Shell Game

by Jeff Buick

  He finished cleaning the galley and headed toward the aft of the boat. He was going stir crazy on the yacht. His crew was stripping one of the motors and retooling a drive shaft, and he wanted to see how things were coming. Patience, he told himself as he strode through the luxury craft. Patience. Something always came up. Never failed. The world was funny that way.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Ricardo and Kelly both left Oaxaca City on December 29—Kelly early in the morning and Ricardo two hours later, at ten. The flight into Cabo San Lucas was through Mexico City, but the layover was short, and Ricardo landed on the tip of the Baja Peninsula just after two in the afternoon. He slipped into one of the many cabs lining the road in front of the modest two-story airport and sat back for the ride along the stretch of highway commonly known as the corridor. Traffic was light on the twenty-two-mile strip, and he was in Cabo San Lucas by three-thirty. He paid the driver and exited at Puerto Paraiso, the ultra-modern three-story shopping mall adjacent to the marina.

  Ricardo checked Carlos Valendez’s address. 417 Matamoros Street. He glanced quickly at a sheet of paper with directions written in pencil while on the plane. He didn’t look like a tourist, dressed in faded jeans and a casual plaid shirt, and the last thing he needed was to stand on a street corner studying a map like one of the countless gringos off the cruise ships. He stuffed the directions back in his pocket and hiked up the neighboring street.

  The odor of tacos and refried beans lingered in the hot air as he passed strings of restaurants filled with tourists. Small shops selling silver and tacky ceramic iguanas lined the narrow roads. He found Matamoros and headed northwest toward the higher numbers. In the three hundreds, he slowed and began to saunter up the slight incline. He crossed a side street, concentrating now on the numbers. Four-seventeen was about halfway up the block and only two doors from a hole-in-the-wall bar catering more to locals than tourists. He settled into a chair near the open window and picked up a newspaper. When the bartender looked his way he ordered a Corona.

  Now it was time to wait. To wait and hope Carlos Valendez, the man Edward Brand had relied on to let the scuba divers know he was on his way, was home. He nursed the Corona and read the paper. There were worse ways to pass the time.

  Taylor stopped by the goldsmith’s shop at four o’clock. He had promised the work would be finished and ready to be moved before sunset. She took a cab directly from the bank where she had used Kelly’s debit card to withdraw the necessary four thousand dollars to pay for the service. The shop was a dingy space, with no windows save the one fronting onto the street, which was so caked with dirt and grime that the illumination from the sun reminded her more of moonlight. She set the package containing the money on the desk as the goldsmith, a wizened old man well into his seventies, carted the masks and other artifacts to the front of the shop. He spoke no English, and Taylor no Spanish, but communicating wasn’t hard. He counted the money, and she checked the quality of his work. Both were fine. She carried the items out the front door in a large box and set them in the trunk of the cab. Ten minutes later, she was safely back in her hotel. After she had stashed the items in her room, she went in search of Adolfo. He was in his room and answered the door on the first knock. He smiled and waved her in.

  “Did you bring your identification with you?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he replied in English. He wasn’t fluent, but they could easily communicate. “This is it.” He produced a single card with his picture in one corner and an official-looking stamp in the other. Beneath that was his name and title, in Spanish.

  Taylor scrutinized it closely. The quality was outstanding. She didn’t read or speak the language, but she got the drift. Adolfo was a high-ranking government official. One who needed his palm greased before the treasure could be released from the cave. Adolfo had brought the identification with him from Mexico City, where a skilled craftsman had worked magic with the forged document. And Edward Brand would be looking at the ID in poor light. It was fine.

  “Tomorrow we will go to Monte Alban,” she said. “In the morning.”

  “Yes. It is good. The morning. I will be ready.”

  “Good,” she said. “See you tomorrow. Eight o’clock.”

  Taylor returned to her room. It was quiet now that Kelly and Ricardo were both gone. She could have dinner with Adolfo, but that would drag because of his limited English and right now what she needed was time to herself. Time to rest. Time to prepare.

