by Steve Alten
‘No, you’ll do. The girl’s in the Yucatan, I’m sure Joe’s briefed you. I want her and the soldier who found her eliminated without a trace.’
Solomon nods, then leaves the dressing room, quietly closing the door behind him.
‘Creepy little shit, ain’t he?’
‘What’s important is that he’ll get the job done without complications,’ Randolph says. ‘Guy’s former CIA, as cold and unfeeling as a reptile. Spent a lot of time in the Soviet Union as a mole. Returned home after the Cold War ended and wigged out. Torched his mother’s home, killing her and her live-in nurse. Served six years and was released on parole. Bit of a pedophile, but he’s calmed down over the years.’
‘Maybe we ought to send him after Chaney?’
‘One step at a time, my friend. One step at a time.’
Chichen Itza, Yucatan Peninsula 10:17 p.m.
The nocturnal jungle is alive with humidity, and chirps, and the ghosts of the dead. Dense brush cuts Dominique’s ankles and lashes out at her neck. Mosquitoes buzz her ears. A flutter of wings takes the air overhead beneath the canopy of trees.
The heaviness of the woods presses in on her, whispering into her ear. She grips Elias Forma’s hand tighter, afraid she will lose him in the darkness. And yet she feels safer here than she does in the real world, knowing that someone out there wants her dead.
Like it or not, you’re Alice in Wonderland, chasing a rabbit down its hole, and there’s no turning back now.
In time they come to a clearing. Dark-skinned Mayan elders squat around a campfire. Dominique recognizes the H’Menes, the same men who helped her and Mick climb down into the sacred well in Chichen Itza six weeks earlier.
A lifetime ago…
The wise men are descendants of the Sh’Tol brethren, a sacred Mayan society that escaped the wrath of the Spaniards back in the fifteenth century.
Elias greets the frail, white-haired leader of the group with a hug. ‘Dominique, this is my grandfather, Ocela, the man you seek.’
Dominique extends her hand. ‘Hope you remember me, I’m a friend of Michael Gabriel. I need to speak to you about the Creation Myth.’
Ocela takes her hand in both of his, then speaks to Elias in a language she cannot comprehend.
‘My grandfather says he will do all he can to assist First-Mother.’
‘Now see, that’s why I’m here. Who’s First-Mother, and why is he calling me that?’
Ocela smiles a toothless grin, then touches her stomach. Yaya ba’l.
Oh, God, he knows I’m pregnant, too? Did somebody send out notices? Dominique feels light-headed. The sounds of the night dissipate into the snapping and popping of the campfire as she swoons in the humidity.
Elias and the old man lead her to a log poised at the edge of the clearing. She sits, the other men gathering around. One offers her a flask of water, another a wooden bowl filled with fruits and berries. She drinks and eats, feeling a little better.
Still holding her hand, Ocela looks into her eyes and speaks, Elias translating.
‘The Creation Story is the most important lesson recorded in the Popol Vuh. The hero of the story is One Hunahpu, a brave warrior later revered as First-Father. One Hunahpu’s great passion in life was to play the ancient ball game known as Tlachtli. One day, the Lords of the Underworld, Xibalba, challenged One Hunahpu to a game, at stake-the future of his people. One Hunahpu accepted and entered Xibalba Be, the dark road that leads to Xibalba, said to have been the mouth of a great serpent.’
Dominique shudders, recalling the image of Mick entering the orifice of the alien being.
‘But the Lords of Xibalba had no intention of actually playing the game. Using trickery and deceit, they defeated One Hunahpu and decapitated him, hanging his head in the crook of a calabash tree as a warning to others who might challenge them.
‘After a great many years, a brave woman named Blood Moon ventured down the Dark Road. Approaching the tree to pick fruit, she was startled to find One Hunahpu’s head. The warrior’s eyes opened and he spit into her palm, magically impregnating her. The woman fled, the Death God and his minions unable to destroy her before she could escape.
‘Blood Moon, who is later revered as First-Mother, gave birth to twin sons. As the years passed, her boys grew into strong, capable warriors. Upon reaching adulthood, their genetic calling demanded they follow in their father’s footsteps and make the journey to Xibalba to challenge the Death God and avenge One Hunahpu’s death.
