Shell Game (32 page)

“Do you have one?” Ricardo asked.

Taylor nodded. “We had them set up an account.”

“I'll need the number,” Ricardo said.

Taylor nodded and started walking north, toward where she and Kelly had found the hole in the side of the mountain. “Let's have a look at the cave.”

They walked the six hundred yards from one end of the excavation to the other in relative silence, alone with their thoughts. This was where it would play out. This was the place they had chosen to go up against Edward Brand. The plan was fraught with danger, especially considering Brand's tendency to violence. An FBI agent had stood in his way and he'd had her murdered—shot to death in her own bathtub. Killing a couple of people who were trying to rip him off would be nothing to this man. And he would probably be armed. Brand was coming into Oaxaca from Puerto Vallarta, and that meant he didn't have to cross an international border. Whatever weapons he had aboard the
Mary Dyer
would undoubtedly be with him. Nothing about the upcoming venture was very comforting.

They reached the far end of the plateau and skirted the museum and Tumba 7 before making their way to the edge of the cliff. Kelly led the way along the thin path carved into the mountainside by countless bare feet over thousands of years. Moving in single file, they reached the section of the cliff where Kelly and Taylor had found the hidden cave. Kelly got down on his belly and crawled into the dark space, Ricardo immediately behind him. Kelly flipped on the flashlight he had brought, as did Ricardo, the beams of yellow light playing off the walls and the floors. It was rugged inside the cave, the walls jagged with exposed rocks that hadn't been worn smooth by water or wind. The floor was slippery and uneven, treacherous footing even with the flashlights. Ricardo nodded his approval as they moved from the main cave into the smaller ones deeper in the mountain.

“This is perfect,” he said. “Very believable. We just need to put a few pieces of treasure in here and cover the opening.” He allowed himself a small smile. “This might work.”

“It better,” Taylor said, venom in her words. “He's a prick. He deserves this.”

Kelly shone his light into the smaller spaces to the rear. “This one is good,” he said. “The opening is tiny. It'll be difficult for Brand to get inside and have a good look at the treasure. But your government official has got to get him in and out of here fast. Very fast. If he has any length of time to look things over, he'll know he's being scammed.”

“Adolfo will keep things under control. I trust his abilities.”

“Good,” Kelly said. “Have you seen enough?”

“I'm fine. Let's get a rock to cover that hole. Then we need to pick up some Zapotec and Mixtec masks and goblets that we can gold plate.”

“You don't think we could just paint them?” Taylor asked.

Ricardo shook his head. “No way. If you paint directly on top of ceramic and he touches one of those pieces he'll know. If it's gold plated, it'll feel real.”

“Where the hell do we get something gold plated?” Kelly asked.

Ricardo smiled. “This is Mexico,
amigo
. With the right connections, anything is possible.”

“You have the right connections?”

“Of course.”

They crawled back through the tiny opening and went in search of a stone to jam in the hole. It took the better part of two hours to find one that fit, but once it was in place it was almost impossible to see anything but a slight fissure in the rocks. They tried prying it out once to see how long it would take. Six minutes, just to get the stone out and rolled a few feet down the path. They replaced the rock and returned to the parking lot. Their driver was asleep, the windows rolled down to keep some air moving through the parked car. Ricardo rattled off some staccato Spanish, and the man jerked awake and started the car. The first few turns down the windy mountain road were interesting as he continued to wake up. They reached Oaxaca City without incident and split up. Ricardo went in search of a local craftsman to take care of the gold plating, and Kelly and Taylor scoured the local shops for pieces of Zapotec art.

Time was moving ahead, closing in on the day when Edward Brand would arrive at Monte Alban. With each passing hour, the tension was mounting. They could still back off, let the man go. But to Taylor Simons, that wasn't an option. Edward Brand was going down. She was willing to risk her life on that. Her involvement in the scam had just gone from one of observer to that of active participant. Her role was not only crucial, it was dangerous. She felt a shiver of anticipation creep down her spine as she picked up a Mixtec mask and felt its coarse texture against her skin.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-SEVEN

Juan Morena had never led a fortunate or privileged life. He was thirty-one years old and had already lost seven teeth to advanced gingivitis. He had the dark skin of the working-class Mestizo, and his hair was matted to his scalp from sweating in the hot sun. His eyes were reluctant to meet a stranger's stare, and he shuffled his feet in worn sandals when he walked. Juan Morena blended in perfectly with the other wharf rats living on the edge of the upscale marina in Puerto Vallarta.

