The Mayan Legacy (A Simon Gray Thriller Book 1)

by Edward G. Talbot

  Silence met this revelation. Andrews shifted in the chair again and willed his posterior to cooperate. Yarrow sighed. “Let me get this straight. The killer is crying on the picture of the President? And that's gonna be the fatal flaw that brings him down?”

  She shook her head. “Hard to believe I actually fought for this job. OK, Andrews, thanks for the briefing. I know you guys are workin' hard on this. Keep up the good work, and tell me the instant you know if you can extract usable DNA.”

  She stood up, and he took that as his cue to leave. He walked out the door, still pondering her words. He wondered again why a vicious killer would be crying on a photograph of the President of the United States.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  June 24, 2012: Virginia

  The house didn't look like much from the outside. Two thousand square feet seemed mighty small nestled in the dense Virginia forest west of D.C. Simon had expected to wind up at CIA headquarters in Langley, not a farmhouse in the country. He suspected that he couldn't judge this particular book by its cover.

  Two huge men greeted him inside the doorway. The agent with the bad teeth led the way, the one who had convinced him to help go after Cimil. They both underwent a vigorous and thorough search. His name was Felix Rostan, and Simon couldn't help liking the man. The other three agents had taken a different flight out of Bradley Airport in Hartford, but Rostan stayed with him on the flight into Reagan National and the ride into Virginia. This time they took a ten year old brown Ford Taurus. No statement of power with dual Suburbans, this was more along the lines of ‘we were never here.’

  Rostan led him down a hallway into a large central room with several couches and a fireplace. An oil painting of General Stonewall Jackson hung over the mantle, and Simon imagined someone must have a sense of humor. The voice that broke the silence spoke with a trace of the South, the Bayou he decided.

  “Mr. Gray. I'm glad you decided to take us up on our offer. Please have a seat and we can get started.”

  Simon noted that the man didn't offer to shake his hand. Despite his disdain for politicians of all stripes, he made it a point to stay educated about who ran the government. He recognized this man instantly.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Braxton. I take it from your presence that the Agency is taking this seriously.”

  “As the grave, Mr. Gray. Believe me, we wouldn't have recruited you if we had any other choice.”

  Simon chuckled. “I believe you. Your presence also suggests that this operation will be kept very close to the vest. No Deputy Directors or middle management.”

  Braxton stared at him. “As it happens, you're right. I wish I hadn't needed to send four guys out to your job site, but after the President decided to put me in charge of this, she threw Blanfield a bone by agreeing that we needed a show of force to get you on board. Now it's my show. Aside from Felix, you need to meet Jaime Cortez, our best Mayan language guy.”

  Simon now noticed the small man sitting in a chair to his left. How had he missed an extra person in the room? He must have been thrown off by the travel, the vigorous search and the presence of the DCI. Still, that kind of oversight could have gotten him killed as a Ranger, and he promised himself it wouldn't happen again. Cortez stood up and shook Simon's hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Simon. I'm a first name kinda' guy, hope you don't mind. You can call me Jim. We're gonna need all the help you can give us.”

  Simon surprised himself by smiling. Cortez' own grin was contagious. “Okay, Jim, nice to meet you, too. And looking forward to helping. So where do we start?”

  Braxton gestured for both men to sit. Rostan remained standing and spoke. “Even though Dennis here outranks me, I'm the operational leader of this little group. As I told you before, we need more information. How likely is Cimil to get a weapon and how likely is he to use it? Does he have a major organization or is he the leader of a small group? And how can we best stop what he's trying to do?”

  Simon responded. “Well, I can tell you from what I knew of the guy in the eighties that he probably has a substantial and very secret organization of people who try to emulate traditional Maya culture. I don't know how likely he is to get a weapon, but my guess is if he gets one, he'd be more than happy to use it.”

  Braxton raised his voice. “And how in Christ's name can you be sure of that? What exactly happened between you two, anyway?”

