Assumed Identity (1993) (70 page)

Chapter 7.

The sun was low, adding to the gloom of the acrid smoke that drifted across the area. Buchanan coughed again as he and Holly were shoved through the haze toward the only part of the ruins that Drummond had allowed to remain intact.

'The ball court,' Drummond said.

The haze lifted enough for Buchanan to see a flat, stone, playing surface one hundred feet long and twenty-five feet wide. On each side was a wall, fifteen feet high, the top of which was a terrace from which spectators could watch. Drummond climbed steps to the terrace, followed by Delgado, a guard and Holly. She looked sick from fear. Her handcuffs had been removed. She nervously rubbed her wrists.

Another guard removed Buchanan's handcuffs, then followed the others to the terrace. Buchanan too rubbed his wrists, trying to increase the flow of blood to his numb hands. Anxiety surged through him as he studied the walls of the court, noting the hieroglyphs and the drawings engraved on the stone.

'The acoustics of the ball court are amazing.' Drummond spoke from the terrace, peering down at Buchanan. 'I'm using a normal voice, and yet it sounds as if I have a microphone.'

Despite the roar of construction equipment in the background, despite the closer crackle of flames and the occasional bark of a gunshot, Buchanan heard Drummond with remarkable clarity. The crusty voice seemed to echo from and be amplified by all points of the court.

'The game was called pok-a-tok,' Drummond said. 'If you study the engravings on the stone wall below me, you can see images of the ancient Maya playing the game. They used a latex rubber ball roughly the size and weight of a medicine ball. The intention was to hurl the ball through the vertical stone circle projecting from the middle of this side of the court. A second stone circle projects from the other side of the court. Presumably that was the goal for the opposite team. The ancient Maya considered pok-a-tok more than mere recreation. To them, it had enormous political and religious significance. In their mythology, the two gods who founded their race did so by winning this game in a contest with other gods. There is evidence that commoners were never allowed to witness the game. Only nobles, priests, and royalty. There is further evidence that the game was a prelude to human sacrifice and that it was played most often with warriors captured from other tribes.'

'The stakes were life and death.' Raymond's voice came suddenly from behind Buchanan, making him whirl.

Chapter 8.

What Buchanan saw stunned him. Threw his mind off balance. Assaulted his sanity. For a moment, he told himself that he had to be hallucinating, that fatigue combined with his concussion had distorted his perceptions.

But as Raymond stepped through the haze of smoke, tinted crimson by the lowering sun, Buchanan forced himself to accept that what confronted him, however grotesque, was definitely, dismayingly real.

Raymond was partially naked. He wore thick, leather pads around his waist and groin. Similar armor was strapped to his shoulders, elbows, and knees. Otherwise his body was bare, his nipples showing. His exposed muscles displayed the strength and tone that could have come only from hours of daily exercise.

Buchanan, who had been in excellent condition before he began his assignment in Mexico, had been on the move for so long and been so wearied by his various injuries that he hadn't had time for exercise and wasn't in peak condition.

Raymond's leather armor looked grotesque enough. But what added to the dismaying sense of surreality was a helmet he wore, from which long feathers of numerous brilliant colors were swept back, creating the illusion that a Mayan warrior had stepped not only through smoke but through time. In addition, he carried a large ball that he dropped to the stone court. As it struck and rolled, it caused a thunking echo that communicated how solid and heavy it was. He threw leather pads at Buchanan's feet. 'Undress and put them on.'

'Like hell,' Buchanan said.

Raymond picked up the ball and hurled it at Buchanan, who dodged but not soon enough, the drug still affecting him. The glancing impact of the ball against his left arm was startlingly painful.

'Undress and put on the armor, or you won't last thirty seconds in the game,' Raymond said.

Buchanan slowly complied, gaining time, calculating. Above him, Holly looked even more terrified. Buchanan strained to think of a way for the two of them to escape, but no plan was adequate against the guard next to Holly and the automatic weapon in his hands. The guard would shoot before Buchanan could climb the wall and get to them.

