Fallen Idols

by J. F. Freedman

Tom leaned a bit closer to Vera. “Is that why you're here?” he asked her, glancing at Clancy. “Buying art?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “What kind?” he asked.

  “Native work,” she told him. “There is a big market in Europe now for indigenous Central and South American art.”

  “Contemporary art?” He traced a finger around the rim of his beer bottle.

  “Yes,” she replied. “And older pieces, too. From the the 1930s and 1940s. Whatever appeals to me, that I can afford.”

  Tom knocked back a hit of tequila. It was mediocre in quality, hot and rough going down. “What about real old stuff?” He paused. “Maya.”

  She frowned. “Do you mean from the ruins?”

  He nodded.

  She shook her head vehemently. “No,” she said firmly. “That is forbidden.”

  “I've heard it happens anyway,” he said.

  “It is an abomination,” she replied fiercely. “It is like stealing a child from its parents.”

  “So it isn't done?”

  She shook her head. “It is done. But not by scrupulous dealers. Not by me,” she added emphatically.

  “Good for you,” he told her. “I have heard about it, though. The thievery.”

  She made a face. “Some people will do anything for money.”

  Clancy drank some tequila, chased it with a swallow of beer. “Do you ever go out to the sites?” he asked her. “Are you interested in that?”

  “Of course,” she answered. “Who wouldn't be? They're spectacular.”

  He toyed with his bottle for a moment. “I've heard of this really incredible place, in the south. It's called …” He stopped for a moment, as if trying to recall it. “La Chmienea. Have you ever been there?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “It's not worth seeing?”

  “Oh, no. It is beautiful, from everything I've heard,” She said. “But it's not a good place for foreigners to visit now.”

  “Why not?”

  “There were problems. With what you were talking about.”

  “Looting?”

  She nodded.

  He knew he was pushing, but he couldn't help it. “By who?”

  “Some of the Americans who were working there,” she told them. “A famous archaeologist, who was in charge, and an art broker, a woman named Diane Montrose.” She shuddered. “An unscrupulous woman. There were stories of thefts they were involved in.” She sipped from her glass. “And there was a terrible incident at the same time, that stopped everything in its tracks.”

  “What kind of incident?” Tom asked, trying to sound uninformed.

  “A woman who was one of the team there was killed. Shot to death.” She paused. “Why do you want to know?” she asked with a curiosity that bordered on suspicion. “Are you in the art trade, too?”

  “No,” Tom said quickly. “We're just tourists. We want to visit some of the sites, like that one.”

  “Why in the world did you choose this hotel?” Patrick interjected.

  Because we stayed here one time with our parents, went through Tom's mind. The woman who was killed, and her archaeologist husband who you say was stealing the country's treasures.

  “Tourists never come to the Excelsior,” Patrick explained. “Only drones like us, on limited expense accounts. And Vera, who has a weird romantic streak.”

  “I abhor tourist hotels,” Vera said, smiling and patting Patrick's hand. “La Chimenea would be a good site to see,” she told them. “But I don't think you should attempt to go to that one. They don't want foreigners there anymore. Particularly Americans, like you lovely gentlemen.”

  Tom drank down the rest of his tequila. What a downer. They'd been in the country less than twelve hours, and already they were being hit with these accusations. Where there's smoke there's fire, he thought. And the smoke was awfully damn dense.

  “I'm bushed,” he said, standing and stretching. “I'm turning in.”

  Clancy stood also. “Nice meeting you all,” he told the correspondents and Vera. “Thanks for the company and the conversation.”

  “Good luck on your travels,” Patrick said cheerfully. “Be careful as you move about the country,” he advised them. “It can be dangerous here.”

  We know, Tom thought. We've lived through it.

  The following morning, Manuel drove them across the city for their meeting. The capital building, a large neocolonial structure of impressive ugliness, was situated on a high knoll overlooking the main business district.

  Manuel pulled up in front. “I will be in there,” he told them, pointing to a cantina across the square. “Leave everything with me except your necessary documents. Things do not move quickly around here,” he warned them. “Be patient.”

  They went inside and gave their names to a military aide who was seated at the reception desk. Behind him, a security gate barred further entrance into the building. The aide located the brothers on the appointment list, and placed a telephone call.

  “Sit over there,” he ordered them brusquely in Spanish, pointing to a bench against the far wall.

  They sat on the hard bench for close to half an hour without being paid any attention. Finally, Tom got up and walked to the front desk. “What's the holdup?”

  The aide answered with a bureaucrat's automatic response: “The minister is in a meeting. I will inform you when he's free.”

  “Still in his so-called meeting,” Tom told Clancy as he plopped down again. “It's petty game-playing.”

  Clancy looked at his watch. “There's nothing we can do about it,” he replied pragmatically. “We're at their mercy.”

  “He'll see us if we have to camp out here overnight,” Tom said with determination. “’Cause we ain't leaving till he does.”

  As if their impatience had been psychically transmitted, the telephone rang on the military aide's desk. He picked it up and listened. Standing, he beckoned Clancy and Tom.

  “Follow me.” He unlocked the security gate and led them down a high-ceilinged, marble-floored hallway to a set of elaborately carved mahogany double doors. Opening one of the doors, he ushered them inside.

