The Mayan Legacy

by Edward G. Talbot

  Simon's voice remained calm and even. “To what do I owe this visit, gentlemen?”

  Mustache cleared his throat. “We'd like to talk to you. The subject is delicate, so you need to get in the car where we can ensure privacy.”

  He nodded at the two boys, who watched with the mixture of curiosity and testosterone that is the peculiar province of teenage boys and B-movie action heroes. They'd given up any pretense of working.

  Without turning, Simon said, “Boys, take the rest of the day off. I'll see you tomorrow morning at seven. Just get in the truck and get outta here.”

  Their reluctance showed in every step, but they did as he instructed. Simon waited until their truck was moving and gestured to the surrounding area. On three sides fields stretched for over a quarter mile, green shoots visible through the furrows. On the fourth side was an earthen dike, protecting the crops from the vagaries of the Connecticut River.

  “We've got all the privacy we need right here.”

  The three men glanced at each other with some hesitation. Simon detected the trace of a smile on the fourth man, who had remained a few feet behind the phalanx. Mustache broke the silence. “Well, OK. We're aware of your background.”

  He pulled out a folder and read. “J. Simon Gray, first name not specified in any record anywhere. Israeli mother and Palestinian father. Parents emigrated in the early sixties because neither culture tolerated their marriage. M.A. from Williams College, PhD from Georgetown in Political Science. Taught at UMass until 1988. Joined the Army a year before the first Gulf War and became a Ranger. Didn't make it to actual combat there, but saw classified action on several other occasions. Mustered out in 1995 and returned home angry at what he perceived as a useless war. Rejected all subsequent contact from the armed forces, intelligence agencies, and even fellow soldiers with whom he served. Has spent almost two decades as a general contractor in Western Massachusetts. Have I missed anything important?”

  Once again, Simon stayed silent. He always tried to gather his thoughts before speaking or taking action. In the Rangers, an old instructor had taught him how to use silence to gain control of a situation. Mustache didn't need an answer.

  Mustache cleared his throat. “OK, I'll get to the point. The Agency would like to hire you for your expertise, specifically your knowledge of one individual.”

  Simon shook his head. “Absolutely not. Nothing's changed since the last time you asshats tried this. Come see me when the president is not a member of either of the two parties owned by defense contractors, unions, and the energy lobby.”

  The bald man tried. “We're authorized to tell you that the individual in question is seeking WMD's. We don't have anyone who knows much about him, and we haven't been able to get anyone close. His name is Yum Cimil.”

  For once Simon's silence was not by design. He felt a hundred wind-up drummer boys dance in his gut. He knew Yum Cimil all right, and felt a brief temptation to find out more. He squelched the feeling with ruthless speed.

  It's not that he didn't ever think about Cimil. In fact, he thought of the SOB all too often. But now the CIA wanted to drag him back into both the government and Cimil's world, two places he'd run away from a long time ago. He took a deep breath through his nose. His voice stayed low and his eyes scanned the ground.

  “The answer is still no. I haven't seen him in thirty years. No way I could possibly tell you anything of value. I can't believe you'd even consider this unless … Oh hell no. Don't tell me you want me to get in touch with the bastard.”

  Mustache shifted his weight, and his eyes darted up and down. “Well, yes, that's exactly what we want. We've tried to get agents inside his company, but it hasn't worked out. We think he might respond to you.”

  Simon chuckled without humor. “Let me guess, by ‘hasn't worked out,’ you mean they wound up in body bags, right?”

  The sound of nothing but the riverfront breeze provided the affirmative answer. Simon forced himself not to listen to the voice in his head that told him to jump at the chance for revenge. “Sorry, guys, I'm not doing it.”

  He turned towards the scaffolding, surveying the space where seventeen more shingle rows would complete one wall of the barn. A deep voice made him stop. “I understand exactly how you feel. If I'd seen the DU shells and the crap on the ground in Mesopotamia, I'd probably have come home and fragged the Secretary of Defense myself. But you're missing something important here.”

