The Girl in the Mayan Tomb

by Kevin Tumlinson

  “Right,” he said, inhaling and exhaling. “You're right. But no, Mr. Knoll, we can't blast our way in. We would damage something priceless, for one thing. But even if we used highly shaped charges, I fear any blast within the antechamber might cause structural damage that could bring the temple itself down on all of us. It's stable, for now, but there are clear signs of instability in the past.”

  “The roof tiles?” Kotler asked.

  Graham nodded. “Those carved tiles were mounted securely to the ceiling, tightly seamed together with a backing of adobe or clay. It would have taken a great seismic event to dislodge them, and any event that size has surely caused other structural damage that we might not be able to detect.”

  “So charges are out, got it,” Knoll said, huffing through his nostrils. He paused, thinking. “How about hammering our way in? I have six 10-pound sledges on site, and plenty of men to put behind them.”

  Graham shook his head. “I would prefer we avoid damaging anything within the tomb, including the door itself, but I'll keep that solution in mind.”

  Knoll nodded, satisfied.

  “So what, then?” Denzel asked. “You two keep working on it?”

  “For now,” Kotler said “If there is a trigger, we're bound to find it eventually. The issue is time, of course. We have no way of knowing what those guerrillas were really after, or what they need that statue for. And we also have no idea how quickly things could escalate, if we don't locate them. When does your backup arrive?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon,” Denzel said. “Earliest they could get here, taking the same route we took. I considered pushing for a chopper, but I think that would call too much attention to us. I'd prefer to keep the locals from knowing we're bringing in a fresh team. Maybe they'll underestimate us.”

  “You don't think a chopper might help cover more ground?” Sarge asked.

  Denzel nodded. “It would. But I suspect we're not going to have to go far to find the Campesinos.”

  “Do you have any idea where they went, when they left here?” Kotler asked.

  Denzel looked to Sarge, who spoke up. “I had some of my boys … interrogate our captives a little.”

  “Sarge …” Kotler started.

  “It's ok,” Denzel said, holding up a hand. “Nobody was tortured. I double checked,” he eyed Sarge, who nodded.

  “We have some idea of where their main basecamp was, as of yesterday,” Sarge said. “Whether they went back by that route or not, I can't say. I sent some of my boys in a truck, to scout ahead. They're also heading back to Valladolid, to escort in Agent Denzel's bunch.”

  “I'm having some operatives sniff around Valladolid, too,” Denzel said. “Those guerrillas got their intelligence from somewhere, and that person may still be close by. I've asked the Mexican authorities to monitor outgoing flights as well. If there's any hint of someone trying to leave the country with that statue, we should hear about it.”

  “You think they'd take it out of Mexico?” Kotler asked.

  Denzel shrugged. “I don't know for sure, but I suspect it. Whoever it was who tried to buy the statue from Maggie Hamilton approached her in Manhattan. It seems reasonable to think he may want to take the statue there. In any case, it's a lead. And we have precious few of those, right now. I'm willing to put some resources on it.”

  Kotler nodded. “Alright then. It sounds like we're done for the day.” He glanced at the galley area, and clapped his hands together, rubbing them as if in anticipation. “What's on the menu?”

  “Mystery stew,” Sarge growled, grinning.

  Kotler eyed him. “Why does that make me feel a little wary?”

  “Come on, Squint,” Sarge said, placing a huge and calloused hand on Kotler's back and shoving him ahead of him as they moved to the chow line. “Mystery is the spice of life.”

  After dinner, Kotler showered and retired to the tent he was sharing with Denzel, who was already noisily snoring from his own cot. Kotler knew he should turn in, too. The day had been a long one, following an even longer evening prior. He had spent hours crawling around an ancient chamber, looking for any possible trigger to open the tomb. He was sore, and tired, and more than ready to collapse onto his cot—after inspecting his sleeping roll for creepy crawly and other wildlife, of course.

