Ruins (4 page)

"I expect you to strictly adhere to protocol, Agent Mulder," Skinner said. "I would urge you in no uncertain terms to hew the line in this investigation."

"Yes, sir."

"If you offend anyone in high places, you'll have more than just the FBI to answer to; you'll have the State Department as well. That is, unless you get yourself thrown into some Mexican jail first."

"I'll try my best to stay clear of that, sir." Mulder took the forms and tucked them under his arm.

"One more thing, Agent Mulder," Skinner said with an unreadable expression.

"Have a nice trip."

Offices of The Lone Gunmen, Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 4:40 p.m.

"When all else fails, Special Agent Mulder comes to us for the real answers,"

said Byers, leaning back in his chair. He straightened his suit and tie, ran a finger across his neat reddish beard, and looked up calmly.

Entering alone, Mulder closed the door behind him in the dim offices of The Lone Gunmen, a conspiracy expose publication that purported to know the official truths about a thousand secret plots in which the government was engaged.

Scully had told him once that she considered the oddball characters who produced the magazine to be the most paranoid men she had ever met. But Mulder had found time and again that the esoteric information the three Lone Gunmen had at their fingertips often led in directions that official channels would never have suggested.

"Hi, guys," Mulder said. "Who's taking over the world this week?"

"I think Mulder just likes to keep tabs on us," Langly answered, sauntering across the room with a lazy shuffle that, with a little work, could have been turned into a dance step. Tall and scrawny, inelegantly dressed, he was the type who could easily have fit in with any crowd of computer nerds or roadies for a rock band. "It's for his own protection," he added, adjusting his black-rimmed glasses.

Langly had stringy blond hair that looked as if he washed it in a blender.

Mulder had never seen him wear anything other than a ratty T-shirt, usually advertising some fringe rock group.

"I think he just likes our company," Frohike mum-bled, working with several pieces of extremely expen-sive camera equipment on one of the metal shelves at the rear of the office. In the background, Langly switched on the big reel-to-reel tape recorders, getting their entire conversation down on tape.

"Yeah, you three are just my kind of guys," Mulder said with a disarming smile.

Byers always wore a suit and a tie. He was soft-spoken and intelligent, the kind of son any mother would have been proud to have—if not for his vociferous oppo-sition to various government organizations and his obsession with UFO

conspiracies.

Frohike, with glasses, close-cropped hair, and rugged features, didn't look as if he would fit in with any social group. He had a long-standing crush on Dana Scully, but basically it was all talk. Mulder sus-pected Frohike would turn into a jittering mass of nerves if Scully ever consented to go out with him.

Nevertheless, Mulder had been deeply touched when the short-statured man had brought flowers to Scully's bedside while she lay in a coma after returning from her abduction.

No identifying sign marked the door to the offices of the Lone Gunmen, and they were not listed in any phone book. The three kept their operation very low-profile. They tape-recorded every incoming phone call and took care to cover their own movements in and around Washington, D.C.

Nondescript, utilitarian shelves held surveillance equipment and computer monitors. Wires snaking out of the wall provided hard links to any number of network servers and databases. Mulder suspected the Lone Gunmen had never been granted official access to many of the systems, but that did not prevent the three from hacking into libraries of information closely held by gov-ernment organizations and industrial groups.

Most of the chairs in the office were filled with boxes of stuffed manila envelopes, preprinted address labels facedown. Mulder knew the envelopes carried no return addresses.

"Your timing is good, Agent Mulder," Frohike said. "We're about to mail out our new issue. We could use some help dispersing them through a couple dozen mail-box drop points."

"Do I get a sneak preview of the contents?" he said.

Langly popped an old reel-to-reel magnetic tape from one of the recorders, labeled the flat metal canister, and installed a new backup system. "This one's a special issue of TLG. Our 'All Elvis' number."

"Elvis?" Mulder said in surprise. "I thought you guys were above all that."

"No conspiracy is beneath us," Byers said proudly.

"I can see that," Mulder answered.