  Edward Brand. The man would be in Oaxaca City soon. And then it would begin.

  Kelly arrived at Dulles at nine-eighteen on Friday night. The flight leg from Mexico City to Dallas was smooth, and he had slept for a portion. He felt somewhat rested and despite the late hour, he decided to stop at home and pick up his car, then head for Crypto-City. It was just after eleven when he swiped his ID badge through the card reader and drove up the winding roadway to the main building in the vast NSA complex. He cleared the required security checks and unlocked his office. He powered up his computer and took a few minutes to sift through his e-mails before getting started.

  He was looking for legitimacy more than anything else. Brent Hawkins had to believe what he found about Monte Alban to be true. The story could not be outrageous, nor could it be without teeth. It had to draw his attention, then hook him. Once he was hooked, Hawkins had to relay the false information to Edward Brand and sell the man on it. Kelly needed to create all this inside one of the most carefully guarded computer systems in the world. Treacherous was a mild word for what he was attempting.

  He started inside the NSA mainframe, where his user ID allowed him free rein of most files. He scanned the computer’s hard drive for information on Monte Alban. There were numerous entries, most dealing with the positioning of the ruins and a few attempts to find embedded codes inside the pattern the Zapotec tribes had used to construct their temples. Typical NSA—always trying to find a hidden code. There were a few notes about the treasure that had been removed from Tumba 7. It was truly amazing. Hundreds of priceless Zapotec and Mixtec artifacts, most formed from gold and some encrusted with precious and semi-precious stones. The references to Tumba 7 were good, as it would reinforce the possibility of another large discovery.

  Midnight rolled by, then one o’clock. At half past the hour he shut down the computer and headed home. He had stumbled on one possible angle. A cross-link to the CIA computers had a report of a covert operative who had been killed recently in Bolivia. The agency was being very tight-lipped about the details, but getting Brent Hawkins to draw a line between the dead agent and Monte Alban might be the way to go. He wanted to think about it, formulate some sort of plan in his mind before he went any further. That, and he was tired. Very tired.

  The drive home was easy, the roads almost devoid of other cars. It gave him time to think. Taylor was the key to keeping everything moving. She was the hub. Whatever story he concocted and input into the computers had to be relayed through her to Ricardo, who needed that information before he got too tight with Carlos Valendez. Timing was crucial, and they were cutting it close. If they wanted to have Edward Brand at the ruins just after January 1, everything had to move with absolute precision.

  Tomorrow. He would find some way to tie the death of the CIA agent to Monte Alban, create the file and download it to the CIA mainframe. Then he’d call Taylor.

  Timing. It was all in the timing.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Nothing.

  Ricardo had spent the entire night watching the front entry to 417 Matamoros Street with nothing to show for it. Not one person had entered or exited the modest two-story stucco house tucked between a souvenir shop and a decrepit-looking pharmacia promoting Viagra and a host of other prescription drugs available over the counter. A couple of older gringos had visited the drugstore and come away with small bags and a smile. It disgusted him. A man was a man—he didn’t need that shit to get it up.

  After a few hours’ sleep, he was back in his favorite c
hair in the bar, the daily newspaper on the table along with an espresso. The sun began to heat the street, and he loosened his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. It was going to be hot. Noon crawled by, and he ordered his first beer of the day. He’d had enough coffee. For the first time he wondered if this was going to work. They were relying on Carlos Valendez to open a back door to Edward Brand. But if Valendez didn’t show, everything changed. Ricardo would have to fly to Puerto Vallarta and try to get face to face with Brand without a middleman. Not easy and not without its pitfalls. Edward Brand was a con man, and con men were suspicious by nature. Selling him on Monte Alban without some sort of a lead-in would be difficult, if not impossible.

  The beer arrived, and he took a short swig. He’d nursed six of them yesterday, but today was going to be even longer. He’d have to pace himself. A pretty girl walked by with a fat friend, and he smiled. She returned the smile, and glanced back. He was just about to wave at her and invite her in for a drink when the heavy wood door at 417 opened and a man appeared. He turned back to the door and locked it, then moved south on Matamoros toward the marina. Ricardo dropped some money on the table and settled in about a half block behind the man. That he had locked the door behind him was a good sign. It might mean that he lived there alone, which would mean that he was Valendez. Maybe, maybe not. No one told him this would be easy.

