The man was exhausted from a long night and suddenly afraid of what this man might do next. He talked.
“We drove them to the landing place that leads to Piedras Negras. A lot of men were waiting there and they took the gringos off into the jungle. Others carried the people’s suitcases on barrows. The leader … the man you call Rolando … he stayed on the shore and didn’t go with the others. He paid us our money and told us to come back here. So we did. That’s all I know, señor. I swear it.”
“How much did he pay you?”
“Two hundred dollars.” He pulled the money from his pocket. “See, here it is. You can have it.”
Paul believed the man. He knew roughly where the boats had dropped their human cargo. From there Piedras Negras was a mile’s trek through the jungle. He handed the boat driver a hundred-dollar bill.
“Keep your money. You earned it. Here’s an extra hundred for the information you gave me. Tell no one about me. That will keep you and your family safe.”
He kicked the unconscious man on the ground. “Tell your friend to do the same thing. If you want to make five hundred dollars more, come back alone tonight at sundown and take me to Piedras Negras. If you’re afraid and don’t want to come, I will understand. I promise I won’t betray you – I won’t tell anyone what you did last night. You must promise me the same thing. I want to save my friends and you can help me. I hope I see you tonight. I will be waiting.”
As the boatman knelt to revive his unconscious friend, Paul walked away without looking back. When he reached the trees where he’d hidden earlier, he glanced at the parking lot. The men were gone.
An hour later Paul had rented a room, unpacked his bags, eaten breakfast, stripped naked, dived under the covers and gone fast asleep. Now that Rolando had sent both boats back, he likely had no means of returning himself. For the moment it appeared to be safe to emerge from hiding. Wherever he saw Rolando next, Paul would be ready. Whoever he was, Paul was far better at this sort of thing than the rebel could ever be.
When he awoke, it was afternoon. Paul began crafting a strategy. He’d wanted to visit Piedras Negras on this trip. Now that would definitely happen, whether it was with last night’s boat driver or another one. He simply had a little extra work to do since twelve people had been kidnapped.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Dressed in black, Paul waited in the same thicket of trees near the parking lot. He had packs and a collapsible duffel. They were packed solid with food, water, batteries, flashlights and blankets he’d bought in town this afternoon. He had no idea what lay ahead, but he’d better be prepared for anything.
It was nine p.m. Paul’s hiding place was shrouded in darkness. Less than a hundred yards away there were lights and conversation. Several people sat on the outdoor patio, having a beer and sharing memories of their trip to Yaxchilan today. The lighthearted tourists had no idea eleven people were being held captive in the jungle.
Now and then people wandered through the parking lot. A couple walked to their bus, retrieved something they’d forgotten, and returned to Escudo Jaguar. Others strolled to the cliff to see the river glistening in the moonlight. One passed within five feet of Paul without ever realizing he was there.
Soon a man on a bicycle rode up. It was the boat driver; he chained his bike to a tree and walked to the steps leading to the dock. As he did, Paul stepped out and gave a low whistle. The man turned, nodded imperceptibly and started down the stairway.
Paul gave him a five-minute head start. He watched from the cliff until he was satisfied nothing was out of the ordinary. The few people around were engrossed in their own situations, and no one gave him a glance. He walked down to the dock, saw the man prepping the motor of a longboat, got on board, and they moved out into the dark river without saying a word.
The trip was long and monotonous. The jungle was beautiful, but at night there was nothing but blackness. Creatures howled, cawed, roared and otherwise confirmed their dominance in a realm intended for them, not for humans.
When they hit the rapids, the boat jerked back and forth as the driver maneuvered skillfully through raging water and dark rocks jutting above the river’s surface. Once that part was over, things settled down.
“Maybe thirty minutes now.” Those were the driver’s first words.
“Stop here for a minute,” Paul ordered. The man killed the engine and they drifted silently. “Tell me what was at the place where you landed the boat last night.”
The man said a signal had guided them in, but it really hadn’t been necessary. The place they’d landed was where any visitor going to the abandoned ruins would disembark.
“We landed at Bird Monster’s statue. There were many men on the shore, all armed with rifles or pistols. They took the hostages on the trail to Piedras Negras. I watched them go. They disappeared into the jungle while the leader and another stayed on the beach.”
Paul didn’t know what to expect when he arrived. Why had Rolando, obviously the leader, not gone with the hostages? Were his men guarding the shore? Paul had to arrive undetected. He gave instructions to the driver, who started up the motor and continued.
When there was about ten minutes left, the driver pulled close to shore and idled the engine. The boat putted almost silently down the river, so closely hugging the shore they could touch overhanging branches.
“Tenga cuidado con las serpientes,” the driver cautioned. Be careful of the snakes. Huge constrictors liked to rest on tree limbs; one wrong move and a ten-foot snake could end up in the boat.
A jaguar howled furiously nearby as the boat moved quietly, just three feet from the bank. They were hidden here; moonlight bathed the river, but the branches provided perfect cover.
They rounded a small bend, and the driver cut the engine, pulled out a weathered oar, and began to paddle. Paul saw a sandy beach about fifty feet ahead; they had reached their destination. He took out his pistol and flipped off the safety.
