“You promised me you wouldn’t be macho. That’s my job.”
“Well, you’re not very good at it,” I told him. “A truly macho guy would slap me and say, ‘Snap out of it.’”
“You didn’t sleep well.”
“No.”
He just looked at me until I capitulated.
“Okay, it’s . . . I’ve never had anything like that happen before. I mean, yeah, I’ve had guys try to pick me up in bars or at the fitness club. Insistent guys, even. But nothing like that. I don’t think he would have raped me or anything. I mean, look how easily he folded when I played the money card. But the feeling of being trapped . . .”
I tried to describe to him the way my skin felt—the way it echoed the event over and over like a scratched CD. It occurred to me, in one of those random flashes of insight, that this was very much like the aftermath of Jeremy. In that case, the echoes were from willing kisses and longed-for touches that had been twisted into little nightmares by a single, horrific, unforgivable act of betrayal. In this case, the haunting event was intense but brief. I had every hope that the aftereffects would be brief as well.
I looked down and realized that Cruz had woven his fingers through mine.
“I’m not sure you want to do that,” I said. “My ghosts might jump ship.”
He smiled. “The haunted girl?” He gave my captured hand a squeeze, then let go of it. “Maybe you should have your inestimable mother perform an exorcism.”
“Don’t think she hasn’t tried.”
He studied me a moment more, then said, “I want to ask you about that ghost, you know. The big one. The bad one.”
I shook my head.
“I’m not asking. I just want to.”
“Speaking of asking,” I said, eager to move along to another subject, “I forgot to tell you something about last night. I asked Revez how he’d gotten set up with his deceased operative. He said he was introduced to him by one of his earlier recruits, a—how did he put it?—an ‘underpaid, disgruntled museum employee’ who was apparently looking to make some extra money.”
Cruz sat back and thought about that for a moment. “How does an ‘underpaid, disgruntled museum employee’ come to know how to smuggle antiquities into the U.S., much less get them to prospective buyers?”
I wished heartily that I’d gotten more sleep. In the adrenaline-charged aftermath of my fight-or-flight moment with Felipe, I hadn’t thought to ask myself that simple question. Now I struggled to come up with a simple answer.
The one that fell off the tip of my tongue sounded less simple to me than stupid. “He’s acquainted with other smugglers?”
Cruz was nodding. “Maybe he handles shipments, deals with auction house personnel . . .”
“And attends antiquities shows. Revez said he met this guy at an antiquities show. Same place Rose and her team shop for pothunters. Same place they found Bridges.”
Cruz tilted his head back and covered his eyes with his hands, pressing his palms into his eyelids. “Too many connections. How to know which ones are critical? Ah, my head hurts.”
“I’ll bet. I can’t imagine that sofa was too comfy.”
He pulled his hands down and looked at me.
“I kind of figured I wasn’t supposed to know about that, seeing as how you were gone within five seconds of my alarm going off. Thanks, though.”
He shrugged. “Por nada. All part of the Gutierrez bodyguard service.”
We took a cab from the airport to the hotel where Greg was registered as Geoffrey Catalano. I took the opportunity to call home. Rose was still in flux—here one moment, gone the next. The doctor had told Dave this was a positive development. Dave told me this was a positive development. I told myself it was a positive development. Then, for good measure, I told Cruz it was a positive development.
Greg was waiting for us in his suite, looking nothing like the erstwhile documentary director, and very little like the Greg Sheffield I knew. He was wearing a very good wig of curly brunette hair and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache, and he was dressed impeccably in a suit of raw taupe silk. He wore the jacket open over a sand-washed silk shirt of creamy terra cotta. No tie. The epitome of the well-heeled entrepreneur.
The first thing I did upon entering the room was give him a peck on the cheek. Then I wheeled my little bit of baggage over to a nearby table, opened it, and lifted Bird Jaguar IV to the tabletop. Sunlight gleamed from the freshly cleaned gold and sparked the chips of turquoise to the brilliance of a summer sky.