  The man he was following was a working-class Mexican in his thirties. He wore ripped jeans and a white T-shirt with a small stain on the front. His gait was reasonably quick, and Ricardo hurried when the man reached Avenida Lazaro Cárdenas and disappeared around the corner. Ricardo picked him up again on the main street that skirted the marina. His target was moving slower now, eyeing the throngs of young college coeds that are staples in Cabo San Lucas. He crossed the street and entered one of the many bars fronting onto the marina. Ricardo waited for a minute then followed him in.

  The bar was about half full, and most of the patrons were gringos in varying stages of sunburn. The décor was tacky Mexican, which the tourists seemed to love, and the menu was an entire list of high-cholesterol food. Valendez, if that was his name, was sitting at the bar talking with the bartender. They appeared to know each other. Ricardo moved through the bar slowly, as if deciding where to sit. In his peripheral vision, he saw the bartender was watching him. He stopped and continued to look about. Then he moved toward the bar and took a seat two stools down from the man he had followed. The bartender sidled over and set a coaster on the bar.

  “What can I get you?” he asked in Spanish.

  “A few more Mexicans in the bar, less gringos,” Ricardo said. That prompted a laugh from the bartender. “Corona.” Sol and Corona had the lock on the Mexican beer market, but he preferred Corona hands down.

  “You got it.”

  Ricardo glanced toward Valendez and caught the man’s eye. They nodded at each other. The beer arrived and he took a long drink. He finished it quickly and ordered another. Ricardo kept his eyes off Valendez until he was halfway through the second beer. When he glanced over, they locked eyes again.

  “Too many gringos,” Ricardo said quietly, but loud enough for the man to hear. “The women are nice, but it’s like we’re giving them our country.”

  “Gringos bring money, amigo,” the man said. His voice was throaty, deeper than Ricardo expected. “Lots of money.”

  “Yeah, and then they fuck you,” Ricardo said. Again, only loud enough for his conversation partner to hear.

  “That’s a good thing, if it’s a woman,” the man joked. He smiled, and his teeth were crooked and stained from cigarettes and coffee. His eyes were dark brown, but cold. A small scar ran down the left side of his face, from the corner of his eye to halfway down his cheek. His hair was long and looked greasy.

  Ricardo turned back to the bar. “I wish. It’s nothing like that. I just got screwed, is all.”

  There was a break, then the man asked, “What happened?”

  Ricardo looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  The man shifted over one seat so he was next to Ricardo. Cigar smoke drifted up from the stub in the man’s hand. “Try me.”

  “Ricardo.” He offered his hand.

  “Carlos.”

  Ricardo sipped his beer. Pay dirt. He had his man. “I had a deal of sorts. A good one. I needed some money to make it work. I had a gringo who lived in Texas and has one of those luxury villas down here interested in covering the up-front money for a percentage.”

  “He back out?”

  Ricardo sneered into his beer. “Yeah, the chickenshit asshole. He realized it was more than just handing me a wad of cash and got scared. Now I’m fucked. Fucked beyond belief.”

  Carlos finished his beer and motioned to the bartender. Two Coronas appeared in record time. He puffed on a short, stubby cigar. “What sort of deal did you have on the go?”

  Ricardo turned a bit and eyed Carlos up and down. “It’s private,” he said, turning back to his beer.

  “Too bad. Maybe I know someone.”

  The Eagles played in the background—“Lyin’ Eyes”—and a table of tourists laughed at an unheard joke. The bartender slowly polished a glass, watching the two men at his bar with interest. Finally, Ricardo swiveled about slightly and faced Carlos.

  “I’ve been burned once,” he said. “Don’t need it to happen again.”

  Carlos shrugged. Both men were feeling each other out now—the game was on. “Right now you got nothing. The deal is dead.”

