"You seem very sure of yourself for one so new to this business. Perhaps it is because one of your associates works in
Washington, D.C., that you expect few losses? He is an important man, this man?"
"Let's just say we won't have any trouble from U.S. Customs."
Zacul's expression was noncommittal, but his gaze shifted as he inhaled deeply on his cigarette. To Tomlinson he said, "And you, you are an expert on Mayan culture?"
Tomlinson jumped slightly, nervous, but that was okay. It fit the part he was playing. "I'm an expert on Egyptian culture, an Egyptologist. I'm a new student of Mayan culture. There are similarities that, you know, are real interesting—"
"I brought him to help me identify and appraise pieces," Ford cut in. "He's here on a contract basis now, but maybe on a percentage deal later."
"Because you do not trust me?" Zacul said,,smiling slightly.
Ford allowed himself to smile, too. "And I don't expect you to trust me."
"You told Colonel Suarez certain things. Should I trust that those things are true?"
"Like what?"
"He told me of this book you say you have. It is possibly a thing I would like to have for my personal collection. " Said in an offhand way, Zacul acted as if he didn't much care one way or the other.
Ford said, "Colonel Suarez gave me the impression it's very valuable. I thought it was worthless until we talked to him," watching Suarez flinch—and enjoying it.
Zacul said, "Colonel Suarez knows so little about so few things." Suarez actually seemed to shrink, slowing as they walked until he was two steps behind.
"How much do you think the book's worth, General?"
Zacul shrugged while his nervous fingers tapped double time. "In dollars, not much. Not to a collector. But I am a student, and it's a thing I would like to have."
"Then I'll give it to you as a gift when I return for the first shipment. A present of good faith. It's in Costa Rica now. Safe."
Zacul liked that. Ford could see it in his face. "Very generous, but since I'm to have it anyway, why not tell me where it is so I can send a man to bring it? That way I can begin my study of it immediately, and, of course, it would finalize our business agreement."
Playing along, Ford said, "I'm going to have to think about that one, General. After the treatment we've received, I mean-—"
Zacul nodded, looking at Suarez, that same expression of reproach, the same act. "Colonel, these men should have been treated as guests, not as criminals. This man has been beaten. Not by you or your men, I hope?" Speaking in English for their benefit.
Apparently it was a familiar role, and Suarez didn't bother to hide the smirk. "It seemed a necessary thing at the time, General."
"That is not the way I wish to run my army. A man must be judged fairly, not in some bar in Utatlan. I am very disappointed. From now on, these men will be treated as my personal guests. And you may consider yourself confined to quarters for the rest of the morning. "
Suarez saluted smartly, then ambled off toward the lake-shore where he began to give orders to soldiers who were unloading boxes from several small boats.
Zacul was already bored with them. His attention wandered; he dropped the fake formality and kept lighting cigarettes. He had more important things to do than play host to two profit whores—Americans at that. That was fine with Ford. It meant he believed their story. That he paid them any attention at all was an indicator of how badly he wanted the book.
They had followed him through the camp to the hillside where men on scaffoldings were digging out the remains of at least one great pyramid, maybe another, though Zacul said it was too soon to tell. He led them up stone steps, like gray dominos, then through a low postern. It was cool inside the temple and smelled of earth and bat guano. There were vines growing out of the walls.
"There have been many earthquakes since the time of the conquistadors," Zacul told them. "You can see how this temple has been damaged. But in its historical value, I think this find equals that of Tikal in Guatemala. As presidente, I have proclaimed it a national preserve, the Julio Zacul Park of Kings, in honor of our great revolution and the Maya people. There will soon be tours on those small carts such as you have in the United States."
As president? Tours on small carts? Something behind those glassy eyes had lost a hinge, was swinging back and forth through reality. The guy was already living in the future.
