The Mayan Legacy (A Simon Gray Thriller Book 1)

by Edward G. Talbot

  “Get me Director Yarrow. It's an emergency.”

  Wartburg's shoulders sagged, his body went still and his feet remained rooted in place. The one-sided conversation continued behind him.

  “Linda. Roger Wartburg is having trouble remembering who's in charge. I'm thinking you should remind him.”

  “I'm sure he has a good reason, too. It doesn't matter. My reasons are better.”

  After listening some more, she held out the phone and called to Wartburg. “Your boss would like a word with you.”

  A dozen pairs of eyes locked onto them as Wartburg turned and grabbed the phone. To their credit, a number of Secret Service agents maintained their vigilance in scanning for threats, but many joined Simon and the others in staring at the confrontation.

  “Yeah, boss.”

  “You know what our minimums are for this situation.”

  “But, I—”

  “I hear you, but that doesn't excuse doing this.”

  “Then maybe she should look for someone else to do it.”

  “You're damn right I'm under a lot of stress. But you know what? Not any more. I quit.”

  He closed the phone, met Richards' gaze with a calm stare, raised his right hand to shoulder level, and dropped the phone on the tarmac. He called to two agents who stood nearby trying to pretend they weren't looking. “Gary, Jesse come here. Gary, until Yarrow tells you otherwise, you're in charge of FROLIC. Jesse, please escort me off the base. I'm now a civilian.”

  The two agents swallowed, but Jesse nodded and walked towards Wartburg. Richards' face showed clear surprise, and something else as well.

  “FROLIC. I've wondered about my Secret Service code name. Maybe you can tell me how you came up with that? I would have thought you'd have something a bit less positive.”

  Wartburg grunted a laugh. “One word, Madame President: irony.” This last missile launched, he began moving across the tarmac, away from Air Force One.

  Richards bent to pick up her phone. Normally, with cameras flashing and all eyes on her, she would have asked someone else to do it. Performing a mundane task like this would wind up on the cover of the Enquirer, and pundits around the nation would speculate about her mental health. In this case, no one would see. She slipped the phone in her pocket and called to agent Gary Alcott.

  “Apparently, you're in charge now. Are you clear on what's acceptable for this trip?”

  Alcott swallowed and nodded. At six foot three, with a graying crew-cut, a chiseled torso, and tree trunks for legs, he could have served as the encyclopedia entry for a Secret Service agent.

  “Yes, ma'am. I'll see to it.” He walked towards the service plane, the sunglasses masking whatever he thought about the situation.

  “OK, show's over. Let's get on the plane.” She started up the stairs, followed by four members of her detail. Jaime Cortez headed in the same direction, with Simon, Braxton, and Felix Rostan behind him. Under his breath, Braxton muttered to no one in particular.

  “This is no good. She'll get us all killed.” Simon caught his eye and shrugged.

  Cortez chuckled. “Hey, Dennis, look at it this way. Not everyone gets to go down in history as getting killed in the crossfire of an assassination. Your kids'll get rich off the book advances for telling their stories.”

  “Jim, stop trying to make me feel better. Get up those stairs before I arrange for you to be a candidate for extraordinary rendition.”

  They entered the plane. Simon and Rostan had traveled on some huge military transports, but as spacious as they were, being inside a massive aircraft decked out like a corporate jet proved a whole different experience. On many flights, reporters and aides filled the plane, and the proximity of their seat to the President signified their relative importance. On this flight, only Secret Service agents and the Marine major who carried the “nuclear football” accompanied them. They had barely fastened their belts when the aircraft began its journey down the runway and lifted skyward.

  Air Force One touched down on the runway at Aeropuerto La Aurora, Guatemala City's main airport. No cameras or reporters greeted the arrival. The country's government had agreed to keep the visit secret from even air traffic control until the plane crossed into Guatemalan airspace. The Secret Service plane had landed a few minutes earlier, and five black Suburbans waited as they exited the 747.