  As a rule, Simon did not seek confrontation. He didn't avoid it, but he made a habit of not instigating or exacerbating it. His emotions now swirled with the twin memories of his time in the Army and Yum Cimil, and he fought to contain his anger. He turned and saw that the fourth man had spoken and moved forward.

  “And what exactly is it that I'm missing?”

  The fourth man grinned. With his dark complexion, dark hair, bad teeth and huge nose, the grin could have been scary. But the eyes softened his whole countenance. “Mr. Gray, it's simple. We know Yum Cimil is seeking nuclear weapons. We don't know the details, but we have to stop him, whatever it takes.”

  He paused and moved close enough that Simon could smell the garlic and onions on his breath. “If you work with us, you'll have two goals. One will be to find out as much as you can. The other will be to inconvenience him and generally work to bring him down. If necessary, bring him all the way down.”

  Simon stared at the grinning agent. This guy had balls all right, all but offering him the chance to kill Cimil. He oughta just say no and go back to the shingles. But he knew he wouldn't. He'd never get this kind of chance again. He allowed a smile to envelop his face, still meeting the agent's gaze.

  “Well, if you put it that way … where do I sign up?”

  The fourth agent laughed. “You just did. I gotta tell you, I feel good about our chances with you on board.”

  “Why's that?”

  “Because I have a lot of faith in the ability of a Jewish carpenter to save the world.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Simon chuckled as he packed his clothes for the trip. Like he hadn't heard the Jewish carpenter joke before. He celebrated no particular faith, but he still thought of himself as a Jew in some general sense. More than any other religion, you could feel like you belonged even if you didn't believe in any form of the divine.

  The CIA man had told him to pack for a few days somewhere within a hundred miles of D.C. Probably a rural farm in Virginia away from scrutiny. During his time in the Army, he'd run into enough spooks to learn a little bit about their safe houses in the United States.

  He thought about all previous times he'd thrown together a travel bag on a moment's notice. Especially that last time, in 1994. His squad had entered Serbia via the Dinarides mountains sometime before dawn on a frigid December day. The chances of frostbite far outweighed the chances of seeing a customs official, and no one wanted to find out whether their forged passports would withstand close scrutiny.

  The mission disturbed him. Their orders: assassinate Serbian President Slobodon Milosevic. Simon knew the man was a butcher undermining peace at every turn, but he also knew his history. An external force couldn't kill a strongman and expect a more reasonable regime to take its place. He could count on one hand the number of times such an endeavor had worked in the past century.

  Plus, everyone would know who'd done the job, no matter how skillfully they covered their tracks. But he'd never refused a mission and he wouldn't start now. Descending the icy path, he had resolved to muster out when his tour ended.

  As it happened, his squad had failed, victims of bad intelligence. Instead of Milosevic, they'd killed a look-alike employed for security reasons. They'd managed to exfiltrate back through the mountains, but the finger-pointing had started even before the debriefing. Simon's ambivalence about the outcome had weighed on him through his remaining months in the Army.

  He was done packing his bag now, and he could see the black Suburbans waiting outside his apartment. Something kept him from hea
ding out the door, though. What was he doing, getting sucked back into this? He sighed, knowing the answer but not wanting to confront it directly.

  After leaving the Army, he never looked back. He no longer had any patience for politics, not even for his prior job as a professor of political science. He joined his dad's contracting business in 1995 and hung out his own shingle when the old man died in 2001. Since then, he'd done just enough work each year to make ends meet.

  Two marriages during the past fifteen years had ended amicably enough, but both his ex-wives shared the same complaint. As one of them had put it, “You have to do more than just marry Simon to really get to know him. And I never quite figured out what.”

  Simon knew they were right. He couldn't share the muddled and conflicting emotions that bounced around his brain most of the time. He couldn't even describe the general shape of them. They didn't make him nervous or angry or sad, and they didn't keep him from living his life. As he grew older, though, he knew he was dealing with what a psychiatrist would have called “unresolved issues.”

