by Clay Farrow
If they ran into each other, all hell would break loose. Jerry would hit the roof over his relationship with Ken, and although overlooking Ken's introduction of the gonorrhea vaccine had been a bitter pill to swallow, business was business. He wasn't going to be caught between them. Somehow, he’d have to stash Ken somewhere before Jerry showed up in Guatemala.
"What did you want to talk to me about?" Miguel asked, sprawled out in his chair, the heels of his boots resting on the desktop.
Alberto considered how best to approach this delicate subject. Money or familial loyalty? If he could keep the cash, so much the better. "Miguel, I need one of your choppers for a few hours this afternoon, and maybe again, later in the week."
"Certainly," Miguel replied with a shrug of his shoulders. "Where do you want to go?"
"This afternoon I want to go to the Great Blue Hole."
Miguel bolted upright, his boots crashing to the floor.
"It's off the coast of Belize," Alberto continued.
“I know where it is. Señorita Dennison asked me for some men to accompany her into Belize. I refused. That was not part of our understanding.”
“Today is not for Byers, it's for me. A personal matter.”
"Don't ask that of me."
"Miguel, when you came north for high school, didn't my father and mother raise you as one of their own?"
"True, and I when I graduated I think Uncle Raul and Aunt Maria were as proud of me as my parents."
"And didn't I treat you like a little brother, help you in school, protect you from the gangs in the neighborhood?"
"Yes, all that is true. And you tolerated me tagging after you like a puppy. You know I've always looked up to you and would do anything you ask, but not this."
"This is very important to me."
"Why?"
Alberto tapped his misshapen nose. "It’s one of the maricόns who did this and murdered Francesca."
"It has been over twenty years. Why now?"
"Because according to Byers, Hastings now lives in Belize with his fiancée, Monica Fremont. Back then he was protected by Fremont's husband, a heavyweight in state politics. Anymore involvement on my part would have come out. The risks were too great and I got very little payback. Hastings only did three years and his partner walked. Over the years I lost track of them, but was recently informed that Alderman was murdered. I want Hastings to be a guest of your glorious institution for the rest of his miserable life."
"If you can lure him across the border, I promise to make the rest of his worthless existence long and very painful. But please, don't ask this of me. An operation into Belize is too dangerous. I can't put my career and everything I own in jeopardy."
Alberto decided a different tactic was necessary and placed his black leather case on the desk. He spun the briefcase 180 degrees and opened it to face Miguel. The case was packed with $100 bills. "I got $250 thousand from Byers. This is in addition to the $750 thousand already deposited in your Cayman Island account."
“And what does Dr. Byers want from me?”
“To kidnap Hastings’ fiancée.”
He watched Miguel twist in his chair as if he were being tortured, then resolutely shook his head.
"As a practical matter, it's impossible. The Great Blue Hole is more than a 160 miles from here. The range of the Huey is just over 300. You couldn't get there and back."
"Load extra fuel drums onto the chopper."
"You don't understand. The chopper couldn't make it back to Guatemalan territory. You would have to land and refuel in Belize."
"There are any number of jungle clearings between the coast and the border which could be used to refuel."
"You can't be certain you wouldn't be seen."
"Then have your men wear Belize Defense Force uniforms."
Miguel fell silent.
"I'll even add another $250 thousand out of my own pocket. It's only fair because you're taking the greatest risk. Do this for me … please."
His cousin heaved a heavy sigh.
Alberto knew he had won. He pushed the case toward Miguel. "I would only need three men, besides the pilot. I'll pay for the men and the fuel myself."
He settled back as Miguel reached into the desk's leg well and lifted out a large aluminum case, which he set on the desk. Opening the suitcase, his cousin upended the contents of the briefcase, adding the cash to the stacks of bills already in the metal chest. Then Miguel snapped the case closed and stowed it back in the leg well.
"Wait outside my office. I'll join you in a few minutes."
