Ruins

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Frohike said, “We print them out at the copy shop.”

  “Can’t be too careful,” Langly said.

  “No, you can’t,” Mulder agreed.

  “Well, we have to get started sealing envelopes,” Langly said. “We’d be happy to press you into service, Mulder.”

  Mulder held up his hand. “No, thanks, I just came here for some information, then I’ll be on my way.”

  “And how can we help save innocent citizens from the nefarious workings of the shadow government?” Byers said. “For this afternoon, at least?”

  Mulder moved aside one of the boxes of stuffed envelopes and sat down. “What’s the buzz you guys hear on Central America, the Yucatán, particularly some new Maya ruins that are being excavated? Xitaclan. I’ve got a missing archaeology team and a recovered artifact that may be of extraterrestrial origin.”

  “Let me think,” Langly said, tossing his long blond hair. “I majored in archaeology in college.”

  Byers looked at him skeptically. “I thought you majored in political science.”

  Frohike squinted through his glasses. “You told me it was electronics engineering.”

  Langly shrugged. “So, I had a lot of varied interests.”

  Byers grew serious, looking back at Mulder. “Central America? I hear a lot of unconfirmed rumors about events in the area. There’s been a separatist movement brewing in one of the states in the Yucatán. It’s called Liberación Quintana Roo. The violence seems to be escalating—car bombs, threatening letters—and of course, you know about the U.S. military complex supplying arms at an exorbitant price to the freedom fighters.”

  “Why would they do that?” Mulder said.

  “To create political instability. It’s a game to them,” Byers said, passion flickering behind his normally calm eyes. “And don’t forget about some of the more powerful drug lords in the area who have become arms merchants themselves. Buying up technology. Serious stuff that we never would have dreamed about a decade ago.”

  “I dreamed about it,” Frohike said.

  “And how does this tie in with your particular interest, Mulder?” Langly asked.

  “As I said, an American archaeological team disappeared there a week ago. They had unearthed new artifacts in the ruins—artifacts that are now turning up on the black market. The locals won’t go near the place. Apparently there’s a long-standing curse on the city. It was abandoned a thousand years ago, and now I’ve been hearing talk about the revenge of Kukulkan and his ferocious guardian feathered serpents.”

  “Knowing you, Mulder, I’m surprised you’re not out chasing ancient astronauts,” Langly said.

  “I’m keeping an open mind,” he answered. “There are plenty of mysteries connected with Maya culture and history, but I’m not necessarily ready to adopt any of them yet. With ancient astronauts and the Maya curse…not to mention the drug lords and military operations and revolutionary movements Byers was talking about, the Yucatán really sounds like a happenin’ place.”

  “So are you and the lovely Agent Scully going down to investigate?” Frohike said, sounding hopeful.

  “Yeah, we leave for Cancún tomorrow.”

  “Our tax dollars at work,” Langly snorted.

  “I’d love to see Agent Scully with a healthy tropical tan,” Frohike said.

  “Down, Frohike,” Mulder said.

  Mulder turned to leave. It was late in the afternoon, and traffic on the Beltway would be horrendous. He thought he might go back to the office and do more research. “Thanks for the information.”

  As he stood by the door, Byers called after him, standing up and straightening his tie. “Agent Mulder,” he said, “if you do find anything interesting, be sure to let us know. For our files.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Mulder said.

  4

  Private villa of Xavier Salida,

  Quintana Roo, Mexico

  Tuesday, 5:01 P.M.

  The old Mexican police cruiser with official state markings rolled along the tree-lined driveway, working its way uphill. The walled fortress of one of Quintana Roo’s most powerful drug lords stood like a citadel in the dense forest.

  The car rode low on the damp driveway made of packed limestone gravel. Blue-gray exhaust belched in oily clouds from its tailpipe. The police car had been painted recently, but unevenly, so that it did not look as new as it should have.

