Reluctant Smuggler

by Jill Elizabeth Nelson

  A growl escaped Desi’s throat. “Scampered! I’ll scamper all over this pack of lies. Did the man attend the same meeting I did?”

  Montoya grimaced. “I often ask myself that question in the course of my duties.”

  Desi absorbed the next words.

  Greybeck and Sons’ performance assured that the covert bidding tactics of HJ Securities would not steal the contract with the Museo de Arte Mejicana. Desiree Jacobs flew home from Mexico with nothing to show for large amounts of effort and expense. Keep up the good work.

  Now here’s the quote, Ed: “I have a bad feeling about the bottom line of HJ Securities under Ms. Jacobs’s direction. In the eight months since her father’s death, I’ve noticed changes in policy and approach that may run her firm into the ground.”

  Desi surged to her feet, crinkling the paper in her fist. “This is personal. The Greybecks have spread rumors and half-truths about HJ Securities, but they’ve never directed a personal attack. They’re desperate. The rumor mill hasn’t been doing the job fast enough. Now they’re flying just under the radar of a libel suit.” She tapped her upper lip. “I wonder whats going on behind the scenes at Greybeck and Sons to cause such panic.”

  The president bellowed a laugh. “What an extraordinary young woman. Despite high emotion, you see into the heart of matters. I believe I have made the right choice.”

  “What choice, Señor Presidente? You didn’t bring me here to share information you could have faxed to my office or ignored. What does rivalry between security companies mean to you?” She held up the piece of trash in her hand. “You could refute this to the public.”

  Montoya shook his head. “I’m sorry, señorita. I cannot risk the people becoming aware that a national treasure is a fake. It would call into question all of our antiquities on display.”

  “But you have the genuine article in the palace vault. Surely, such a reassurance would satisfy your countrymen.”

  The president gave a small shake of the head.

  “Do you mean you don’t want to tell people the real treasure sits in the palace vault? Or do you mean you don’t have it at all?”

  “The latter. Unfortunately.”

  Desi’s breath hitched. “What happened to the headdress?”

  “That is what I need you to find out. And when you do, HJ Securities will receive the thanks of a grateful Mexican government…publicly.”

  “But what? How? Why me?” A rumble from her middle ruined the gravity of her questions, and her face warmed.

  The president chuckled. “I have been a terrible host. Come, we will eat. Esteban is waiting for us, and all of your questions will be answered.”

  He led the way into a small dining room. A mahogany table held a variety of cheeses, cold meats, sauces, fruit, and bread. A spicy scent drifted from a brown kettle on a buffet. Señor Corona rose from his seat at the table. A nod passed between the two men. Desi’s skin prickled.

  “My housekeeper makes the best fresh-squeezed lemonade.” The president gestured toward a sweating glass pitcher. “Esteban, would you do the honors?”

  Corona poured pale liquid into crystal glasses, while Montoya held Desi’s chair and seated her like a grand lady. Too bad she felt more like the helpless pigeon. Corona set a glass in front of her.

  The president took a sip and sighed. Desi reached for her glass, thankful for anything to wet her dry throat. Lemon sparkled on her tongue.

  “You’re right.” She nodded. “This is the best I’ve ever tasted.”

  Señor Corona served steaming bowls of tortilla soup, and Desi accepted slices of bread, meat, and cheese as the plates were passed. Spreading her linen napkin on her lap, she watched the two men construct North American-style sandwiches thick enough to choke a moose. The simple male activity brought on a pang. Tony.

  Whatever President Montoya wanted, she’d have to disappoint him.

  The men dug into their food. Desi nibbled, but then hunger took over, and she devoured the sandwich and soup. The men laughed and passed her more fixings, as well as the bowl of fruit. Conversation revolved around the weather (wonderful), the health of Señor Coronas wife (poor), and complications with new construction in Mexico City. Desi fielded questions about the weather in Massachusetts (poor), the health of her fiancé (wonderful), and troubles with the Big Dig tunnel near downtown Boston.

