The Mayan Legacy

by Edward G. Talbot

  “Madame President, it's a relief to have you back safely.”

  “I'm not displeased myself. Nice of you to meet me personally.”

  “It was the least I could do. But we need to debrief you right away about what happened.”

  “It'll have to wait, Linda. I'm tired and the president's job is never done.”

  She turned as if the conversation had ended, but Yarrow took a step to cut her off. “With all due respect, ma'am, it can't wait. We need to get to a secure location here on the base and do it now.”

  Richards' eyebrows shot up, and she regarded Yarrow through widened eyes. “No. We don't. I'm the President and I'm heading back to the White House. Keep it up and you might join Wartburg in the ranks of the unemployed.”

  “I might, though I suspect you'd have to fire Tim Manning first. I don't think he'd axe me just because I upset you. But if he does, the New York Times and the Washington Post will get a top secret inside source telling them exactly how two dozen Secret Service agents died in Guatemala.”

  “I could have you thrown in jail right now for even suggesting such a treasonous act. Years could go by while we build the case against you. Now step aside.”

  “Look behind you, ma'am. How many agents do you see? I've informed them about the deaths of their fellow agents. People they worked with. Cared about. Hell, even though it's against the rules, one or two of them might have lost someone they were sleeping with. Nothing's gonna happen to me unless you take out fifty people whose whole job involves being willing to die to protect a single person. It'd be easier just to get the meeting out of the way now.”

  During this exchange, the two women had moved closer, their noses eight inches apart. Tension flowed in the space between them. Breathing and heart rates increased. Six agents stepped closer to Yarrow, both protection and threat obvious in the gesture. Richards blinked once, and then smiled as if addressing an old friend.

  “Ah, I knew there was a reason I wanted you as Director. You win. Give me fifteen minutes to freshen up and make a couple calls. I slept most of the ride home.”

  Yarrow's chest still heaved, but she felt her muscles loosen. “Of course, Madame President. These agents can escort you to the room when you're ready.”

  Richards nodded and headed back towards the plane. The six agents followed. Yarrow instructed a dozen more to come with her into the hangar, to the the meeting room where she planned to extract concessions from the most powerful woman in the world.

  Fifteen minutes later, the President arrived. She'd showered and changed clothes, and aside from a slight limp due to the hip injury, no one could have guessed she'd been under heavy fire in a tropical storm only hours earlier. She sat down at the head of the table.

  “Okay, Linda, tell me what you want to know.”

  Yarrow told her to start at the beginning and describe the events of the day from the time they came under fire. Richards went through the story, making a reasonable effort to be complete, but not dwelling on any particular details. Yarrow and a couple of skilled interviewers from the counterfeiting division asked follow up questions.

  Yarrow said, “I guess that leaves one more thing. We need to make sure something like this doesn't happen again. I think it's clear that we should not have taken the trip with such limited advance planning and manpower.”

  “Clear to you maybe. But I have to think about the bigger picture. If you'd sent fewer agents like I suggested, then fewer agents would be dead. I feel bad for them, and I'll call every one of their families personally. But the risk was worth it and I'd do it again.”

  Yarrow remained silent, then took a deep breath.

  “I'm sorry to hear that. Because the Service will not be doing it again. Our charter is to protect you. But it goes beyond just you, it's the office that must be protected. You are simply not allowed to risk your life like that. The Service has never before refused to protect the President. But then we've never had one as bent on self destruction as you. If you pull something like that again, the Service will refuse, and it will do so publicly.”

  Susan Richards' veneer of control shattered.

  “The hell you will! I'm the President. I can fire every single one of you and declare anything you know about me classified. I can have all of you locked up for the slightest leak. For good. With no trial. Outside that door is one platoon of marines. Some sort of special forces designation, so secret that technically they don't exist. The kind of guys who know twenty ways to kill you with their left index finger. If you piss me off, they'll come for all of you. If I tell them to, they'll also come for your families. I don't make these threats lightly, but there can only be one person in charge.

  “I should fire you, Linda. There's only one reason I won't. And that's because I know if I do then I will have to eliminate you. And I don't want to do that. What happened in Guatemala was a tragedy. But it was of vital interest to the security of the United States that I go. You can keep your job, but we'll speak no more of this. Ever.

  “I'll pick six agents from this room to head back to the White House with me. Send whatever supporting protection you want in other vehicles. I'm walking out that door. Goodbye.”

  As she left, she passed several rows of agents standing against the walls. She pointed at half a dozen of them, and they followed her out the door. The sound of the slam echoed in the room as the last agent departed.

  The other door to the room opened. Roger Wartburg came in and sat down next to Linda Yarrow. She'd kept him outside, figuring the President was already upset enough without seeing him. He'd heard the whole debriefing and the final exchange.

  “Linda, this is impossible. You know that. Congress needs to hear about this. Maybe the A.G., but I don't know if we can trust him.”

  “Roger, listen to me. You don't attack the President behind her back. Someone always finds out, and you wind up strung up by your Achilles tendons with a two-hundred-fifty-pound CIA agent giving you a full body massage. If push comes to shove and she puts us in this situation again, I'll do what I said. The word will get out, and if she tries to arrest fifty agents, she'll find that not even the Commander-in-Chief can cover it up.