  “What happened between us is nobody's business.” Simon's voice was ice. “The man is evil. But I was best friends with him for four years, and I know how he works. If that's not enough, I get a letter from him every year, and it's clear he's up to something big.”

  Silence. Then Cortez said, “It's not that we don't believe you, but if you thought he was planning something big, why didn't you tell anyone?”

  “I didn't believe him. At least, I didn't think he was planning anything beyond his own people in Guatemala. It seems I was wrong. And that's one reason I'm here now.”

  As if choreographed, the other three nodded. Rostan continued his outline. “OK, that's excellent information. We've talked about this, and your thoughts back up our conclusion. You asked where we start. We start by you getting in touch with Cimil.”

  Simon stared at the other faces, and saw no sign that they were joking. “Surely that's a little premature. There's gotta be some other places to get information first.”

  Braxton's voice was gentle. “Simon, there's nowhere else. We don't even know for sure where he lives. We have a phone number, but Cimil is a sensitive topic in the Guatemalan government. We can't ask for his address, and trying to bribe someone is likely to backfire. We could wait until one of his rare public appearances and try to tail him, but that could be weeks or months. And we can't exactly put a bunch of agents in country without attracting attention.”

  “What about people he does business with? A company like that has its fingers everywhere.”

  “We tried. Several U.S. companies were more than happy to let us use them to get someone close to him. That's how we got a guy inside. Cimil killed him. At this point, your phone call is all we've got.”

  Simon sighed and looked at Rostan. “Why am I not surprised you didn't mention this earlier? OK, I guess we need to figure out what I'm gonna say and decide when to—”

  He stopped when the phone rang. Braxton picked it up and put it on speakerphone. The voice on the line sounded familiar.

  “I can help you with that, Mr. Gray.”

  Could it be? When he heard the laugh, he knew.

  “That's right, this is President Richards. You're gonna tell him most of the truth. You'll say that his recent letters have concerned you, and that your government approached you about him. You'll ask him what he means by something big. You'll tell him you're disillusioned and you want to meet with him in Guatemala and find out more. And if that doesn't work, you can tell him that I'll come along for the meeting.”

  “Madame President, I can't tell you strongly enough what a bad idea that is!” Braxton stood up and his left hand fished in his jacket pocket for his pills.

  “I think you just did, Dennis. Fortunately, I'm the President, and I don't have to agree with you. Some madman wants nukes and even the CIA is clueless. A disgruntled ex-Ranger with no intelligence training is our only hope. I think I better be involved.”

  She hung up the phone.

  Simon breathed through his nose. Jesus, she'd been listening in on the meeting. What had he gotten himself into? He closed his eyes and when he opened them, Jaime's grin had gotten wider.

  “Don't matter how many times you close your eyes, when you open them you'll still be here. Up to your neck in it. My advice is to just relax and say what the Hell. We do the best we can.”

  “Easy for you to say. Do you seriously advocate doing what she said?”

  Rostan smiled. “Basically, yeah, that's what we all came up with. Except for the part about the presidential visit. I don't know that you really wanna do that. Dennis, whadaya think?”

&
nbsp; “The idea sucks. Actually sucks isn't a strong enough word.”

  Jaime grinned and raised his hand. “How about transcendently horrible?”

  “That's two words, but yeah, sounds about right. Simon, please don't say Richards will meet with him unless you really have to. Things are bad enough as it is. Let's go over what we do want to say a few times and make sure we've got it.”

  For the next thirty minutes, they talked through the scenarios. What if he said this? What if he said that? Eventually Simon said they'd beaten the topic up enough. Time to make the most important phone call of his life.

  “Yum, this is Simon. Long time no talk.” Even as he said it, he knew it sounded stupid. This was a long shot, so he might as well try to lighten things up.