  She finished her lemonade, wiped her mouth, and laid her folded napkin on the table. “HJ Securities isn’t an investigative firm. Were about protection, not recovery. The latter is the function of law enforcement, as my FBI agent fiancé is quick to remind me.”

  Montoya leaned forward. “Was he displeased when you helped the Iraqi government recover items stolen from their Baghdad museum during the overthrow of Saddam Hussein?”

  “That was different. In setting up a security system for them, I came across clues that pointed me in the right direction. I referred my knowledge to appropriate authorities, and they made the recovery.”

  Corona bobbed his head. “That is all we ask.”

  “Help us, Ms. Jacobs,” said the president. “We want our national treasures back. Our archaeological sites are being looted. Point us in the right direction. We will make the arrests and bring our heritage home.”

  Desi blinked at the two men. “Other items are missing?”

  They gazed back at her like a pair of sad-faced basset hounds.

  Her stomach went hollow. Ancient marvels disappeared each year all over the world, like heritage sucked into a black hole. She pushed back against her seat, as if a few inches of extra distance could remove her from the pull of their request. “Thank you for your confidence, but—”

  “I myself—” the president drew himself up—“will issue a statement to the press that Greybeck and Sons no longer provides security services for the Museo de Arte Mejicana. Such an announcement should blunt the edge of their boasts in the newspapers.”

  Desi glanced from one man to the other. Their faces beamed hope. She couldn’t say no. She wanted to, but she couldn’t.

  Tony’s landline phone rang. He set a sheaf of papers on his desk and checked the caller ID. Desi. She should be flying toward her layover in Detroit. Blast! He’d have to tell her there was no way she’d land in Boston tonight. Disappointment tasted rank on his tongue.

  “Hey, darlin.” His chair creaked as he leaned back. “Are you on your way?”

  Telltale pause. He stiffened.

  “Still in Mexico. I just finished lunch with President Montoya and his senior aide.”

  “If anybody else had said that, I’d figure they were joking.”

  Desi laughed, but it ended on a sour note. “Wish I were. Lunches with government honchos complicate life.”

  “Don’t tell me they’ve invited themselves to the wedding too.”

  This time her laugh was genuine. “No, thank goodness. The Mexican government has hired me to do a hush-hush investigation into missing antiquities.”

  “Des…”

  “No running around after bad guys, Mr. Protective. They want me to evaluate data, interview people, and give an opinion. Their wording of the assignment was ‘point them in the right direction.’ I’ll leave the raids and arrests to the law enforcement types.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Hold the skepticism, hon.” She sighed. “It doesn’t look like I’ll be home for another few days.” Her voice broke, and a sob came over the line. “Oh, Tony, I can hardly stand it. I’m so homesick What’s the matter with me?”

  “Aw, sweetheart, don’t cry.” His insides melted. “If it makes you feel better, I wouldn’t have been able to pick you up at the airport anyway. The squad and I are pulling an all-nighter.”

  Soft sniffle. “Big case?”

  “Big blizzard. The city’s at a standstill. Nobody can get home, and the airport’s closed. You would’ve been stuck in Detroit. At least you can hang out in the sunshine a little longer. Everybody here is going to envy you.”

  “Wish I envied me.
I’ll call you later. President Montoya had to return to his office, but Señor Corona wants to go over the assignment with me. I may end up jogging all over the country, so who knows where you’ll hear from me next.”

  “I’ll be right here in the land of snow and ice. Promise me you’ll be careful.”

  “Didn’t you once call me the Queen of Careful?”

  “My tongue was in my cheek at the time.”

  “Oh, har-de-har-har. Got to go. Señor Corona’s waiting.”

  Tony hung up and stared at the paperwork piled on his desk, seeing nothing. What was wrong with Des? Could those long hours on the job be a cover-up for what was really bugging her? The woman needed a friendly face and a firm hand to rein her in long enough to figure it out. He couldn’t get away so soon after being gone a week on his special assignment to Washington, but he knew someone who might go in a flash. He punched in a phone number.

  “Webb residence,” a boy’s voice answered.

  “Hey, Luke, how’s the man of the house today?”