  In the front passenger seat reclined Fernando Victorio Aguilar, feigning a calm and ease that he had learned always helped him to do better business. He rubbed his fingers along his slick cheeks. He had shaved only an hour before, and he loved the delicious, glassy-smooth feel of his skin. The sharp but pleasant scent of his cologne filled the car, masking other less pleasant aromas that Carlos Barreio, the chief of Quintana Roo’s state police, had collected during his daily work.

  Barreio drove slowly, easing around muddy puddles in the driveway. He wore his clean police uniform as if he were a military general, pleased with his position and flaunting it in a way he thought was subtle. Aguilar didn’t find many things about Barreio to be subtle.

  In the back seat rode young Pepe Candelaria, Aguilar’s assistant, a steadfast young Indian who felt compelled to do everything Aguilar told him. Pepe sat protectively beside the precious object packed in its crate as if he were a common criminal under arrest in the back of Barreio’s police cruiser.

  While Aguilar and Pepe might have deserved to be arrested under the national system of laws, they both knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that Police Chief Barreio would never take them into custody. He had too much to lose.

  The cruiser pulled to a stop outside the ornate, imposing wrought-iron gates that closed the access way through a stone wall. Barreio rolled down his window, grunting as he turned the door crank. He waved at the heavily armed private guard, who recognized him immediately.

  Aguilar stared out the windshield, gazing appreciatively at the thick wall that surrounded Xavier Salida’s huge fortress. Slabs of stone covered with ornate glyphs, Maya writing and sculptures, designs of jaguars and feathered serpents, images of priests wearing quetzal-feather headdresses and loincloths studded with beaten gold plates. Some of the carved panels were genuine, uprooted from forgotten and overgrown ruins out in the jungle. Others were clever forgeries Aguilar had commissioned.

  Xavier Salida never knew the difference. The drug lord was a self-deluded, if powerful, fool.

  “Tiene una cita, Señor Barreio?” the guard said in rapid Spanish. Do you have an appointment?

  Carlos Barreio frowned. A heavy mustache rode on his upper lip like luggage, and his dark hair was slicked back under his police cap. His hair was thinning, receding with a pronounced widow’s peak, but the bill of his official cap covered those details.

  “I shouldn’t need an appointment,” Barreio boomed. “Excellency Salida has told me I’m always welcome in his home.”

  Aguilar leaned across to the driver’s side, eager to divert an annoying and time-wasting confrontation. “We have another one of the ancient treasures Excellency Salida so fervently desires,” he said out the window. “You know how much he enjoys them—but this item is even more precious than most.”

  He tossed a meaningful glance to the back seat, where the crate remained covered, hiding its contents. Whip-thin Pepe Candelaria slid a protective arm over its top.

  “What is it?” the guard asked.

  “It is for Excellency Salida’s eyes only. He would be very upset if his guards were to get a look at the merchandise before he has a chance to assess its value.” Aguilar tugged on his floppy ocelot-skin hat and flashed a hopeful smile.

  The guard fidgeted, shifted his rifle from one shoulder to the other, and finally opened the wrought-iron gate, swinging the barricade inward so Barreio could drive the police cruiser through.

  The police chief parked the car in the broad, flagstoned turnabout inside the walled courtyard. Dogs barked and howled from their kennels: Salida kept half a doze
n purebred Dobermans, which he used for intimidation whenever necessary. Imported peacocks strutted around the grounds, clustering near the cool mist of a fountain that splashed into the hazy air.

  Aguilar turned to look at both the driver and the passenger in the back seat. “This is a complex deal, so let me do the talking. When we meet with Salida, I’ll handle the negotiations. Since this object is rare and unusual, we have no way of determining its true value.”

  “Just get the most you can,” Barreio growled. “Weapons cost money, and Liberación Quintana Roo needs them.”

  “Yes, yes, your precious revolutionaries.” Aguilar smoothed down the front of his khaki vest and then adjusted his spotted hat, making certain that his long dark hair was still in its neat ponytail that hung beneath the ocelot skin. Then he looked up at the broad expanse of Salida’s whitewashed adobe villa.

