“What about the boat?” Niro asked. “Somebody might recognize it.”
Tan opened the box of hand grenades. “You two go find a taxi. I’ll take care of the boat.”
Chapter 55
Virginia, USA
When I glanced out the airplane window and saw the green Virginia countryside, I felt like a victorious soldier coming home from war. I was alive, the enemy beaten, rolls of film in my shoulder bag. Now all I had to do was decide how and when to announce the discovery.
The plane touched down. Tan found his wife and teenage daughter in the waiting area, but there was no sign of attorney Stan. He didn’t answer his cell either.
An hour passed. I gave up and was looking for a shuttle when he called.
“Stuck in traffic,” he said. “Sorry.”
He finally pulled up at the curb in his Porsche, two hours late. No flowers, no apologies and only a cold kiss. He didn’t even notice the missing suitcase. Worse, just as I was about to tell him about the trip, he said, “Uh, I’ve been thinking, Jen. Instead of both of us moving up to New York, wouldn’t it be better if you went up by yourself?”
Not a bad idea, I thought.
Early the next morning, Sunday, I picked up the phone and punched in the number for Rosario in Nicaragua. She answered on the second ring.
“Oh, it’s you, Mrs. Richardson. How was your trip to Nicaragua?”
Not Jen or Jennifer, but Mrs. Richardson, which was like ringing an alarm bell.
“How was your trip?”
“Productive,” I told her. “What happened to you? We were waiting.”
The connection clicked and popped. In my paranoid mind, I imagined a room full of agents, all with recording devices and earpieces. When she came back, her voice was barely audible.
“Did you find the cave?”
“What cave?”
“Father Antonio’s cave. You know…pirate gold, Moses glyphs.”
“I don’t know why people keep asking me. No, that wasn’t the purpose of our visit.”
A muffled voice sounded in the background, like someone telling her what to ask. Then she said, “Did you have any problems? Anyone following you? Anything like that?”
“Nothing but bad weather. Why?”
“Because the caretakers said you left in a hurry.”
“They weren’t around when we left.”
More silence. My stomach twisted. I knew what was coming. Then it came: “Listen, while you were on the lake, did you happen to see Captain Gonzales?”
“Why on earth would I see him?”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Richardson, but here’s the problem: he disappeared…as in vanished. His boat too. Not a trace. They’re searching the lake. Don’t be surprised if someone calls you.”
Phones were ringing when I entered the office, people rushing around, everyone wanting my attention. Worse, the cramps in my stomach had turned to sharp, stabbing pains. There were calls to return, disputes to resolve, and even Diane asking if we could talk about her boyfriend.
“I’m hurting,” she said. “Jack dumped me.”
“I thought his name was Chad.”
“That was two weeks ago. I need your advice.”
My advice, mind you. On a love matter. From me, Jennifer, the poster girl for failure.
I took my film down to the photo lab, packaged the gold coin for analysis, then sank into the chair behind my desk and stared at the paperwork—messages, memos, vouchers. Damn that Vicki, leaving me this mess. How could I manage an office and do all the things I needed to do? Like translate Father Antonio’s memoirs. Unravel the mystery of the cave. Worry about Gonzales. Find a place to live in New York. See a doctor about my cramps.
Then came the dreaded phone call from Nicaragua—Mr. Easton at the US Embassy.
“Were you in Nicaragua last week?” he asked in his lawyerly voice.
“Why do you ask?”
“Just answer the question, please. Were you in Nicaragua?”
“I might have been.”
“Were you staying on the Isle of Thieves with two associates?”
“Why are you asking these questions?”
“I’ll come to that. Did Captain Gonzales stop by while you were there?”
“Why don’t you ask Captain Gonzales?”
“Well, that’s the problem. No one’s seen him since last Thursday.”
“I haven’t seen him either.”
“Look, Ms. Richardson. We know you were on the lake when he went missing. We also know you were on the lake when Lieutenant Fuentes disappeared. A bit odd, wouldn’t you say?”
Panic flared in my chest. If Easton had rigged his phone with one of those stress monitoring devices, it would be in flames. “Listen, Mr. Easton, if you’re inferring—”
“Don’t make this difficult, Ms. Richardson. My sources put you and your friends in Rivas last Thursday. From there you took a taxi to Costa Rica. Is that correct?”
“I don’t remember the day.”
“How did you get from your island all the way down to Rivas? It’s a fair distance.”
“What’s so important about how we got there?”
“Because a boat exploded in Rivas. Same day you were there. Witnesses say it floated into the lake in flames, then exploded. Was it the captain’s boat?”
“How would I know if it was the captain’s boat?”
“Please, Ms. Richardson, I’m not making accusations, but a case could be made that you and your friends hijacked the captain and his boat. Is that what happened?”
In the silence that followed, he said, “We know the captain’s history. We know he was prone to violence. If something happened that day, it’s best you tell me. Did he threaten you?”
Tears welled up. I began to cry. Mr. Easton said, “Why don’t you think about it? I had a similar case in Peru a couple years ago, an American professor mired in a local case. It didn’t end well for him. The same could happen to you.”
