The Mayan Legacy

by Edward G. Talbot

  “In any case, now I need to hear about the delivery. Arveladze?”

  Gonzales made a habit of addressing them by only their last name, with no honorific. He surely knew the insult this represented. Arveladze put forth a practiced neutral expression when he answered.

  “We will deliver three weapons to Guatemala by mid-October. We have arranged for two of our people to be involved with the transit. They are Uighars, a group few would associate with our government. As long as you deliver the alternates, we can manage the switch without any problem.”

  “We will deliver the alternates.”

  One sentence. Arveladze had to admire his direct manner of speaking. He couldn't stop wondering about the man.

  Gonzales had flown in from Paris on a plane owned by the Georgian government through a shell corporation. His Peruvian passport showed that he had entered France via the port of Marseilles. He'd volunteered no additional information, but the Georgian Secret Service had conducted a vigorous search in Paris and found no reason for concern. He'd flown into a private airstrip outside the Georgian capital.

  Normally, meeting with such a secretive and unknown individual would have been out of the question. But Gonzales—or whatever his real name was—seemed to have an almost supernatural knack for making his case. The first phone call had come to Arveladze himself during a Cabinet meeting. The secretary who put him through was duly fired, but could not explain why he had violated the orders not to disturb the meeting except for an emergency. The loss of face for Arveladze was tremendous, and the man's first words shocked him to the core. “Don't hang up or the next call will be from your mistress.”

  A Cabinet member with a mistress wouldn't raise eyebrows. Arveladze's lover, however, was the daughter of a fellow member, and that would have raised a lot more than eyebrows. Perhaps a firing squad. So he put the call on speaker-phone, willing his cheeks not to redden.

  “Someone has a message for all of us.”

  Gonzales had offered Georgia a proposition so outlandish on its face that the President terminated the call before anyone could react out loud. After hanging up, the anger had turned on Arveladze, who'd felt like he was experiencing his own execution. Gonzales had said that “his people” wanted to have some space in the Americas to spread out. The plan involved nuclear weapons, the Republic of Georgia, and a renegade businessman in Guatemala. And that wasn't all of it.

  After the meeting, the President had taken Arveladze aside for a private conference, and demanded to know why he had put the call through. He hadn't even managed a good lie, but deception turned out to be unnecessary. The President wondered aloud if perhaps his mistress was clouding his judgment. Arveladze had nearly swallowed his tongue. With resolve he didn't know he possessed, he'd forced his voice to remain calm and said that the caller had mentioned his mistress. The President had nodded, an almost absent-minded gesture. Then he'd told Arveladze that if Gonzales called back, he was to follow up. Now he sat in this meeting.

  “Arveladze, I understand that this seems insane to your government. True change always does at first. And I know how the manner of my initial contact affected you personally. You need not worry. Georgia will be a dominant power in the new age.”

  Arveladze's breath caught in his throat. It was as if Gonzales could tell exactly what he was thinking. The small man's words provided no comfort, however. Summoning all of his discipline, Arveladze exhaled.

  “Mr. Gonzales. My government is committed to the agreement. Whatever reservations we may have, they will not stand in the way. As you say, true change requires truly bold moves.”

  He didn't believe his own words. None of it was true, but circumstances demanded that he play along. Gonzales smiled with an almost paternal expression. At least twenty years younger than Arveladze, his eyes nevertheless were windows into an ancient soul. For a moment, Arveladze felt reality shift. The table, the room, even General Surgulvilli disappeared, all replaced by a single image. The face of Ronin Gonzales. He felt powerless, lost in the connection with the younger man. The sensation was so foreign that he couldn't even form a thought.

  Then it ended. No rush back to the present, just a shift as if the momentary lapse had never occurred. Shaken and unsure, he dared not speak. Surgulvilli seemed unaware of what had happened, but Gonzales … Gonzales obviously knew.

  “So we will proceed as planned. A nuclear threat from a rogue madman will be very effective at focusing the minds of the Americans. The opportunities to fill the void will be almost limitless. Oh, and I need to inform you about one more element of the plan that has only recently become feasible.”

  Surgulvilli cut him off. “Something else you haven't told us? Why am I not surprised?”

  Gonzales' gentle face mostly matched his words, but Arveladze could see his eyes tighten a fraction. “General, I am well aware that you are not happy with me. You are of course free to withdraw from the arrangement. You could even go tell the Americans. That's the beauty of free will.”

  The tone of the last two words left little doubt about the drawbacks of free will. For once, Surgulvilli was speechless. Gonzales continued.

  “As to the other element of the plan, I think you'll both agree that it will serve us well. Let me tell you about President Richards and her church.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  August 6th, 2012: Washington, D.C.

  Historians would later marvel at the sheer balls of the first female president. Since the McKinley assassination, the Secret Service has protected the president. And while the Secret Service has authority over all matters concerning Executive protection, the fact remains that the president appoints the Cabinet member to whom the Service reports. What Susan Richards did on that humid August day in Washington put to rest any doubts about who controls the Secret Service.

