Revenge of the Maya

by Clay Farrow

  His satellite phone gave a muted jingle. He punched the receive button. "Liz, is that you?"

  "Sorry, Ken, it's Gen," his executive assistant replied. "I've got some bad news."

  "Go ahead."

  "There's been an explosion here in Seattle this morning, at the research lab."

  "What kind of explosion?" Ken blurted.

  "I have a Special Agent McComber of the FBI with me," Gen continued. "He'd like to talk to you."

  "Okay, put him on." Ken got to his feet and began pacing, the phone pressed tightly to his ear.

  "Dr. Byers, this is John McComb ... ."

  "What did Gen mean by an explosion? When did it happen? Why is the FBI involved? Do you have any ... ."

  "One question at a time. First, a bomb was detonated in the research lab."

  "Was anyone hurt?"

  "We don't know."

  "Do you have any suspects?"

  "Not as yet. A security officer on a routine patrol got a Washington plate number from an older model Grand Marquis parked in front of your lab. We're in the process of tracing the ownership."

  “That can’t be right. Byers doesn’t have security guards, only cameras.”

  “The managers of the complex contracted a company for weekend patrols. Now, I have a number of questions for you. So please don't interrupt me again."

  Ken stopped pacing. He wasn't used to being dictated to and bit back a stinging response. A sharp retort in this situation wasn't appropriate.

  "Was anyone scheduled to be on the premises?"

  Ken glanced at the Rolex President watch on his wrist. "I'd be willing to bet Brad Ferry was in the lab. Was there a BMW in the parking lot?"

  “No, but while the security officer was making his rounds, he recalled a BMW convertible entering the parking lot as he was leaving. He remembered because of the speed the car was going.”

  “Sounds like Brad.”

  ”Your assistant mentioned Mr. Ferry’s name. We'd like to talk to him, find out who, if anyone, was in the building when he arrived, but he’s not answering his home phone."

  “I have his cell phone number, 206 555 4639.”

  "Thank you," McComber said, pausing, presumably to write down the number. "Your assistant stated Mr. Ferry was working under your direct supervision, and she knew nothing of his comings and goings."

  Ken was silent for a moment. He hadn't shared the specifics of Brad's assignment with Gen. "He is working on a special project. Was he in the building?"

  "At this time, we don't know. So far there's no evidence he was, and with the extent of the destruction, there may never be. Do you know if he had any affiliation with any animal rights groups?"

  "No, not that I'm aware. If you have an aversion to animal testing, you don't choose a career in medical research. What led you to think it was an animal rights group?"

  "Numerous caged animals were found dead in the parking lot. Accidently killed in the explosion."

  "Accidently?"

  "Why go to the effort of removing them from the lab if you didn't want them out of harm's way. Now, your assistant says there was a safe in Mr. Ferry's lab."

  "Yes," Ken said. He had to decide how much he was going to share with McComber. Drawing out the question, he asked, "What about it?"

  "Do you have any idea of the contents?"

  "Brad kept the results of his experiments in it. Why do you ask?" He was unsure of how he would answer if McComber asked for the combination. Those papers couldn't be made public.

  "We found it open. The contents had been removed."

  "He and I were the only two with the combination," Ken exclaimed. If all Brad's research was lost, Liz was his last hope.

  "You still insist he couldn't have been a party to the bombing?"

  "I don't see how. He's a scientist. Science is about creation, not destruction."

  "There's no evidence to indicate the safe had been forced open."

  Ken paused. Could he categorically say Brad wasn't involved? After all, the young man had stolen the sample and destroyed all of the university's records related to the vaccine, albeit on his orders. Could Brad have gone off the reservation, so to speak? Had someone made him a better offer? "Until his guilt is proven, Agent McComber, I have to believe otherwise."

  "There is also the question of the building access. Your assistant told me your head of security is out of the country."

  "Liz Dennison. Yes, she is. Were you able to retrieve the access data from the building's server?"

  "I'm afraid not. When I said the damage was total, I meant the building and everything in it. There was also damage to other buildings in the complex."