“What happened to him?”
“There was a book about it, Lily of Peru. You should check it out.”
Chapter 56
Stan turned red when I told him about the conversation with Easton. “Christ, Jen, you’re your own worst enemy. I told you to clam up. Get a poor memory. Don’t say a damn thing.”
He flung his newspaper on the floor and was about to say something else when the house phone rang, the one Stan never answered.
Rosario, calling from Nicaragua.
“We need to talk,” she said in a strained voice. “I’m catching it from all sides.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play innocent, Jennifer. You know what I’m talking about.” Her voice cracked. “They’re convinced you had something to do with the captain’s disappearance. And they’re blaming me, saying I was the enabler. And I don’t even know you.”
“Wait, calm down. Who is blaming you?”
“Everybody. State security, military, even the press. This is Nicaragua. I had to tell them everything. We don’t have the kind of protection that you—”
“Did you tell them about the…you know, the place we discussed?”
“The cave?”
I rolled my eyes. Why did she say cave? “Listen, Rosario, is your phone secure?”
“I’m at a phone exchange. It’s safe. As for your question, no, I didn’t mention the cave. All I said was you were searching for places of interest.” Her voice grew strained. “Look, this changes everything. I’m scared. I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“To where?”
“Stanford…to work on my dissertation. I’ll call you from there.”
“What about your job?”
“My life is more important. As for that cave, I wouldn’t tell a soul.”
“But don’t you need a report of what we found?”
“Nothing in writing. They’ll come after you. Come after me, too.”
There was a pause, and then a muffled, “Mierda.”
“W
hat’s happening?”
“Soldiers.”
She hung up and I was staring at a dead phone.
Early the next morning, after a restless night filled with bad dreams, I called Rosario’s home number. No answer. I called her office. No answer there either. I logged onto nicaragua.com and looked over the dailies. Nothing about Rosario, but photos of Gonzales’ pockmarked face stared back at me, most of them below headlines that read MISSING ON THE LAKE.
I kept reading, certain there’d be something about Rosario. Or me. Or the cave. But there was only speculation about what happened to Gonzales. He’d drowned in the storm. Fled the country to avoid prosecution. Been murdered in a revenge killing for war crimes.
After three days, I called the archaeology department at Stanford. No, said the woman who answered, they’d heard nothing from Rosario, but expected her back in the fall.
My mom told me to stop worrying, that she was likely hiding out with relatives. Stan told me the same, but with a lecture. “Christ, Jen, you’re not Mother Teresa. Why should you give a damn about someone you never met? Shit happens.”
“Maybe it does, but I caused it. She’s in trouble because of me.”
“If it bothers you that much, go to a priest.”
“I’m not Catholic.”
“So? Go to your mom, cry on her shoulder.”
Another week passed, and still no word from Rosario. Or Easton. Tan reconstructed the water jug I’d brought back from the cave. The photo lab needed my attention. Columbia University called to say it was urgent I meet with them to discuss my application. Diane wanted to know if we were still friends because I kept putting her off. Then the Nicaraguan Embassy in DC called and asked if they could stop by the office for a talk.
No, I told them, and called Elizabeth Alvarado.
“Well, well, well,” she said, “I was wondering when you’d own up.”
“To what?”
“Gonzales missing, a boat blowing up, your friend Rosario in the slammer.”
“What happened to Rosario?”
“Detained for questioning.”
“Is she okay?”
“She’s in jail, Jennifer. People in jail are never okay.”
I could have cried. Here I was in the States, safe in my townhouse in Virginia, hiding behind a lawyer, while poor Rosario was locked away in a dungeon. “That poor woman did nothing but help us find accommodations,” I said. “Isn’t there something you can do?”
“Sure, I can report it on the news, blast the authorities…and tomorrow I might end up in a cell next to her…but there’s something you can do.”
“Like what?”
“Like own up. Confess. Tell me what you did to Gonzales. Let me report that.”
“I didn’t do anything to Gonzales.”
“You’re lying, Jennifer. Just like you lied about not finding the cave.”
“Goodbye, Elizabeth.”
I hung up and called Mr. Easton at the US Embassy in Managua.
Yes, he told me, he’d heard about Rosario’s arrest.
“Can’t the embassy get her out?”
“Sorry, Ms. Richardson, we can’t help her, but you can.”
“How?”
“By telling me what happened to Captain Gonzales.”
“Mr. Easton?”
“I’m listening.”
“When you get Rosario out of the country, and I know she’s safe, call me and we’ll talk.”
Two days later, on a Saturday morning while Stan was still snoring and I was lying awake, thinking I needed to make another appointment with a therapist, Elizabeth called again.
“They found him,” she said in a chirpy voice.
I took the receiver and scrambled into the kitchen. “Alive?”
“Barely. You should see him. Looks like Robinson Crusoe. All beard and bones, a pathetic skeleton in rags. Says he survived by eating frog legs and snakes.”
“Did he say what happened?”
“Oh, yes, in front of the entire press corps. Said he got caught in a storm. Engine died. His boat drifted, took on water and began to sink. Barely made it to this little island.”