As Buchanan's naked skin felt prickly cold despite the sweat dripping from him, he strapped on the rough, thick, leather armor.

'I designed these myself,' Raymond said, 'based on the drawings on these walls.' He pointed to Buchanan's left, just below the vertical stone hoop that projected from the top of the wall. 'That engraving, in particular, interests me.'

Buchanan frowned in that direction, and for a moment, the image -a warrior in armor, with a feathered headdress - looked disturbingly like Raymond.

'When I first stepped onto this ball court,' Raymond said, 'I felt as if I'd come home. I felt as if I'd been here, as if I'd played here. Long, long ago.'

Buchanan kept staring at the image. Appalled, he realized that the warrior was clutching a severed human head, blood dripping from the neck as the warrior raised the skull by its hair.

'That's what I meant about life and death,' Raymond said. 'You see, the penalty for the losers was execution. And the winner? He not only got to stay alive. He got to be the executioner.'

'What are we talking about here?' Buchanan demanded. 'Are you telling me that if I win, I go free?'

Except for the din of construction equipment in the background, the ball court became silent.

'That's what I thought,' Buchanan said. 'For me, it's a no-win situation.'

'It may have been for the ancient Maya as well,' Drummond interrupted, his voiced filled with phlegm.

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'There's a theory among a few historians of Mayan culture that it wasn't the losers who were executed but rather the winners.'

'That's absurd,' Buchanan said. 'Who on earth would want to play?'

'Raymond agrees with you,' the old man said. 'But the theory is that winning was such an honor it put you on a level with the gods. The next logical step was for you to be sacrificed so that you could take your place among the gods.'

'It sounds to me like the only true winners were those who watched.'

'Yes,' Drummond said. 'As I told you, I pursue the unique. I'm about to be privileged to witness a rarity. For the first time in five hundred years, a game of pok-a-tok is going to be played. For me.'

'And how is this supposed to prove whether I'm telling the truth about the special-ops unit that'll come here looking for me? Am I supposed to confess so I won't have my head cut off?'

'Oh, I think as the game progresses, you'll have many painful inducements to tell the truth,' Drummond said. 'But it's not you I'm concerned about. My interest is in Ms McCoy. I suspect that what she sees will make her more than willing to tell the truth. In exchange for ending what's being done to you.'

'It won't do you any good,' Buchanan said. 'She doesn't know anything about my unit.'

'Perhaps. I'll soon find out. Raymond, if you're ready.'

Chapter 9.

The ball struck Buchanan's back with such force that he was knocked to the stone floor, his chin scraping on one of the slabs. If not for the padded leather armor, he suspected that the ball would have broken some of his ribs. Gasping, ignoring his pain, he scrambled to his feet and charged toward the ball. Raymond got there at the same time he did.

Buchanan rammed his padded elbow against the side of Raymond's head, knocking him sideways. Before Raymond could recover, Buchanan lifted the ball, its weight surprising him, and hurled it at Raymond, who grunted and lurched back as the ball struck his thigh and bounced off his leather armor, thudding onto the court.

'No, no, no,' Drummond said from the platform. 'This won't do at all. The point of the game is to throw the ball through the stone hoop, not at your opponent.'

'Why didn't you tell that to Raymond when he threw it at me to begin with? What the hell was he doing?'

'Getting your attention,' Raymond said.

'How many points does it take to win?'

'Well, that's a problem.'

'Yeah, I thought so.'

'No, you don't understand,' Drummond said. 'You see, no one knows how many points are required in order to win. That information hasn't survived the centuries. We'll have to improvise.'

'Ten.' Raymond smiled.

'Ten what?' Buchanan asked in fury. 'Do you mean I have to win by ten points? For Christ's sake, what are you saying?'

'The best of ten. Whoever gets to ten first.'

'And then what?'

'It depends on the answers I receive from you and Ms McCoy,' Drummond said.