Juan fingered the digital camera through his rags. He had never been entrusted with such an expensive piece of equipment, and he constantly touched it to ensure it hadn't fallen from his pocket onto the dusty earth. Ricardo had paid for his plane fare and his hotel room and had given him the camera and a cellular telephone. All in return for watching a large boat docked in the marina. He had three hundred American dollars under his mattress in his small room in Mexico City. Juan allowed himself a small smile at the thought. Three hundred American dollars. Such a stash was unheard of. Ricardo had promised him another five hundred if he did a good job. Just watch the yacht and report back on any activity. Take pictures of everyone who boarded the boat. So far there had been no guests. But the digital camera came with a cord that attached to the computer back at the hotel, and the pictures could be sent to Ricardo through the computer. He would not do that. It was too complicated. The owner of the hotel would send the pictures, if there were any.

Juan touched the camera again. It was an expensive one, with a zoom lens. He felt a trickle of sweat run down his side, beneath his armpit, a nervous reaction to the thought of what might happen if he lost the camera. He wiped his brow with his right hand and swallowed. What if it was stolen? There were many other wharf rats about who would beat him and pull it from his neck if they knew he had it. He started to shake. Ricardo would be angry.

Juan watched a man walk up to the locked gate that serviced the pier where the
Mary Dyer
was anchored. He called someone on the intercom, and they buzzed him through. He was a
gringo
, with curly blond hair that hung to his shoulders. His shirt was loosened almost to his waist, and Juan could see the taut muscles on his chest and abs. His skin wasn't pasty, but it also was not tanned. He looked like a recent arrival to the sun. Juan stiffened slightly as the newcomer slowed as he approached the
Mary Dyer
. He reached the gangway and hoisted himself up the plank.

Juan fumbled with the camera but managed to get it out from under his rags as the man he knew to be Edward Brand came into view. Juan kept the camera concealed from any prying eyes near him by draping his loose, ragged sleeve over the body but leaving the lens to point at the boat. He kept pushing the button, the camera loading image after image of the two men as they met at the top of the gangplank. They stayed in sight for only a few seconds, then disappeared below the main deck. Juan slipped the camera back inside his shirt and watched for a few minutes. When there was no further activity, he left the alcove where he hung out during the hot daylight hours and hurried to the main road. A bus pulled up inside five minutes, and he jumped on. The trip to his hotel took under ten minutes.

When he arrived, Juan gave the camera to the hotel manager and watched as the man downloaded the pictures into a file, then forwarded them to the e-mail Ricardo had given him. Juan knew Ricardo and the manager had an agreement in place, but had no idea how much money the man received for sending the pictures. He didn't care.

Once the pictures were in the system and sent ahead to Ricardo, Juan returned to the marina and retook his position next to the Dumpsters that lined the rear wall of the hotel closest to the water. He slid into his alcove and waited. From what he had seen on the computer screen, his shots had been very good. He had managed to get both men's faces on one or two of the shots, just as they were turning to go below to a lower deck. He hoped Ricardo would be pleased. Maybe there would be more money.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-EIGHT

The jpeg files appeared on Ricardo's laptop computer seconds after Juan sent them. The computer beeped to let the user know a new e-mail had arrived. Ricardo was in his hotel room, and he clicked on the server. The new file appeared and he opened one of the jpegs—and sucked in a sharp breath. He opened file after file, looking for the best shot of the two men on the luxury yacht. He found what he considered to be the sharpest image and printed it on his portable Canon I-70. Then he went in search of Taylor and Kelly. He found them sitting in the small garden, talking.

“My man in Puerto Vallarta sent me some pictures,” he said, joining them at the table. The gardens were lush, and the sound of trickling water relaxing.

