by Dan Pollock
D.W. swung around and opened another drawer.
“Perhaps this is what you mean, Samuel?”
D.W. held a clear plastic bag under the desk lamp. Sam moved closer—and was stunned. The pouch contained the elegant bone-flute fragment Dr. Laya had shown him, a treasure Sam remembered the archaeologist had kept carefully locked away in an ammunition case.
“D.W., where in the hell did you get this? And please, for chrissake, don’t tell me you and your new friends in Caracas got some Guardia Nacional thugs to run Dr. Laya off the mountain and confiscate his finds. Because if you did, you are in some very deep shit here, my friend, and you could take the whole fucking company down with you.”
“Calm yourself, Samuel. This is being turned over to the Natural Sciences Museum in Caracas tomorrow. I’m showing it to you now only to reassure you. You see, there is absolutely no need to shut down archaeological exploration in the area of Cerro Calvario. It happens that this valuable artifact was found at considerable distance from the ore concentrations. Excavations can and will continue at this site, without any effect on our mining operations.”
“Who the fuck told you this, D.W.?”
“The man who brought this to me.”
D.W. rapped his knuckles on the door connecting to his stateroom. Seconds later this door opened, and Félix Rosales walked into the room.
Chapter Twenty-One
The young archaeologist looked like a goddamned male model, Sam thought, with his droopy forelock and his gap-toothed smile. His thick-muscled frame was stuffed into a leather bomber jacket, white shirt, cotton pants and moccasins.
“Félix,” Sam said, “just what in hell is going on here?”
“Didn’t Mr. Lee explain?”
“I’m asking you. But on second thought, maybe I just figured it out.” Sam swept his hand back toward the artifact now on D.W.’s desk. “Dr. Laya told you to deliver this to Caracas for carbon-dating, right? Only it looks like you came up with a better idea. You decided to stop off and visit my esteemed colleagues here with a little story that happened to fit right in with their mining plans. You figured there just might be something in it for you. How am I doing so far?”
Félix wrinkled his lips into a bland smile. “I know you don’t like me, Sam. That’s why I came to Mr. Lee instead of you—not with a ‘little story,’ but the truth.”
Sam swung to D.W. “What did he get from you?”
“Samuel, you’re wrong. Professor Rosales merely—”
“‘Professor’? Did Félix tell you he was a professor?”
“No, I never claimed that,” Félix said. “I have been a teaching assistant, however.”
“Somehow I got the idea you were just head ditchdigger.”
“Sam, there’s no need for insulting Señor Rosales. I may have assumed he was a professor, but that’s not the issue. He came to us with important information.”
“I know what he came to you with—a load of horseshit. I just can’t believe you guys lost your sense of smell.”
“Sam,” Ray Arrillaga spoke up, “will you calm down a minute?”
“Sure, Ray. After I tell you both something. Our friend Félix knows goddamn good and well where that prehistoric flute was dug up—on the summit of Cerro Calvario, buried in high-grade ore. Hell, it’s all right there on that label—grid coordinates, soil composition, everything. Unless Félix changed it.”
“Sam, goddammit, will you please just sit down and listen a minute?”
Sam glared a moment at Arrillaga’s hard, bronze face behind the steel spectacles, then sank beside him into the leather sofa. “Go ahead, Ray. Speak your piece.”
“Thank you. Mr. Rosales here is alleging that Dr. Laya had falsified the feature description you saw, relocating the find several hundred meters from the actual discovery site and claiming it was found in the midst of an ore concentration, in order to prevent mining anywhere on the mountain. Which, basically, is just what you said back in New Orleans, remember, Sam? You said someone was probably seeding the dig with artifacts to stop us. Mr. Rosales says he has now corrected the tag, to show the correct placement.” Carefully, Ray lifted the plastic pouch from the desk and handed it to Félix, who began to read the attached label:
“This artifact is item SH 75—”
“Skip that stuff,” Ray suggested.
“I was just explaining that I had to change the artifact designator back to an SH sequence, because it was actually found in a control pit at the foot of what is called the South Hill, in horizon IIAb. A horizon is basically a level or stratum in an excavation. It was buried at a depth of three meters, in a mixture of clay and granodiorite.” Félix looked back at Ray.