  It had taken a great deal of effort to smuggle Xitaclan artifacts from under the watchful eyes of the American archaeology team—but now that had all been taken care of. The foreigners would cause no further problems. This particular artifact was one of the last large relics taken from the pyramid, a “chamber of wonders” the Indian had called it in an awed voice…just before he had disappeared back into the jungles, never revealing where he had discovered the treasures.

  But now his people had the run of Xitaclan again and plenty of freedom to explore…and exploit. For all of them who had risked so much, the time had come to reap the rewards.

  Aguilar and Barreio got out of the car, while Pepe hauled the crate containing the artifact with him, lurching awkwardly under its bulk. The mysterious object was surprisingly lightweight for its size, but the young man had short arms and legs. Neither Aguilar nor Barreio offered to help.

  Salida’s second-floor balconies were decked with flowers, splashes of color that trickled between the railings and across the clean adobe surface. A hammock hung on one small balcony. Wicker chairs sat empty on another.

  A guard at the door came forward, also armed with a shoulder rifle. “Hola!” Aguilar said, flashing his well-practiced smile. “We are here to see Excellency Salida.”

  “I’m afraid he is not having a good day,” the guard said. “If you see him, you must accept the risk of upsetting him.”

  “He will see us,” Aguilar said, again smiling. “If you wish to improve his day, you’ll let him see what we’ve brought for him, eh?”

  The guard looked at the box and stiffened, instantly suspicious. Before the man could ask, Aguilar said, “Another prize for your master. Even more breathtaking than the feathered serpent statue we delivered. And you know how highly he prized that carving.”

  Outside in the courtyard one of the peacock males set up a racket, a raucous squawking that sounded like a chicken being slowly crushed by a cement truck. Aguilar looked around and saw the large bird spread its amazing plumage. It sat on top of a tall stela, a stone pillar carved on all sides with Maya glyphs and pictures surrounding a ferocious-looking jaguar head.

  The stela was ten feet tall and weighed many tons. It had begun to tilt, though Salida’s landscaper had anchored it firmly in the ground. Dozens of sweating workers had labored for hours to bring the artifact in secret up the gravel driveway and into the drug lord’s fenced courtyard.

  The peacock squawked again, flaunting its feathers. Aguilar considered yanking them out, one by one.

  The guard ushered them inside to a cool hallway and then up a curving grand staircase to the second level, where Xavier Salida kept his offices and his private withdrawing rooms. Sunlight drifted in through narrow windows, glistening on dust motes that fell through the air.

  Their footsteps echoed with a hollow sound. The house seemed silent and sleepy…until they reached the second level. They could already hear Salida shouting as they approached down the hallway.

  The guard looked wryly at the three visitors. “I told you, Señor Salida is not having a good day. One of our small cargo planes was shot down near here. We lost a pilot as well as many, many kilograms of product.”

  “I had nothing to do with this,” Barreio said, suddenly defensive. “DEA?”

  The guard looked back at the police chief. “Señor Salida has his own suspects.”

  They approached the largest withdrawing room, where two ornately carved mahogany doors stood mostly closed, leaving a gap of only a few inches between them. The drug lord’s shouts carried through, only slightly muffled.

  “Grobe! It must be Pieter Grobe. No one else would have the audacity!” Salida paused for a moment as if listening. “I’m not afraid of escalating our rivalry,” he said. “We must take out twice as much in retaliation—but make no comment, no threats. Just do it.” He slammed the phone down with an echoing clang, and silence fell on the rooms like a smotherer’s pillow.

  Aguilar swallowed, adjusted his floppy cap, and made to step forward. By smiling and taking the initiative, he hoped he could cheer the drug lord. The guard remained in place, blocking their way, his rifle on his shoulder. He shook his head in warning. “Not yet. It is not wise.”

  A moment later the strains of an opera emerged from a large stereo system inside the room. A shrieking soprano voice that sounded, if anything, worse than the peacock’s cries outside in the courtyard, sang of some unimaginable human misery in a language Aguilar could not comprehend.