  Ken digested the agent’s statement in silence.

  "Do you know if there is a real-time backup system offsite?"

  "I don't believe so. When Liz checks in with either Gen or myself, we'll ask."

  "A final question, Dr. Byers."

  "Shoot."

  "When will you be returning to Seattle?"

  "As soon as I can get back to the airport. If possible, Special Agent McComber, I'd like to meet with you after I land."

  "My exact thought. I look forward to it."

  "Then if that's all, could you please put Gen back on?"

  There was a momentary pause before he heard the familiar voice.

  "What do you need, Ken?"

  "I'm flying home immediately. Clear my schedule for the next week."

  "Certainly. Anything else?"

  "When Liz gets in touch, tell her to call me day or night. And get a sat phone to her. Find out where she's staying and air courier it to her hotel."

  "Consider it done. See you in a few hours, I'll have a car waiting at the airport."

  "Thanks," he said, dropping back onto the sofa. He would have to phone the pilots to fuel the jet, then checkout. But first there were two items he needed to tackle. He dialed Liz's Guatemala phone, letting it ring until he was satisfied she was still unavailable. He dialed another number. There was a long pause.

  "Hello."

  "Where the hell are you, Brad?"

  He listened as a female voice in the background commanded, "Hang that up now!"

  The line went dead.

  Ken redialed. After the second ring the phone was answered. A prerecorded voice announced, "The customer you are calling is not available."

  9:

  Washington D.C - Monday

  The maitre d' at the El Matador couldn't believe his eyes and shuddered at the thought of having to intervene. He saw others had noticed as well. The usual lunchtime hum of political brokering and juicy gossip slowly died. Cutlery clinking on bone china came to a gradual halt. To his surprise, a few patrons were bold enough to rise out of their plush velvet chairs to witness the latest outrage. He looked on in horror as Senator Alberto Guerra leaned back in his chair, and with a self-satisfied smile, lit a seven inch Montecristo cigar.

  Seated across the table from the senator was Justine, his assistant. Her cheeks were scarlet and she squirmed in such seeming embarrassment, that he sensed she was weighing the consequences of diving under the starched, linen tablecloth.

  He shared her discomfort. Once again, he thought, the senator was testing the limits of Washington's tolerance for offensive behavior by the rich and powerful.

  The maitre d' spun around and studiously avoided glancing in the senator's direction. Instead, he concentrated on shuffling menus at the reception desk until a voice cut through the silence.

  "For God sakes, Al, put that foul thing out."

  The maitre d' turned from the reception desk and faced the dining room to see Senator Guerra blow a cloud of pungent smoke into the air.

  "You talking to me, Jimmy?" Alberto asked, without looking at the speaker.

  He now had no option but to tackle the brewing confrontation between Senator Guerra and Representative James Laxter, Chairman of the Science and Technology House Committee. He grudgingly walked to the senator's table. "I'm sorry, Senator, but you'll h
ave to put the cigar out. Smoking in a government-owned building is against federal law."

  "I am the federal law," Alberto growled.

  Congressman Laxter rose to his feet. "If you're the law, enforce it."

  A thin smile spread across Alberto's face. "We may belong to the same party, but if you don't want to get buried in the primary, Jimmy boy, you'd better sit-down right now."

  "Come on, Al."

  The senator signaled the congressman to come closer, then leaned forward and in a low voice said, "If that isn't enough to sit your ass down, your little woman will quickly discover you're still paying the mortgage on your assistant's Watergate condo."

  The maitre d' stepped back on hearing the threat.

  The congressman's jaw dropped. "How did ... ."

  "And by the way, to you, it's Senator Guerra."

  "You know I didn't mean anything, A ... Senator Guerra."

  "Then it's forgotten. Sit." Alberto said. Then his deep brown eyes shifted, staring beyond the congressman as if he didn't exist.

  Congressman Laxter slipped back into his chair without a word as the owner of the El Matador, Bill Robinson, approached the senator's table.

