by Brad Taylor
Leopold said, “Yes, he did. And I’m wondering how.” Leopold stared hard at Darius, and Darius said, “Hey, don’t look at me. I’m not the one who created that mess. I’m just the one who cleaned it up.”
Darius had been “cleaning up” for Leopold’s father for years, well before Leopold had been given any responsibility. He’d worked all over South and Central America resolving the messes that De Gaulle Solutions found itself in, and most of those solutions had involved violence. Leopold had no illusions about his loyalty. Father first, then son, if only because Leopold’s father ultimately controlled the purse strings. If Leopold wanted his loyalty, he would need to take control of those strings.
Something to think about.
Leopold said, “Doesn’t matter. We’ve contained it.”
“But you didn’t tell him about the protestors out front. They’re going to get worse, especially if we ever actually mount an expedition into the biosphere.”
“He doesn’t need to know about that just yet.”
“Yes, he does. Remember what happened down south? With the silver mine? They’ll just grow, until the government becomes scared. That’s the real threat. If the government doesn’t care, we’re good. But when they do, they all of a sudden become the protector of the little people. We need to nip this in the bud. Right now.”
“And how do we do that? The last time you tried to ‘nip it in the bud’ you ended up killing seven protestors in a shootout at the front of the mine. Seven unarmed civilians killed. We can’t have that here. At least there we had a functioning mine that was bringing in revenue for the government. Here, they’ll just shut us down before we begin.”
“I know, I know. That was a mistake. A protest that got out of control, but there’s always a belly button. One guy or gal who’s rallying the troops. Cut the head off the snake, and they fade away. I should have done that at the silver mine, but we thought we could contain the protests as a nuisance. We were wrong. Let’s not make the same mistake.”
“They’ll just find someone else. They’re relentless.”
“They might, but it’ll put them in disarray long enough to get something going. To show the government the reward they’ll miss.”
Leopold leaned forward and said, “Do you have someone in mind?”
“Yes. There’s an old man who’s riling them up. He’s the focal point. Lives in a village up north but works in the biosphere taking tourists up to the ruins at Mirador. He’s afraid we’ll destroy his livelihood. Which, of course, we will. I don’t have a name yet, but I will.”
Leopold thought for a moment, then said, “Okay. Make him disappear, but no statements left for someone to find. No bodies on the street. Just disappeared.”
Darius nodded, and someone knocked on the door. Leopold said, “What?”
His secretary entered and said, “Sir, Carlos Gonzales is here, from CONAP.”
Finally. This should be some good news. “Show him in.”
A short Hispanic man entered, and Leopold said, “You have word from Guatemala City about my offer?”
Holding a hat in his hand, squeezing it hard, Carlos said, “No, unfortunately not yet, but there is another problem.”
“What?”
“The Ministry of Culture approved an expedition for an American company to search for a lost temple.”
“Why do I care about that?”
“The temple is away from all known archeological sites. Away from Mirador, Tikal, and all the others. Up in the northeast quadrant of the biosphere.”
Leopold said, “Where we want to explore.”
Carlos nodded.
“Why does this matter?”
Carlos shuffled his feet, not wanting to be the messenger. He finally said, “If they find a temple in that area, there is no way they’ll let you explore for mining concessions, much less actually begin to mine. Even if CONAP gave you permission, the outcry from international groups will be too great.”
Leopold leaned back in his chair, wondering just what else could pile on to his mission. Darius said, “Who is it?”
“Some company called Grolier Recovery Services. They had enough evidence to convince the ministry to let them try to find it, but not enough to cause anyone to become excited. The ministry doesn’t believe it exists but was willing to give them sanction.”
“So tell them no. CONAP controls the biosphere, not the Ministry of Culture.”
“I . . . I don’t know how I’ll do that if they have permission already.”
Leopold leaned forward and said, “For the money I’m paying you, you can figure something out. Come up with a reason. Even if it’s just a paperwork problem. Stall them with the bureaucracy. How hard can that be?”
Carlos nodded rapidly, saying, “Okay, okay. I’ll figure something out.”
He turned to leave and Darius said, “Wait, Carlos.”
Carlos turned around and Darius said, “Do you know the name of the man with silver hair and the large mustache? The one who was at our front gate?”
Chapter 6
After two hours of sitting, watching the whopper-jawed blades of the off-kilter ceiling fan spin, I had had about enough. I had an appointment with the district supervisor of the National Council of Protected Areas—our last step before stomping off into the jungle—and for some reason, he was leaving us hanging in the lobby, surrounded by Spanish-language newspapers, a groaning window-mounted air conditioner, and a ceiling fan that looked like it was going to unscrew itself from the plaster. Oh, and a secretary/gatekeeper who apparently knew only two words in English: “One moment.”
I leaned over to Jennifer and said, “We could have stayed at the bar with Eduardo. This is turning into par for the course.”
She smiled and said, “Have some patience. People down here aren’t in as much of a rush as we are in the United States. Time works differently.”
I said, “Oh, so now you’re the expert, huh? When we landed, I thought you were going to wet your pants in fear.”
