The Mayan Legacy

by Edward G. Talbot

  “Well, Nelson, this is the first I've heard of Mr. Cimil. Have you managed to get anyone on the inside of his company?”

  Blanfield looked uncomfortable. “Well, ah, we've got light surveillance. We did have one person who managed to get inside, but he—” He stopped, unsure of what to say next.

  Braxton didn't hesitate to finish the security czar's thought. “He ran into some problems. Most of his body turned up a few blocks from our embassy in Guatemala City.”

  Richards' eyebrows went up. “Most of his body?”

  Braxton could have killed Cortez for choosing this moment to speak up. “Madame President, it appears that the operative didn't have the heart to continue.”

  Richards looked confused, and Braxton knew that her confusion invariably foreshadowed anger. Blanfield beat him to an answer. “The body was returned with the heart removed.”

  Richards crossed her arms. “I see. But I still don't understand why we're having this emergency meeting. Surely there are many individuals around the world seeking WMD's. Do we have any more concrete information to suggest that he's closer to getting them or is more of a threat than anyone else?”

  Braxton had feared this response. Cortez had convinced him, but only after multiple sessions spent going over the information. “I better let Mr. Cortez explain.”

  “The Fifth World.” Cortez spoke quietly, but had everyone's attention.

  “Excuse me?” Powell's voice was nasal and irritated.

  “Yum Cimil fancies himself the descendant of Maya nobility. The Maya believe that we're in the Fourth World of human civilization and that it's about to end and give way to the Fifth World, the Age of Creativity. The transition involves some sort of catastrophic global event, like Noah's great flood. In the Fifth World, people will get back in touch with their spiritual selves and eventually fulfill humanity's ultimate destiny.”

  Blanfield said, “Come now, that sounds like a bunch of New Age mumbo-jumbo.”

  Cortez held out his hands, palms up, “Hey, I didn't say it's what I believe. But Maya aren't the only ones with similar views. A number of native American tribes have something similar in their religion. And even Christianity isn't far off, with judgment day and the end times.”

  Richards nodded. “Mr. Cortez is right. A lot of people believe in judgment day. But is he really the descendant of Maya nobles?”

  “I don't know. But does it matter? What matters is that he believes he is. The intercept said something about using the weapons to usher in the Fifth World. He intends to cause as much destruction as possible, with no purpose other than the destruction. Now, I'm not privy to all the intelligence we have on the typical Arab terrorist, but I suspect most of them don't intend to blow everyone up.”

  The President hesitated. “Hmm. OK people, I wanna start hearing what we're gonna do about this.”

  Braxton cleared his throat again. “Well, um, we know almost nothing about Cimil. But we do have one possible lead. Cimil attended Williams College in Massachusetts. While he was there, he befriended another student, a man named Simon Gray. Gray enlisted in the Army in 1990, and fought in Desert Storm.”

  Powell interrupted again. “That sounds promising. Anyone who volunteered for Iraq must have his priorities in order.”

  “Well, not exactly. He served for four years, but by the end he was disillusioned with the whole idea of us being in the Middle East. He left the service, and he's been working as a general contractor ever since. He's highly intelligent and very good at thinking outside the box, and we even approached him about joining the Agency a few years back. He rejected us in no uncertain terms.

  “And there's one more thing. As far as we can tell, he hasn't spoken to Cimil in over twenty years. Given how close they were in college, we think maybe they had a falling out.”

  Richards' voice rose. “I don't care about petty shit that happened in college. I care about what we can do to address the threat now. Are you saying there's no chance he can help us?”

  No one spoke. You didn't pretend to have an answer in front of this president. If you didn't know, you kept silent and hoped for the best. Braxton didn't think she expected a response.

  “I don't want to be caught unprepared like this again.” The President's voice remained shrill. “Talk to Mr. Gray. And find out everything—and I mean everything—you can about Mr. Yum Cimil.”