“And . . .” Kelly said.

“Edward Brand had a visitor,” Ricardo said. He dropped the color image on the table.

Kelly slowly reached out and picked it up. Neither spoke for a moment. They just stared at the man's face. A face they both knew very well. It was Alan Bestwick.

“So the son of a bitch is in Mexico,” Taylor said. Her voice was smothered with bitterness.

“When did he arrive?” Kelly asked.

Ricardo shrugged. “I would guess within the last couple of hours. I told Juan to get pictures of any visitors and send them to my e-mail immediately.” He pointed at the picture. “Look at the shadows. They are almost nonexistent. The sun was directly overhead. That would put the time around noon. It's just a little after one right now. I'd say these are as close to real time as we're going to get.”

“Why would Alan visit Edward Brand?” Taylor asked no one, shaking her head. “It doesn't make sense.”

“They know each other. They were partners in the scam. Maybe they think enough time has passed that it's safe for them to get together. Who knows?” Kelly said. “The fact is, we've got a problem.”

Ricardo nodded. “Brand might bring Alan with him to Monte Alban. He knows me. Remember back to Mexico City when I drove you and Alan to the antique shop. It will be much more difficult. Impossible perhaps. They will suspect something immediately.”

“Maybe we should back off until Alan leaves.”

Taylor shook her head. “No. If Brand pulls anchor and sails out of the marina, he's gone. Then we have to find him and start from scratch. Right now we're only a few days from making this happen. I say we stay on schedule.”

Ricardo looked unsure. “I don't know, Taylor. Kelly's right. This is getting very dangerous.”

“It was dangerous before Alan arrived,” Kelly said, nodding emphatically. “Like Ricardo says, the problem we have now is that Alan knows who he is. If Alan is within eyesight when Ricardo and Edward Brand meet, the gig is up.”

“I don't think Brand will involve Alan. He'd have to split the profits.”

“Going ahead is dangerous, Taylor,” Kelly said.

Ricardo checked his watch and stood. “I've got to pick up Adolfo at the airport. He's in at two-twenty. You two can figure out what you want to do. I'm okay if you want to go ahead. If anyone else shows up at the boat, we shut it down. Alan is a detail we can probably handle, but that's it. No more.”

“That's fair. Did you take the artifacts we bought to the goldsmith?” Taylor asked. They had purchased nine pieces of Mixtec and Zapotec art and given them to Ricardo the previous day.

Ricardo nodded. “He'll have them done sometime tomorrow. He figured the cost to be around four thousand U.S. dollars. I told him we'd pay him when we picked them up.”

“That's fine,” Kelly said.

“Oh,” Ricardo said, turning back to the table. “I was going to ask. Who is going to coordinate the information? I'll be in Cabo; Kelly, you'll be in Washington; and Taylor will be here. Before I can meet with Edward Brand, I'm going to need to know what story Kelly fed to that FBI agent. We need someone to pass information between us.”

Kelly turned to Taylor. “Probably best if you do it. I don't want traceable calls coming into the NSA. I'd rather call you from my cell or my home phone. Then you let Ricardo know what Brent Hawkins will find in the computer.”

Taylor agreed. “That works for me. I'll relay to you what's happening with Ricardo—when he's meeting with Brand and when he expects them to be in Oaxaca City.”

“We'll use your cell phone,” Ricardo said to Taylor. “Just make sure to keep it charged.”

“Okay.”

Ricardo left for the airport and Kelly ordered another Corona. “You're sure you want to finish this, Taylor?”

“Absolutely. The only way Edward Brand gets away is if he floats out of that harbor before we're ready. Today's the twenty-eighth. I think Ricardo can hook him and get him to Monte Alban by January second or third.”

Kelly picked up a pen and made a few notes on a napkin. “We need to have the artifacts plated and in place. Adolfo already has his false identification, but he needs time to see the layout at the ruins. I have to get back to Washington and input the false data on the CIA computers. Ricardo needs to meet with Carlos Valendez, entice him to believe his story and deliver him to Edward Brand. They have to get from Puerto Vallarta to Oaxaca City. I think we're cutting the timing too close.”