Reluctant Smuggler

by Jill Elizabeth Nelson

  But that meant hazarding her last resort. Her mouth went dry. Should she beard an old family enemy in his den?

  She checked her watch. A half hour to spare if she shaved it close to flight time. Her presidential VIP pass should zoom her right through security. Leaning forward, she tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Take me here.” She handed him a slip of paper with an address scribbled in her fathers hand. She’d found the scrap among his things not long ago. One of many memory-jolting items she kept running across in the house that they both used to call home. “Extra tip if we get there in five minutes,” she added.

  Desi hung on as the cabbie earned his gratuity, tires squealing and horn honking. The cab entered a business neighborhood past its prime. Traces of gentility remained in a flower box here and there, but the sidewalks were cracked, and some businesses were boarded up.

  “Wait for me.” She handed the driver the promised pesos and got out in front of a squat brick building huddled between a pair of taller sweatshop factories. Guerrero, the sign said on the front. Her heart rate quickened. No other markings to indicate the type of establishment.

  Albon Guerrera only dealt with those who knew what he did without the need to adverase. Most thought secret equaled exclusive. Desi knew better. Only a handful of people shared that knowledge.

  Did she dare step inside? She looked at the medallion and moved forward.

  A bell jingled as she passed through the door. Cool dimness enfolded her. The air smelled as old as some of the ancient treasures displayed on wooden shelves. Like stepping into Pakal’s tomb. Desi shivered. She shouldn’t have come here and risked awakening dormant hostilities. Her father had spoken of Guererra with a shudder, and the man’s violent temper may not have gentled with the passing of years. She turned away.

  “Desiree Jacobs.”

  She froze at the guttural hiss behind her.

  Four

  Desi faced the old man who stood behind a glass counter. “Señor Guerrera.”

  He stared at her from a face dark and wizened like a raisin. Hunched shoulders led to a hump on his back, but the proud set of his head, the thick shock of white hair, and the fierce beak of a nose gave him the look of an ancient eagle. He planted age-spotted hands on the countertop. “To what do I owe the honor of a visit from the daughter of my old nemesis?” He addressed her in English.

  Desi tore her gaze away from Guerrera’s hands. No way had this octogenarian chased her through the streets last night, index finger longer than the middle finger or not. “I’ve come in search of your expertise.”

  “No small talk? No reminiscing?” His words came out measured and sibilant, like some Hispanic version of Bela Lugosi in his famed Dracula role.

  Desi swallowed. “My father admired your genius as much as he deplored your using it to take what wasn’t yours. That was twenty years ago. I was a child. You and I have no history. If you wish to live in the past, then I’ve come to the wrong place.” She headed for the door.

  “A medallion on a chain, is it not?”

  She halted and turned. “Ah, so the dealers network is talking. That’s how you know who I am, though we’ve never met.”

  Guerrera inclined his head. “I am curious.” He held out his palm.

  Desi went back to the counter and gave him the necklace. “We can speak Spanish.”

  “Gracias. The stroke while in prison did strange things to me. My native tongue comes more easily.” He fitted a jewelers loupe over his head and examined the medallion.

  Desi waited in heavy silence intruded upon by muffled traffic noises.

  Guerrera lifted his head, blinking. “Three thousand dollars. No more. The gold is good, but the emeralds are so-so. And I need to make a little something when I resell.”

  “The piece isn’t for sale. I want to know who owned it.”

  He handed her the medallion. “The pattern of the gems is unusual.”

  “I don’t see a pattern.”

  “Precisely. You don’t see. You must gaze upward in the darkness.”

  “What are you trying to tell me?”

  He backed away. “Good day, Ms. Jacobs. Take care.”

  Another runaround. “Thank you for your time.” She started to turn, then stopped. “If you were going to sell the medallion to someone, who would it be?”

  “That, my dear, is an excellent question.” Guerrera sneered with yellowed teeth and then hobbled off through a curtain into the back room.

  Desi stalked out to the cab. Rude man. No more helpful than the others. Or was he? What did the ex-art thief mean by a pattern she couldn’t see? And why wouldn’t he tell her who might be interested in buying the medallion and yet hint that the question was important?