Langly took off his glasses and rubbed them on the tail of his T-shirt, which advertised a concert tour by the Soup Dragons. He blinked small eyes at Mulder, then put the black-rimmed glasses back on. "You won't believe what we've uncovered, Mulder. You'll have a whole new take on it after reading our historical retrospective. I did most of the research and writing myself on this one.

"We think that Elvis is being positioned as a messiah figure—by powerful persons unknown to us. You can find similar instances all through history. The lost king who reappears after his supposed death to lead his peo-ple again.

Could be a strong basis for forming an insidi-ous new religion."

"You mean like legends of King Arthur promising to come back from Avalon?"

Mulder said. "Or Frederick Barbarossa sleeping in a mountain cave until his beard grows all the way around the table, at which point he'll return to save the Holy Roman Empire?"

Langly frowned. "Those two are misfires, because the messiahs in question never did come back, as promised. However, take Russia, for instance—Tsar Alexander II defeated Napoleon and supposedly died ... but for years the peasants told of seeing a wandering beggar or a monk who claimed to be the real Tsar. It was quite a popular legend. And of course there are the Biblical accounts of Jesus Christ dying and coming back to continue leading his disciples.

"We don't need to remind you how many supposed Elvis sightings occur daily. We believe they have been staged, to provide the foundation for a fanatical new cult."

"Everybody wants an encore," Mulder said. He reached for one of the manila envelopes and slid out the issue to study the photo of Elvis on the front cover. He scanned the first article. "So what you're telling me is that somebody is trying to establish the birth of Elvis was in reality the Second Coming."

"You know how gullible people are, Mulder," Frohike said. "Think about it.

Some of Elvis's songs have a very New Testament feel to them. 'Love Me Tender,' for instance. Or 'Don't Be Cruel.' Could almost be part of the Sermon on the Mount."

Byers leaned forward. "And if you think about plac-ing it in a modern context, any hit single reaches far more people than the Sermon on the Mount ever did."

"Ah," Mulder said, "so what was Elvis really trying to say with 'Jailhouse Rock' or 'Hound Dog?'"

"Those took a little more work," Langly said. "Our interpretations will be in the next issue. You'll be surprised."

"I already am."

Byers shrugged and shifted in his chair. "We don't make judgment calls, Agent Mulder, we just report the facts. It's up to our readers to draw their own conclusions."

"About you guys, or about the conspiracies you report?"

Frohike pointed a large camera and clicked a picture of Mulder. "For our files," he said.

Mulder held up the newly printed issue. "Can I keep this copy?"

"Yours should be in the mail," Frohike said.

"Why not go ahead and buy an official subscription, Mulder?" Langly suggested.

"Put some of your FBI salary to good use."

Byers smiled. "No, for someone of Mulder's stature, we should make sure he gets a comp copy of each issue. Besides, I'd be uncomfortable having his name and address on our mailing list."

"What, you're afraid you couldn't sell the list of addresses to Publishers Clearing House then?"

"Our readers are a certain type of person, Mulder," Byers said. "The type who might not want their names included among others who are also interested in the conspiracies we expose. We take great efforts to ensure that our mailing list can't fall into the wrong hands. Each of the three of us keeps a third of the names in separate electronic files with separate passwords on separate computer systems. We can't access each other's records. We just bring in the mailing labels, already printed."

Frohike said, "We print them out at the copy shop."

"Can't be too careful," Langly said.

"No, you can't," Mulder agreed.

"Well, we have to get started sealing envelopes," Langly said. "We'd be happy to press you into service, Mulder."

Mulder held up his hand. "No, thanks, I just came here for some information, then I'll be on my way."

"And how can we help save innocent citizens from the nefarious workings of the shadow government?" Byers said. "For this afternoon, at least?"

Mulder moved aside one of the boxes of stuffed envelopes and sat down. "What's the buzz you guys hear on Central America, the Yucatan, particularly some new Maya ruins that are being excavated? Xitaclan. I've got a missing archaeology team and a recovered artifact that may be of extraterrestrial origin."

"Let me think," Langly said, tossing his long blond hair. "I majored in archaeology in college."

Byers looked at him skeptically. "I thought you majored in political science."

Frohike squinted through his glasses. "You told me it was electronics engineering."