  They had dialed the number of Cimil's corporate headquarters in Guatemala City. It took about fifteen minutes to get through a series of secretaries. That task fell to Jaime Cortez on another extension, and his Guatemalan accent helped smooth the way. Eventually the message that Simon Gray was on the phone achieved the desired result, and Simon heard the voice he remembered from all those years ago. Cimil was one of those rare individuals raised outside the English-speaking world who could speak English without an accent.

  “Yes, a long time. I still remember it like it was yesterday. I also remember getting no responses to my letters.”

  “Well, what can I say? Life takes a lot of strange twists, and I haven't been good company for anyone for a long time. I'm not gonna pretend I wanna be best buddies again. Your letters are the main reason I'm calling. I have to be honest and tell you someone from the Agency approached me. The last couple years, you've mentioned something really big. They're concerned about it. I told them I didn't know squat, but I gotta admit I'm curious.”

  “Curious is one word. You're the only American I've ever met who could understand the power of what I do. But you turned your back on that. And me. We shared a bond almost like family. That's why I keep writing. But you're not part of my plan. Plus, I don't believe you, Simon. What are you really after?”

  Simon closed his eyes. “Look, I'm not gonna bullshit you. The CIA came to me. They think you're up to something but they have no clue what it is. I see the world in general, and America in particular, going to hell. Call it a combination of factors, but I find myself wondering more and more what your whole plan is.”

  “And what exactly do you propose? I tell you everything on my mind and you save the day? I don't think so, Simon. It's great to hear from you. I'm glad you finally recognize where the world is headed. But I've moved far beyond where I was three decades ago. My moment is almost here. I will hang up now.”

  Simon could feel the panic rising in his chest and he sought to control it. What could he say? He had maybe a second until this ended in failure. He couldn't let that happen. Something clicked in his mind, a memory of Cimil's appreciation for power. “Hold it, Yum, it's not just me who wants to talk to you. It's also Susan Richards.”

  Dennis Braxton's eyes narrowed and every muscle in his face tensed. He moved to take the phone from Simon, but Rostan and Cortez stopped him. The CIA director growled, reaching into his jacket for his bottle of pills. Waiting for a reply, Simon held his breath.

  The laugh on the other end brought to mind Vincent Price. “Whoa, you're moving up in the world. Either that or you're desperate. I'm supposed to believe that the Ice Queen herself wants to meet with me? Would this be an official visit?”

  Simon's heart continued its stampede. “I think you know the answer to whether this would be official. She's just curious about the power behind the throne in Guatemala.”

  All he heard for the next few seconds was the buzz of an international connection. C'mon Yum, he thought. You know you can't resist.

  Finally, Cimil spoke. “Score a point for Mr. Gray. How could I pass up the opportunity to meet with the most powerful woman in the world? Here's the deal. I'll meet with you and her at my compound. No one else except a small Secret Service detail. I'll tolerate a certain level of advance work, but no snipers within a mile of my place. No secret agents and no advisors.

  “When you find an opening in the Presidential schedule, call me back. I'll tell you if the date will work and we'll iron out the details. I'm looking forward to seeing you. Both of you. And now, goodbye.”

  The line went dead. Simon disconnected and turned to face the others. The expression on Braxton's face left no doubt about his displeasure.

  “Simon, come on. Didn't I say leave her out of it?”

  Simon shrugged. “If he'd hung up on me, we'd never talk to him again. Did you want to be the one to tell President Richards that we failed and we didn't do what she ordered us to do?”

  No one spoke. Cortez said, “Hey, what's done is done. Did anything he said tell you something we didn't know before?”

  “Nah. The only thing is he seems even more confident and arrogant. And he used to be pretty bad. Whatever he's got cooking, he certainly believes he'll pull it off. Aside from that, he didn't give us much.”

  Rostan slapped him on the back, and Simon suspected that the prospect of action invigorated the man. “Well, we should get some intelligence out of this. We've never gotten anyone inside his compound, at least no one we've ever heard from again.”

  Braxton shook his head. “And you want us to send the President in there?”

