The Girl in the Mayan Tomb

by Kevin Tumlinson

  He was going to have to risk using a light, if only for a brief instant.

  He patted a pants pocket, where he'd stowed the small tactical flashlight. He fished this out, took a few breaths to calm himself, and then held the light close to his midsection before turning it on. He hoped that he could at least block some of the light, and maybe prevent Graham from noticing him.

  With the light on, he wasted no time. He studied the path ahead, got his bearings, and noted not only the wider patch of triggers, but several that were nearby as well.

  He was close. So close, in fact, that had he taken only another couple of shuffling steps, he would have triggered whatever nasty surprise the swath of triggers held for intruders.

  “Kotler!” he heard Graham shout from behind him. “Come back here, this instant!”

  A shot rang out, and Kotler cringed, ducking to the floor and shutting off the light.

  “Kotler!”

  Graham has truly lost his mind, Kotler thought. His friend—or if not friends, at least his colleague—was suffering some sort of psychotic break, possibly brought on by post-traumatic stress. Or was it something more? Graham's behavior had seemed stable enough, until very recently. Perhaps being trapped, coupled with the stress of the gunfight two nights earlier, really had caused him to snap. But Kotler sensed something else, as well. Graham had become volatile all at once, but there had been stressors present. Kotler had chalked them up to their situation, but could there be something else?

  It didn't matter. Not at the moment.

  Kotler was the current focus of the man's delusions, which was dangerous. It bothered him more, however, that Graham was suffering as he was. He wasn't the bad guy, after all. He was a demonstrably good man, with a level head and a generally pleasant disposition—when he wasn't being a competitive ass. Regardless, in all the years that he and Kotler had run in the same academic and professional circles, any rivalry between them had at least been civil.

  Kotler was sure, or at least hoped, that given a chance Graham would calm down and come to his senses. Maybe some time in the dark would help with that, though Kotler was dubious about the thought. It was more likely that it would keep Graham on the edge, exacerbating whatever was happening to him.

  For now, it was enough that Graham had enough sense to stay out of the passageway, with no light to guide him. In his present condition, it was almost a certainty that he'd stumble into death head on. It was a blessing that his better judgement had him staying in place.

  If only I had the same common sense, Kotler thought.

  He was kneeling on the ground, in the dark, and now visualized the area ahead of him. The wide trigger had only been inches away, and Kotler now slid his fingers along the stone floor, feeling for the edge. When he found it, he inched forward, on his knees, and raised himself with his toes right at the trigger's edge.

  He had hoped to be able to do this with the lights on, but it was clear that would only get him shot, maybe even killed.

  Still … perhaps a bullet would be faster than whatever the Mayans had left for him.

  He took a few quick breaths, shaking himself, getting his blood pumping and his adrenaline up. He needed his reflexes sharp for this one.

  He visualized the path ahead, picturing the brief glimpse he'd gotten with the flashlight, comparing that with the memory of him and Graham finding and marking this part of the tunnel. He went back through their earlier actions in his mind, particularly visualizing the two of them leaping over the triggers both as they'd progressed through the tunnel the first time, and again on their way back.

  He kept all of these images in mind, visualizing them in as much detail as he could recall, willing them to become muscle memory. And just as he had when picturing the guerrilla holding the statute of Ah-Puch, he reconstructed the scene to as much detail as possible. He thought back on those previous leaps, felt them in the muscles of his legs, his back, his arms.

  He breathed.

  He tensed.

  He jumped.

  Graham felt his heart pounding and sweat breaking on his forehead, his sides, his back. His entire body ached, and there was a building pressure in his head, making it difficult to think or to focus. But one thought was crystal clear in his mind, and it made him seethe.

  Kotler had left him.

  The darkness of the passage entombed him, as much as this temple entombed Viracocha—or Ah-Puch, he corrected. Viracocha had been torn away from him, thanks to Kotler's meddling. All of his work, the toil of cutting through the jungle, of pushing into these ruins inch by miserable inch, of suffering the indignity of that young boy getting international recognition for discovering Xi'paal ‘ek Kaah, and finally facing down the threat of a pitched gun battle with the guerrillas—somehow Kotler had swooped in and taken everything from Graham. A few sharp observations and some clever phrasing, and Kotler had usurped him at this site, just as he had done to others. As he had done to Dr. Eloi Coelho.

  Graham's throat felt raw and tight.

  With no light, and the door to the tomb sealed shut, Graham was effectively stranded here. Kotler—the cowardly bastard—had left him with no resources. None, save the gun.

  When he'd seen the light from the passage, a faint glow that had suddenly emerged in the distance, he knew it was Kotler taunting him. Kotler, who was so renowned, who was the darling of the media because of his involvement with Dr. Coelho's discovery—the presence of Vikings in North America.

  Graham knew there were hints and traces of a Viking presence, but a discovery on the magnitude that Coelho had made was simply mind boggling. And there Kotler was, ready to swoop in and claim all of the glory of the discovery after all the real work had been done. In the meantime, Coelho himself died from gunshot wounds—after Kotler had endangered him and everyone else.

  Graham felt the odd pressure in his temples spread like fire through his body. He felt his chest tighten, and the gorge rise in his throat.

  He retched, and then vomited, there in the dark. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and wished he had some water. He hadn't been able to find his pack, however, and was afraid to move about too freely.

  Kotler had endangered them both, by attacking him, stealing from him, and then foolishly running into the side passage. He had effectively imprisoned Graham. Or entombed him. The latter remained to be seen.

  Graham's head ached, and it was difficult to think, but he knew that he was in charge of this site, and that the protection of everyone, including Kotler, was his responsibility. And Kotler had jeopardized that. Kotler had jeopardized everything.

  Graham's throat felt thick, and he was having trouble swallowing. He felt flushed and too warm, all over.

  As he looked about in the darkness, he began to see things. Lights, mostly. Phantom lights.

  Fever, he thought. A bit of clarity returning to him, briefly. I have a fever. I need water.

  He wasn't sure what he'd contracted, but he could feel the fever building. Perhaps he'd suffered some insect bite. He had been inoculated from malaria and other known pathogens from the region, but he might have caught some other strain of bacteria or virus or other illness. The jungle was full of new dangers, many of which had yet to be discovered.

  He patted the pockets of his vest and pants, hoping to find something that might help. He had no water, but perhaps he'd brought along some ibuprofen or something else useful.

  He felt it then, in his vest pocket.

  He hadn't told Kotler, when he'd found it, and he'd more or less forgotten about it himself, in all the chaos that had followed. Kotler had been distracted by the altar, by searching for the key to open the tomb. Graham had been searching as well, and had decided to use the electric lantern and its diffuser, to provide a bit more light. He had knelt to fish around in his pack, and had spotted it, placed with care on an inset shelf, hidden just inside the chamber entrance.

  Ah-Puch.

  It was much smaller than the original statue. A mere figurine. But it was an ide
ntical carving. Graham inspected it in his flashlight, then glanced up to see if Kotler had noticed. Kotler was still focused on the altar itself, and had tuned out everything else in the room. In the moment, Graham had decided that this tiny trinket could have no real relevance to the FBI's investigation. It was an historic find, and one he wanted to study closer, without hindrance. He slid the figurine into his vest pocket, and finished setting up the light.

  He would tell Kotler and the others about it later. He only wanted time to study it without Kotler's infernal interference or observations. After all, Graham was perfectly capable of sussing out the statue's meaning, all on his own. He was a highly recognized and respected expert on Mesoamerican culture and antiquities. He did not need an interloper, particularly one with no academic affiliation, second guessing his every thought. Kotler only had the career and recognition he had because of his wealth, and his tendency to place himself in just the right place, at just the right moment, for glory to shine on him.

  Feeling lightheaded from both the fever and the vomiting, his body aching and stiff, Graham wanted nothing more than to sit, to sip some water, and perhaps even to sleep. He stumbled, feeling for the wall of the passage behind him, and slowly sank to a seated position.

  He had his hand on the vest pocket, and now reached inside, feeling for Ah-Puch. He couldn't see it, but he could trace its carved surface with his fingers, and perhaps pick up some interesting insight he might otherwise have missed. At the very least it could provide him with something to focus on, to keep him calm and to take him away from the growing ache and pressure and feverish heat throughout his body.

  As his fingers came in contact with the stone, however, he paused.

  The statute was in pieces.

  Somehow, at some point, he must have bumped into a wall. Or perhaps it had happened when he and Kotler had tussled. He couldn't be sure. But at some point, the statue of Ah-Puch had broken.

  Graham felt the pieces of it, and realized that the shards were more like pottery than stone. It had been hollow, when it was intact. He took the shards from his pocket, feeling each piece as he sat in the dark.

  He reached back into his pocket again, to find any other pieces, and his fingers encountered fine grains, as if his pocket was filled with sand.

  The grains felt odd, however. They felt somehow slippery—as if he were running his fingers through beads of silk.

  What had been in the statue?

  More importantly, what had he released, when he'd broken it?

  Kotler! he thought with a bitter spike in his gut. What did you make me do?

  Chapter 21

  Denzel and the others did as they were told. They were on their knees, hands behind their heads, and in moments several men rushed forward and relieved them of their gear and their weapons.

  “I'm a Federal Agent,” Denzel said.

  “Shut it!” one of them men shouted, bringing his weapon around. He had a light mounted to the barrel, and this shone in Denzel's eyes, blinding him to any details about the men who had them captive.

  Despite not being able to see them, Denzel did manage to pick up some details about them. He could tell they were trained, probably ex-military. They were organized, and they followed a chain of command. They also spoke with American accents.

  These were not guerrillas. These were mercenaries for hire. Some of Sarge's men?

  Denzel highly doubted it, given that Knoll was getting the same treatment as he and Hicks. It seemed more likely that this was another faction of mercenaries altogether.

  So who were they working for?

  For a brief moment, he considered the possibility that it was Gail McCarthy, once again exerting the power of her network. She had a track record for this sort of thing, after all.