  She squeezed the pocket with the necklace inside. Maybe she should toss the thing out the window and let someone else deal with the aggravation. Sighing, she slumped against the seat. Maybe she should quit stressing and let God lead her to the answers. Yes, that would work…if she didn’t have such a horrible case of chronic impatience.

  At the airport, she put the medallion in her carry-on and boarded a plane to Mérida, hub city of the Yucatán Peninsula. Once in the air, she closed her eyes to sneak in a few z’s, but the lanky man next to her snored and had strange body odor, as if he were sweating jalapeños. With a sigh, she pulled the portfolio from her laptop case and studied the list of missing objects. The items were cataloged in chronological order of theft date. On her laptop, Desi made lists according to types of antiquities.

  Many shady dealers specialized in certain objects, and unscrupulous collectors had particular tastes. She’d pinpointed the Iraqi antiquities by playing match the missing item with the most likely suspect. Should she consider Señor Guerrera among them? She’d suspect one of his offspring of being among the thugs who chased her in the street, if the man had any. But Dad had told her he was childless. So she was left with a useless similarity in physical characteristics.

  Desi returned to her lists and worked in silent concentration. Some time later, the smelly scarecrow next to her stirred and scratched his narrow nose. Desi put her work away. Her seatmate with the digital camera around his neck probably wouldn’t know an antiquity if it bit him, but El Presidente had made it clear her task was to remain top secret. She had a plan for that—one even Tony might approve if it didn’t mean she had to ditch her government escort.

  A thrill shot through her. Why did she so enjoy going incognito? She was a head case, all right. But at least she didn’t plan to do anything more dangerous than pose as one of those tourists Señor Corona bemoaned.

  Smiling, Desi leaned her head against the window and watched the rain forest pass beneath the plane’s belly. If she couldn’t go home, at least she could revisit some of the most intriguing archaeological sites in the world. She’d loved Chichén Itzá as a college student. Now she could explore the ancient mysteries again and get paid for her enjoyment.

  “Business or pleasure?” The words came out in queen’s English.

  “What?”

  The man showed rabbity teeth in a smile. “Business, I’m guessing, since you brought your laptop and some sort of prospectus. American too. Jolly Brit here.” He held out a bony hand. She took it and came away damp. “Pleasure for me,” he continued. “Though you could say I’m combining the two.” He honked a laugh. “Professor of world history at Cambridge. Never miss an opportunity to visit a place Im required to teach about. Going to see the Chicken.”

  “The chicken?”

  “Chichén Itzá. A litde educator joke there. Ha-ha! Some of my students mispronounce the name on first glance. You should take a break from the boardroom and come along. Raise your consciousness, et cetera.”

  At least the fellow said Chee-chen Eetzah this time, emphasis on second syllables. She was about to doubt his professor credentials. “I’ve been to the site, Mr….ummm…” Desi heard herself and groaned on the inside. Politeness could be a curse sometimes. She wanted to know this mans name like she c
raved a hole in the head.

  “Preston Standish, Esquire, at your service.”

  How did she keep from introducing herself? “Esquire. You’re Sir Preston?”

  “Technically. But who wants to go about flaunting a title?” The rabbit smile again.

  “Understandable.” And that’s why Sir Jalapeño made sure to throw Esquire in there. “This is your first visit to the—er—Chicken? Whats the occasion?”

  Standish folded his hands over his concave tummy and launched into a detailed account of a “well-earned sabbatical” and a world tour that, by his account, rivaled Phileas Fogg’s fabled Around the World in Eighty Days. Desi half tuned him out and nearly wept with gratitude when the plane taxied to a stop at the terminal.

  She collected her laptop from under the seat, while Standish hopped up and rummaged in the overhead compartment.

  “Here you are, m’dear.” He handed down her wheelie.