She slapped my arm and said, “Quit it. The airport just gave me a little shock. You could have warned me.”
We’d left Charleston early this morning, flying to the city of Santa Elena just south of the Maya Biosphere Reserve. Our hotel was actually in the small town of Flores, just north, but Santa Elena was the closest airport, and was the location of the CONAP office.
Jennifer had been apprehensive on the flight down, like she thought we were going to get attacked by another drug cartel the minute we set down. When we did land, she’d become convinced of it, because the Santa Elena airport had been the first stop on her way to being kidnapped because of me.
At the time, we’d just met, and she’d convinced me to help her find her uncle in Guatemala. Well, crashed into each other was a better description. She was a little spitfire who really enjoyed tweaking me, and, at the time, I was a wreck. We’d had a blowout fight where she’d questioned my honesty, and I’d left her alone in our hotel room only to have her get kidnapped. They’d threatened to kill her if I didn’t show up with the location of the very temple we were now after, which was problematic, because I didn’t have the location.
So I had a choice between running from trouble or going back to get her. I went back, which had involved a little bit of violence. Okay, a lot of violence. It was a miracle we’d both made it out, but I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about fleeing. That action had saved both of our lives, because if I had fled, I’d be dead now, buried in a pauper’s grave from alcohol or picking one fight I couldn’t win. Since that time, she had done more to save me than I ever did for her.
By the time we’d left the airport, she’d calmed down a little bit. I’d taken her to our rustic little hotel in the island town of Flores, and she’d begun to relax at the quaint, old-world nature of the place. Of course, our room hadn’t been ready, so I’d contacted o
ur guide. We were supposed to meet him later in the afternoon, after our meeting at CONAP, but we had nothing else going on.
He’d agreed to meet at a local watering hole, and on the way there, I’d broken the news to Jennifer about his pedigree.
She’d said, “Where did you find this guy?”
“He’s someone who regularly runs tour trips into the heart of the biosphere. Most people go to Tikal because it’s accessible by road, but he takes the diehards to Mirador, which is a four-day trek on foot into the jungle. He seems to know his way around, so I figured he’d be best.”
She’d nodded, and I’d said, “There’s one other thing.”
“What?”
“He was one of the men on your uncle’s trip.”
She whipped her head to me and said, “He was on my uncle’s trip? For the temple?”
“Yes. In fact, he was with another boy, and they actually found the temple.”
“But it held a toxic spore for the locals. How’s he alive?”
“He just is. His friend is not. Apparently he ran away, along with the rest of the men helping your uncle.”
She nodded slowly and said, “Did he . . .”
“No. No, no, no. He had nothing to do with your uncle dying. I wouldn’t have hired him if he had.”
We rounded the corner and I saw a local saloon, scattered picnic tables out front. Sitting at one was a man of about twenty, looking expectantly toward the street. I waved, and he stood up, all smiles. He said, “I’m Eduardo Quelex. You are Nephilim?”
I said, “Yes, but you can call me Pike. This is Jennifer.”
He said, “Jennifer Cahill, yes?”
She nodded, and he said, “I know your uncle. I helped him, and now I’m helping you. How is he? Is he too old to make these trips anymore?”
Jennifer glanced at me, and I said, “Eduardo, I’m sorry, but he’s dead.”
He looked shocked, then said, “By Machete?”
I saw Jennifer stiffen at the name and I was surprised that he’d spout that out upon hearing her uncle was dead. I said, “Yeah, how’d you know that?”
Machete was the head of the drug cartel that had killed Jennifer’s uncle and captured Jennifer.
He grew wistful, staring into space at a memory he didn’t want. He said, “He tried to kill me because of that expedition. But someone killed him instead.”
Which would be me.
I said, “Let’s not talk about that stuff. You know why we’re here. You’ve been to the temple, right? Actually seen it?”
“Yes. Nobody believes me, and I was most assuredly not going on my own. I’ve thought about it often, but Olmec was killed there just by entering, so I didn’t.”
Jennifer said, “When did you last see my uncle? How was he?”
Eduardo played with a saltshaker on the table, then looked at her and said, “I’ll be honest. Olmec and I went to the temple after we’d stopped for the night. We were going to loot it. I’m not proud of that fact, but it’s true. Olmec entered and then died like he was having a seizure. I ran back to the camp and my story spooked the rest of the local men. They fled, and I fled with them, leaving your uncle behind. I never saw him again. I’m sorry.”
She nodded, then looked at me like she wasn’t sure about my choice of guide. He leaned forward and took her hand, saying, “I really mean it . . . I’m sorry. I’ve done some bad things in the past. I’ve worked as a coyote getting Guatemalans into the United States and other things I’m not proud of, but I thought your uncle was a good man. I wouldn’t have harmed him, and I’m sorry he’s gone. You can trust me.”
She nodded and he continued, “Finding this temple is my way of righting the wrongs. It will only help the people here, and that’s what I work for now, with my father.”
The conversation was getting a little deep, so I brought it back to the present, saying, “We’d like to leave tomorrow morning. You said we could take roads for a bit, and then start into the jungle?”