  He knew the drug lord couldn’t understand the words either, but Salida loved to put on airs, to wear the mask of cultured enlightenment. The opera went on for five nearly unbearable minutes, and then it was abruptly switched off to be replaced by a much more relaxing classical piece with orchestral instruments playing rich and complex melodies.

  Hearing the change in music, the guard nodded and gestured for them to enter. He pulled open the heavy mahogany door on the right side.

  Aguilar and Carlos Barreio entered side by side, but Aguilar knew that he had the upper hand. Behind them, Pepe struggled to carry the crate containing the precious and exotic artifact.

  Xavier Salida turned to look at them, folding his hands in front of him and smiling a patient smile with a warmth that looked almost genuine. Aguilar was amazed at how rapidly the drug lord had transformed his mood from the shouting fury they had heard only moments before.

  “Greetings, my friends,” Salida said. His clothes were fine, his shirt made of white silk, his pants precisely tailored. He wore a nice vest with a gold watch chain dangling from its pocket.

  Aguilar nodded and took off his ocelot-skin cap, holding it in front of him in the posture of a supplicant. “We are pleased you would see us, Excellency,” he said. “We have another fine artifact to show you. Something so marvelous you have never seen anything like it.”

  Salida chuckled. “Fernando Victorio Aguilar, you say that every time you bring something to my home.”

  Aguilar smiled. “And aren’t I usually correct? Don’t you usually buy what I offer you, eh?” He gestured for Pepe to come forward and set the crate down on a glass table near the drug lord’s desk.

  Carlos Barreio stood at attention, trying to look imposing in his police uniform, while Aguilar glanced around the room: the familiar collection of fine art prints, professionally matted with heavy gilt-covered frames, the Maya sculptures on pedestals, some examples of pre-Colombian art in glass cases, others sitting on windowsills. Salida showcased the ones he liked the most, since he had no idea which were truly valuable and which were merely gaudy trinkets. A wine rack filled with the most expensive wines sat in one corner of the room.

  Aguilar knew that although Xavier Salida flaunted his wealth and power, the drug lord had been illiterate until he became wealthy and powerful. The story was told of how he had brought in a tutor to teach him to read. The man had done a good enough job at it, but unfortunately the hapless tutor, after consuming too much tequila in a local cantina, had joked about the drug lord’s lack of education…and so Salida had had him removed.

  There had been a succession of other tutors who had taught Salida
courses in art and music appreciation, transforming him into a fine upstanding citizen. He ate his expensive Sevruga caviar. He drank his fine wines. He played his old music on the newest stereo systems. And he pretended to know what he was doing when he collected expensive art objects.

  Aguilar had taken advantage of this, fawning on him, playing on the drug lord’s lack of expertise. Rather than admit he didn’t know what he was doing, Xavier Salida nearly always bought the objects Aguilar offered.

  But this time the prize was indeed something special. No question about it.

  Pepe stood back from the glass table, sweating, swallowing, shuffling his feet. He wiped his palms on his pants, and waited for further instructions.

  The drug lord gestured to the crate. “Well, go on, Fernando—open it, let me see what you have found this time.”

  Aguilar impatiently turned to Pepe, waving his hands. The young helper went to the crate and dug his nails in so that he could pry the tacks free. The lid popped open. He lifted aside the packing material, then carefully withdrew the magical artifact. Aguilar smiled magnanimously.

  The drug lord caught his breath and stepped forward, compelled and fascinated. Aguilar’s heart pounded. This was exactly the reaction he had hoped for.

  Pepe set the object on the table and stepped back, wiping his sweaty hands on his pants again. The artifact was a completely transparent rectangular box a little more than a foot on each side. It gleamed with prismatic colors in the light, as if the workings inside were really sheets of thin diamond plating.

  The components within were strange and exotic, interlocked components, connections made of glass fibers, glinting crystals. Aguilar thought it looked like the world’s most complicated clock, made entirely of lead crystal. Tiny holes had been drilled in the side of the clear case. Other movable squares marked the corners and part of the top. Etched symbols not unlike some of the incomprehensible Maya glyphs marked portions of the clear glass faces. None of it made sense at all.