by CJ Lyons
“According to media conjecture. The government has always denied it, and no witnesses or other proof have been found.”
“Conjecture from the media and the Catholic church and the UN’s commission. And of course they deny it. If half the things they’re accused of are true, it makes Gitmo look like a trip to Baskin-Robbins.”
“That’s all ancient history. What’s it got to do with a missing college student?”
“I think that in exchange for their cleaning up the mess, Alvarado and his second-in-command—a Dr. Carrera—were allowed to keep the prison. And the prisoners, plus whoever else they dragged in or that the government wanted disappeared.”
“You think U4 is still in existence? Without a word? After twenty years?”
“Only it’s not U4 anymore. It’s now the Clínica Invierno. I think Alvarado fled here to the U.S. and set up his biotech firm to take advantage of the one thing U4 had plenty of—too much of, in fact.”
Yates frowned. “What’s that?”
“Body parts.”
Yates bounced forward in his chair. “Wait a minute. You think the U.S. government gave Alvarado entrance to our country so he could get rid of the evidence of his war crimes? And he made a fortune doing so?”
“Think about it. BioRegen has been the forerunner in the business, always able to meet the demand of medical researchers and hospitals without any problems. Until recently, at least. Most of the tissue they use can be stored for years under proper conditions. He and his second-in-command, this Dr. Otto Mendez Carrera, were sitting on a fortune. All they needed to do was slice and dice and set up a legitimate front here in the U.S.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” Yates thought hard. “Although, it would explain the lack of forensic evidence when the UN investigated the Kaibiles. So you think U4 is still functioning?”
“I think the whole thing has been whitewashed. Changed into a psychiatric clinic run by Alvarado’s former second-in-command and medical officer. Dr. Carrera. Who better to continue to supply the parts they need than psych patients who can’t defend themselves and no one would believe if they ever talked?”
“What you’re describing, it’s something out of a science fiction novel—no, a horror movie.”
“Soylent Green is people, I know. But look at the Kaibiles’ training—they were taught that nothing stood in the way of achieving their objective. That anyone not a Kaibiles was inferior, inconsequential. Look at the atrocities they’ve been accused of. Almost a quarter of a million people vanished. Other than a few mass graves, no trace at all. Makes the Nazi’s SS look like a bunch of Girl Scouts in comparison.”
“I still don’t understand why someone is targeting Alvarado and his family now. Why wait twenty years?”
“I don’t think it’s someone from his past in Guatemala. I think it’s someone from his present. Someone who received tissue tainted with Creutzfeldt-Jakob. Or more likely, a loved one who had to watch them die.”
Jake explained about the disease and its cannibalistic origins and the devastating consequences. Yates considered. “This Julia, you said her dad was out of the picture, could he be behind this?”
“I haven’t been able to track him down. The CDC says there have been a few more cases than usual of CJD. It’s one of those diseases that’s always cropping up here and there sporadically, so it’s hard to know for sure when to worry. They said it hasn’t reached the level of clinical significance yet, but promised to follow up.”
“You’re not here to ask for the resources to track down each of those patients and their families.” Yates made it sound like a statement, not a question.
Caitlyn had said Yates was no dummy. “No, sir. I’m not. If someone’s after Alvarado, he’s already in Guatemala.”
“Tierney can take care of herself.”
“Yes, sir, she can.” Jake waited.
Yates tapped the tips of his fingers together. “Reading between the lines and given how easy it was for him and his family to gain citizenship, Alvarado was probably a CIA asset.”
“Then, if I’m right, State and the CIA will try to cover all this up. Leaving Caitlyn out there with no one watching her back.” Jake stood. “There’s a direct flight to Guatemala City from Dulles. I can be there by dinner.”
“And from there to Santo Tomás?”
“I’ve got a few ideas.” Not exactly regulation travel plans—the Assistant Director was better off not knowing the details.
“All right, I’ll push the paper through. You can go. If the U.S. Attorney approves it. Last thing I need is more grief from Justice.”
“No problem, sir. Already taken care of,” Jake lied. He reached across the desk and shook Yates’s hand. “Thank you, sir.”
“I’m going to tell you the same thing I told Tierney. Whatever shit comes down, I need the Bureau to come out smelling like fucking roses. I don’t care if you have to leave Alvarado and his daughter behind—it was his decision to go there and ditch Tierney, we can spin that. But I can’t spin two agents getting blamed for creating civil unrest in a country we’re trying to forge a partnership with. Sometimes the past is best left buried.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Lunch was sumptuous, and Maria ate with what her mother would have labeled unladylike gusto. Michael didn’t seem to mind; she caught him watching her several times during the meal. And his father smiling at both of them.
After the plates were cleared, Dr. Carrera insisted that Michael return to the wheelchair. Michael rolled his eyes but cheerfully obeyed.
“Maria, let me show you the sights,” he said, steering the chair into a tight 360 that made Helda jump back.
“Only the house, Michael,” his father cautioned. “No further than the courtyard.”
