by Paul Lally
And believe me, this mother-of-four has one close to her heart—and her bank account, too.
From beneath her voluminous apron, she pulls out her cellphone and takes a picture of the wall—not to record the long-ago markings, but to show her Cuerpo de Infantería de Marina case officer the distinct outline of a crude wooden door set into the wall. No attempt was made to hide it. It’s just that nobody has ever seen fit to explore this stub end of one of the legs in the north tunnel. Simply put, it’s where the Maya stopped digging 500 years ago.
Only a few minutes left in Ix’s shift.
She leans closer and explores the door until she finds the latch. One final look around, then she shoves it open, closes it behind her and stands in the damp darkness.
And smiles.
Unafraid, she plays the light around until she spots a set of steps carved into the rock-hard clay. Footprints here and there—Vargas’s to be sure—and a crude rope fastened into the wall, looped from eyebolt to eyebolt—a railing of sorts that steadies her climb up the thirty-one steps—she counts them—until she reaches the top.
Another door!
This one, wooden and real like the other.
And unlocked.
She opens it into a dimly lit structure about twenty feet by ten feet. Shovels, pots, rakes, neatly stacked against the walls. A small work table. A dusty and cobwebbed window through which light tries—but fails—to make its way inside what appears to be a garden shed.
What is this place? And where is it?
Time to open the final door and find out...
Bright sunshine makes her squint her tunnel-adjusted eyes.
She blinks away the pain until the full glory of a garden fills her vision with a riot of color and serenades her nose with the heady perfume of roses. Thousands and thousands of roses; white, yellow, red...she smiles in happy recognition: Vargas’s private and very secret entrance to the tunnel has led her back to the cathedrals’ beloved and much-visited Jardín de Rosas.
She’s not been here since she was a child, walking hand-in-hand with her mother after church service. The sweet-smelling flowers in the sprawling garden were much taller than she was back then; like miniature petalled planets, red, yellow, white, bobbing in and out of view.
Everyone in Cancún knows about the Garden of Roses. But who dug the entrance from the shed down to the tunnel? What long-ago Maya men burrowed up from their hiding place below to reach the top? To be so close to the Spanish Franciscan friars determined to ram Christianity down their multi-god-worshipping throats and conquistador protectors to help them to do it with unspeakable tortures....
Why did they do such a dangerous thing?
And then she knows.
Revenge.
Middle of the night.
Long ago.
Maya climbing up from the tunnel and out into the walled grounds of the cathedral, hell-bent on slitting unsuspecting friars’ throats as they slept their dreamless sleep, convinced they were bringing the Maya “savages” to the love of Jesus, but doing so with hot-red pokers and ripping out fingernails, all for the glory of their faraway God.
Easy to imagine....
The small force of Maya raiders creeps silently across the moonlit grounds, knowing precisely where their victims are because Maya slaves who work there as servants secretly betrayed their location. No guard posted, no one to sound the alarm. No need. The thick walls that surround the compound are impregnable. Who would dare even think of breaking through? And they’re right. To this day, the adobe walls are as hard as tempered steel.
But a Maya bent on revenge is an unstoppable force.
Xi turns and re-enters the shed. Who knows what once was here back then? Probably just another nondescript outbuilding holding similar tools for tired, callused Maya hands who tended the Franciscans’ gardens over the course of hundreds of years.
Some things never change.
Especially revenge.
Xi, takes a few more photographs on her iPhone before tucking it away. For the past six months, this middle-aged, unassuming, humble peasant woman’s been secretly feeding inside information to her Mexican Marine case officer about Vargas’s drug manufacturing operation. The risks are real. If discovered, his hit squad will squash her like a bug and her family too.
Raíces y todo, (Roots and all) is their motto.
But the money is good, hungry children have big appetites, and her eldest needs shoes—again. Soon the others will. Like crops pushing through the soil after a spring rain, their little toes press the fronts of their sneakers.
Today Xi harvests a different “crop.”