  “Roger, I assume everything's all set for the trip. We're only gonna be in Guatemala for a few hours so we won't need much of a detail.”

  Standing in the President's private study, Roger Wartburg struggled to contain his groan at her words. He'd served as head of the President's security detail since she'd taken the oath of office, and rarely a day went by that he didn't have to back down on a significant issue related to her protection. A correlation between time spent on the ground and the number of agents needed was absurd. But he was used to it by now, and his respectful answers usually elicited a modicum of cooperation.

  “Ma'am, we should be all set. We've had a team down there for a few days checking everything out. But Cimil wouldn't give them complete access, and I got word this morning that now he won't let them in at all. He's blocked them down at the bottom of the dirt road. We're gonna have to take a larger team to make up for the unknowns.”

  She looked him in the eyes, a scowl forming. “I told you we just need a few agents. It's a private residence in the mountains, not a place with the public hanging around.”

  “I know, ma'am, but Cimil is an unknown. We need to counter that with numbers.”

  “The whole trip is highly sensitive and he demanded a minimal presence. Did your people find any sign that he's planning something?”

  “No, ma'am, but—”

  “Then the order stands: a minimal presence.”

  She turned and headed for the oval office. Wartburg nodded to two agents to follow her, and pulled out his cell phone. Another impossible task, but as usual he'd check in with the Director. Together, they'd come up with something that could minimize the risks. But the memory of the coordinated killing of the President and the Vice President a year earlier never stayed away for long. Even with cooperative principals, they had failed. And Susan Richards was a long way from cooperative.

  Richards entered the oval office and the three men present rose from their seats. Like most presidents, Richards had redecorated the room. She'd tried to match a lot of the style of the original design created for William Howard Taft over a hundred years earlier. She chose a softer green, but maintained the classical lines and simplicity of Nathan Wye
th's 1909 work. It had the effect of transporting the occupants back to another era.

  Going through the west door from the study made for the most dramatic entrance, and she took advantage of it now. “Time to head to Andrews, gentlemen. Did you pack your toothbrushes?”

  Braxton protested. “I thought we were only staying a few hours. What—”

  Cortez erupted in a guffaw, cutting off his final words. “Boss, she was having a little fun at our expense. Right, Madame President?”

  “Looks like your friend is an expert on more than just the Maya, Dennis. You need to lighten up. I have no doubt the world is ending, but not today. Not even tomorrow. Now all of you have a seat.”

  Simon hadn't smiled at the banter, but his eyes showed a weary amusement. “So Madame President, do we have an advance detail inside the compound? It'd be nice to have some people on the inside when we get there.”

  “That wouldn't be a very good idea, Simon. I can call you Simon, right?”

  This proved a rhetorical question, and she continued. “Cimil's not gonna be too happy with a bus-load of agents descending on him.”

  Simon put a hand on Braxton's shoulder and met the older man's eye with a slight shake of his head. Braxton's face reddened, but he remained silent. Simon turned to the President and spoke in a low voice.

  “I think that's a mistake, Ma'am.”

  Richards' eyes grew wide for an instant, a brief moment of unconscious surrender to what Freud called the “id.” In this case, the instinct to react with aggression. But a lifetime of politics determined her measured response.

  “You too? So does the head of my detail. Fortunately neither of you gets to decide. You were on that phone call, you should know better. Cimil only agreed to meet with us because my presence feeds his lust for power. Throw in a full-court press by the Secret Service and he could easily change his mind. I won't risk that. To him, this is just a big game.”

  “With all due respect, ma'am, I agree with you about his desire for power. But you're very wrong about one thing. He doesn't think it's a game at all. Imagine the polar opposite of a game. That's what Cimil thinks this is.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  August 6th, 2012

  The lean body moved without a sound. The pale skin of the face, shoulders, and back glistened as the rising sun illuminated the small room. Arms and legs whipped back and forth at blinding speed, but the woman's core remained stationary and balanced, a testament to Newton's Third Law. The ripples of muscle on her abdomen were highlighted by the sweat, almost grotesque in their exaggerated definition. Her arms and legs displayed similar development, but without the bloated size of a body-builder. She'd been called a female Bruce Lee, and though not given to self-congratulation, she enjoyed the comparison.

  Every day for the past ten years, she had practiced the same forty minute routine. As a young woman, she'd tried almost everything related to physical fitness. Yoga, jogging, cycling, and a myriad of other activities had come and gone, but the art of Jeet Kune Do had stayed with her. Jeet Kune Do consisted of an attitude and an approach rather than a well-defined series of movements. Not only had she developed the actual maneuvers of her routine, the series changed somewhat every time she worked out.

  She usually practiced early in the morning. She was not a creature of habit in most things, but her body best opened to the movement after a restful six hours of sleep. To further remove any possible restrictions, she always performed her Jeet Kune Do exercises nude unless fighting an opponent.

  Her green eyes blinked as she moved. The eyes, the pale skin, and the muscles she worked so diligently to maintain were distinctive characteristics, a disadvantage in her line of work. Andrea Schmidt was a professional killer.

