Jungle Of Deceit
Maureen A. Miller
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2011 by Maureen A. Miller
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner.
This book contains scenes intended for a mature audience.
Prologue
Port Newark, NJ – April 22nd
From a hundred yards away, Mitch Hasslet lifted his lens to the aft of the ship and narrowed the viewfinder on the cracked white letters.
Dorian Gray.
Christ, he hoped there was a portrait stored somewhere that flattered this old bucket of bolts. Perhaps in its heyday, the freighter shined with fresh black paint and gleaming brass fixtures−but now it looked like a ghost ship ready to embark on a voyage to a prehistoric island.
On deck, crewmen were busy preparing for their valuable cargo as Mitch swung his camera in the direction of two police cars entering the barricade. In their wake, a trio of armored trucks stamped with the Museum of Historical Art and Antiquities insignia were flanked by two additional patrol units. The entire convoy pulled up idle at the foot of a ramp that led into the bowels of the Dorian Gray.
Mitch’s curiosity flared at the sight of wooden crates towed on mobile skids by the armed security representatives of the HAA Museum. Some of the fanfare in the papers came to mind.
Rare Mayan artifacts. Brutal pieces of art that stirred up controversy and even warranted a disclaimer at the entrance of the museum.
Not for the faint of heart.
Systematically, the shutter clicked as Mitch captured images of the wooden crates hauled like behemoth creatures into a cage.
When four Apache helicopters descended on the pier, Mitch’s camera continued to snap. As if a beehive had split open, a battalion of camouflaged uniforms erupted from the choppers and flooded the dock, encircling the comparatively small police force. Men he had presumed were part of the ship’s crew now drew weapons of their own and joined in the invasion as the explosive percussion of AK-47’s pierced the brackish air.
It happened so fast. Outnumbered, and with only futile attempts to fight back, the police and museum force were circled to the tune of more shots. Mitch flinched at the sudden blare of violence—a sound that plagued him often in his sleep. He searched in vain for a way to stop this madness, and this preoccupation prevented him from detecting the figure behind him.
At the last second he turned and came face to face with a dark complected man with a scar on the corner of his lips. The disfigurement elongated them into a macabre smile.
That Cheshire grin was the last thing Mitch Hasslet saw as the butt of a rifle cracked into his jaw.
***
Waking up on the hot tarmac with a swollen eye and a faulty chin, Mitch lumbered to his car. The guerillas, or whatever the hell they were, were long gone, as well as the shipment from the museum.
He needed to call for an ambulance. Men were down.
Before he could even get his scraped knuckles to cooperate, a black stretch limousine pulled up alongside his car. He jerked back a step, startled to have not heard the motor.
A tinted window slid down with a hiss as the driver, indiscernible behind sunglasses and cap, inquired in a deep voice, “Mr. Hasslet? Mitchell Hasslet from the Chronicle?”
Mitch nodded and rubbed at his jaw.
“Please get in, sir.”
Staring at the sleek limo as if it were an alien craft, Mitch managed a gruff, “Excuse me?”
“Please get in, sir. Mr. Nicholson would like to have a word with you.”
The crazed expression of Jack Nicholson in The Shining flashed in his mind.
“I don’t know a Mr. Nicholson.” Mitch’s voice was hoarse. “But if you have a cell phone in there, can you call 911?”
Sunlight reflected off the driver’s glasses.
“It’s been taken care of, sir. Please get in.”
“Hey, look,” Mitch’s fingers began to work their way around his door handle, “I don’t know how you know my name, but I need to get to the authorities now. There are men that have been shot, there’s no time for this bull—”
The rear window of the limousine rolled down with a soft purr. An indistinct silhouette filled its frame and a disembodied voice called, “Mr. Hasslet, I am Phillip Nicholson, the Director of the Museum of Historical Art and Antiquities. I would really appreciate a moment of your time.”
He paused and added with the benevolence of a holy man, “trust me, the police and ambulances are on their way.”
On cue, sirens could be heard in the distance. Mitch felt his jawbone throb and winced at the glare from the driver’s sunglasses.
The car door opened in silent invitation, and the blast of air conditioning felt like an ice pack against his swollen cheek.
“Please, Mr. Hasslet. We need your help.”
A headache struck with the force of a two-by-four, and inside the limo the sound of ice cubes cascading into a glass posed a greater temptation than Delilah.
Mitch cast one last look across the deserted dock.
Son of a bitch.
With a slight limp, he climbed into the back seat.
Chapter One
Guatemala – April 23rd
Ushered into the jungle−into a nucleus of archeologists and engineers, Mitch felt as out of place now as the time he was lost in the catacombs of a Spanish convent. Then, like now, he sensed accusatory eyes and heard whispered conversation that suspended as he drew near.
Punishment.
That’s what this was. Punishment for recklessness in Kosovo.
A photographic journalist was supposed to take pictures, not play action hero.
After the Albanian tragedy, Mitch was relegated to the streets of New York. No longer capturing photos of soldiers in battle or humanitarians in action, he now worked for the New York Chronicle. And when there wasn’t an actor walking his poodle down Fifth Avenue for Mitch to chase, he was tossed mediocre assignments such as the museum shipment bound for South America.