“Mr. Rosales pinpointed the actual location on our mining maps,” Ray added. “It’s nowhere near any significant main ore bodies, Sam. And the surrounding soil, we know from our own surveys, is nonferruginous conglomerate. There’s some bauxite there, but not in sufficient concentrations to be of interest.”
Sam folded his arms. “Ray, I know how much this whole operation down here means to you. Hell, I was as gung ho as anybody, you know that, charging off with my machete to cut red tape. So I understand why you’d want very much to buy the version this guy is selling. But I’m warning you, Ray. And you, too, D.W. Better listen to the old man on this. And the old man is telling you to be real, real careful here. Understand?”
“That’s exactly what we’re doing,” Ray said.
“And, Sam,” D.W. said, “let’s not be making threats.”
“That was a warning, not a threat. But I got a few more things to say here, D.W, if you don’t mind.” Sam leaned forward from the sofa, bringing Félix into his line of sight. “Now these are what you might call real serious charges, Félix. And I’m sure wondering why you went along with Dr. Laya’s story when he was showing this artifact to me—and even after, when you knew who I was.”
“He ordered me not to tell anyone, Sam. It’s like Mr. Arrillaga just said. Dr. Laya wanted to make sure there was no mining anywhere on Cerro Calvario. And, I admit, I felt the same way. For a lot of reasons—mainly archaeological, but also ecological and political—what he was doing seemed justified to me. So I agreed. But inside, it still bothered me. And when it came time to deliver this artifact to the Natural Sciences Museum with a false site profile, I just couldn’t do it. Don’t you see? That defeats all the principles of our science, and the whole purpose of archaeology.”
“Then why didn’t you report all this to the museum, or other scientific authorities? Why come here?”
“The director of the museum is a longtime friend of Dr. Laya. So is almost everyone else in the natural sciences in Venezuela. Who would believe me? Then I remembered Mr. Lee. His daughter told me his ship was docked here in San Félix. So I came here, hoping Mr. Lee would listen and perhaps help me contact authorities willing to investigate my story. And that is what Mr. Lee and Mr. Arrillaga have done.”
“Satisfied?” D.W. asked, coming around the desk to freshen their drinks.
“Not exactly, D.W. Guess I’ve just been around too damned long to start being naive. I mean, when Félix says no one would believe him, guess why that is. It’s because he has no credibility in the world of science, and he knows it. There’s just no way you or I or anybody can take his word over an accredited Ph.D., the chairman of a university department, for God’s sake. It’s not Félix’s story we need to check out, as much as his motives for stabbing his employer in the back.”
“Unfortunately, Sam, there are other allegations which cast doubt on Dr. Laya’s own motives.”
“Whose allegations?”
“I admit, they’re from Mr. Rosales also. But, unfortunately, they have been corroborated.”
“What the hell are they?”
D.W. returned to his executive chair, leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. “Why don’t you tell him, Ray? Samuel hasn’t been receptive to anything I’ve said so far.”
“It’s called argui
ng, D.W. Hardly a new concept.”
Ignoring this, D.W. gestured again to Ray, who addressed Sam:
“D.W. and I just got back from a meeting on this whole Cerro Calvario situation in Puerto Ordaz, along with Owen, Mr. Rosales and several deputy ministers. The bottom line, Sam, is that it looks like there’s a great deal to be investigated here, and the relevant ministries—Interior and Justice—are now doing just that. Pending the results of those investigations, Dr. Laya has been suspended as director of the excavation.”
“Oh, for God’s sake! What the hell for?”
D.W. pushed a sheet of paper across the desk toward Ray Arrillaga, who took it up and consulted it during the ensuing:
“Mr. Rosales told us he suspected that Dr. Laya had hired as a security guard on Cerro Calvario a man with a criminal history. Those suspicions were confirmed during our meeting by Ministry of Justice computer records. In fact, the man in question has a much more extensive criminal record than Mr. Rosales was aware of. He was identified as a Marxist revolutionary as far back as 1969, when he attended a Cuban training camp with the notorious Venezuelan terrorist known as Carlos the Jackal. In the decades since, he was arrested and imprisoned several times, for robbing a bank in Mexico City and twice in Venezuela on drug-trafficking charges.” Ray glanced from the paper over at Sam. “Those are just highlights, you understand.”
