Fallen Idols

by J. F. Freedman

  He came, he saw, he fell in love. The potential for greatness! And for glory.

  He struck a deal with the government: he would raise the money for the beginning phases of the restoration of La Chimenea, and in return he'd be given the exclusive franchise to develop it. He would provide the expertise, select the groups of volunteers, and train them to do the work. And most important, he would make the critical decisions. Except for the regulations of official government and international policy, he would have final say.

  It was the score of a lifetime, the one he had been waiting and hoping for his entire career.

  The initial funding package didn't take long to put together. This was an extraordinary opportunity for his university, as well as for major institutional nonprofits with deep pockets. In less than a year he had raised enough money to get started.

  The first obstacle to be overcome was providing decent access to the site for the substantial amounts of people, equipment, and supplies that would be needed to do the work. The only way in was an arduous three-day trek through the jungle, which is how he had gotten there that first time. He was opposed to putting in an airstrip, as had been done in other remote locations. Too much of the surrounding jungle would have to be clear-cut to make room for even a basic runway. He also was afraid that poachers would use a strip to fly their own planes in and out. And large numbers of volunteers and equipment couldn't be flown in; that would be prohibitively expensive.

  A road was the most feasible—really the only—solution. It would be virtually impassable at certain times during the rainy season, but it would do the job, and it would be relatively easy to guard—a few men could throw up a roadblock and deny access in or out.

  It took over a year of backbreaking labor to cut the road through the jungle. As soon as it was completed, Walt led the first team of workers into the site. The university had granted him a leave of absence for the spring semester, so he was able to be there for five uninterrupted months.

  The work had gone better and faster than he could have hoped for. By the end of the summer they had begun excavating a section of the main temple, as well as parts of other buildings in the Central Plaza. Jocelyn had joined him in June, after she finished her own teaching workload, and had jumped right in. She had assumed the critical responsibility of cataloguing the large quantities of artifacts they discovered—the place was a treasure trove of antiquities.

  Shortly before it was time to leave the site and return to the States, they discovered that a small number of artifacts were missing. It was almost certain that looting had occurred, rather than the objects having been misplaced—Jocelyn had been extremely careful in her cataloguing. Only a handful were unaccounted for; but to have lost even a few was upsetting.

  Walt was faced with a dilemma: whether or not to inform the government. After discussing the problem with Jocelyn, who was the only person besides him who knew about the thefts, they decided to keep quiet about it.

  As he assumed the looting had been the work of guaqueros—tomb raiders—Walt rationalized keeping the looting a secret by taking steps to insure it wouldn't happen again. He strengthened the guards at the site to keep the tomb raiders out, leaving Manuel in charge while he was gone. He felt guilty about not telling the authorities about the looting, but he knew that thefts of antiquities are an unfortunate fact of life at the beginning of a newly discovered site's development. And he was resolute that the thievery would be a one-time occurrence. Starting with the next trip to the site, he would sternly warn everyone who was going to work there, before they were permitted to enter the area, that anyone caught stealing anything, even the smallest fragments of a pot, would be turned over to the government for prosecution, without exception.

  This was no idle threat. It was common knowledge how the government treated tomb raiders: brutally. With these stringent measures in place, Walt convinced himself he had resolved the issue.

  The first unsettling shift in the government's attitude started with a small, ugly incident. His in-country archaeologist (a requirement on all modern excavations), a man he had worked comfortably with before, got sick and had to be replaced. The new native archaeologist (that was a generous description; the man had no academic credentials and barely more experience than most of Walt's students) who was assigned to the site as a representative of the Minister of Archaeology and Culture's office almost immediately got a hair up his scrawny ass, claiming that too many outside volunteers and not enough native ones were working on the excavation. He insisted that Walt bring in more native “volunteers,” who would be paid, of course, from Walt's budget.

  Walt resisted; with restraint at first, then with impatient anger. He was already using all the local volunteers who were qualified. He was happy to use native workers, but they had to meet his standards—that was his agreement, he was in charge of selecting who worked on the site. What he didn't tell the local guy was his fear of more tomb-robbing. As he hadn't divulged the prior incident, he couldn't very well come out with that now. And if he brought in more native workers, he'd have to release some of his American volunteers.

  He tried to reason with the man, promising he'd look into it the next time, etc., but the other was steadfast. This was his country, he stated with the out-thrust chest of a bantam cock, Walt was a guest, he had to bring in more local workers.

  Walt blew. He couldn't help himself, the guy was an asshole, pure and simple. He pulled rank, kicked the local archaeologist off the site, and harshly warned him not to set foot on it again.

  A week later he was in the minister's office, being dressed down royally. Of course they were very grateful for what he was doing, but it still was their country, the minister reminded Walt. Professor Gaines had to respect the citizens of the country, particularly the professionals (Walt almost gagged when he heard that title applied to the little prick he'd had the fight with) who the government assigned. Even though he was in charge, he didn't have absolute carte blanche. If Professor Gaines remained obdurate, the minister warned Walt, the government might have to make some basic changes in the management of the dig.