As soon as the prow dug into the sand, the driver slipped into the water, pulling the boat onshore with a rope. Paul looked around cautiously, pistol ready. There was nothing but the harsh noise of the living, breathing jungle.
He jumped out and offloaded his packs. He looked at the sandy beach, puzzled. He asked, “Are you sure this is the right place? There’s nothing to indicate people have been on this beach.”
The boatman pointed to three stacked rocks, the top one shaped like a beak. “Bird Monster’s statue. They got off here.”
Then he walked to where the beach stopped and the dark jungle began. He pointed out a pathway leading into the bush. “They have brushed it clean. They walked into the woods here, on this trail. I must go now.” He glanced anxiously about, fearful that one of the bandits might be around.
Paul pulled five hundred-dollar bills from his pocket. “Thank you for your bravery in coming back here. I may be able to save lives because of you.”
The man stuck the money in his shirt pocket. “How will you get back?” he asked as he prepared to push off.
“I’ll work that out later.”
The man handed Paul a piece of paper. “Just in case, that’s the number at the store by my house. Leave a message for me. I am Pablo. I will come.”
Paul stuck out his hand and the man shook it. “Thanks, Pablo. I’m Pablo too – Paul in English. Safe travels.”
“You too, amigo.”
The driver pushed off without looking back. Paul hid in a grove of trees as the man’s oars clipped the water silently. Finally, far away, he heard the motor crank up. Pablo guided the boat through the night back to Frontera Corozal. His mission was complete; Paul’s was just beginning.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The front desk manager of the Palacio Hotel in Palenque was frustrated at having lost the revenue from eleven rooms that were no-shows last night. He had a deposit of five hundred pesos from Crestmark, the tour company in Colorado that had made the booking, but that was a fraction of the total cost. If Crestmark re
fused to pay, his employers would be out a lot of money.
He called the company’s headquarters and spoke to Carla, Ted Pettigrew’s executive assistant. She was as surprised as he was that the group didn’t show up. She assured the hotel manager they’d pay for the unused rooms.
Tense and apprehensive, Carla texted Ted. According to their itinerary they should be on the road to Bonampak now, but after their no-show, she had no idea what might have happened. It could have been anything – a mechanical breakdown, a blocked highway or something else. There was no reason to get worried yet, she told herself. Ted had led over fifty of these tours and he knew how to handle things in rural Mexico. But she couldn’t help being a little worried. What if they’d broken down far from a cell tower and were stuck? What if they’d had an accident? What if … She stopped herself. This wasn’t productive.
Ted’s iPhone vibrated as Carla’s text appeared. No one saw it; his phone and all the others were in the underbrush a hundred miles away.
After a half hour and no text response, Carla began backtracking. She called the hotel in Villahermosa and confirmed that the group had spent two nights. They’d had a welcoming party and dinner on the second evening, and the bus had pulled out of the parking lot around 8:30 yesterday morning, loaded with box lunches for their noon meal. The desk clerk heard Ted say they’d stop to eat somewhere along the road to Palenque.
Next Carla called the visitor center at the Palenque site. Between her broken Spanish and the man’s similarly poor English, it took a while, but she learned that although the group had a reservation to tour the ruins, they had never arrived.
Carla walked into the assistant director’s office and said, “Ted and the group have been AWOL since sometime yesterday. I’m really worried about them.”
Abe Birnbaum, the president and owner of Crestmark Tours, also owned a dozen other companies, one of which was a successful travel agency in Colorado Springs. Abe’s father had made millions in Colorado real estate and his son had made much more. He’d served as mayor of Colorado Springs, and he was very active in Democratic politics, hosting fund-raisers at his lavish mountain retreat in the Rockies near Vail. In turn, his travel agency enjoyed a lot of business from many politicians and their staffs. Abe cultivated powerful friends over the years, and until today he’d asked for nothing in return for all his time and money that had helped some folks become very important indeed. Now Abe needed something from Washington, and his friends were happy to help.
By lunchtime things were starting to happen. Harry Longmire was the senior senator from Colorado, the Senate Majority Leader, and one of Abe Birnbaum’s close friends. He responded immediately to Abe’s urgent call about the missing tour group. Within an hour the director of the FBI, a senior official at the State Department and the Mexican ambassador to the USA had been briefed and were developing a plan. The Secretary of State made a courtesy call to the White House so the president, an acquaintance of Birnbaum’s and occasional recipient of his fund-raising talents, would be aware of the situation. The US Embassy attaché for legal affairs in Mexico City was instructed by State to spare no resources in searching for the missing Americans. This evening a Lear jet owned by the US government would fly a senior embassy official and a cadre of FBI agents to Villahermosa. Tomorrow they’d join Federal Police to begin the search for a busload of archaeology buffs who’d seemingly vanished.
At five p.m. Abe stopped thinking about the missing group for the first time since he’d gotten the news. He went home, poured a stiff Scotch and water, and sat on his patio. He glanced at CNN’s broadcast of the missing Americans – it was the top story of the evening – but he muted the volume. He couldn’t deal with any more right now. His bones ached from the stress and he had a hard knot in his stomach. He’d done all he could. He’d enlisted help at the highest levels of the federal government. He’d spent an hour on the phone with the FBI and had blocked most of tomorrow morning for a face-to-face with agents. He knew it would be an exhausting meeting, repeating facts and details endlessly, but he would do anything to help find his group. At least he had this evening to wind down and relax. Tomorrow the nightmare would begin all over again.
