Ruins

by Kevin J. Anderson

  She hadn’t ordered room service, and she became instantly on guard as she got up off the bed. The pounding didn’t stop. “All right, coming,” Scully called out in a voice devoid of enthusiasm.

  She glanced over at the half-open connecting door to Mulder’s room, feeling a cold chill—the insistent thudding knock was not the polite request for attention that room service would ever use. This pounding sounded bold and impatient. Cautious, she picked up her own weapon from the courtesy table.

  Upon opening the door she found a barrel-chested man clad in a police chief’s uniform, his hairy-knuckled fist raised to continue the insistent knocking. Before she could blink back her surprise enough to speak, the man planted his foot in the door to prevent her from shutting it in his face.

  “I came as soon as I learned of your arrival,” the man said beneath a thick black mustache. “You are FBI Agent Scully—and the other one’s Mulder.” His police cap rested firmly on his head, and sweat glistened on his cheeks. His shoulders were broad, his chest wide, his arms muscular, as if he juggled bags of cement mix for exercise.

  “Excuse me?” Scully said, making sure he saw her 9-mm pistol. “Who are you, sir?”

  He waited for her to invite him into her room, ignoring the weapon. “I’m Chief Carlos Barreio of the Quintana Roo Police Force. I am sorry I could not meet you at the airport. Please pardon my rudeness. I have many cases, but few men.”

  “We were told you had been contacted,” Scully said, “but that you offered no help in our investigation.”

  The connecting door opened, and Mulder stepped into her room, his hair tousled, his shirt untucked and hastily buttoned. She noticed that he had missed his buttonholes by one, but at least he had taken a moment to tug his shoulder holster in place.

  Seeing the burly policeman, Mulder said, “We sure must have upset that hotel desk clerk by not going on one of his disco cruises.”

  “With your heavy case load, we’re glad to focus our own efforts on this particular investigation,” Scully said, straightening her blouse and running her hands down her skirt and hips. Despite his outwardly polite manner, she sensed an antagonism buried deep within him. “We have obtained all the proper clearances and authorizations.”

  “Yes, I cannot spare the manpower,” Barreio said. “You understand.” His complexion was ruddy, his face calm, but his posture remained stiff and on guard. He removed his cap, and she noted that his thinning hair had been slicked into a pronounced widow’s peak. “I’m afraid I have little to report on the disappearance of the American archaeological expedition.”

  Scully, trying to remain polite, said, “We have a long-standing tradition of cooperation with local law-enforcement agencies, Mr. Barreio. We both have the same goal, after all—to find our missing people. We are anxious to proceed and happy to add our expertise to your own.”

  Barreio, his eyes still cold, said, “Of course I will cooperate. I have been informed by the Federal Bureau of Investigation satellite office in Mexico City that you two have been assigned here as legal attachés. Your inspector in charge at the Office of Liaison and International Affairs has graciously requested that I provide you with copies of all information I have currently compiled. My own superiors have passed along this request.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Barreio,” Scully said, still cautious, still sensing his antagonism. “Please be assured that we are not trying to infringe upon your jurisdiction. The State of Quintana Roo is the area in which the crime was committed—”

  “Alleged crime,” Barreio interrupted, letting his composure slip. “Allegedly committed, to use your legal terms. We have no confirmation as to what actually happened.”

  “Allegedly committed,” Scully conceded. “You have jurisdiction. Mexico is a sovereign country. As agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, my partner Mulder and I are empowered only to offer our assistance.”

  Mulder cleared his throat. “However, we do have the right to investigate crimes perpetrated upon American citizens.” With one hand he smoothed his hair back, standing beside his partner. “The FBI has as its mandate investigations into terrorism, arms dealing, drug trafficking—as well as possible kidnapping of American citizens. Until we know additional information about Cassandra Rubicon and her companions, we must operate under the assumption that someone may intend to hold them as potential hostages.”

  “Hostages!” Barreio smiled. “I’m sorry, Agent Mulder, but I think it’s more likely they just got lost out in the jungle.”

  “I hope that proves to be the case,” Scully said, keeping herself between Mulder and the burly police officer.