Tomlinson was on his tiptoes, studying'the wooden lintel above the entranceway, saying "This is zapote wood, as strong as iron but it lasts longer." Speaking to Ford but to convince Zacul he knew what he was talking about. "Take a look at this, Doc—" He was touching a small carving that had been etched outside the frame of the lintel's intricate glyph-work. The carving was very old, roughly done, and graphically obscene. "It's a graffito. The Mayan workers loved graffiti. Probably close to nine hundred years old. I bet it used to drive the priests crazy."
"More than a thousand years old," Zacul put in sharply, not contesting Tomlinson's expertise but to establish his own as superior. He looked at Ford. "This man calls you Doc. As in doctor?"
"That's right," Ford said, but offered no further explanation. He told Zacul he hoped the lintel would be included in the first shipment; said he felt they could auction it for thirty, maybe forty thousand dollars. Zacul said it would be worth at least eighty. He said it in a way that left no room for discussion. Zacul told them the lintel would be cut out of the doorway and ready for the first plane.
Zacul led them down the hill, not commenting on the other digs going on near the main temple. He spoke to his men in a barking Spanish, filled with slang and profanities which illustrated his personality more clearly than his formal English. Some of the work areas were screened from sight by awnings and an odd smell drifted from them: ether and gasoline. Once, when the general walked away for a few moments to speak with a worker, Tomlinson whispered, "Cocaine kitchens. Smell the fumes? They make the stuff right here. "
Ford nodded. It was something Tomlinson would know by smell.
As they finished the tour, Zacul still had given no indication they had found the calendar or were even looking. But Ford knew they must be close. They had already salvaged at least two of the emeralds—the stones he had found back on Tequesta Bank. Ford wondered if they had found any more since Rafe's theft.
The question was soon answered.
Zacul led them to a clearing in which a great canvas awning had been raised and encircled with concertina wire. Two guards stood at the entrance holding assault rifles while, inside, several men wearing rubber gloves worked over vats that were probably filled with acid. Beyond the work area was a large storage site studded with Maya stelae, large and small, like a graveyard. The folding tables were covered with stone carvings and ornate pottery. At the rear of the area was another one of the portable fiberglass huts, this with a third guard standing at the door.
Ford guessed the concertina wire and the extra guard had been added after Rafe's last visit.
Zacul told Tomlinson to look all he wanted; asked him to give him an idea of what some of the smaller stelae might be worth. The question was too innocent, implying a lack of expertise that Zacul would have never admitted even if it were true. It was a test; the test Wendy Stafford had warned him about back in Costa Rica, and now it was up to Tomlinson.
Tomlinson walked slowly along the stone rows, stopping here and there, squinting at glyphs, touching some of them. He seemed to pay special attention to the first row, a dozen stones no higher than his thighs.
Finally he said, "Stelae this size are the easiest to sell. They're portable enough for people to display them easily in their homes, but still big enough to be impressive. Real works of art." He was squatting, one hand on a stone, looking at Zacul. "I guess the median rate for one of these stela might be nine grand; probably average around eight if you spread them around, market them right."
Ford winced at the expression on Zacul's face. "Then you would pay me
approximately four thousand American dollars apiece for those stones?" Like he was springing a trap.
Tomlinson stood. "It's up to Dr. Ford what he pays you, but I couldn't recommend he pay more than a couple hundred or so apiece. The stones in this row are copies. They're good copies, but it still adds to the risk. I'm just telling you what they'd sell for if we found the right buyers. It would be dangerous, though. If collectors got word Doc was pushing bad goods, it could mess up his whole operation. He'd make money up front but he'd lose in the long run when word got around."
Ford was so relieved he had a hard time manufacturing the proper indignation. "What are you trying to pull here, Zacul? I offer you a fair business deal and now you try to push off fake stuff on me. I don't like that. It's bad for everyone concerned."
Zacul was anything but meek. "You said you don't trust me? Well, I don't trust you. It is an easy thing for two men to say they have come to my camp to buy artifacts. They might come for other reasons and have absolutely no knowledge of what it is they're pretending to buy. I test in my own way—" Now he looked pointedly at Ford. "—and you will not use that tone of voice with me again." He let the stare linger before saying to Tomlinson, "How did you know these pieces are counterfeit?"
