The Last Monument

by Michael C. Grumley

  Still, though, she and the others continued to believe their foreign status was enough to protect them. And it did for a while--until the attack, which was not from the authorities, but the local cartel.

  The feeling of helplessness was returning. Quickly. The sick sensation of being trapped and utterly at the whim of someone else’s mood or agenda.

  And now it was happening all over again. Fear—exuding from within her chest wall, all the way down her arms and legs. Leaving her within a hair’s breadth of outright panic.

  She peered nervously at the large mirror, frightened at the thought of who might be waiting on the other side.

  “I’m an American citizen,” she said in a whisper.

  “Yes,” the old man replied. “I know.”

  “I would like a phone call.”

  At this, Ottman smiled. “And who might you call?”

  Angela fell quiet.

  “We both know why you’re here, Ms. Reed. What you’ve come for.” He reached into the breast pocket of his suit and pulled out her copies of the letter and envelope. He unfolded them and laid them down on the metal table.

  The sick feeling inside her worsened.

  “Shall we start again?” he asked.

  She didn’t reply, prompting Ottman to continue and lower another item onto the table. One of her grandfather’s journals.

  “I hope this situation is finally beginning to dawn on you.”

  She glanced silently at the small leather-bound book.

  “I know more than you think, Ms. Reed. More than you do, in fact, about what this is all about. What I need from you are simply a few missing pieces.”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  “Of course you do. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.”

  “I’m a tourist.”

  Ottman glanced at his watch without expression. Then he shook his head. “I am many things, Ms. Reed, but a patient man is not one of them. Nor compassionate. I suggest you dispense with the games and reconsider your answers.”

  “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “This isn’t about doing something wrong,” he said. “It’s about being in the wrong place. And at the wrong time. But if you cooperate, there is no reason both you and Mr. Rickards cannot be on the next flight home, unharmed and nothing lost but a few short days. You can return to your lives just as they were. Back to your job at the university, as though nothing happened.”

  “And Lillian?”

  Ottman shrugged. “To anyone else.”

  The affirmation in the old man’s eyes made her stomach turn. “I’m going to be sick.”

  “Listen to me.” Ottman slammed his palm down on the table. “Carefully. I need information. That is all. And I will have it. One way or another. The only question is whether I will allow both you and Mr. Rickards to walk out. It’s up to you.”

  Angela swallowed her nausea, trying to shift her thoughts from Lillian to Joe. “What…kind of information?”

  Ottman leaned forward, sensing a change. “Everything you know about the letter and the man who sent it. Your uncle.”

  “You mean great-uncle.”

  “Great-uncle.”

  Angela remained motionless, staring at him. Nervously, she mulled the question. Her uncle and grandfather had already died over this. Would they have wanted her to as well?

  “He was a Monuments Man,” she replied.

  “Yes. I know.”

  “He died fifty years before I was born. So I don’t know much.”

  “I doubt that.” After a contemplative pause, he pushed the copy of the letter forward. “What is this?”

  “A letter.”

  “No. At the bottom, where it says Almv10. What does it mean?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Something suddenly clicked for Angela, deep down, and her expression changed. Still staring at the man, she asked, “What nationality are you?”

  “What?”

  “I said, what nationality are you?”

  “Who or what I am is irrelevant. What you should be worried about…”

  There it was again. In his voice. Very distant, but there. A faint crispness in his words. And a slight inflection in his short A’s. Her attention moved to his face, his strong jawline and nose, leaving her wondering what color hair he used to have.

  “You’re Austrian. Or German.”

  Ottman studied the young woman’s eyes.

  “My background is the least of your concerns.”

  The mental distraction allowed Angela’s trembling to momentarily subside. He was German! How had she not seen it before? she wondered. Because his English was near perfect. She blinked, thinking to herself. What had the little girl said in Alerta? They trusted her more than “the German.”

  It was him. Or someone like him. In Alerta searching for the same thing. Her eyes moved to the copy of the letter in front of her. And on it, the paragraph written by her uncle. The quote from Percy Fawcett’s book translated into German.

  The old man in front of her didn’t ask what it said. He didn’t have to. He could already read it!

  Ottman watched silently as Angela’s eyes turned back to the letter. She was beginning to put the pieces together, or she wouldn’t have asked about his nationality.

  “You do not seem very concerned about your health…Angela.”

  The tone in his words made her look up again.

  “We can sit here and traipse about for as long as you like,” he lied. “But my patience will only endure for so long, before your chances of being on the next plane go to zero.”

  Ottman placed his phone on the table and tapped on the screen to begin playing a video. In a view from across the street, Joe Rickards could be seen fighting with two men in the park, just before Angela herself appeared in the frame.

  Ottman watched the look on Angela’s face as it grew from surprise to shock. He reached forward again and froze it.

  “How difficult,” Ottman said, “do you think it would be to turn this into a few weeks in jail? Or perhaps months? For both of you.”