Relieved, Eduardo said, “Yes. We’ll drive up to a small town called Carmelitas, about two hours away. I have a couple of other helpers there, with mules. We’ll pack into the forest from there on foot.”
“How far?”
“At least thirty-five kilometers. Ordinarily, we do tours to Mirador over four days, but I’m assuming you two can move faster than some fat American tourists, yes?”
I said, “Oh yes. Thirty-five klicks we can do in two days easy.”
He laughed and said, “Wait until you see the jungle first. We’ll have enough food and water for a week, just to be sure. Do you have the permission documents?”
And I remembered our meeting. I looked at my watch and said, “No, but I will in thirty minutes. I lost track of the time. We have an appointment in Santa Elena.”
I shook his hand and said, “Meet you at the hotel tomorrow, say, seven in the morning?”
He said, “Sounds good. Make sure you have the documents. I can’t officially guide without them.”
We’d left him and raced to our appointment with the CONAP official in Santa Elena, and had been cooling our heels ever since.
Chapter 7
I watched the ceiling fan do its crooked dance for thirty more seconds, then finally stood up. Jennifer put a hand on my arm, knowing that my temper sometimes got the best of me, but I wasn’t going to explode. Just apply some pressure.
I went to the gatekeeper and said, “Is Mr. Gonzales even here?”
I saw her eyes widen at my intrusion, and I got the distinct impression that very few visitors even came to this office, making me wonder about the wait. She said, “One moment, one moment.”
I said, “I’ve had enough of the moments,” and moved past her to the office door. She stood, and I knocked. Nothing happened. She scurried in front of me, and I let her. She opened the door, and I saw a small Hispanic man inside, looking like he was about to crawl out of the window. Other than him, the room was empty.
What the hell?
I pushed the door open with a huge smile, saying, “Mr. Gonzales! We meet at last. I’m Pike Logan, and there must have been some mistake in the scheduling, because we had an appointment two hours ago. I’m glad to see you aren’t busy.”
The secretary rattled off something in Spanish, and he answered. She looked at me with suspicion and went back to her desk. I waved Jennifer forward, she also looked at me askance, and we entered. He pointed to two utilitarian metal chairs and said, “Take a seat.”
We did, and I said, “I’m here for the exploration passes from CONAP. They were supposed to be sent to you from your main headquarters in Guatemala City.”
He said, “Yes, yes. I’ve been working on that all morning. It’s why you had to wait.”
“Why?”
“There is a problem.”
“What problem? Everything is in order from the Ministry of Culture.” To Jennifer, I said, “Pull out the emails from last week.”
He waved his hand and said, “Yes, yes. I have those, but the Ministry of Culture doesn’t control the biosphere. CONAP does, and they haven’t approved of the expedition.”
“What? I was told it was seamless. That you guys work with the ministry, and if they agreed, you agreed. That their approval was harder than yours. They deal in antiquities. You just prevent corruption of the land. I’m not going to do any digging. Just walking in the jungle—and they approved of that. I had to sign a bunch of declarations that I wouldn’t take anything and that the ministry would do any excavation. I did that.”
I saw a sheen of sweat on his forehead and noticed he had a tremble in his hand. While I could certainly turn on the scary when I wanted to, nothing in my demeanor should have caused that reaction.
He said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Logan, but I have to get approval from my higher headquarters in Guatemala City before you can continue. It should h
ave been seamless, but it was not. CONAP doesn’t know about this expedition, and I have to tell them. There was a paperwork mix-up.”
“How long will that take?”
“Perhaps six weeks. Maybe longer.”
I leapt up, saying, “What the hell are you talking about? We’ve already flown down here. We aren’t staying for six weeks, and we aren’t flying back home.”
Jennifer stood as well, once again putting a hand on my arm, because the scary was starting to leak out. Gonzales retreated to the window of his office, gaining space between my anger and him.
He said, “I’m sorry. That’s the best I can do. I might be able to expedite the paperwork, but four weeks will be the earliest. We deal with all sorts of requests to go into the biosphere, and each one has to be explored for viability.”
I said, “You little shit. Is it money you want? A bribe?”
He appeared startled at the comment, and I knew I was wrong. He said, “Money may help you in your country, but it won’t here.”
Jennifer turned me away and whispered in my ear. “Pike, there’s no reason to push this. We aren’t going to win here, and you might cause us to never get approval.”
I knew she was right, but it aggravated the hell out of me. It wasn’t like I had a fortune to flit back and forth between Guatemala and Charleston like a damn rich American tourist, and the Taskforce wouldn’t sanction another trip on their dime. And then I had a thought.
Tourism.
I turned back to Gonzales and said, “Okay, okay. You win. You’ll make sure it gets submitted correctly? And expedited?”
He relaxed for the first time, showing a relief that was unfounded. He said, “Yes, yes. I’ll do my best.”
I said, “As long as we paid to come down here, I guess we can go see Mirador as tourists.”
He said, “Of course. I can set you up with a guide if you want. I know the best.”
I said, “Don’t worry about that. We have a guide.”
“Who?”