“That’s it?”
“More or less. The good news is you’re off the hook. So is Rosario. They freed her.”
“Is she okay?”
“I’m trying to get an interview, find out what happened. I’d also like to hear your version.”
“I don’t have a version.”
“Oh, please, Jennifer. Smart money around here says Gonzales went to bully you about the cave, but wound up getting bullied himself. Only reason he’s lying is because he can’t admit he was bested by a woman. He’d be the laughing stock of the barracks.”
“Is that what you’re going to air on your show?”
“No, just calling to warn you to watch your back. He’s a vindictive bastard.”
Chapter 57
Fear became part of my life. I jumped at every ring of the phone. I glanced over my shoulder in parking lots and considered every stranger an agent of Gonzales. Stan purchased another Beretta for me, a semi-automatic .32 that was small enough to fit in a purse along with my blonde wig, sunglasses, Swiss Army knife, and pepper spray. He also berated me night and day, saying the best way to get Gonzales off my back was to announce the discovery.
“Tell it to the world,” he said. “Location and everything.”
“No, Stan, it’ll be overrun with vandals.”
“So what? It’s no longer your problem.”
“Archaeologists have an obligation to protect their finds.”
“Christ, Jen, don’t get all ethical with me. Your butt’s in danger.”
He was right. The longer I delayed the announcement, the greater the danger, so I called Rosario in California.
“Are you crazy?” she said. “Don’t you realize what will happen if you announce it? Gonzales already has stooges in my office. They’ve infiltrated the place. The minute they get your report they’ll clean out the cave. Destroy it. Leave nothing of value. Then your discovery will be worthless, a report of an empty cave.”
“But what am I supposed to do?”
“Just wait until I’m back in Nicaragua and we’ll work it out.”
The analysis of the gold coin came back, confirming that it was an eight-escudo Spanish coin minted in Mexico in 1713. Weight—26.83 grams, or about one ounce. The notation read: Numismatic value to collectors could be as high as six to nine thousand dollars.
Nine thousand dollars? For one coin? No wonder Gonzales wanted that cave. There could be thousands more. Enough to make him a very rich man—and me a very dead archaeologist.
I needed to get this burden off my shoulders, so the next morning, hoping for advice, I went to our legal affairs division and outlined my case to a Mr. Rosen.
“Let me see if I have this straight,” he said in his lawyer’s voice. “You want credit for an important archaeological discovery. Correct?”
“Correct.”
“But you can’t announce the discovery because the Nicaraguan antiquities people need more time to make preparations. That about right?”
“Right.”
“You’re also worried the bad guys will come after you.”
“They’re already after me.”
He took off his glasses and leaned forward. “Have you reported this to the police?”
“Not exactly.”
“You should, Ms. Richardson. We’ve lost archaeologists before.”
His phone rang. “Excuse me,” he said, “I’ve got to take this.”
He turned his back on me. I waited until my stomach began cramping and left. My cramps grew worse when I found Niro waiting in my office, examining Tan’s reconstruction of the water jug. His nose was peeling from sunburn and his face was tanned except around the eyes.
“There she is,” he said in his gravelly voice, “the heroine of my book, Jennifer of the Glyphs.”
I shook his clammy hand and slumped into a chair.
<
br /> “Two more months and I’m out of here,” he said. “Already found new digs in Costa Rica.”
He handed me a thick folder of 10 x 12 glossies. “I can enlarge them for you.”
I flipped through the photos and for a moment was back in that cursed hole, staring at the nine ceramic plates, the stone sentinels and the view of the lake from the cave. There were also photos of Leocadia—shorts and tank top, big grin and big boobs, hair catching the breeze.
I chose the photos I wanted for enlargement and told Niro the good news and the bad about Gonzales. “There’s still a danger he could come after us.”
“Good,” he answered with a sneer. “Next time he won’t be so lucky.” He stood and reached for a paper bag on the floor. “Oh, I almost forgot. Here’s something I brought for you.”
I opened the bag and stared in horror at the skull from the cave.
Chapter 58
The mystery of the cave hung over me like a dark cloud, an enigma baked into ceramics. Sooner or later word would get out. Then every paleontologist, epigrapher, and student of ancient writing would want to tackle decipherment.
And whoever unraveled the mystery would get the glory.
I, Jennifer, wanted the glory. Which seemed only right after all I’d gone through. So as soon as Niro enlarged the photos of the nine plates to life size—about a square yard each—I took them home and laid them out on the living room floor in the same order as in the cave.
On each were almost a hundred images—deltas, celestial bodies, spirals, squiggly lines, animals, insects, people and other things. Clearly a text, but where was the beginning?
I couldn’t tell.
Did it read from left to right, or right to left, or top to bottom, or bottom to top?
I didn’t know.
Was each plate a complete story, like books in the Bible?
No way to tell that either.
Something dramatic was happening—coitus, drowning, sacrifice, volcanic eruptions, idol worship and conflict—but they were scattered here and there in no particular order, buried amid the clutter of abstract symbols. This was going to take a long time.
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