  Denzel doubted this was the case, but since he couldn't quite eliminate the possibility he filed it away. He wasn't sure if it would be helpful, or what, if anything, he could do about it, if it were true. But it was better to keep it in mind, for now.

  The men forced Denzel and the others to their feet, shoving them ahead and into an alcove at the top of a short slope. The cavern opened up here, and Denzel saw that this had been made something of a base camp. There were numerous SCUBA tanks leaning against one wall, and their own gear was tossed in among these.

  They were forced to sit across the way, shoved to the rough floor of the cavern with their hands bound in front of them. Denzel watched as their guards—four men hefting M4 Carbines, US military issue—took up positions, guarding both the entrance from the waters of the cenote and an exit into darker passages beyond the chamber.

  One of their guards tried to raise someone on a radio, but got only silence in reply. “Too much rock,” he said to the others.

  “Keep trying,” one of the men ordered, marking him as the one in command.

  Denzel filed this away under “potentially useful,” along with some of the other observations he'd made up to now.

  To start, these men were carrying M4s, which were standard issue for most military. These could be surplus, or black market, and they were a good choice for the close quarters of these caverns. They could even stand a bit of submersion, so getting them here was as simple as dragging them along through the water. Once they emerged, they could partially open the bolt and tilt the weapon to let water drain. Though, if things were hot, Denzel knew the M4 could be fired right out of the water.

  What it meant, though, was that these guys were trained for close-quarters incursions, and they were potentially well funded.

  There were four of them here, but they'd just tried to raise someone further in. Denzel counted sixteen SCUBA tanks, in total, which put twelve guys in the caverns ahead.

  Not good.

  At the moment Denzel, Hicks, and Knoll were in no position to take on even the four men guarding them, much less twelve more trained and armed mercenaries. Attempting to rush these guys and take out the rest would likely be a suicide play.

  For now, Denzel would have to content himself with concentrating on what he could learn, and figuring out how he could use it later. He already had a growing list of details, as well as some questions.

  For a start—who had hired these guys?

  Gail McCarthy was one possibility, but as he considered it, he realized there was a second.

  Though he had no name to go on, Denzel knew there was also the “man in a suit.” The mysterious figure who had attempted to buy the Mayan artifacts from Maggie Hamilton, and later from Mick Scalera. There was no way to know who that was, or what his real motives were, but it was a sure bet it had something to do with the threat of Ah-Puch as a biological weapon.

  There were a lot of strings to pull together, and a lot of questions to answer, along this line of thinking. Who was the man in the suit? What was his plan for Ah-Puch? And if the man in the suit had the resources to call in trained mercenaries, why had he also brought in the guerrillas?

  This last felt like a smoke screen—a distraction, to keep authorities looking in one direction while the man in the suit moved in another altogether. That made sense, Denzel figured. Whatever his plans were for Ah-Puch, regardless, they likely wouldn't be good for anyone but the man in the suit.

  It was starting to look like the Mexico City threat, during the US President's appearance, was also a ruse. Five years earlier, when Maggie had come to Xi'paal ‘ek Kaah with whoever was selling her the antiquities, a series of events had been set off that had folded in with someone else's plans.

  What about the dealer?

  More tumblers clicked into place. It was possible someone had hired the guerrillas—the original set, who had tried to force their way into the tomb—to track down the dealer and retrieve Ah-Puch, five years earlier. Maybe those guerrillas double crossed their employer, when they uncovered whatever trove of treasures the dealer had tucked away in the tomb. The guerrillas got greedy, and had decided to cut the man in the suit out of the deal. They may even have issued their threat on the Preside
nt against the man's wishes. Or, maybe it was part of an overall plot. It was hard to say.

  What was obvious, though, was that Maggie Hamilton had gotten herself into the middle of something big, and had paid with her life.

  But now, five years on all of this starts up again?

  The guerrillas hadn't told the man in the suit where they'd found the dealer, or Ah-Puch. That was clear. And so, for five years, the man in the suit must have waited for a sign.

  Maggie would have publicized her production, probably in search of funding, or simply to drum up buzz about the project. She might have mentioned that she'd purchased some authentic Mayan artifacts. Word might have gotten out.

  That was about as far as Denzel's speculation could take him, at the moment. It was largely guesswork, as it was, and anything else he might come up with had just as much chance of leading him in the wrong direction as in the right one. He needed more information.

  So he watched. He listened.

  And he planned. Because he had no intention of dying here, in this cavern. There would be a way for the three of them to gain the upper hand on these mercenaries. He just had to wait and watch, and be ready.

  Chapter 22

  Kotler was sweating more from stress and exertion than from any ambient warmth in the darkened tunnels. Humidity, here deep below the surface of the jungle, was actually quite low. The strain of inching his way along on his knees in the dark, however, feeling the stones ahead of him for any trace of a trigger, was starting to reach a level too great for him to endure.

  Eventually, he stood, took several deep breaths, and turned on the flashlight.

  He waited for the sound of Graham firing on him, but it never came. Was he deep enough into the tunnel, then? Had he escaped?