by Howard Upton
Paseo de la Reforma took him past the museum. He glanced down at the dashboard clock and saw that it was 8:47 a.m., not quite time for the doors to open. He continued driving west for a few more blocks searching for a safe enough neighborhood or parking area for his rental; he didn’t want to have to make a speedy escape only to find he had no rims or worse…no car.
Having made a phone call and a couple of inquiries, Rafael knew the museum opened at 9:00 a.m. and tickets were sixty pesos apiece. He decided to wait until 10:00 a.m. before entering the museum as the extra hour would afford him time to walk the area and get a feel for the flow of traffic, both vehicular and pedestrian. After making a hard right on Ruben Dario Blvd, he found a parking lot to leave his car. A quick look around the lot revealed nothing out of the ordinary. Rafael stepped out of his car and pushed his sunglasses up on his nose then brushed his hair back with his hand using his car window as a mirror. The window also served as a mirror that would alert him to anyone standing or watching from his rear. After taking in his surroundings, he turned and bent at the knees in a makeshift attempt to adjust his pant leg and sock. Making these minor wardrobe adjustments gave him time to take in the ebb and flow of traffic, see if anyone looked out of place and note landmarks in the event he had to make a hasty exit. Nothing set off his internal radar.
He crossed the road on foot, careful not to walk in front of the museum where the majority of the tourists and other pedestrians would be. He strolled down the sidewalk on Mahatma Ghandi Drive, which circled a large park behind the museum. Rafael was just another well-dressed tourist enjoying his surroundings and the morning air. The building was enormous and beautiful, a magnificent contradiction in an area devastated with poverty and crime.
He checked his watch after reconnoitering the entire building and saw that it was 10:07, time for him to buy a ticket and check out the inside of the museum. After making his way to the front of the building, he glimpsed the surveillance cameras mounted in strategic locations along the rooftop and atop outdoor light fixtures without so much as lifting his head. His dark sunglasses served many purposes. He sat down on a bench facing the entrance and saw two guards standing just inside the doors next to a metal detector. They passively glanced at the museum patrons as they entered, paying little attention to their coming or goings.
He paid the pretty window teller the sixty pesos, got his ticket and asked her for a museum map. As he walked past the guard he nodded, the guard returning his nod. Careful to keep his head down to avoid looking directly into any cameras, he removed his sunglasses and put them inside a jacket pocket. For the next few minutes he studied the map while standing against a wall in the immense foyer area next to the gift shop. Turning west he saw the small stairway leading downstairs to the first floor which contained the Mayan displays.
Rafael stopped periodically to admire artwork and artifacts on display so as not to draw any undue attention to himself. The truth be known, he was mesmerized with the history of his ancestors. Not wanting to get too distracted by the history housed at the museum, he continued walking toward the elevator marked conservation lab. Just to the right of the elevator, he saw a storage closet. He made a mental note of both the elevator and closet, and then turned toward a Mayan statue and pretended to stare at it as he mentally retraced his path back to the front of the building, assuring he had the lay of the museum committed to memory.
Tonight, he thought to himself as he wandered around the museum for another hour before making his way back to his car.
Oxford, Alabama, USA
July 12, 2013, 8:46 P.M.
Silently and resolutely the shirtless man with the karate pants moved forward and backward, then side to side. His focus was primal and intense, and in his mind’s eye he visualized an opponent attacking him as he defended. His frayed black belt snapped as he applied an opposite side punch, then immediately dropped his tanden, or spiritual center, into a scissor stance while executing an outside center block. The powerful movement was quickly followed by a sudden snap from the scissor stance into a forward leaning punch. Sweat flew from the man performing the kata and soaked into the ground around him.
As he moved from technique to technique the shrill call of hundreds, or perhaps thousands of cicadas provided a perverse rhythmic symphony, the males’ singing rising to fervent pitches and lows. Suddenly, and as fast as he had begun his kata, he finished. A droplet of sweat rolled down his nose as he controlled his breathing and his senses remained acutely aware of their surroundings. Around him he heard each animal and every insect as they moved and called to one another; the Japanese called this altered state of mind zanshin, or relaxed awareness.
William Evers, Bill as he was commonly known to the few he associated with, lived at the foot of Mount Cheaha at the edge of the Talladega National Forest. Cheaha stood proudly as the highest point in Alabama, its name taken from the Muskogee Indian tribe meaning “high place.” His cabin sat on a fifteen acre spread surrounded by maple and yellow pine trees. The large back yard served as his summertime dojo, or training hall. His achievements of earning high black belt ranks in both Yoshukai Karate-do and Kodokan judo were accomplishments he thought little of; he preferred getting lost in his kata and executing the techniques he’d spent a lifetime learning.
The night air was hot and damp, the sky starlit and the two citronella torches he had lit before training licked the night shadows while keeping the mosquitoes at bay. He reached for a towel that he had earlier draped over his porch banister. As he dried the sweat from his body, he heard gravel crunching in the distance. Bill turned his head to see up his long driveway and saw headlights creeping toward him. Not one to have many visitors, Bill stepped inside his house and grabbed his Glock .45 and tucked it into the back of his gi pants.
He took off his black belt, meticulously hung it on the banister with the towel, and slipped into a t-shirt, careful to pull it over the pistol. Bill walked to the side of his driveway and stood next to a large oak tree and leaned into it with his left shoulder, leaving his right hand free to grab the pistol if needed. The tree provided the perfect cover in case he needed a shield.
The car continued creeping down the tree lined driveway and parked next to the cabin. Its driver turned the ignition off, but left the headlights on for a moment, his eyes casually scanning the area. Suddenly, he flashed his headlights twice – seemingly a signal to anyone watching him.
The driver lowered his window before turning the engine off, the headlights still on. Slowly, two hands emerged from the car followed by a shout, “Billy! It’s me, an old friend. I’m going to turn these lights off and get out of the car. I know you’re probably packing and I’m just asking you not to shoot me.”
Bill recognized the strong, Southern Appalachian accent and a small grin slowly crept across his face.
“Buddy, is that you?” Buddy Smith was an old comrade and presumably retired spook. Evers served with distinction in the United States Army after 9-11 in both Iraq and Afghanistan, but after getting out of the military Buddy recruited Bill to do some overseas work. Fighting other people’s wars seemed to be his MO and getting rich on the side had always been Buddy’s specialty.
“It sure is, Young Buck,” Buddy replied using the nickname he’d given him after his first campaign through Sudan.
It was in Iraq that Bill had taken his first life. That night still haunted his sleep. The recurring nightmares were a lasting reminder that he still maintained a thin grasp on his own soul. Being frightened of the nightmares, but happy they came to him was something only a person who had engaged in mortal combat could understand.
Later, after he had gotten out of the Army, Buddy recruited him to the Sudan where he successfully helped bring about a more U.S. friendly military regime that had created a significant amount of cash being funneled through Buddy’s hands as the drug and gun trade amped up in the third world country. Bill had placed a single bullet between a target’s eyes at two hundred yards then moved on to the nex
t. The most amazing part of the kill was not the distance, it was the time. At 2:00 a.m. and wearing night vision goggles, Bill had dropped his target without blinking.
“That was a helluva shot there, Young Buck,” Buddy had told him in his thick hillbilly drawl. Other mercenaries grew to revere him and his new nickname stuck.
“How’re you doing?” asked Buddy when he saw Bill relax. He opened the car door after killing the head lights and stepped into the tepid night air.
“Never better.”
Buddy’s long gray and brown hair touched the top of his shoulders. It looked as though the old soldier hadn’t given his looks much attention for at least a year or two. His face revealed several deeply etched lines across his forehead and beside either nostril that trailed down to the corners of his mouth. Three days of beard stubble displayed more salt than pepper in the once natural black he sported in his younger years. His blue button down short-sleeve shirt hadn’t seen the hot side of an iron since its purchase and sweat stains saturated the armpits. The jeans he wore were clean enough with only a few noticeable smudges, and his dusty cowboy boots suggested to the world he had walked the majority of it.
He pulled his stringy hair into a ponytail and tied it up with a rubber band from the morning newspaper. Evers watched him put his hands on his hips and stretch his back. Buddy cranked his chin to his left shoulder, then to his right, the cracking vertebrae audible in the night air. Finally, he rolled his shoulders to loosen them up as well.
“Pretty nice spread you’ve got here. How much land do you have with this place?” asked Buddy.
“Enough. But did you come all the way out here for real estate advice or is something on your mind?” Bill quipped.
“Damn, Young Buck. I see your pleasant disposition hasn’t changed much over the years. You going to ask me inside or are we going to stand here in this sauna all night?”
Bill pointed to the front door with his chin, which served as an invitation. He grabbed his gi top and belt and headed to his cabin. He pulled the Glock from his pants as they walked through the back door into his kitchen. He placed the pistol on the table in front of him within easy reach.
Cool air flowed from the central air conditioning unit’s floor registers. The old spook breathed in the gloriously cold air and savored its envelopment over his body that had been mugged by the humid Alabama heat. He wiped his forehead and his cheeks with a dingy white handkerchief he pulled from a hip pocket.
He glanced down at Evers’ massive hand cannon. “Is this how you treat all your guests?” Buddy reached for a kitchen chair and sat down, “You’ve never been much of a trusting sombitch.”
Bill leaned against his kitchen counter contemplating what his guest had said, and shook his head. He took a deep breath and calmly asked Buddy, “What do you want? I’m pretty sure you didn’t drive your ass out here in the middle of nowhere to talk about the good ole days or the time we spent watching each other’s back while the other took a shit.”
“I tell ya, Buck, you missed your calling as a poet. You’re a cunning linguist if I’ve ever heard one.” Buddy reached into the top pocket of his shirt and pulled out a cigar, a large Cuban Cohiba. Bill intently watched the old man's hand reach into his pants pocket and retrieve a cigar cutter, proceed to snip the end, while being careful not to let it hit the floor.
“Mind if I smoke?”
“Yeah, I mind. Want to do that shit then let’s step outside. I don’t need the house smelling like a bar,” Bill replied matter-of-factly.
