by Len Levinson
He went to bed early that night, for he was exhausted by his peregrinations. He awoke bright and early the next morning, had a huge breakfast in the hotel, and put on a pair of jeans and a pale blue shirt. A bus took him to downtown Merida, where he boarded another bus that took sightseers to the Aztec ruins at Chichen-Itza.
The ride took an hour and a half through the jungles of the Yucatan, and then came to the vast plain on which Chichen-Itza had been constructed in 850 A.D, by “men who linked their lives to the stars.” The bus was half filled with tourists; across the aisle from Butler was an elderly gentleman in a white suit and a straw hat who looked as if he was from North America, although he had a deep tan. He was avidly reading a thick book and Butler guessed he was a scholar of some kind.
The bus stopped on the perimeter of the ancient city, and the passengers got out. Some went with a guide for a tour of the ruins, but Butler and several others cut out on their own. Butler walked amid the crumbling temples and pyramids trying to imagine the culture of warriors and priests who had lived here a thousand years ago. They had devised an accurate calendar, had mined gold, made human sacrifices to their gods and lost a bloody war to the Spanish Conquistadores. He wondered what life was like in those days, and speculated on how a spy might have operated without the complicated electronic gadgetry of today.
The sun blazed down from the sky as Butler climbed the steps of a pyramid. He wondered why he hadn’t pursued his studies in archaeology in college; if he had, he’d be better off today. He would have become a dedicated scholar like the old man in the white suit, instead of a spy on the run.
At the top of the pyramid there was a configuration of stone blocks. Butler speculated that this was probably the spot where the human sacrifices were made. It was the highest place in Chichen-Itza. Victims were probably laid down on the blocks before their heads were lopped off. If Butler had lived in those days he had no doubt that he would wind up on one of those blocks, because they didn’t have jet planes and phony bank accounts in those days.
He descended the steps of the pyramid, crossed the courtyard of hard-packed yellow earth, and entered the famous Jaguar’s Temple. It consisted of narrow passageways decorated with weird paintings of priests, warriors and wild animals. The colors were red, orange and yellow, and Butler wondered what forgotten artist had labored in these halls.
“Interesting, aren’t they?”
He turned around and saw the old scholar in the white suit.
“Very interesting,” Butler replied. “Are you an archaeologist, by any chance?”
The man adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. “How did you know?”
“Just a hunch.”
“I suppose I look like an old ruin myself.”
“No, you just look very scholarly.”
The man smiled. “It’s the same thing.”
“It’s hard to believe that a civilization was here a thousand years ago on this strange plain.”
“Civilizations come and civilizations go,” the old scholar said. “Perhaps a thousand years from now people will walk amid the ruins of Boston and speculate on what kind of people lived there.” He pointed behind Butler and said, “Look at those drawings over there. They’re very odd.”
Butler turned around and saw the figure of a man fighting with a jaguar. The man wore a crown and had a tail, and the jaguar had the wings of an eagle.
“Who knows?” the scholar said. “Perhaps in those days, at this isolated spot, men did have tails and wild beasts did have wings.”
Butler smiled. “Oh, I doubt that.”
“The world is full of strange, mysterious things,” the old man replied, touching him on the shoulder.
Butler felt a little prick of pain. The old man was smiling at him. Butler felt disoriented, as though the whole world were caving in on his head. He dropped to his knees, realizing that the old man had scratched him with a powerful drug. Warriors and jaguars flew around him just before everything went black and he pitched forward onto his face.
Chapter Ten
Through swirling mists and tumbling temples Butler opened his eyes and blinked. He was under the covers in a large comfortable bed in a darkened room, and he had no clothes on. At first he felt confused, because he had no idea of where he was or how he got there, but then he remembered Chichen-Itza and the Jaguar’s Temple. He’d walked into a trap there, and now he was here.
But where was here? Stealthily he got out of bed and peered around the room. There was a lamp next to a chair; he clicked it on. He was in a spacious bedroom furnished in baronial style. There was a desk and chair, a television set, a window covered with thick drapes. Walking to the window, he pulled the drapes aside and stared down a rocky craggy hill to an ocean. The sun was shining and waves crashed toward shore.
Something very weird is going on here, he said to himself, looking around the room. Hanging from a hook on the wall was a gray pinstripe suit that looked as though it would fit him. On the floor beneath it was a pair of sturdy black broughams of the type he usually wore, and on the dresser nearby was a white shirt and blue tie, plus underwear and socks.
There was a knock on the door. “May I come in?” asked a man’s voice.
“Sure,” said Butler.
The door opened and a man in slacks and a shirt open at the collar walked in. He had blonde hair and Nordic features. “How are you this morning?” he asked cheerily.
“What the hell is going on here?” Butler demanded.
“All your questions will be answered in due time. Are you hungry?”
“As a matter of fact I am.”
“What would you like?”