  She awarded him a tight smile and took him up on his offer to let her go up the aisle ahead of him. The heavenly scents of hot tarmac and jet fuel greeted her as she emerged into the tropical sunshine at the top of the airplane stairs. She entered the terminal building and scurried ahead of Sir Jalapeño to the baggage claim area. A single seat remained on a bench not far from the carousel, and she grabbed it. Next to her a Mexican family laughed and joked.

  Standish nodded as he went by and then stood with his back to her in front of the carousel. Desi expelled a long breath and rubbed the bridge of her nose. A stale donut had more get-up-and-go than she did. She yawned. Better head to the hotel for a decent snooze before she tackled anything more complex than pulling down the sheets.

  Thankfully, the professors bags were among the first to arrive. He wandered off, and Desi got up to wait for her suitcase. A large, black hard-shell slid down the chute, one among many similar, but the bright red and yellow ribbons on the handle identified it as hers. She loaded her carry-on atop the larger case and headed for the exit, laptop bag weighing a million pounds on her shoulder. Thank goodness, the hotel shuttle should be here any minute.

  Halfway out the door, she halted. Clayton Greybeck, big as life in a Panama hat, stood beside a hatchback Audi. Alarm speared her insides. He must not spot her.

  Tony wandered into the break room, drawn by the smell of coffee. He poured himself a cup and sipped. Stale and scorched as usual, but java nonetheless.

  Several members of another squad lounged around a scarred table. They nodded to him and returned to their banter. All but one, who hunched over a newspaper, sections scattered across the table. A headline on the back of the section in the guy’s hands caught Tony’s eye. Caffeine sludge stalled on his tongue, and he swallowed with an effort.

  “You through with that?” He lifted his cup toward the paper.

  “Just a sec. Let me finish an article.”

  Tony choked down a rock-hard Danish, then nabbed the section. “Thanks.”

  “Welcome.” The guy disappeared behind the sports pages.

  Tony took his prize to a corner table. “Boston Women Disappear in Mexico.” The headline socked him between the eyes.

  With great excitement, sisters Rosa Garza and Martina López, ages twenty-two and twenty, planned their trip to visit cousins in a small village on the Yucatán Peninsula of Mexico. Rosa and Martina left for the Yucatán thirty days ago, but they never arrived at their destination, and they never came home.

  Their parents, naturalized U.S. citizens, thought they had little reason for concern about the journey. The much-publicized kidnapping and murder of women seemed isolated to border communities such as Ciudad Juárez and Chihuahua. What could happen to their daughters in the highly policed tourist center on the Atlantic coast?

  Authorities in Mexico remain baffled as the FBI works with them in the investigation. Drug cartel involvement has not been ruled out. A reliable source told the Boston Globe that the Yucatán has seen increased use as a shipping port for drugs and young women destined for prostitution in the United States. Rumors of significant Fraternidad de la Garra gang presence in the jungles of this vacation paradise are growing.

  On the U.S.-Mexico border, where infighting between drug cartels has taken a bloody toll, women often disappear. Sometimes their raped and tortured bodies are discovered in an isolated location.

  Tony swallowed as the words urged him onward.

  No such violence has occurred in the Yucatán as yet, though Mexican police have noted an increase in reports of missing women. They are quick to note that the kidnappers prey only on Hispanic females. No reports of missing tourists have been lodged.

  A full breath returned to Tony’s lungs.

  “If the cartels or a gang are involved, they would not be eager to draw pressure on the Mexican government from other countries,” a source said. “In the case of Garza and López, the abductors may have been unaware that these women are United States citizens.”

  Thank God, no one would mistake Desi for anything but an Anglo. He needed to call her about this anyway. He pulled out his phone and flipped it open. Blast this storm! His service bars showed blank. That Corona fellow better have arranged adequate security for his fiancée, or Tony would make himself a one-man international incident.

  Desiree back-pedaled into the terminal. “Excuse me.” She offered the breathless apology to a rotund woman she nearly bowled over.

  Why was Clayton Greybeck in Mérida? Following her, or did he have his own agenda?

