“When you combine all of this-the supplicant figure, Quetzalcoatl, the flint, the footprints-you get what I believe is a ceremony of exile. The figure on the left, along with all of his followers, was banished. Based on the rest of the codex, they left Chicomoztoc, boarded their armada, headed west, and ended up in Mexico to become what history considers the Aztec people.”Remi asked, “Professor, do we know what became of Orizaga’s original codex? Did the Church destroy it or is it tucked away in some archive somewhere?”

“Neither, but I’m sure they’d intended that it never see the light of day. In 1992 the Church held an auction of old but generally mundane artifacts-letters, illustrations, etcetera. Apparently someone messed up, and the Orizaga Codex was included in the lot. It was purchased by a Mexican millionaire, I believe. A coffee magnate.”“What was his name?” asked Sam.

Dydell hesitated, thinking. “Garza. Alfonso or Armando, I can’t remember which.”

THEY TALKED WITH DYDELL for a few more minutes, then disconnected. As they often were, Sam and Remi were on the same wavelength. Almost in unison they said to Wendy, “Do you think you can do something to clean up the-”“I know . . . the Quetzalcoatl image. I’m on it.”

Next, Sam and Remi turned to Selma, but she was a step ahead of them, already seated at her computer, typing. “Got it. Alfonso Garza, father of Cristian Garza. Currently known as Quauhtli Garza, president of Mexico and leader of the Mexica Tenochca Party.”Sam and Remi shared a smile. “That’s where it all started,” he said. “Just like Blaylock, Garza got ahold of the codex and caught the bug. It consumed him.”

Remi nodded. “And took him somewhere he didn’t expect.”

THIRTY MINUTES LATER Wendy was done. “I had to do some creative connect-the-dots, but I think I’ve got a fair representation of what it would’ve looked liked like originally.”

“There’s a familiar face,” Sam said.Remi nodded. “Blaylock’s bird.”

THE DAY ENDED with a phone call that Sam and Remi, in their exhaustion, had forgotten they were expecting. Selma answered, listened for a few moments, then hung up and walked to her workstation. A minute later the laser printer started whirring. She walked back to the table with a sheaf of papers.“The lab report on the samples you took from the outrigger.”

“Do the honors,” said Sam.

Selma scanned the sheets, then said, “The wood is from a durian tree, native to Borneo, Indonesia, and Malaysia.”

“Score another point for Indonesia,” Sam said. “There seems to be a trend developing.”

“The resin you scraped from the hull consisted of the sap from a subspecies of rubber tree, also found in Indonesia. Finally, the material you scooped from inside the hull . . . They found traces of pandan leaf, rattan, and gebang palm.”

“Let me guess,” Remi said. “All materials used in the construction of natural sail cloth?”Selma nodded.

“And all native to Indonesia,” Sam added.

“You’re batting a thousand,” replied Selma. “Shall I book your flights now or wait until the morning?”

PALEMBANG, SUMATRA, INDONESIA

THE TIRES CRUNCHED ON GRAVEL AS SAM PULLED THE CAR OFF the road and coasted to a stop beneath the boughs of a kapok tree. A steady stream of compact cars and scooters whizzed past Sam’s door, honking and swerving as though trying to beat a checkered flag.“Okay, you win,” Sam said to Remi. “But before I risk my life and step into this traffic to ask for directions, let me see the map one more time.”

While like most men, Sam prided himself on being equipped with a supernatural internal compass that kept him from ever being lost, he’d also learned to concede those rare times when that compass seemed to be in temporary disrepair. Now was one of those times.Trying to conceal her smile, Remi handed him the map and sat quietly while Sam studied it. “It’s gotta be around here somewhere.”

“I’m sure it is.”

As was the case with many of Sam and Remi’s revelations since finding the Shenandoah ’s bell buried in the sand off Zanzibar, Winston Blaylock had, as the saying went, been there and done that. In this case, one of the latitude and longitude points they’d deciphered from his dot-grid system happened to fall where Javier Orizaga, S.J., had spent the final years of his life. It was no coincidence, they knew. Still, there were many questions unanswered.

Having spent years hunting for the origin of his “great green jeweled bird” and discovering along the way the true story of the Aztec Empire, had Blaylock heard of Orizaga’s codex and come here looking for a copy or had he found the codex elsewhere and deduced the location the same way Sam and Remi had? Similarly, what had brought Orizaga here: a quest for treasure or for the history of a people whose destruction he witnessed?

AN HOUR AFTER THEY’D ended their video-conference meeting with Professor Dydell, he’d called back with the name of the village Orizaga had called home the last two decades of his life: Palembang, Sumatra.

While Palembang, the “Venice of the East,” might have been considered just a hamlet during the sixteenth century, today it was not only the oldest city in Indonesia, dating back to the seventh century, but also the biggest in southern Sumatra, boasting a population of 1.5 million.

Neither Sam nor Remi had any grand ideas about what, if anything, of value they’d find by investigating Orizaga’s adopted homeland. However, all the hoops they’d jumped through since Zanzibar seemed to be leading them in one direction. Blaylock’s quest, his journal, the maps, the codex, Orizaga himself, and now the lab report-all of it pointed toward an unknown location in Indonesia.“IT WOULD HAVE MADE our lives so much easier if Orizaga had left an address,” Sam said. “It’s a bit inconsiderate, really.”

“I’m sure if he’d known we were coming, he would have,” Remi replied. “Did the woman at the last place say the house was red or green?”

“Green.”

Since arriving in Palembang the previous day, they’d visited six local museums or historians said to specialize in the pre-Dutch colonial period of the city’s history. So far, none of the curators had heard of Orizaga, and each one had suggested Sam and Remi go to the city’s administrative building and peruse centuries’ worth of microfiche newspapers for any mention of their friend.

Sam traced his finger along the map, occasionally ducking his head so he could see the nearby street signs through the windshield. He folded the map and handed it back to Remi with a confident smile.“I know where I went wrong.”

“In general or with the directions?”

“Funny lady.” Sam put the car in gear, waited for a gap in traffic, then veered out and accelerated.

TWENTY MINUTES OF WINDING down backstreets brought them to an industrial park filled with warehouses. Behind this they were surprised to find a quiet, tree-lined residential cul-de-sac. The houses were small and old but well kept. At the end of the circle Sam pulled to a stop before what could have passed for a ranch-style house in Anytown, USA: kelly green with brown shutters and a white picket fence half hidden by red-flowering vines.

They walked up the path, mounted the porch steps, and knocked on the front door. They heard the click of footfalls on wood. The door opened to reveal a mid-fifties white man in crisp khaki pants and a button-down white shirt.“Yes, good afternoon,” he said with an Oxford accent.

“We’re looking for Sukasari House,” Remi said.

“You have found it, madam. How can I help you?”

“We’re looking for someone-a monk-who may or may not have lived in this area in the sixteenth century.”

“Oh, well, is that all? I thought you’d come to try to sell me a vacuum or some pots and pans,” the man said with a wry smile. “Please, come in.” He stepped back to let them into the foyer. “My name is Robert Marcott.”“Sam and Remi Fargo.”