Ford said, "No. But you're going to tell me anyway—"
"It's because the figures carved into these stones go to the very damn heart of why these people seem . . . like such lost souls. Don't they seem that way to you? Kind of remote? Kind of lost?"
Still watching the dancers, Ford nodded.
"See, even if a group of people can provide itself with all the basic physical needs—food, fuel, and water—they still have to devise a method of dealing with the existential problems of existence before they can be properly called a civilization."
"No lectures on existential problems, Tomlinson. I don't like it when you do that."
"That's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about why figuring out their writing system is so important. The Maya were an agrarian people. The existential events they had to deal with were floods, earthquakes, drought, and disease. Their way of making these random tragedies into an orderly pattern was to carefully record not only the success or failure of the current growing season, but also to make detailed predictions about future growing seasons. Gave everything symmetry, see? It all has to do with numbers, man; with these glyphs. They are the key to the foundation the whole damn civilization was built on. The Maya were fanatics about numbers. It was their religion. Take away the religion, you've got a lot of lost souls. " Tomlinson was beginning to sound a little angry, but he was still squinting at the glyphs, trying to read them. "And you say once you've got the book, you're not going to let me see it—"
"I said we may not have time."
"It's just that I think you could be a little more willing." He abruptly folded his papers, slapped his notebook shut, and plopped down on the bench beside Ford. "No offense, Doc, but I personally think you've been an asshole when it comes to that book. If you don't care about academics, you ought to at least think about these people."
Ford was smiling. "Getting a little frustrated trying to figure out those glyphs, Tomlinson?"
"Damn right. Cross-eyed and crazy. Almost over-fucking-whelming. I mean, people have worked on this stuff for years and still don't understand it."
"Have a beer. We'll have a long talk about the book—but later."
"That's another thing. You're always giving me beer. You never drink more than three a day, but you act like I've got no willpower at all." Tomlinson had already taken one of the liter bottles from the paper sack beside the bench, and now he took a long drink. "Hey, why are all those people wearing costumes?" As if he'd just returned to earth and opened ^is eyes.
The dance had already begun. The actors wearing the grotesque masks were alone before the onlookers, doing a slow, strange shuffle, weaving like reeds in the wind. Through the nature of the choreography, the dancers gradually seemed less and less to depict the ancestral Maya than forms of essential, malevolent spirits. They jumped and shouted, shaking their rattles. Small children who watched put their hands over their faces and slid behind their mothers, frightened.
As Ford shared with Tomlinson what little he knew about the dance, the conquistadors broke through the crowd—and that was the way to describe it, for they brushed the onlookers aside in a sort of abbreviated trot, as if on horseback while the Maya in their grotesque masks threw their hands up, writhing, terrified. Then began a series of choreographed assaults by the conquistadors. The battle lasted for a long time and it seemed as if the conquistadors were exorcising demons rather than defeating a people, and once again Ford had the impression of self-flagellation, of the Maya punishing themselves for an event that had occurred on this very ground four hundred years before.
Then the conquistadors danced alone, thrusting their cherubic masks forward, which seemed to emphasize the leering smiles as they slowly, slowly adopted the shuffling, weaving step of the demons they had just vanquished, then quickened the cadence until they were twirling around in a frenzy like a people gone mad.
Abruptly the drums and rattles were quieted and the dancers filed off again.
The villagers did not applaud.
"I'll be damned," whispered Tomlinson. "That dance made the Spaniards look like the good guys . . . but in a weird sort of way."
"I know what you mean," Ford said. "But I can't put my finger on it either. Their ancestors are portrayed as demons but the conquistadors, in some subtle, backhanded way come off as being even more demonic."
"Maybe it's those masks. Those masks with their painted blond hair and those weird expressions give even me the creeps."
Thinking of the men lying drunk in the gutter and of the wandering stray dogs, Ford said, "Maybe it's the masks. But maybe it's something else, too."
Tomlinson said he wasn't sleepy; said he wanted to go out and have one more beer and maybe have another look at the glyphs.