“The guy’s called Oscar something, right?”
Ray glanced down at the paper. “Oscar Azarias Rivilla. You knew all this?”
“I didn’t know his past. Jacqueline told me he was Dr. Laya’s relative, just like Félix is. Oscar’s an uncle or something. Isn’t that right, Félix?”
“Yes, I mentioned that to the officials,” Félix replied. “and that Dr. Laya is a distant cousin of mine. But I am not a criminal, or an ex-convict, or a former terrorist.”
“Okay,” Sam said. “It looks like Dr. Laya may be guilty of bad judgment, or at least excessive loyalty, in regard to a family member. That doesn’t exactly make him a fraud, or a perpetrator of a scientific hoax.”
D.W. again signaled Ray Arrillaga, who cleared his throat before resuming:
“Unfortunately, Sam, he seems to be guilty of a bit more than bad judgment. According to the Ministry of Justice, Dr. Laya also has a criminal record.”
“Dr. Laya? I don’t believe it.”
“It’s true. He was arrested in February, 1992, right after the abortive military coup, passing out pamphlets at Simón Bolívar University on behalf of the coup’s ringleader, Lieutenant Colonel Hugo Chávez.”
“Christ almighty, Ray! You know how that played down here. Half the fucking country was out banging pots and pans or demonstrating in the street against Pérez and in support of Chávez. But shit, how did this even come up? Or did Félix happen to tip the police to this as well?”
“I only mentioned Dr. Laya’s political activism,” Félix said. “I didn’t know he’d been arrested. They discovered that.”
“Did they now?” Sam turned to D.W. “So, besides defending the principles of science and law and order, what does our friend over here get out of all this? I mean, if Dr. Laya is being sacked, isn’t Félix out of a job, too?”
D.W. looked slightly uncomfortable at the question. “Not immediately. Since Mr. Rosales has been second-in-command to Dr. Laya, and therefore the only other qualified person on site, the government is putting him temporarily in charge of the excavation. Pending the results of an investigation.”
“What kind of investigation? Is the government sending archaeologists out to check the two sites, to see who’s telling the truth?”
“Ray?” D.W. prompted.
Ray shook his head. “We didn’t get into those kind of details.”
Sam drained his glass, got to his feet, paced across the handwoven Chinese carpet to a photo blowup showing the New Orleans skyline, with the Kallisto steaming past the Proteus skyscraper.
“Look,” he said, turning suddenly, “does Arquimedeo know about all this?”
“Not yet,” D.W. said. “A delegation is driving down in the morning.”
“What about Jacqueline? Did you tell her?”
“I haven’t had a chance. We just got back.”
Sam shook his head. “Duke, I’ve backed every play you’ve made for Proteus, and most of ‘em paid off handsomely. You’ve been a hell of an executive—that’s no secret—and probably I should have turned the whole damn thing over to you before now. So maybe that’s what’s made you a little itchy on this deal. Whatever it is, you’re getting ready to blow your damn foot off down here, my friend, and maybe a lot worse than that. And it looks like I’m gonna have to pull rank to keep it from happening.”
D.W. remained serene. “Sam, you’re missing the point. I’m not doing anything. Proteus isn’t doing anything. The Venezuelan government is taking all these steps, assuming all the responsibility. We are simply proceeding on the basis of their authorization to resume mining.”
“D.W., if somebody shows me conclusive proof that Dr. Laya is a charlatan, that’s one thing. Until then, I don’t give a shit what Caracas does or authorizes. Proteus is not going to be a part of it—and that includes those offshore payments. Now, do you understand me? You’re not going to use Proteus drill bits to start tearing up that goddamn mountain.”
“Sam, I’m afraid I’ve already taken that decision. And I’ve done so with the full knowledge and backing of the board.” He brought his chair to vertical and fixed his gaze on Sam. “I might add that several officers and directors have expressed their concerns to me about your, how shall I say, apparent lack of interest and involvement during the last several days.”
Sam shook his head slowly. “Well, well, D.W., it looks like you’ve finally gone and done it. Pulling a real Félix Rosales on the old guy, eh? Ray, I’d be interested to hear your opinion on all this.”
