Jungle of Deceit

Jungle Of Deceit

Maureen A. Miller

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2011 by Maureen A. Miller

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner.

This book contains scenes intended for a mature audience.

P
rologue

Port Newark, NJ – April 22
^nd

From a hundred yards away, Mitch Hasslet lifted his lens to the aft of the ship and narrowed the viewfinder on the cracked white letters.

Dorian Gray.

Christ, he hoped there was a portrait stored somewhere t
hat flattered this old bucket of bolts. Perhaps in its heyday, the freighter shined with fresh black paint and gleaming brass fixtures−but now it looked like a ghost ship ready to embark on a voyage to a prehistoric island.

On deck, crewmen were busy preparing for their valuable cargo as Mitch swung his camera in the direction of two police cars entering the barricade. In their wake, a trio of armored trucks stamped with the Museum of Historical Art and Antiquities insignia were flanked by two additional patrol units. The entire convoy pulled up idle at the foot of a ramp that led into the bowels of the
Dorian Gray
.

Mitch’s curiosity flared at the sight of wooden crates towed on mobile skids by the armed security representatives of the HAA Museum. Some of the fanfare in the papers came to mind.

Rare Mayan artifacts. Brutal pieces of art that stirred up controversy and even warranted a disclaimer at the entrance of the museum.

Not for the faint of heart.

Systematically, the shutter clicked as Mitch captured images of the wooden crates hauled like behemoth creatures into a cage
.

When four Apache helicopters descended on the pier, Mitch’s camera continued to snap. As if a beehive had split open, a battalion of camouflaged uniforms erupted from the choppers and flooded the dock, encircling the comparatively small police force. Men he had presumed were part of the ship’s crew now drew weapons of their own and joined in the invasion as the explosive percussion of AK-47’s pierced the brackish air.

It happened so fast. Outnumbered, and with only futile attempts to fight back, the police and museum force were circled to the tune of more shots. Mitch flinched at the sudden blare of violence—a sound that plagued him often in his sleep. He searched in vain for a way to stop this madness, and this preoccupation prevented him from detecting the figure behind him.

At the last second he turned and came face to face with a dark complected man with a scar on the corner of his lips. The disfigurement elongated them into a macabre smile.

That Cheshire grin was the last thing Mitch Hasslet saw as the butt of a rifle cracked into his jaw.

***

Waking up on the hot tarmac with a swollen eye and a faulty chin, Mitch lumbered to his car. The guerillas, or whatever the hell they were, were long gone, as well as the shipment from the museum.

He needed to call for an ambulance. Men were down.

Before he could even get his scraped knuckles to cooperate, a black stretch limousine pulled up alongside his car. He jerked back a step, startled to have not heard the motor.

A tinted window slid down with a hiss as the driver, indiscernible behind sunglasses and cap, inquired in a deep voice, “Mr. Hasslet? Mitchell Hasslet from the
Chronicle
?”

Mitch nodded and rubbed at his jaw.

“
Please get in, sir.”

Staring at the sleek limo as if it were an alien craft, Mitch managed a gruff, “Excuse me?”

“
Please get in, sir. Mr. Nicholson would like to have a word with you.”

The crazed expression of Jack Nicholson in
The Shining
flashed in his mind.

“
I don’t know a Mr. Nicholson.” Mitch’s voice was hoarse. “But if you have a cell phone in there, can you call 911?”

Sunlight reflected off the driver’s glasses.

“
It’s been taken care of, sir. Please get in.”

“
Hey, look,” Mitch’s fingers began to work their way around his door handle, “I don’t know how you know my name, but I need to get to the authorities
now
. There are men that have been shot, there’s no time for this bull—”

The rear window of the limousine rolled down with a soft purr. An indistinct silhouette filled its frame and a disembodied voice called, “Mr. Hasslet, I am Phillip Nicholson, the Director of the Museum of Historical Art and Antiquities. I would really appreciate a moment of your time.”

He paused and added with the benevolence of a holy man, “trust me, the police and ambulances are on their way.”

On cue, sirens could be heard in the distance. Mitch felt his jawbone throb and winced at the glare from the driver’s sunglasses.

The car door opened in silent invitation, and the blast of air conditioning felt like an ice pack against his swollen cheek.

“
Please, Mr. Hasslet. We need your help.”

A headache struck with the force of a two-by-four, and inside the limo the sound of ice cubes cascading into a glass posed a greater temptation than Delilah.

Mitch cast one last look across the deserted dock.

Son of a bitch.

With a slight limp, he climbed into the back seat.