  “Hi, Uncle Tony. Grandpa Steve’s at the store with Grandma Lana, picking up milk and stuff. They took the Yukon. Grandpa says that monster sled can beat up on anything a Boston winter can dish out.”

  “Sounds like Steve.” Tony chuckled. Interesting that Max Webb’s seven-year-old considered Tony’s ex-partner the man of the house. Must be because Stevo spent so much time over at Max’s house acting as unofficial grandpa. He was the last guy Tony would’ve pegged to turn into family-man-of-the-year since starting to date Max’s mother, Lana. Might not be long and the honorary tide of Grandpa would be official. Desi’d have a fit. Tony grinned. “Is your mom around?”

  “Mom!”

  Tony shook his head. Good thing for his ear the kid hadn’t yelled into the receiver.

  “Hello?” Max’s voice came on.

  “Tony here. Is Emily over her bronchitis yet?”

  “She was a pretty sick little cookie for a while, but now she’s up and at ’em and giving her big brother a run for his money. Thanks for asking.”

  “Good. Then how about a Mexican vacation as soon as this storm clears?”

  “Vacation? I’ve got deadlines on two projects, and no room for error. Both accounts are iffy, thanks to the hogwash those Greybecks keep spreadin’ around like peanut butter on dry toast. I’m workin out of my home office today.” She stopped and huffed. “So I’m babblin’. What’s up? You were jokin’, right?”

  “Des has some special project going for the Mexican government.”

  “Like she needs somethin’ more on her plate. Tell you what, I’ll call—”

  A door slammed in the background, followed by a loud male voice mixed with a breathless female voice.

  “Oh, my goodness.” Max’s tone went up an octave. “My mom and Steve were in an accident. I’ll get back to you.”

  The line went dead. Tony stood and jammed his hands into his pants pockets. What a day to be stuck in the office. He couldn’t get a handle on what was going on in the same city, much less another country.

  He stalked over to the glass wall that looked out into the field agent bull pen. His squad was at work, along with most of the day shift and any of the night people that had dashed in early to beat the weather. None of them were going home.

  In the middle of the chaos, stocky Hajimoto had a finger in one ear and the other ear stuck to a telephone receiver. Dark-haired Polanski pecked at her computer. Slidell patted his comb-over and studied a report. Tony glimpsed the crown of the new guys carrot-topped head poking over the far side of a work station. Who knew what the kid was doing? Maybe he should check. Bergstrom sure wasn’t Erickson, even if they were both Scandinavian. Who would have thought they could lose a sharp agent so fast on a routine questioning mission?

  Gunshots echoed in Tony’s head, and a picture flashed—blood pooling beneath the sprawled body of a tall man with blond hair.

  Tony sucked in a breath and turned away from the window. Maybe he should plow through more paperwork. The stuff piled up worse than a Boston snowbank.

  “Here is the list of missing antiquities.” Señor Corona handed Desi a stack of printed paper.

  She rifled through it. “So many!”

  “Indeed.” He handed her a portfolio. “In here, you will find the incident reports, including pictures. Our policía has been unable to formulate a consistent modus operandi, except that the thefts are professional quality and sometimes not discovered for days.”

  “Puzzling.” Desi glanced through the list. “Mexico is hardly unique with this problem. Many countries, especially those in turmoil like Iraq, have lost artifacts of incalculable value.”

  “Do you think ours have been dispersed through the black market, or is a private collector behind the looting?”

  “I’ll know more after I study the information, but don’t expect anything except an educated opinion. Catching criminals must be left with your law enforcement personnel.” Desi’s gaze dropped to her skirt pocket, and she bit her lip.

  “Understood.” Corona tilted his head. “Why do I sense that you have a request?”

  “The monetary compensation is satisfactory, but if I carve time out of my busy schedule to do this, I would like your help on a personal matter.”

  Desi pulled out the medallion and handed it to him.

  “Where did you get this?” He studied the necklace.

  “Do you recognize it?”

  He smoothed his mustache. “I have never seen this before.”