“Ta-da!” I said. “Happy wedding, Geoff. You can thank me later.”
Greg gaped at the statue speechlessly for ever so long. Then he circled the table, finally stopping in front of the god-king and touching it gingerly.
“My God,” he said. “It looks brand new.”
I nodded. “Yeah. I had the same reaction. Doesn’t look as if it’s been lying under a manmade hill for centuries, does it?”
“And there’s really more?”
“At least one chamber full,” Cruz told him. “Revez says there are more. He’s right about this not being a tomb. It was built for that purpose, but ended up being used as a literal treasure house in which Shield Jaguar collected a lifetime of souvenirs. There are artifacts in that cache from a half-dozen other cultures. Some unlike any I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s like a holographic scrapbook,” I added. “My Conquests, by Itzamnaaj Balam.”
“And you’re sure they’re real? This isn’t a scam?”
“No, they’re real,” Cruz said. “I was able to handle anything I wished. No matter where in the room I went, no matter how far under a stack I reached, every artifact I laid my hands on was authentic.”
“This is . . . amazing,” Greg said inadequately.
“So,” I said. “What’s our next move? Call in the cavalry, secure the site, grab Revez?”
“What about his associates?” Greg asked.
“Ah,” said Cruz. “Now that’s more complicated. You see, there is really only one ‘associate’ of any importance. The others are little more than collectors who pay Revez or do him favors for the occasional new toy. Or so he says.”
“And this associate is?”
“Mario Torres.”
Greg’s hands dropped away from the statue. “Mario Torres of the Amity and Truth Brigade?”
“The very same.”
“No-no-no-no.” Greg moved away from Bird Jaguar as if in a trance. “He’s partners with a damned terrorist?”
“Torres’s only interest in the site, according to Revez, is the money he makes from the sale of the artifacts it supplies him. He has no direct connection with the ruin. He doesn’t even care to know where it is. He only wants his share.”
Greg glanced at him sharply. “And you believe this?”
“Yes, I do actually. I don’t see any reason Torres will notice anything is amiss until Revez’s shipments stop. By then, the NPS and the INAH will have made a clean sweep of things. What I do not necessarily believe is that the other associates and investors are as insignificant as he makes it sound. I think he wants you—or rather, Geoffrey Catalano—to believe he will be king of the hill.”
Greg nodded. “All right. Here’s how we proceed. I want you two to return to the site—you should be able to hop a plane to Palenque and drive down using the GPS data. You can take Highway 199 as far south as Ocosingo, then head east. It may get tricky once you’re off the government-maintained fire roads, but the weather’s been good, so you should be fine. You could be there by late this afternoon.”
“And once we’re there?” asked Cruz.
“Take pictures. Document where the cache is and the extent of its contents. And look for any physical evidence that will connect Revez and/or Torres to the site. Meanwhile, I’ll report in with Ellen and mobilize the troops. We’ll join you there ASAP.”
Cruz nodded. “If we’re going to get out there by sunset, we’d better get moving.”
I went to give B
ird Jaguar a pat on his gold-and-turquoise headdress. “Bye-bye, Bird Jag. I’m gonna miss you. See you in Bonampak B,” I told Greg and followed Cruz into the hallway.
Cruz had taken a room under his nom de guerre and it was here we went to change clothes and disguise ourselves just a bit. In the lobby of the hotel, I spotted an American tourist who looked suspiciously like Rodney Hammermill. Then we hopped a cab and drove around a few sightseeing centers before heading to the small executive airport from which Cruz had arranged a plane to take us to Palenque.
In Palenque, we found a rental service from which we selected a dark green Humvee. Cruz was leaning toward a jeep, but I explained that as I had some experience dealing with a Hummer’s autovoi, we’d be better off with that.
“Is it okay to laugh at you when you say things like that?” he asked as we drove off down Highway 199.
“Feel free,” I said. “I laugh at myself when I say things like that.”
“You weren’t serious though—about the Humvoi, I mean.”