  "Senator Guerra, is there something I can help you with?" Bill asked.

  The senator regarded the maitre d' and sneered, "Yeah, Bill. You can fire this little toad of a doorman. He's trying to tell me the law."

  "He's perfectly correct, Senator. I could be closed down."

  Alberto petulantly extinguished the cigar in his half-full cup of coffee. "Satisfied?"

  "Thank you, Senator."

  "Robinson, I still want him fired."

  "You can't be serious?"

  "Deadly," Alberto said, waving his hand over the room as if blessing the gathering. "Your customers are my friends and supporters. You wouldn't want to embarrass me in front of them, would you?"

  "I'm sorry, Senator, I can't. He was only doing his job."

  The maitre d' scrambled out of the way as the senator leapt to his feet and stormed towards the exit.

  "You son-of-a-bitch, by this time next month no one in this dump will have a job," Alberto roared.

  The maitre d' watched Justine scramble after her boss, glad he wasn't in her shoes.

  * * * *

  Alberto burst through the restaurant doors and swung left on C street, quick-marching toward the Hart Senate Office Building. He glanced over his shoulder at Justine struggling to catch up. The girl was forty years his junior with at least a hundred and seventy-five pounds less bulk, and still she was hard pressed to keep up. It was a damn good thing she was smarter than Einstein, he thought.

  He slowed to let Justine catch up, then leaned toward her. His face felt flushed from anger and exertion. "When my parents came from Guatemala in the forties, they had nothing. Through hard work they built a good life in Los Angeles. Did you know I was the first one in our family to go to college?"

  "Yes, boss," Justine said, panting.

  "I've spent my life in public service. I started out as a DEA agent. Thirty-six years of proud service with the agency. I'm sixty-seven. Most are sitting on their back porch at my age, but not me."

  "Yes, boss."

  "I'm still serving. After nine years in the United States Senate I have power and influence. I know where a lot of skeletons are buried. And I have Jerry Gantry's kiddie corps, Runaways to Christ, in my back pocket to work for the campaigns of my political allies on both sides of the aisle."

  "Yes, boss."

  "I don't have to take that kind of crap from some blue-blooded prick and his tuxedoed piss-house attendant. They humiliated me and they'll pay."

  "Yes, boss."

  With a curt nod he was off, leaving Justine in his wake.

  Alberto marched into his large private office and sank into a padded leather chair behind a mahogany desk. An exhausted Justine followed, patting her cheeks with a hankie.

  "Put out the word to all our K street friends," he said. "The El Matador is closed until further notice. That son-of-a-bitch Robinson is going to be sorry he tried to screw with me."

  "Yes, boss, right away. And Dr. Byers is on line two."

  Alberto lifted the receiver. "Ken, what's this about canceling my fund raiser? We had an agreement."

  "And a good afternoon to you, Al," Ken replied. "The cancellation was unavoidable. You're not the only one on the planet with problems."

  "I read about the explosion yesterday. Any suspects?"

  * * * *

  Ken felt he had every right to be infuriated - no matter the situation, the senator's emphasis was always me, me, me. He also sensed the senator had picked up on his exasperation, which suited him at the moment. "One dead end and a possible lead. Security got a plate number off a Grand Marquis, but the plate proved to be stolen."

  "What's the possible lead?"

  "The project's young researcher answered his cell phone just north of Salem, Oregon, a few hours after the blast. The FBI is presently hunting for him."

  "How long to rebuild the lab?"

  "The bricks and mortar – no time at all, but we'll be hard pressed to recover our research. Those terrorists have set us back years. Not only the project you helped facilitate, but all our research."

  "Sorry to hear that. Anything I can do?"

  "I was hoping you'd ask," Ken said. He was well aware the senator could become holier-than-thou and dig in his heels when he was on the receiving end of an arm twisting. He decided he'd better proceed cautiously. "The raid on the lab wasn't the only bad news. The archaeologist in Guatemala, the one who unearthed the formula for the vaccine we're working on, suffered a heart attack and died. For a while it looked like the project would have to be shutdown. Fortunately, my head of security, Liz Dennison, interviewed the archaeologist's laborers and discovered he was working closely with someone."