  Despite his weariness, however, he wanted to check a few things, before turning in.

  He opened the cover of his iPad. There was no cellular signal here, of course, but he was able to link to the hotspot on Denzel's sat phone, which provided a data link.

  Kotler opened his email, and browsed through subject lines. There was no further email from Gail McCarthy, which was a relief. If she had quoted back to him any of the events of the past 48 hours, Kotler wasn't sure what he would do. It was entirely possible that Gail had her tendrils wrapped around someone on Sarge's team, after all. If there was one mole in this bunch, why couldn't there be two? And for all Kotler knew, the original mole might work for Gail at any rate.

  He didn't think this was likely. In fact, he suspected that the only way Gail knew any of his comings and goings was because he, himself, had been compromised. His email had been hacked, that seemed clear. But maybe some other aspect of his utility belt of useful technology was being mined by the enemy.

  Kotler was willing to admit his dependence on technology. He kept his research files in Evernote, storing everything in the cloud. He used email and a program called Slack to communicate with a service that provided virtual assistants. He used this, as well, to keep in contact with his colleagues and teammates at various archeological sites around the world. He even tended to use VoIP—Voice over Internet Protocol—to make the majority of his phone calls, if he made them at all. He conducted meetings through various tools such as FaceTime, Skype, and half a dozen online resources. His presence, online, was vast.

  He tried to keep all of these resources secure, but it was entirely possible, even likely, that something in that chain had been compromised. He wasn't exactly operating at an NSA level of security, after all, even with some of the FBI's resources at his disposal. And it was equally possible that even with the best of security on his side, someone he worked with might not be quite so secure. For all Kotler knew, Gail and her people could see every word he typed, and hear every word he said, if he were anywhere near a piece of technology, and there might not be a thing he could do to prevent it.

  Well … so be it.

  Kotler wasn't entirely a private man. He had secrets, like anyone, and kept those secrets primarily out of a sense of responsibility, honor, and duty. His work with the FBI was a strong example of that. But if someone were spying on him, what exactly did he have to hide?

  He would ensure that any communications involving his work with the FBI, and other sensitive, eyes-only information that came his way, would all be as secure as possible. But he wouldn't worry at all about any previous or current compromises. There was nothing he truly needed to safeguard, among his digital effects, beyond generally protecting his identity. None of his files regarding archaeological sites or cataloging relics or speculating on cultural insights were anything that could jeopardize either himself or anyone else. Not to a critical degree, at any rate. As far as Kotler was concerned, Gail could know everything about him, but she couldn't truly use it against him.

  It just annoyed him.

  Gail McCarthy had tricked him. Had tricked the FBI, as well. She had meddled in Kotler's life in alarming ways, going so far as to have him abducted, simply to show that she could. It should frighten him. But instead, it made him angry, and it made him resolve to do something about it, when the opportunity arose.

  Maybe …

  Maybe this was that opportunity?

  Kotler opened Evernote, and navigated to the folder he used for information about the artifacts that Gail had given to him. These had been delivered by Gail in person, after Kotler had spent a grueling night in captivity. She had used the occasion to show him that she was in control. She'd had hi
m kidnapped, and then had released him herself. All for show. All to build drama, as she gave him the three artifacts, and her promise—that if he could solve the riddle of them, he'd find her.

  That was playing her game, though. And Kotler was done playing her game, by her rules.

  He created a new document, and began typing. He made notes. Observations. These were mostly ideas that had occurred to him, as he looked over the compass, the sun stone, and the brass plate. He hadn't committed any of this to the page before, because most of it was conjecture. He was working from bias, and when possible, he avoided letting bias make his observations for him. Now, however, he poured every idea he had onto the page, making notes to look at specific references and access specific databases upon his return to Manhattan.

  These databases were the key.

