“What’s that?”

“It has to do with the gold cross found on the body of James Gower. At first I thought it was mere speculation on my part, but now...”

He placed the glasses back on his nose. “A little background first. In 1519, as you know, Hernán Cortés landed on the coast of Mexico and eventually conquered the Aztec capital of Tenochtitlán, the largest city in the New World. It was ruled by the emperor Montezuma, who had staggering amounts of gold, silver, and other precious objects in his treasury. The Spanish destroyed Tenochtitlán in 1521 and carried away its treasure. Almost all of it was melted down into bars to ship back to Spain. But some of that gold was reworked into holy objects for use in the New World.”

He tented his fingers, voice deepening.

“Montezuma wore a large gold forehead ornament with the likeness of the god Quetzalcoatl on it, studded with precious stones. It was the fundamental symbol of his divine authority. After Montezuma’s death, the Spanish pried out the stones and melted down the gold—and remade it into a cross. It was a highly significant action, you see. They did it for the same reason they built churches on top of Aztec temples and sacred places: to transform the symbols of pagan worship into Christian ones.”

“And that was the cross Gower was carrying?”

“I believe so.” His eyes shone. “The very cross scholars long believed was lost to history—or just a legend.”

“But how do you know it’s that cross?”

“Those little stamps I’ve been scratching my head over? The ones I thought were hallmarks or maker’s marks? They were not. They were, in fact, Nahuatl glyphs: one for the name Montezuma, and the other a syllabic glyph for Jesus. When I saw that, I wondered if it might be the cross. But that’s an extraordinary claim, and I was searching for corroborative evidence. This letter is that evidence. The cross was believed to have been carried up into New Mexico around 1600, so it would naturally be found with the ecclesiastical treasure.” He tapped the computer screen with a long finger. “This treasure.”

A soft knock came at the door, and the president’s assistant came in. “Sorry to bother you, but, Nora? That FBI agent called your office phone. I heard it and picked it up. She’s been trying to reach you.”

“My office phone?” Nora pulled her cell from her pocket. During their session with the Spanish letter, it had gone dead. “Thanks.” After congratulating Chavez and promising him a bottle of Dom Pérignon, she went to her office and called Corrie from her landline.

“Nora, I’ve been trying to reach you all morning!”

“Listen, Corrie, I’ve got some incredible news. I found Nantan Taza, the old Apache. He’s alive. And he gave me a—”

“Hold up, Nora,” Corrie said sharply.

“What is it?”

“The phone … might not be good. We need to meet. In person. Somewhere safe.”

“Can you come to the Institute?”

“Yes.” A pause. “No. Not safe enough. Come to my apartment in Albuquerque.”

“When?”

“Around six, please.”

49

“I WARN YOU,” said Watts, as he and Morwood stood in the parking lot outside Cascabel Tavern, the light of a blinking neon cactus framed against the evening sky. “This place isn’t too friendly to law enforcement.”

“So you said.” Morwood pulled out a glossy of Rivers and another glossy, blurry and indistinct, of the guy in the MP uniform who had killed him and handed both to Watts. “I’m going to let you do the talking. You look like one of them, and I don’t.”

“Well, damn, Agent Morwood, I told you to wear a cowboy hat and jeans,” said Watts with a grin.

Morwood snorted. “Hell will freeze over first.”

Watts heard some yelling, followed by a woman’s shrill voice at the other side of the dirt parking lot. Two guys appeared, swinging their fists at each other while the girl hollered, thoroughly enjoying the fight.

“Kind of early for that, don’t you think?” Morwood said. “It’s barely six.”

“Never too early at the Cascabel. Besides, I’d much rather go in there now than wait until midnight.” Watts tugged the brim of his hat and strode across the lot, Morwood following. He pushed open the saloon doors and entered the bar, fragrant with the smell of cheap perfume and spilled beer—and choking with cigarette smoke, even though it had been against the law to smoke in a New Mexico tavern for fifteen years.

Watts glanced around as they headed to the bar but didn’t see anyone he knew. He ordered a cup of coffee while Morwood ordered a glass of seltzer. The bartender was enormous, well over six feet, solid as a cast-iron boiler. He had a big black beard and a ponytail, and his facial expressions made it clear that he didn’t approve of their drink choices.

Watts took out his sheriff’s star and placed it on the bar.

The man eyed it, then looked up at Watts. “So?”

“I was hoping to ask a few questions about a guy who used to come in here. Pick Rivers.”

The bartender looked at him steadily, then turned to Morwood, staring at the ID hanging on a lanyard around his neck. “You a fed?”

“FBI.”