I looked off down the gentle slope from the visitor’s center where the Palenque Acropolis thrust its crown above the thick blanket of trees. It was stunning: bathed in artificial light, the mauve and violet and pewter of the twilit sky behind it, the dark, verdant forest huddled up to its flanks.
Felipe and Cruz both followed my gaze there. Cruz’s lingered, but Felipe’s was quickly drawn away to his watch. He rose suddenly, tossing back the remainder of his drink.
“I’ll meet you back at the airport, then,” he said. “I have a call I need to make.”
He nodded to Cruz, gave my shoulder a swift squeeze and left us.
“He’s in a big hurry all of a sudden,” I said when he’d gotten out of earshot. “I could almost feel the static electricity. I wonder what’s up?”
“If you had a jet full of contraband sitting on a public runway, wouldn’t you be in a big hurry?”
“Maybe,” I said. “But consider the position he’s in. Ted Bridges is murdered and Revez has got to wonder who done it, and if they know about the connection between the two men. I think our Felipe may be scared spitless that the wrong people know where Bridges was getting his trinkets.”
“The wrong people do know.” He made a gesture that took in the two of us.
“That’s not quite what I meant, as I think you know. How’d the data transfer go?”
He patted his pocket. “Damn. I seem to have left my PDA in the men’s room.” He’d started to rise when a voice arrested him.
“Excuse, me. Is this yours?” Greg Sheffield, decked out in his director’s uniform of T-shirt, khaki shorts, baseball cap, and Birkenstocks stood next to our table. The “missing” PDA was in his hand. “You left it in the john.”
“Ah, yes. Gracias.”
Greg smiled and touched the bill of his cap. “Enjoy Palenque.”
He moved to join Rodney at the cantina’s long bar and ordered a bottle of cerveza. After a brief conversation, the two men rose and disappeared with their beers into the dark beyond the twinkle of lights.
“The transfer seems to have gone just fine,” Cruz said, returning the PDA to his pocket.
I glanced in the direction Greg and Rodney had vanished. “Revez is gone, we could—”
“No. Stick to the plan. What would Revez think if he decided to return and found us engaged in conversation with strangers?”
“You’re right. What next?”
In answer, Cruz fished the PDA back out and turned it on. “Next, we make a trip to Villahermosa. Details to follow. Greg says we should be out driving tomorrow morning at 10:00 A.M. with my cell phone on.”
I nodded. “Cruz, about Ted Bridges—do you think it really was one of Revez’s associates who killed him?”
“Revez certainly seems to think so.” He sipped his tea, then said, “Aren’t you really asking if that’s who tried to kill Rose?”
“I guess. But look at the timeline on this. Someone—besides you—was following Rose weeks ago. Before the Blankenship looting trial. First, someone follows her—no, stalks her. Someone who wants to be seen. Whoever they are, they want her to back off from something. It seemed reasonable to suppose that it was the Anasazi looting—that someone didn’t want her to testify. Intimidation might be expected under the circumstances, but a threat on her life was way out of keeping with the gravity of that case. No one tries to avoid a few years in prison by murdering or kidnapping a federal agent. So, after the cock-up at the headlands, we reasoned that the point of the exercise might be to keep her from leading the Bridges sting.”
Cruz nodded. “And, with 20/20 hindsight, to keep her from connecting Bridges to Revez.”
“Yes. But they failed to keep her away from Bridges. And when Bridges got cocky and showed her the shard of the vase, they realized he was—what did Revez call him?—reckless, unwise, and possibly in possession of too much knowledge of Revez’s operation.”
Cruz nodded. “So, he had to die before he could cause any more damage But it was too late. Rose had already made the connection . . . or rather, you did.”
“Huh?”
“Ellen said you were the one who found the brochure connecting Bridges to Revez.”
I shrugged. “Sheer dumb luck and raging curiosity. The ‘hounds’ did all the work—the research team,” I added, at his quizzical look. “The point is: the connection was made. Rosie saw the vase. She knew what it was. And the next obvious step was for her to go to the source.”
