Shell Game

by Jeff Buick

  Alan Bestwick.

  And if Bestwick made it to the plane before they began to taxi, he was a dead man. Ricardo could feel a slight dampness in his armpits. He concentrated on not sweating. Relax, just keep calm. Bestwick wasn’t here yet. Don’t try to solve problems that don’t exist. There was a slight motion and the plane began to move. He tried to keep his breathing even.

  Get into the takeoff queue.

  Once they were in, there was no turning back. Another private jet, a Gulfstream II, was immediately ahead of them. An Air Canada 707 was being pushed back from its gate. That was their spot, between the two planes. Seconds now, only seconds and he’d be okay.

  “There he is,” Brand said, staring out the window. He unbuckled his seat belt and hustled to cockpit. “The man we’re waiting for, he’s here.”

  There was a muffled response from the pilot, but Ricardo didn’t need to hear what he had said. Brand’s response told the story.

  “He’s standing right there,” he yelled. “This is insane. Just stop and pick him up.”

  Again, the incoherent reply.

  “Shit,” Brand said, returning to his seat and snapping the seat belt in place. He was a blistering shade of red.

  “What’s wrong?” Carlos asked. “Why won’t they stop?”

  Brand didn’t answer for a minute, and when he did it was very tight-lipped. “He said we’d lose our spot in the queue.”

  Ricardo didn’t say a word. He looked up from his magazine and glanced out the window. Standing in front of the executive terminal watching the plane taxi onto the runway was Alan Bestwick. Ricardo could see Bestwick through the tinted window, but the man could not see in. No chance of recognition. Not now. But if Brand wanted Alan in Oaxaca City, then the chances were pretty good that Alan would be following on a commercial flight. Which meant they would have to move quickly. He hoped Taylor and Kelly would be ready. He settled back with the magazine and focused on the content of the article he’d been staring at for the last ten minutes. It was the latest issue of Chatelaine—“Ten Ways to be a Better Lover.”

  He closed the magazine and tucked it under a copy of Sports Illustrated.

  Alan Bestwick stared at the Lear as it taxied onto the runway. He cursed under his breath at the Mexican police. Some minor fender-bender on the main road from the Sheraton to the airport and they’d completely shut down the highway. Idiots.

  He made his way into the main terminal and waited in the long line at the Aeroméxico counter. When he finally reached the ticket agent she didn’t speak English. An airline employee pulled him out of the line and when an English-speaking agent opened they slid him in.

  “I need to get to Oaxaca City,” Alan said.

  “When would you like to fly, sir?” the woman asked.

  “As soon as possible.”

  Her fingernails clicked on the keyboard as she searched the outgoing flights for availability. “It’s very busy, sir, being New Year’s Day.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it is. But it’s important I get there quickly.”

  “I understand.” She glanced at the series of lines snaking back from the counter. The meaning of the look wasn’t lost on Alan. No one was standing in line for the fun of it. “The best I can do is tomorrow evening. Eight-fourteen departure.”

  “When does that arrive in Oaxaca?”

  She checked the screen. “Eleven-twenty-one.”

  “Nothing today?” he asked and she shook her head. “Standby?”

  “Already six people on the waiting list.”

  “Okay, I’ll take it.”

  “I’ll need to see your passport please.”

  Alan traded the cool air-conditioning of the airport for the hot streets of Puerto Vallarta. Taxis were doing a brisk business, ripping off the tourists by charging them double the usual rate. The heat was irritating and the stench of diesel hard on his throat and lungs. He slid into the backseat of the first taxi in line.

  “Sheraton,” he said, handing the man twelve dollars. The driver started to say something, but Alan just held up his hand and looked out the window. He’d already been screwed enough for one day, he wasn’t going to let a cab driver nail him too.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Monday morning. New Year’s Day.

  The streets of Oaxaca City were quiet, most residents of the city sleeping late after a night of celebrating. Taylor had taken an early morning walk about the cobblestone streets, getting some fresh air. Once Edward Brand arrived in the Learjet from Puerto Vallarta, she would have to stay inside. Ricardo was right, her hair would be a dead giveaway in a country where almost one hundred percent of the people had black hair. If Brand were to spot her, he would know he was being set up.