Alberto rose and walked over to a tall glass display case which housed the colonel's gun collection. He opened the glass door and removed a Colt .45 semi-automatic. Then he strode to a coat rack beside the door with a gun belt dangling from one of the hooks. He holstered the pistol and strapped it on.
"I'll wait downstairs," Alberto said and walked out of the office.
The drab, olive-green Huey still sat on the helipad, but now all identifying insignia had been removed. The engine began to whine. The forty-eight-foot rotors started to spin. Three men toting AK-47s and wearing Belize Defense Force uniforms walked towards the chopper.
"I've had five 45-gallon drums of fuel loaded onboard," Miguel said, slapping Alberto on the shoulder.
The three armed soldiers silently climbed into the Huey.
"I'll never be able to thank you enough," Alberto said clambering into the chopper. Once in the cabin, he turned and offered Miguel his hand.
"Good hunting," Miguel said. Then he turned his attention to Captain Romero in the cockpit. "Don't forget about the new radar equipment installed at the Belize International Airport. Keep your altitude below 150 feet at all times."
14:
Altun Ha, Belize – Tuesday
Rick Calvin was panting by the time he caught his first glimpse of her. The trek from the parking lot hadn't been an easy climb. He was forced to detour after wandering into a thicket of thorns. The seconds it had taken him to stumble into the prickly grove was followed by minutes of gingerly picking his way out, branch by barbed branch. Now that he had spotted her, he didn't want to let her out of his sight and descended the slope toward the grassy clearing. On the far side of the field was an ancient stone wall which he guessed was the remnants of some pyramid.
He stalked her as she dribbled a soccer ball across the playing field, dogged by a scruffy mutt with a wagging tail. The girl tapped the ball five feet in front of her, and with a hop, skip, and a kick, launched the ball high into the air. The dog vainly leapt for the ball, then raced after it. Rick watched the ball sail in his direction and land at the edge of the jungle. The instant the ball touched down, the mutt pounced and trapped it.
Rick had followed Dr. Fremont and her daughter out of Belize City to the small town of Sand Hill where they left the highway and followed a dirt road. The next twelve miles of spine crunching potholes hadn't let up until he reached the ruins of Altun Ha, an ancient Mayan city. He had waited until the pair had entered the archaeological site before pulling into the parking lot.
He watched the girl, who the hotel concierge at the marina had called Amanda, run up to the soccer ball. The mutt play-bowed, barked, and eagerly bounced away. She had coiled her long black hair into a bun at the back of her head, making her appear more mature and even prettier than at the marina. Amanda, he thought wistfully, what a lovely name for a beautiful girl. He knew he should drive back to the city to tell Liz where Dr. Fremont was, but he was smitten. He couldn't tear himself away right now. In a few minutes he'd slip back to the SUV.
She wound up once more and kicked the scuffed soccer ball into the air. This time the dog managed to make contact with his snout and deflected the ball into the jungle. The mutt galloped after his trophy. Rick caught the ball and ducked down behind a large plant. Amanda stooped and picked up a tree limb before following her playmate into the tree line.
"Find the ball, Tramp," Amanda said, sweeping aside the broad-leafed bran
ches of a bush.
Tramp trotted further up the incline followed closely by Amanda. The mutt stopped short, causing the girl to almost tumble over it.
"What's the matter, boy?" she asked, recovering her balance.
The dog's hackles went up. A growl rumbled in the back of its throat.
"What, Tramp, snakes?" she asked, using her branch to probe the bush in front of her. She cautiously took another step forward and probed again.
"Ouch," Rick cried, rising from behind the shrub and rubbing his shoulder. "Did you say snakes?"
Amanda stumbled backwards. "What do you think you're doing, scaring us like that?"
"I got lost taking a shortcut from the parking lot," Rick said, stepping from behind the shrub, holding the soccer ball in one hand and rubbing his shoulder with the other.