Like all of her previous “contributions” this small piece of intelligence makes its way into Vargas’s Infanteria dossier on the Garcia Cartel, duly entered under the “Cathedral tunnel” section. A small footnote really, but Xi’s discovery is there to stay; another small brick in a thick wall that the Infanteria’s patiently building around the cartel in preparation for a major sweep. Her intel data joins the stream of other information flowing north to the DEA as part of their exchange program. It swirls around in a vortex as facts like these do, until one day, someone connects the dots.
Someone by the name of Major Williston, USMC, who just a few days before all this began...
Not with a pencil, but a bottle of Laphroaig Lore Single Malt scotch and Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five” blaring in his headphones...
He’s in his crappy apartment, busy doing his best to shove the disastrous phone conversation with his second ex-wife out of his mind, out the window, and into the dumpster in the alley of his apartment building, and to free his mind to trap the idea that’s been flitting around in his slightly tipsy head.
Most of the time, it’s a terrible idea to work while drinking. Alcohol fuels whatever great ideas you have, then removes all common sense. As proof, outcomes are usually a waste of time. But in this particular case, the slightly looped, Marine Corps major spots the heretofore unseen “secret tunnel,” notation in the report. Prompted by SOCOM’s current panic about the hostages—including the vice president’s kid—he mutters three words.
“It could work.”
Thanks to that garden shed, his rescue plan becomes as simple as it is clever. Ever since the “situation” developed into a full-blown crisis, Infanteria’s intel now confirms Garcia’s security forces have fortified the catacomb entrances north of the city to defend against a much-anticipated frontal attack. But nobody has bothered to do the same with a secret “backdoor” entrance, because nobody knows it exists, except Vargas—or so he must think.
Now, someone else does too: Ix Cuat Acholay, a modern-day version of Rahab, the Biblical woman who secretly helped Joshua blow his trumpet and bring down the walls of Jericho.
With Ix’s help, SOCOM’s green light, and the Hawaiian shirt-wearing Battleship Boys, CW’s going to make like Joshua and do the same damn thing.
“Are you a gambling man?” Vargas says.
Jensen stands before him. He licks his cracked lips. “Depends on the game.”
Vargas strips off the DEA agent’s blindfold.
Jensen blinks from the bright fluorescent overhead lights in the cramped space where he and the other hostages have been held since the botched raid at the Brownsville crossing. The other captives sit on the damp ground, recline against the stone wall, or crouch halfway, their zip-tied hands making them appear to be praying. For some of them it’s not just “appearing”.
Vargas continues, “I’m not talking poker or horse racing, or sports. I mean your life. What are the odds of you making it out of here alive?”
Jensen tries to spit but his mouth is cotton. “I repeat, fuck you.”
Vargas turns his head and calls out softly in Yucatec Maya, “Osito, ko'oten waye'.
His loyal executioner lumbers in and stands there, patiently waiting, machete in hand, blade gleaming.
Vargas leans closer. “Easy for gringos to say ‘We don’t negotiate’ when they’re doing th
e talking. A lot different when your neck is at the receiving end of the blade, wouldn’t you say?”
Jensen manages a thin smile. “Who writes your dialogue? You sound like a cheap-ass, B-movie villain.”
“Really? Do they do this in the movies?”
Miguel strides over to the Mexican marine hostage squatting by the wall and strips off his blindfold. “Osito, Kíinsik le te'elo'”
Osito lunges for his victim like a hungry Doberman Pinscher. Before the helpless marine can do anything more than scream “NO!” and try to twist away, Osito’s machete blade THUMPS into the base of the man’s neck and half-severs it from his torso.
The hostages bellow their shock and helpless rage.
Jensen can’t find breath to do even that.
Miguel motions two guards to prop up the collapsed body of the dead man long enough for him to take a picture with his smartphone. He examines it, frowns. “Inclinario hacia atrás.”
They tip the body backwards slightly. The head flops sideways like a broken doll.
