Ruins (5 page)

Aguilar stared out the windshield, gazing apprecia-tively at the thick wall that surrounded Xavier Salida's huge fortress. Slabs of stone covered with ornate glyphs, Maya writing and sculptures, designs of jaguars and feath-ered serpents, images of priests wearing quetzal-feather headdresses and loincloths studded with beaten gold plates. Some of the carved panels were genuine, uprooted from forgotten and overgrown ruins out in the jungle. Others were clever forgeries Aguilar had commissioned.

Xavier Salida never knew the difference. The drug lord was a self-deluded, if powerful, fool.

"Tiene una ciia, Senor Barreio?" the guard said in rapid Spanish. Do you have an appointment?

Carlos Barreio frowned. A heavy mustache rode on his upper lip like luggage, and his dark hair was slicked back under his police cap. His hair was thinning, reced-ing with a pronounced widow's peak, but the bill of his official cap covered those details.

"I shouldn't need an appointment," Barreio boomed. "Excellency Salida has told me I'm always welcome in his home."

Aguilar leaned across to the driver's side, eager to divert an annoying and time-wasting confrontation. "We have another one of the ancient treasures Excellency Salida so fervently desires," he said out the window. "You know how much he enjoys them—but this item is even more precious than most."

He tossed a meaningful glance to the back seat, where the crate remained covered, hiding its contents. Whip-thin Pepe Candelaria slid a protective arm over its top.

"What is it?" the guard asked.

"It is for Excellency Salida's eyes only. He would be very upset if his guards were to get a look at the mer-chandise before he has a chance to assess its value." Aguilar tugged on his floppy ocelot-skin hat and flashed a hopeful smile.

The guard fidgeted, shifted his rifle from one shoul-der to the other, and finally opened the wrought-iron gate, swinging the barricade inward so Barreio could drive the police cruiser through.

The police chief parked the car in the broad, flag-stoned turnabout inside the walled courtyard. Dogs barked and howled from their kennels: Salida kept half a dozen purebred Dobermans, which he used for intimida-tion whenever necessary. Imported peacocks strutted around the grounds, clustering near the cool mist of a fountain that splashed into the hazy air.

Aguilar turned to look at both the driver and the pas-senger in the back seat.

"This is a complex deal, so let me do the talking. When we meet with Salida, I'll handle the negotiations. Since this object is rare and unusual, we have no way of determining its true value."

"Just get the most you can," Barreio growled. "Weapons cost money, and Liberation Quintana Roo needs them."

"Yes, yes, your precious revolutionaries." Aguilar smoothed down the front of his khaki vest and then adjusted his spotted hat, making certain that his long dark hair was still in its neat ponytail that hung beneath the ocelot skin.

Then he looked up at the broad expanse of Salida's whitewashed adobe villa.

It had taken a great deal of effort to smuggle Xitaclan artifacts from under the watchful eyes of the American archaeology team—but now that had all been taken care of. The foreigners would cause no further problems. This particular artifact was one of the last large relics taken from the pyramid, a "chamber of wonders" the Indian had called it in an awed voice ... just before he had disappeared back into the jungles, never revealing where he had discovered the treasures.

But now his people had the run of Xitaclan again and plenty of freedom to explore ... and exploit. For all of them who had risked so much, the time had come to reap the rewards.

Aguilar and Barreio got out of the car, while Pepe hauled the crate containing the artifact with him, lurching awkwardly under its bulk. The mysterious object was surprisingly lightweight for its size, but the young man had short arms and legs. Neither Aguilar nor Barreio offered to help.

Salida's second-floor balconies were decked with flowers, splashes of color that trickled between the rail-ings and across the clean adobe surface. A hammock hung on one small balcony. Wicker chairs sat empty on another.

A guard at the door came forward, also armed with a shoulder rifle. "Hola!"

Aguilar said, flashing his well-practiced smile. "We are here to see Excellency Salida."

"I'm afraid he is not having a good day," the guard said. "If you see him, you must accept the risk of upset-ting him."

"He will see us," Aguilar said, again smiling. "If you wish to improve his day, you'll let him see what we've brought for him, eh?"