  There was a knock on the door. It was Adolfo. He had a set of compact walkie-talkies that he had somehow found in one of the many tiny shops tucked away in the city center. They were new, still in the box. Four nine-volt batteries were necessary to power them, and Adolfo had purchased those as well. Taylor looked over the gear and nodded.

  “Good work, Adolfo,” she said, slipping the batteries in the housing and clipping the plastic cover closed. “Let’s try them out.”

  “Sí,” he said, taking one and heading out the door. “I go to the street?”

  “Yes, that’s good. Maybe five hundred yards.”

  “Sí, I understand. Five hundred yards is same as five hundred meters.”

  “Yes. Five hundred meters. Give or take.”

  “What?” he asked, confused at the colloquialism.

  “Nothing. Five hundred meters.”

  He closed the door and the room was silent for a few minutes. Then there was a slight crackle and his voice came through the walkie-talkie. It was very clear.

  “That’s fine, Adolfo. I can hear you okay. Can you hear me?”

  “Sí. I hear you.”

  “Okay, come on back. They work well.”

  She turned off the small transmitter and set it on the bed. Everything was ready. Kelly in D.C., Ricardo working the inside track with Brand, Adolfo with his fake ID and walkie-talkie. The satellite phone was active and charged. Now she just needed the man himself.

  Edward Brand.

  The Learjet touched down on the steaming pavement at two-thirty-eight on January 1. The flight time was well under two hours at a cruising speed of four hundred and sixty miles an hour. The pilot had gained twenty-three minutes by opening the throttles a touch and with the assistance of a slight tailwind. If he could get the ground crews to refuel the plane quickly, he would be close enough to his schedule to keep his next client from complaining. He didn’t bother talking to the client from this leg—he knew the man didn’t give a shit.

  A customs vehicle pulled up to the Lear once it had taxied to a stop, sat for a minute, then received the flight plan from the tower and backed off. The flight had originated inside Mexico and was outside their jurisdiction. Once the steps were lowered, Brand, Carlos and Ricardo exited. They waited for the co-pilot to unload their luggage and carried it through the terminal to the taxi queue. They had four rooms reserved at the Hacienda Los Laureles, a quiet hotel with temazcal steam baths and a fully functional spa on site. Brand didn’t care about either, he just wanted to be out of Oaxaca City. The drive was about twenty minutes, and after they checked in he filled out the necessary paperwork to rent one of the four-wheel-drive Jeeps in the parking lot. The porters dropped their bags in their rooms, and the men met in the bar a half hour later.

  “When can we meet Manuel Sanchez?” Brand asked over a small green bottle of San Pellegrino sparkling water.

  “I’ll call him. He’s here in Oaxaca City somewhere. I’ve got his cell number. When did you want to meet?” Ricardo asked.

  “Tonight.”

  “I’ll see if that works for him,” Ricardo said.

  “Make it work,” Brand said. It wasn’t threatening or indecisive—simply a statement.

  Ricardo finished his drink and went back to his room to get Sanche
z’s number and make the call. Edward Brand and Carlos stayed in the bar, a laidback affair with only a few tables and no music playing. The floors were ochre-colored adobe tiles, and voices tended to echo slightly in the room. Brand didn’t like it. He preferred a space where what he said remained between himself and the person he was talking to. After Ricardo left, the only people in the bar were Brand, Carlos and the bartender. He made a call on his cell phone.

  “I need you to check on someone for me,” Brand said when Brent Hawkins answered.

  “Who?” the FBI agent asked.

  “His name is Manuel Sanchez. Mexican. Lives in Mexico City.”

  “Common name. Could be more than one. You got anything else on this guy.”

  “Just see what you come up with. Get their job descriptions if you can. I might be able to tell from that.”

  “Time frames?”

  “Immediately.”

  “Okay.”