  The weather was far cooler than Virginia, or even Massachusetts. Simon had been here before, and he knew that the altitude of nearly a mile kept the humidity low and the breezes plentiful. Azure dominated most of the sky, although far to the north he could see signs of dark clouds. He suspected that they'd see rain before the day ended.

  The five cars left the airport in a shining black formation. For obvious security reasons, the one containing Richards, Braxton, Cortez, Rostan and Simon appeared identical to the other four. One might reasonably assume the President was not in the first or last car, but that still left three choices. The Service didn't always use this tactic; sometimes they spread the vehicles several minutes apart, but with the lack of groundwork for the trip and the inability to secure the area, they relied on superior numbers.

  “Go over again what we're looking at as we approach this place?” Simon glanced at Rostan, whose role as operational leader of the team made him the logical one to answer these questions. They'd been over this several times before, but the two military men understood the importance of knowing all the details cold.

  “About seventy or eighty minutes north of the city, we'll turn off the main roads and head into even higher ground, sort of near the city of Salama. We'll be off any roads you'll find on a map. Eventually, we'll turn onto a dirt road at the edge of Cimil's property. The satellite photos show that it's well-maintained, but it hits fifteen percent grade in places. The compound itself is another five miles up the dirt road. Unlike your typical estate, this isn't a villa with a guest house, pool, and recreation. It's one massive square three story building, constructed from reinforced concrete. Thirty-five thousand square feet of space, surrounded by dense foliage and steep drop-offs on all sides except for the narrow road. Even the windows are recessed and smaller than normal. The closest comparison I can think of is a big prison block.”

  Simon nodded. “Let's hope it doesn't become one for us. I still don't like the idea of going in there unarmed without a backup plan.”

  Richards said, “We do have a backup plan. It's called the Secret Service. I told 'em no more than three cars, but we have five Suburbans and thirty agents. If they can't protect us, I don't think a couple of ex-soldiers with pistols'll make the difference. Cimil will probably only agree to a few agents going inside, but we've got a whole arsenal in these cars. He's not gonna do anything to risk having his place shot up in a firefight.”

  Few people ignored the President of the United States. But Felix Rostan and Simon continued speaking as if she hadn't. Two soldiers planning a mission don't comment on information extraneous to the discussion at hand, at least not information from a civilian. Even from the Commander-in-Chief. “Do you have any suggestions, Simon?”

  “Nope. We've been over this. Either we meet with him on his terms or we don't meet at all. If he shoots us on sight, at least the Vice President knows where we are and can retaliate.”

  Cortez snorted. “So if he shoots us all on sight, the whole world will eventually see the wreckage? Is this how you Army guys psych yourselves up for a mission? Talk like that, you could turn Tony Robbins into a pessimist. The question I've been asking from the beginning still stands. What do we hope to gain by going through with this?”

  The edge to Cortez' voice was new. Simon supposed even the easy-going translator felt the pressure.

  “Jim, you know we aren't sure. But the options are limited. The other agents died before they could pass on any information. We only got the address after we agreed to the meeting, though we would have found it eventually. Maybe he'll say something that gives us some clues. Maybe you'll overhear him or his people talkin
g in that archaic dialect. All the other options we have involve preemptive violence with little hope of accomplishing much.”

  “What about the Georgian end, where we know the players? Why not focus there?”

  “Do we? Does one intercept tell us that General Surgulvilli is the only guy we need to monitor? If it does, then sure, we can call this off.”

  Braxton said, “And we are monitoring him of course, but Simon's right. This is the best of a series of crappy options.”

  Cortez' teeth shone white as the car bounced over a huge pothole and a flash of sunlight illuminated his smile. “Ah, you're right, you're right. I must be getting nervous. It feels weird to be back in-country and not goin' to see my folks.”

  Ninety minutes and a dozen turns later, the car hit yet another bump and they all bounced in their seats. Simon looked out the window at the rugged terrain. Guatemala City wasn't flat, but this was a whole different level of hills. Not the majestic peaks of the Rockies or the Sierras, more like the foothills. Still a relentless undulation, ominous and dark. The jungle combined with these hills would contain hundreds of ways even a careful man could wind up dead. Dozens of creatures that could kill you. One of them walked on two legs.