Mitch thought about some of the missions from his glory days. He recalled those reverent nuns and how he had to switch on his charm, and tried it again for these skeptical archeologists.
“I’ve read about Dr. Langley.” He turned to the young man beside him. What was his name? Charles? Charlie? “It’s gotta be quite the hoot to work for someone with such an esteemed track record, Charlie.”
Covered in mud, the man scratched his nose. The skin beneath bore a deep tan, nearly the same color as the smeared clay. Narrowed green eyes glared for a moment and then he snorted out the exposed air hole. “Name’s Chuck.”
“Right.” Mitch attributed his flawed memory and reduced patience to the six-hour flight. He drank in a deep breath of humid air before continuing.
“So, Chuck…” A mosquito took a chunk out of his neck, but he refused to scratch it. “I understand that you were part of Frank Langley’s excavation in Egypt. Some say he stumbled upon the tomb by accident.” Mitch’s eyebrow inched up. “Some say he has an incredible knack for finding buried treasure. A virtual Indiana Jones,” he mused as he fell into stride alongside Chuck. “It must have been a real coup to be in on that expedition.”
Another snort an
d this time Chuck’s dirty hand swatted the air in dismissal as he turned his back on Mitch and muttered something like, Mister, you don’t belong here.
Right.
Well, so much for charm.
But, Nicholson said that it was Dr. Frank Langley that Mitch had to impress, not this gritty recruit. It was Dr. Franklin Langley who was critical to his cover, even though the esteemed doctor had no reason to suspect that Mitch was here for anything other than to contribute his photo-journalistic talent.
Phillip Nicholson, the enigmatic director of the Museum of HAA had used persuasion methods no less subtle than those of General Patton. They involved neither violence nor extortion, but Mitch had stepped out of that limousine with the unsettling sense that he had just been brainwashed.
Oh, hell, he should give himself more credit than that. He had not been brainwashed. Nicholson, albeit stranger that he was, seemed to know every motivational button to push. And push he did. How the man came by so much knowledge still nagged at him, but it was too late to rethink. He was in the middle of the freaking jungle.
As far as this ragtag crew of students and archeological minions were concerned, Mitch Hasslet was in Guatemala to chronicle their expedition on film. They had no idea of Phillip Nicholson’s ulterior motives for him, and as Nicholson pointed out−it had to remain that way.
Unless this dig was documented, photographed and published by the end of the year, this team’s grant would be revoked. That’s what they thought Mitch was here for. Even as he looked around, Mitch caught their furtive glances—their arrogant disapproval of his presence in their domain.
Do I care?
No.
In the past twenty-four hours he had been beaten and then shoved on board a chartered plane for a six-hour flight. In mid air he was given a barrage of injections to prevent God-knows-what type of diseases. And finally he was jostled into a Jeep to this remote realm of the Guatemalan jungle for a mission he had grudgingly volunteered for.
Did he care if they looked at him with disapproval?
Hell no.
Mitch turned to a blond man he had nicknamed Hollywood for the simple fact that the man reminded him of a surfer. “Do you know where I can find Dr. Langley?” Mitch asked.
Another unwelcome glare and then a copper-bristled chin tipped towards a nearby Jeep. “Over there, working on the engine.”
Hollywood seemed less critical, and more curious. He stared at Mitch for a moment. “Mechanics are hard to come by out here.” He shrugged under a perspiration-stained tank top. “You learn to be resourceful.”
Mitch grunted in staged empathy and then followed the angle of Hollywood’s chin to the set of boots protruding from beneath the belly of a rusted Jeep. Heck, he half expected Fred Flintstone’s giant feet to kick-start the antique. Mitch knew a thing or two about engines, and there was no way this clunker could be too complex. Perhaps if he got the relic running, he’d make a good first impression.
He moved in closer and called out to the sprawled figure.
“Doctor?”
There was no response—maybe an inarticulate grunt intended for the bowels of the Jeep.
“Dr. Langley?” He stepped beside those boots and stooped over, hands on knees.
A muffled bang followed by a husky curse ensured that Mitch’s first impression wasn’t the one he had intended.
The figure that wriggled from beneath the Jeep was a feminine one, and Mitch’s eyes greedily latched onto the slim hips as they twisted out into sunlight.
“This damn well better be good.” She hoisted upright and rubbed her hands on her khaki pants.
“I’m sorry.” Taken aback by such a vivid image of femininity in this dirty, testosterone-laced camp, Mitch stammered, “I thought you were Dr. Langley.”
With the back of her hand, the woman reached up to brush golden bangs from her eyes. “I am Dr. Langley.”
Stunned, Mitch sought an intelligent response. Eyes that had been deprived of sleep—deprived of lots of things lately, roved over the agitated female. She had to be in her early thirties, with shoulder length blond hair and jade irises that changed colors each time the tree limbs twitched above them. A smudge of grease covered the patch of skin below her left eye, while the rest of her face glowed from a healthy tan.