"There is no shortcut from the parking lot," Amanda said, slipping a restraining hand around Tramp's muzzle.
As Rick plodded toward Amanda, she retreated, pulling Tramp with her. She retraced her steps back down the slope to the field, never taking her eyes off him and keeping her stick ready. At the edge of the jungle Tramp gave a painful yip.
"Tramp, what's the matter?" Amanda cried as she and the dog stepped out of the jungle onto the field.
Rick followed and approached the dog, who was favoring its left forepaw.
"Don't! He doesn't like strangers."
"He's limping."
"Who are you, anyway?"
"Richard Calvin, but call me Rick. And you're Amanda."
"How do you know my name?"
"Ahhh." He paused. "I … I heard your mother call you."
"You were spying on us."
"I wasn't really spying on you. I didn't want to jump out of the jungle and frighten you. And does it really matter how I know your name? Tramp's hurt," he said, crouching down.
Slowly, he extended his arm so the animal could get his scent, and opened his hand to reveal a treat. Tramp sniffed then snapped up the dog cookie. Rick began to pet the dog, then gently took its forepaw in his right hand and probed between the animal's pads. The dog flinched when Rick flicked his wrist, but didn't back away. Beaming, he held up a thorn for Amanda to see.
"How did you do that?"
"Training. I'm a veterinary technician," he replied, scratching Tramp behind the ears.
"I've never seen him so friendly with a stranger. If Tramp trusts you, I guess I can too. You're good with animals."
"And you're a good soccer player," he said, awkwardly kicking the ball in Amanda's direction. "Is soccer your favorite sport?"
"Yes ... after gymnastics," she gasped, forced to leap to her right in order to trap the clumsy pass with her foot.
"Mine too, but I haven't played for years as you can see. What team do you play for?"
"I haven't since we came to Belize. The island we live on doesn't even have a soccer field. This is the only place where I can practice. Did you know soccer was invented here?"
Rick pointed at the ground. "Here?"
"No, not this field, silly, but in Central America. Soccer is derived from a sport that's three thousand years old and simply was called the Ballgame. It was played by the Maya, Aztecs, and Olmecs." Amanda began to dribble the ball, waving Rick down the field.
He lumbered ahead of her as she passed to him. His inept efforts to control the ball were complicated by Tramp playfully nipping at his heels.
"In the Mayan version, there was usually no kicking the ball. You hit it with your hips, thighs, knees, and upper arms," she yelled over her shoulder, darting forward to corral a wild pass from Rick.
"Sounds tough. How did they keep score?"
"See that carved stone hoop sticking out from the center of the wall?" she asked, pointing at the stone wall that Rick had assumed was the remains of a pyramid. "They'd knock the ball through the vertical ring for points. There was a hoop on each side of the Ballgame court."
"But there's only one wall."
"Buried under the hill you just walked down is a wall exactly like this one."
"Are you serious? That wall is at least twenty feet high."
"Much higher temples and palaces have been found buried in the jungle."
"You're kidding."
Amanda shook her head. "The jungle grows very quickly and no one has lived in Altun Ha since about 900 AD. That's a thousand years of growing."
"Wow, that's neat," Rick raved as he touched the ancient wall. Then he looked up at the carved hoop high on the wall. "But if you couldn't touch the ball with you feet or hands, how did anyone score?"
"It was hard, but the Maya were really strong. I'll show you one trick I think they might have used."
Amanda picked up a small rock and backed toward the center court. Fifteen yards from the wall, she turned, bounced on the balls of her feet and charged. Just before she crashed into the stone face, she leapt into the air with one foot out in front. As it touched the wall, she twisted her body in the direction of the stone hoop and used her other foot to propel herself forward and up. She tossed the rock out ahead, then at a forty-five degree angle to the wall, took two steps and, with her shoulder, nudged the rock through the hoop. With her third step, she pushed off the wall, tucked her head into her chest and extended her arms. As her hands touched the ground she neatly somersaulted to her feet a short distance from Rick.