The guard looked at the box and stiffened, instantly suspicious. Before the man could ask, Aguilar said, "Another prize for your master. Even more breathtaking than the feathered serpent statue we delivered. And you know how highly he prized that carving."

Outside in the courtyard one of the peacock males set up a racket, a raucous squawking that sounded like a chicken being slowly crushed by a cement truck.

Aguilar looked around and saw the large bird spread its amazing plumage. It sat on top of a tall stela, a stone pil-lar carved on all sides with Maya glyphs and pictures surrounding a ferocious-looking jaguar head.

The stela was ten feet tall and weighed many tons. It had begun to tilt, though Salida's landscaper had anchored it firmly in the ground. Dozens of sweating workers had labored for hours to bring the artifact in secret up the gravel driveway and into the drug lord's fenced courtyard.

The peacock squawked again, flaunting its feathers. Aguilar considered yanking them out, one by one.

The guard ushered them inside to a cool hallway and then up a curving grand staircase to the second level, where Xavier Salida kept his offices and his private with-drawing rooms. Sunlight drifted in through narrow win-dows, glistening on dust motes that fell through the air.

Their footsteps echoed with a hollow sound. The house seemed silent and sleepy

... until they reached the second level. They could already hear Salida shouting as they approached down the hallway.

The guard looked wryly at the three visitors. "I told you, Senor Salida is not having a good day. One of our small cargo planes was shot down near here. We lost a pilot as well as many, many kilograms of product."

"I had nothing to do with this," Barreio said, sud-denly defensive. "DEA?"

The guard looked back at the police chief. "Senor Salida has his own suspects."

They approached the largest withdrawing room, where two ornately carved mahogany doors stood mostly closed, leaving a gap of only a few inches between them. The drug lord's shouts carried through, only slightly muffled.

"Grobe! It must be Pieter Grobe. No one else would have the audacity!" Salida paused for a moment as if lis-tening. "I'm not afraid of escalating our rivalry," he said. "We must take out twice as much in retaliation—but make no comment, no threats. Just do it." He slammed the phone down with an echoing clang, and silence fell on the rooms like a smotherer's pillow.

Aguilar swallowed, adjusted his floppy cap, and made to step forward. By smiling and taking the initia-tive, he hoped he could cheer the drug lord. The guard remained in place, blocking their way, his rifle on his shoulder. He shook his head in warning. "Not yet. It is not wise."

A moment later the strains of an opera emerged from a large stereo system inside the room. A shrieking soprano voice that sounded, if anything, worse than the peacock's cries outside in the courtyard, sang of some unimaginable human misery in a language Aguilar could not comprehend.

He knew the drug lord couldn't understand the words either, but Salida loved to put on airs, to wear the mask of cultured enlightenment. The opera went on for five nearly unbearable minutes, and then it was abruptly switched off to be replaced by a much more relaxing classical piece with orchestral instruments playing rich and complex melodies.

Hearing the change in music, the guard nodded and gestured for them to enter.

He pulled open the heavy mahogany door on the right side.

Aguilar and Carlos Barreio entered side by side, but Aguilar knew that he had the upper hand. Behind them, Pepe struggled to carry the crate containing the precious and exotic artifact.

Xavier Salida turned to look at them, folding his hands in front of him and smiling a patient smile with a warmth that looked almost genuine. Aguilar was amazed at how rapidly the drug lord had transformed his mood from the shouting fury they had heard only moments before.

"Greetings, my friends," Salida said. His clothes were fine, his shirt made of white silk, his pants precisely tai-lored. He wore a nice vest with a gold watch chain dan-gling from its pocket.

Aguilar nodded and took off his ocelot-skin cap, holding it in front of him in the posture of a supplicant. "We are pleased you would see us, Excellency," he said. "We have another fine artifact to show you. Something so marvelous you have never seen anything like it."

Salida chuckled. "Fernando Victorio Aguilar, you say that every time you bring something to my home."

Aguilar smiled. "And aren't I usually correct? Don't you usually buy what I offer you, eh?" He gestured for Pepe to come forward and set the crate down on a glass table near the drug lord's desk.