  Masking her appearance proved simple. Blue-grey tinted contact lenses served the dual purpose of covering up her unusual eyes and blending in with the pale skin. A light blonde hair coloring complemented the contacts and skin, presenting an unremarkable appearance. She could do little about the muscles except wear full length shirts and pants, which she always did in public.

  Unlike many who shared her vocation, Andrea did not simply accept a contract, fulfill it, and then disappear. She preferred longer term contracts, working solely for one group, or preferably, one individual. This helped avoid the risks associated with finding a new contract.

  Although the business relied on word of mouth, no one went around bragging about what a good job their hired killer did. For a year or two after leaving the service, Andrea had tried the single contract route, and it wasn't for her. Each contact for a new assignment represented a massive risk of exposure. She instead sought out situations requiring long-term work. This meant taking on additional roles, including bodyguard, security analyst, and sometimes even chauffeur. She enjoyed most of these ancillary functions, but at heart, she was a killer. Without question one of the top in the world.

  Other killers, such as the infamous Carlos, basked in the aura of their notoriety. Andrea had over a hundred kills to her credit without a failure, but no police authorities of any nation even suspected that a single person was responsible. True masters moved in silent anonymity.

  At least one other unusual trait impacted how she did her job. Most killers fall into one of two categories. The first is the cold professional who plans and executes the hit with no emotion and no concern for the nature of the target. The second is the emotional killer, who truly enjoys the taking of a life. Andrea felt no release, no enjoyment when she made her kills. In fact she felt nothing. She was good at it, and that was enough. Unlike the first category of killer, she did think about targets. She didn't kill people she considered innocent. A rival of her boss who engaged in a variety of criminal activities, sure. But that rival's unsuspecting family remained off-limits. Most politicians were legitimate targets, as few had clean hands.

  This limitation made her choice of employer all the more important. Her current boss didn't require anything that bothered her conscience. But in recent months, she'd sensed a reticence in him, as if he was holding back something she needed to know. She didn't feel quite ready to confront him about it, but she knew the day would soon arrive. In the meantime, she had a job to do.

  She completed her exertions and, still naked, padded to her hotel window overlooking the Plaza de Armas. The majesty of Latin American architecture greeted her, and from this window she could almost see the bedroom of the man she had come to kill. Less than an hour from now, the man would die. Twenty minutes after that, she'd board a sea plane headed for a ship in international waters. A few hours more and she'd return to Yum Cimil's compound. The world would contain one less deputy defense minister. A man who'd screwed Cimil one too many times by disputing payment for an off-the-books arms shipment.

  She stretched her arms towards the ceiling and closed her eyes. For one brief instant, she could have been a suburban housewife ending her yoga video. Yes, being a woman in a man's business proved a big advantage. No one ever suspected the soft-spoken Andrea. She had one final advantage known to only one other living person besides herself. Andrea Schmidt had been born a man.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  August 6th, 2012

  Ironically enough, Andrews Air Force base was built around a church. Located a few miles outside Washington D.C. in Maryland, the base has a long history. During World War Two, it served as headquarters for the Army Air Forces, the predecessor to the modern Air Force. During Vietnam, thousands of returning troops got their first taste of home at the facility. Over the years, countless dignitaries and world leaders have landed there.

  Of course, it is best known for one thing in particular: serving as the home airport for the President of the United States. As a military base, Andrews is inherently secure, far more so than nearby Reagan International. While many members of the media and public have access for limited events, their movements are rigorously controlled. Without the approval of the Secret Service, no one gets anywhere near the president's plane, Air Force One.


  Air Force One is not a single plane of course. Of the two customized Boeing 747-300's, whichever aircraft the president is on becomes Air Force One. The Secret Service and the military monitor the two huge planes with a diligence bordering on the obsessive. They don't even trust each other. Paranoia is apparently effective, because no one's ever come close to obtaining unauthorized access. At least, that's what the public record shows. On this day, the President's voice carried across the runway as she headed toward the plane.

  “It's not happening, Roger. Just forget about a Normandy landing and start thinking like a Special Ops commander. Not spooking our host is a matter of national security.”

  “As is your well-being, ma'am. We can't go in there with only a couple Suburbans and eight agents and expect to keep you safe.”

  “Bullshit. This isn't Baghdad, it's a secluded compound. The SUV's, that's it. Now let's get going.”

  Years of late nights and sweating over minute details flashed through Roger Wartburg's brain somewhere below conscious thought. Contrary to the images in popular media, the work of a protection agent is mundane in most ways. But there's a constant pressure stemming from one simple fact—you can never, ever be wrong. An impossible standard. It proved too much for Wartburg on this sweltering August day.

  “No! We'll be bringing in a full ground team and proper security. My job is to keep you alive and I intend to do that with or without your help. I need to go see to the other planes.”

  He turned, showing Richards his back, but didn't move any further. She watched him for only a second before taking out her cell phone and opening it with a click loud enough for Wartburg to hear. She pressed a single digit.

  “Get me Director Yarrow. It's an emergency.”