“Sam, the fact is you’ve been basically out of the loop here. Several times we tried to reach you and couldn’t. So I have to say that, yes, I think D.W. is steering the correct course, and I think a majority of the directors and the stockholders will agree with that.”
“You do, eh?” Sam seemed to consider the question himself, with cocked head. “Well, I guess we’ll soon see about that. You both understand, my appeal is not to anybody’s altruism here. It’s purely on the basis of self-interest. Until all these questions are resolved, my view is that a continued moratorium on mining makes sense politically, economically, PR-wise—any way you want to slice it.” Arms folded, he swiveled to face D.W. “Are you sure you really want to fight me on this, amigo?”
“I stand by my decision, Samuel. I wish you would endorse it.”
“No, you don’t. You want a goddamn shootout. But you picked the wrong time and place. I would have given you my job, D.W., I really would have. Now I’m afraid I’m going to have to take yours.”
“Samuel, I’m not going to respond to that. You’re reacting emotionally and saying things you will regret later. It’s late, and Ray and I must rejoin the party. Why don’t you come along with us? Or, if you’d like, since you look a little tired, maybe you’d like to spend the night here. There’s an empty stateroom.”
“I’m feeling fine, D.W. By all means, let’s all go up arm-in-arm and practice our corporate smiles.”
But Sam wasn’t feeling fine. The cabin floor seemed increasingly unsteady, more than was attributable to the Orinoco current. He glanced over at his empty glass. Had it been one double shot of Wild Turkey, or two? And he hadn’t eaten since when? Christ, just when he needed his head. He was in no condition, really, to work the crowd upstairs, and what would be the point of it? His next real showdown wasn’t here, or even in Caracas, but back in New Orleans. He needed to have the board solidly in his corner before he came out swinging. Which meant he needed to fly out tomorrow—commercial. There was no time for the Cessna. Anyway, he was too damn preoccupied to be solo-hopping the Caribbean.
He turned back to Félix. “You make
damn sure that thing goes into the Natural Sciences Museum tomorrow, okay?”
Félix’s only response was a smile that bore strong resemblance to a sneer.
“Sam,” D.W. said, “before we leave, there’s one thing I forgot to mention.”
“Shoot.”
“Mr. Rosales informs me you’ve been spending a great deal of time these last few days with Jacqueline. I appreciate your hospitality to her, and I know she thinks highly of you. But maybe it’s not a good idea right now, do you understand?”
Sam stopped short, letting D.W.’s words have their full impact. Then slowly he nodded and walked out, leaving the door ajar.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lights glimmered along the San Félix waterfront, making a carnival tracery of the transit sheds and port offices, the traveling bridge cranes and the vertical-pivot booms of the ore-crushing plant. At the adjoining passenger wharf, the Dreamstar was long gone, but the Swedish ore ship still waited at the berth beyond, with bulbs burning at funnel and bridge and along the mast stays, casting skittery reflections over the oil-skinned water. Outside the twinkling harborscape, the residential and commercial barrios of San Félix flickered faintly, like luminarias scattered across the Orinoco night.
Impinging on this nocturnal tranquility were party sounds percolating up from the Kallisto’s fantail and echoing off the wharves and warehouses. But Sam could retreat no farther than his present pinnacle, a tiny, sheltered sundeck wrapped forward of the radar mast above the pilothouse. He had made his way up several companionways to this isolated spot in search of a clear head. Wild Turkey on an empty stomach on top of a hangover was sufficient formula for dysfunction. Add to that his head-on collision with D.W., and it was little wonder Sam needed a recuperative time-out.
To put it another way, he was hammered.
He braced his arms above the rail and stared out at the broad, black river. He was trying to steady himself, but the world kept shifting on him, tilting out there on the edge of vision. People and events also seemed to be more and more skewed, and at multiplying cross-purposes—he and D.W. and Jake, Arquimedeo and Félix, while the future of Cerro Calvario was now apparently to be decided by internecine warfare within the Proteus corporate hierarchy and the Venezuelan ministries. It made for one hell of a Gordian snarl-up. And he had no idea where to start hacking at it.