Fallen Idols (46 page)

Will hadn't been able to come. He was overwhelmed with work. Not being able to accompany his brothers had been anguishing for him. Clancy and Tom promised to keep him abreast of events with e-mails and phone calls, and would fill him completely in when they returned.

“There he is,” Tom said, as the brothers emerged from customs and walked outside. He raised his arm and waved to the small man with strong Indian features who was standing next to a mud-encrusted Isuzu minivan parked at the curb.

Manuel raised his own arm and waved back. He came forward with quick, small steps, his face creased into a broad smile. “Ah,
Señores
Gaines,” he said in his heavily accented English. “It is good to see you again.”

They had hired Manuel to escort them around the country while they were here. He had been thrilled to help; they'd had to force him to take payment for his services.

“You, too, Manuel,” Clancy told him, reaching out and engulfing his father's former right-hand man in a hug. The top of Manuel's head barely came up to his chin. “Thanks for helping us out like this.”

“It is nothing,” Manuel protested. “It is my privilege to be able to assist you.” The smile left his face, replaced by a solemn resolve. “In any way I can.”

They threw their bags into the minivan and piled in. Manuel pulled away from the curb. There wasn't much traffic, mainly taxicabs and motor scooters.

“So, Manuel,” Tom said, “how're things by you these days? Still working at the dig?”

Manuel shook his head sorrowfully. “I'm working for the National Museum now.”

“You aren't working at the site anymore?” Clancy asked, surprised.

“Not anymore,” Manuel confirmed. “It's different, now that your father is no longer running things.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Tom said sympathetically. “That's a waste of talent.”

Manuel ducked the compliment. “There have been many changes.” He hesitated. “We will talk about them at the appropriate time.”

It was obvious to the boys that their father's old friend didn't want to talk about La Chimenea, their parents, or the present situation. Maybe he was afraid he was under surveillance for associating with the sons of Walt Gaines. If he was, they didn't blame him.

After the meeting with their father had blown up in his lace, Tom had called Whiting in New York again and explained his dilemma—they desperately needed to find out, once and for all, who had killed their mother, and whether their father and Diane Montrose were conclusively tied to it. Could Whiting go back to his friend in the customs department and see if he could pry any more inhumation out of him?

Whiting had called back a couple of days later. Yes, he had some fresh intelligence, but it was hearsay—whether or not it was truthful was highly debatable. Supposedly there had been an archaeologist involved in smuggling artifacts, and the killing was somehow connected to him. But exactly how, and who the players were, his friend wouldn't tell him. Whiting suspected the customs people were still trying to figure out whether or not the man in custody was holding back vital information that he could use as a bargaining chip. They also told him there was a woman involved, but again, they wouldn't (or couldn't) say who she was.

Tom and his brothers were going to have to investigate this themselves. Whiting suggested they start with the government minister who was in charge of archaeology for the country. He would have information that could help them. Whether he was willing to cooperate or not, they wouldn't know until they met with him face-to-face.

The following day, Tom and Clancy had gotten their passports and visas in order, been in touch with the minister's office, and booked their flight. And now, here they were.

In less than fifteen minutes they had left the city behind, and were in open countryside. The terrain was flat and green. Scattered fields were under random cultivation on either side of the potholed two-lane asphalt highway. The houses were small and primitive—paint peeling, leaky tin roofs, pigs and goats foraging in the front yards. Atop some of the dwellings, television antennas and small satellite dishes stood out against the clear morning sky. In between the small plots of farmland, native vegetation grew wild: hibiscus, frangipani, marsh grasses. Beyond that was the jungle, often as close as a hundred yards from the road.

After a few miles, the paved road became a dirt-gravel surface. The minivan bumped its way along. Manuel was skillful as he steered around the deepest potholes. Barefoot women bearing large clay vessels on their heads walked along the edge of the road, carrying water, food, myriad goods. To the right, a slow-moving river at the bottom of the steep embankment meandered a course parallel to the road. Women squatted at the river's edge, washing clothes against rocks, and entire families bathed, the children frolicking in the muddy water. Tom, who had been to India, thought of the Ganges, of the dense crowds of people who bathed amidst turds and garbage. The conditions weren't that unsanitary here, but that was because there wasn't as much population, not from any superior understanding of hygiene.