  Outside, an imperious-looking room-service waiter strode down the hall carrying a tray loaded with fruit-garnished tropical drinks that looked like Dr. Jekyll’s chemistry experiments gone awry. As he walked past, the man studiously ignored the conversation taking place in the doorway of Scully’s room.

  Barreio sighed, shaking his head slightly. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t entirely trust the FBI.” Barreio’s eyebrows bunched like black caterpillars on his forehead. “My former counterpart in Mexico City—Arturo Durazo—was the target of one of your sting operations. He’s now rotting in an American jail.”

  Scully frowned. The name was completely unfamiliar to her.

  “The FBI claimed Durazo was selling millions of dollars of drugs to the United States,” Barreio said. “They lured him outside our borders to the Caribbean island of Aruba, where they could ‘legally’ arrest him—he was never extradited, as far as I know. It was a setup.”

  Scully tossed her red-gold hair, looking calmly at the police chief. “I assure you, Mr. Barreio, we have no interest in the police force in your state or its internal activities. We’re only looking for our missing citizens.”

  Two men hurried down the hall, and Scully looked past the police chief to see Vladimir Rubicon, his yellow-white hair unkempt, his reading glasses landed haphazardly on his sharp nose. He hustled along, leading another man who was deeply tanned and wiry, with long hair bundled in a ponytail under a floppy wide-brimmed hat made from the skin of a spotted cat. The long-haired man reeked of aftershave.

  “Agent Scully! Guess who I found,” Rubicon called, then stopped upon seeing the police chief. “Excuse me. Is anything wrong?”

  Barreio looked at the two men, his eyes blinking in recognition as he saw the man with the floppy spotted hat. “Señor Aguilar,” Barreio said, “are these people part of an expedition you are mounting?”

  “Yes, yes indeed,” the other man—Aguilar—said. “I have just entered into arrangements with this gentleman here. Quite satisfactory arrangements. Dr. Rubicon is a most eminent archaeologist. Carlos, you should be impressed to have a man of his stature come to Quintana Roo! Perhaps you will be pleased to receive positive international publicity instead of those unpleasant stories about revolutionary activities and illicit arms sales, eh?” Aguilar’s voice carried a barely hidden threat. Barreio bristled, his skin darkening.

  Scully looked over at Dr. Rubicon, who was flushed with excitement. Grinning, he paid little attention to the uniformed police chief.

  “Agent Scully, Agent Mulder,” he said, popping his head into her room. He swept his hand in a welcoming gesture to the man behind him. “Allow me to introduce Fernando Victorio Aguilar. He’s the person I was, uh, trying to contact…a—what did you call yourself?—an expediter, yes, that’s it, a man who can promptly arrange for helpers and guides and equipment to take us out to the site of Xitaclan. My daughter was indeed in touch with him, and he helped put together her party originally, though he hasn’t seen her since she departed. He can take us out there.”

  “That should help our case,” Scully said, then she turned with forced pleasantness to the police chief. “I believe Mr. Barreio here was about to offer us the maps and notes from his ongoing investigation, everything he has compiled so far about the missing team members.” She raised her eyebrows. “Isn’t that correct, Chief Barreio?”

&nb
sp; The ruddy-faced man frowned, as if he had just remembered an important detail. “If you are about to mount an expedition, have you obtained the proper permits, the entrance passes, the work release forms? Have you paid your appropriate state fees?”

  “I was just about to take care of all that,” Fernando Aguilar interrupted. “Carlos, you know you can trust me.” The man removed his floppy hat and looked from Scully to Mulder, back to Vladimir Rubicon. “In order to make certain portions of our expedition move more smoothly through political channels, we require clearances and taxes and fees. An unfortunate complication, but it cannot be helped.”

  “How much will all that cost?” Scully asked, immediately suspicious.

  “It varies,” Aguilar said, “but a thousand American dollars should allow us the complete freedom for our expedition to depart as early as tomorrow morning, eh?”

  “Tomorrow! That’s wonderful!” Rubicon said, rubbing his hands together in delight.

