Reluctant Smuggler

by Jill Elizabeth Nelson

Desi snuggled her face into Tony’s collar. “I’m not a complete basket case then?”

  “You’re the cutest basket case I’ve ever been married to.”

  She sat up. “Television on! We need to see what’s happening.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe you should lie down awhile. You look wiped out.”

  “No more than you. Find a news station while I get a cold washcloth for my eyes and a couple aspirin for a headache.”

  Tony saluted. “Aye-aye, cap’n.”

  They watched an hour of heartrending devastation—collapsed buildings, electrical fires, dazed and bloody faces, sooty-faced emergency workers—before Tony insisted they go out for supper. Desi picked at her food, and she noticed Tony didn’t finish his. Did he have the same nagging feeling that they needed to help?

  Her cell phone rang as they stepped back into the villa. Desi checked the caller ID, then flipped the phone open. “Hi, Max. Were fine. Cancán isn’t anywhere near Mexico City.”

  “With you, I never rule out the possibility that you could be in the thick of things.”

  Desi snorted. “Was that a compliment or an insult?”

  “Generally, a compliment, though your darin’ habits do sometimes give your friends palpitations. But that’s not why I called. I’ve got a little juice on the Spanish Carina family.”

  “Wow, girl! You work at the speed of light.” Desi took a seat at the kitchen counter, and Tony settled beside her.

  A chuckle came from the Boston end. “Well, here goes. The Carinas were a Spanish family of wealthy world traders. In the late 1700s, they immigrated to Mexico and took up a sizable land grant on the Yucatán Peninsula.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “They don’t exist.”

  “They died out?” Disappointment washed over Desi.

  “Not hardly,” Max said. “Quite a few of their descendents live in Mexico.”

  “Ma-a-ax, you’re driving me nuts here.”

  “Not hard to do when you keep interruptin’ me.”

  “My lips are buttoned.” She made a twisting motion with her fingers over her mouth. Tony’s chest started to shake, and Desi’s cowled at him.

  “Here’s the punch line,” Max said. “In the mid-1800s the sole heir to the Carina fortune sold his considerable holdings, moved to Mexico City, and changed his name to Corona.”

  Desi sucked in a breath. “No wonder Señor Corona seemed protective of the antique piece of jewelry. It’s a family heirloom. Why didn’t he tell me?”

  “You’ll have to ask him.”

  “That might be difficult since phone communication is cut off between here and there.”

  “Let me keep pokin’ around then. Now, catch me up on honeymoon fun.”

  Desi filled her in, and Max moaned. “In the thick of things, all right.”

  “Evidently we won’t have to keep watching over our shoulders for Clayton Greybeck.” Desi’s ighed. “The Mexican authorities are certain he drowned.”

  “You don’t sound happy.”

  “For the personal relief factor, I am. But for Clayton, I’m not. He didn’t have much of an eternity in his future.”

  “I hear you.”

  “Tony and I are going to concentrate on enjoying our honeymoon. We’ll fly back to Boston in ten days toasted to a golden brown. After an assault and a nearby earthquake, what more could happen?”

  “You do not want an answer to that.”

  “I take back the question.”

  Desi hung up and wandered into the living room to watch more news while Tony went for his run. After he showered, they headed for bed. Snuggled against one another like a pair of spoons, Desi’s till couldn’t make her muscles unknot.

  Tony pulled her closer. “The Red Cross is on site, babe, and the U.S. is sending aid.”

  “We always do.”

  “Were givers.”

  “One of the reasons were a blessed nation in spite of the depravity and God-bashing. But we can’t always leave it to the government. Sometimes individuals, especially Christians, have to take action too.”

  Tony didn’t answer. His even breathing and relaxed arm across her waist said he was drifting into slumber. Desi’s tared into the dark. He’d had a tough day. She didn’t want to count the bruises on his body…or hers, for that matter.

  What should they do tomorrow? Make up their snorkeling adventure? Might as well. But how much could she enjoy anything with the knowledge that masses of people were suffering and dying a few hundred miles away? She closed her eyes. Doubtful she’d get any sleep.