“I’m not sure, to tell you the truth.”
He did laugh at me then. I was okay with that.
It was a long and bumpy ride. Once we left the main road at Ocosingo, conversation became practically impossible, punctuated as it was with whoa! and ow! and sonuvabitch! The last several miles we took slowly, carefully working our way toward the coordinates displayed on the GPS module’s digital map.
“You know we can’t just keep calling it Bonampak B,” I shouted over the revving of our oversize engine.
“What did you have in mind?” he shouted back.
“What about Itzamnaaj Balam?”
His answer was lost in a precipitous drop followed by a stream of abuse delivered in a medley of English and Spanish. I speak Spanish, as it happens, but there were a number of words I didn’t recognize.
Going was smoother once we connected with the track Revez had taken from his woodsy garage, and we were able to speak in reasonably normal voices. So it was that when Cruz’s cell phone rang, we actually heard it. Cruz gestured at his shirt pocket with his chin, clearly intending me to pick up.
“Hello?” I said noncommittally, expecting to hear Greg’s voice.
It wasn’t Greg; it was Felipe. And he didn’t sound good.
“Felipe?” I said and Cruz cut the engine. The silence, as they say, was deafening. “Felipe, what is it?”
“Where are you?” he asked me, his voice sounding tight and fierce.
“We’re in Villahermosa. Where else would we be?” I met Cruz’s eyes, grimacing to indicate something was off-kilter.
“Where in Villahermosa? What was that engine noise?”
“It was a sports car driving by. We’re having a late lunch in an outdoor—”
“What’s the name of the restaurant?”
The name of the restaurant at which we’d grabbed our lamentably early lunch was El Plata Calienté, so I gave that one. It had actually had an outdoor dining area.
“Why are you asking me all these odd questions, Felipe? What’s going on?”
“Have you delivered the gift yet?”
“Yes. I did it the moment we arrived. Geoffrey was stunned speechless. And that’s no mean feat. There are very few things that catch that man by surprise.”
I heard him take a deep breath. When he spoke again, he sounded more relaxed. “Then everything is as we hoped?”
“Well, I should say so. Geoffrey is a very happy man. In fact,” I added in a teasing voice, “he says the next time I see you I should give you a kiss since you most likely won’t be at our wedding to get one. He wanted to make sure I thanked you properly and sincerely.”
I swear to God and Saint Boris, I could feel my lips burning even as I said the words. And my skin was suddenly two sizes too tight. Cruz’s fingers touched my arm and lingered.
“I will look forward to that,” Revez said. But this was not the lusty purr he usually used with me. There was still something. “May I speak to Mr. Catalano personally? I want to thank him.”
“He’s not here, darling. I told you he was in Villahermosa on business. He’s in meetings at the Hyatt all day. You might be able to reach him there, or at least leave a message on his room phone. He’s in suite 501. But I’ll be bringing you the money, so save a few thank-yous for me, okay?”
“When? When will you bring the money?”
“Tomorrow morning. Geoffrey’s only in town for one night. Naturally, I’m going to spend it with him. Felipe, what’s gotten into you? You sound worried. What’s happened?”
Again, the deep breath of a man pulling himself together. “I received an anonymous message saying that you and your . . . bodyguard have left Villahermosa for other attractions.”
“Felipe, that’s absurd. Who’d even suggest such a thing? . . . Felipe?”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, and hung up.
“Well, that was weird.” I stared at the cell phone as if it were somehow responsible for the weirdness.
Cruz’s face looked as if it had been chipped out of stone. “How weird?”
I outlined the gist of Revez’s questions, then delivered the punch line: “Someone has given Revez an anonymous tip that we’re . . . doing pretty much what we’re doing, I think. Visiting the site behind his back.”
Cruz checked the time. It was about 3:30 in the afternoon. “Do you think he believed what you told him?”
“I don’t know. He sounded muy jinky. I’m pretty sure he’ll try to get hold of Greg—or rather, Geoffrey.”