  “A thousand dollars?” Mulder said. He looked over at her. “Is your per diem higher than mine, Scully?”

  “The Federal Bureau of Investigation does not engage in bribery,” Scully said, her voice firm.

  Rubicon seemed exasperated and impatient. “Nonsense,” he said to Scully, “you don’t understand how things are done.”

  He untucked his shirt and withdrew his own money belt. Yanking out a wad of hundred-dollar bills, he counted out ten and stuffed them into Aguilar’s outstretched palm. He looked back at the FBI agents. “Sometimes you have to make concessions, and I don’t want to get into a bureaucratic head-butting contest for weeks while my Cassandra remains lost.”

  Aguilar nodded deeply, hiding a grin, as if he had just stumbled upon an unexpectedly easy mark. “It will be a pleasure doing business with you, Señor Rubicon,” he said. He pocketed two of the hundred-dollar bills and extended the remaining eight to Barreio, who snatched them quickly, scowling at Mulder and Scully.

  “That’ll be enough for the standard government fees,” he said. “I’ll contact the office and see if it is possible to copy our case files for you by morning. Check at the hotel desk. I make no promises. I have such limited help in my offices.” The police chief turned and marched off down the hall, turning the corner toward the elevators, where he deftly sidestepped another room-service waiter bearing drinks served inside hollowed pineapples and coconuts.

  Vladimir Rubicon stood in the hall outside Scully’s door, flushed with the urgency of his mood. Fernando Aguilar placed the spotted hat back on his head and extended a hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Señorita Scully.” He nodded to Mulder. “We’ll be seeing much more of each other in the coming days.”

  He released her hand and stepped back, bowing his head. “Be sure to get a good night’s rest, and take the time to enjoy a relaxing bath. I assure you, your accommodations for the next few nights will be much less…comfortable.”

  10

  Private villa of Xavier Salida,

  Quintana Roo

  Thursday, 10:17 P.M.

  The fire crackled in the hearth, burning hot as it consumed the aromatic wood, sending curls of perfumed smoke into the upstairs drawing room. Xavier Salida stood in front of the blaze, his hands clasped behind his back as he drew deeply of the bay and nutmeg scent, the peppery oils that made the smoke heady, almost a drug by itself.

  He turned away from the warmth and went over to the thermostat on his wall, turning up the air conditioning so he could enjoy his fire, yet keep the room from getting unpleasantly warm. There weren’t many things in life that one could enjoy both ways. But Salida had reached the point where he could do anything he wanted.

  From the rack of brass-handled fireplace implements, he selected the cast-iron poker and jabbed the flaming wood, watching the sparks fly. He liked to play with fire.

  Salida stepped back and strutted around the room with the poker as if it were a walking stick, practicing his moves, reveling in his personal grace—though newly acquired, he expected the grace would remain with him for the rest of his life. Education and culture were an investment, an intangible wealth that went beyond mere baubles and art objects.

  Salida went over to the stereo system on the wall and casually flipped through his collection of phonograph records, LPs of the best classical music, performances memorable as well as pleasing to the discerning ear. He selected a symphony by the great Salieri, an obscure eighteenth-century composer. The man’s very obscurity meant his works must be rare and therefore precious.

  As the bold overlapping strains of violins overwhelmed the old album’s scratchiness, Salida went over to the bottle on the table, twisted off the cork with his fingers, and poured himself another glass of the purplish red wine, a 1992 Merlot. It was well aged and smooth, he thought, not as young as some of the Cabernet Sauvignon he had in the wine cellar. He had been told this label was from one of the best California vineyards. He held up the glass, swirled it, and allowed the firelight to shine through its rich garnet color.

  Salida stepped out to his open balcony, taking a deep breath of the moist night air. The hammock hung, suggesting thoughts of lazier days, relaxing afternoons…but this past week had been very difficult. A thousand stressful challenges, each one dealt with decisively.

  As he gazed beyond where the lights shone, he saw the monolithic silhouette of the ancient Maya stela in the middle of his courtyard. Starlight trickled down on the prized monument, and he could make out the lumpy form of that damned male peacock perched on top.