‘Once more, the Lords of the Underworld used cunning and deceit. But the Hero Twins, having prepared for this treachery, triumphed, banishing evil while resurrecting their long-lost father.’
Ocela smiles at her, again palming her stomach.
‘No, stop it, none of this makes any sense. The Popol Vuh is just mythology, it tells of things in the past. How can I possibly be First-Mother?’
Elias translates for his grandfather.
The old man rattles off a response.
‘The knowledge found in the Popol Vuh comes to us from our great teacher, Kukulcan. The Popol Vuh was recorded five hundred years after his passing. Time distorts the Creation Story, but not its ultimate meaning. What came to pass shall come again as the cycle of humanity repeats itself. One Hunahpu has come. He has delivered us from evil, sacrificing himself in the process. Now he awaits his sons in Xibalba .’
Dominique’s hand trembles within Ocela’s. He pats it with his other hand, gripping it tightly as he speaks again.
‘My grandfather says to have faith. You were chosen by One Hunahpu for your strength.’
‘If Mick really is this One Hunahpu character, then where is he now? How can I find Xibalba?’
‘The dark road to Xibalba shall appear before the Hero Twins in their twentieth year. Until then, it is your destiny as First-Mother to prepare them. Great challenges lie ahead. Allies of the Dark Lord will do everything in their power to stop you.’
Ocela stands, leading her to the edge of the clearing and a massive cypress tree. Bound and gagged to the trunk is Luke Magierski. The soldier is wearing only his boxer shorts and a tee shirt.
Dominique removes his gag.
‘Uh, thank God. Would you tell these Zulus that I’m American!’
‘Why were you after me?’
‘You’re Dominique Vazquez, Michael Gabriel’s woman. Everyone wants to speak with you.’
‘He’s lying,’ says Elias. ‘Who hired you to find Dominique?’
Magierski stares into the jungle. ‘Name, rank, and serial number, that’s all you’ll get from me. The United States doesn’t like it when you kidnap their soldiers. There’s fifteen thousand heavily armed men and women less than a dozen klicks from here who’ll napalm this entire jungle into a prairie dust if any harm comes to me.’
Ocela signals to his elders. Two of the men force Magierski’s jaw open, while a third jams a small piece of bamboo between the soldier’s upper and lower molars, preventing him from closing his mouth.
The fourth man appears with a wooden container. From within, he retracts an eighteen-inch centipede, its thick jet-black body sporting a yellow head and legs.
Dominique steps back. ‘Gross. What is that thing?’
Elias takes the animal from the elder. ‘It’s long name is Scolopendromorpha, a tropical species that flourishes in our jungles. Some of the larger ones feed on mice and lizards.’
‘They get bigger than that?’
‘Hmm. See these front legs? They’re called prehensors. They’re used to inject venom into their victims. Let’s see if our little friend here can persuade our brave American soldier to tell us what we want to know.’
Elias holds the wiggling centipede in front of Luke Magierski’s face. ‘This afternoon at the marketplace, you were acting on someone’s orders. Whose?’
The soldier looks away.
Two of the elders hold Magierski’s face steady while Elias positions the centipede’s yellow head in the soldier’s open mouth.
Dominique turns away in disgust.
Elias leans in closer. ‘Six more inches and its tail disappears. When that happens, I can’t save you. It will crawl into your small intestines and lay its eggs. Three more inches… two more. If you have anything to say, say it now.’
Magierski nods vigorously, his eyes as wide as saucers, his face turning purple.
Elias carefully extracts the centipede, then removes the chunk of bamboo.
Magierski leans over and pukes.
‘Give us a name, or it goes back in, and this time, we’ll let it keep going until it crawls out your ass.’
‘Mabus. Peter Mabus. He placed a 2-million-dollar bounty on the girl’s head.’
Dominique turns to face him. ‘Why? What does that screwball want with me?’
‘I don’t know. He… he blames a lot of the doomsday stuff on Gabriel; guess you’re sort of lumped into his political campaign. He’s sending one of his men down from the States to collect you.’