C
hapter One

Guatemala – April 23rd

Ushered into the jungle−into a nucleus of archeologists and engineers, Mitch felt as out of place now as the time he was lost in the catacombs of a Spanish convent. Then, like now, he sensed accusatory eyes and heard whispered conversation that suspended as he drew near.

Punishment.

That’s what this was. Punishment for recklessness in Kosovo
.

A photographic journalist was supposed to take pictures, not play action hero.

After the Albanian tragedy, Mitch was relegated to the streets of New York. No longer capturing photos of soldiers in battle or humanitarians in action, he now worked for the New York
Chronicle.
And when there wasn’t an actor walking his poodle down Fifth Avenue for Mitch to chase, he was tossed mediocre assignments such as the museum shipment bound for South America.

Mitch thought about some of the missions from his glory days. He recalled those reverent nuns and how he had to switch on his charm, and tried it again for these skeptical archeologists.

“
I’ve read about Dr. Langley.” He turned to the young man beside him.
What was his name? Charles? Charlie?
“It’s gotta be quite the hoot to work for someone with such an esteemed track record, Charlie.”

Covered in mud, the man scratched his nose. The skin beneath bore a deep tan, nearly the same color as the smeared clay. Narrowed green eyes glared for a moment and then he snorted out the exposed air hole. “Name’s Chuck.”

“
Right.” Mitch attributed his flawed memory and reduced patience to the six-hour flight. He drank in a deep breath of humid air before continuing.

“
So,
Chuck…
” A mosquito took a chunk out of his neck, but he refused to scratch it. “I understand that you were part of Frank Langley’s excavation in Egypt. Some say he stumbled upon the tomb by accident.” Mitch’s eyebrow inched up. “Some say he has an incredible knack for finding buried treasure. A virtual Indiana Jones,” he mused as he fell into stride alongside Chuck. “It must have been a real coup to be in on that expedition.”

Another snort and this time Chuck’s dirty hand swatted the air in dismissal as he turned his back on Mitch and muttered something like,
Mister, you don’t belong here.

Right.

Well, so much for charm.

But, Nicholson said that it was Dr. Frank Langley that Mitch had to impress, not this gritty recruit. It was Dr. Franklin Langley who was critical to his cover, even though the esteemed doctor had no reason to suspect that Mitch was here for anything other than to contribute his photo-journalistic talent.

Phillip Nicholson, the enigmatic director of the Museum of HAA had used persuasion methods no less subtle than those of General Patton. They involved neither violence nor extortion, but Mitch had stepped out of that limousine with the unsettling sense that he had just been brainwashed.

Oh, hell, he should give himself more credit than that. He had not been brainwashed. Nicholson, albeit stranger that he was, seemed to know every motivational button to push. And push he did. How the man came by so much knowledge still nagged at him, but it was too late to rethink. He was in the middle of the freaking jungle.

As far as this ragtag crew of students and archeological minions were concerned, Mitch Hasslet was in Guatemala to chronicle their expedition on film. They had no idea of Phillip Nicholson’s ulterior motives for him, and as Nicholson pointed out−it had to remain that way.

Unless this dig was documented, photographed and published by the end of the year, this team’s grant would be revoked.
That’s
what they thought Mitch was here for. Even as he looked around, Mitch caught their furtive glances—their arrogant disapproval of his presence in their domain.

Do I care?

No.

In the past twenty-four hours he had been beaten and then shoved on board a chartered plane for a six-hour flight. In mid air he was given a barrage of injections to prevent God-knows-what type of diseases. And finally he was jostled into a Jeep to this remote realm of the Guatemalan jungle for a mission he had
grudgingly
volunteered for.

Did he care if they looked at him with disapproval?

Hell no.

Mitch turned to a blond man he had nicknamed Hollywood for the simple fact that the man reminded him of a surfer. “Do you know where I can find Dr. Langley?” Mitch asked.

Another unwelcome glare and then a copper-bristled chin tipped towards a nearby Jeep. “Over there, working on the engine.”

Hollywood seemed less critical, and more curious. He stared at Mitch for a moment. “Mechanics are hard to come by out here.” He shrugged under a perspiration-stained tank top. “You learn to be resourceful.”

Mitch grunted in staged empathy and then followed the angle of Hollywood’s chin to the set of boots protruding from beneath the belly of a rusted Jeep. Heck, he half expected Fred Flintstone’s giant feet to kick-start the antique. Mitch knew a thing or two about engines, and there was no way this clunker could be too complex. Perhaps if he got the relic running, he’d make a good first impression.