“Then he’ll find there is a Geoffrey Catalano registered at the Hyatt. Perhaps leave a message on his room phone as you suggested. If Greg gets the call, he should be able to allay Revez’s fears.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
He started the Humvee up again. “Perhaps we should call him—warn him.”
I was already dialing Greg’s mobile phone. “That’ll only work if Revez actually leaves a message for him. What would Revez think if he gets a call from someone claiming to be Geoffrey Catalano out of the clear blue sky?”
“That we were covering our asses.”
“Precisely. Greg!” I’d gotten his message box. “Damn . . . Okay. This is Gina. Check your phone messages at the hotel. Revez may call to make sure you’re registered. If he leaves a message, call him back. Someone’s trying to spook him.” I texted him with the same message then handed the phone back to Cruz. “If someone knows we’ve left Villahermosa, we most likely have been followed.”
Cruz’s answer to that was to reach beneath the front seat and pull out his Glock in its well-worn shoulder holster. “You have your gun?”
“Is Saint Boris Orthodox?”
He smiled, pausing to strap on the gun before putting the Humvee back in motion. “Thank you, Gina Miyoko. I was getting ready to take all of this seriously. Once again, you have saved me from indulging my penchant for melodrama.”
We reached the site a little after 4:00 P.M. Cruz figured we should make a quick recon of the two smaller pyramids while we still had the light. They had, as Revez noted, barely been poked.
It was impossible to tell what was in the larger of the two, but someone had clearly entered the smaller one.
They’d had help from Mother Nature. About twenty feet up the steep side of the temple, plant roots had broken through the stonework and created a crude natural skylight. It was visible from the bottom of the pyramid at the end of a macheted trail.
We climbed to give this a closer inspection, which revealed a long, broad hallway not unlike the one through which we’d entered the largest structure. Below in the semi-gloom we could see little more than sun-dappled tumbles of debris from the broken roof.
Cruz looked at that root-bound hole as if it were a long-lost lover. I knew he was just dying to climb down into it, to intimately explore the insides of the temple. I felt like a third wheel.
“Should I give you two a moment alone together?” I asked.
“Ha. Funny.”
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He turned away from the enchanted skylight and we descended to the overgrown plaza. After we’d inspected the greenery around the buildings about as thoroughly as we could, finding various candy and cigarette wrappers, we headed back to the main temple. There were also some spent shell casings that made us wonder who’d been shooting and what they’d been shooting at. Cruz settled that by pointing out a number of trees that looked as if they’d been mobbed by big angry woodpeckers.
“Boredom and machine guns,” I said as we entered the Vestibule. “Not a healthy combination. At least not for the local flora.”
In the Vestibule, we were met with our first major roadblock in the form of Revez’s drawbridge. It was closed up like a giant clam and we had no way to open it.
Chapter 22
Labyrinth
In the end it took both of us, tools cobbled together from the Hummer and the chest in the Vestibule, and two hours of very slow-moving time to force the drawbridge to lower. We pretty thoroughly wrecked the motor in doing it and I doubted Felipe’s little garage-door opener would ever work on it again—which hardly mattered at this point in the game.
The Vestibule stash had provided us with a couple of military-grade flashlights that cast a wide circle of illumination perfect for spelunking or tomb raiding. I set them out on the floor and took pictures of the drawbridge and its mechanism and the walls of the entrance hall. Then we set off to retrace our steps to the Treasure Room. At the entrance to the maze it hit me: Revez had clearly navigated these passages countless times. We’d been through exactly once. I stared at the narrow black slit in the stone wall and drew a complete blank.
Cruz merely handed me his flashlight and said, “Hold this, please,” then whipped out his PDA.
“GPS isn’t going to do diddly down here, you know,” I told him.
He gave me a wry sideways glance, performed a series of taps, then held out his hand for his flashlight. He started forward and down, one eye on the softly glowing little screen. In about five yards, we came to a junction that offered three options: left, straight, right—four, if you count “U-turn.”
The Antiquities Hunter Page 23