  He didn't have much use for that kind of professional babble. Most shrinks would either give you drugs or ask you about your mother. He knew full well the root of his internal struggles. The conflict between his maternal and paternal grandparents had a role. Also, the crap he saw in the Army. But most of it went back to his college roommate.

  Yum Cimil.

  The friendship. The betrayal. Most of all, his own failure.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, as he often did when he thought about Cimil. He couldn't allow these images to overwhelm him. He tried to suck in deep breaths, but managed only shallow ones. This was why he agreed to go after Cimil. So he could finally stop avoiding the memories.

  A therapist wouldn't do it. Drugs would mask the problem. He'd tried some of that new age meditation crap and come close to strangling the instructor. That wouldn't have helped his problem or his karma. Only one thing would. Confronting Yum Cimil.

  Yeah, he was in. And if he was lucky, really lucky, he just might get to dance on the sonuvabitch's grave.

  CHAPTER SIX

  June 24, 2012: Phoenix, AZ

  Tears streamed down the killer's face. The room was immaculate, creases in the bedsheets formed with military precision. An Electrolux lay in one corner, motor hot to the touch. A bead of sweat threatened to contaminate the scene, but the killer's tongue flicked to prevent such a catastrophe. The victim reclined on the bed in eternal slumber.

  At first glance, the peaceful face evoked memories of a favorite grandmother. Her gray hair settled neatly in a blue checkered bonnet, and her wrinkle-free denim dress extended nearly to her ankles. But if you looked closely, beneath a thin layer of makeup applied with filial care, the dark splotch of bruised skin around her lips shattered the illusion. Your favorite grandmother only looked like this in your nightmares.

  The tears represented a release unattainable by any other means. For just a minute—two if Providence chose to be kind—the killer would feel complete. After that, the doubts would resume their steady assault.

  The watch beeping pierced the soundless calm right on schedule. Time to put the final touches on another masterpiece. Time to mess with their minds a bit. Time to pay tribute to the only person who'd ever cared. With almost robotic steps, the killer walked into the kitchen and stood in front of the table.

  The box of corn flakes rested on the white lace place-mat. This one had come from the victim's own cupboard, a single-serving box for a woman who lived alone. Satisfied with the prop, the killer returned to the bedroom. A trembling hand fumbled for a photograph in the right rear jeans pocket, an act made more difficult by the plastic gloves. The photograph rested in a protective sheath and the killer placed it on the bedside table.

  The killer took a deep nasal breath, closing both eyes tightly. Moving lips uttered no sound. Eyes open again, the killer bent over the picture and planted a tender kiss. The desire to make the kiss last forever was overpowering. The killer uttered five words before removing the plastic sheath. “This one's for you, Mom.”

  Thirty seconds later, the killer vanished into the 3AM darkness. The photograph remained. The face in the photograph bore a passing resemblance to the victim. But that was not its most interesting feature. The gray hair and kind eyes could have belonged to many women in their fifties. Or in their sixties with a good plastic surgeon. But this face belonged to a very specific woman. One who obviously had captured some special place in the heart of the killer. One who was known to more than a billion people around the world. This face belonged to Susan Richards. The President of the United States.

  “So we have another one?” Linda Yarrow, Director of the United States Secret Service, restated the words to be sure. Sitting in an uncomfortable chair in front of her, FBI agent Jason Andrews nodded and shifted his weight.

  “Yes, ma'am. This time the bastard struck in Phoenix. No shortage of potential victims there.”

  Yarrow shook her head. “No, I don't guess there would be. Tell me we finally got lucky and he left us a clue we can work with.”

  Andrews shifted again. Goddamn it, his left butt cheek was falling asleep. The first time he briefs Yarrow without the FBI Director and he might slide out of the chair. He tried clenching the offending muscle, praying that an unexpected spasm wouldn't start his pelvis shaking like a porn star on speed. He cleared his throat.