  49

  Mike Morton turned around again at the commotion behind him, this time louder. He suddenly yelled in Spanish at two men on the opposite side of the large cell before dangling his tongue out and shaking his head back and forth.

  When he turned back, he grinned at Rickards. “They leave you alone if they think you’re crazy.”

  Rickards grinned back.

  “Works pretty much anywhere, too.”

  “I bet it does.”

  Rickards sat up and slid off the squeaking cot, managing to twist and stand in front of the wall. He was still dizzy, but at least he was able to eliminate the strain from his shoulder, rubbing it with his free hand.

  “You all right?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  Morton glanced over his shoulder and put his face between the bars. In a lower voice, he asked, “So, what agency are you with?”

  Rickards stared at him, then looked past at the others behind him, all watching the two Americans. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Morton nodded and gave him a wink. “Roger that.” He then straightened and spoke again, loudly. “So, what did you come down here for? You don’t look like you’re here on business. Let me guess, Machu Picchu?”

  “No.”

  “Mapinguari!”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “The Sasquatch of South America. No, wait, El Lobizon, the werewolf!”

  “No.”

  “You here to see the pink dolphins?”

  “Sorry.”

  A jovial Morton frowned. “Are you here on business?”

  “I just came to help someone.”

  “The woman.”

  “Yeah. Not exactly sure why we’re in here, though.”

  “I’ve got news for you, Joe. Down here, they don’t need a reason.”

  “Well, I did sort of get in a fight. In the park.”

  “You got i
n a fight? With who, your lady friend?”

  “No. Some locals.”

  “Oh geez. That’s not good.”

  “Yeah, that was explained to me.”

  “So, you think that’s why you’re in here?”

  “No idea. But it’s my best guess. What about you?”

  Morton grinned. “Ah, you know. Just an ex-pat living the dream. Single and carefree.”

  “You’re wearing a wedding ring.”

  The large man glanced down.

  “Your wife didn’t want to come?”

  Morton’s grin faded. “She couldn’t come. Unfortunately.”

  Rickards read the expression in Morton’s brown eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” he said, straightening again. “I’m sure she wouldn’t have wanted to see me in here.”

  “Especially over and over.”

  Morton laughed. “Right.”

  “So, why all the trespassing?”

  “Because they don’t always have roads where I need to go.”

  Rickards cocked his head. It wasn’t really an answer, but then again, neither were his. There was something different about the man. Something Rickards couldn’t quite put his finger on. Affable, but not bothersome, with a distinct feeling of understated intelligence.

  “What did you retire from, Mike?”

  “NASA.”

  Rickards looked at him, surprised. “The space agency?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “And what did you do for them?”

  “What didn’t I do?” he chuckled. “I was an engineer. Worked on propulsion systems and then later, satellites.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Nope.” Morton puffed out his chest slightly for effect. “Was the youngest engineer to work on the Saturn V rockets back in the seventies.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Our last rocket put Skylab into orbit, which is how I got into the sats.”

  “So, you’re a real-life rocket scientist.”

  Morton laughed. “That’s right.”

  “You never know who you’re going to meet in a Peruvian jail. An actual rocket scientist.”

  Morton winked back at him. “And a house painter.”

  50

  When Ottman stepped back into the observation room behind the one-way mirror, Colonel Fernandez was waiting with arms folded across his decorated chest. His face and posture were both heated.

  “She doesn’t know anything,” he growled in a thick accent. “Not a damn thing!”

  Ottman turned and looked at the Reed woman through the glass. “She knows more.”

  “She knows nothing!”

  Ottman ignored the colonel’s outburst and looked at two of his men standing behind him. One of them, Fischer, raised an eyebrow.

  Fernandez continued, barking, “I cannot keep them for nothing! Especially him.”

  “Of course you can. You have the video.”

  “Of a fight,” Fernandez almost spat. “It’s barely more than an argument.”

  Now the old man looked directly at the colonel, irritation visible in his cold blue eyes. “You will keep them until you are instructed to let them go.”

  The officer shook his head bitterly but said nothing. Instead, he stepped within inches of Ottman as he passed on his way to the door. He yanked it open, glared at the old man and stepped out, slamming the door shut behind him.

  Ottman turned back to the window, where Angela had suddenly looked in his direction after hearing the slamming door.

  “Now what?” Fischer asked, stepping forward.

  51

  One of the guards yelled something in Spanish, causing Mike Morton to turn. He then grinned back at Rickards. “That’s me. Not even twelve hours this time.”

  He reached a hand through the bars attempting to shake, prompting Rickards to do the same, only to find they couldn’t reach each other. Both men smiled and shrugged.

  “Nice to meet you, Joe.”

  “Pleasure.”

  Morton turned and walked to the front of the cell, meeting the young guard at the door, waiting until it slid sideways to allow him to exit. After a short exchange in Spanish, the guard grinned and reached past Morton, slamming the cage closed again.