  Some of these required specific clearances to access. Limited clearances. Meaning, whomever accessed them would be identifiable. Kotler could narrow down a timeframe, based on when he was producing this note, and he could have Denzel use his resources to check on access times and credentials. In effect, they could see who, if anyone, would access this unlikely series of data, in proximity to Kotler including it in his notes.

  It was a trap that wouldn't necessarily lead directly to Gail McCarthy, but it might give them the means of tapping into her network. It might eventually generate leads they could follow.

  It was the best he could do, for now.

  He blinked, looked at the time on the iPad, and finished up. It was late, and the morning would come early. He was tired, but he felt good. He felt a slight weight lifted from him. He was no closer to bringing Gail in for her crimes, but he had at least done something. The mere act of taking action, of doing something that might make her slip up, was enough to ease his mind a bit.

  He was asleep almost the instant his head hit the pillow.

  Chapter 15

  Denzel watched as two trucks pulled into the camp. There were several of Sarge's men in positions all around the encampment, brandishing weapons and covering both the trucks and the region of jungle from which they emerged. The first truck into the clearing was one of Sarge's—the men he had sent out to scout for the guerrillas—and it was festooned with armed mercenaries, sweeping their surroundings with automatic rifles that were ready to fire.

  The second truck had only a couple of armed men in sight. It was smaller, and where the first was military surplus, this one looked as if it might have once been used as a tour bus. It was old, in poor shape, and was noisy to the point that Denzel wondered that it hadn't attracted bad guys the whole trip. It was a smaller vehicle, but it had enough space to bring in the four members of Denzel's backup team, as well as their equipment.

  As the trucks settled into place, and Sarge's men resumed their normal rounds, Denzel approached the second truck and waited for its passengers to disembark.

  Two of the passengers were FBI agents, whom Denzel had requested personally. Agent Tim Wilson and Agent Walter Hicks were both good men, with solid backgrounds. Both had served in Special Forces, just as Denzel had. Both were relatively new to the FBI, as well, each having finished training at Quantico within the past five years.

  Denzel had chosen them because of their backgrounds and performance, and he would admit to a small bias because they had served in his particular flavor of the military. But he had another reason for choosing them for his team, and one he hadn't shared with anyone else. Neither of these men had ever reported to Former FBI Director Crispen.

  Crispen had disgraced himself, betraying the Bureau and, more importantly, his nation, when he had aligned himself with Mark Cantor, the billionaire with plans for vengeance against the US Air Force.

  Crispen had gone to great lengths to derail the investigation surrounding the theft of the Coelho Medallion. The theft, and the events that followed, were tied to a terrorist action orchestrated by Anwar Adham—a radical with plans to detonate a nuclear device under NORAD. Adham had been secretly funded by Cantor, who had also given him the means to access an underground river that ran beneath Cheyenne Mountain—an unprotected access point that made it possible to strike a blow on NORAD's Alternate Command Center.

  The detonation of a nuclear device would have been damaging to the Air Force, for certain, but it would have been just as lethal to Colorado Springs and the surrounding area. Millions would have died from the detonation. Crispen had been complicit in the attempt, selling out his nation for a payout from Mark Cantor.

  It was on that case that Denzel first met Dan Kotler—a meeting that had impacted the agent's life in more ways than he could have anticipated.

  As a direct result of that first mission together, Denzel had advanced in his career in an unpredictable way. He and Kotler had become inextricably linked, and Denzel's traditional career path had veered into the very non-traditional.

  More to his benefit, he believed. He was the head of his own division now, with a directive to investigate historic crimes—the type that had repercussions on national security, but were nevertheless obscure or eccentric enough, in terms of historic detail, that they did not fit in any particular existing mold, within the Bureau.

  Many of these involved what Kotler always referred to as “misplaced history.” Denzel had to take his word for it, as the details surrounding most of these cases required a level of historic knowledge and insight that Denzel himself found dizzying. Which was exactly why Kotler had been invited to be a part of the new division. Denzel really wasn't certain he could do any of this work without Dr. Kotler, to be honest. His own knowledge of history and archaeology was mostly at a History Channel level.