Vargas takes another picture of the still-bleeding corpse, examines it closely and smiles in approval. Then he holds the phone in front of Jensen’s face.
“You’re next.”
A seemingly endless line of charter buses pulls up one after another in front of Cancún’s Catedral di Spiritu Santo. About two-thirds packed with cruise ship passengers who caught the high-speed ferries from Porta de Playa. The rest are Mexican nationals, bursting with evangelical fervor at seeing firsthand the 16th century birthplace of Catholicism in the Yucatan peninsula.
While the ornate structure’s beautiful to see, it’s also a symbol of Spain's subjugation of an indigenous populace. While forcing them to swallow religion at the point of a dagger, the Franciscan friars fervently promised them a kingdom of unbelievable riches would be their just reward if—and when—they made it to heaven.
On a bright and sunny February day like today, hordes of tourists mill around the wall-enclosed courtyard. About half of the foot-sore, overfed, turistas de crucero (cruise ship tourists) are actually interested in regarding the sacred edifice. Not surprisingly, most are gray-haired women with a few subservient men tossed in for interest.
Most of the husbands stay put on the busses (“Seen one damn church, seen them all.”), firing up smartphones, checking sports scores, e-mailing friends, and bragging on social media about what an awesome time they're having, far away from winter’s snowbanks, slippery sidewalks, and high heat bills.
Meanwhile, their better halves are equally busy taking endless smartphone photos of what their licensed city tour guides are droning on and on about. When they return home from the cruise, sunburned and ten pounds heavier, they might actually look at one or two of the hundreds—if not thousands—of trip photos they amassed. The rest will eventually fade away into the “delete” file.
The murals and statues and icons in the chapels and the main church are of ho-hum, passing interest to the hordes of tourists, most of whom are led around by the nose by licensed city guides waving folded umbrellas like drum majors in the Rose Bowl Parade.
Into the midst of this major tourist event, Major Williston and his Delta Force team disembark from their bus, too, along with the Battleship Boys.
As devoted “sons,” they make sure their “dads” make it safely down the boarding steps and across the courtyard cobblestones without a mishap. By acting in such a manner, the average passerby would observe nothing more than the courtesy and kindness a younger generation should devote to the old—especially parents in particular.
The tour guides roam the enclosed courtyard outside the cathedral like a pack of lean and hungry wolves herding their pre-assigned groups from point to point.
To minimize the cacophony of ten to fifteen guides shouting at the top of their lungs to be heard by many tourists wearing hearing aids, most use wireless microphones to transmit the glory of the cathedral to their clients' earbuds.
One by one, the wolves separate their packs from the gathered crowd and herd them away to the first stop of the multi-building tour, before entering the cathedral proper. The guides brandish a variety of items overhead as visual “flags” to keep their selected group from straggling or mixing in with other groups of tourists and pilgrims, some “coming to Jesus”, others for “something to do” before breaking for lunch and a couple of ice-cold margaritas, but all of them happily along for the ride.
Including Major Williston.
He and his team wait in the south corner of the compound for their “guide” to show up and escort them through the cathedral like the other groups, but then lead them off to the adjoining rose garden where the Battleship Boys will finish their part of the plan, say ”Mission accomplished,” then go about their day, duty done, while the Delta force deploys to save the hostages.
While the men mill around and act like every other tourist in sight, a diminutive Franciscan nun approaches. An over-sized string of rosary beads around her narrow waist functions as a cincture to gather the coarse light gray tunic into heavy folds. Her black wimple frames a smooth, innocent face with bright, dark-brown eyes that sparkle with the health of a young virgin in love with the Lord.
She glides closer and closer, seemingly oblivious to the men, intent on what must be a spiritual mission. At least, that's the initial impression CW has as he steps aside to let her pass. But instead of doing so, she comes to a halt and says in a soft voice, just above whisper.
“Major Williston, I presume?”
No stranger to the strange, to his credit he says, “And you would be, Sister..?”