Langly shrugged. "So, I had a lot of varied interests."

Byers grew serious, looking back at Mulder. "Central America? I hear a lot of unconfirmed rumors about events in the area. There's been a separatist movement brewing in one of the states in the Yucatan. It's called Liberation Quintana Roo. The violence seems to be escalat-ing—car bombs, threatening letters—and of course, you know about the U.S. military complex supplying arms at an exorbitant price to the freedom fighters."

"Why would they do that?" Mulder said.

"To create political instability. It's a game to them," Byers said, passion flickering behind his normally calm eyes. "And don't forget about some of the more powerful drug lords in the area who have become arms merchants themselves. Buying up technology. Serious stuff that we never would have dreamed about a decade ago."

"I dreamed about it," Frohike said.

"And how does this tie in with your particular inter-est, Mulder?" Langly asked.

"As I said, an American archaeological team disap-peared there a week ago.

They had unearthed new arti-facts in the ruins—artifacts that are now turning up on the black market. The locals won't go near the place. Apparently there's a long-standing curse on the city. It was abandoned a thousand years ago, and now I've been hearing talk about the revenge of Kukulkan and his fero-cious guardian feathered serpents."

"Knowing you, Mulder, I'm surprised you're not out chasing ancient astronauts," Langly said.

"I'm keeping an open mind," he answered. "There are plenty of mysteries connected with Maya culture and his-tory, but I'm not necessarily ready to adopt any of them yet. With ancient astronauts and the Maya curse ... not to mention the drug lords and military operations and revolu-tionary movements Byers was talking about, the Yucatan really sounds like a happenin' place."

"So are you and the lovely Agent Scully going down to investigate?" Frohike said, sounding hopeful.

"Yeah, we leave for Cancun tomorrow."

"Our tax dollars at work," Langly snorted.

"I'd love to see Agent Scully with a healthy tropical tan," Frohike said.

"Down, Frohike," Mulder said.

Mulder turned to leave. It was late in the afternoon, and traffic on the Beltway would be horrendous. He thought he might go back to the office and do more research. "Thanks for the information."

As he stood by the door, Byers called after him, standing up and straightening his tie. "Agent Mulder," he said, "if you do find anything interesting, be sure to let us know. For our files."

"I'll see what I can do," Mulder said.

Private villa of Xavier Salida, Quintana Roo, Mexico Tuesday, 5:01 p.m.

The old Mexican police cruiser with official state markings rolled along the tree-lined driveway, working its way uphill. The walled fortress of one of Quintana Roo's most powerful drug lords stood like a citadel in the dense forest.

The car rode low on the damp driveway made of packed limestone gravel.

Blue-gray exhaust belched in oily clouds from its tailpipe. The police car had been painted recently, but unevenly, so that it did not look as new as it should have.

In the front passenger seat reclined Fernando Victorio Aguilar, feigning a calm and ease that he had learned always helped him to do better business. He rubbed his fingers along his slick cheeks. He had shaved only an hour before, and he loved the delicious, glassy-smooth feel of his skin. The sharp but pleasant scent of his cologne filled the car, masking other less pleasant aromas that Carlos Barreio, the chief of Quintana Roo's state police, had collected during his daily work.

Barreio drove slowly, easing around muddy puddles in the driveway. He wore his clean police uniform as if he were a military general, pleased with his position and flaunting it in a way he thought was subtle. Aguilar didn't find many things about Barreio to be subtle.

In the back seat rode young Pepe Candelaria, Aguilar's assistant, a steadfast young Indian who felt compelled to do everything Aguilar told him. Pepe sat protectively beside the precious object packed in its crate as if he were a common criminal under arrest in the back of Barreio's police cruiser.

While Aguilar and Pepe might have deserved to be arrested under the national system of laws, they both knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that Police Chief Barreio would never take them into custody. He had too much to lose.

The cruiser pulled to a stop outside the ornate, imposing wrought-iron gates that closed the access way through a stone wall. Barreio rolled down his window, grunting as he turned the door crank. He waved at the heavily armed private guard, who recognized him immediately.