  Simon felt the car turn, and the wheels bit into gravel. The final stretch. Somewhere up there, he would see Yum Cimil again for the first time in over two decades. He strained to see the compound in the distance out the window, but dark clouds filled the sky. The air had morphed into a light mist, and he could hear the wipers on the intermittent setting. Clouds like this foretold heavier precipitation, and the Suburbans moved directly toward the blackest thunderheads. They'd be there soon enough, but they'd travel through a deluge first. He leaned back and closed his eyes, breathing slowly through his nose. He was now in enemy territory.

  Two miles away and a thousand feet higher, Andrea Schmidt stared at the monitor. With the driving rain, standard cameras were useless, but she could make out the heat signatures of the slow-moving Suburbans with the infrared cameras. In another three or four minutes, they'd enter the target area. She looked over her shoulder as the door opened.

  Yum Cimil wore a two piece white outfit, similar to a karate gi. The belt shimmered with green quetzal feathers. Not exactly traditional Maya garb, but in the privacy of his compound, he didn't care. The ruler of the Maya could certainly bend a tradition or two; otherwise what was the point?

  “How does it look, Andrea?”

  She gestured to the screen, knowing he'd want to see it for himself. As he looked at the cars, his face drew tight in a scowl. “What the fuck do they think they're doing? I said a minimal presence, they brought a couple of platoons. That's it, use the bombs.”

  Andrea turned to him. “But sir, how do we know—”

  “Activate the signal tracker and I'll make a phone call. If that doesn't work, we can blow the first car and and take it from there. Be right back.”

  Andrea looked back at the screen. She had no problem with killing Secret Service agents. But this wasn't well-planned. She'd argued for putting someone at the airport, but Cimil had told her there was no need. She knew some of her people wouldn't make it through alive.

  “I need just a minute of your time.” The voice on the other end sounded tinny and distant. The call's recipient yelled into his cell phone in annoyance.

  “How the hell did you get this number? Identify yourself immediately!”

  “It's not me you should be worrying about. It's General Surguvilli. Or more accurately, the mutual acquaintances of the General and yourself. Do I have your attention now?”

  The owner of the cell phone held his breath, a combination of surprise and fear gripping his lungs. How the hell had they found out? And who knew?

  “I'll take your silence as affirmative. Listen very carefully. My request is simple. I need you to call the President on her cell phone as soon as I break the connection. I know most of the Cabinet members have the number, and I am certain you do. All you have to say is that Yum Cimil told you to call her and welcome her to Guatemala. Oh, and tell her I'm sorry but we have limited parking.

  “I won't give you a chance to respond. I'm hanging up after two more sentences. If you don't call, your wife and the Washington Post will receive pictures of you and—I forget his name, but he did look stunning in chaps. It's your choice.”

  The connection broke, and the man in Washington tried to breathe again. He gasped several times, a drowning man seeking salvation. He knew what he should do, call the Secret Service and then call a lawyer. Stuff like this didn't stay hidden. His blackmailer would ask for more and more.

  Then again, the caller only wanted him to make a harmless phone call. Richards' irritation would be short-lived. He didn't understand the part about Guatemala, though. He thought the President had gone to Camp David that morning for a three-day vacation. But he couldn't see any kind of risk. He took his first normal breath since the mention of the Georgian general's name. He made the call.

  The shrill chirp of the cell phone startled Simon. No one had spoken for five minutes. The rain, at first a misting annoyance, assaulted the roof with more force now. The wipers moved at their highest setting, but visibility nonetheless ended a couple of feet in front of the headlights. With a steep drop-off on one side, the Suburbans did little more than crawl up the bumpy road.

  Richards stabbed her hand into a small red leather purse on the seat next to her. She glanced at the screen on the phone, flipped it open, and placed it next to her ear.