  Together, the two left the room, passing Rickards’ cell on the way out. “Go Texas.”

  Morton winked. “Hope you get to see your pink dolphins.”

  ***

  The colonel was fuming. The situation was quickly becoming untenable. Something about which the German didn’t show the slightest concern.

  Fernandez made it to the door leading into the offices before one of his soldiers suddenly threw it open from the other side, relieved to find him.

  “Sir, you have an urgent call!”

  “From who?”

  The soldier gulped. “The United States. From their State Department.”

  The colonel’s face went white.

  ***

  Rickards couldn’t tell how long it was before the guard came back for him. Maybe forty-five minutes. The guard hurried to his cell door and spoke quickly in Spanish, with Rickards unable to understand a word. All he could do was stand up and calmly wait next to the railing.

  The guard gave him several commands until finally concluding the American wasn’t comprehending anything. Irritated, he slid the door open, stepped forward into the cell and rushed to unlock the handcuff from the railing. He pushed Rickards toward the door, where another guard was waiting, this one larger and taller.

  The waiting guard wrapped a hand around Rickards’ arm and pulled him out and down the short hall until they reached a locked door. The guard tapped on its narrow glass window.

  The door opened from the other side, allowing Rickards and his guard through. They passed two more guards and then went through a second door.

  As he was pulled forward, Rickards looked down at the other end of the handcuffs dangling below his hand. Their procedures couldn’t be this lax.

  They continued forward and turned left down another, longer hallway painted in a bland off-white with a long, polished speckled floor. They made it only halfway to the end before someone yelled behind them.

  The guard halted and turned, as did Rickards, to find another man hurrying to catch them. This one wearing a military uniform.

  The man spoke authoritatively to the guard before turning and motioning to yet another person approaching from around the corner. This man, older than the others, walked briskly toward them. Judging from the decorations on his chest, he was a high-ranking officer. Rickards guessed a major or colonel.

  The stone-faced officer approached until within just a few feet, where he surprised Rickards by speaking English.

  “Mr. Rickards, I am Colonel Fernandez.” He motioned the guard to remove Rickards’ remaining handcuff. “We are sorry to have detained you. It appears there has been a mistake. We would like to extend our sincerest apologies.”

  A puzzled Rickards watched while the handcuff was unlocked and slipped from his wrist. His eyes returned to Fernandez. “This was an accident?”

  “A misunderstanding. I assure you our officers will be reprimanded. Please accept my apology.”

  Rickards stared at him apprehensively. “What about Angela Reed?”

  “She too is being released. Also with our apology. This man,” he said, looking at the guard, “will take you to where you can reclaim your things.”

  Rickards looked back and forth between them. “Okayyy.”

  “I hope you can forgive us, and we can, as you say, put this to bed.”

  “Fine.”

  Fernandez produced an uncomfortable smile and waved the guard forward, watching the two now as they turned and walked in the opposite direction. Near the end of the hall, as they approached a wide, windowed door, Rickards glanced back to see Fernandez still standing in the hallway.

  What the colonel did not realize was the position he was standing in. Relaxed, with hands at his sides, dresse
d in pressed fatigues.

  Something Rickards knew from his years as an investigator was that everyone had a unique posture, especially when standing or walking. Almost like a visual fingerprint to someone who noticed such details.

  It was the same stance Rickards had seen the night before of a silhouette standing in front of the automobile headlights.

  Just before they were taken.

  52

  Rickards was quickly escorted to the front office, where he spotted Angela. She was alone, sitting on a blue plastic bench against the wall. Above her head, a wide bulletin board was covered with papers and flyers momentarily reminding him of the tiny frozen Tri-County airport he and Dana Gutierrez had visited in Colorado, where the whole thing had started.

  When Angela saw him, she jumped to her feet and rushed across the room, tearfully hugging him. After several seconds, she released and stepped back. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Been a strange couple of days.”

  She sniffed and wiped her nose with a tissue. “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “What say we get out of here?”

  “Yes,” she said with a hearty nod. “Please!”

  Ignoring the feeble smiles from the officers at the desk, Rickards opened the door and followed Angela outside, finding himself relieved to be back in the warm, humid air. In front of them, several concrete steps led down to the sidewalk, where parked cars lined the street in front of them. Beyond, on the opposite side, a small grassy area sat between two downtown buildings, where a few locals were relaxing.

  They made it halfway down the steps before Rickards noticed, across the street, two people standing under a small tree watching him and Angela. A boy and what looked like his grandfather.

  Rickards blinked and looked closer. It was the same boy he had tried to help the day before. In the park. And who had subsequently disappeared.

  Suddenly, the roar of an engine rounded the corner, followed immediately by an old yellow Toyota pickup truck, scratched and dented everywhere. It screeched to an abrupt halt near the bottom of the steps.