  A foolish peacock. Much like his rival, Pieter Grobe, a showy, blustering man who was ultimately insignificant…just an amusing piece of coloration.

  Salida had attempted to get even with the Belgian expatriate, requiring revenge for Grobe’s ill-advised tactic of shooting down one of Salida’s private courier planes. Salida had demanded that his men eliminate one of Grobe’s planes in retaliation, but that had not proved possible.

  Grobe had tightened his own security procedures, allowing no vulnerabilities around his own aircraft—and so Salida had had no choice but to take an alternative vengeance. Not as full of finesse, but ultimately as satisfying: a large truck filled with fuel oil had “accidentally” exploded in the middle of one of Grobe’s marijuana fields. The resulting fire and caustic smoke had damaged a great portion of the crop.

  With the score evened again, Salida had no desire to escalate events into a full-scale war. He suspected that Grobe was just bored and needed to blow off pressure every once in a while. Done is done.

  Now he could relax and enjoy life, culture, the finer things. As the symphonic strains of Salieri’s first movement built to its crescendo, Xavier Salida walked back into his withdrawing room.

  He took another sip of the wine, rolling the taste in his mouth, identifying the nuances he had been taught about. He sniffed the “bouquet,” judging the “dryness,” appreciating the “finish.”

  In private, however, Salida allowed himself to long for the days when he could sit back with his local compadres, drink too much tequila, laugh out loud, and sing raucous songs. That was in the past…he was beyond such things now. He had become a powerful man.

  He paused to inspect his magnificent private collection of historical artifacts, pre-Colombian objects any museum would have been proud to own. But these items would never appear in any dusty display cases, because they belonged to him and him alone.

  He saw the delicate, translucent green sculptures of jade, the writhing, otherworldly forms of the feathered serpent companions of Kukulkan, a small stone figure of the great god of wisdom himself. Salida collected pots and carvings from all Central American peoples, the Toltec, the Olmec, as well as the Maya, and later the Aztec. He made a point of glancing at the engraved label on each artifact, refreshing his memory to make sure that he recalled every name and every detail exactly. It wouldn’t do to embarrass himself in polite conversation by not knowing the items in his own collection!

  Finally, like a boy creeping forward at
dawn on Christmas morning, Salida went over to his new prize, the amazing crystalline artifact Fernando Victorio Aguilar had brought to him from the ruins of Xitaclan. He already knew he must place this item in a protective glass case, displaying it but never allowing other visitors or any of the servants to touch it. It must be valuable.

  Setting his glass of wine next to the shimmering transparent box, Salida reached out with both hands, one on either side, gently touching its slick, cold surface with his manicured fingertips.

  Because of all the distractions and headaches caused by Pieter Grobe, he had not been able to spare the time to admire his new prize for the past two days—but now he would reward himself. With Grobe appropriately punished, and the rest of Salida’s operation running smoothly, now he could stare at the strange Maya box with a childlike sense of wonder. His fingers touched some of the finely detailed glyphs that had been etched into its diamond-hard surface. He touched one of the sliding squares, and it moved as if gliding on a pool of oil.

  The relic hummed.

  Startled, Salida drew away, felt the deep cold tingling on his fingertips. But then he bent over again, pressing his hands, feeling the faint vibrations within the artifact. The inner tremors seemed to be gaining strength, building in power.

  Salida laughed in amazement. In the back of his head, somewhere beyond the range of his hearing, he sensed a high-pitched sound, a throbbing noise that eluded him as he tried to concentrate on it.

  Outside, in the fenced-in kennels, his prized Dobermans set up a howl in unison, barking and baying. The peacocks in the courtyard squawked and shrieked.

  Salida hurried over to the balcony and looked out. One of the guards had switched on the mercury lamp to spill white light out into the courtyard. Two other guards strode out with rifles leveled at the shadows. Salida scanned the area within his walled enclosure, expecting to see the flitting shadow of a jaguar or an ocelot, some nighttime predator that had dared to cross the fence for a meal of peacock. The dogs continued to bark—but Salida saw nothing.