  The office of the Minister of Archaeology and Culture was large, almost the size of a small courtroom. Faded oriental carpets covered the polished wooden floor. Behind the ornate desk, a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows opened onto a narrow balcony that overlooked the city. The windows were closed, covered with thin gauzy curtains through which the afternoon sun filtered, bathing the room with a golden light.

  The minister was next to his desk. He was thin, middle-aged, his balding hair shaved almost to his skull. He wore a well-cut dark business suit, a crisp white shirt with doubloon cuff links, a light blue tie. Like the boots worn by the guardia, his black wingtips were shined to a high gloss.

  Please,” he said in English, “sit down.” His English, although accented, was clear and assured.

  They sat in wing chairs facing his desk. The sun was in their eyes, an obvious ploy, Tom thought—he had delayed this meeting until the sun was in the right position.

  “I'm sorry to have kept you waiting.” The minister gave them an insincere smile of apology. “We had an emergency. There is always an emergency, and it always winds up on my desk. Can I offer you a refreshment? Something to drink?”

  “No, thank you,” Tom replied.

  The minister sat down, facing them. As the sun was over his shoulder, his face was in shadow while theirs were in bright sunlight. “¿Hablan español?” he asked them.

  “No mucho,” Tom replied. “Decently enough,” he Raid in English. “But my brother doesn't,” he added.

  “We can converse in English, then,” the minister said. “I was in college in your country. Southern Methodist university, in Dallas, Texas. I got my master's degree in business administration,” he told them with a proud smile. “They have an excellent archaeology department there,” he added, “as I assume you know.”

  “Yes, we kno
w,” Tom replied. Walt had guest-lectured at SMU, and had also written a chapter of a book about Maya life that had been compiled by a prominent archaeologist who taught there.

  The minister leaned forward on his elbows. “You are here to talk about your father.”

  “Yes,” Tom said. They were speaking in English, but as he had been prepared to handle the conversation in Spanish, he took the lead.

  “How can I help you?” the minister asked, looking from one of them to the other. “What do you want to know?”

  “Why isn't our father in charge of the excavation at La Chimenea anymore?” Tom asked bluntly.

  The minister sat back, steepling his fingers at the tips and looking up at the ceiling. “That is a complex question. As are the reasons.” He brought his gaze down to them. “There was a mutuality of agreement.”

  “Was there a problem with the quality of his work?”

  “No, no,” the minister responded quickly. “His work was excellent. He has always done fine work. He is highly respected here for …” He paused. “The work.”

  “Then what was the problem?” Clancy interjected. “Did he step on somebody's toes? Rub somebody important the wrong way?” He leaned forward. “Like you?”

  “No,” the minister said. “He did not rub me the wrong way.”

  “Someone else then?” Clancy continued. “Higher up than you?”

  The minister showed them a blank face. “There is no one higher up than me. Not even the President. I make the decisions about our archaeological heritage.”

  “So you made the decision,” Tom said. “Personally.”

  “Yes,” the minister confirmed. “I made it.”

  “Why? If there was nothing wrong with the work he was doing?” His voice was rising in anger.

  “Tom,” Clancy admonished him. “Take it easy.”

  Tom took a deep breath. “Our father raised millions of dollars for La Chimenea. He brought together the National Geographic Society, the Smithsonian Museum, his university, all the other donors. Why in the world wouldn't you have wanted that man to stay here and keep working? No one else can do it as well.”

  The minister stood up. Turning his back on them, he looked out the window. “There were other reasons.” He paused. “There were accusations made. Serious accusations.”

  “What were they?” Clancy asked.

  The minister turned to face them. “We discovered that artifacts had been stolen from the site. We investigated, and traced it to the archaeological team that was led by your father.”

  “You know that for a fact?” Tom asked. They had to know: absolutely, completely, irrevocably.

  The minister furrowed his eyebrows. “Professor Gaines was in charge,” he said. “No one else had free rein of the site like he did. He was the logical suspect.”

  “Suspected, but without proof,” Tom pressed.

  The minister flushed. “There was no one else who could have done it,” he insisted.

  “So you kicked him off the project, even though by your own admission you didn't have proof.”

  “This is our country, Señor Gaines,” the minister responded strongly, clearly angered and offended. “Not your father's, not the National Geographic Society's, not the Smithsonian Museum's, not the University of Wisconsin's. Ours. We had the absolute right to terminate his contract, and we did.” He took a moment to compose himself. “And it was the right decision, that we know.”

  “How do you know?” Clancy demanded.

  “Because since he left, there have been no more Hulls.” The minister's smile was triumphant. “That is more than enough proof for me. And for the President and the cabinet as well.” He paused. “I am sorry you came all this way to hear this, but it is the truth.”

  What about our mother?” Clancy asked bluntly.

  The minister's face took on a look of grave piety. “That was a terrible misfortune.”

  “A misfortune? The wife of a prominent American is shot to death and you call that a misfortune?”

  The minister shrugged. “People die in this country every day. From malnutrition, from earthquakes, at the hands of Marxist rebels. Yes, it was a misfortune. Any time someone is killed it is a misfortune.”

