by Dan Pollock
“Dr. Laya, you’re not giving up the fight?”
“No, Jacqueline. I will never do that. But I do feel a bit like the shepherd boy, David, seeing all his carefully aimed pebbles bounce off of Goliath’s helmet, then having the giant trample him beneath his sandals and keep on going—and laughing, you see. But no, I will get up now and look for another little stone to fling.”
“But so many people are rallying behind you—all the universities, the environmental groups, the anthropological society. And what about all your equipment?”
“It’s all still inside. I only came out with a few boxes of personal possessions and, thank God, a complete streaming-tape backup of my hard disk.”
“Well, I’m going to call my father about it. I mean, in addition to every other atrocity he’s helping to commit down here, how dare he confiscate scientific equipment!”
“Thank you, Jacqueline, but I advise you to save your outrage for something of larger import. It’s not the equipment I want out, it’s the accursed bulldozers. Until I abandon that possibility, the generators and resistivity meters and magnetometers may as well stay where they are, as long as Félix keeps them properly protected. Heaven knows, he won’t be needing them. He can make do with a case of beer and a shovel.”
“The bastard!”
“I still don’t know what I could have done to cause him to turn on me—other than to imagine such a visceral young man would actually share my peculiar enthusiasms.”
“That’s a point, Dr. Laya. You know, he really isn’t very bright.”
“No, Félix has a tightly circumscribed intelligence. But he came to be very handy at running an excavation, and seemed to enjoy the rigors and routines of camp life, much more than I. And he had—he has—a lively sense of humor. But—as you said—he’s being a bastard.”
“And I can think of a few other words.”
“Well, I’m very angry at him, Jacqueline. And, to be honest, I’m deeply hurt.”
“That’s because you’re sensitive. But I don’t think you should take it personally, Dr. Laya. I’ve known guys like Félix before. You know, big hair, big muscles, tight jeans, the lazy grin, the swaggering walk. Girls fall at his feet—I almost did. It’s scary. So, when conquest comes so easy, why should he work at relationships? I don’t know if guys like that are incapable of forming actual emotional attachments, or if they just don’t want to put out the effort. Whichever it is, trust me, Félix isn’t worth one second of your concern.”
“You’re very perceptive. But I suspect that Félix actually feels very inadequate. His life was a long series of failures before I offered him a kind of sanctuary and a steady job. And I still can’t help feeling sorry for him. I don’t know what your father or the mining officials may have offered him to carry out his charade, but it won’t last long. He certainly has no future in archaeology. No university would go near him after this.”
“Maybe he’ll marry rich.”
“Hmm. Now you make me feel distinctly guilty, Jacqueline. I should have warned you about Félix. He was giving you a lot of attention, wasn’t he?”
“Uh-huh. It lasted about two days. Pretty intense. But I survived, thank God.” Mainly by getting interested in somebody else, Jacqueline thought. “But to hell with muscleboy. What are you going to do now, Dr. Laya?”
“Regroup.” Dr. Laya attempted a smile, then leaned against the front fender of her pickup and stared off at the dust-wreathed mountain—his buried city, his Troy, now the exclusive precinct of lawful plunderers.
When Jacqueline had observed him several days before at the dig, the wiry little archaeologist had seemed tireless. But he slumped badly now and appeared momentarily lost. Of course, he’d been up all night, she knew, and probably most of two days before, mustering his slim resources for this showdown. And now, to all intents and purposes, he’d lost. There would be no scientific examination up on Cerro Calvario to check on the validity of Félix’s charges of site falsification. With bulldozers now having the run of the mountain, and dynamite soon to follow, the evidence would quickly be destroyed—along with the archaeological record. Dr. Laya must be in profound shock.
“And you, señorita?” he inquired after an interval. “What will you do next? Document the destruction?”
“I guess it sounds grisly, but I may as well finish.”
“No. It sounds professional and admirable. But what does your father say?”
“You mean what does he shout. We’re not exactly on speaking terms at the moment. Let’s see. Last night Daddy ordered me to fly home to school, and what did I call him? A thug, I think. Yes, definitely a thug. Then I hung up on him.”
“Good heavens!”