  "Who?"

  "A Dr. Monica Fremont."

  "The name sounds vaguely familiar. What do you need from me?"

  "Help with Colonel Rodriguez. Dr. Fremont lives in Belize and I need her in Guatemala." Ken knew what he was asking of the senator, but his $4 million had bought him precious little so far. It was time this money-sucking leech earned his keep.

  There was a long silence before Alberto answered. "Let me get this straight. I want to be sure there's no misunderstanding." He paused for a moment. "You're asking me to persuade my cousin Miguel, a colonel in the Guatemalan Army, to order his men to cross the border into a sovereign nation and kidnap a foreign national?"

  "I wouldn't have put it precisely in those terms."

  "Ken, do you know the historical relationship between the two countries?"

  "No."

  "Since the 1700s, Guatemala has claimed the former British Honduras, a colony of Britain until its independence in 1981, as its territory. The country threatened to invade Belize numerous times in the 1960s and 70s. By 1972 the saber rattling was so intense the British government stationed several thousand troops in Belize to head off any invasion. Miguel would never venture into Belize in any official or unofficial capacity under any circumstances."

  "You've been well compensated," Ken mumbled.

  * * * *

  Alberto forcefully stroked his nose. He was losing patience with this little piss-ant. Who was this corporate bagman to talk to him as if he, a United States Senator, was his lackey? He was the one who gave the orders. He was good friends with the President and the Vice-President. "Ken, I suggest you tread lightly. Miguel and I haven't been paid nearly enough to create an international incident."

  "Then maybe there's another approach, Senator. This Dr. Fremont is engaged to the owner of a resort in Belize, a Hilton Hastings. Liz learned he regularly guides rafting and caving expeditions into Guatemala."

  The senator stopped listening. He couldn't have heard right. The memory crowded all other thoughts from his mind. His blood pressure soared and the room began to spin.

  Ken continued, "We could grab him when he crosses the border and
force his fiancée to come after him. Then I'll get the vaccine's formula from her in exchange for him."

  Alberto clawed his way out of an emotional fog, forcing himself to focus on the present. "Repeat that name."

  "Dr. Monica Fremont?"

  Alberto's voice was labored as he exhaled, "No, no. The other name – the guy."

  "Hilton Hastings?"

  "He's no longer living in the States?"

  "Hasn't for years, I gather. Why?"

  "You're sure?"

  "Yes. Do you know this person?"

  "Was the name Dylan Alderman mentioned?" he hoarsely whispered, holding his breath.

  "No."

  The senator barely heard Ken's response as he plunged into a twenty-two-year-old nightmare. It had been his first foreign assignment for the DEA. He had spent most of his time drifting between Guatemala and Belize, setting up drug smugglers for agents back home and gathering military information to further the career of his cousin, Lieutenant Miguel Rodriguez. It had been on one those missions to Belize when he met Francesca and those two teenage punks, Alderman and Hastings. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. At thirty, she was much closer to his thirty-five years than that punk's nineteen. But she only had eyes for pretty-boy Alderman. To this day he had a hard time believing he had turned a blind eye to their operation for so long.

  Francesca became his obsession. The next three years had been a torturous roller coaster of exhilaration and depression. As the summer wound down, the punks loaded Francesca's marijuana harvest onto their boat, the Greener Grass. Then they smuggled the dope back to the States to deal to University of Pittsburgh students. Once their vessel disappeared over the horizon, Francesca was his. He celebrated his time with her, treasuring each dwindling minute. He had begged her to stop growing grass, but she refused. She went even further, threatening to leave him, to vanish if anything happened to Alderman or Hastings back in the States. There was no reasoning with her. Having no other option, he had made the little bastards confidential informants, immune from arrest. Each May, when the Greener Grass returned, Francesca left him. She moved back to her beach house to be with Alderman.