‘More likely to kill you,’ Elias states. ‘Where were you and this man supposed to meet?’
‘I don’t know.’
Elias nods to the Mayan elders, who grab Magierski’s head.
‘No… wait, he’s meeting me tomorrow morning, at the commuter airport outside of Piste.’
A Mayan elder returns the centipede to its wooden container. Elias shoves the gags back inside Magierski’s mouth as Ocela leads Dominique back to the campfire.
She watches as the elder carrying the wooden container skewers the centipede with a pointed stick, then roasts it over the open fire.
Elias winks at her. ‘Old Mayan delicacy. I prefer mine with butter.’
Dominique feels queasy.
‘Grandfather’s right. Enemies are everywhere.’
‘Maybe I should just stay here?’
‘Unfortunately, it’s not safe here either. Among the Mayans are cult members of Tezcatilpoca, practitioners of the Dark Way. It was Tezcatilpoca who vanquished our great teacher, Kukulcan, more than a thousand years ago. Once these followers learn you are here, they won’t stop until they kill you and sacrifice you… in that order.’
‘Fine. I’ll return to the States tomorrow, but there’s one more thing I need to know before I leave. What is the Abomination?’
Elias struggles to translate.
Ocela listens, then becomes animated.
‘My grandfather says the Abomination is the Dark Lord in its human form. Legend says the Abomination is the origin of all human evil, reborn on the day of the Hero Twins’ birth.’
‘I don’t understand. Why do they call it the Abomination?’
‘Because, Dominique, like Michael and your unborn sons, the Abomination is Hunahpu.’
Piste airport 7:25 a.m.
The private Learjet touches down, then taxis along the hot tarmac.
Luke Magierski waits in his jeep. Just play it cool and you should walk away with something, at least a hundred grand. He watches as the entry steps lower from the jet’s passenger compartment.
A wave of dry heat blasts Solomon Adashek in the face. He wipes humidity from his spectacles with a handkerchief, then gingerly makes his way down the narrow steps.
Magierski shakes his head. A 2-million-dollar bounty, and this is the guy they send?
‘Captain Magierski?’
‘Yeah. You have my money?’
‘All set to be wired. Where’s the girl?’
‘I lost her. Bunch of Mayan locals helped her escape. Beat and tortured me, but I managed to escape.’
‘How fortunate for you.’
‘Yeah, but all’s not lost. You have her identity now, so it shouldn’t be hard to find her.’
‘Identities can be replaced easier than soldiers, Captain.’
‘Listen, pal, I still deserve something for my trouble, at least a hundred grand. That’s chump change to a guy like Peter Mabus.’
‘I’ll be glad to pay you your money. Would you join me aboard the jet? I’ll need your assistance in completing the wire to your bank account.’
From the adjacent woods, Elias Forma watches the two men through his binoculars.
Magierski follows the nerdy little man up the steps and into the plane. ‘Let’s move it, fella, I have to get back to my post by 0800.’
‘Of course. Step to the rear of the plane and stand on the plastic please?’
‘Plastic?’ Magierski walks to where a heavy plastic painter’s drop cloth has been stretched out over the aisle. ‘What’s all this for?’
‘Just a matter of convenience.’
Solomon Adashek’s 9mm spits out two bullets, both striking the Army captain through the heart.
PART 2
BIRTH
The house is silent.
The door is closed.
A person enters.
The window is opened wide.
Yang enters the Yin.
A baby is born.
- TAO TEH CHING
5
SEPTEMBER 22, 2013: WEST BOCA HOSPITAL, BOCA RATON, FLORIDA
12:53 a.m.
Dominique Vazquez gazes through feverish eyes at her foster mother, Edith Axler, as another contraction begins. The wave of pain crests higher… higher She groans through clenched teeth, ‘Drugs! Get me… drugs!’
Edith turns to Rabbi Steinberg, the only other person in the birthing room. ‘Richard, find the doctor.’
The auburn-haired, bearded rabbi unbolts the door, hurrying past the two armed security guards and into the chaos of the main corridor.