  As the last of them filed out of the oval office, Richards allowed herself to ponder the concept of the Fifth World. She'd heard the nonsense about the world ending on December 21, 2012 before, even remembered seeing at least one bad movie about it. Today was the first time she'd thought about the religious significance behind it, though. The Maya obviously believed that on that day, their God would make things right.

  She believed differently. Few in the world knew about her association with the Reverend Joshua M. Goldsmith. Certainly not the media or anyone in her cabinet. One Congressman knew, but then he was heavily involved. Obviously the Secret Service had an idea, since the meetings had taken place at Camp David.

  Goldsmith led the Church of the Final Question, an institution vaguely familiar to most Americans. The Church sought a low profile, but had garnered unwelcome headlines a few years earlier when half a dozen ex-members spilled all for the New York Times. Apparently three particular church leaders were treating the younger female members as their own private harem, claiming that such submission increased the chances of the young ladies surviving the imminent apocalypse. The FBI started an investigation, but then all three leaders died in a plane crash over the Sierra Nevada mountains somewhere north of Yosemite National Park. The media spotlight burned white hot for a few days, but the church closed ranks, and reporters failed to come up with more information. The disappearance of an attractive twenty-something American white woman in the Cayman Islands pushed the incidents out of the papers altogether. Only the conspiracy blogs reported it when the FBI announced the investigation closed six months later.

  Richards had met Goldsmith after that, at a party fund-raiser in New York, while she was still Speaker of the House. In contrast to the public image of a rabid cult leader, the Reverend proved a humble and engaging guest at various gatherings. His invitations had more to do with deep pockets than anything else, but hosts could count on him not to rock the boat. Richards left the place with an offer from Goldsmith to attend a meeting. Despite reservations, she had gone, and she'd heard a sermon that caused her to reconsider her own beliefs. Goldsmith had given a convincing picture of a world poised on the edge of destruction.

  After that, she attended more meetings with Goldsmith and a handful of the Church leaders. They discussed the imminent nature of God's punishment. While she served as Speaker of the House, her involvement remained a secret to her staff and fellow members of Congress. When tragedy catapulted her into the highest office in the land, she maintained an association with Goldsmith, but only managed sporadic get-togethers at Camp David. The risk was too great for more frequent contact.

  She felt certain that sometime during her presidency, obvious signs of impending doom would finally cause Americans to rediscover their faith and prepare for judgment day. Jesus would be returning soon, and the country would feel the fires of Hell if they didn't return to God. She couldn't say this publicly of course, especially not as a Democrat. But she prayed daily for something, anything to make people realize it. Goldsmith counseled patience and humility, but Richards had nearly run out of both.

  She sensed that the hand of God had revealed itself today in the form of the intelligence about Cimil. Maybe this was the sign she needed. Cimil didn't need to be right about the details in order to draw attention to the end times. Probably it would amount to nothing, but she'd keep a close watch on the Cimil investigation. America needed to wake up, and with some help from her, Cimil's plans just might do the trick.

  CHAPTER THREE

  June 23, 2012: Guatemala

  Yum Cimil stood in the shadows of the stone pyramid. The settin
g sun burned in the western sky, its rays piercing the thick foliage to focus on a spot halfway up the structure. Topping out at only forty-four feet, it was far smaller than many of the classic Maya pyramids. It would, however, prove more than adequate for Cimil's purpose on this wet summer evening.

  Cimil himself stood two inches under six feet, tall for his people. Dark curls reached his shoulder blades, mostly hidden by his headdress and mask. The elaborate headgear was nearly a yard high, fashioned from a jaguar skin. The blue-green feathers of the sacred quetzal bird covered the skin, giving the impression of a flock of birds moving with every shake of his head.

  His arms and legs represented the only visible parts of his copper-colored skin, beads of sweat soaking his sinewy muscles. The rest of his body was adorned with a costume representing the Maya World Tree, covered with complex designs whose full meaning had disappeared over the centuries. To support the weight of the whole thing, especially the headdress, most rulers had traditionally placed boards through the back of the costume. Cimil prided himself on forgoing such indulgences, and had trained himself to bear the burden without additional assistance.