  “Um, yes and no. The unsub once again left bupkis behind other than a box of corn flakes and a photo of the President. But we've had a breakthrough looking into the existing evidence. Remember how all the victims are the same height and within a few pounds of the same weight?”

  Andrews used the term unsub, one of several words used by law enforcement to describe an as yet unidentified person who had committed a crime. Unsub stood for “unknown subject.” Yarrow nodded and Andrews continued.

  “Well, it turns out they were all exactly the same weight, or at least the killer thought they were. See, we found evidence that mosta' the vics had been to the doctor within a couple weeks before they died. But it wasn't all a' them, and since they're scattered all over the country, we couldn't imagine how it related to the case. So we didn't make it a priority. It wasn't 'til two days ago that someone started really scouring the records. Turns out they were all recorded as five-four, one-hundred thirty pounds at their last visit.

  “So he's gettin' his hands on some medical records and narrowin' it down to people of this exact size. Gotta be through some sorta' computer system, both due to the geographic spread and because it'd be awfully hard to go through that many paper records. We got people looking into that as we speak. We're also tryin' to figure out what's so special about those particular dimensions. I know we talked earlier about how the President is five-four and weighs a little less, and that was suggestive when combined with the pictures left at the scene. But now that we have a weight he's targeting, I don't see it. The President is a good ten pounds lighter.”

  Before he could continue, Yarrow held up her hand. She looked at the sky and shook her head. “Andrews, I may regret telling you this, but this is something you need to know. Just share it with as few people as you can—it's not classified, but it's certainly sensitive. Susan Richards does not, in fact, weigh a hundred twenty pounds. That's just for public consumption. She probably weighs something like one-thirty-five now, but at the time of her inauguration, she weighed no more and no less than a hundred and thirty pounds.”

  Andrews looked confused. He opened his mouth and then closed it again. Yarrow couldn't hide her frustration. “Christ, Andrews, do I have to spell it out? She lies about her weight. Like every other goddamn woman on the planet. Your killer is targeting women who are of identical height and weight to POTUS.”

  “Holy shit! This keeps getting weirder. But I have to ask an obvious question. How the hell did he find out her real weight?”

  “That is indeed the question. I'm gonna have to get some guys on it and see if they can find any
breach on our side. But that information is not officially classified. Honestly, there are hundreds of people—agents and spouses—who probably know. We can and will do an internal investigation of every agent, but I wouldn't hold out much hope.”

  Andrews cleared his throat. “I understand. The other thing I'm wondering is why? Is the unsub trying to taunt us and tell us that the President is a target? Or is there some other motive?”

  “From the Secret Service's perspective, we have to assume he's targeting the President. Of course, on any given day, we assume thousands of people are targeting her, so it doesn't change our approach. I'll keep you posted on what we find about a possible leak, but this is pretty much on you.”

  On me, Andrews thought. What the hell else is new? They'd assigned him to this case after the first murder, a liaison to make sure the Secret Service and the local cops couldn't claim the Bureau was holding back needed support. By the time the third murder rolled around, the FBI had taken the lead. With no clues and a threat to the Executive Branch, no one else at the Bureau wanted to run it. They said it would be “disruptive” to remove him in the middle of the investigation.

  Yeah, disruptive. More like disruptive to his career, going down as the one who failed to catch the serial killer threatening the President. He wasn't a junior agent, but his experience with serial killers was limited to minor assistance on one prior case. Fans of the Hannibal Lecter movies probably knew more about it than he did.

  “Yes, ma'am. There is one other thing I should mention. All the results from the Tampa scene have now been through preliminary tests, and we have one other possible lead. The photograph contained very minor traces of some sort of salt. The composition suggests it might be a dried teardrop. The team then looked more closely, and they've isolated what they believe are some possible skin cells that could yield DNA.”

  Silence met this revelation. Andrews shifted in the chair again and willed his posterior to cooperate. Yarrow sighed. “Let me get this straight. The killer is crying on the picture of the President? And that's gonna be the fatal flaw that brings him down?”