Carlos Barreio stood at attention, trying to look imposing in his police uniform, while Aguilar glanced around the room: the familiar collection of fine art prints, professionally matted with heavy gilt-covered frames, the Maya sculptures on pedestals, some examples of pre-Colombian art in glass cases, others sitting on win-dowsills. Salida showcased the ones he liked the most, since he had no idea which were truly valuable and which were merely gaudy trinkets. A wine rack filled with the most expensive wines sat in one corner of the room.

Aguilar knew that although Xavier Salida flaunted his wealth and power, the drug lord had been illiterate until he became wealthy and powerful. The story was told of how he had brought in a tutor to teach him to read. The man had done a good enough job at it, but unfortunately the hapless tutor, after consuming too much tequila in a local cantina, had joked about the drug lord's lack of education ... and so Salida had had him removed.

There had been a succession of other tutors who had taught Salida courses in art and music appreciation, transforming him into a fine upstanding citizen.

He ate his expensive Sevruga caviar. He drank his fine wines.

He played his old music on the newest stereo systems. And he pretended to know what he was doing when he collected expensive art objects.

Aguilar had taken advantage of this, fawning on him, playing on the drug lord's lack of expertise. Rather than admit he didn't know what he was doing, Xavier Salida nearly always bought the objects Aguilar offered.

But this time the prize was indeed something special. No question about it.

Pepe stood back from the glass table, sweating, swal-lowing, shuffling his feet. He wiped his palms on his pants, and waited for further instructions.

The drug lord gestured to the crate. "Well, go on, Fernando—open it, let me see what you have found this time."

Aguilar impatiently turned to Pepe, waving his hands. The young helper went to the crate and dug his nails in so that he could pry the tacks free. The lid popped open. He lifted aside the packing material, then carefully withdrew the magical artifact. Aguilar smiled magnanimously.

The drug lord caught his breath and stepped forward, compelled and fascinated.

Aguilar's heart pounded. This was exactly the reaction he had hoped for.

Pepe set the object on the table and stepped back, wiping his sweaty hands on his pants again. The artifact was a completely transparent rectangular box a little more than a foot on each side. It gleamed with prismatic colors in the light, as if the workings inside were really sheets of thin diamond plating.

The components within were strange and exotic, interlocked components, connections made of glass fibers, glinting crystals. Aguilar thought it looked like the world's most complicated clock, made entirely of lead crystal. Tiny holes had been drilled in the side of the clear case. Other movable squares marked the corners and part of the top. Etched symbols not unlike some of the incom-prehensible Maya glyphs marked portions of the clear glass faces. None of it made sense at all.

"What is it?" Salida said, touching its side and with-drawing his fingers quickly, as if burned. "It's cold! Even in this heat it's cold."

"This object is a great mystery, Excellency," Aguilar said. "I have never seen such an artifact before, even with all my archaeological expertise." In fact, Aguilar had very little archaeological expertise . . . though it was true enough that he had never encountered such an item before. Xitaclan was home to many unusual things.

The drug lord leaned toward the strange object, his mouth partly open. "Where did it come from?" He was entranced—and Aguilar knew the deal was assured. A high-priced deal.

"This artifact came from a secret new dig called Xitaclan, a pristine site. We are in the process of remov-ing many of the most valuable pieces now. Before long, though, I am certain a new archaeological team will arrive to remove more of the objects."

Carlos Barreio's face became stormy. "They want to steal them from Quintana Roo," he said, "and take them from the land where they belong." Aguilar hoped the police chief wouldn't get distracted and plunge into one of his interminable political lectures.

"Yes, but we will 'preserve' what we can before that happens, eh?" Aguilar said, smiling. "And you, of course, are one of our foremost citizens, Excellency Salida."

Fernando Victorio Aguilar had grown up on the streets of Merida. His mother was a prostitute. While he was still young, she had taught him how to steal so they could live in relative comfort. But he had quickly learned that stealing was stealing, whether he stole a piece of fruit from the market or a Mercedes-Benz car. His philosophy, he had said with a laugh one night while sharing a bottle of mescal, was that if you are going to steal a mango, you may as well steal a diamond watch from a tourist and use the money to buy yourself a lifetime supply of mangoes. Stealing was stealing. Why not take the best?