  A poke in the ribs jerked Desi out of deep slumber. She squinted at the clock—3:00 a.m. “What?” She rolled over.

  “I have a contact in the Red Cross who can probably get us on a team.”

  Exhilaration pumped through Desi. She and her man were on the same wavelength. “But what about your training schedule?”

  “Forget that. The Lord’ll either give me the strength or point me in a new career direction. Can you see spending the rest of our honeymoon in a disaster area?”

  “I can’t see us doing anything else.”

  Tony chuckled. “It’ll probably be safer than the Yucatán. The farther away from any remnant of El Jaguars gang, the better.”

  “Maybe I’ll find Señor Corona and ask him about the medallion.”

  “I don’t know, babe. If he’d wanted to claim the thing, he would have done it when you showed it to him. Maybe hes got personal reasons.”

  Desi stuck out her lower lip. “You’re saying I can be a nosy buttinski sometimes?”

  “I’m saying your curiosity level could shame the proverbial cat. Your survival rate too.”

  “Very funny. But what about the remains of that poor woman stored in a temporary vault in New Mexico?”

  “Let’s see what Max comes up with. That way you can make an informed decision about approaching a government official regarding something that smacks of family scandal.”

  “I hate to admit it, but you have a point.”

  He pulled her into a head-spinning kiss, halting further conversation. She went happily into his arms. Surely, with the Lord sending them to Mexico City, He intended for her find out what was up with Esteban Corona.

  Twenty-Four

  Tony squatted opposite his construction partner, and together they hefted a stack of half-inch pressboard slabs. In tandem, they headed across the dirt yard toward a line of unfinished shacks. A youthful shout sounded, and then a rubber ball smacked him in the side. Children laughed. Tony sent a mock growl toward a cluster of barefoot kids. One of the boys grabbed the ball, and they ran toward a weed-grown field, spindly legs churning, giggles floating on the breeze.

  Tony smiled, and Matt, the young man he teamed with, chuckled. Precious little to be happy about in this neighborhood where the quake had leveled every tin and cardboard shack. But kids meant a future. If only Tony knew he was making a permanent difference in their lives.

  Near a half-finished wall, he and Matt deposited their load on the ground. Tony arched a kink out of his back.

  “Worn out, old man?” his twenty-something co-worker said.

  “I’ll work rings around you yet, infant.”

  “You’re on.”

  Tony grabbed his hammer, pulled a nail out of the pouch at his waist, and got busy. The hammers of other workers pounded a staccato rhythm. A few dozen feet away, a rust-bucket of a backhoe groaned as it dug shallow trenches for temporary water and sewer lines.

  Temporary? Tony stepped back and surveyed the line of two-room shanties. He couldn’t fool himself. For nine out of ten families, these flimsy walls would be the best home they’d ever have. Some future. Tony drove another nail home. But what was the alternative? Let them continue to sleep on bare ground in the open?

  He got no answer to his grousing. Not that he expected one after asking the same kinds of questions every day for the past week as he cleared debris—mostly by hand—uncovered mangled bodies, and finally got assigned to
this construction project.

  By the end of another fourteen-hour workday, the shanty stood completed, and the workers helped a widow and her two small children move in with little more than the ragged clothes on their backs, a few sticks of makeshift furniture, and a small stash of Red Cross food. Tears rolled down the cheeks of the stoop-shouldered woman as she waved good-bye to them with many cries of “Gracias, gracias, señores”

  Tony climbed onto the back of the workers’ truck and settled on a bench next to Matt. The truck jolted off up the pitted road.

  Matt leaned his elbows on his knees. “A shower, a good meal, and well be new men.”

  “Right now, I’ll admit to old. Try going on eighty.” Tony rolled his shoulders.

  “No old dude ever put in a day like you did today. I’m on the worn-out side myself.” The young man stretched his arms. “Man, I didn’t even know I had some of the muscles that hurt tonight. You’re the lucky one, pal, with a wife along to rub your back.”

  “Des won’t be at camp tonight. Some bigwig got wind she was here and recruited her to help secure cultural property. She’ll probably have a hot bath and a feather mattress, not a lukewarm shower and a cot in a tent.”