Tomlinson's expression was thoughtful, like a professor waiting to elaborate. "For one thing, I had the advantage of seeing them all together. The glyph patterns are similar and the stones are all approximately the same size. A buyer wouldn't have that advantage, but someone who really knew what they're doing might notice that they're made of aggregate, not pure stone. They've been poured into a mold, like cement, before you had your people antique them. Then there's the glyph of the moon goddess repeated four times on each of them. On the first glyph on each stone the nipple of her left breast is convexed where the mold has been pitted. A small convexity like that wouldn't have lasted a hundred years, let alone a thousand."
Zacul nodded slowly. "I will have my men tend to it. Come, I wish to show you a few more things."
Zacul kept his best stuff inside the fiberglass hut. There were fireproof drawers filled with jade amulets and carvings. In one, Ford got a quick look at another large emerald before the drawer was slammed shut again. Rafe hadn't taken them all, or they had found more. The best piece was a mosaic, a life-size human mask made of several hundred intricately worked jade shards. The mask had the humped Mayan nose and haunting, hollow eyes, like a skull. Zacul said a similar piece had recently been sold on the black market to a museum for $140,000 and wanted to know if Ford had any connections with museum curators. When Ford said he did not, Zacul told him to cultivate some. It was a flat statement, neither an order nor a request. He added, "American museums are able to pay more than most private collectors, and they are experts at legitimizing the provenance of illegal imports. Not long ago an American curator was fired by her board of directors for notifying the customs authorities after being offered a particularly valuable but stolen gold monstrance from Colombia. Some museums value art more than they value the law. "
"I didn't read about that," said Ford.
"It's because nothing was written about it. But I know that it is true. You can be sure other curators know of it, so they may be even more anxious to bid on this mask. You will investigate the possibilities."
"At the same percentage we've agreed upon? You can bet I will."
Zacul pushed the drawer that held the mask closed. "We have not yet agreed upon a percentage," and walked away.
They followed him back through the camp, hurrying to keep up. He showed them another fiberglass hut where he said they would sleep, then stopped outside the screened kitchen adjacent to the huge open cooking area that sided the main mess. Inside was a young man in an apron, stirring something in a small pot. He was beaming at Zacul but not making eye contact, sweating over the stove. Zacul said, "This is the officers' kitchen and my personal chef, Oscar. He will prepare your meals, show you where to bathe, and tend to anything else you may need. Tell him what you want and he will provide it. I will have your luggage returned to you, minus any weapons you may have been carrying."
Ford said, "Does that include the two emeralds and my jade?"
Zacul eyed him coolly. "Those things were stolen from me by your friend Hollins. But I'll allow you to sell the jade. As a gesture of good faith. The emeralds I will keep. "
Ford considered protesting but, instead, simply nodded his acquiescence.
Zacul said, "You have free access to the camp that lies between the road and the sea. You may go to the beach, but do not stray near the dig site, into the sector near the bluff, or down the road that leads to Tambor. My men have orders to shoot on sight, and they will not hesitate."
Ford said, "We were hoping to leave tomorrow, but first I'd like to get the percentages down, maybe draft an agreement—"
"You wish to pay me cash? American dollars?"
"Sure . . . what else?"
"The man we knew as Rafferty paid in weaponry. I'd hoped you'd have his connections."
"We might be able to work something out—"
But Zacul was already walking away, not listening, giving orders to Ford over his shoulder. "Your associate will leave for Costa Rica tomorrow by truck. You will not. You will stay with us until he returns with the book you so generously offered to give me. At that time we will discuss percentages and logistics. As of now, the terms you have offered sound agreeable—with the exception of special items, like the jade mask. "
"But Tomlinson doesn't know where the book is—" "Then you will tell him." Zacul's dark eyes took on that penetrating look; wild, near the borders of control. "You will not leave here until I have it."