Michael and Maria left the dining room, the wheelchair humming as it crossed the terrazzo floors leading down the hall to the rear of the house and out into a courtyard in the center of the U-shaped complex. There was a pergola style roof overhead, supported by columns covered in beautiful exotic flowers, a cheerful fountain at the center, and a view of both the mountains and the lake. The far side opened onto a garden, and beyond it she could see more of the large clinic building. It was three stories tall but very long and sat at an angle to the main house. Despite its cheerful yellow paint and many windows, all with wrought iron scrollwork covering them, it seemed forlorn. Maria was glad when Michael positioned her with her back to it.
“This is where I do my best work,” he said. “I missed it so much during the months I was trapped inside.”
“I’m sorry you were so ill,” Maria said cautiously. She’d been lucky; she’d never been seriously sick, and neither had her parents or any friends. Once she had a teacher who left school early in the year because she had cancer—the kids had a fund-raiser and made T-shirts and a video for her. That was the closest brush she’d ever had with mortality. Until seeing Prescott killed.
“And I’m sorry you’ve had to witness such awful things since you arrived here. I wish I was healthy enough to take you on a true tour of our secluded paradise.” He waved a hand to indicate the mountains looking down on them.
“I just hope Professor Zigler will still let me work with him. I discovered the most amazing thing, analyzing his satellite images. I still can’t believe that there’s an entire temple hidden by the jungle. And no one’s ever found it before.”
He looked at her, confusion in his eyes. “The temple? It’s not far if you take the trail through the mountains on this side of the river.”
“But—I thought it was lost.…” She stumbled over her words in her confusion.
“Not to us. Or the Maya who live here. The jungle has overtaken it, so it’s hidden from outsiders. But we’ve always known about it.”
She frowned. Why hadn’t the doctor told anyone? An educated man like him would understand the potential, the importance of such a discovery.
“Please, don’t frown,” Michael said, spinning his chair again and mak
ing a clownish face until Maria smiled once more. “There, that’s better. I wish my father would let me take you there, to the temple. There are stone heads taller than me on either side of the path leading to the entrance. And where the water broke through after the earthquake, you can find shards of jade and even gold. Oh, and there’s this beautiful mural painted on the inside walls in shades of the most fantastic turquoise blue and scarlet and brilliant yellows—”
She sat down on a stone bench. “Why haven’t you and your father shared this with the world? Think of the history we could preserve. It could be the key to unlocking secrets lost by the Maya centuries ago.”
“That’s what I tell my father. But he insists the temple is holy and should be left alone. In fact, ever since the earthquake when I found those shards of jade and gold—and even some bones, I think they were human—he’s forbade me from returning.”
“But your father is a man of science. Surely he understands the value of a site like the temple.”
“He’d argue that its value to the Maya who live here is more important. After all, who is this professor of yours that he can suddenly come and ransack their sacred temple?”
Maria jerked her chin up at that even though Michael’s tone wasn’t angry or rebuking—more as if he enjoyed debating. “Professor Zigler is world-renowned. And the government gave him a permit—”
“That’s not the same as permission from the people who live here.”
She squinted into the sun, staring at the jungle that she’d come through during her flight for her life. “Those men. The ones who killed Prescott—could they have been Mayans? Upset by the dig?” Her lip quivered. “So, if I never found the temple and told Prescott and the professor about it…”
Michael left his chair to sit beside her, placing his arm around her. “Maria, don’t. You can’t blame yourself. Please, don’t cry. Maybe it’s fate. Finally time for the world to see the secrets buried at the temple. That wouldn’t have happened without you.”
He held her for a long moment until she pulled herself together. She was glad her father wasn’t here to see her break down. Finally she sniffed and sat upright. He tilted her chin up high.
“There. That’s better.” He returned to his chair, watching her and instructing her to shift her body as he composed his picture.
“Do you have any paintings or photos of the murals inside the temple?” she asked, longing to see the treasure she’d worked so hard to find.
“No. I went back to school and then got sick soon after so I never had a chance to sneak back on my own.” He smiled at her again. “But for a pretty girl like you, I would. All you’d need do is just ask.”
She looked longingly at the mountain. If she crossed her eyes, she could just about convince herself there was a trail there. “Could you show me how to get there? On a map, I mean. The least I could do after all the trouble I’ve caused is to go and help the professor out, even if it’s only for a day.”
“Of course. It’s too late for you to go today—but tomorrow I’ll ask my father to assign one of his men to go with you, if the roads aren’t open yet.” He twisted in his seat and pulled out a notebook from his bag. Quickly he sketched a map for her. “Once you find the trailhead, just always bear right at any fork—if you get lost, simply go downhill to the river, you can always follow it back, although it will take longer than the direct route.” With a flourish he signed his name and tore the paper off, handing it to her. “Now, you must let me paint you before we lose the light.”
His fingers brushed hers as she took the piece of sketch paper. He didn’t pull away and neither did Maria. She tried to decide what the right move would be—she’d never had a boy flirt with her as Michael did. But he was so cultured, so worldly, he probably wasn’t flirting at all, he was probably just being nice.
Helda bustled out, carrying an easel, canvas, and a toolbox of art supplies. She cleared her throat and stepped between them, breaking the spell. After setting up the easel for Michael, she planted herself on the bench beside him, glowering at Maria. Their very own Teutonic chaperone.
