“How long are we going to be at the ruins?” I asked.
“As long as you need to be there, I suppose. Why do you ask?”
“Well, I have a meeting tomorrow with Lars Ortega Von Träger, and apparently his house isn’t far from Chalupa.”
She checked her phone and thought a moment.
“I need to get back to the University by late tomorrow afternoon for a faculty meeting, but I’m free in the meantime, so we should just plan on staying up there tonight.”
“Perfect, we can see Von Träger around noon tomorrow then head back. How’s that sound?”
“Excellent, then after the meeting I’m all yours.”
“Yeah, though apparently not in a romantically inclined way.”
She smiled.
“Well—not yet, anyway.”
“Oh my—was that you actually flirting?”
“No, it was just me fucking with you.”
“Good, because I have absolutely no romantic inclinations towards you.”
“Seriously? Why not?”
“You’re not my type. I don’t go for women who are extremely beautiful and intelligent.”
She smiled and cocked her head to the side.
“Unfortunately for you, I know that’s bullshit, because I’ve met Estelle, so now you can admit that the only reason you wouldn’t go for me is because you’re still hung up on her.”
“I’m officially done with this conversation,” I said, as I turned and focused on packing a small overnight bag that included socks, underwear, toiletries, night-vision goggles, portable GPS, and, of course, my pistol.
With my stuff in hand, we left the faculty housing building, loaded up in her FJ Cruiser, then headed off to the board of antiquities, as she needed to make a quick stop at her office.
“What do need to do there? Are you picking up your bullwhip and Smith and Wesson M1917 Revolver?” I asked.
“If only. The truth is I’m just signing off on a couple of documents to verify a recent acquisition for the National Museum of Costa Rica.”
“Sounds exciting.”
“Yeah, if you like paperwork and ancient pottery.”
About three blocks from the campus, we made a right turn into the parking lot of a building that had a very prestigious looking sign that read Departamento de Antigüedades. We parked and made the short journey to the entrance and went up two flights of stairs to Alessandra’s office, which was unusually devoid of clutter and looked more like a faux Ikea display.
“I take it you don’t use this office much?”
“No, just for stuff like this.”
She went to her computer, brought up her email, then hit a button, and the printer spooled up before beeping a second later after having encountered some kind of error. She looked over and frowned.
“Shit, can you put some paper in the printer?” she asked.
“No problem, I have the same model at home.”
I reached over and grabbed about a quarter inch stack of fresh paper out of a package with an Office Depot logo on the front. Interesting. I had no idea they had stores this far south, so not only did she have my same printer, she used the same paper. The world was truly getting smaller every day. I placed the paper in the tray and hit the print button, and it began printing out the documents. While it hummed and spit out sheet after sheet, I glanced at the shelf’s other documents and spied a copy of the official Chalupa Project agreement.
“Is it OK if I look at the this?” I asked, holding up the folder.
“Knock yourself out, though I should warn you that it’s not exactly exciting reading.”
I opened the folder, and there on the first page was the official title, and below it was the table of contents. The entire contract was about twenty pages and ended with an official stamp from the Board of Antiquities and several signatures including Dean Donald Delaney’s.
“So, Dean Donald told me he was probably going to retire and move down here, which makes sense considering he has such close ties to the community.”
“He’s a good man and has done a lot for the Department of Antiquities.”
“And his name and title offer a lot of alliteration.”
“Dean Donald Delany. That’s funny. I never really thought about it. I wonder what his middle name is?”
“Hopefully it’s David.”
I thumbed through the rest of the pages only to discover a very straight forward contract intended to allow the sale and transfer of ownership of the ruins and surrounding land pursuant to the verification that the Chalupans were the rightful inhabitants. I placed the Chalpua Contract back on the shelf then carried the freshly printed pages to Alessandra’s desk, and she went through and signed in all the appropriate places before looking up and smiling.
“All done. The museum will now officially have a new pottery display for the Mayan wing. Now, I suppose we can get going, and I’ll hand these in on the way out,” she said.
We stepped out of her office and ran into a young man in the hallway carrying a sealed manilla envelope.
“Any chance you’ll be seeing Von Träger?” he asked.
“Yeah, do you need me to deliver something?”
“I have the latest copy of the Chalupa documents here. Can you have him sign both sets and bring the other back?” the guy asked, giving her a conspiratorial wink.
Alessandra looked oddly uncomfortable with the unusual exchange.
“Yeah, no problem,” she said, taking the envelope.
We retraced our path out of the building and back to Alessandra’s FJ Cruiser, and she started it up, and a few turns later we were heading northeast and leaving the city for the lush green countryside, with our destination being the mysterious and ancient ruins of Chalupa.
