Jungle of Deceit

by Maureen A. Miller

  Alex trembled being in such close proximity to a man responsible for an estimated thousand murders.

  “Tell me about this piece.” He spoke in English, which surprised her, but his accent was menacing.

  Tearing away from the golden eye, she looked at the glass-encased item sitting on a silver pedestal. She noticed today that the artifacts had small index cards in the corner of their glass casings listing a price.

  2.5 million dollars.

  “A jade mosaic mask−” she began. “A death mask, reputed to be circa 200 to 500 AD.” God, it was beautiful. “You’ll notice the teeth are made of shell.”

  El Ojo had his arms crossed and his legs apart, a stance to review the piece at all angles. He waved his hand, gold jingling around his wrist. “Tell me,” he nodded. “They informed me that you are one of the best in the field. Tell me. Is that price appropriate in your opinion?”

  The man had his own personal band of assassins, Alex reminded herself, and yet she was about to do the unthinkable.

  “No, not really.”

  Black eyebrows arched high into a receding black hairline as mauve lips puckered in consideration. “Interesting. What would you consider a fair figure on this piece?”

  Alex circled the glass cabinet and tapped her chin. “Maybe eight to nine hundred.”

  “Ay, we go from 2.5 million to 900,000 dollars. That is a bit of a mark up.”

  “No,” she corrected. “900 dollars. This jade is plated and the shape of the lips is not authentic at all. The teeth are actually not indicative of the period either.”

  “It’s a fake?”

  Alex struggled not to cower under the raised voice. What the hell was she thinking? She just couldn’t go through with this role Solis imposed on her. Most likely she would die down here, or at a minimum, rot−and she wanted Phillip’s reputation to be tarnished and his credibility in the field to be destroyed as viciously as her trust had been. She also wanted the artifacts to remain centralized in this location in the hope that someday they could be restored en masse. If they were dispersed to the private sector it would be impossible to hunt them all down.

  “That is just my humble opinion,” she murmured, and managed enough courage to walk away.

  There wouldn’t be much time so she hurried, looking for the next target. She recognized a man she suspected to be Klaus Giesing, one of the richest European criminals. A female adorned each of his arms and she didn’t want the distraction they imposed.

  Again she eyed Venezuela’s Vice President. He was corrupt if he had a penchant for purchasing stolen artwork, but he represented the government as opposed to the criminal sect.

  Alex stepped up alongside the man, the top of her head coming even with the slope of his shoulder. “1.3 million dollars seems a little steep, don’t you think?”

  Startled, Rafael Calderon stepped back from the stone depiction of a Mayan goddess.

  “It would look beautiful in my garden, but yes, I’m looking for something under a million if such an item exists around here.” His eyes vaulted up the atrium, searching the exposed floors.

  “Well, you should be able to get this piece for about three thousand dollars, I would estimate.”

  His eyes jumped back down to hers. “Que´?”

  “I mean, yes, it is an exquisite piece, but its height, and the way the knees are bent, even the footwear are all signs of a counterfeit.”

  Calderon looked at the statue again−a distinct female form bathed by the artificial bulbs tucked inside her glass container. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered.

  Preoccupied with the sculpture, Calderon did not notice when Alex walked away. She picked up her pace, avoiding eye contact with the suits around her. She was permitted to go to the bathroom, wasn’t she? Trying to locate Gwen, she didn’t dwell on finding the woman as the exposure would risk her getting hauled over to review another piece. She wanted to get to Mitch. If he had an idea on escape, now would be the time to share it.

  She made it to the limestone wall marked with the word RESTROOMS and darted behind it with a last glimpse over her shoulder to see if she had been followed. Rapping on the unmarked door, she nearly collapsed with relief when Mitch opened it, startled to see her.

  “Alex? Are you okay?” At once he was touching her, his hand on her forearm. She thought he sought to confirm she was unharmed, but realized that he was attempting to steady her quaking limbs.

  “I was giving it fifteen more minutes,” he said in his husky tone, “and then I was going to say screw it. Let them do what they will, but I needed to be out there and make sure you were okay.”

  “The guards would have grabbed you before you stepped out from behind the wall,” Joseph Pastorelli called out from the couch.

  “They didn’t grab me running back here.” Alex pointed out as she hastened inside and Mitch closed the door behind her.

  “Oh no?” Joseph held up his fist and pumped it twice, mouthing, “Knock. Knock.”

  On cue the door to the apartment hauled open, and the tight living quarters flooded with security personnel she had not even detected inside the museum.

  Shooting a desperate glance at Mitch, she whispered, “Oh Mitch, I did something stupid.”

  Men in black and gold uniforms swarmed around her, their handguns extended. When Mitch moved in to shelter her, they arrested him with the same treatment. She recognized some of these guards from the compound, but they were polished today, freshly shaven and dressed in uniforms stamped with Xibalba’s insignia.

  Mitch managed to reach for her arm to draw her closer.

  The front door was still open as Solis charged in with black eyes flared and muscles straining beneath a tuxedo that was intentionally one size too small. His chest heaved and perspiration fused with the gel in his hair to produce an unbearable scent.

  Loathsome would best describe the expression on his face as his eyes narrowed on Alex.

  “Are you insane?” The once rich timbre now pitched into a shrill falsetto.

  “You know damn well that everything here is authentic! THAT is why you were brought here. Your credentials…” Anxious eyes darted towards the door. “The fact that you could authent−authenticate them.”

  “Oh no,” Mitch clutched her arm. “You weren’t kidding.”

  “Well, I hope you are happy, Señorita.” Solis nodded with a maniacal smirk, “I hope you are goddamn happy.”

  He gave a quick jerk of his wrist and manacle-like fingers clamped down on her, hauling her away from Mitch. She cried out and felt the rigid metal tip of a handgun in her back. This elite group of guards carried small automatic arms, much easier to conceal than the daunting counterparts used in the compound above ground. She caught a glimpse of Mitch’s face, so intense that his eyes alone could be used as lethal weapons.

  One of the guards pointed a gun at Joseph Pastorelli who had yet to rise from the couch.

  “He is nada,” Solis snorted. “Vamos.”

  Alex resisted the tow on her forearm and yelled, “Where are you taking us?”

  Solis paused in the doorway. “He wants to see you. He wants to see both of you. He is not happy right now. May God have mercy on your souls.”

  ***

  They were escorted out of the apartment, surprised to discover that the museum was empty. Signs of life could be heard from out in the gardens. Shouts and loud exchanges volleyed with anxious female laughter, but both grew faint and were drowned out by the band playing as if this were the sinking of the Titanic.

  Mitch tried to think. His plans for an escape did not call for a six man escort. Only a few feet away Alex held her chin up as he was accustomed to seeing her do, but there were wrinkles of fear tugging at the corner of her eye. Motion in her jaw revealed that she was grinding her teeth, and at that moment she turned her head and her eyes pleaded forgiveness.

  He tried for a smile or any consoling gesture to ease her tension. But how much comfort could you extend when six armed men surrounded you on a conv
oy heading towards the ringleader who would issue your death sentence on the spot? If there was one saving grace, Mitch was pleased that he was going to get to see Nicholson face to face one last time.

  They reached the base of a grand staircase with zigzag landings and gold floral-patterned carpeting−a flagrant touch straight from the decks of a cruise ship, but instead of ascending this, Solis motioned them towards an elevator off to the right. Inside the compartment, he wrenched open the top two buttons of his white shirt and kept his head tilted back, his lips moving, perhaps rehearsing his defense.

  Three floor numbers ticked by and the metal door swung open on a ding. They were on the fourth floor, a level above the atrium. Mitch was no expert on Mayan history, but he swore they were stepping out into what might have been the replica of a tomb. Limestone walls were lined with primitive artwork and water trickled down one wall into a basin loaded with rocks of varying size and color. A huge stone altar sat in the middle of red carpeting and behind it a black wrought iron balcony overlooked the museum floor below. This was not a tomb. This was an office. And behind the stone altar sat an upholstered chair facing away from them. The white hair at the back of a man’s head was visible above it as the man stared out onto that balcony, disregarding their presence.

  To hell with it, Mitch thought. He had no patience.

  “Phillip,” he called out and saw the man’s shoulders tense.

  The chair swung around to reveal the arm of a navy blue jacket. It continued its rotation until finally the white hair and tan face glanced at him with the respect one might extend a tick. The man passed over him to focus on Alex.

  “No,” she cried.

  Her knees gave out and she would have collapsed were it not for the guard’s secure grip.

  “Hello, Alexandra.”

  ***

  Vomit inched its way up Alex’s throat. Her balance wavered as oblivion beckoned her down a dark tunnel with skeletal fingers.

  “You defy me every step of the way, even when you don’t know it’s me.”

  Incisive eyes disemboweled her, but his face was the greatest punishment. It was a parallel of hers, with keen jade eyes and high sculpted cheekbones. His hair had once been blond as well. Women would often remark about his similarities to Robert Redford, but to Alex his features were macabre.

  “Franklin Langley.” Her father introduced himself to Mitch as if this were afternoon tea in London.

  Beside her she sensed Mitch reel and felt his eyes on her. She couldn’t look at him. She couldn’t look at anything. She stared at the floor−at the blood red carpet as if her father had slain many a victim on the altar that served as his desk.

  “What have you done here?” she whispered with her head still down.

  “Leave us.”

  The manacles that ensnared her relinquished, but the deep purple marks across her forearms remained.

  “And you, as well. I will deal with you later.”

  “Señor Langley,” Solis pleaded, “it is not my fault.”

  “Enough. Go.”

  A panel hissed behind her, followed by the sense that the office had been vacated with the exception of her and Mitch−and him. With a discreet glimpse, she studied the architecture which was intended to emulate a shrine at the summit of a temple. By tradition, the peak would offer a sky roof, but that was hard to do when you were underground. One of the walls to the office portrayed a god carved into its limestone face, but the depiction was random, as well the murals on the other walls−as if someone had collected ideas from a host of temples, Uxmal, Chichen Iza−and just created a collage of graphics here.

  Would she and Mitch be sacrificed atop this altar?

  “Why did you do it, Alexandra?” she heard the squeak of her father’s chair. He had risen.

  She would not succumb to panic in front of him. Franklin Langley thrived on power and manipulation, and he would attain neither of these with the one person that dared to defy him. He had destroyed her mother, but her mother was weak. He could kill his daughter−but he would never destroy her.

  “Honestly−” she looked up into the eyes of the man who had sired her and done nothing more. “I sought to ruin the credibility of whoever was running this operation. I thought that man was Phillip, but to find out that it is you only makes the sting more gratifying.”

  Franklin walked around the altar and rested the rear of his white trousers against the coarse rock edge as he crossed his arms and looked at her with a glean of loathing in his eyes.

  “Phillip Nicholson.” Franklin snorted. “That man has been a thorn in my side for years. He fancies himself a father of sorts to you.”

  A snarl of frustration sounded beside her.

  Franklin turned towards Mitch and smirked. “Yes, I found out about you only a week ago. How Phillip came to know that I was the source of the heist I have yet to determine. That you were there was an inconvenience my guard should have taken care of on that dock. Of course, neither he nor I had any idea Phillip would show up so soon.”

  “This place.” Alex was obsessed with the need to understand her father’s descent into corruption. She waved at the tawdriness of the shrine. “Why? How?”

  “Sit down, Alexandra, you look pale.”

  He pointed at two mahogany chairs, one of which she accepted only because her legs were failing. Mitch chose to stand, but he walked up behind the other chair and gripped its frame with burly hands. She could feel his gaze swing from her profile to that of her father’s.

  Please, Mitch. Don’t compare us. Please don’t.

  “I always considered your greatest crime to be arrogance.” She spat at her father. “But boy did I underestimate that. You are capable of so much more. Murder. Murder by neglect.”

  “Ahh,” Franklin smiled, revealing white capped teeth against thin lips. “You know your name comes from the city you were conceived. Alexandria. The same city where your mother passed away.”

  “Passed away. How quaint. The poor woman must have been so ill.”

  “Don’t start, Alexandra. The woman could have fended for herself. She didn’t have to just sit there until she ignited. She could have had someone come find me.”

  “She sat in the desert, with nothing but a flimsy cloth above her to obstruct the sun. She sat there because she was told to. She did what you told her to.” Alex’s fist hit the armrest. “I don’t.”

  “Yes.” His complacent smirk faded. “I’m well aware of that.”

  “A man who cares about his wife, about his daughter, doesn’t leave them in temperatures over 100 degrees−especially when the wife is pregnant.”

  Alex was only four at the time. She barely remembered the tent on the desert, but she remembered being excited at the prospect of having a sister. “You killed them both with neglect.”

  “I’m aware of your opinion, Alex. We have had this conversation before. At your graduation ceremony if I recall.”

  “Yes, the day you told me I was not cut out for a life like this. That I was soft, like my mother. I’m not soft, Dad.”

  The title tasted like acid on her tongue.

  “No.” He shook his head. “No you’re not.”

  “And it ticks you off that you were wrong about me. You wanted a son. An heir. I guess if Mom was expecting a boy we would have had more water. We wouldn’t have been out on that desert to begin with, huh, Dad?”

  “That is absurd, Alexandra,” he scoffed. “I cared for you. I paid for your education.”

  “Yes, you paid for some of it. Imagine how I feel now knowing my education was illegally funded.”

  Thank God she was sitting. The scope of what he had done was causing vertigo. She leaned forward and held her head in her hands, trying to encourage blood flow. “How long have you been doing this−and for God’s sake…why?”

  “Why?” Franklin hefted off the altar and paced on heels that scuffed across the crimson turf. The boots gave him an inch leverage over her. For a man who always exuded great height, she rea
lized the height was a farce as well as everything else.

  “You have had a moderately successful career.” His speech was subdued as he stood profiled by the terrace. “But wait until you make your first major find...” he turned back, “−and they take it away from you. For years they’ll tuck it in storage in the country of its origin. If you want it on display in the states you must pray for an exchange between museums, or apply for a lease. Either way, the opportunity to glimpse the items that you have risked your life to locate can be stuck in bureaucratic red tape and customs paperwork−it can be years, even decades before you will see it on exhibit.”

  “I was about thirty the first time it happened,” he explained. “In a tomb in Egypt I came across a heart scarab made of solid gold.” He caught Mitch’s confused look, and elaborated, “A scarab looks like a beetle.”

  Mitch gave a mechanical nod. He apparently knew that much, but his frown remained.

  “It is placed with the mummy at the time of burial−a goodwill gesture to the divine tribunal that the heart would not abandon the deceased.” Franklin sneered. “Translation−a dead man should tell no tales nor confess any sins. Their heart should stay with them.”

  He glanced down at his palm as if he still held that scarab. “I was supposed to mark it and add it to the rest of the inventory, but it was so beautiful−so small and innocent. I thought, ‘couldn’t I just keep this one item as a token?’ So I smuggled it out of the country. On my next dig, I smuggled out another.”

  His stride resumed and he avoided eye contact. “Eventually my collection grew. I had it in my mind that I wanted to create a museum, a single venue where I could display my private collection. I knew there were other collectors such as myself.” Now he looked at Alex. “And yes, I knew they were criminals, but criminals or not, when it comes to art such as this there exists a bond of respect.”