Just then a mud-splattered Ford half-ton full of hay bales drove by and pulled onto the shoulder behind them. A llanero climbed out and started toward them. As the sun worked its way under the brim of the man’s straw hat, Jacqueline and Arquimedeo recognized Sam’s ranch foreman, Enrico Tosto. He tipped his hat and smiled.
“Buenas dias, Professor Laya. Señorita Lee.”
Jacqueline answered first. “Buenas dias, Enrico. You missed all the excitement.”
“I heard it. I see the dust. I smell the diesels.” He turned to Arquimedeo. “And I am very sorry, Professor.”
“But why should you be, señor? This is wonderful news for La Promesa. I predict you will sell a great many cattle.”
“It is true. As a rancher, I should be happy. And as an immigrant, why should I care about buried Indian relics? But it is not right, what they are doing to you, Professor. So I am changing sides, just as Samuel did, and just as Señorita Lee has done in opposing her father.” Enrico smiled with his eyes. “It is most confusing.”
“Then I apologize for my sarcasm,” Arquimedeo said. “And I am truly sorry about Señor Warrender. I give him much credit. And I am afraid I said many unfair things to him.”
“Believe me, Samuel will be fine. I think he was ready for retirement. Actually, it is because of him that I am here.”
“He sent you to find me?” Arquimedeo asked.
“Both of you, if possible. We didn’t guess you would be together. Samuel wanted me to tell you, Dr. Laya, that he is sorry he couldn’t stop what is happening. But if it will be of any assistance, he invites you to make Hato La Promesa your headquarters down here. We have several guest rooms in the Casa Grande. You also are welcome, Señorita Lee, depending on the situation with your father—”
“I jumped ship late last night,” Jacqueline announced. “I was going to stay in Ciudad Bolívar tonight.”
“Then I think even your father might feel better about your safety, if you are with us.”
“I really don’t care what he thinks.”
“It is an extremely generous offer,” Dr. Laya said. “And I thank Señor Warrender for it. But I have many people to confer with—”
“They are welcome too, up to a dozen or more. You are to consider it your private hotel. Call press conferences, stage protest rallies, whatever you wish. If you like, you may even camp along the perimeter of Cerro Calvario. We have tents—and plenty of good beef.” Enrico grinned. “Samuel has also left his plane and will provide a pilot to fly you over the mountain, señorita, should you wish to photograph what is happening there.”
“Well?” Jacqueline turned to Arquimedeo. “This is sounding interesting. Do you have a better offer?”
The archaeologist shook his head negatively, blinked several times, then extended his hand to Enrico’s. “I accept your generous offer, señor. And please thank Señor Warrender for me.”
“Then I accept as well,” Jacqueline said.
“What about me?” called a voice just behind them. They turned to see Bernardo’s head poking out of the pickup. “I’m supposed to go wherever she goes.”
“You remember Bernardo,” Jacqueline said.
“Yes, of course,” Enrico said, turning to the youth. “You are welcome, too, Bernardo. But I must warn you of one thing.”
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“Warn me? About what?”
“The television at the ranchhouse.”
“Mierda! Is it broken?”
“No, my friend. But if you ever try and watch the sports again when my wife and her sisters want to see their favorite telenovelas, they will cut out your heart and feed it to the dogs.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
A trio of pickup trucks started up the road toward the ranch turnoff—Enrico leading in his Ford, Bernardo and Jacqueline in their unmarked Proteus Toyota, Arquimedeo trailing in his big Jimmy 4x4. Before leaving Cerro Calvario, the archaeologist had conferred briefly with his key university and foundation supporters, explaining to them that he would temporarily be headquartering at La Promesa and scheduling an evening conference call to discuss future strategy. But more than anything right now, he needed a few hours’ sleep, and the proximity of Enrico’s ranchhouse was wonderfully enticing.
Then, a couple kilometers north of Cerro Calvario, Arquimedeo spotted a rusty pickup ahead on the side of the road. A moment later he recognized his uncle’s beat-to-shit Dodge, both halves of its two-piece hood folded back and propped open while steam geysered from its radiator. And there, standing in front, was Oscar himself, flanked by his two hired Indians, all three staring thoughtfully at the overheated block.