  Brand killed the line and shook his head. He should have called Hawkins the minute he got Sanchez’s name from Ricardo in Puerto Vallarta. He wasn’t thinking. Mistakes like that were inexcusable. He glanced up as Ricardo returned to the bar.

  “He’s on his way over,” Ricardo said. “He figured about half an hour.”

  “We’ll talk by the pool,” Brand said. The area surrounding the swimming pool was far more secluded, with alcoves set back into the plants.

  Ricardo nodded. “I’ll meet him at the front desk and bring him around.” He retook his seat and ordered a Corona. The three of them talked about nothing for twenty minutes, and then Ricardo excused himself and went to the lobby to wait for Sanchez. Brand and Carlos headed for the pool.

  Almost to the minute on a half hour, Adolfo pulled up in front of the hotel in a taxi. He asked the driver to wait and met Ricardo at the front entrance. They shook hands and said polite hellos, but nothing that would indicate they knew each other any better than the relationship they had sold Edward Brand on. Nothing to chance. One set of ears in the wrong place could be fatal. When they reached the pool, Brand and Carlos were already settled in under a royal palm on the far side of the water. They walked around the edge of the pool and Ricardo did the introductions. Adolfo apologized for his English up front. Brand just waved it off as inconsequential.

  “How can you help us, Senor Sanchez?” Brand asked when the newcomers were settled and non-alcoholic drinks had been served.

  “With Monte Alban?”

  “Yes. With the situation at Monte Alban.”

  “Ricardo has not told you?” Adolfo asked, looking to Ricardo.

  “Yes, but I’d like to hear it from you.”

  “Is good. Yes. I can take care of the guards at Monte Alban. You take pictures of what you find with a digital camera and send that to me. Then I will write down the pieces you find in the cave. I will put them in the Mexican computers. Once they are in the computers you can sell them. Until I do that, you will not find the buyer.”

  “What does this cost?” Brand asked.

  Again, Adolfo shot Ricardo a look. “Five hundred thousand American dollars.”

  “I have the cash,” Brand said.

  Adolfo shook his head violently. “No, no, I do not want cash. Cash I have to explain to the Mexican government. That is not good. I need the money sent to my account outside Mexico.”

  Brand nodded. “Yes, that’s right. Ricardo did tell us that.” He toyed with his glass for a minute, then asked, “When will this happen?”

  “I do not want to stay in Oaxaca City long. My job is in Mexico City. I need to get back. Not today, but the next day. Manana. How is that in English?”

  “Tomorrow,” Brand said.

  “Yes. Tomorrow. Tomorrow night at twelve. We meet at Monte Alban. You can see the treasure. Then the next night you can have it.”

  “Tomorrow night at midnight we finish the deal, but we can’t move what we find until the next day?” Brand asked. “I don’t think I like that.”

  Ricardo interjected. “Senor Sanchez does not wish to be nearby when you take the treasure. He wishes to be back in Mexico City.”

  Brand’s eyes were on fire. “That was never part of the deal.”

  “The treasure has been there since the Zapotecs walked about Monte Alban,” Ricardo said. “I don’t think it’s going very far in the next day or two.”

  Edward Brand’s jaw was locked tight. He stared at Adolfo for the better part of a minute. The diminutive Mexican looked about, occasionally meeting his gaze. He looked like he couldn’t care less what Brand decided.

  “Okay,” Brand said. “I’ll be watching the treasure until I can get it out.”

  “As you wish,” Adolfo said. He rose and gave the three men at the table a curt bow. “Until tomorrow. Midnight. On the mountain.”

  “Tomorrow,” Brand said. There was no emotion in his voice.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  January 2 dawned clear, not a cloud marring the deep blue Mexican sky. Probably not the best, Taylor thought, envisioning the plateau at Monte Alban awash in moonlight. Cloud cover would have been better. Maybe the sky would change by midnight. Maybe, but probably not.

  She sat in her small stone room, staring out the window of the convent-turned-hotel. How many nuns had sat in the exact same spot, staring at the same scene? Did they love their lives? Their devotion to Christ? Or did they wonder what the other side was like? A loving husband, a family, a life that allowed pleasure. Such devotion to what they believed was their calling. But what was hers? What was her calling in life? She had no children, no business, no career and was sixteen hours from perpetuating a massive fraud. True, it was on a man who deserved it, but it was illegal nonetheless.