Along with the human flow there were horses, cattle, sheep, pigs, dogs, wandering along the road. Rickety wooden fences had been built in front of some of the houses to try to keep the stock in, but they were ineffective. The animals were everywhere. Manuel was constantly standing on the brakes to avoid collisions. Kids, too, blithely walked on the road, sometimes right down the center line.

Besides the livestock crissrossing their path, there were dead animals in the road as well. Mostly horses, goats, and dogs. Some of the carrion was on the side in the matted-down grass, others smack-dab in the middle. Vultures squatted next to the rotting carcasses, plucking the meager meat from the bones. As the minivan passed by, the large ugly birds scattered, then flew back to resume their meal.

After a dozen more miles they rounded a corner and the road was paved again with a fresh coat of tar. “Why are some parts of the highway paved and others not?” Clancy asked Manuel.

“Because someone who is in the government or is rich lives nearby,” their guide answered. “Like there.”

He pointed to a low hill off to the side. A long, winding macadam driveway snaked up the hill to a high, cement wall. A gated entrance was cut into the wall, next to which stood a guardhouse that further protected access to the property.

“That wall has broken glass embedded into the top of it,” Manuel informed them. “If you were foolish enough to try to scale it to get to the mansion it protects, the broken shards of glass would cut you to ribbons.”

“Not very hospitable,” Tom commented dryly.

“The owner has the concession for Coca-Cola for the entire country,” Manuel continued. “So the road in front of his house is paved. He has his own helicopter as well, behind the house.” He glanced back at the forbidding wall through his sideview mirror. “He is only here two or three weeks a year. The rest of the time he lives in Miami Beach.”

They crested a low rise and dropped into a shallow valley. Ahead of them, two young boys on horseback were herding three dozen slow-moving animals—cows, bulls, horses—down the road. The livestock were spread out all across the road, from one edge to the other. The boys were bare to the waist, jeans and boots on their legs and feet, straw cowboy hats on their heads. They rode bareback, with rope halters to guide their horses, moving in and out of their herd with easy confidence.

The minivan came up behind them. Manuel braked to a slow crawl. Slowly, carefully, he pushed the minivan through the herd. The boys helped, herding the animals to either side. As the minivan passed, the boys smiled gap-toothed grins and raised their hats in greeting.

The road became bumpy and potholed again. “Check that out,” Tom called. He pointed out the window to the skeletal remains of a Ferris wheel in the middle of a weed-infested field. Nearby, there were rotting frames of buildings that had fallen apart.

“That was an amusement park,” Manuel informed them. “Parents brought their children here. It was very pleasant.”

“It's like out of a Fellini movie,” Tom said. “What happened to it?”

“The owner was killed in an ambush, for his payroll. After that, the families stopped coining. So now, it is a wreck. In five years there will be no trace of it left.”

“Unlike La Chimenea, which was built for the ages,” Clancy commented. “That's why sites like La Chimenea are so important.” He looked back at the hulk of the old carnival as it receded from view out the back window. “Why people like dad spend their lives trying to preserve them.”

An hour passed. After driving through a town composed of a few houses and a store, they came upon an army barracks set back behind a high barbed wire fence. As they drove by the entrance, a convoy of guardia, riding tandem on black Kawasaki motorcycles, wearing black uniforms, knee-high polished boots, and Darth Vader helmets, was conning out of the gate. They were all armed, some with machine guns strapped across their backs. As the motorcycles cruised by the minivan, proceeding in the opposite direction, the troops, all of them young, glanced in the windows, checking them out. Some of the guardia were women.

“This reminds me of Paris during their riots,” Tom remarked. “Cops doing whatever they wanted.”

“To me, this is scarier,” Clancy said. “It feels like I there's no moral authority here at all.”

Manuel was careful not to make eye contact with any of the soldiers. His vision was fixed on the road ahead, knuckles tightened on the steering wheel, not relaxing until they had passed the barracks and the motorcyclists were no longer in sight. Then he checked again in the rearview mirror, to make certain the guardia were gone and hadn't doubled back to follow them.