  “Yeah,” Ricardo said quietly, turning back to the bar and working on his beer. “It’s dead.”

  “Is it worth doing?” Carlos asked.

  Ricardo stared straight ahead. “Would have set me up for life,” he said. “Could have had one of those fucking villas. Asshole fucked it all up.”

  “Big money,” Carlos said. “That might be worth looking at.”

  Ricardo didn’t look over. Just shook his head. “No time. The deal has to be done in a few days. It’s done.” He finished his beer and stuck his finger in the neck of the bottle and idly swung it around a few times before setting it on the bar. He glanced at Carlos. “Done, amigo. Gone. Millions of dollars. Gone.”

  “I’m not shitting you,” Carlos said. “I’ve got a guy can make things happen. Quick if it’s a good deal.”

  “So what’s in it for you?” Ricardo asked. Another beer showed up.

  “A finder’s fee. My guy pays well if things work out.”

  Ricardo finally allowed himself a wry smile. “Oh, if this works out, you’d get the finder’s fee of all times.”

  “Then let’s talk,” Carlos said.

  Ricardo gave the man a long, hard look. “Okay,” he said as the Eagles tune finished and Bob Seger started singing “Night Moves.” “Let’s talk.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Kelly pulled into the main NSA complex at ten on Saturday morning. The security guard recognized him and smiled. He still double-checked the picture ID. Nothing to chance at the nation’s most clandestine spy agency. Kelly parked and made his way to his office, his mind already alive with some of the options he could use to build the file for Brent Hawkins.

  The recent death of Brian Palmer, the CIA agent who had succumbed to a hail of bullets in an alley in La Paz, Bolivia, was a tragedy. It was one that he could use to their advantage. The Central Intelligence Agency was keeping the entire affair under wraps. Nothing had been released to the press, and according to the files he had managed to dredge up, Palmer’s family was being paid to keep quiet. Kelly suspected the CIA had stuck their fingers in a politically incorrect pie, and now they were scrambling about trying to keep a lid on it. What they had done was a complete unknown, but that didn’t matter. What did matter was that by using Brian Palmer as the source for the information on the undiscovered tomb at Monte Alban, he was using a source that could not be substantiated.

  The space around his office was empty, the computer screens dark. So
me departments of the NSA were nine-to-five on the weekdays, and his was one of them. Not a bad thing—it gave him privacy and a quiet space to work. He hit the power button on his computer, then headed to the coffee room and brewed a fresh pot of medium roast. When he returned to his office, his system had cleared the internal security checks and was online. He sat at the desk, sipping the coffee.

  The first thing he did was check the status of Taylor’s bank account in the Bahamas. With the account number and password, he was inside the bank’s mainframe in under two minutes. Her account was active with a balance of just over twenty-three thousand dollars. That was good—it gave them a legitimate account to deposit the money into once they had transferred it out of Edward Brand’s. He closed the link and returned to the NSA prompt. Kelly unlocked his drawer and pulled out a file. Inside was the information on Brian Palmer he had sent to the printer the previous evening. He reread the file.

  Palmer had been stationed out of Mexico City for three years. He was single but dating another operative, a distinct no-no but something that the field office had chosen to overlook. Most of the time he had spent in the field was drug related—Bolivia, Columbia and Mexico. On three occasions, he had traveled to Oaxaca City. The most recent trip to the central Mexican city was six months ago, but Kelly figured he could work with that. He highlighted a few passages, got his dates straight, then started to type.

  An hour later he printed the file and reviewed it. The format was standard for a field operative, but classified. Very few eyes would be privy to the contents. The gist of the report was that Palmer had met with a Mexican late at night on June 15, but the meet had gone wrong from minute one. The man had insisted he found a cache of treasure atop the plateau at Monte Alban. He wanted the CIA to get the treasure out and protect him from the Mexican authorities and an entire list of corrupt and violent locals who would want in on the find. Palmer had refused. The next night the man had been found in a field bordering the city with his throat sliced open and his eyes gouged out. That sparked Palmer to look at the validity of the man’s claim.