Michael quickly took care of that, telling Helda, “Your shadow, Helda. I’m afraid you’ll need to move. That chaise in the corner, if you don’t mind.”
The nurse huffed and glared at Maria, but finally took a new seat, out of earshot.
At first Maria was self-conscious, stiff, didn’t know how to hold her chin or her hands or where to look. But Michael kept talking to her from behind the easel and finally she relaxed. She realized he hadn’t been flirting with her—he spoke to Helda the same way he did her. He was just a genuinely nice, charming guy. Handsome, too.
Good thing he hadn’t been on board the cruise. Maria would never have gotten close to a guy like him. Not with all the beautiful girls on the ship.
“Where did you learn to paint?” she asked.
“Art was required in my boarding schools. I spent most of my childhood abroad,” he explained. “With my mother dead, and my father so busy with work.” She couldn’t see his body, but the shrug was implied by his inflection. “It was nice to see the world. I went to schools in Geneva, London, even a year in Paris.”
“I’ve never been anywhere except Florida.” Her parents traveled all the time for work, so they only wanted to stay home during vacations. And they had no family to visit.
“You’re here now,” he said brightly. “Seeing the world.”
So far she’d seen a cruise ship, a man get killed, and the jungle where she’d run for her life. “Where are you going to college?”
“Yale.” For the first time, his voice faltered. “Well, I was. Until I got sick last year. Everyone had the flu, no reason to think what I had was any different. But they got better and I got worse. Woke up in the ICU. A virus had attacked my heart.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, knowing it sounded lame. “You were alone, so far from home? That must have been awful.”
“Like I said, I’ve never really had a home—only came here during a few school holidays. And my father, well, I’m sure you noticed. He can no longer travel.”
She nodded. Dr. Carrera’s muscle jerks and tremors must be symptoms of something much more serious if it prevented him from going to his son when Michael was in the ICU. “Is it Parkinson’s?”
“Something like that. He doesn’t like to talk about it. It’s gotten a lot worse the last few months—” His voice filled with guilt. “The stress of taking care of me, I’m sure.”
“He loves you very much,” she said, wishing she could reach his hand, let him know through a touch that none of this was his fault.
Michael cleared his throat and his voice returned to normal. “They stabilized me enough to get me home so my father could care for me. According to the doctors, I should have died months ago, but they don’t know my father or how stubborn he is. And at least I’ve had the chance to finally spend time with him. I missed that growing up.”
Maria looked down, regretting her own childish thoughts about how much she wanted to get away from her parents and their overprotectiveness. Maybe Michael had gotten to see the world, but he had to almost die in order to get close to his father.
“The hardest part is, before the LVAD, my only hope was waiting for someone to die. To get a transplant. But now, I feel so much stronger. And I’ve read reports of some people living with the LVAD for years, if they take care of it. So maybe no one has to die after all.” He looked at her from around the side of the canvas. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“You know what the Spanish called Guatemala centuries ago?” Romero began. “Tierra de guerra. ‘Land of war.’ Because they could never defeat the Achi Maya. Things haven’t changed much since. What do you know about the civil war?”
“Not much,” Caitlyn admitted. She’d been more concerned with Maria and her family here and now, not ancient history. “I know it ended in the ’90s, and right after that Hector and his family emigrated to Amer
ica.”
He sniffed and rolled his eyes. “Wars like that don’t end. They mutate.”
Romero ordered a beer for himself and something for Caitlyn that turned out to be a delicious fish dish. “You know what started it all? Fruit. In the 1950s, the U.S. fruit companies were worried that the leftist regime here would seize their properties. So the U.S. in its infinite ignorance decided to muscle a new regime into power. As is often the case, they backed the wrong horse.”
“The CIA instigated a coup d’état, right?” She finished her fish and dared another entrée, this one chicken wrapped with spices in a fried tortilla. Delicious.
He nodded. “That was 1954. Way before my time, of course. But that’s when it all started, with Colonel Carlos Castillo Armas. The first of many. Until after a few decades, a few more coups d’état and rigged elections, and entire Mayan communities wiped out, it became virtually impossible to separate the army from the government. That’s when I first got here, back in the mid-’80s when the Reagan administration sent us in to help secure a legitimate election. I was just a kid, a grunt in the marines, first time out of the country.”
Caitlyn nibbled on the rest of her piece of chocolate while waiting for him to finish.
“Reagan called the election a tribute to democracy. And we left, off to take democracy to other shitty parts of the world whether they wanted it or not. But of course, one election couldn’t cure three decades of chaos. The military regained control, and there were assassinations, extrajudicial executions, and thousands more disappeared.” He shrugged as if the numbers were so overwhelming, it was difficult to see the people behind them.
“Until the peace accord in ’96,” Caitlyn finished.
He gave her a crooked smile and a nod that felt patronizing. “Right. Until the peace accord.”
The waiter brought their check, and Caitlyn paid for it with U.S. dollars, glad for the chance to get some of the local currency in case she needed it.
“Just leave the centavos for the tip,” Romero said, indicating the coins the waiter left as change. “They’re pretty much worthless anyway.”