  “This better be good, Bill.”

  Six pairs of eyes watched her, including two agents turning from the front.

  “He said what?”

  “No, no, you did the right thing by calling. I'm hanging up now.”

  She scanned the faces in the car. Her eyes settled on Simon. “Your friend Cimil left a message for me. He wanted to welcome us to Guatemala. And he told us he didn't have enough parking. Oh shit, you don't think that means…?”

  Back in the control room, Andrea Schmidt watched. Only a minute or so to the target area. Cimil came back in.

  “It's car number four. Make the call.”

  He didn't wait for a response. She shook her head and picked up her radio to talk to the the leader of her team on the ground.

  “It's car number four. Blow the rest of 'em. Out.”

  The President's satellite phone was secure up to a point. But her security team had cautioned her against using it for anything she wouldn't want made public. As with so many other things during her brief presidency, she resisted. If a commercial phone was good enough for corporate America, it was good enough for her.

  Cimil had obtained technology that could pinpoint its location. From the Israelis of all people. That and a more basic kind of hand-held radar gave them the ability to identify her position within eighteen inches once they were tracking an incoming signal.

  Andrea still focused on the screen. Mere seconds now. As she waited for the fireworks to begin, she wondered how he'd managed to get Richards to pick up her phone.

  “Stop the car!” Simon's voice resonated in the enclosed space. His eyes met Rostan's for an instant and he saw the same fear.

  “That phone call. Had to be a signal. We're sitting ducks in here.”

  Richards snapped at the agent in the front seat. “I told you idiots a minimal presence, but you had to bring five cars. Now whatta we do?”

  The agents in the front seat had turned in Simon's direction. Their inclination to assume all threats were real worked in his favor. One of them took out a radio, a high tech walkie-talkie.

  The first explosion knocked the radio to the floor.

  It seemed to come from the front, but Simon couldn't be sure. The second explosion shook the ground underneath them, tossing him against Cortez. One of the agents in the front seat already had the passenger door open, and Simon grabbed the shoulder of another agent.

  “Don't do it. They want the President alive or else we'd have been the first target
. You head out there and you're dead. It's probably too late, but radio the cars that are left and tell 'em to bail.”

  The agent shook his head. “A minute ago you said we were sitting ducks in here. Make up your mind.”

  “Combat is fluid, you have to adapt. Call them. Now, man, before—”

  His words disappeared as two more blasts rocked the car. The agent who had opened the door fell headfirst to the dirt, smashing his head on a rock. Rostan dived into the front seat and shoved his face inches from the driver's nose.

  “Back up! Blow through that wreckage and don't stop no matter what.”

  The tint of the back window combined with the driving rain reduced visibility to zero. The driver lowered the window, stuck out his head, and jammed on the gas. The tires spun and then the Suburban crunched over the wreckage of the final vehicle. Richards, Cortez, and Braxton still wore their seat belts, but Simon, Rostan and the three remaining agents did not. Simon gripped the headrest of the front seat and looked out the windshield for any sign of additional attackers. Despite the rain, he saw little but flames and shrapnel. No one could have survived.

  He felt the next explosion rumble through the wheels, shaking them from below. Different than the broader explosions that had destroyed the other cars. Couldn't be a land mine, because they had come this way a minute earlier, but …

  Rostan turned and once again their eyes met in agreement. Two old soldiers communicating without words. They both yelled at the same time.

  “Stop!”

  Their motion ceased, but not due to the brake pedal. The rear of the car dropped, and the unbelted men flew backwards. In an instant, they'd gone from relatively level to the nose pointing up out of a six foot deep crater, a crater formed by that last explosion.

  Two agents remained in the front with Rostan, but the third had been jettisoned over the other passengers into the cargo area. He sat up with three MP5 machine guns, the A4 model. He tossed two of them to the two agents in front and tightened his left hand on the handle of the third. Then he bent down and handed two more MP5's to Simon, who passed one to Rostan. Simon checked the gun as he spoke.