by CJ Lyons
“So he’s already found the treasure?” A twinge of disappointment colored her voice. She’d been hoping to lead him there with the data she’d gleaned from her research.
“Bits and pieces washed out when the river changed course after the earthquake. Enough to make him paranoid about security—I’ve had to lend him most of my men to help out. If he’s not careful, he’ll become obsessed. Gold fever, the local Maya call it.” He laughed at her frown of dismay. “I’m joking. The treasure itself is meaningless to Zigler. It’s the history behind it that he’s fascinated with. Wants to share with the world.” The way he talked made Dr. Zigler come to life, exactly as she’d imagined from their correspondence. An old-fashioned gentleman-scholar. A cross between Richard Leakey and Albert Schweitzer.
“I can’t wait to meet him.” Then her shoulders sank. “Oh. I forgot about Prescott. Have they found the men who killed him?”
He patted her arm reassuringly. “No, but the police are working on it. They have all the roads blocked, asked us to stay put for the duration. Another reason for you not to venture out alone.”
She remembered the killer’s final words to Prescott, implying that the grad student had wanted the treasure for himself. She hated to think that about him—she’d liked Prescott. A lot. He was the main reason why she’d broken all the rules to come here now instead of waiting for the summer.
“I think I know where the treasure is,” she blurted out. Damn, she’d wanted to keep that as a surprise for Professor Zigler. But he and the doctor had obviously become close friends since the professor’s arrival. And the doctor talked as if the treasure was common knowledge to the locals. “I ran a computer simulation based on the ground-penetrating radar readings and compared them to the hieroglyphs he’s uncovered. The temple is devoted to the rain god, Chaac. There’s a cistern deep at its heart with hidden tunnels funneling rainwater down to it. I think the treasure is down there, at the bottom of the cistern.”
He looked surprised. Then clapped his hands in delight. “Brilliant and beautiful! Zigler is going to love you, my dear.”
She blushed at his words. She wasn’t beautiful—not like her mother, a true Spanish beauty. Maria didn’t share her mother’s delicate features or golden complexion. The only features they had in common were their dark hair and eyes. Maria’s cheekbones were higher, her face and forehead broader, her skin darker. Longing for some part of her mother’s beauty, she’d once asked if she was adopted. Her parents had laughed and chided her for silly imaginings.
A whirling noise came from the direction of the hall. Helda escorted a young man who sat in a large electric wheelchair. The back of the chair was stacked with equipment connected to the man with tubing and wires that emerged from under the T-shirt he wore. He was about Maria’s age, dark hair, high cheekbones, features a lovely mix of Maya and Spanish.
“Ah, perfect timing.” The doctor rose from his seat and went to the man, speaking to him in rapid Spanish that Maria caught only bits and pieces of. He turned and gestured to her with a flourish. “Maria Alvarado, may I present my son, Michael.”
Michael pushed himself out of his wheelchair despite Helda’s gesture of protest. She hurried to unhook a small bag from the back of the chair and he slung it across his chest like a messenger bag. A thick power cord still tethered him to the battery on the back of the chair, but he had room to maneuver as Helda followed behind him with the chair.
“Nice to meet you, Maria,” he said with a smile. His English was perfect, with a fluid Spanish cadence underlying it. Made him sound like a movie star.
He took a few steps to reach Maria and offered his hand. Helda stepped forward then back again, her hands fluttering with worry. Michael knew it, Maria saw. His grin filled with mischief.
He kissed her hand and she couldn’t help but blush again. With him close beside her, she could hear a faint ticking from the machine in the bag across his chest, like a grandfather clock ticking the seconds. Underlying it was a high-pitched hum as if someone were vacuuming in another room not too far away.
“Michael, please,” his father protested. “Sit down. You shouldn’t exert yourself.”
“I feel fine, Father. Better than I have in months.”
“Then sit, if only for my sake and Helda’s. You’ll wear us out with worry.”
Michael relented and took the seat beside Maria’s. Helda immediately positioned the chair behind him, then pulled some sanitary wipes from her pocket and began to clean his hands. Scrubbing away any contagion from shaking Maria’s hand.