Cruz was nodding. “Which could not be allowed.” His eyes shifted to mine. “Who knew the extent of her expertise?”
“Oh, anyone she’s taken to court.”
“Sommers. You think Sommers hired someone to keep her at bay?”
“Or pay her back.”
He closed his eyes and shook his head. “God, I hate to think . . . Archaeology should be about knowledge, about finding out who we were, so we understand who we are and who we might become. Not about . . . money, investments, greed.”
“Unfortunately, that’s part of who we are.”
“It’s not worth a woman’s life. Or even the life of a foolish and greedy man. None of it is worth that. I’d rather see every site in Mexico blown to rubble than have it cause people to do such things.”
His eyes were on the blazing summit of the Acropolis as he said it, and I had no doubt he meant every word. I was captured by the moment, by the sheer depth of emotion I read in Cruz’s eyes. If I’d met this guy before I’d known Jeremy . . .
For a split second, I felt as if Jeremy were looming over the table. You’re such a naif, little monkey. He would have said that if he’d seen the way I was looking at Cruz Veras. I shut him out, then shook myself out of the moment.
“So let’s assume for the moment that it was Sommers that wanted Rose out of the picture,” I said, bringing to mind my six honest serving-men. “Why? So that they could continue to conduct business with . . . ? With who? Bridges? Revez’s other operatives? We know they’re not in business with Revez directly. That’s what he hopes to get by doing business with my fake fiancé. You don’t suppose Sommers maybe knows about Bonampak B?”
“They know of its existence if not of its location. Revez is banking on the loyalty—or perhaps the fear—of his employees to keep that secret. There’s no way to know how justified his faith is in his own powers of persuasion.”
“So here’s some more grist for the mill,” I said. “Revez has been awfully eager to do business with my ‘fiancé.’ Obviously, a lot of that is motivated by greed, but he’s also made references to a desire to part company with his ‘associates’ and investors. I wonder if there’s more behind that than garden-variety avarice. What if Revez isn’t the one calling the shots? Or isn’t the kingpin he purports to be? What if someone else is pulling his strings?”
Cruz was nodding. “Someone he’d like to be rid of?”
“I was thinking someone he’s afraid of.”
“If they’re up for murdering a U.S. federal agent, his fears might be justified.”
I leaned in closer, meeting Cruz’s eyes. “You think someone is trying to kneecap him?”
“Excuse me?”
“Undermine him and his operation. Even ace him out of the picture. Maybe one of his investors or ‘associates’—whatever the heck that means—has as much vested interest in obscuring the black market antiquities network as Revez does.”
Cruz considered that. “You think we might have more than one actor working toward the same end? What is that aphorism—the right hand knows not what the left hand is doing?”
“Possibly. Which just muddies the hell out of the waters. More than one party may have reason to eliminate anyone who knows too much about the trafficking and is a threat to their operation. Obviously, that includes Revez. On both sides of the situation. He could be prey or predator.”
Cruz shook his head. “If Revez arranged for Bridges’s murder and Rose’s accident, he’s a pretty good actor. I think you’re right. I think he’s afraid,
and I think Bridges’s murder contributed to that fear.”
“How can we get at that?” I asked rhetorically. “How can we get Revez to confide in us—tell us what he’s afraid of?”
Cruz grimaced. “He trusts us to net him a source of funding. I doubt that runs to sharing a behind-the-scenes look at his operation. Look how cagey and vague he’s been about everything from who his investors are to the nature of his relationship with his associates to the size of his network of loyal employees. Of the two of us, I’d say you have the best chance of getting more specifics.”
I made a face and rolled my eyes. “Go, me.”
Cruz stood. “We should head over to the airstrip.”
I finished my tea and we set out across the darkened parkland toward the airstrip, arm in arm.
“Let’s assume we can connect Revez to his associates,” I said, “and that we can get even one of them to roll over on Sommers.”
Cruz’s laugh was mirthless. “You forget: Sommers is not really a dragon after all, but an alligator lizard. One that seems to have an inexhaustible supply of tails to sacrifice.”