“They are everywhere,” he said. “Except when they are needed,” he added in a flash of anger. “We're lucky they did not stop us and shake us down for money. If you were on your own, they would have, no question. They always hassle gringos.” He sighed heavily. “For them, this is the only way to have a better life. They are fed, clothed, they go to school. Being in the military, the guardia, is one of the few ways the poor people, especially the young ones, can ever get anywhere in this wretched, godforsaken country.”

As they approached the district capital, the highway improved and there were more houses and small businesses. Clusters of people were on the streets, walking and driving motor scooters and old cars.

“You are staying at the Excelsior for tonight?” Manuel asked, as he deftly maneuvered his vehicle onto the main highway that led into the center of the city.

“Yes,” Tom confirmed. “How is it these days?”

The Excelsior was an old hotel in the center of the city. They had stayed there with their parents on previous forays. It had been faded around the edges for years now, but it still had a funky colonial style and a good bar. Journalists in the country, regardless of where they were staying, could often be found at the Excelsior bar after dark, drinking and swapping war stories. CNN had done a brief profile on it a few years back, describing it as a throwback to a bygone era, a place where you, would expect to see Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall having drinks and trading bon mots with Errol Flynn and Ingrid Bergman.

“It is comfortable enough,” Manuel said. “Most Americans stay at the newer hotels now, the ones that I have swimming pools and cable television. But the Excelsior is plenty fine,” he added quickly, not wanting the boys to think they weren't staying at a decent establishment.

They would settle in here tonight, relax, recharge their batteries after their long, sleepless trip. Tomorrow they were scheduled to meet with the Minister of Archaeology and Culture, the official who had withdrawn his troops’ support for the ill-fated journey away from La Chimenea, and had then, after Jocelyn's killing, rubbed salt in the wound by denying Walt further access to it. The meeting had been confirmed, with reluctance, before they left the States—they weren't going to fly live thousand miles to chase a wild goose. Although the Smithsonian Museum no longer sponsored Walt, they had cooperated to the extent of putting pressure on the minister to meet with his sons.

Manuel dropped them at their hotel, promising to pick them up early the following morning to drive them across town to the capital building.

“Thanks for all your help, Manuel,” Tom said, leaning in the driver's-side window and shaking Manuel's hand. He reached into his wallet and pulled out some money. He knew that American money was good here, preferable to the native currency, which could fluctuate in value, overnight sometimes, from barely acceptable to close to worthless. He tried to press the money into Manuel's hand, but Manuel wouldn't take it.

“No,” he said firmly. “You don't have to pay me,
Señor
Tom.”

“Come on, Manuel, take it, please,” Tom cajoled their guide. “You're working for us. We want to pay you for that.”

Again, Manuel politely but firmly refused to take the money,” Perhaps later, if you find out what you are looking for,” he told Tom. “But not now.”

“Okay,” Tom said, backing off. “But we're settling accounts before we leave. Agreed?”

“All right. Yes.
Hasta mañana
.” The minivan pulled

away into the narrow street, a plume or dark smoke coming from the tailpipe. The brothers stood on the sidewalk and watched him disappear into traffic.

“Let's get settled in and grab some beers,” Tom said, pushing the front door open. “I've got a thirst that needs attending to.”

This place hasn't been renovated in forty or fifty years, Clancy thought, as they walked across the black-and-white-tiled floor to the registration desk. Ceiling fans spun listlessly in the afternoon heat. Battered wicker tables and chairs were haphazardly arranged in the lobby, and a low bookcase along one wall featured old novels and back issues of National Geographic. Through a large double door at the far end of the room they saw the bar, now empty, the lights off.

The registration clerk, who leisurely emerged from a room in the back after Tom rang the front-desk bell, was a stout, middle-aged woman who looked part black, part Indian, part Spanish—a common mixture, particularly near the coast, which had been the center of the country's slave trade two centuries ago. Clancy dug into his bag and handed her the fax printout of their confirmation. She handed them their registration cards.