“But, Allison Beauchamp has a double PHD, one in physical anthropology as well as Paleoscatology.”
“So, she’s an authority on fossilized shit; big deal. Yeah, and she probably sucked the Dean’s dick as part of her oral dissertation.”
“You told me that Bourque was a player.” His tone sounded petulant.”
“That’s the point, you little dick-head. An easy hump isn’t goin' t’ impress Bourque. We need pussy bait; an upright, tight assed young lady with moral fibre. You see I understand the Jonathon Bourque’s of this world. Underneath that supercilious, disinterested façade is a weak kneed romantic. The right woman, and he’ll be pussy whipped- gives us the perfect leverage.”
“I guess I screwed up,” he offered with forced contrition.
Joseph Brown smiled obliquely, transfixing the young man with a crocodilian stare.” Your files weren’t a total waste.I found one good prospect: attractive lady; good morals; brainy; IQ about 150; PHD in physical anthropology; good stuff; really good stuff. I’m goin' to check her out personally. She’s doin’ some kind of research on a tribe of “fuzzy-wuzzies” in a god-forsakin’ jungle somewhere in the Pacific; New Guinea I think you called it; yeah New Guinea, sounds like a stinkin’ clap ridden hole to me. Anyway, your file suggests that this brainy broad’s got a reputation as a tree huggin’ granola bar do-gooder. That’s even better.
“And as for you, my incompetent young friend, I’m gonna give you a second chance. It’s a simple assignment; a little job. Don’t fuck up. You can’t afford to fuck up. Now, get out.”
As soon as the chastened young man had left, Joseph Brown shut off his terminal. He opened his desk drawer, and took out his personally coded remote control. He lumbered over to the far wall of his study, keying in the access code as he walked. The heavy rear panel, which had appeared to be seamless, opened inwards. Joseph Brown stepped through into his private theatre.
He dropped heavily into his velvet covered recliner. He keyed in the requisite codes. The screen came down. The videos would come on in their programmed sequence.
The first video was somewhere between X- rated and soft core pornography. It was puerile stuff: prancing, stripping, frontal nudity, simulated bump and grind sex - standard sound effects - groaning, moaning, panting.
After about five minutes, Brown flicked the remote. A second video appeared on screen. This one was heavier: full penetration; variations on “deep throat”, crotch shaving, dildos, vegetable and otherwise.
After about two minutes, the third video came on. This one was the hardest of hard core stuff: whips, and pointy things; instruments that penetrate, and do serious damage.
Fifty–eight seconds into the video, he flicked again. The final video came on. It was worse. It was much worse. Throughout the screening, Joseph Brown’s face showed no expression of any kind.
"Why the hell am I here? Couldn't I have just walked away?" Jonathon Bourque had asked those questions of himself a hundred times.
From the moment he had seen and understood the final pictogram, he was hooked; he had come alive for the first time in - years, maybe ever. The effect of the revelation was so profound, that, for once, he could not think of a sardonic rejoinder. That tattered corner of parchment became the "key" to his personal "Kingdom of Heaven." It was, in fact, the key which might unlock the door to the greatest archaeological find in history. And yet, the parchment defied all evidence of history, and scholarship. Everyone knew that the fabled Treasure of Moctezoma had indeed been lost forever, swallowed up by the quicksand at the bottom of Lake Texcoco along with most of Cortez' army. Incredibly the codex revealed that the Aztecs had saved the treasure somehow, and hidden it. The codex was an anagram which, hopefully, would lead Jonathon Bourque to the repository of the culture and wealth of a lost civilization.
As soon as he was certain that Bourque had grasped the magnitude of the project Brown probed him. "Jonathon, would you like to know how much the treasure will yield on the open market?"
"Not particularly," he replied.
"I didn't think so," Brown agreed knowingly, a perverse grin spreading across his heavy features. "Would you, Jonathon, like to have full control over my project to recover the treasure - not only the expedition itself, but on its successful completion, the final authority on handling, and cataloguing the artifacts, with exclusivity on all source materials for the learned papers you people like to turn out. You’ll even have your choice of all or any items to donate to museums or academic institutions, if you deem them to be of importance to posterity."
Bourque didn't have to reply. His expression said it all. He was hooked firmly. Brown had only to reel him in.
"Why me?" he asked, incredulously. "There are those who are much better qualified to tackle this project. The logistics are mind numbing. Take the problem of the anagram, possibly Professor Archibald Jones of Harvard should be your man. He is the foremost authority on the Indian cultures of Mesoamerica, and as for a Cryptographer, right here at Oxford there's Augustus Toplady, and at the University of Mexico itself there's..."
"Hold it!" Brown raised his peremptory ham hand. "If I had wanted a pedant, I could have found any number of them. I knew what I wanted - A brainy, irreverent, shit-disturbing, one-of-a-kind genius named Jonathon Bourque. Now, is there anything else you need before we head out for Mexico City.?"
"Yeah," Bourque replied with mock gravity, "A parachute and a considerate bartender who won't forget to mix four parts gin to one of tonic." They both laughed.
3
The Captain's voice came on, "Ladies and gentlemen, we are commencing our descent into Mexico City. Please fasten your seat belts." The voice was cultured, smooth, very English.
"How reassuring," Bourque mused. "I would have crapped my pants if the Captain had opened the intercom and said, 'My name iz Effreen, Seniors - Seniores; I am your guide. It iz so good of you to come aboard de plane while I practice being Gringo Fly-boy.' Or worse still, if the Captain had blurted out hysterically, 'Mahn, mahn, dis plane is eh cool runnins brudur.' God how our prejudices slither to the surface when naked fear strips away that oh-so-thin veneer of enlightened tolerance with which we delude our egos."
He glanced furtively out the window. A supreme act of courage, he thought. As if, by peering at the ground thousands of feet below, he might convince himself that he had truly confronted and conquered his fright. He pictured the headlines: 'Jonathon Bourque, our latter day Conquistador, Conqueror of The Fear of Flying.'
Through the reddish-orange ooze which engulfs Mexico City and environs, he could make out the Pyramids of Teotihuacan, "The Place Where the Gods Gathered." There was the Pyramid of the Sun; and there, the Pyramid of the Moon and The Street of the Dead - A shudder, followed by a whining noise. His heart thumped. 'It's Okay; just the landing gear, I think.' His palms were slippery - sweaty. 'Just my luck; I would have to look out to see The Street of the Dead from 10,000 feet up.' He grabbed for his gin and tonic; a second later, he was wearing it. the '747 had hit an air pocket and dropped with such force and suddenness that the entire liquid balm flew out of the glass, dumping on his forehead, from which it unceremoniously dribbled down his face, and into his lap.. After that, the flight smoothed, and mercifully, only minutes later, a terminal building passed underneath the airborne behemoth. Bourque estimated - less than 500 feet up. 'If we crash now, at least I'll probably die on the ground.'
The wheels touch; thrusters are reversed.
Jonathon Bourque contemplates his gin-dribbled face and the equally embarrassing wetness in his crotch. 'What the hell; I'm still alive.'
They were hustled through customs with a minimum of fuss. Obviously, the Mexican Authorities had been alerted as to Joseph Brown's impending arrival.
"I drop a lot of money in this country," Brown observed matter-of-factly, yet with more than a hint of stridency.