An inexhaustible supply of tails. In the past, sacrificing a tail had meant someone lost their job or their freedom for a time. If it was now a blood sacrifice, who had raised the stakes? And why?
Chapter 19
Associates
Here’s the story.” Greg’s voice came through the external speaker of Cruz’s cell phone, sounding as if he’d been shrunk and imprisoned in the molded plastic casing. “You’re flying to meet your fiancé in Villahermosa where he will be on business. If Revez checks with the airline, that’s exactly what he’ll see—two fares in your names to Villahermosa.”
“And my little present for you, darling?” I asked.
Greg didn’t laugh, which was testament to how wound up he was about all this. “I really think you need to leave it behind, Gina. Carrying something like that could attract undue attention from the authorities.”
I glanced over at Cruz, who sat next to me in the driver’s seat of our rented car.
“But that’s the whole point of the trip, Greg,” he said. “Bringing Geoffrey Catalano proof of Revez’s find. If we leave it behind, where can we hide it that Revez won’t find it if he thinks to look? Besides, if we’re stopped by authorities, I flash my badge.”
“No, Cruz!” said Greg. “You can’t do that. If Revez has someone tailing you or if word got back to him, your lives could be even more endangered, and the whole sting would just fold up and blow away.”
“Well, not quite,” I said. “We’ve got the GPS coordinates and physical descriptions of the site. And we’ve got Revez.”
“But not his associates. These are dangerous people, Gina. Look what happened to Ted Bridges . . . and Rose. If we don’t string Revez along far enough to get him to make some connections for us . . .”
“What happened to Ted Bridges,” said Cruz, “is what’s got Revez scared. He’s made it clear he would very much like to part company with his so-called associates. I think the subtext is because this has now become a blood sport. Naturally, he’d like to know that his new partners in crime are heavyweight enough to shelter him from reprisal.”
“Okay,” I said, “so we don’t use no stinking badges. In my luggage, won’t Bird Jaguar look like a holiday curio?”
“Quite a curio.”
“Oh, come on, Cruz! Who’d believe that anyone would try to smuggle an authentic solid gold Mayan artifact out in their carry-on? They’re going to take it as a gallery reproduction.”
“How can you be sure?” asked Greg.
“With a sales slip.”
Cruz turned to look at me. “What?”
“There’s a little gallery down on the beachfront that specializes in museum reproductions of stuff like this. All we need is a sales slip from the place to go with Bird Jaguar.”
“And how are you going to get a sales slip for an authentic and unknown artifact?”
“Simple. I’ll buy something. Preferably something gold with turquoise inlay.”
Greg uttered a sound that could have passed for a grunt, or a chuckle, or a chuff of disbelief. “Good thinking, Gina. Really good thinking.”
“Thank you!” I said brightly.
“Okay, look. Get it through airport security the best way you can. Once in Villahermosa, we can meet and plan the endgame.”
Getting a sales slip was easy. The only hard part was figuring out which cute little reproduction of a “genuine” Mayan artifact would yield the best description. With Cruz’s help, I finally settled on a small statuette that was sterling silver with a gold wash and some inlay. None of it was turquoise, but I figured the sales slip wasn’t going to be that specific anyway.
I was right. The printed slip said, “God statue w/inlay.” I wasn’t sure whether “God” was a typo for “Gold” or a description of the figurine. Worked either way. I tucked the sales slip away with my copy of the Visa transaction and considered which of my carry-on bags would make the best transport for my little god-king.
Back at the hotel, there were no messages for me at the concierge and none on our room phone. I told myself that no news was good news and pumped Marianna up for lunch with Felipe.
I was positively glowing when I told him of our “glorious” good fortune. “Geoffrey is going to be in Villahermosa tomorrow morning on business, so Cruz and I are going to join him there and tell him all about the site. I know it’s early, but I think I should give him his wedding present, don’t you?”
Felipe smiled. “I do indeed. Do you think he will like it?”