Before he fell asleep, he prayed for his partner Ted Pettigrew, his friend Mark Linebarger, whom he’d known for twenty years, and all the people on that bus somewhere in Mexico.
Earlier this afternoon the FBI had contacted the company that owned the tour bus. Its president didn’t know the bus was missing; he quickly responded to the agency’s request for a picture and description of the bus and its license number. Within an hour the FBI created a flyer containing both bus and passenger information and offering a ten-thousand-dollar reward for information. That was Abe’s idea, and the FBI thought it would be a big motivator in the impoverished areas of rural Mexico where the bus was last known to have been. The flyer was emailed to Federal Police headquarters in Mexico City.
They emailed the flyer to every single police station in Mexico. From sprawling metropolitan cities to the smallest communities in remote areas, the police were asked to watch for the bus and its foreign passengers.
The US ambassador to Mexico himself had called the director of the Federal Police in Mexico City, requesting cooperation, and apparently it worked. Things were moving much more quickly and efficiently than usual in the land of “mañana.” Everyone down the line was aware that this case had been initiated from the very top. Everyone – Americans and Mexicans alike – sprang into action.
By the time Abe Birnbaum drifted into fitful sleep, a massive nighttime search was underway in streets, parking lots, garages and public areas everywhere throughout Mexico. It was as though the small police departments wanted to prove themselves as diligent as their big-city counterparts. Everyone was searching, and every police car had a copy of the flyer on its dashboard. Like CNN had done all day, the government news channel Aguascalientes TV made the missing bus its top story.
About the only one who wasn’t searching for the unaccounted-for tourists was the one person who should have been: the lone policeman in Frontera Corozal, where the bus sat abandoned in a grove of trees just outside of town. He glanced at the story on TV but paid it no attention, thinking it had nothing to do with him. He also never received the Federal Police’s email or the descriptive flyer. If he had, the ten-thousand-dollar reward would have motivated him to look around. If he had, chances are he would have found the bus.
This wasn’t the only email he missed. He actually hadn’t gotten any mail at all in three weeks – his computer wasn’t working, and his brother-in-law, the only person in town who had any idea how to fix a computer, was off visiting relatives in the Yucatan. The fact that his computer was broken wasn’t a big deal, the policeman reasoned. He never got anything interesting on it anyway. Mostly it was routine flyers about criminals in Tuxtla Gutierrez, the capital of Chiapas. The stuff he got never had anything to do with him or his village. So the broken computer would wait until his relative came back from his trip.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Ruben Ochoa had been driving his longboat up and down the Usumacinta for twenty years. An illiterate man of thirty-four, he had a common-law wife and four kids at home and, given his lack of education, he made a good living. His family had indoor plumbing, running water and electricity. They also had a seventeen-inch black-and-white television with a set of rabbit ears made from coat hangers and aluminum foil. They could receive just two channels. One happened to be Aguascalientes TV.
Ruben saw the news story. He heard the reporter say that thirteen North Americans and their tour bus were missing and there was a huge reward for finding them. He was smart enough to realize how high profile this case must be if it was on national television. So he knew that very important people wanted these people found quickly.
The boat driver also knew exactly where along the river he and his cousin Pablo had dropped off the hostages and their captors. What he knew terrified him.
He told his wife
he’d be back later and rode his bike to Pablo’s house. Soon the policeman in their little town would come calling. He was their friend, but that didn’t matter. This was a huge deal. They needed an alibi. Fast.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
At seven a.m. Rolando walked into the cave that was his captives’ bunkhouse and ordered Mark outside. The rebel no longer wore a ski mask, apparently seeing no need to hide his identity any longer. That was disconcerting; it meant he no longer cared that someone could identify him.
Mark and Rolando sat in two lawn chairs near a campfire over which a coffee pot sat bubbling. Men were working at various tasks around the site; a pair of donkeys was tethered nearby, casually chomping on the wet grass. Despite his circumstances, the archaeologist couldn’t help savoring the aroma of the coffee.
Mark took in his surroundings. He noticed the entrance to a second cave fifty feet away at the edge of the clearing. It had been invisible last night, but now he saw its opening was even larger than the one where they’d slept. Rolando’s crew was going in and out of it, carrying boxes and cloth bags.
Rolando handed the archaeologist a cup of coffee and said, “Your people are free to walk around today, but if someone tries to escape or challenges my men, he will be killed. My men have orders to shoot if they are concerned in the least. I want you to explain that to the other gringos.”
He pointed to a building where two guards sat in chairs at its door. “No one can go there.”
Mark figured that was the rebels’ command center. He could hear faint static, probably from a shortwave radio. A large tree trunk that had been stripped of its branches stood next to the shack. A wire snaked out of a window, ran up the tree and connected to a metal rod on top. It was almost certainly a makeshift antenna.
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