"You didn't just do that," he gasped. "I've never seen anything like that in my life. How'd you do it?"
The teenage girl wore a self-satisfied smile. "Lots of practice."
"That took more than practice, that's training."
Amanda nodded. "Before coming to Belize I was on my school's gymnastic team."
"What about here?"
"Not at school," she answered as she kicked the soccer ball to him. "But my Uncle Hilton built an outdoor gym for me with all the equipment I need. He also hired a coach from Belize City, who comes out to our resort once a week."
Rick kicked the ball. "If you entered the Olympics I bet you'd win the gold medal."
The off-target kick forced her to chase after the ball. "That's nice of you say, but you have to train 24/7 if you want to compete at that level, and I'd never leave Aunt Monica or Uncle Hilton."
* * * *
Monica Fremont sat on a raised platform restoring a twelve foot tall stela, which was a stone pillar bearing a series of Maya hieroglyphics on all four sides. These stelae were found throughout the Mayan world with inscriptions about the deeds and events in the lives of Maya royalty. She used a fine bristle paintbrush and a delicate dental pick to carefully remove centuries of grime. The restoration work was painstakingly precise, but necessary to obtain an accurate translation. A tarpaulin draped over the platform scaffolding shielded her from the withering sun; only the constant breeze saved her from the oppressive humidity.
She looked up and noticed a young stranger with Amanda. Putting down her tools, she listened to their carefree banter as they raced up and down the field, kicking the ball to one another. Monica smiled at Amanda's explanation of the game. The Ballgame represented much more than a mere sport to the Maya and Amanda knew it.
Monica waved. "Amanda, lunch."
The teenager scooped up her ball and jogged toward Monica with Tramp and the stranger in tow.
"Aunt Monica, I'd like you to meet Rick Calvin."
"Welcome to Altun Ha," Monica said, leaning down to shake hands with the young man. Rolling up her blueprint-size pages, she jumped off the platform and led the young couple toward a picnic table. "Will you join us for lunch, Rick?"
"If you're sure you have enough."
"We have more than enough."
"Amanda told me the Maya invented soccer. I had always thought the English came up with the game."
"The Olmecs, who predated the Maya, were known to have played the game," Monica replied. "Others insist the Japanese or Chinese invented the sport."
They arrived at the picnic table located under a canvas gazebo beside their truck.
Rick pointed to the roll of papers under Monica's arm and asked, "What are those, Dr. Fremont?"
Monica studied the young man for an instant, curious how Rick had known her surname. She'd have to ask Amanda about it later. "They're reproductions of the hieroglyphics from the monument I was working on."
She set the drawings on the picnic table, then reached into the truck bed and lifted out a plastic hamper.
"Could I look at them, please?" Rick inquired.
"Certainly," Monica said, placing sandwiches, salads, and juice boxes on the table.
He began to unroll the scroll of papers with Amanda's help. "Do these pictures tell some sort of story?"
"Hieroglyphics, or glyphs, is a writing system using pictures or symbols," Amanda said.
Monica didn't say a word while laying out the lunch. She was content to let Amanda satisfy her new friend's curiosity. He seemed like a nice young man and Amanda didn't have many opportunities to meet boys close to her own age.
"These pictures don't look like any alphabet I've ever seen."
"You're not the only one to think that. Until the 1950s, Mayan hieroglyphs were thought to be chiefly related to astronomy. That misconception led to the belief the Maya were a peaceful civilization of astronomer-priests which couldn't have been further from the truth. The misunderstanding persisted despite Maya art depicting warfare and human sacrifice. Today, archaeologists understand about eighty-five percent of the more than 800 Mayan glyphs that make up their logosyllabic writing system."
"Huh?"
"It means mixed system. Some glyphs are words and others are syllables."
"How do you tell the difference?"
"Through painful trial and error," Monica interjected with a laugh, handing them each a sandwich.