“I think it’ll be the best present he’s ever gotten. The next time you see me, Felipe, I will be holding in my hands a bank draft for twenty-five million dollars and you will be the conservator of the Itzamnaaj Balam Archaeological Trust Fund.”
He laughed in obvious pleasure, and it struck me that there are things even a forty-five-year-old businessman can be giddy about.
I put down my coffee cup and pulled my face into more sober lines. “Felipe,” I said. “Forgive me for prying, but your associates—what sort of men are they?”
The laughter faded from his eyes. “What sort of men . . . ?”
“Politicians, businessmen, drug-runners, what?”
He twitched slightly and shook his head. “Why do you ask?”
“Because Geoffrey will ask. He’s going to want to know what sort of men may be vying with him for the proceeds from this venture.”
I studiously avoided looking at Cruz, whose eyes I could feel boring into the side of my head. We had not discussed this line of questioning; it was something that had come to me during a long, mostly sleepless night.
“Politicians, yes. Of a sort. Businessmen too.”
“Of a sort?” repeated Cruz.
Revez studied the abstract pattern on his plate, as if weighing his next words. “Have you heard the name Mario Torres?”
I shook my head, but Cruz was nodding.
“He,” said Revez, “is one who benefits from the work at the site.”
I searched Cruz’s face for an indication of whether this was a Good Thing or a Bad Thing, but came up snake eyes. His face was completely opaque—which I suppose should have told me everything I needed to know. He set his coffee cup down with such studied delicacy that it raised hairs on the back of my arms.
“I take it then,” he said too carefully, “that his chief interest in the treasure is how many weapons it will buy?”
“His men are well armed,” said Felipe. “Some of them have served as guards at the site. To ensure that he receives his just share.”
“And how did you fall into bed with Mario Torres?” asked Cruz baldly.
“The man who found the site was my employee. But he was Torres’s devotee.”
“I see.”
“I don’t,” I said. “What are you two talking about? Who’s Mario Torres?”
Cruz pointedly picked up his coffee cup and raised it to his l
ips, leaving Revez to do the explaining.
“Mario Torres is the very popular leader of a citizens’ group—”
“A paramilitary organization,” Cruz corrected.
“Yes, a group that came into being during the . . . difficulties in Chiapas some years ago. He wields considerable command in the region, but not much in the way of financial resources. For that he looks to many sources, this enterprise among them.”
“Are you telling me,” I asked, “that you expect your association with Geoffrey to protect you from a local warlord?” I looked at Cruz. “Geoffrey isn’t going to like that.”
“Nor will he like that Torres’s men know where the site is,” Cruz added.
Revez shook his head vehemently. “No. They were brought in blindfolded, just as you were. The only men who know where that site is are completely loyal to me.”
“Pardon,” said Cruz, “but wasn’t it one of your employees who told Torres about the site?”
“No, he did not. He did, however, suggest that Mr. Torres and I might have a mutually beneficial relationship because of his find. He was right, of course. He facilitated that relationship, in fact. Torres’s men have no idea where the site is. Nor have they been allowed into the Treasure Room. They helped us clear the outer gallery, that’s all. And they stood guard during the early excavations—until Torres was comfortable with the quantity and quality of items he received.”
“Which he deals to private buyers,” I guessed. “How does he know where to set the price?”
“He doesn’t. He is, as you said, a ‘warlord.’ He sends his trophies to the United States where they are privately auctioned to the highest bidder at prices set by experts at that end.” He leaned forward across the table, his eyes sharp, desperate. “With your fiancé’s backing, Marianna, we will be able to greatly increase the amount of antiquities we can remove from the site. There is no reason for Mario Torres to know anything has changed. He can still receive his share, divest it as he pleases—”
“He’ll know,” I said, “when the treasure trove dries up.”
Revez shrugged. “And so? He knows it must dry up, as you put it, some day. As it is, I showed you only one of three temples at the site. We have yet to do more than peek into the others. He knows of only the one.”
The Antiquities Hunter Page 21