  A man rounded the corner and limped down the narrow road that bordered the hotel. He used a cane and found the footing on the uneven cobblestones difficult, stumbling many times as he walked past her window. His clothing was in tatters, and his face heavily creased from a tough life under too much sun. He glanced up as he passed and for a split second their eyes locked. They were sad eyes. Taylor watched him until he rounded the corner and disappeared from view. Gone from her life, but for him nothing had changed. He was still decrepit and poor, living a life no one would want. As she turned from the window back to the simple room that had once housed penitent nuns, she made her final decision.

  She would not have that life. Not now, not ever. She deserved better. The opportunity to live a life of wealth was within her grasp. Only Edward Brand stood in her way. Tonight he would pay for what he had done.

  He would pay beyond his wildest dreams.

  Ricardo Allende sat beside the pool at Hacienda Los Laureles reading a Spanish mystery novel. He was on chapter eighteen, but had absolutely no idea what was going on in the book. Neither Edward Brand nor Carlos Valendez had shown their face yet, and it was almost three in the afternoon. Not seeing the men made him nervous. He waved to the pool waiter and ordered another sparkling water. The temperature had risen during the day, peaking at over eighty degrees. The air was still and the sky a homogenous palate of deep blue. He set the book on the small table beside his chaise lounge and dove in the pool. The water was refreshing.

  Midnight was closing in quickly. Nine hours until he would be standing atop the plateau at Monte Alban. Nine hours until he would give the performance of his life. Perhaps for his life. If Taylor Simons were right about what was in Edward Brand’s bank account, the payoff would be staggering. If she were wrong, the end result would be very different from what he had envisioned.

  So many variables.

  Ricardo pulled himself out of the pool, his athletic body glistening in the hot Mexican sun. A couple of women sunning themselves by the bar gave him an approving look. He smiled as he returned to his seat and his book. There would be plenty of time for that later. Many women who would desire the rich, attractive Mexican. Nine hours. The adage that time would tell could never be truer. Nine hours. A smile began to creep across his face, but it quickly disappeared as a
nother thought raced through his mind.

  Nine hours to live?

  Alan Bestwick nursed his drink, cursing the airlines and anyone else who crossed his line of vision. It was still four and a half, almost five hours until his flight departed. Wasted time. Time he would never get back. Crucial time. Edward Brand had called two hours ago and told him the deal was on at midnight, a scant thirty-nine minutes after his flight was scheduled to arrive in Oaxaca City. He would travel with a carry-on, no checked bags and grab the first taxi in the queue. Straight to Monte Alban, but have the driver stop just shy of the plateau. Headlights showing up just as the guards were distracted to the far south end of the site was a bad idea.

  Brand had checked with the local service provider and there was no cell service available on the mountain top. The best they could do was for Alan to stand on the easternmost of the four north palaces. Brand would watch for him and give one blink with his flashlight. That was it—one only. Miss that and miss the show. Brand had been adamant on that. He would not risk attracting the guards. He needed the meeting tonight to go without any complications as he couldn’t move the treasure until the next night. Something he had not been pleased about.

  Alan had spent twenty minutes on the hotel Internet searching for information on Monte Alban. He was surprised at how well documented the archeological site was. The Mexican government was high on it, confident that there were other undiscovered tombs atop the mountain. It was just a matter of time before they were found. One of the Web sites had a layout of the site, and he had familiarized himself with the exact location of the north palaces. He would be where he should be when he should be.

  God help anyone who got in his way.

  Adolfo was a religious man. He was well aware that God was most likely looking down on him with a frown at this particular moment, but there was little he could do about that. Money was a necessary evil, and he had very little of it. Surely God would understand that He had not given this humble servant much in the way of riches to sustain a decent life. Many nights had seen him sleep with an empty belly. Adolfo was certain that God had not intended that.