  Desi moaned and headed for the ladies room. She hadn’t wanted to pull the presto chango yet. And now she’d have to switch hotels, not to mention postpone her bedtime. Bother! But she couldn’t let Clayton catch a whiff of her whereabouts. Sticking his nose in her business would be a priority with him if he knew she was here.

  The rest room was small but clean, and by some miracle, the backmost stall was empty. Desi muscled her bags into the cubicle. Hardly room enough to stand, but she got busy.

  Twenty minutes later, a middle-aged woman shuffled out of the cubicle with a crick in her back from the quick-change contortions. Desi checked herself in the mirror. The eyes that stared back at her were blue, not her natural hazel, and her mouse-colored hair was cropped close to her head, nothing like her own thick sable locks that reached below her shoulder blades. She scratched behind her ear. Stupid wig itched already.

  Desi smoothed makeup on her face, neck, and forearms—the perfect paper-pale office-worker look. Lines around her mouth and eyes made her half again her age. She did up another button on the frowzy print blouse she wore over khaki slacks. Then she grabbed her cases and left the bathroom, her gait flatfooted and tired. The tired pan was no act.

  A few feet up the hall she stopped. Sleep-deprived half-wit! She pulled her cases to an empty bench and removed the labels identifying her as Desiree Jacobs. Uh-oh. She stared at her engagement ring. This was going to hurt. Dowdy, introverted Myra wouldn’t have a fiancé. The ring had to go. Desi slipped the band from her finger. She cradled the symbol of promise in her palm, and then unzipped a side pouch on her carry-on and tucked the labels and the ring inside.

  Hold it! Her heart seized. She opened the pouch again and groped inside. Airline tags. Her ring. Oxygen rushed from her lungs. No medallion!

  Desi leaped up, head whipping in all directions. People paused to stare. Cool it, girl What had she expected to see? A figure dressed in black slipping away in the crowd?

  The medallion was missing before she stepped into the bathroom to change persona. It had been in her carry-on when she put it in the overhead bin on the plane, but when she left the plane she hadn’t checked. Too eager to get away from her obnoxious seatmate. A picture of his lanky form rummaging in the overhead compartment returned to her.

  But how had the “jolly Brit” known what was in her carry-on? Albon Guerrera wanted the piece. Maybe he had arranged…No, not enough time to set up a snatch. Esteban Corona had wanted to keep the medallion. Maybe…Desi shook herself. There went her wild imagination agai
n, formulating conspiracy theories. Besides, she liked Corona. Probably Preston Standish, Esquire, had been in a nearby security line when the airline agent examined the necklace. Standish saw what he wanted and took it when the opportunity presented.

  Going to see the Chicken? To help himself to more goodies? Had she run afoul of the mysterious antiquities looter? The hairs under her wig prickled. An operation that complex and widespread couldn’t be handled by one man, but maybe she’d found a puzzle piece.

  At the cost of an article she treasured.

  Desi hefted her laptop over a squared shoulder. Then she grabbed her cases and strode for the doors. Sir Jalapeño wouldn’t see the businesswoman he’d met on the plane, but he’d soon discover mousy little Myra was a force to be reckoned with. Er, he might if she remembered to stay in character. She slowed and let her figure droop as she pushed out into the tropical warmth of Mérida.

  Palm trees waved at her, but no lurking Greybecks. Hopefully, Clayton’s business would remove him from the area. His presence probably had nothing to do with her anyway. Who knows? Maybe he was vacationing to take the edge off his disappointment over Mexico City.

  First task? Find modest accommodations in keeping with an hourly workers paycheck. At this time of year, almost as tricky as catching a nest of crooks.

  Desi moved up the sidewalk, hunting for a taxi. The driver might know a good place to—

  A small figure darted from a doorway and rammed into her. Desi staggered. Losing her grip on her bags, she tripped over the larger one and sprawled backward onto the cement. Her head spun, while her right elbow and her tailbone screamed in unison.

  She glimpsed the pinched face of a dirty urchin. A grown-up male voice shouted in Spanish. The skinny boy grabbed the handle of her carry-on and took off across the busy road. Tires screeched, horns honked, and a uniformed security guard dashed in the little thief’s wake.