Buddy nodded his head and considered stepping outside to smoke his favorite illegal stogie, but placed it back into his shirt pocket instead.
“What happened, Billy? We were always pretty close, but you’ve become a bit of a mean old bastard since the last time I saw you. For a lot of people solitude is a good thing, but maybe being out here in this,” Buddy made a sweeping arc with his left hand, “all by yourself isn’t good for someone like you.”
“What? Who is ‘someone like’ me, Buddy? You mean a guy who went to war for his country believing all the bullshit patriotic crap a recruiter told me, only to find out later war and death is really only about money? Is that what you mean? Or maybe you mean the young man who got out of the army who had few skills other than killing people. And that same young man who decided his particular skillset was more useful in fighting other people’s wars than it was busting his ass back home for next to nothing. You’ll have to excuse me if the realities of the world have made me somewhat bitter. I must admit that I’m not a fan of any country’s government, most especially ours.”
Some time passed before Buddy spoke again. He weighed his words then said, “Billy, a strong distrust of government is a good thing. Hell, that’s what the founders of our country told us to do. You know, don’t trust ‘em. But walking around being cynical all the time eats at a man’s heart. Everyone can’t be bad all the time, Billy. You should think about that and let the past die and be buried.”
Evers wasn’t a man who liked to be preached to and the bitterness he’d described moments earlier still resonated in the front of his mind. He tried to tamp down some of his ire because Buddy, while still his friend, represented everything he’d grown to hate about the puppeteers of the world. These people had a way of manipulating a person for their own end and he’d simply felt like the easiest path was to distrust most everyone.
“I understand how you feel. You know I do. And I know what it’s like to walk around wondering if anything you’ve done really mattered, or if it just benefited some rich asshole sitting behind a desk in D.C. Sometimes a man has to do things for himself, Young Buck.
“But that’s enough with the philosophy class, Billy. I came to talk some business. How’s life treating you? What do you do for cash these days?”
Bill thought about the directness of Buddy’s questions before replying, but he knew Buddy was just being the same old guy he’d known a lifetime ago. He breathed deeply and subconsciously sucked his teeth, a habit he had picked up years earlier.
“Life is fine, Buddy. Since I don’t dick around with any of the alphabet soup groups anymore, I sometimes do a little executive protection work. I’ve tabled enough cash to be comfortable here.”
Buddy nodded his head.
“EP work, huh? Bodyguard stuff. I reckon that keeps a man busy. And I see you still practice that kung fu shit, too,” Buddy snickered.
“Karate…and judo. Both come in handy in close quarter situations,” responded Bill with a slight smirk on his face.
“So does that .45 you’re sporting,” Buddy snorted.
Bill sighed heavily and walked to the refrigerator and grabbed two beers. He slid one across the table to Buddy then popped the top of the frosty aluminum can he kept for himself.
“Gotta ask one more time, Buddy. Why are you here? I know this isn’t a social call, and I don’t think you would be asking me what I’m doing for money if you weren’t about to propose something.”
Buddy laughed before responding. “Boy, you’ve always known how to cut through the shit and get down to business. That’s what I like about you. So here’s the deal, an ancient relic was stolen from a museum down Mexico way three nights ago. We’d like for you to find this relic, procure it and bring it to us. There’ll be substantial monetary gain for you, including all your expenses, of course.”
An array of emotions flitted across Evers’ face. Greed, pain, guilt and hate all rolled into one big ball of ‘fuck you’ is what Buddy saw. It was then he knew this mission was going to be a hard sell.
Bill listened intently to what Buddy had offered before he replied. “I’m not interested. You need to find antiques, go hire Indiana Jones. I’ve always specialized in other sorts of business and you know that Buddy, not search and recovery of old shit that no one wants other than a museum.”
“Yeah, I figured you’d say something like that, Young Buck. But I can’t stress to you enough how important the recovery of this artifact is to a lot o
f people."
“A lot of people? Like who? Who do you associate with now, Buddy…art collectors? What is this relic you want recovered and what’s its significance?” Bill stopped and took another pull from his beer, then wiped his mouth with the back of his arm.
“It’s a cartouche, Billy; a small piece of jewelry made in ancient China a long time ago. Recently revealed information supplied to us hints that it could be used as one of the most destructive weapons in modern warfare and we need to get it before it falls into the wrong hands.” Buddy opened his beer and sipped while keeping his eyes locked on Bill’s, allowing him to process the information and form his own questions.
“Wait. I thought you said it was stolen from a museum in Mexico City. Was it on loan from China? And how does a piece of jewelry get confused with some damned weapon of mass destruction? How big is this thing anyway?”
Buddy chuckled and raised the palm of his hand as Bill fired off his line of questions.
“Slow down there, cowboy. Let me answer one question at a time, okay? First, it was stolen from Mexico City and no, it wasn’t on loan from China or any Chinese holding. It would seem that this particular piece of jewelry has been purposed with some specific thaumaturgy, which has given some folks a reason to be concerned.”
“Buddy,” Bill began, “you’ve always been a full time silver-tongued devil and a part-time asshole. What the fuck is thaumaturgy?”