“A half-pound of tenderloin cooked medium rare, three eggs over well, two slices of whole wheat toast and a large glass of orange juice. By the way, where the hell am I?”
“In California.”
“California?” Butler wrinkled his brow. “How did I get here, and who the fuck are you?”
“I told you that we’ll answer all your questions later. And please don’t try to escape or do anything tiresome like that, because we’d find you again and it would be a waste of time. You might as well shower and shave while we’re preparing your breakfast. The bathroom’s right through there.” The blond man pointed to a door.
“Make that an extra-large glass of orange juice,” Butler said.
“How about two extra-large glasses of orange juice, just to be on the safe side?”
“Okay,” Butler replied. “It’s always best to be on the safe side. By the way, whose side are you on?”
“Once again, Mr. Butler, all your questions will be answered after breakfast,” the blond man said wearily. “See you then. Have a nice shower.”
“Same to you.”
The blond man left the room and Butler went to the toilet. He took a quick shower; then he shaved with the razor and shave cream that happened to be the brands he ordinarily used. A selection of shaving lotions was in the cabinet behind the mirror; he had no difficulty finding his favorite, slapping on a generous amount and letting it zing his skin. Returning to the bedroom, he dressed in the gray pinstripe suit. As he was knotting the tie, the door opened and the blond man wheeled in a table covered with the food Butler had ordered.
“Bon appétit,” the blond man said. “I’ll be back for you in a half hour, and then I’ll bring you to Mr. Sheffield’s office.”
“Who’s he?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. Try to be patient, Mr. Butler. Soon all your questions will be answered.”
The blond man turned and left the room, and Butler sat at the table. Removing the aluminum covers from the plates, he proceeded to dine. The meal was not as enjoyable as it could have been because of his worries about his future. He’d been well treated so far by his captors, but they just might be setting him up for something horrible. He wondered what they wanted from him, and who they were.
The blond man returned in a half hour. Butler was standing in front of the large window, looki
ng at the waves crashing against the craggy cliffs below. He had deduced that if he were in California, this particular area must be Big Sur. He recalled having driven from Los Angeles to San Francisco once and passing through Big Sur. He’d thought that the combination of mountains and Pacific Ocean comprised one of the most beautiful, dramatic landscapes he’d ever seen.
“Nice view, eh?” the blond man asked with a smile.
“Spectacular. Say, you people aren’t going to kill me, are you?”
“I seriously doubt if that will be necessary, but come along now. It’s time for your meeting with Mr. Sheffield.”
The blond man led Butler out of the room and down a carpeted corridor. Oil paintings hung on the walls; here and there were pieces of furniture in traditional styles. The corridor was quite long and there was numerous turns. Butler had the impression that he was in a large mansion and his curiosity became almost unbearable. They passed various men in business suits, who nodded in a friendly manner at the blond man and at him. These men gave the impression of being dignified and intelligent, like certain scientists Butler had met in his career. They didn’t seem to have either the characteristics Butler associated with the KGB—brutality mixed with low animal cunning—or the high powered phony brilliance that was the hallmark of the Agency. Butler realized this was the weirdest situation he’d ever been in. Who were these people and what did they want with a washed-out CIA operative and fugitive from justice like him?
They came to a door. The blond man opened it, beckoned for Butler to enter. Butler found himself in an office where two secretaries were working. One was quite young, the other a little older, perhaps in her thirties. They were both dressed and groomed with a degree of tasteful care that Butler had seldom encountered in secretaries. In fact, they seemed more like debutantes than ordinary office workers.
One of the secretaries looked over from her desk and smiled. “This must be Mr. Butler,” she said.
“It is he indeed,” the blond man replied.
The secretary stood up and held out her hand. “How do you do, Mr. Butler.”
Butler shook her hand. “Hi.”
“Mr. Sheffield is waiting to speak with you. Please go right into his office.” She pointed toward a thick wooden door.
Butler moved toward the door, then looked back at the blond man. “Aren’t you coming?”
The blonde man shook his head amiably. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Butler. You’re on your own now.”
Butler reached down and turned the doorknob, wondering what fate had in store for him on the other side of the door.
Chapter Eleven
He found himself in a large dark room. Most of the light came from the secretaries’ office by the way of the door he still held partially open.
“Please close the door, Mr. Butler,” said a man’s voice.
Butler closed the door and small spotlights in the ceiling came on, illuminating four leather-covered chairs in front of a desk. In the spill of the light he could make out the figure of a man behind the desk. Glancing around, he saw that the office was quite large.
“Have a seat, Mr. Butler,” the voice said.
Butler approached the desk and sat in one of the chairs. A man in a business suit sat behind the desk and Butler could see the man was bald, but that was about all he could tell in the darkness.
“I am Mr. Sheffield,” said the shadowy figure behind the desk. “How are you this morning, Mr. Butler?”
“Rather confused.”