  “I found the piece stuffed into a crevice in a blind canyon in New Mexico. A skull was discovered nearby. Forensic examination showed it to be the remains of a woman. Both the medallion and the skull appear to be from the time of the Spanish occupation.”

  “Intriguing.” Corona ran a finger over the random scattering of emeralds.

  “The work is typical seventeenth-century Spanish,” Desi continued, “and the emeralds are poor quality. It looks like an heirloom. For my own satisfaction, and to give the woman’s remains closure, I’d like to find out the provenance—where it came from and who owned it. I’ve made inquiries since coming to Mexico. Antiquities dealers want to buy it from me and become angry when I won’t sell, but they don’t offer information. Either it’s because I’m an Anglo, or they have knowledge they prefer not to share. I’d appreciate help from your government.”

  “That you shall have.” His hand closed over the medallion. “May I show it around?”

  “I’ll keep it, but I have photographs in my luggage that I’ll give you before I leave.”

  Frowning, Corona handed the necklace back. Desi tucked it into her pocket. Was she wrong in the impression that she’d almost had to fight Señor Corona to reclaim her property?

  “Maybe I should start at Palenque, the ancient Mayan city where the crown of Pakal disappeared.” She smiled at Corona. “Did you know I had the privilege of examining Pakal’s tomb when I was college age?”

  The aide smiled back. “A treat afforded a rare few, but then, the Jacobs name opens doors in the antiquities world. Did you enjoy your tour?”

  “A fascinating place but…oppressive. I guess that’s the word I’d use.” She returned to the list of stolen artifacts. “Interesting that the looters consistently strike at public attractions.”

  Corona shrugged. “Too many tourists to monitor everyone’s movements. The thieves could have posed as one of them. Tourists provide a healthy share of Mexico’s income, but they also create endless problems.”

  Desi laughed. “People create problems, but I’m afraid we’re stuck with each other.”

  The aide chuckled. “A wise perspective. But I recommend that you start not at Palenque—the trail is cold there—but on the Yucatán Peninsula. The most recent thefts have occurred at the Mayan ruins of Uxmal, Sayil, and Ek Balam.”

  “What about Chichén Itzá? That would be a logical target.”

  Corona shook his head. “No reports of missing items there, but perhaps you shoul
d stop at Chichén and observe security measures? Helpful tips would be appreciated.”

  “Who provides protection at the site?”

  “Since the thefts have started, the Policía Judicial Estatal from each region cooperates with the Policía Federal Preventiva”

  “The state and federal police?” She’d pay good money to be excluded from any situation where law enforcement agencies vied for kudos. Too late now. And neither the judiciales nor the federales would appreciate helpful tips from a gringa.

  The aide grinned understanding. “Forward your recommendations to me. Changes in procedure will reach them from the highest level. And to ensure that you have no trouble, a government aide will accompany you at all times.” He handed Desi a business card. “Señor Ramon Sanchez is the head of cultural affairs in the Yucatán. He will see to it that one of his people looks after you.”

  “Very good.” Desi tucked the card inside the portfolio. “I’d best get started.”

  A short time later she was on her way to the airport in a taxi. She stared out the window at the passing city. Modern skyscrapers vied with mom-and-pop businesses. Executives in suits rubbed elbows with ragged laborers. Elegant señoras in haute couture shared the sidewalks with women in traditional bright-colored skirts and serapes.

  Desi dug out her cell and called her Boston headquarters to give them her new itinerary. Next she called Tony to let him know her destination. Then she began to study the information Corona had given her. No pattern to the thefts jumped out at her, but there had to be a common factor, something no one had recognized. And how did the looters get away with the goods? Someone had a first-class smuggling scheme going.

  Desi pulled the Spanish medallion from her pocket. Why wouldn’t anyone speak to her about this ancient necklace? Some dealers had been downright hostile, especially when she wouldn’t sell. If she had no answers yet for the Mexican government, at least she might leave Mexico City with a little personal satisfaction. Only the hand of God could have led her to discover the medallion and the skull in a remote desert location that had seen no human being in centuries. He must want her to solve the mystery.