Ford told him not to stay up late, they'd be leaving at four, an hour before sunrise. Like a camp counselor talking to a kid. He also told him to be careful.
Tomlinson said, "I specialize in being innocuous, man."
And Ford replied, "Don't kid yourself. Everyone in town knows we're here. Just stay out of trouble."
The best hotel in Utatlan was the only hotel, a two-story roadhouse built for the field hands of some long-gone coffee plantation. The outside walls were adobe, the rooms whitewashed. There was one shower stall and the toilet was downstairs, a cement slab with a hole augered through. Ford sat outside the hotel for a while watching huge Central American moths beat themselves against the lighted windows. He remembered a story he'd heard in the Amazonia region of Peru. On one night of each year, the story went, jungle moths would gather and fly toward the light of the full moon.
At 8 P.M. he showered then went upstairs. His bed was military issue and the springs sagged beneath his weight. The last time he checked his watch before falling asleep, it was 8:45 and Tomlinson still wasn't back.
He was involved with a dream when he heard the noise; a clattering, thunking noise, like a bunch of kids running up steps. The noise slid into his dream, then became a part of the dream. He was dreaming of sharks—the big bull sharks he kept penned off his lab on Sanibel. It was not unusual for him to dream of the species he happened to be studying, and to Ford it was a sign his subconscious was at work on conscious problems—the only significance he would ever ascribe to dreaming.
But the sounds didn't fit properly with the dream. The only way the bull sharks could be making that kind of thunking noise would be if they were banging into the pen, but the pen was built of plastic-coated wire, not wood, plus that sort of behavior was inconsistent with what Ford knew about sharks in captivity.
Then he was sitting up in the darkness, his pulse thudding, aware that someone was banging against the door. Not knocking—banging—someone throwing his shoulder against it. He swung out of bed, found his bag, and began to fish around in the darkness, looking for the pistol. But then the door crashed open and the silhouettes of three men stood in the wedge of light, two of them holding short-barreled shotguns.
The middle figure, the one not holding a weapon, said in English, "Don't do anything stupid. You come with us. You resist, we kill you here." A nervous voice, uncomfortable with the language.
Ford said, "What the hell's this all about? You can't come barging in here! I'll contact the American Embassy in Masagua City—"
"We are not dumb Indians, Señor. We know what you are and what you are not. You will not contact anyone unless you dress quickly. You come with us! Now!"
The light came on, a bare overhead bulb on the ceiling, and Ford stood before the three men. Two of them wore green military fatigues; young, stocky men with dust-colored skin and blank expressions, holding weapons. They addressed the third man, the one doing the talking, as Colonel Suarez. Suarez wore civilian clothing, dark slacks and a loose dark shirt. He was shorter than the others, but bigger through the chest and arms; older with hairy hands and huge forearms. The shotguns were pointed at Ford's legs, then lifted toward his chest as Suarez approached him. "Did you hear me, Señor? I told you to get dressed." Ford said
nothing, just stood there in his underwear as Suarez, almost as if in slow motion, cocked his fist back and hit him hard in the face, knocking him to the floor. "When I tell you to do something, Señor, do it immediately. Is clear?"
Ford's sat up and touched his jaw, his cheek. There was no bleeding and he wondered why it hurt so badly. He had been hit before and it had never hurt like that, but then he realized it was probably because the punch had come as such a surprise. There was no adrenaline in him to dull the pain. He got slowly to his feet, trying to keep his distance from Suarez. He said through the pain, "It's suddenly very clear."
"Good," said Suarez. "You will now get dressed while my men search your bags—if you do not object, of course." The man smiled slightly, a little nervous, but showing a set of very white teeth as Ford pawed the nightstand looking for his glasses.
They paid little attention to the cloth sack containing the jade, but they took Ford's pistol, knife, their passports, Tomlinson's notebooks, and his sheaf of traveler's checks. They also took the money from Ford's pants, but they didn't check his belt where most of his cash was hidden. The men put everything but the pistol and the money back in the bags, then secured them.
Tomlinson. Glancing at his watch, Ford wondered what had happened to Tomlinson. It was 2:35 A.M. and Tomlinson should have been back long since. Maybe they had him, too. But why?
When he was dressed, Suarez pushed him roughly into the hall, hurrying him along. The two men carried both his backpack and Tomlinson's. Obviously, he wouldn't be coming back to this room. It was as if they were cleaning up the evidence, and that scared him.
Ford was aware of faces in cracked doorways peeking out. In Masagua, people had learned not to interfere with armed men in uniform, and they pulled their doors shut quickly. They were turning away from his abduction, refusing to see it, just as stragglers on the early morning streets of Utatlan refused to see.
They took him down an alleyway that stank of urine, unlocked a door, and shoved him into a room. It was a tiny room with a single kerosene lamp on a wooden table. Ford steadied himself as his eyes adjusted, and there, slumped in a corner, was Tomlinson. Tomlinson's face was caked with blood, both eyes shut. For a moment Ford thought he was dead and felt the same vacancy of emotion, the same sense of waste, he had experienced upon finding Rafe Hollins. But then Tomlinson opened one swollen eye, smiling through the blood, saying "I screwed up, man. I really screwed up."
Behind Ford, Suarez said in convoluted English, "Your friend was very happy to find someone in the Cacique Bar he could talk with. He is a talker, this friend of yours. He told me you had come to Masagua to find Julio Zacul. Such a coincidence, no? that I am closest friend to General Zacul."
One of the soldiers pulled the door shut and locked it as Suarez said, "Now we discover exactly why you want to find my friend."
SIXTEEN
Ford was forced to sit at the table and Tomlinson was lifted into the chair beside him as Suarez took the two passports and studied the photos. Still speaking in English, he said, "William Johnson, this is your name the book says, and your city is from New York. Is correct?"
When Suarez spoke English, he sounded like someone's funny uncle, and none too bright. But it was a device; a deception that Suarez was shrewd enough to use, and Ford knew he had to be careful. He had no idea what Tomlinson had told them, or why he had told them anything, so he stuck with their original story—but aggressively, wanting to lea<5 Suarez, not follow him. He shook his head. "No, the passports are fake. My name is Ford. His name is Tomlinson. I had the passports made in Costa Rica. You should have figured that out just by looking at them."
The frankness of that raised Suarez's eyebrows. "Perhaps
the passports are real. Perhaps the names you give me are lies."
"Look inside the passports. There will be a Masaguan stamp, but none from Costa Rican customs. That's where we came from, Costa Rica. If you don't believe me, take a look at the contract in the vehicle we rented in San Jose."
"You entered illegally Masagua?"
"That's right, we did."
"So quickly a confession! Perhaps you will admit as quickly that you are agents sent by the Agency of Central Intelligence to find General Zacul. You and the other fucks come to try and destroy the movement. Murderers!"
"Murderers?" As if he were shocked at the suggestion; amused, too, but Ford wasn't smiling. "Look, we don't work for anyone but ourselves. You can believe that or not, but you had no reason to beat my associate. I mean, take a look at him. Does he look like a CIA agent to you? If you're not going to use your heads about this, at least use your eyes. "
Suarez turned away from Ford as if musing, then swung unexpectedly and hit him with the back of his hand, almost knocking him out of the chair. "This partner you have wouldn't cooperate. This partner failed to understand our seriousness, just as you apparently do not understand."
There was blood on Ford's face now, a slow trickle coming from his nose, and he wiped it away knowing he had to show outrage, not fear, if they were to live long enough to meet with Zacul. "Your questions would be a hell of a lot easier to understand, Suarez, if you told us who you are. For all we know, you could be outlaws. Or the police. Or maybe government forces trying to destroy the general yourselves. Tell us why we should talk and then maybe we'll be more willing. "
Suarez leaned over him, and Ford smelled the sharp stink of tobacco on his breath. "You must talk or we will kill you. Is cause enough?"
"It's a cause, but not a good reason. If you really are a friend of Zacul's, that might be a good reason."