CHAPTER TEN
The Road Trip Interrogation
WE WERE CURRENTLY heading northeast along Guápiles Highway 32 and approaching Braulio Carillo National Park, which was one of Costa Rica’s premier tourist and hiking destinations. As I looked around, I had to admit that Costa Rica was utterly beautiful, and I finally understood why so many people traveled, and, in many cases, moved here. Being relatively close to the equator meant it was lush, green, and warm pretty much all the time, and the highways were well-maintained, and it had one of the lowest murder rates in all of Central America. So, why wouldn’t a thousand year old ghost king choose this lovely place to continue his reign of terror on earth?
The ride had thus far been fairly quiet, with a music mix from Alessandra’s iPhone filling the void while I gazed out at the passing countryside. We left civilization, and the road climbed up into the jagged green mountains, which were formed by thousands of years of volcanic activity and heavy rainfall. It was almost like looking back in time to primordial earth, and I could understand why Michael Crichton chose Costa Rica as the setting for Jurassic Park. I turned my attention back inside the car and had a look at the other amazing view—namely my companion and guide. She was certainly stunning, even more so in the bold light of day, and I imagined that every student who took one of her classes must surely fall madly in love. She was like a hybrid of Lara Croft and Indiana Jones—basically everything a man could want in a woman, and, oddly, in the twenty-four hours we had known each other, I still hadn’t learned shit about her, and it was therefore time to get to know my intriguing new companion. She looked over, caught me staring, and smiled curiously.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Well, Professor Hot Sauce, I was just thinking—you know my story, but I still don’t know yours. Why don’t you tell me what led you into an exciting life in archaeology?” I asked.
“Curiosity.”
“That’s a pretty vague and general answer.”
She smiled.
“To be more specific, I find people and culture fascinating. How did we get here and become who we are? What came before? How have we survived this long? Studying archaeology gives me a window into all that, and finding and examining an artifact, wh
ether it’s a pottery shard or a human bone, allows me to physically touch history.”
“So, it wasn’t just the Indiana Jones movies?”
“Not entirely, though I also enjoyed the Tomb Raider movies as well,” she said.
“Jolie or Vikander?”
“Both, though I imagine, as a man, you might favor the slow motion running scenes of Jolie.”
“I can’t say I didn’t enjoy them, but Vikander is also a pretty hot little potato.”
“Yeah, and they both had the short-shorts,” she added.
“As do you.”
“Well, for me, it’s all about this hot climate.”
“Hot indeed,” I said, as I eyed Professor Hot Sauce, who was looking particularly attractive with her long hair billowing in the wind.
We rode in silence for a moment while Alessandra passed a slow moving truck on a short straightaway, and I waited until we were clear and back in our lane before continuing the conversation.
“So, did you grow up here in Costa Rica?”
“Do you want the long or short answer?”
“Long, and don’t leave out any of the sordid details.”
“My mother was Costa Rican, but my father was American, though obviously of German descent with a name like Hitzig, and they met in Graduate School at Arizona State University. Upon finishing their PhDs, both left to go join a team working at Teotihuacan. I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of it?” she asked.
“I have. It’s the ruins outside Mexico City with the massive pyramids,” I said.
“Correct. Do you have a secret passion for archaeology when you’re not dealing with sex starved frat boys, drugged out coeds, or dangerous gunmen in alleys?”
“I do, actually, and, while it first started with the Indiana Jones movies as a kid, it really flourished in college when I took nearly every archaeology and anthropology class on the schedule.”
“Did you major in it?”
“No, but I practically minored in it, as well as physics, philosophy, and even human sexuality if you can believe it.”
“Oh, I can certainly believe that last one,” she said, as she looked over and gave me a chastising smile.
“From here on out, I’m locking my bedroom door before I go to sleep.”
“Are you saying you didn’t enjoy yourself?”
“Oh, I did, but I’d have enjoyed it a lot more if it had been something I consciously chose to do.”
She looked at me for a moment as she contemplated the sincerity of my statement then finally nodded.
“Oddly, I believe you,” she said.
“Good, because, oddly enough, it’s true.”
She smiled.
“So, what was your actual major?” she asked
“Social psychology.”
“And then you went into the military after all that?” she asked.
“I did.”
“Weird choice.”
“Maybe, but I wanted to be James Bond, and he went from college into the military, so I figured I’d follow the same career path.”
“The military doesn’t exactly seem like the place you’d be able to utilize your extensive educational background.”
“It wasn’t, but it all came in handy in my next career.”
“As a spy?”
“Alleged spy, and yes, but enough about me—let’s get back to you.”
“Well, I was officially born in the United States, but, because of my mother, I also have Costa Rican citizenship. Oddly, my childhood was spent in neither place, because my parents constantly traveled as part of their job. One year it was Mexico, the next Nicaragua, then Greece and even the Middle East. It wasn’t until I went to college that I managed to stay in one place for more than a year.”
