid。
　The　poisoned　dart　had　missed　him　by　less　than　an　inch。
　For　several　minutes　he　remained　frozen。　He　examined　every　square　inch　of　ground　around　him；　every　tree；　every　limb。　Satisfied　there　was　no　other　trap；　he　leaned　over　and　was　about　to　pluck　the　dart　out　of　his　khakis　when　he　stopped　himself　yet　again…and　just　in　time。　The　sides　of　the　dart　had　imbedded　in　them　two　nearly　invisible　spines；　also　wet　with　poison；　ready　to　prick　the　finger　of　whoever　tried　to　grasp　it。
　He　took　a　twig　and　flicked　the　dart　off　his　pantleg。
　Very　clever。　Three　multilayered　traps　in　one。　Simple　and　effective。　This　was　the　Indian's　work；　no　doubt　about　it。
　Hauser　moved　forward；　a　little　more　slowly　now；　and　with　newfound　respect。
　
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　Tom　ran　through　the　forest；　speed　taking　precedence　over　silence；　swinging　wide　of　their　earlier　trail　to　avoid　running　into　Hauser。　His　path　took　him　through　a　maze　of　ruined　temples　buried　under　thick　mats　of　vines。　He　had　no　light；　and　sometimes　he　had　to　feel　his　way　down　dark　passageways　or　crawl　under　fallen　stones。
　He　soon　arrived　at　the　eastern　edge　of　the　plateau。　He　paused；　catching　his　breath；　and　then　crept　to　the　cliff　and　looked　down；　trying　to　orient　himself。　It　seemed　to　him　that　the　necropolis　should　lie　somewhere　to　the　south；　so　he　went　to　the　right；　following　the　trail　that　skirted　the　cliffs。　In　another　ten　minutes　he　recognized　the　terrace　and　walls　above　the　necropolis　and　found　the　hidden　trail。　He　scurried　down；　listening　at　each　switchback　in　case　Hauser　was　still　there；　but　he　had　long　gone。　A　moment　later　he　came　to　the　dark　opening　to　his　father's　tomb。
　Their　backpacks　still　lay　in　a　pile　on　the　ground　where　they　had　dropped　them。　Tom　picked　up　his　machete　and　resheathed　it　and　then　kneeled；　rifling　through　the　packs；　taking　out　some　reed　bundles　and　a　pack　of　matches。　He　lit　one　of　the　bundles　and　stepped　into　the　tomb。
　The　air　was　pestilential。　He　breathed　through　his　nose　and　ventured　deeper　inside。　A　tingle　of　horror　crawled　up　his　spine　as　he　realized　this　was　where　his　father　spent　the　last　month；　locked　up　in　pitch　darkness。　The　flickering　light　illuminated　a　raised　funeral　slab　of　dark　stone；　carved　with　skulls；　monsters；　and　other　strange　motifs；　surrounded　by　stacked　boxes　and　crates　banded　with　stainless　steel　and　bolted　shut。　This　was　no　King　Tut's　tomb。　It　looked　more　like　a　crowded；　filthy　warehouse。
　Tom　stepped　closer；　overing　his　sense　of　revulsion。　Behind　the　boxes　his　father　had　set　up　a　crude　living　space。　It　looked　as　if　he　had　scraped　together　some　dry　straw　and　dust　to　form　a　kind　of　bed。　Along　the　back　wall　stood　a　row　of　clay　pots；　which　evidently　contained　food　and　water；　the　stench　of　rot　rose　from　them。　Rats　came　leaping　out　of　the　pots　and　fled　before　the　light。　Sick　with　fascination　and　pity；　Tom　peered　into　one　and　found　a　scattering　of　dried　plantains　at　the　bottom；　the　food　was　crawling　with　greasy　black　cockroaches；　which　bumped　and　chittered　in　a　panic　from　the　torchlight。　Dead　rats　and　mice　floated　in　the　water　jugs。　Against　one　wall　was　a　pile　of　rotting　rats…obviously　killed　by　his　father　in　what　must　have　been　the　daily　petition　for　food。　In　the　back　of　the　tomb　Tom　could　see　the　gleaming　eyes　of　live　rats；　waiting　for　him　to　leave。
　What　his　father　had　endured　in　here；　waiting　in　the　pitch…dark　for　his　sons　who　might　not　ever　e　。。。　It　was　far　more　horrifying　than　he　could　possibly　imagine。　That　Maxwell　Broadbent　had　endured　and　lived…and　even　hoped…told　Tom　something　about　his　father　that　he　had　not　known　before。
　He　wiped　his　face。　He　needed　to　get　the　Codex　and　get　out。
　The　boxes　were　stenciled　and　labeled；　and　it　took　Tom　only　a　few　minutes　to　find　the　crate　containing　the　Codex。