Arquimedeo swore. During the eviction process, he had deliberately lost track of his disreputable uncle and his odd-looking deputies. The archaeologist had hoped they would all just vanish somehow. Perhaps they had tried to do so, but just hadn’t gotten very far. But now Arquimedeo saw Oscar glance up and recognize the oncoming truck, then start waving enthusiastically. Damnation!
Arquimedeo bleated his horn to signal the caravan ahead, then pulled onto the dusty shoulder. Before he could shut off the engine, Uncle Oscar appeared in his side window, grinning.
“Have you a beer, my boy?” the old man said, wiping a big hand across a sweaty brow and grizzled beard.
“Have I ever failed you, Uncle? I also have a tow rope I could rig, only I’m afraid I can’t take you very far.”
Oscar shook his head. “No, no, just the beer—and as much water as you can spare. The old war-horse will be fine after she cools down.”
Arquimedeo pulled three chilled cans of Polar from the cooler on the floor beside him, then climbed out into the oppressive heat. Oscar passed two cans to the Kamarakotas, who were now sitting on the ground beside the Dodge, in partial shade. Arquimedeo, meanwhile, yanked a jerrycan of water from the back of his truck.
“Arqui,” Oscar asked a moment later, while watching his nephew feed water to the sizzling radiator, “so what is your plan now?”
“Well, I don’t know if you could call it a plan. But I’ve got to meet with various people.”
“Why? What’s the use of meeting and talking now? It’s time for action, Arqui.”
“What am I supposed to do, Uncle? Attack the Guardia Nacional? Throw rocks at the bulldozers? Or perhaps I should try to overthrow the entire government, like Colonel Chávez?”
“If I was younger, I would certainly help you do so. Did you know that Illich Ramirez Sanchez and I both studied the methodologies of revolution in Havana in the late Sixties?”
“Yes, Uncle, I’ve heard your stories about Carlos the Jackal. I’m afraid your illustrious past helped get me fired—”
Oscar carried on enthusiastically: “Of course, Illich was a rich man’s son, so he could afford to go on to London and Paris and eventually Patrice Lumumba University in Moscow and become a world-famous terrorist. But I, too, learned my craft well and practiced it with considerable success, both here in Venezuela and in Mexico—”
“Oscar, I’m not going to stage a coup, and I’m not going to hire you to do it for me. And now, I’m sorry to be rude, but I can’t stay around listening to any more war stories.”
“Arqui, I’m not suggesting a coup! I’m proposing covert action against this fascist company, Proteus Industries. After all, they’re the ones who’ve been giving the secret orders to the Guardia stormtroopers. Let me strike at them!”
“Uncle, no!”
“Why not?”
Why?” Arquimedeo shook his head pityingly. “For argument’s sake, what could that possibly gain?”
“You don’t see? We’ll hit their assets. Boom, boom, boom!” Oscar hammered fist into palm. “When the cost grows too high, they’ll abandon Cerro Calvario. Strike hard enough, and they’ll get out of Venezuela.”
“Uncle Oscar, you’re living in a fantasy. A dangerous fantasy. Yes, I’m very angry. Yes, I feel a desire for revenge. But have I taken leave of my senses? No, I have not. Just think a moment what you’re suggesting.”
“Perhaps you misunderstand, Arqui. I’m not suggesting you do anything. I’m prepared to face all the danger.”
“Oscar, just stop—and listen to me. I’m sorry I have no more work for you. But I absolutely will not pay you to undertake criminal activities on my behalf. For God’s sakes, you can’t even drive five kilometers without your truck breaking down. How are you going to terrorize a multinational company?”
Oscar seemed to consider this. “Well, of course I’ll need a bit more money. If you’d advance me, say, a mere eight-thousand bolívars. That’s a very small amount, Arqui—only what you were going to pay me anyway for the first month as security guard. But it may be enough for me and my colleagues to launch a persuasive counterfascist campaign. Perhaps we can make these bastards not only quit your excavation, but pay dearly for the damage they’ve done. If so, my boy, I will return your small investment a thousand times over.”
A hand landed on Arquimedeo’s shoulder. He whirled to find both Kamarakotas grinning at extreme close range and holding empty beer cans upside down in their brown fists. Arquimedeo took the hint, retreating quickly to his truck and returning with his last three cans of Polar.