  If shown a picture of his face, most Guatemalans would could have recognized Cimil, thinking him a member the government. Few knew his true business, which was fine with him. Yum Cimil possessed great riches, but he considered his true wealth to be the tradition which he continued tonight. As he thought about the future, his hands tingled with anticipation.

  A hesitant voice carried through the shadows. “K'uk Ajaw, it is nearly time.”

  Cimil saw the diminutive figure of his friend approaching. The royal honorific, K'uk Ajaw, meaning “Quetzal Lord,” created a certain amount of distance between the two, but to them it was all part the greatest culture in history.

  “Thank you, Yajaw. My mind can wander on nights like this.”

  The smaller man nodded, and a small smile formed on his face. His parents had named him Juan rather than choosing a Mayan name, and Cimil's respectful use of the noble title, Yajaw, helped ease the shame he felt at their choice. He turned to leave.

  “Wait.” Despite not raising his voice, Cimil's words carried the unmistakable tone of command. He put his hands on Juan's shoulders.

  “Tonight you receive a great honor. One that our people have traditionally bestowed on only the most worthy families. Let your heart be strong and let your will be like the trunk of the World Tree itself.”

  Juan bowed almost imperceptibly, face trembling with emotion. Then he disappeared under the stone arch of the doorway.

  Cimil followed, but stopped under the arch. He saw the mass of people gathered in the courtyard below. His countrymen. No, more than that, his clansmen, who still believed in the ancient rituals and the ancient truths. They were here tonight for him, to celebrate the K'atun, the twenty year anniversary of his ascension to the throne.

  The position was ceremonial. As the Lord of the Maya, Cimil ruled no territory and commanded no army or treasury, save for the personal fortune he'd amassed using entirely modern methods. A millennium ago, each city-state had a leader who sought to dominate as much of the surrounding land as possible. But in recent centuries, with their numbers reduced almost to extinction, the remnants of the once proud culture had unified in recognizing a single bloodline as their royalty. Upon the death of his father twenty years earlier, Cimil had become their leader.

  He took one more step, and emerged from the arch to face the crowd. The sounds of two thousand voices resonated through the jungle, volume rising with his appearance. Nearly nine feet tall in the costume, and bathed in the eerie light of a dozen huge lanterns surrounding the altar, Cimil appeared from below to be the Sun God himself. And that, after all, was the point.

  He raised his outstretched hands to shoulder height, and all human sound stopped. One minute they were clamoring for their leader, and the next, silence. He took two steps forward, shins now within centimeters of the low stone slab. Chacs, elderly priests there to appease the rain god, stood at each of the slab's four corners. To the side stood the Chilam, the shaman who would receive divine messages during the ceremony. On the slab lay a woman with dark hair and brown eyes, her wrists and ankles bound loosely with knotted vines.

  Her expression showed only a drug-induced blankness. She wore no clothing, and her brown skin was covered with the traditional Maya Blue paint. Through the mask in his headdress, Cimil caught her eye for a fraction of a second. He was sure she had smiled. He turned to the man next to him.

  “Let us begin.”

  The man nodded, reached towards the ground, and picked up the sacrificial ax. He was the Nacom, whose traditional role could trace its origin back over 1500 years. Cimil's vanity urged him to wield the ax himself in a show of royal power. But he would never have strayed from Maya custom on a matter as important as this.

  Time seemed to stand still during these ceremonies. Maybe it took twenty minutes, he really didn't know for sure. Soon enough, the Chacs leaned over the edge of the slab and pushed down the woman's arms and legs. The vines kept her in place, but tradition dictated their actions.

  The Nacom lifted the ax past his left hip and shoulder until it balanced somewhere above him. The ax featured a six inch blade of black onyx. Surrounded by intricate carvings, the blade had been sharpened until even a thin wisp of cloth would split when dropped on it. The lanterns, burning with real flames even in this age of electricity, reflected their light off its glassy surface. The silence in the courtyard below broke as gasps escaped from the more excitable of the assembled masses.