  Rostan's voice stayed calm. “Dennis, she'll have the Secret Service. We'll notify the Guatemalan government when we're in the air, so they know she's in-country. He's not gonna risk an international incident.”

  Braxton stared at the floor for a few seconds. When he looked up again, his face had changed, the anger mostly gone.

  “Oh what the hell. We received an order from our Commander-in-Chief, right? I guess we just go with it. So all I have to do now is ask the President when she'd like to accompany us to Guatemala.”

  He allowed himself a weak smile.

  “You know, I used to be good at this job.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  August 2nd, 2012: Tblisi, Georgia

  The rail-thin Georgian prime minister listened. The fat general talked. And the stranger smiled while he read their minds. The roles shifted some as the ninety minutes passed, and conversation traveled around the triangular table. But the fundamental balance of power didn't change. At least two of the three participants knew it.

  Ramaz Arveladze's face showed no sign of the anxiety gnawing at his gut. He knew the importance of hiding his feelings, but right now, he wished only for serenity. He felt nothing but trepidation as he listened to General Kahki Surgulvilli, a man who never had any trouble expressing his opinion.

  “So you're telling us the CIA is onto us. Forgive me if I've lost track of things, but was that part of the plan, or not? A nuclear threat, you said. There's only one thing worse than being involved in this madness. And that's having it happen without us involved.”

  Surgulvilli spoke in English, the only language shared by all three. When the Russians had come into the country in 2008, the Georgian military had collapsed. Surgulvilli had always used his position to further his own interests, and after the invasion he'd started selling arms to the highest bidder. Arveladze knew the man wasn't above using blackmail or even more violent means to assure that transactions were consummated.

  Six months ago, the prime minister had called him to answer for these activities and allowed him to resign his commission with no publicity or sanctions. He had to admit that he'd been surprised a few months later when the General informed him about a foreigner seeking nuclear weapons.

  Unfortunately, Arveladze now served as the reluctant point man for a crazy scheme to broker an arms deal and undermine the United States. Those idiots in the Cabinet didn't see that weakening the Americans would give Russia free reign in Georgia. They were too caught up in their anger at the Obama administration for reversing the unwavering support offered by his predecessor. They wanted the Americans to feel the heat of a threat in their
own back yard. Madness. And Surgulvilli, still involved, had never possessed much caution or reserve.

  The stranger's voice provided a smooth antidote to the general's stridency.

  “This will work out better for all of us. At some point, you would have needed to leak the information about Cimil to the U.S. I expect that won't be necessary now. Let's talk about the steps you will take to assure delivery.”

  Surgulvilli's voice grew louder, more belligerent. “And the Russians, don't forget the damn Russians. That's what we need to talk about now. You haven't told us what happens when they find out about this. Which they surely will. They'll stop the whole thing before it gets started.”

  In some ways, Arveladze felt glad that the general wouldn't shut up. The Russians were one of several things that he, too, needed to hear about. But to ask in this manner, begging really, was beneath him. This way, he could sit back and listen without showing any curiosity.

  “Come now, General, they'll do nothing of the sort. Mostly because they can't stop it. They might notify the Americans, but we've already established that the CIA has learned about the deal. Please do not concern yourself.”

  Arveladze couldn't fault the logic. He shifted in his chair, a movement that had nothing to do with physical comfort. He could pinpoint the sources of his mental unease with little effort. To start, his presence here represented a major departure from custom. High level government officials did not meet with rogue generals about illicit arms deals. But the President of Georgia, the man who held most of the power in the country, wanted the government involved. To use the American expression, Arveladze had drawn the short straw.

  He turned his attention back to the conversation. The stranger's hypnotic tones could have soothed a charging bull. But the substance of the words, indeed the whole endeavor, disturbed him. He observed the man through lids hooded with wrinkled flaps of skin, a genetic gift from his father. The stranger was small, with honey-colored skin and eyes as black as the bottom of a well at midnight. Arveladze knew him as Ronin Gonzales, although background checks had turned up no evidence that Gonzales even existed.