  That threat was as subtle as a two-by-four right between the eyes. Walt was being warned that he could be kicked out, or at least have the control taken away from him.

  He wanted to tell the minister to shove it up his ass, but he held his tongue. He agreed to employ a few more native workers, and to allow the dismissed local archaeologist to return to work at the site. He and the minister parted company under amicable (on the surface) terms. This was a problem for both of them, and they would solve it jointly, and cooperatively, as they did with everything else. La Chimenea was bigger than either of them, they both agreed on that.

  He expressed his anger over a few drinks with Jocelyn, who had accompanied him to the capital. They had used him, he groused. Now that they had his money and expertise, they were threatening to pull the rug out from under him.

  With the aid of a few beers and shots of tequila, Jocelyn calmed him down. This was all about machismo. The government needed him as much or more than he needed them. Keep your eye on the big picture, she reminded him.

  The new workers started the following week. They weren't as good as his own people, but they were diligent and eager to learn.

  A week before he and Jocelyn were ready to go home, something incredible happened that took his mind off that petty problem. One afternoon, when lunch was over and the others were taking a midday siesta, they went off together, ostensibly to cheek on one of the unexplored mounds at the far edge of the site, in an area far removed from where any work was being done. What they really wanted was a few hours to themselves, because they had no privacy in the camp.

  After they made love they casually looked about the mound, which was covered with a thousand years of growth. Their poking around was nothing more than idle curiosity—this area would not be developed for years. But as they looked more closely, Walt's practiced eye noticed what looked like an entrance to a hidden vault. Pus
hing aside the dirt and boulders, they started in.

  After several minutes of slow crawling on their hands and knees, Walt shining his flashlight to illuminate their way, they emerged into a large chamber. Once Walt got his bearings, he realized they were in the burial tomb of a king or a high-ranking member of a royal family. The skeleton was mummified but amazingly intact, and surrounding it was the most extraordinary assortment of jewelry, pottery, and other important artifacts he had ever seen outside of a museum. There were several intricately carved jade statues, many embossed with gold and other precious metals and stones. Along with them was pottery and stela that would explain who these people were and what they had done.

  My God, Jocelyn had exclaimed.

  My God, indeed. The artifacts in this tomb were priceless, because there was no way to put a true value on them. If there was one—if this was pre-1983, and artifacts could be removed and sold to collectors or museums—he would estimate the value of what was in here to be in the millions. But that was beside the point, because they weren't going anywhere. They would be preserved, studied here at the site, and then eventually removed to a proper museum, here in their country of origin.

  He knew he should declare the find immediately and safeguard it with armed guards, around the clock. But they had to leave in a few days. The rainy season was upon them, he simply didn't have time to put all that together. And he was worried about leaving these treasures here, even under heavy native guard. There had already been the other thefts. If tomb raiders wanted these treasures badly enough, they would find a way to steal them.

  He and Jocelyn covered up the entrance, and told no one. Walt vowed to himself that he would do everything by the book the next time he came down, when he would have time to move the priceless antiquities to a safe repository.

  A week before Walt and Jocelyn were about to embark on their next trip another element was tossed into the equation that caused him to rethink his plan.

  National Geographic, one of his principal sponsors, informed him that they wanted to do a major article about La Chimenea and combine it with a TV special. Showing this treasure trove on film, as if it were a spontaneous discovery, would be an incredible event. But there was a logistical problem. National Geographic couldn't get their end of the project together until later in the year. The filming would have to be done over Christmas break, and the article and television special would come out the following spring.

  After agonizing over what to do, he decided to keep his discovery a secret. This was too important, both to his career personally and to the project, not to maximize the opportunities for publicity. What difference would it make, he rationalized, if the hidden treasures came to light now or in a few more months? The site was fifteen hundred years old. Four months is an eye-blink in the continuum of such time.

  As soon as he arrived back at La Chimenea, Walt snuck away to the secret location. From the outside, it was as he had left it. He cleared away the entrance and crawled deep into the tomb, his heart pounding like a hummingbird's. Finally, he reached the burial chamber, and shone his flashlight into the center of the enclosure.

  The burial tomb was intact.

  He collapsed onto the cold floor in relief; he realized that he had been fighting off an ulcer for months, worried that the site might have been discovered and looted. He had committed one of the most fundamental sins of his profession, even before the National Geographic situation further clouded his ethics. Not having had time to properly secure the treasures before leaving, he had rationalized that they might have been stolen had he reported their existence prematurely. But that was solipsistic buck-passing and he knew it. He had fallen into a pernicious trap—that he alone knew what was best for the preservation of the site.

  It was all about his ego, the worst part of him. But he had pulled it off, and knowing he could, he was less anxious about doing it for a few more months.

  One more time. He had to see the treasures in the buried tomb one last time before they left. He hadn't been inside the hidden space for the past couple of weeks; he didn't want to chance anyone seeing him. But he felt it was safe to go there now. He had a couple of hours yet—at the latest, it was three in the morning. No one, not even Manuel, would be up until five; there was no need to be. Everything was already packed up and ready to go.