Tempted by that streak of oil, Mitch wanted to reach over with his thumb and swipe it away.
His glance dropped to her clenched fists, resting against baggy pants that hinted at the lithe figure beneath them. Her stance was belligerent, but he just found the overall effect arousing.
“Who are you?” she asked with the charm of a cornered porcupine.
Perhaps her voice was edgy, but the woman challenged his blatant perusal and she assessed Mitch with the same measured inspection.
“It really better be a good answer,” she added, “because I have a knot growing on top of my head with whatever your name is on it.”
It had been a long time since Mitch felt a smile that was anything more than a muscular reflex. Clearing his throat, he offered, “Mitchell Hasslet.”
The declaration incited little reaction. He held out his hand and added, “Mitch, the photographer you asked for.”
The woman glanced down at his hand. “Ohhh—no. No.” Her head shook from side to side, resulting in a pendulum effect of glossy hair. “I didn’t ask for you.” Tanned arms crossed over her chest. “You were forced on me by the museum.”
Mitch kept his hand out, waiting for her to return the salutation—challenging her to do so. For the waif-like image that she portrayed in her oversized clothes, this woman did not seem intimidated by him in the least. She took his hand, shook it firmly and then tossed it aside−all before Mitch realized that he had been dismissed, left to stare at her receding back.
“Wait.” His voice came out husky. It was enough to halt her stride. “I thought Dr. Langley was a man.” He felt a certain sense of humility when he admitted that.
Slight shoulders slumped beneath a white T-shirt and the blond crown dropped back in silent appeal to the sun. After a moment’s deliberation, she turned around and pinned him with almond-shaped eyes that stunned him into submission.
“Alex Langley.” When there was no reaction, she added, “Dr. Alexandra Langley.”
“Alexandra.” Mitch wasn’t even aware he had spoken the word aloud until he heard her clear her throat and saw those eyes narrow.
“That’s Doctor Langley to you, Mr. Hasslet.” Alex’s tone was aggressive. “If you’re looking for Franklin, you have the wrong dig.”
She turned away and fired over her shoulder. “Oh, and I suggest that you get your equipment out of the Jeep before Chuck leaves.” She was nearly out of earshot, but he heard her assert, “Where he’s going, your camera may come back—leaking.”
Then Alex was gone.
Okay, tactical error, Mitch thought. He had been told he would be joining the ranks of Dr. Langley’s dig. The journalist in him called for a quick scan for Dr. Langley on the internet before he left. Every hit that came back credited Franklin Langley with another monumental achievement. Not one single hit came back on Dr. Langley, Junior.
It was odd. He could have sworn Nicholson said he was here to track down Franklin Langley. Maybe the eccentric museum director had received misinformation.
Too puzzled and tired to replay that whole bizarre conversation in his head, Mitch stood in the core of an active camp with raucous students swarming around him as if he were an offering to the Queen Bee.
But, he had already met the Queen Bee.
Maybe her stinger was potent. Maybe she ruled the hive with wit and confidence. He didn’t know too much about Alexandra Langley. Not much at all. But he was certain of one thing. With that silken hair and glistening skin—she would taste better than honey.
***
Okay, so Chuck had his camera.
Which one was Chuck again?
Mitch searched the bevy of tanned faces, most camouflaged by layers of grime. He r
ecognized Hollywood. Hollywood had picked him up at a remote airstrip nearly thirty miles away from here. During that bumpy ride, the man had introduced himself as Wes—Wes Porter from San Diego.
“Wes.”
Bleached hair was glued to Wes’s temples by perspiration. He used his forearm to wipe sweat out of his eyes and nodded at Mitch. “Lost?”
One, two, three, Mitch counted until he harnessed his derisive reply. “Kinda hard to get lost with all this racket.”
Wes tipped his head back and took a long swig from a water bottle. He capped the device and glanced around the camp.
Mitch studied Wes and realized that the man wasn’t young like the rest of the students. He probably topped forty. That, or just too many years in the sun had triggered the deep grooves around his eyes and mouth.
“We’ve got to start packing up.” Wes’s icy blue eyes met his. “You know how it is…” he nodded at a nearby scuffle, “−heavy items like these tend to make noise.”
At this rate, Mitch thought he was going to have to sleep with one eye open for fear that this mutinous pack would drag him off as a sacrifice to some Mayan God.
“Anything I can do to help?” The offer was sincere. His real purpose for being here could not commence until sundown, when he could sneak away from this camp. For now, he might as well try and make his presence less offensive.
“Aren’t you supposed to be taking pictures or something?” Wes stooped over and whipped a canvas off a bulky slab of rock. “Isn’t that what you should be doing instead of ogling Alex?”
Okay then, Mitch thought. So that’s how it was. Alex was Wes’s woman. Figures. Women always go for the blond, bronzed, Adonis type.
“I don’t ogle,” Mitch injected as he leaned in to help hoist the slab into an open crate. “It’s not my style.”
The carving in stone depicted a warrior crowned with a helmet of feathers, kneeling above his rope-bound captive. It was a disturbing image because it hinted at the violence that was sure to follow, in a time when violence prevailed.
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