“Nothing of the sort, sir. I am Infanteria Marina Sergeant Angela Iglesias on undercover assignment to assist you in your mission today.”
He regards her habit and rosary beads. “Great cover, I'll grant you that. Just how exactly do you propose to help us with the rescue?”
“Like so.”
She reaches inside her wimple and pulls out what looks like a bright florescent red ping-pong ball jammed onto a ballpoint pen. But when she extends it like a radio antenna, it's three feet long. She swings it overhead.
“Before you follow me to the Garden of Roses, gentlemen, please be so kind as to remove your hats in respect to the house of the Lord.”
The men do so, some sheepishly, others smiling.
She shifts her voice from meek religious supplicant to a brisk, military-like one that would bring a parade ground of Mexican marines to immediate attention.
“Follow me, gentlemen!”
As the men move off, one of the jokers in the crowd says, “Oorah, Sister Angela.”
Cancun City guides love it when they can land a cathedral gig.
Sure, the main church is always the payoff, but there’s more to this place than that. Back in the day, the Spaniards put up thick defensive walls to keep out the riffraff—AKA the Maya—who didn’t appreciate being tossed off their turf.
Once the walls were up and the “compound” established, the good Franciscan fathers did what they did best—built even more chapels inside the courtyard to hold the Maya converts they “brought to the faith,” albeit kicking and screaming most of the time.
The four chapels that occupy the four corners of the cathedral compound are unique unto themselves, which is one of the many reasons guides love bringing groups here. Designed and built over a 100-year period, they can herd their “sheep” through four distinctly different chapels in half an hour, before heading to “La Casa Grande” (The “Big House,” as they jokingly call it).
Not a lot of walking, which makes it easy on their weary feet. Not a lot of talking because the ornate designs inside each religious building capture the imagination with their simplicity of line and their complexity of colors both in frescoes and original oils.
Some of the more experienced guides know how to “set up” the group, send them on their way to explore the chapel interiors, and then duck into a convenient nave and check their e-mails and texts for more work.
Make no mistake, being a licensed guide is not for the faint of heart. You live by your contacts and can die if you run out of jobs and don’t make your weekly quota.
You’ve spent years learning the ins and outs of Cancún; you know the streets, the buildings, what’s interesting, what’s not; the history (often sanitized for the Americans), the historic heroes and heroines, evil villains and despotic tyrants; the saints, the sinners, and where to eat real Yucatan food, like Poc Chuc, instead of what passes for the classic marinated pork and sour orange delight, not only served at exorbitant prices but even worse, resembling shoe leather.
All of the above is why, when Cancún City Tour Guide Pedro Romero (License # 882882-992) spots a fluorescent-red ping-pong ball bouncing along the side aisle of the catedral’s apse, held by a nun, his hackles rise in alarm.
Over the years, he’s heard rumors about how the Franciscan fathers were siphoning off some of the profits supposed to be going into eager pockets like Pedro’s, who’s got more than one mouth to feed (four kids at home and one on the way). From the looks of it, the Franciscans are now officially muscling in on the guides’ action and using nuns to do it!
His hackles give way to righteous anger.
How dare they!
He’s spent two long years learning his trade. The plastic-laminated license hanging around his neck cost him money, sweat, and not a few tears, when he would fail certain sections of the tour guide exams and try, try again. The day he received his treasured license was the day his world changed forever.
And now it looks like it’s going to change again. But not for the better this time.
La Casa Grande tours are his specialty. He’s been in such strong demand from the various cruise lines that he’s brought on two other guides and is clearing a ten percent commission. Maybe not a lot of money to most folks, but enough for him and his wife to make room for another baby in the Romero household.
But now this.
What’s worse, it’s a goddamned nun giving the tour, not one of the Franciscan brothers, those ever-present handymen” of the order who can’t celebrate mass or hear confessions, but are more than welcome to mop floors, weed gardens, and wash windows—without pay of course. The vows these misguided men take—poverty, chastity, and obedience—keep that from ever happening.