  “But there is one thing we can do now. And I'm gonna need your help. You're off the payroll, but let's set you up with a three month severance package. I need you to find out what happened. How did those guys get surprised so badly? What could we have done differently besides the obvious? And one more thing. Something you're gonna have to be careful about. More than careful even. The President's not stupid. I can't help wondering if there is some other agenda here. Maybe this was just arrogance, but maybe it was something else. I need you to find out if she contributed directly to what happened.”

  As Yarrow finished, she locked eyes with Wartburg. A provocative suggestion, but Wartburg only nodded as if it was the most normal thing in the world. “Will do, boss. I gotta say one thing. I agree with you she's not stupid. But she is absolutely goddamn nuts.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  September 2nd, 2012: Washington, D.C.

  “Send him in.” Susan Richards nodded to one of her staff. A minute later, the northwest door to the oval office swung open, and her five o'clock appointment came in. The President's head remained down, focusing on a stack of papers.

  “I'll be with you shortly.”

  She reached the bottom of the stack and looked up. “What's so urgent it couldn't wait until the next Cabinet meeting?”

  “I heard about the trip to Guatemala.”

  Richards' face showed little reaction, but her eyes narrowed slightly. “What exactly did you hear?”

  “I know my information isn't complete, but that's why I wanted to talk to you. Something about a dozen Secret Service agents killed and four Suburbans destroyed. A loss of contact with you for several hours. And the loss of two CIA agents, almost an afterthought. If there's any truth to all this, I need to know about it.”

  Now Richards stood up. Many presidents made it a point to sta
nd when guests, even regular guests, entered the oval office. Go shake the hand, have them take a seat, put everyone at ease. Richards rarely did, so the effect now was striking. She came out from behind the desk and sat on the front of it, towering over the rest of the low chairs and couches.

  “No. You don't need to know. It was an unfortunate incident that does not concern State. The Guatemalan government knows nothing more than Cimil told them, and I assure you he will have glossed over anything that might affect our relations with them. I need to remind you that this is classified, so you are not to discuss it with anyone. In fact, where did you hear about it?”

  “Sorry, Ma'am, I can't divulge my sources, even to you. We can't keep this quiet. You might possibly be safe, but if it comes out that I knew, I'll be going to jail.”

  “That's what a presidential pardon is for. Look, I kept you on when I took office because we needed some continuity. But if you tell anyone, and I mean anyone, I won't just fire you, I'll have you arrested for treason. If you talk, you're going to jail. If you don't, maybe you have a problem if someone finds out you knew. It seems like an easy decision.”

  “For you maybe. I don't see it that way. We can't have our president attacked like that and cover it up. I'm sorry Madame President, but that's the way it's gotta be.”

  He pulled himself out of the chair and in one motion walked to the door. He never met Richards' eyes. Two Secret Service agents moved quickly to him, and they left the office together. Richards remained seated on the edge of her desk, concentrating on a set of geometric shapes in the carpet. Something would have to be done. And she had just the man for the job.

  Langley, Virginia

  “Let me show you what we've managed to set up with the NSA.” Stephen Gates ran the projector, and stood at the back of the room. His bony hands clutched a remote control, never quite ceasing their movement. At six-feet two and a hundred seventy pounds, the forty-something CIA analyst would never be confused with a robust individual. Wire-rimmed glasses and a receding hairline of thinning black hair didn't help. But the Agency didn't keep him around for his good looks or physical prowess. Gates knew more about interception of secure communications than anyone else on the payroll.

  He reported to the Deputy Director for Science and Technology, and worked on projects that straddled multiple areas within the Division. In this case, his presentation covered both communications and digital security. Simon Gray and Dennis Braxton sat at the long meeting table, focused on the images on the screen.

  “This is a record of every call that came into the Guatemalan facility for the past week. Unfortunately, his land lines are buried all the way back to a well-protected government switching facility, so we have no way of knowing what was said. The satellite phone is another story. Everyone thinks that AES-256 is secure, and it's true that no one can use brute processing power to crack it. But the NSA knows about the S-boxes and P-boxes used, and so they can take the block and—”

  “In English, Mr. Gates. In English.”

  Simon chuckled to himself at the Director's words. Braxton had no patience for arcane technical details.

  “Oh, right. Sorry. The NSA can crack the codes used to keep most satellite phones secure. So we have both sides of the conversation for the satellite calls in and out of the compound.”

  “But is there anything of interest?”

  “Well, so far there are two calls where we've gotten a voice-print match. But one of them is clearly wrong, which happens sometimes with voice recognition. The FBI usually needs at least three samples before they take something to court.

  “We don't worry much about that, but we still use caution when making absolute conclusions. The one voice-print that we think is a good match was for an Agency employee. The odd thing is that the call came from within Guatemala, but the guy works as an analyst. His name is Jaime Cortez.”

  “Huh? Jaime Cortez is alive?”

  Gates' eyes showed confusion, and Simon shook his head slowly at Braxton, who cleared his throat and changed the subject. “Never mind, I know the guy. What did he say on the phone?”