  “I didn’t hear her complain about camping out.”

  “Not Desiree. She’s as adaptable as they come.” I’d rather stay here with you, she’d whispered in his ear this morning before she kissed him good-bye and climbed into the government car. Now, as he sat with a bunch of smelly men in the back of a slat-sided truck, Desi’s absence ached worse than the fatigue in his muscles.

  What was his darlirí doing this very minute?

  Seated at an office desk in the Museo de Arte Mejicana, Desi keyed the mie on a satellite-linked two-way radio. “Señor Corona, this is Désirée Lucano. Come in, por favor.”

  She released the mic button and waited, tapping a foot. Her gaze strayed out a cracked window onto the street outside. The pavement had buckled neatly down the middle, allowing traffic to pass on both sides of the road. Fine, if a driver never wanted to turn left. Across the street the facade of a building had collapsed, exposing the inner framework. The museum had been lucky to lose only a couple of columns in the front and a corner of the roof.

  Desi tried again to raise Señor Corona. No answer. Why was the man who had urged her into service with the government now ignoring her? Maybe he was afraid she’d bring up the medallion. Or maybe the presidential aide just had the world on his shoulders.

  Desi returned to the damage reports and inventories on the table. Burst water pipes and small electrical fires had made a mess of the interior, damaging a lot of priceless cultural property and endangering the rest. Until repairs could be made, secure storage must be arranged. As daylight waned—her only working light—she made notes and evaluated the capacities of available intact storage areas such as bank vaults and the vault at the palace.

  Transportation would be the trickiest part. She’d hoped to run ideas by Señor Corona, but since he wouldn’t answer the radio, she’d have to go ahead with whatever she could arrange. Armored cars? But they couldn’t get through the streets any better than other trucks. Tanks might work. Riiight. She’d phone the armory, and they’d release a few. Sending those through the streets would add nicely to public hysteria. Besides, tanks didn’t have storage space for bulky objects. She tapped her upper lip. Mule train? Two Mules for Sister Desi?

  “Desiree Jacobs,” a cold voice said. “I did not expect to see you in my museum again.”

  “Señor Vidal.” Rising, Desi nodded to the chairman of the board, who stood stiff-shouldered in the doorway. “It’s Mrs. Lucano now. I’m filling in at Señor Corona’s request. Your security agency lost their building and half their staff, and the museum administrator is in the hospital.”

  “Of these things I was aware.” He stepped into the room. “So Corona took advantage of my incapacitation and hired a gringa.”

  “You were injured?” Desi motioned toward a chair.

  Vidal ignored the offered seat. A yellowed bruise surrounded a healing cut under the man’s left eye. The stiff shoulders could indicate more pain than pride.

  “I can help,” the man said.

  “You want to help?” Desi blinked at him.

  “I have a cargo helicopter that I use for my import-export business.”

  “I thought you were in finance.”

  He skewered her with a glance. “You have no businessmen in the United States with diversified interests?”

  “I’ll take you up on your offer.”

  The chairman’s mouth curved upward, but the flare of his nostrils and the cold spark in his gaze chilled Desi. She liked the look less than his scowl, but she could hardly turn away the perfect solution to her dilemma.

  “My helicopter will land in the rear courtyard first thing in the morning. I like to make the most of my time.”

  “You’re coming along?”

  “I expect you to do the same. We are responsible for a nations priceless artifacts. I believe that requires our personal attention.”

  Desi crossed her arms to keep from belting him. “I wouldn’t dream of transferring cultural heritage without direct supervision. But since you don’t trust me to handle the matter, I’ll expect you.”

  “I’m pleased we understand each other. Buenos días, señora.”

  That night, Desi paced her hotel room, talking to Tony on the radio. “The man had the gall to imply that I’m incapable of handling the project without him breathing down my neck.”

  “Hey, you got your transportation. You’ll survive a couple of days of unpleasant company. The question is—will he be able to keep up with you? I know what you’re like when you sink your teeth into an assignment.”