Suddenly Maria was worried. Dr. Carrera had given her antibiotics, but he did say her cuts and bites were infected. But surely he wouldn’t risk his son’s health if Michael was immunocompromised?
Dr. Carrera shook his head. “Really, Michael—”
“What’s the point of having an artificial heart if I don’t get the chance to enjoy it?”
“It’s only a temporary measure. We can’t risk anything going wrong.”
“You see a blue sky and fear a drought. I have extra batteries, the chair isn’t four feet away, and for the first time in weeks I haven’t been tied to a damn oxygen tank. Why shouldn’t I enjoy my freedom?” He turned to Maria with a grin that made her heart speed up. “Not to mention a pretty girl to share it with.”
She smiled back. No one had ever looked at her like that before. As if she were the reason for his happiness.
“How long are you here for, Maria?” he asked.
Thoughts of her parents and how angry they would be chased her smile away. She focused on the fish the waiter had just deposited onto her plate. “I’m not sure. Hopefully through the summer—I’m working with Professor Zigler.”
Michael nodded absently as he dug into his own food. He ate like someone who hadn’t had solid food in a while. His clothing, a plain white T-shirt and jeans, hung as if he’d lost weight, and despite his dark complexion, he appeared pale.
“Can I ask?” She nodded to the bag that the tube from his chest ran into.
“LVAD,” he answered, his mouth filled. He swallowed. “Left ventricular assist device. It keeps my heart pumping. Until a few weeks ago, I was a candidate for the last rites, heart failure from a virus. Father here was ready to measure me for a casket.”
“Michael,” Dr. Carrera cut in, his knife clattering to the floor. A waiter hurried forward to retrieve it and place a clean one beside him. “That’s not funny. And not true. I’d never give up, you know that.” Concern etched his voice, and a shadow passed over his face.
“I know, Papa.” Michael smiled at his father with the same intensity he’d bestowed on Maria. Despite his illness, it seemed his sunny disposition was difficult to overcome. “But it feels so good to be free of that bed and able to move around again.”
“So, your artificial heart, it’s cured you?” Maria asked, hoping she wasn’t being rude. But she’d never met anyone who almost died before. And she couldn’t help but wonder how the LVAD worked—when her father got here, he’d know. Maybe it would distract him from being so angry at her.
“No,” Dr. Carrera answered. “It’s just a stopgap measure until we can find a donor heart. But it’s given us the gift of time.” He frowned at Maria. “As long as Michael is careful and doesn’t strain himself.”
“What better gift could anyone ask for?” Michael patted his breastbone as if proving his fitness. He turned to Maria, studying her again with that intense gaze that warmed her body more than the sun ever could. “I’m going to paint you before you leave. I warn you, I’ve never been good with human subjects, but there’s something about you.… Please, will you do me the honor?”
How could she say no? She nodded shyly, unable to meet his gaze.
Michael clapped his hands like a little boy, the gleeful sound making even Dr. Carrera smile. “Good. We start right after we eat.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
The ferry arrived forty minutes late; it was almost two o’clock by the time they docked between
two cargo ships on the industrial side of the port at Santo Tomás, and Caitlyn’s stomach wasn’t too happy about it. She nibbled on a protein bar rescued from inside her bag—where everything was nice and dry, despite the drenching she’d taken during the ride from Punta Gorda—as she followed the other passengers onto the cement pier. The only sign she saw for any kind of customs agent was an abandoned stand near an empty stretch of dock obviously meant for the cruise ships with its brightly canopied tour kiosks and signs painted on the concrete pier directing visitors to a bus parking lot and sightseeing guides.
No one else seemed bothered by the lack of border control, so she shrugged her pack higher on to her shoulder and walked past men shouting at each other as they gestured to cargo containers, others checking clipboards and yelling back. At the far end of the row of containers stacked four high was a short balding Hispanic man, the kind of man no one would notice in a crowd.
Caitlyn noticed him right away. His gaze ranged over the passengers streaming from the ferry, stalled on her bright red hair, finished examining the others, and returned to her. Made her wonder about the CIA’s field training if he was their idea of covert.
She decided to challenge him—after all, no way she could hide her presence here, a tall white redhead—and strode up to him. “Ready to go?”
He shrugged and laughed, didn’t seem at all upset. “Sí, sí. This way. Can I call you Caitlyn?”
His accent was a funny combination of melodic Spanish and fast-talking New Yorker. “Of course. And you are?”
“Juan Carlos Romero. Everyone calls me Romero.” He made it sound like he was inviting her into his inner circle of close friends.
“Where are you from, Romero?”
“Brooklyn. My mother is Puerto Rican and my father’s father was Cuban.” He lowered his voice and glanced around dramatically. “He, my grandfather, worked for the CIA way back when. So I guess you can say it’s in my blood.”
“I gather you don’t do much fieldwork, though?”
He shrugged. “Nah. I wish. It’s mostly handholding and translation. Sometimes I get to ride along with the DEA guys, but since we pretty much screwed the pooch here back in ’54, the CIA I mean, starting the civil war and all, I try to keep a low profile. But a chance to meet Hector Alvarado? No way I could resist that. The man is legendary.”
They reached a mud-splattered white Land Rover. Caitlyn settled her pack in the back and climbed onto the passenger seat. “Has Hector arrived?”
“In style. Flew in on a helicopter. Private charter. Pilot’s one of his ex-army buddies. They had a few more guys with them.”
Great. Hector brought his own private militia. “Weapons?”
He nodded as he honked at two mopeds riding abreast, slowing traffic. They waved good-naturedly without increasing their speed. “He’s camped out at the El Atlantico hotel while his men wait in the helicopter. It’s parked in an empty lot behind the mercado.”
He pointed to the building they were passing. The mercado was a bright yellow cinder block building beckoning to tourists off the cruise ship, its walls painted with murals promising local artisan crafts, fine handmade jewelry, and many other TESOROS ÚNICOS.
“Have your people heard anything?” she asked. “Rumors of a plot to exact revenge on Hector for something in his past? Or maybe a plan to kidnap Maria for ransom? Someone took a lot of time and trouble to put this all into motion.”
The two mopeds turned off and he gunned the engine only to hit the brakes again as a man pulling a cart crossed the street in front of them. “I put out a few feelers, but no one’s talking. Definitely no signs of Maria being taken out of the country—not that the borders around here don’t leak like sieves. My money would be on someone from Hector’s past. I dug around unofficially, and the stories I heard about what he and his unit did—let’s just say there’s a damn good reason he fled the country as soon as the government starting talking peace with the guerrillas.”
They pulled into a parking space across the street from the El Atlantico. Romero led her into a small café, where they found seats near the window and drank strong coffee.
“What about this Prescott kid?”
Romero frowned. “Best I can figure, given what little time I’ve had, is that he might be an actor brought in on a work visa last week. Name of John Kandlass. Description fits and he listed an address here in Santo Tomás. Wasn’t there when I checked.”
Caitlyn pulled out the photo of Prescott. “This him?”
“Yeah. Matches Kandlass’s passport photo.”
Great. The plot had gone past thick to impenetrable.
A school-aged girl with a basket on her arm entered, gesturing to Caitlyn. She was dressed in a white peasant blouse over a colorful tiered skirt and wore a bright woven shawl over her shoulders.
“She wants to sell you chocolate,” Romero translated. Caitlyn took a look in the basket. Irregular chunks of dark grainy chocolate were wrapped in plastic. “The locals, they harvest cocoa and grind it, make the chocolate themselves. It’s a little bitter for my taste, but very rich.”
“I don’t have any money except American.” There’d been no place or time to exchange currency during her rushed travels today.
“One dollar, one dollar,” the girl gushed, handing Caitlyn the largest piece.
Caitlyn couldn’t resist and pulled a dollar bill from her pocket. Romero stopped her, speaking to the girl in rapid Spanish. The girl looked down at her feet, scuffed her toe. Caitlyn thought she was about ready to cry.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“For a U.S. dollar, you should get pretty much the whole basket.”
“No, that’s not right, not if she and her family went to all the trouble to make it themselves.” Caitlyn smiled at the girl, who looked back up, shyly. She held up two fingers. “¿Dos? One for me and my friend? ¿Mi amigo?”
The girl beamed and nodded. Then carefully selected the smallest piece and set it daintily in front of Romero, as if bestowing a great honor on him. Caitlyn laughed and handed her the dollar.
“Gracias.”
“Sucker,” Romero said. He shooed the girl out the door while Caitlyn unwrapped her chocolate. It was hard, but when she dunked it into the hot coffee, the melted section was delicious.
“Tell me about Hector and his war buddies.”
*
After Shapiro dropped him off at his bike, Jake headed to the Washington Field Office to grab some time on a computer. He was tempted to start with the Guatemalan clinic and any outbreaks of Creutzfeldt-Jakob, but instead he began with the basics.
First, a routine check of other missing persons reports from Guatemala, focusing on foreigners who disappeared near Santo Tomás. Not much—most of the crime against outsiders involved assaults and armed hijackings of tourists. But there was a Canadian who went missing from a town named Livingston six weeks ago.
He glanced at a map. Livingston was very close to Santo Tomás, just up the coast from it. According to the report released by the Canadian officials, Kevin Cho was a surgeon who’d just finished a medical mission. He’d planned to drive across the border to Belize and return home via Punta Gorda but had never made his flight.
Another look at the map. Not a whole lot between Livingston and Punta Gorda in the way of towns, but a lot of Mayan ruins and some nature preserves. Looked like rugged country, easy to get lost in.
He tabled the doctor’s missing persons report and began on background checks on Hector and Sandra Alvarado. Caitlyn had texted him some other leads: Alvarado’s old army squad, the Kaibiles, and his friend, Dr. Otto Mendez Carrera.
Soon Jake had over a dozen windows open on the machine as he built a history of Alvarado and BioRegen. A pattern was emerging, one that he didn’t like. He made hard copies of the important files, grabbed an elevator going up, and dodged Yates’s administrative assistant as he barged into the Assistant Director’s office.
“You need to pull Caitlyn out,” he told Yates, who had
a tuna salad on rye in one hand and was typing on his computer with the other. “Or get her some backup.”
“You must be Carver,” Yates said after he swallowed. His assistant poked his head inside the door with an apologetic shrug, but Yates waved the man away. “You do know that this field office has a dress code?”
Caitlyn had said Yates was a stickler for rules when he wanted to be. Also said he was a good guy who’d used to be a boots-on-the-ground law enforcement officer. Unlike so many of the suits populating the Department of Justice.
Jake detected amusement flickering across Yates’s face so skipped any excuses for his informal attire and cut to the chase. “Does Caitlyn know about Alvarado’s past? Why he fled Guatemala?”
“I sent her everything we had, little that it was. Mostly redacted by State and our cousins over in Langley. She’s good at reading between the lines—and can Google as well as anyone. Why? Did you find something?”
Helping himself to the director’s spare chair without asking permission, Jake leaned forward. “Maybe. I think I have an idea why someone might be targeting Alvarado.”
Yates returned the favor by continuing to munch on his sandwich and type while he waited for Jake. But this was too important. Jake wanted the man’s full attention.
Finally Yates turned away from his keyboard. “An idea? No proof?”
“No proof.”
Doubt filled Yates’s face, but he relaxed in his chair and templed his fingers. If a low-ranking agent like Jake dared to barge in on his lunch because of an idea, it had better be important, his attitude said. “Okay. Let’s hear it.”
“You know that Alvarado and his squad were in charge of a secret prison, code-named U4?”
“According to media conjecture. The government has always denied it, and no witnesses or other proof have been found.”
“Conjecture from the media and the Catholic church and the UN’s commission. And of course they deny it. If half the things they’re accused of are true, it makes Gitmo look like a trip to Baskin-Robbins.”