  “Do you know who killed her?”

  The minister rubbed his hand up and down his chin. “There are suspects we are aware of.”

  “Have you made any arrests?” Clancy asked.

  The minister shook his head. “No.”

  “Why not, if you know who the suspects are?”

  “They are hard to find,” came the unconcerned reply. “They live in the jungles and the mountains, where it would be difficult for our soldiers to reach them without inflicting unacceptable casualties.” He shrugged apathetically. “There have been insurrections in this country for many years. Our resources to combat them are limited. We cannot go after all the forces that are opposed to us, like your country does.”

  “Her killing was not important to you, is what you're saying,” Tom said heatedly.

  “I am sorry for your loss,” the minister replied flatly. “But it is not my hands that are stained with her blood.”

  In a foul and depressed mood, they walked across the busy square, dodging ancient taxis and buses belching diesel fumes from their exhaust pipes, and entered the cantina where Manuel was waiting. The light inside was dim and thick with cigarette smoke. They saw Manuel sitting at a table in a corner, at the back of the room. He spotted Clancy and Tom through the gray-blue haze and waved them over.

  “Beers?” Manuel asked.

  “Absolutely,” Clancy said. “I could use a real drink, too.”

  Manuel called to the woman who was serving. “Dos cervezas, y nos trae una botella de tequila. How did your meeting go?” he asked.

  “Lousy,” Clancy said. “He didn't give a damn.”

  Manuel shrugged, as if to say, “of course not.” “Did he give a reason for why your father can no longer come here?”

  Clancy hesitated—Manuel had been their father's closest aide and most loyal supporter. “Yes,” he said.

  The woman put their beers in front of them and set the bottle of tequila, along with glasses, in the center of the table. Manuel poured three shots of tequila. He raised his glass.

  “To happier times.” He tossed his drink down.

  “Amen to that,” Tom seconded. “Whew!” he exclaimed, as the drink hit home. “That packs a punch!”

  “It is not distilled for very long,” Manuel said with a smile, pouring some more into his glass and Tom's. Turning serious again, he asked, “Did the minister say anything about your mother?”

  “They think they know who killed her,” Clancy said, but they're not going to do anything about it. It's not important enough to them,” he said bitterly.

  “They do not want to awaken the sleeping bear,” Manuel said, sagely.

  “He told us it was because dad was involved in smuggling,” Clancy said. “Some kind of retaliation.”

  Manuel nodded slowly, but didn't speak.

  “Look, Manuel,” Tom said. This was crunch time— their best and maybe their last chance to learn the truth. “We know you loved our dad and you don't want to say anything bad about him. But if you know about thefts that went on, we want you to tell us.” He looked over at Clancy, who seconded him. “We had heard about that before we came down here. That was one of the reasons we came, to find out if it's true. And to find out more about why our mother was killed. Most importantly, if her death was connected to it.”

  Manuel looked at them intently. “You are sure you really want to know?” he asked finally. “No matter what you find out?”

  “Yes,” Clancy said. “We really want to know. We have to.”

  Manuel nodded. “I can understand that you must.” He waited another moment before speaking again. “There is a man who can tell you the truth of what happened. I can arrange for you to meet with him.” Another pause. “I knew the government would dismiss your concerns, so I have
already been in contact with this man.”

  “That's great!” Tom exclaimed. “That's really wonderful of you to do this, Manuel.”

  Manuel raised a finger of caution. “He and his people are in opposition to the government, so you will have to go where the government soldiers are not willing to go— deep into the jungle. It will be a difficult journey.”

  “That's okay,” Tom assured him eagerly. “We can handle it.”

  “Absolutely,” Clancy seconded. “How long will it take?” he asked.

  “Almost a week,” Manuel replied, “because you will go on foot. You will have to walk two, maybe three days into the jungle with the guide I am going to provide you, meet with this man, and then walk out.”

  “A week?” Clancy repeated, surprised. “We weren't counting on being away that long.”

  “If you truly want to know the truth, that is what you must do.”

  “It's okay, we'll do it,” Tom said quickly. “This man we're meeting,” he continued. “Was he the one who shot mom?”

  Manuel shook his head slowly. “He will tell you everything. It is not for me to do it.” He helped himself to another drink. “What I can assure you of, and this is important, is that these men will not harm you. They have given me their word of your safe passage, and I know they will honor it.”

  It took over an hour to get a phone connection to Will and Callie. Tom and Clancy explained what they had done thus far, then told of their impending journey.

  “You're going to hike into the jungle for a week?” Callie exclaimed. “Where are you guys going? Who are you meeting with?” she demanded.

  “We don't know,” Clancy answered. “We don't know anything, other than Manuel told us this is the only way we can find out what we came down here for.”

  “It sounds dicey,” Will said cautiously.

  “Manuel assured us that we won't be harmed,” Tom told them. “He's the last person to do anything to put us in harm's way. He was totally devoted to dad. Mom, too.”

  “I'm still nervous,” Callie said. “Are you guys sure you want to go through with this? What if something happens out there, even if it's an accident? If you're walking three days into the middle of some jungle, who knows if—”