"I will ask the questions here. "
"Ask all you want. I'm not going to feel like doing much talking, though, unless you give me some answers first." Suarez took that musing attitude again, preparing to slap him, and Ford said quickly, "Look, we're not CIA agents. Can't you get that through your head? You can beat us all you want, but we're not going to admit to that because it's not true. In fact, it's just stupid. I personally don't give a damn who runs this country. The communists or the right-wingers, it's all the same to me. I'm here because I'm a businessman; strictly for profit. We have a business proposition to make General Zacul. That's why my friend was making inquiries. If you know Zacul, you can help us and I think we can help you."
Tomlinson leaned forward to speak, but caught Suarez's look of warning. Suarez wasn't going to let him say anything to help guide Ford's answers, and Tomlinson sat back, giving a sad shrug, as if to say again he was the cause of this.
Suarez said, "It is a thing of ease to claim you are businessmen, but a difficult thing so to prove."
"Would a CIA agent who doesn't speak Spanish go in to a public bar and ask the whereabouts of someone he wanted to spy on? Do you come across that many dumb CIA agents? We're here because we want to do business with Zacul. But first we have to find him. Why in the hell do you think I had the fake passports made? I didn't want our own customs people to be able to trace us from Costa Rica into Masagua. I didn't want them speculating about why we were here."
Suarez studied him for a moment, thinking, then said in Spanish, "Your associate said you came because you wanted to sell General Zacul weaponry. If it is true, I believe the general would be interested in talking to you. But you have made no mention of weapons."
It was an obvious trap, a soft offer to draw him into a lie, but Ford didn't fall for it. Replying in Spanish so as to suggest to Suarez he had no reason to communicate with Tomlinson, Ford said, "I am surprised my friend would invent such a story. It's not true. Maybe you frightened him into telling a lie. There is only one reason we are here: to arrange to buy pre-Columbian artifacts. The only reason. We had planned on paying American dollars, but if Zacul wants to work out some kind of trade for weapons, we can discuss it. Frankly, though, I don't know a thing about weaponry. I have an associate in Washington, D.C., who has some connections, and since he's one of my principal backers he might be able to help." Getting that information out in the open in c
ase this was all because the Mayan woman had talked about his phone call; wanting to defuse the implications before Suarez had a chance to mention it.
It was a wise decision.
"Ah, yes, your friend in Washington, D.C. I heard of a call you made. It was a collect call, I believe. Very long. " Adding the last in a tone that implied he knew what was said in the conversation.
He didn't know, of course. The Mayan woman obviously hadn't understood his conversation with Cheng. If she had, Suarez would have probably killed them immediately. "He's a business associate," Ford said, "and he lives in D.C. So what? That doesn't mean we're government agents."
"He must be a very important associate for you to call him from such a remote place."
"I called to ask him about an auction that was held in New York last night. Some artifacts were auctioned off, and I wanted to see how the bidding went. Such things are only worth what people are willing to pay, and so far they're willing to pay a lot. I was checking the current market to see what kind of money we could offer Zacul."
Suarez nodded and took a few steps away from the table. As he did, he picked up Tomlinson's notebook and began to leaf through it. He paused, studying the tracings Tomlinson had taken off the Mayan stela, and Ford sensed Suarez was beginning to soften a little. The notebooks were a strong piece of corroborative evidence. In English Suarez said, "Why this man did not tell us you have come to buy artifacts? Why did he refuse to speak?" He was nodding at Tomlinson.
Through his swollen mouth, Tomlinson croaked, "I thought you were a cop, man. Smuggling that stuff is illegal. Christ, I didn't want to go to jail."
For a moment, Ford thought Suarez was going to laugh, and he decided to press while the going was good. "General Zacul used to deal with an American named Hollins, but who was known here as Rafferty. He had a fake passport—"
"Hollins?" Suarez dropped the notebook and leaned over the table again, pushing his face close, and Ford saw for the first time that the colonel wanted to kill them; as if killing them would pose fewer problems than dealing with them. "Yes, we were aware of this man's real name. How is it you know of this man?" Talking in fast, strident Spanish.
Sanibel Flats Page 23