  “He made only one call, lasting sixty-seven seconds. The call went to what we believe is a personal satellite phone used by either the owner or someone with a lot of control in the facility. The problem is that they spoke in a language that we do not understand. It appears to be some sort of Mayan dialect, but none of our computers or our in-house staff even know which one.”

  Simon and Braxton looked at each other. Cortez was alive? He hadn't returned to the U.S. or even tried to contact the Agency. What was he doing calling Cimil?

  “Cortez worked as a translator/analyst for us, one of the only people in the country who understood that dialect. Get me the transcripts and I'll find out if some linguist with a government grant can be persuaded to help.”

  Gates' mouth dropped open, but he closed it a second later. For the Director to take a personal interest, this had to be big, and he knew better than to ask questions. Simon saved him from wondering what to say next.

  “What about this other match, the one that couldn't be real. What was it?”

  Gates shook his head. “This happens from time to time. We know she couldn't have made the call because her schedule shows her in a Cabinet meeting at the time. But the computer was 96% certain of the match. Plus, the discussion sounded mundane, a business problem that the Guatemalan would take care of. It couldn't have been her.”

  “Just tell us who.” Even Simon's calm voice revealed a trace of annoyance.

  “Well, OK, but don't say I didn't warn you. The voice belonged to President Susan Richards.”

  An hour later, Simon and Braxton sat alone in the Director's office. Braxton removed his coat and loosened his tie, but the patina of stress lingered on his red face.

  “She won't return my calls, Simon. I haven't talked to her since Guatemala. I'm not sure what to do.”

  Simon had remained at Langley after the disaster at Cimil's compound, coming into the same office he'd shared with Jaime Cortez in the weeks before the trip. Cimil wanted nukes. Rogue elements of the Georgian government were willing to provide them. After the brief encounter in Guatemala, Simon felt sure Cimil wanted them for a specific plan related to the end of the world. But what? Even if he set them off in front of the White House, the U.S. Government would manage to regroup. In fact, citizens would clamor to join the armed forces again. Absent other compelling evidence, everyone would blame Islamic terrorists. Several middle eastern countries would once again feel the force of a U.S. invasion.

  A bad turn of events, but hardly the end of the world. There was more to this. They had missed something important. Even if Cimil remade the Guatemalan government in the image of the ancient Maya, a weakened U.S. wouldn't particularly help him. He wasn't about to invade Mexico, and if he annexed Belize, well, few Americans would lose any sleep. Simon didn't know. He dragged his mind back to Braxton's comments.

  “Well, Dennis, you could call your boss, Blanfield. But he'll just tell you the President can't be bothered. I look at it this way. She told you to find out all you could about Cimil. She hasn't countermanded that order. So do what she said. What do you need to talk to her for anyway?”

  Braxton started to speak, then stopped. He sighed and nodded. “You know, you're right. This whole thing is so screwed up, though. I'm performing a top secret investigation for the President, but now she doesn't want to know about it. OK, so we keep investigating. What do you make of those phone calls?”

  “You mean Richards calling Cimil? No clue. I sensed something on the plane, like something Cimil said caught her off-guard. I bet he told her something she doesn't want to share. But I have no idea what. Let's tell Gates to give us updates on incoming calls to that satellite phone at least once a day. We need more than one call from Richards to even think about pursuing it further.”

  “Agreed. So what about Jaime? You don't think …” His words trailed off.

  “I don't know about that one
either. Jaime is alive, I think that's clear. Or he was when he made the call. So why hasn't he contacted us, or at least gone to the embassy? I've been thinking back to when he disappeared. He fell on me right when I was most vulnerable. But those conditions were so bad that a Green Beret with ten years in could have done the same thing. There's no way he planned to go sliding down the mountain.

  “I do have one idea, though. Let's have a couple of guys from the Guatemalan station ask some discreet questions. Don't use Cimil's name, but ask about an American of Guatemalan descent appearing in that general area. See what they come up with. Let's assume the worst and Cimil knows everything Jaime knows. It doesn't hurt us—we pretty much told the bastard what we know already.”

  “Yeah, you're right. I can't believe it though. Jaime was proud of being an American. You've seen that picture in his office of the day he got his citizenship. Happiest day of his life. He couldn't be working with Cimil.”

  “Dennis, I know you served, but that was a long time ago. Good old Dubya was right when he said we live in a different world now, even though he was wrong about how to deal with it. Everyone has their reasons and everyone has their price. Maybe Jaime will turn out to be OK. But let's live by the wisest words Ben Franklin ever uttered.”

  “And what were those?”

  “Three can keep a secret, if two are dead.”

  Maryland

  “Hi William, it's me again.”

  The caller hadn't spoken in a loud voice, but the man in Washington jerked the phone away. He'd always thought that hearing your own heartbeat was just a hackneyed literary device to convey tension; now he knew it didn't go far enough. He put the phone back to his ear, his voice a whisper.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Oh it's not what I want from you. It's what you wanted from General Surguvilli. Or more accurately his handsome young friend. I called to discuss an important matter of state. You can still do that, can't you?”