  With blinding speed, the ax moved.

  Cimil felt his pulse throbbing in his ear, the carotid rhythm threatening to drown out all senses. The noise from the crowd grew louder, but by the time they registered with Cimil, the ax had completed its assigned task. The blade sliced through the muscles, bones, and spinal column of the girl, separating her head from her body in one clean stroke. With barely a pause, Cimil picked up the head by the hair and raised it high. The roar from below shook the pyramid like a tectonic shift.

  An hour later, Cimil sat on a stone bench in a dark room deep inside the pyramid. His costume lay disassembled on the floor, and he wore only white boxer shorts. Next to him on the bench sat his friend, whom he now addressed by name instead of the formal Yajaw.

  “Juan, I know your heart is heavy. But it should also be joyous. I only hope someday I will have the same honor that you received tonight.”

  Juan's eyelids trembled with emotion, and the tears began. Cimil put an arm around his shoulders, and they shared a silent remembrance of the departed.

  “Yum, it is a great honor, but still I am sad. How shall I bear it?”

  “Juan, Juan, you are my oldest friend. I watched her grow into a wonderful young woman, and I too feel the pain. But the end is near, and this was the most important step yet. You will forever be remembered for sacrificing your daughter to usher in the Fifth World.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  June 23, 2012: Hadley, Massachusetts

  Simon Gray's back muscles glistened in the mid-afternoon sun, and shook with each report of the nail gun. The head of a nail disappeared beneath the surface of the cedar shingle, and the piece came away in his hand. Turning, he yelled down from the scaffolding to two young men applying wood filler to the trim boards. Boys, really, not men, both sons of local farmers. They'd soon be entering their senior year at Hopkins Academy, the local high school. They did fine with close supervision, but Simon wouldn't even have put someone else's money on both of them matriculating.

  “How many times I gotta tell ya, turn that shit down to fifty-five after you put up a board.”

  The bigger of the two hurried to adjust the compressor. “Sorry dude, we just forgot.”

  Knowing the futility of a further response, Simon grunted as he went back to nailing. Why Jim Collins wanted to pay the wages of a master carpenter to shingle the side of an old tobacco barn would remain a mystery. But Simon didn't often turn do
wn work.

  He'd regained his rhythm when he heard the growl of big engines in the distance. Thirty seconds later, the sound had morphed into a pair of black Suburbans roaring down the bumpy dirt road. He continued with his task, but one part of his brain took an inventory of the possible reasons for the visit. No explanation had more appeal than a root canal. Without anesthetic.

  The trucks stopped, and two men emerged from each. They stepped into the cloud of dust generated by the abrupt braking, and began wiping their dark suits with their hands. Simon's face remained impassive as he climbed down the scaffolding, but he noted the two huge vehicles for just four men. Tools, he thought, no one wanted to ride in back. Probably fought like sorority girls over who got to drive. They clearly came from some government agency, one of the myriad of alphabet soup operations reporting to the National Intelligence Czar. Not the FBI, though, a little too in your face for the feebs.

  Before he could get close enough to extend his hand, the only man with a mustache took off his sunglasses. “Simon Gray?”

  Simon nodded, and Mustache continued. “We'd like to have a word with you if you don't mind.”

  Simon didn't speak, just let the silence drag out. Another agent—he was thinking of them as agents now—stepped forward. “We're with the Agency.”

  This guy stood next to Mustache in the classic aggressive positioning. Simon struggled to hold back a chuckle at the shaved head. On Michael Jordan, bald was cool. On a thirty-something Caucasian with a bulging midsection and a bad suit, it was comical.

  The third man now moved, forming the predictable half circle around Simon. Two of the three stood taller than Simon's five feet nine inches, but this was all psychological. A good man with a gun in his waist could take out all three in less than a heartbeat.