　He　dragged　the　heavy　crate　outside　into　the　light　and　rested；　gulping　in　the　fresh　mountain　air。　The　box　itself　weighed　eighty　pounds；　and　it　contained　other　books　besides　the　Codex。　Tom　examined　the　quarter…inch　bolts　and　wing　nuts　holding　together　the　steel　bands　that　clamped　down　the　fiberglass…wrapped　wood　sides　of　the　box。　The　wing　nuts　were　tight　and　hard。　It　would　take　a　wrench　to　unscrew　them。
　He　found　a　rock　and　gave　one　of　the　nuts　a　sharp　blow；　loosening　it。　He　repeated　the　process　and　in　a　few　minutes　had　removed　all　the　wing　nuts。　He　pulled　off　the　steel　bands。　A　few　more　massive　blows　cracked　the　fiberglass　covering；　and　Tom　was　able　to　wrench　it　free。　A　half　dozen　precious　books　spilled　out；　all　carefully　wrapped　in　acid…free　paper…a　Gutenberg　Bible；　illuminated　manuscripts；　a　book　of　hours。　He　shoved　aside　the　books　and　reached　in；　grasped　the　buckskin…covered　Codex；　and　pulled　it　out。
　For　a　moment　he　stared　at　it。　He　remembered　so　clearly　how　it　had　sat　in　a　little　glass　case　in　the　living　room。　His　father　used　to　unlock　the　case　every　month　or　so　and　turn　a　page。　The　pages　had　pretty　little　drawings　of　plants；　flowers；　and　insects；　surrounded　by　glyphs。　He　remembered　staring　at　those　strange　Mayan　glyphs；　the　dots　and　thick　lines　and　grinning　faces；　all　wrapped　and　tangled　around　each　other。　He　hadn't　even　realized　it　was　a　kind　of　writing。
　Tom　emptied　one　of　their　abandoned　backpacks　and　shoved　the　book　in。　He　shouldered　the　pack　and　started　back　up　the　trail。　He　decided　to　head　southwest；　keeping　an　eye　out　for　Hauser。
　He　entered　the　ruined　city。
　
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　Hauser　followed　the　trail　more　carefully　now；　all　his　senses　alert。　He　felt　a　tingling　of　excitement　and　fear。　The　Indian　had　been　able　to　rig　up　a　trap　like　that　in　less　than　fifteen　minutes。　Amazing。　The　Indian　was　still　out　there　somewhere；　no　doubt　readying　another　ambush　for　him。　Hauser　wondered　at　the　rather　interesting　loyalty　shown　by　this　Indian　guide　to　the　Broadbents。　Hauser　never　underestimated　native　skills　in　forestcraft；　ambush；　and　killing。　The　Viet　Cong　had　taught　him　respect。　As　he　followed　the　Broadbents'　trail　he　took　every　precaution　against　ambush；　by　walking　off　to　one　side　and　pausing　every　few　minutes　to　examine　the　ground　and　undergrowth　ahead；　even　smelling　the　air　for　human　scent。　No　Indian　up　in　a　tree　was　going　to　surprise　him　with　a　poison　dart。
　He　saw　that　the　Broadbents　were　headed　toward　the　center　of　the　plateau；　where　the　jungle　was　thickest。　No　doubt　they　hoped　to　hole　up　there　and　wait　for　nightfall。　They　would　not　succeed：　Hauser　had　almost　never　encountered　a　trail　he　couldn't　follow；　particularly　one　made　by　a　panicked　group　of　people；　one　of　whom　was　bleeding　heavily。　And　he　and　his　men　had　already　thoroughly　explored　the　entire　plateau。
　Soon　the　rainforest　ahead　became　choked　by　a　wild　overgrowth　of　creepers　and　lianas。　At　first　glance　it　looked　impenetrable。　He　approached　cautiously　and　peered　down。　There　were　small　animal　trails　running　every　which　way…mostly　coatimundi　trails。　Fat；　pendulous　drops　of　water　hung　off　every　leaf；　vine；　and　flower；　waiting　for　the　slightest　vibration　to　fall。　No　one　could　walk　through　such　a　minefield　without　leaving　evidence　of　his　passage　in　the　form　of　leaves　brushed　clean　of　their　dew。　Hauser　could　see　exactly　where　they　had　gone。　He　followed　their　trail　into　the　dense　overgrowth；　where　it　seemed　to　vanish。
　Hauser　scrutinized　the　ground。　There；　in　the　damp　litter　of　the　forest　floor；　were　two　almost　invisible　indentations；　formed　by　a　pair　of　human　knees。　Interesting。　They　had　crawled　into　the　heart　of　the　creeper　colony　along　the　animal　trails。　He　squatted　and　peered　into　the　green　darkness。　He　sampled　the　air　w