Sheffield chuckled. “I certainly can understand that. The past several days have been difficult ones for you. I’m aware of all the questions you’d like to have answered, so let me proceed without further ado to give you a complete explanation. Let me begin by saying that you’ve passed a very rigorous employment examination with flying colors.”
Butler shifted position in his chair. “I wasn’t aware that I was seeking employment.”
“You weren’t, but employment was seeking you. Have you ever heard of the Bancroft Research Institute?”
“Of course. Is that who you represent?”
“Yes. What do you know of us?”
“You’re a worldwide scientific organization,” Butler replied. “You have offices throughout the world, and you do research for governments, businesses, and universities. I’ve read that you employ the finest minds in the world.”
“We do,” Mr. Sheffield said modestly.
“Then what do you want with me?” Butler asked.
“First let me tell you a little more about ourselves,” Mr. Sheffield said. “It is true that we are a scientific organization with offices located throughout the world. It’s also true that we’re extremely successful, and that we’ve done everything from designing quieter jet engines to building an entire steel industry for a developing nation. We are the foremost independent scientific organization in the world. But that is only the cover for our real activity, and to tell you what our real activity is, I must go back about fifteen years to the time the Institute first was formed.
“The Institute was organized by seven men, one of whom was me. We all had distinguished ourselves in some way in our respective fields; therefore we had met and come to know each other in the course of our careers. We soon formed a little social club and at first we gathered for good times and congenial conversation. But increasingly the conversation turned to the great problems facing our nation and civilization in general.
“We all agreed that something peculiar and sinister had happened to the political system of America. According to our Constitution, the political system is supposed to consist of a government managed by elected public officials, but in fact, as we examined our nation, we saw that it really was controlled by an elite group of big businessmen working in close association with military leaders, professors, and members of the CIA and FBI.
“How did we come to this disturbing conclusion? Because we saw that the economy of our nation, its very lifeblood, is controlled by big businessmen for their own benefit, instead of for the benefit of all. This has happened because our founding fathers who wrote our Constitution couldn’t foresee the magnitude of the coming industrial-technological age and the power it would give to businessmen, and therefore they didn’t include the economy in their system of checks and balances. As a result we now have a so-called free enterprise economy based on human greed instead of human need, an economy that has permitted an enormous concentration of wealth and power to occur among a relatively small number of people who are answerable to nobody except themselves. These people have used their wealth to buy or otherwise control most of the mass media, to finance the campaigns of their favorite politicians, and manipulate life in America and throughout the rest of the world for their own profit. Moreover, they have given high status and highly-paid jobs to the intellectuals who might have opposed them, and established an unholy alliance with the military, the intelligence community, and organized crime. The result has been that the rich have been getting richer, the poor have been getting poorer, and our great nation has fallen into a decline that may well become catastrophic in the years to come.
“At first we thought this ruling elite wasn’t organized in any way, but then, as we investigated further, we found an insidious pattern of connections among various members of the business community, the military, the intelligence services, and organized crime. We have given them the code name of Hydra, after the nine-headed dragon of Greek mythology.
“We concluded that Hydra has undermined this country in a very serious way, and has caused untold suffering. So we asked ourselves: how can we stop Hydra? We realized if we organized openly, the full power of the CIA, FBI, and the media would be brought to bear against us, and we’d be hounded out of existence. So we had to organize clandestinely. The result is the Bancroft Research Institute, which now has offices throughout the world. We’ve been able to draw into our organization people of talent, wealth and position who see the world just as we do. Many decent idealistic businessmen ha
ve helped us with funding, and our scientific activities also have generated considerable monies for our clandestine operations. We now are able to monitor the activities of our huge and powerful Hydra enemy, and we try to countervail against them wherever we can, but we are not yet able to confront them openly. We further realize that our enemy is not just domestic but international in scope, for practically every country has its own fascist Hydra conspiracy. In Communist countries the big business leadership is replaced by a political commissar class, but it’s all basically the same thing: one group is oppressing another. It’s interesting to note that Hydra mind manipulators need scapegoats upon which to focus the frustrations of their masses, so in Capitalist countries the enemy is Communism, while in Communist countries, the enemy is Capitalism. This confuses the average person, which is what Hydra wants. As long as people remain confused, they’ll never realize who their real enemies are.
“We at Bancroft fight Hydra wherever he rears his ugly head, and although we are not nearly as strong as he, we do have considerable resources at our command. We also have many of our people in strategic positions, so we know what Hydra is doing at all times. Plus we have access to information about people like you who feel basically the way we do and would be potential recruits for our organization. But before we accept any of them, we have to put them through a rigorous evaluation process. Very few pass the selection, but those who do are extraordinary human beings—as you are, Mr. Butler. I offer you herewith the opportunity of becoming a member of the Bancroft Research Institute. What do you say?”
“I don’t know,” Butler replied, looking perplexed. “I always knew there was something rotten in this country, but I didn’t realize it was as organized as you say Hydra is. It’s hard to believe than an organization like Hydra could exist.”