  Why had Diane come on to him? He flattered himself that it was simple attraction—he was almost twice her age, but he was still more of a man than anyone else here. And he was the leader, the biggest star in this constellation. Was that it, or did she have another motive? He hadn't thrown off any vibes that he was looking for outside action. Or had he, subconsciously?

  Whether he had or not, it didn't matter. He had betrayed his wife with another woman, and he'd have to live with the guilt. He was human, and she had caught him unawares. A lame rationalization, he knew.

  He hadn't cheated on Jocelyn in a long time. He didn't plan on doing it again. He was too old to have the kind of occasional affairs he'd had when he was younger.

  The entrance to the tomb was open.

  This can't be, he screamed silently. Then he was scrambling inside on all fours, eating dirt in his frantic haste to get to the inner sanctum.

  The tomb had been stripped bare. Only the mummified remains were left. All the artifacts—the precious jewelry, pottery, statues, and figurines—all gone. Someone had found this tomb, and had robbed it.

  He crawled back out and sat at the mouth of the entrance, rocking like a crazed parent who has just found out his child had died in some horrible, completely unexpected accident. Which was how he felt. He had lost something of immeasurable value, a piece of his soul.

  Greed, ego, hubris. He had succumbed to them, and they had risen up and slain him. He had deluded himself into believing he was a god, above the rules of men. He didn't have to play by their rules, he made his own.

  Well, he was a man, as mortal as any. This proved it.

  Who had done this? he thought. Who would have found it? It was far removed from any area they had been working on. He couldn't fathom, in the furthest stretch of his imagination, that the looter came from his people. If someone from his team of volunteers had stumbled on this they would have come to him immediately. But security had been so tight. How had a thief from the outside come in and taken all that stuff without being noticed?

  With a heavy, fearful heart, he covered the entrance up and returned to camp, where the others lay in blissful, ignorant sleep.

  “That's why I was so upset that morning we were to leave, when the alternator didn't work,” Walt told his sons, taking a break from his merciless narrative. “Not only because of the physical danger to us, which was very real, as it too horribly turned out, but because I had betrayed a sacred trust and had it blown up in my face. What I should have realized, but I was too screwed up to think clearly at that point, was that the events were directly linked: the looting of that hidden burial ground, and the delay. I didn't make the connection. Going back to the troops being pulled, too. I didn't connect that to the theft of the artifacts, either. Because I was sure no one else except your mother and I knew of their existence, until the moment before she was killed.

  “I had been wrong all along. And my misconception cost your mother her life. I found all that out, and why, when I got home.”

  After Jocelyn's funeral was over and the boys had left Madison, Walt began the painful process of tying up Jocelyn's affairs. She had been the keeper of their finances—he didn't even know how much money they had or how it was invested, except in a vague, general way. He knew they owned their house free and clear, that they were well vested in their pension plans, and that they owned a few conservative stocks. Now he was going to have to get into the specifics, and figure out what changes would transpire because he was suddenly a widower. Among other things, he needed to know if she had left a will. She had a small amount of money of her own, which had been left to her by her parents. He knew that he was in good shape financially
, but perhaps there was money that was earmarked to go to their sons, or to charitable causes.

  He was still in incredible pain over what had happened down there. His wife had been murdered by the disgruntled local archaeologist who had raided the tomb. The man had then planted the artifacts in Walt's case, to make it appear as if Walt had done it. Walt knew those things with certainty—in hindsight, it all fit. When he returned—and he was going to return as soon as he could— he would go to the highest level of the government, the President if necessary, and demand that they take action. But first he had to take care of his wife's affairs.

  The deed to the house, as well as other important financial documents, were in a safe-deposit box Jocelyn kept at their bank. Two days after he buried his wife of thirty years he mustered the courage to go down to the bank and open the box. He took everything home and read through it all, over and over, because he couldn't believe what he was seeing. When, late at night and several fortfying bourbons later, he finally figured out what had happened, it was an emotional blow that was almost as devastating as her killing had been.

  They didn't own their house anymore—the bank did. Their pension plans were almost empty. All they owned were a bunch of virtually worthless stocks. Except for their salaries, they were broke. They had worked hard all their lives, and had nothing to show for it.

  Walt was able to piece together how this catastrophe had happened by the order in which the various incriminating documents were dated, from the oldest to the most recent. Many of the documents detailed investments Jocelyn had been making over the past few years, most of them in tech stocks. In almost every instance, the value of the investments had gone up at first, some of them dramatically, but then, after the market crashed in 2000, they had plummeted. The figures on the pages informed him, in chilling black and white, that their net worth was less than a quarter of what it had been five years before. Even worse, the remortgages they had been taking on the house, which he had thought were going into their 401(k)s and other conservative investments, had been used to buy more exotic stocks, and then, when the prices fell, to cover the losses. And it wasn't only the remortgage money; she had also been borrowing against their pension plans, the rock of their retirement.