Without warning, Buchanan dodged toward the ball, picked it up, and lunged toward the vertical hoop. As he aimed to throw, Raymond battered his padded shoulder against Buchanan's arm, jolting him sideways, slamming him against the stone wall.

Buchanan groaned, spun, and struck Raymond's chest with the ball. Continuing to grip the ball, Buchanan kept spinning as Raymond stumbled backward. Braced beneath the stone hoop, Buchanan hurled the ball and felt his heartbeat surge when he saw the ball arc through the vertical circle.

Raymond's hands struck Buchanan's back, knocking him forward and down, Buchanan's chin again scraping on the court.

Jesus, Buchanan said. Not my head. I can't let anything happen to my head. Another concussion would.

He scrambled to his feet, wiped blood from his chin, and glared at Raymond.

'No, no, no,' Drummond repeated. 'You're not playing by the rules.'

'Tell that to Raymond!' Buchanan shouted. 'I'm the one who got the ball through the hoop.'

'But you didn't get the ball through legally!'

'What are you talking about?'

'You're not allowed to use your hands!'

'Not allowed to-?'

'We don't know much about the game.' Drummond gestured forcefully. 'But we do know this. Presumably except for picking up the ball, you were not allowed to use your hands. The ball was kept in motion by thrusting it with your forearms, your shoulders, your hips, your knees, and your head.'

The idea of hitting the ball with his head made Buchanan inwardly flinch. It would probably kill him.

'For breaking the rules, you have to be given a penalty. One point demerit. Now you have to score eleven while Raymond needs only ten. Unless of course he breaks a rule.'

'Sure. But somehow I get the feeling he'll make up the rules as he goes along and I'll keep breaking rules that haven't been invented yet.'

'Just play the game,' Raymond said.

Before Buchanan could react, Raymond scurried toward the ball, picked it up with his hands, threw it into the air, caught it with his forearms, and hurled it toward the hoop, the ball flying neatly through.

Thunking, the ball landed at Buchanan's feet.

'Raymond, I get the feeling you've been practising.'

'Good sport,' Drummond said. 'I like a man who loses a point graciously.'

'But I'll bet you like winners more,' Buchanan said.

'Then make me like you better,' Drummond said. 'Win.'

Buchanan managed to grab the ball. At once he felt his legs kicked out from under him as Raymond leapt, hitting with his feet.

Buchanan fell backward, the weight of the ball against his chest. He struck the court hard, grateful for the leather armor on his shoulders. Even so, his impact sent a spasm through the shoulder that was still healing from where he'd been shot in Cancun. The weight of the ball took his breath away.

Raymond jerked the ball from his hands, threw it into the air again, caught it with his forearms again, and hurled it toward the vertical hoop, scoring another point.

'Yes, you've definitely been practising.' As Buchanan came to his feet, he felt his body begin to stiffen.

'This isn't amusing at all. You're going to have to try harder,' Drummond said.

Sooner than anticipated, Buchanan scooped up the ball, grasped it with his forearms, pretended to lunge toward the hoop, but actually watched for Raymond to attack, and as Raymond darted to slam against him, Buchanan spun. Clutching the ball to his chest, avoiding Raymond, Buchanan jabbed with his elbow as Raymond went past, and Raymond lurched, doubling over, holding his side from the pain in his left kidney. Instantly Buchanan ran toward the hoop, stood with his back to it, cautiously watched Raymond, then risked a glance upward, judged his distance from the hoop, and threw the ball up behind him with his forearms, exhaling with satisfaction when the ball hurtled through.

'Excellent coordination,' Drummond said. 'You look like you've had experience with basketball. But this game has aspects of volleyball and soccer as well. How were you at those?'

Distracted, Buchanan felt the wind knocked out of him as Raymond attacked head first, plowing his skull into Buchanan's stomach, knocking him over.

Buchanan writhed, struggling to breathe. Meanwhile Raymond scooped up the ball and scored another point.