But now because of the ridiculous court order, she was not permitted to leave rainy, cold, damp London. Worse, the social climate in London had not been warm. She’d had such bad press for the past couple of months, with the accusations that she’d looted Mayan tombs, claimed to discover sites that had already been registered, and used a Mayan codex she wasn’t supposed to have.

Beginning a day ago, rumors about her had begun to circulate, and she was being associated with some huge drug bust in Central America. People had already canceled their RSVPs, so the welcome-home dinner party she was throwing for herself was dissolving. She could hear the fear in their voices. They had been scared their precious reputations would be tarnished if they shared hors d’oeuvres with mad, bad Sarah Allersby. A year ago, any of them would have come to her party even if they’d had to crawl to her house on their knees.

She stood in front of the big mirror by the door and inspected herself as she buttoned her navy blue coat. The buttons were gold, and the coat looked like a piece of an eighteenth-century naval officer’s uniform. She half turned to present her profile to the mirror, stepped to the door, and opened it. The .308 caliber bullet pierced her forehead and passed through the back of her skull, destroying her brain so fast that she never heard the report of the rifle, if there was one.

Through the rifle scope, Russell could see that she had fallen backward, and the heavy front door had begun to swing closed. It had been stopped by one of her feet, so it looked as though it had been partially opened by someone about to leave who had gone back in to get something.

Russell put down the rifle while Ruiz closed and locked the window and then drew the curtain. Russell quickly dismantled the rifle and placed it in his suitcase. He and Ruiz hurried down the back staircase, then into the kitchen and out the back door to the garden. It was midmorning, so there were cars and people on nearby streets, but nobody seemed to have noticed anything.

The house they had been in was for sale. It was only one number down and across the street from Sarah’s and it was the same kind of place. Four million pounds was what they’d been asking. Russell and Ruiz had spent only about an hour in the house and had worn rubber gloves.

As Russell rushed through the back garden — such a British thing in itself — he felt satisfied. Sarah had broken her promise and let him and Ruiz go to a Guatemalan jail. So now she had received her payment. Russell got into the car that they’d left waiting at the curb, and Ruiz drove. Ruiz seemed to be better at driving on the wrong side of the road. He stopped the car on the way so Russell could drop the pieces of the rifle in a series of trash cans.

At Waterloo station, they stopped in a men’s room to change clothes and wash their hands. They took the big yellow-and-white Eurostar train to Paris. It would take them three hours to get there, but they had premium first-class tickets, and the ride promised to be restful. And anything was better than the prison they’d escaped from in Guatemala.

The train chugged slowly through London and its inner suburbs and then gained speed. After about an hour, it entered the tunnel under the English Channel, and the windows went dark.

Santiago Obregon looked from the passageway of the train at the two Americans in their premium seats. They appeared to be sleeping. It was astounding to Obregon that these two imagined that Diego San Martin would let them waste nearly a hundred of his men and go off to Europe in safety. He was grateful to them for killing Sarah Allersby because otherwise he’d have had to do it.

Obregon sat across from the Americans in their compartment as though he belonged there. He reached into his briefcase and took out his tool, a CZ P-07 Duty pistol with a factory-threaded muzzle and special high sights to provide a view over the sound suppressor. He shot the two Americans in the chest quickly to preclude resistance.

He stood and shot the first American in the head to be sure he died and then aimed the gun at the head of the second. The man addressed him in Spanish. “Who are you? Why kill us?”

“Why do you kill?” said Obregon. “For money.” He pulled the trigger. He pressed his pistol into the right hand of the dead man. Then he went out and moved to another car. Before too long, they would be arriving in the Gare du Nord.

Chapter 36

The town meeting was held in the church, with Father Gomez presiding. At the end, he said, “You have all heard the arguments for allowing the archaeologists to excavate the stronghold and all the reasons not to permit it. You will each take a piece of paper and write Si or No and put it in the collection box.”

The people lined up and voted. When they had finished, Father Gomez, Dr. Huerta, and Andreas, the new mayor, counted the votes. The town had voted overwhelmingly to allow Dr. Caine’s team to dig.

In the morning, at seven, the members of the expedition were joined by Father Gomez at the head of a delegation from the town. As they started the long climb up the narrow path, Father Gomez said, “Dr. Caine, there are things you need to know and this is my first chance to tell you. You know this place is sacred to the local people. The ones buried up there are not strangers, they’re ancestors. They were the rulers of the city of Kixch’ent and the survivors of a great war against a city about thirty miles to the east in about 790 A.D. When it became apparent that they were terribly outnumbered and losing, they gathered a group of loyal warriors, along with the most valuable things they owned. They carried them here.”

“You mean this was to be their last stand?”

“Exactly. They built a fortified watchtower where the church is now. Then they brought their people up on the plateau and built a stronghold there. When the enemy came, the stronghold held. But people died and were buried up there, and precious objects were buried with them — weapons, ornaments, everything that was of great value to them.”

“So what’s up there is all from a war of the classic period?”

“Not all of it. Two hundred years later, in the 950s A.D., the people of the city had to retreat to the stronghold again. Events played out roughly the same. The place was too steep, too high, and too well defended to fall. Eventually, the people returned to their city. Later, when Spanish soldiers came near, the people of Alta Verapaz fought them savagely and held them off. But, as a precaution, the people brought what was most precious to them and their culture up to the stronghold.”

David Caine said, “And nobody has ever dug here?”

“No,” said Father Gomez. “A few have tried. The people of the town killed them. Time passed. The people accepted Christianity. The watchtower was torn down and the stones used to build the church. The world forgot the little it ever knew about this place. But the people never forgot any of it.”

Caine said, “I can see they’re very protective.”

“Be aware that they’ve decided to trust you because they love Sam and Remi Fargo and would do anything that they asked. Don’t ever let the people think you aren’t living up to what you promised and respecting their ancient kings. You would not last a day.”

The group reached the top of the plateau, where they could see the fortifications along the rim and the burial mounds of the kings.

Caine’s attention was drawn to the mound that had been opened a hundred years ago and reopened by the Fargos. There were rows of large pots with lids that appeared to have been sealed. Caine knelt beside one, but Father Gomez touched his shoulder. “Wait.”

Caine stood up, looking at him inquisitively.