If this motley trio only had the means, he decided, they’d all be dead drunk before sundown. And, Arquimedeo decided on a bit more reflection, that might not be altogether a bad thing.
“Look, Oscar,” he said, when his uncle punctuated a long swallow with a loud lip-smack, “I’ll say this one last time. I can’t help you. And I order you to forget all your wild and violent ideas. You’ll only end up in jail, or dead, you and your ‘colleagues,’ as you call them. And your poor widow will scream at my mother, who will scream at me.
“Now, for the sake of family peace, I’d like to help you get your truck to Ciudad Bolívar, or wherever you need to go. But I don’t have eight-thousand Bs to give away. And if you’ll remember, I already gave you twothousand when I hired you.” He pulled out his wallet, extracted six “orchids,” the five-hundred bolívar notes nicknamed for the national flower engraved on the reverse. “Here’s another three thousand. It’s all I can spare.”
Oscar wet his thumb and counted the bills twice, then stuffed them into his greasy workpants. “Many thanks, Arqui, my boy. I’ll defer to your wishes.” Oscar glanced up then and focused on the two trucks of Arquimedeo’s caravan, now parked along the shoulder ahead. “I mustn’t keep you. Your friends are waiting.”
“Yes, they are. Ciao, Uncle.”
“Where are you going, by the way? Isn’t that the foreman of Hato La Promesa in the Ford Ranger?”
“Uncle, don’t worry about it, okay? Just go home.”
A moment later, after a final rear-view mirror glimpse of his uncle gesturing violently at the two Indians, Arquimedeo swung his pickup back onto Route 16. God willing, the Dodge’s junkyard motor would have cooled down enough to get them all to the next cantina. Or maybe the Kamarakotas would pull their knives and relieve Oscar of his newfound bolívars on the spot. One way or another, Arquimedeo hoped he’d never again have to set eyes on the old family bandit.
*
As night descended on the savanna, the dilapidated Dodge pickup was again parked alongside Route 16 north of Cerro Calvario. But this time it was farther off the blacktop and screened behind scrub trees. Insid
e, the floorboards were strewn with greasy food wrappings and empty beer cans, while the recent peripatetic diners—Oscar Azarias Rivilla and the two Kamarakotas, Chucho and Angel—had moved quickly across the road, three dark shapes slipping easily, one after the other, through three-strand barbed wire into Hato La Promesa rangeland.
Once inside, Oscar led off in a crouching walk, away from the road and paralleling the much more formidable barrier between the cattle ranch and the Cerro Calvario federal property—eight vertical feet of tightly woven steel mesh, topped by razor-edged concertina wire.
Oscar was excited to be back in covert action again, taking his first steps in an ambitious, if somewhat amorphous scheme. And thus far, circumstances seemed to be playing right into his hands, to the extent of providing a thick cloud layer to blot out a full moon. Somewhere off to his north, the direction from which a breeze brought the steady stench of concentrated cowflop, was the ranch house where Arquimedeo was obviously in hiding. And, along with him, Oscar was quite sure, was Jacqueline Lee, indulging her youthful rebellion and filmmaking fantasies, both at her rich father’s expense. She made a most tempting target—but one for another night.
Now, if Oscar could just locate the padlocked gate to Cerro Calvario, the one he’d watched Sam Warrender unlock on his ride with Señorita Lee several days earlier. Just when Oscar was convinced he’d missed the concealed gate in the darkness, his flashlight beam strayed upon the padlocked hasp.
He motioned to Angel, and the larger of the brothers stepped up with big bolt-cutters and sheared off the lock’s steel clasp. At the first push, the gate hinges let out a rusty protest, giving Oscar a quick scare. He hadn’t remembered hearing that when Sam had opened it. Anyone within a couple hundred meters would have heard the metal shriek. But Oscar was counting on Proteus not maintaining tight perimeter security. The company would hardly consider a bunch of irate archaeologists and academics a serious threat to their operations. As proof of this, while waiting beside his overheated truck that afternoon, Oscar had watched the fully loaded Guardia Nacional troop transport pull out of Cerro Calvario’s gate and head north.