A dozen policemen have formed human barricades in front of each of the three stairwells, shunting off the swelling mob of reporters. Two nurses and an orderly argue at their station with members of the governor’s entourage, while governor Grace Demers continues her verbal assault on Dominique’s private nurse.
‘… we had an arrangement, Mrs. Klefner.’
‘Hey, lady, I called you, just like I said I would. Not my fault the preggo wants nobody but the old woman and the Jew in her birthing room. You don’t like it, you can take your money and let it hit you where the good Lord split you.’
‘Now you listen to me-’
‘Nurse Klefner?’ Rabbi Steinberg grabs the nurse by the arm, dragging her away from the governor. ‘Where’s Dr. Wishnov?’
‘Who’re you?’
‘I’m the Jew. Where’s the doctor?’
‘Uh, he’s trying to secure an operating room.’
Steinberg heads down the corridor.
The governor hustles to catch up. ‘Rabbi, wait, let’s talk. Get me inside to witness the birth, and I’ll make it worth your while.’
Steinberg spots Bruce Wishnov, Dominique’s obstetrician, hurrying down the opposite corridor.
‘I’ll bet your synagogue could use a new parking lot.’ She lowers her voice. ‘Or would you prefer credits?’
Steinberg’s blood pressure boils. ‘Geh feifen ahfen yam.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘It’s Yiddish for go peddle your fish elsewhere.’
The rabbi jumps aside as a burly Hispanic cop drags two handcuffed reporters into a makeshift holding room. Jogging down the corridor, Steinberg intercepts Dr. Wishnov, who is dressed head to slippers in surgical green. ‘Where have you been? Dominique’s in pain, she needs an epidural.’
‘Dominique may need a Caesarian. The OR’s ready, but the mob’s getting worse. I thought Chaney was sending the National Guard?’
‘Yes.’ Steinberg struggles to keep up. ‘That’s what we were told.’
The security guards step aside, allowing the doctor and rabbi to reenter the private birthing room.
Edith is at the window, peeking between wooden shutters at the scene three stories below. The night is torn by sirens and swirling lights that streak the surging crowd blue and red. Mesoa
merican Indians, news reporters, and religious fanatics have jammed the parking lot and hospital entrance to jostle with local police. The deep thrumming from news choppers pounds the humid air, their white-hot search lights cutting through palm fronds, casting bizarre shadows across the glass-faced building.
‘There must be ten thousand people out there. Where’s the National Guard?’
‘Owww!’ Dominique moans as she rides another crest. Sweat mats her black bangs to her forehead, beads of perspiration rolling past her cheekbones. She grabs the doctor by his arm, burying her nails into his skin. ‘Get these babies out of me!’
Dr. Wishnov releases the brakes on her roller bed. ‘Hang in there, we’re moving you to an operating room.’
‘No! No Caesarean! It’s time. Just get them out… owwww!’
The doctor kneels between Dominique’s legs and lifts her gown. ‘You’re right, you’ve dilated to ten centimeters.’
‘No shit!’
The sounds of the mob grow louder. ‘Okay, forget the Caesarean, we’ll do this the old-fashioned way. Where’s that nurse?’
‘Selling us out to the media,’ the rabbi says. ‘I don’t want her in here.’
Dr. Wishnov shoots the rabbi a harsh look. ‘Then scrub up, I’ll need your help.’
The black limousine continues north on Route 441, inching its way toward the hospital through bumper-to-bumper traffic. Designed by the United States Army, the ‘smart-limo’ contains a variety of offensive and defensive systems. Tinted bulletproof glass and lightweight Kevlar armor shields the chassis. High-voltage door handles and pepper-spray blasters keep hostile crowds at bay. Conformal arrays of super-bright LED lights in the front, sides, and rear can blind enemies looking directly at or pursuing the vehicle. A retractable antenna and bowling-ball-sized weapons platform can deploy from inside the trunk, providing night-vision images and laser-designation capabilities.
Two men are seated up front. Riding shotgun, sporting a trimmed black beard and mustache, is Mitchell Kurtz. At five-foot-eight and 160 pounds, the forty-year-old Caucasian looks anything but dangerous, but the CIA-trained assassin has killed a dozen times in the line of duty.