  Kotler, on the other hand …

  Denzel had to admit, grudgingly or otherwise, that Kotler was a genius. After the events in Pueblo, Denzel had done some digging into Kotler's history, a full background check that was required as part of bringing him in as a consultant. Kotler had a very interesting history of his own, Denzel discovered.

  There were details in the final report that were simply amazing. Some were tragic, and those went a long way toward explaining why Kotler was as driven and intelligent as he was. What he and his brother experienced, as teenagers …

  Denzel was certain he would have gone the way of Dan's brother, Jeffrey, retreating into family life and mundanity. Dan, on the other hand, became obsessed with understanding why the universe worked as it did. Why, in particular, humanity was the way it was. He dove into anthropology and quantum physics, while his brother dove into family dinners and getting his kid to dental appointments on time.

  Everyone deals with trauma in their own way.

  Denzel greeted the two agents as they disembarked from the truck, and directed them to Chet Knoll, who showed them where they would set up camp during their stay. The agents had brought their own tents and other supplies, at Denzel's suggestion, and they were now busy setting things up.

  The third person to disentangle herself from the confines of the truck was Dr. Emily Dawson, an Epidemiologist for the CDC's Division of Biological Terrorism. She was the primary resource Denzel needed on the ground right now.

  “Dr. Dawson,” Denzel said, extending a hand in introduction.

  Dawson smiled lightly, taking Denzel's hand. “Agent Denzel?”

  Denzel nodded. “I hope your trip was at least slightly comfortable.” He pointedly eyed the rickety truck.

  Dawson laughed, and put a hand to the small of her back. “I've had worse, but not many.” She looked around. “We brought a specialized tent to use as a sterile environment. Will I be able to set it up here?”

  Denzel nodded. “Sarge's men have cleared a space for you. Although I can't imagine how sterile anything can be in an environment like this,” he gestured toward the surrounding jungle.

  “You'd be surprised. The CDC has a lot of resources, and a lot of experience doing our work in less than ideal conditions,” she smiled. “We tend to find ourselves in some of the most dangerous places.”

  “I im
agine that's true,” Denzel nodded, soberly.

  “Agent Denzel?” a familiar voice said, from just beyond Dawson.

  Denzel looked, and was taken by surprise. “Dr. Ludlum?”

  Elizabeth “Liz” Ludlum was a Lead Forensic Specialist with the NYPD. She had worked with Detective Peter Holden, during Denzel and Kotler's investigation into the Devil's Interval, months earlier. She had been part of the forensic team investigating the murder of rock star Ashton Mink.

  Seeing her in the Jungles of Central America was a bit disorienting.

  “What are you doing here?” Denzel asked.

  Liz smiled. “Dr. Dawson invited me.”

  “Since this involves an ongoing murder investigation, I wanted to have a forensic specialist on hand,” Dawson said. “I didn't think you'd mind. Liz and I know each other from med school. And she's the best there is. That helped.” The two smiled at each other.

  Denzel nodded, also smiling. “I think bringing in a forensic specialist will be very helpful. And Kotler will be happy to see you,” he said, without thinking.

  “Oh?” Liz asked, arching an eyebrow.

  Denzel blinked, and backtracked as quickly as he could. “I think Sarge's men can give you a tour of the camp,” he said to them, attempting to cover. “Any special instructions for setting up your clean room?”

  Dawson shook her head. “It's inflatable. All I need is a clear patch of ground, and the compressor will do the rest. The batteries are already fully charged, so it's mostly a button press. There are tables and crates wrapped in blue cellophane,” she said, motioning back to the truck. “Those need to remain wrapped until I get them into the airlock. There's also a container of disinfectant aerosol, which will be attached to a spray nozzle within the airlock. And we have a generator, fueled and ready to go.”