Julio Zacul returned to his quarters, ignoring salutes, ignoring the garbage heap these peasant soldiers had allowed his camp to become, eyes focused only on the doors that were quickly opened for him, until he threw himself on his bed, his face wet, his veins burning, his brain fighting a gray deliquescence, that woozy feeling of reaching critical mass on the cocaine express. "Suarez! Suarez, you shit-heel! Suarez!" He closed his eyes, breathing deeply while his heart pounded in his ears, then he opened his eyes, allowing his vision to blur within the symmetric zone of the ceiling fan overhead. What would Guzman think if he saw him now?
A dark thought, and Zacul cringed as it lingered. Abimael Guzman Reynoso, that great man; Guzman who had told them all that to triumph over the capitalists, they must not fall victim to the weaknesses of the capitalists: no alcohol, no tobacco, no drugs, no sex; nothing that was pleasurable until they had eliminated the cancer, cut it out and killed it. Of course, Guzman himself had chain-smoked cigarettes and bedded many of his students—young women and men—but that was all right. Guzman was the swordsman; they were the sword.
Zacul had been seventeen when he left the house of his wealthy father to attended the University of San Cristobal in the department state of Ayacucho, in the mountains southeast of Lima, Peru. It was there he was assigned to Guzman's philosophy class; it was there he fell under Guzman's spell.
There were already rumors about the man. It was well
known he was an ardent Chinese Maoist; it was not well known that, by his careful recruiting of fellow professors, he had gained control of the university. Sendero Luminoso, the Shining Path, had already been founded, and Guzman's philosophy—that capitalism could be eliminated only by killing without conscience—was soon its only curriculum.
"Terror," Guzman had told them, "is our only weapon. In the end, the people we terrorize will get down on their knees to thank us."
Zacul, always a good student, had also always been a moody, solitary boy. That changed when he met Guzman and was accepted into Sendero. His first assignment (and that's what Guzman called them—assignments) was a raid on the village of Lucanamarca. It was a summer morning in February when Zacul and twenty others, armed with rifles and axes, entered the village looking for an informant. The villagers, who were mountain peasants, insisted they knew nothing of an informant.
Zacul had watched transfixed as the leader of his group ordered all the women and children of the village into a church, then set the church on fire. As mothers tried to push their children through the windows of the burning building, members of Sendero used their axes to kill the children. It was a horrifying thing to watch, yet it had also filled him with a strange elation; a tingling in the spine. Zacul had drawn closer the blazing church as if drawn by a magnet, when suddenly a village woman skidded around a corner to face him. She was as surprised as he by the confrontation, her eyes a study in pure terror, and Zacul had continued to walk toward her as she backed away . . . back, back, back, her hands thrust outward, and then she had dropped to her knees—not at all what he had expected. Instead of fighting for her life, she had simply knelt there, her eyes looking up at him, body slack, knees slightly spread in complete submission, her face very pale but calm. The first time he swung the ax, his aim was bad, and the blade cut through her shoulder. She had kicked some, yet the expression in her eyes was unchanged—as if she had awarded her body to him, completely to him, and Zacul had never felt such a sensuous rush of emotion in his life. Once again he had swung the ax, burying it in the top of her head and, though the feeling of pleasure lingered, the climactic emotion faded with her last breath.
He and his comrades killed more than sixty people that day; eleven by his own hand, and each produced in him that same wondrous feeling. Later Guzman personally congratulated him, then took him to bed—a strange night of pain and pleasure that ended with him sobbing in Guzman's arms. Zacul moved very quickly up the Sendero ladder after that. He was among the first assigned to take the movement out of the country. Masagua, Guzman had told him with tears in his eyes, was ready for the new generation.
On the bed, Zacul rolled onto his side, still breathing heavily. "Suarez, you pig. Suarez. Get in here!"
There was a tap at the door and Suarez came in quietly, as a nurse might enter the room. "I'm sorry, Julio. I was only just told that you were calling." He had opened a plastic bottle and was tapping out small blue capsules into his palm. Zacul grabbed three and swallowed them quickly, then lay back again, already feeling better, knowing the pills would soon do their job. He said, "The two Yankees—do you trust them?"
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