“And that was?”
“Arizona. I did my undergraduate at ASU, but for my PhD, I went to Yale.”
“Sweet Jesus. Another fucking overachiever.”
“Says the guy who went to Stanford.”
“Only for undergrad.”
“Did you ever do any graduate school?”
“I did actually—a PhD program in social psychology, though I generally don’t like to talk about it, because I didn’t finish it.”
“Really, why?” she asked.
“It wasn’t a good experience.”
“Well, now I have to know more.”
“It’s doesn’t have a happy ending.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“Well, the day before I was to present my doctoral thesis, I met with my advisor, who, up until that point, was too much of a prick to have even bothered to read any of it. So, that morning he finally did, and, to make a long story short, I ended up punching him in the face and walking out and never returning.”
She laughed out loud then stared at me in utter disbelief.
“Do you know that’s every grad student’s fantasy?”
“I didn’t, actually.”
“Jesus, you couldn’t wait until the day after?”
“No, my fist had a very, very pressing need to meet with his face.”
“And at which university did all this happen?”
“Princeton.”
“You fucking walked away from a PhD from Princeton?”
“Proudly, though you’re the only person I’ve mentioned it to outside of my last employer.”
“So, you were a spy for the government and working on your PhD. How in God’s name did you have the time?”
“My employer had serious inroads in the administration of Princeton, so I gained a certain amount of credit for real life experience, and it was close enough to Langley that I would go up in-between assignments. Some of it I managed to do online.”
“Who’s the over-achiever now?” she asked.
“Obviously not me. I didn’t manage to get the diploma.”
“What was your thesis?”
“It was job related, actually. I was compiling a study on the results of extreme occupational stress, specifically as it relates to soldiers, intelligence agents, and law enforcement, and how new forms of coping mechanisms could improve performance, and reduce burnout and PTSD.”
“Pretty broad topic.”
“No shit, and it was a motherfucker compiling all the data—but I managed to do it.”
“So, what was the problem?”
“My graduate advisor laughed in my face and said that I needed a lot more time in the real world before presenting such horseshit in an academic setting.”
“I take it he didn’t know what you did for a living.”
“Apparently not.”
“So, you punched him?”
“No, I told him he was a bourgeoise, sweater vest wearing academic with his head too far up his ass to even know anything about the real world that existed outside of his lofty Princeton office.”
“How did he take that?”
“Not well. He didn’t like a student giving him shit and thought of himself as a real tough guy. Believe it or not, he took the first swing and threw a sucker punch that hit me square on the jaw.”
“And that’s when you punched him?”
“Oh yeah—though it wasn’t my fault he had a glass jaw and dropped to the ground after one hit.”
“So, you walked out and never returned.”
“Exactly.”
“Amazing story.”
“Amazingly lame. I spent a lot of time on that fucking PhD I never completed, and, believe me, there isn’t a lot of free time around a covert operative’s schedule.”
“I can imagine. A PhD program is hard enough as it is.”
I sat and thought for a moment then realized that Professor Hot Sauce had once again steered the conversation away from herself and back to me. Fuck—she would have made an excellent interrogator.
“OK, so back to you. You got your PhD at Yale, then what?”
“Work, and lot’s of it.”
“Such as?”
“Teaching and research. First in Greece and then
Turkey—both of which I absolutely loved. But, then I got offered full tenure at the University of Costa Rica, and it was too good to pass up, so I moved here. The last three years have been the longest time I’ve ever spent in my homeland. It’s funny, I’ve been a citizen since birth, but I still feel like a tourist.”
“I know the feeling. I grew up in Northern California, but all my traveling in the military and government kind of displaced my feelings of it being my true home.”
“It’s strange not having a firm idea of where you belong.”
“It is, I often feel like a lost soul—geographically that is.”
She looked over and smiled at me with her expression one of compassion and understanding. This was perhaps one of the more interesting conversations I’d had in quite a while, and I was definitely starting to like Professor Hot Sauce, and it wasn’t just a matter of finding her physically attractive.
“So, if you’ve only been here three years, when did you meet your boyfriend in the Special Intervention Unit?”
“Two years ago on a dig. He and a few of his unit were assigned as our escort, because the ruin in question was up near the Nicaraguan border, and there had been a lot of narcotics trafficking at that time, which wasn’t exactly the safest situation for a bunch of academics.”
“Probably not,” I responded.
“After a month of more or less living together, we managed to get pretty close, then the next thing you know…”
“You’re humping?”
“Pretty much.”
“So, spending some alone time in the jungle is a good way to get to pursue some romantic inclinations with you.”
“Sure, if you have a month.”
“Well, I work fast.”
The Chalupa Conundrum Page 14