  “Thanks for the pep talk, but have you ever wanted to kick a gift horse in the tail?”

  Tony’s chuckle warmed her to her toes. “Go ahead and kick, just so long as you finish this gig and get back to me pronto.”

  “Count on it, sweetheart. I miss you.”

  “I miss you more.”

  “How about we continue this debate in person?”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  They ended communications, laughing. Desi went to bed but tossed and turned. Less than two weeks married, and a night without Tony amounted to a night on a bed of thorns. She’d trade this soft mattress for a Red Cross cot in a heartbeat.

  Desi rolled out at sunup, scratchy eyed and cranky. Vidal had better not mess with her today.

  Dressed in casual pants and a button-down shirt, Desi made the short walk to the museum over cracked sidewalks and past workers removing rubble. A pair of uniformed policías flanked her, assigned for her protection by Señor Corona. She pulled out her radio and tried the aide again. Still no answer. Something must be wrong with his set. Guess the transport today was up to her and Señor Congeniality.

  After she arrived at the museum, she sent the professional movers scurrying to organize last-minute items for the first load. Walking through gutted rooms, she shook her head at the ruin of a gorgeous institution. After renovation, the building would be beautiful again, but it was hard to picture with water dripping, cracked floors, and sooty walls.

  Twenty minutes later, the thump of rotors sounded outside. Desi went to a window, minus its glass. Around the courtyard’s perimeter, a half-dozen armed policías stood vigilant against intruders. They stepped back as the bloated whirlybird touched down. Rotor wind ruffled Desi’s hair, and she covered her ears against the whine. Gradually, the wind and noise faded with the dying of the motor. Silence deafened, and then the belly of the massive chopper cracked open. The rear cargo door lowered and became a ramp that touched the ground. The board chairman emerged from a passenger door.

  Desi stepped into the courtyard, nodded to Señor Vidal, and took up a position at the base of the ramp. The chairman stood at her back, staring over her shoulder at the manifest on her clipboard. Item by item, the handlers moved the boxed and bubble-wrapped pieces into
the hold of the helicopter while Desi checked them off. Vidal remained silent, but his hot breath stirred the hairs on the top of her head.

  A weird sensation grew in her belly—like she was in the presence of a predator. Her feet tingled with the urge to run. How foolish would it seem for the contract security expert to bolt screaming from the courtyard because a pompous bureaucrat needed to flex his authority? She glanced over her shoulder at Señor Vidal who was, of all things, smiling.

  “I appreciate your priorities, señora. The most valuable items in the first load. We will breathe easier when these treasures are secured. Are we ready to leave?” He offered his arm.

  Where had this courtly don come from? And why would she rather chop off her hand than accept the escort? She overrode her revulsion and let him help her into the rear passenger seat.

  “You’ll like this ride.” His rapt gaze traveled over the interior of the whirlybird. “It’s a Eurocopter, quietest on the market. The royal family of Monaco has the luxury passenger version, but I had mine custom designed for a cargo chopper. We won’t even need headphones.”

  What do you know? Underneath the Ice Man exterior, Vidal was a regular guy in love with his gadgets. “Nothing but the best for Mexico’s heritage,” Desi’s aid.

  “Indeed.”

  One of the policías took the seat next to Desi, laying his rifle across his lap. The Mexican policeman gave her one of those flat cop stares they’d perfected the world over. He smelled of bad cigars. Something familiar about that. Desi frowned as she turned to watch the liftoff The muted drone of the rotors filled the passenger compartment. Vidal was right. No need for headsets. They might have to speak up, but conversation could be carried on. Not that she had anything to say to her companions.

  Airborne, they skimmed the tops of buildings. Destruction glared at her from every angle. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. God, please help these people. There’s so little Tony and I can do. You are the hope of the suffering. Help them look to You.

  When Desi opened her eyes, she fished her laptop out of her soft-sided briefcase, along with the bulky sat-phone unit, which got her a direct satellite feed to access her e-mail. She found a few messages from HJ Securities offices around the globe. One was from Max. Desi clicked on that one. She needed a touch from home. She read: