Shell Game (35 page)

He then visited Monte Alban and from what the Mexican had told him, managed to locate the cave. Inside were gold artifacts, many encrusted with precious stones. The find was just off the north end of the plateau, along a narrow and dangerous path. It was set into the side of the mountain, the entrance concealed by large rocks that appeared to be part of the natural landscape. Palmer had reported the find to his immediate superior, who had in turn taken the report directly to the deputy director of the CIA. In a two-hour meeting that involved only the three men, it had been decided that there was no upside to the agency getting involved. A Mexican citizen had been murdered, and any hint of CIA activity in the area would only end up in a lot of unnecessary finger pointing. The report was closed and buried in with the other dead case files. Six months later, Brian Palmer had been murdered in Bolivia. End of story.

Kelly reviewed the text a few times, correcting it so the writing wasn't too polished and ensuring it read like a real field file. Then he accessed the CIA database and looked for somewhere to plant it. Covert personnel were employed under the Directorate of Operations, so he immediately went to that section. His status with the NSA allowed him to bypass a couple of firewalls, but there were additional security measures in place that attempted to stop his progress as he ventured deeper into the system.

He skirted the secondary firewalls and found a spot he thought would work well. It was a section of the hard drive dedicated to reports by field operatives working Central and South America. Mexico was close enough. The file had Monte Alban as a keyword, and anyone searching for information on the Mexican ruins would find it. Even the FBI.

Kelly powered off the computer and leaned back in his chair. The bait was in place. He called Taylor and gave her the story he had concocted. And got the good news. Ricardo had checked in with her. He had found Carlos Valendez, and the doors to Edward Brand were beginning to open. Pieces of the puzzle were fitting together.

Taylor and Adolfo would be getting the treasure in place, and if things went well, Ricardo would be meeting with Edward Brand inside the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. The bank account they needed for the transfer was verified and ready for the deposit. The satellite phone Brand would use to make the call from atop the mountain was operational. Because he and Taylor had set up the phone account, Kelly knew the number and the password. That enabled him to trace and monitor the call without being seen. Everything ready to go. The details taken care of. Now there were only two questions that remained to be answered.

Would Alan Bestwick be there when Ricardo met with Edward Brand?

And would Edward Brand take the bait?

C
HAPTER
F
IFTY-THREE

Edward Brand listened intently as Carlos Valendez wrapped up the story of treasure on the side of Monte Alban. Brand had known the Mexican for about three years and had relied on him numerous times to cover the mundane tasks that made the scams go smoothly. He was from a working-class background, but of good intellect and absolute loyalty. Carlos had shown ingenuity on a con they had run in Buenos Aires, resulting in them raking in an additional six million dollars from one of the marks. To Brand, that was impressive. What really won Brand over was Valendez's lack of greed. Where most men would have been looking for a good chunk of the extra cash, Valendez had taken his original pay and returned home. Not a word about more money. What that bought with Edward Brand was respect. Respect and trust.

“The CIA agent who was killed in Bolivia—what was his name?” Brand asked.

“Brian Palmer,” Valendez said.

Brand jotted down the name and underlined it. Above the name were numerous points he had scrawled on the paper as Valendez had talked.
Monte Alban. Treasure
—
cave. Corrupt government official. Half million. January 3. Tumba 7. Millions
. The last word had a series of lines under it.

“What's this guy's name who gave you this?” Brand asked.

“Ricardo.”

“Ricardo who?”

“Won't say. Just Ricardo.”

“Where'd you meet him?”

“Here in Cabo. In a bar. He was bitching about how many
gringos
were in town, and we got talking. He seems okay.”

“All right, leave it with me. Keep your phone on. I'll call you if things check out. If they do, I want you and this Ricardo fellow to fly down to Puerto Vallarta. I'd like to meet him.”

“Okay.” The line died.

Edward Brand dialed another number. Brent Hawkins picked up. “I want you to check on something for me,” Brand said.

There was a rustling of paper. “Go ahead,” Hawkins replied.

“There was a CIA agent got himself killed in Bolivia a little while back. Guy's name was Brian Palmer. See what you can find on him. Run Monte Alban through your computers.”

“What the hell is Monte Alban?”

“Mexican ruins near Oaxaca City. Didn't you take social studies in school?”

“Like I'd know anything about some fucking Mexican ruins. When do you need it?”

“Quick. Real quick.”

“Couple of hours okay?”

“Perfect.”

Brand hung up and ventured onto the main deck. The sun was high overhead, a brilliant round inferno that superheated every object it touched. Brand was amazed by the intensity of the Mexican sun, especially in the middle of winter. He felt the warmth on his skin and smiled. It was his, all his. The yacht, the money, the lifestyle—he had risen to the top of his chosen profession and now the spoils were his to enjoy. Most of the people he had stolen from were ultra-rich. They didn't need the money to pay the mortgage. They cursed and fretted, then got on with their lives. It worked well for him.

He opened a beer and sat in one of the chairs on the aft deck, overlooking the entrance to the marina. This was an interesting one. A chance meeting had dropped it in his lap, and he was always suspicious of chance meetings. One never knew. If there was some validity to the story about the dead CIA agent, there may be some degree of truth to the entire tale. If the part about the treasure was true, he was definitely interested. Pay off some piece-of-shit government official and get access to millions of dollars in gold. Not a bad deal. No wonder no one wanted to touch the treasure without paying off the guy tied in with the government. The Mexicans didn't like people who stole from their sacred tombs. In fact, if you wanted to end up in the dirtiest and most dangerous Mexican prison, don't commit murder. Steal their heritage.

He cradled the beer in his lap and took an occasional sip. Time drifted past, slowly. When the phone finally rang, he answered it before the second ring. Hawkins's voice sounded distant and crackled slightly. He was most likely on his cell phone.

“How did you get this stuff?” Hawkins asked.

“Never mind that, what did you find out?”

“Brian Palmer died in Bolivia a short time ago. Prior to his death, he had been stationed in Mexico City and had visited Oaxaca City three times. That puts him within a few miles of Monte Alban. There wasn't much more in his personnel file, but I ran a search on the CIA computers using Monte Alban, and you'll never guess what I found.”

“Don't fuck around,” Brand said testily. “Just tell me.”

“There's another file buried way back in the mainframe. It looks like Palmer had some sort of meeting with an unnamed source in Oaxaca City, and this guy told him about an undiscovered cave. The cave is stuffed with treasure. Right after this guy tells Palmer about the stash, someone kills him. When Palmer submits his report, the director of operations decides that going after the treasure, or even telling the Mexicans about it, is risky. All that will do is implicate them in the Mexican's death. They buried the file. Did nothing.”

“What do you think?” Brand asked. “There any legitimacy to it?”

“I think so. I've read hundreds of files written by field operatives, and this one is pretty typical. The reasoning is good. The CIA takes enough hits without jumping into something where they know they're going to get pounded. I'd say it's probably legit.”

“Okay, thanks.”

He hung up and dialed Carlos Valendez's cell phone. “Carlos,” he said. “I want you and your new friend here by tomorrow noon at the latest. Call me when you get into P.V.”

“Sí.”

Brand hit End and dropped the phone on the table. “Son of a bitch,” he said, a grin creeping across his face.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTY-FOUR

Night had settled on the valley, the still air slowly cooling from being superheated during the day. Taylor slipped behind the wheel of the rental Jeep, and Adolfo climbed in beside her. She pulled out from the curb, the gold-plated artifacts jiggling about in the rear compartment as the Jeep bounced over the cobblestones. She could feel the air cool as they climbed the windy road toward Monte Alban. It was after midnight, and they were the only vehicle on the lonely road. The moon was bright in the sky, midway between first quarter and full.

Taylor reached a bend close to the top of the road and stopped. “You know what to do?” she asked Adolfo.

“
Sí
. I park, then go to the guards. I show them my papers. Manuel Sanchez, Director of Antiquities from Mexico City. Then I tell them I want to run the site.”

“Walk, Adolfo. You want to walk the site with them.”

“
Sí sí
. I know. I will not make such mistakes when speaking Spanish. Only English.” He looked hurt that she had corrected him.

“
Lo siento,”
she said. “I'm sorry. Of course you'll do well.”

“Yes. I'll do well. I walk with the guards for fifteen minutes. Then everything is fancy.”

She didn't bother correcting him. “And how do you explain showing up so late at night?”

“That it is normal for me to check out the night security at archeological sites.”

“Good. Okay, now you drive.” She jumped in the back of the Jeep and pulled the tarp over her. It was dark and the tarp smelled of mold. When Adolfo pulled ahead and began the final leg to the ruins, she was thrown about like a marble in a can. She grabbed whatever she could that was welded to the frame and hung on. The drive was mercifully short, and once he had parked she let go of her handholds and adjusted the tarp so she could breathe fresh air. They had only been parked for a few moments when she heard voices. She felt the Jeep rock slightly as Adolfo got out to meet the men. There was an exchange, then silence. The next voice was Adolfo's, and there was a definite tone of authority to it. A couple of minutes later, the group moved away from the Jeep, their voices diminishing as the distance increased.

Taylor waited until she was sure they were down by the ball court and out of eyesight. She lifted the tarp and peeked out. Nothing. Just wide open sky, alive with stars. As she dragged the burlap bag containing the fake treasure from the back of the vehicle, it struck her that the scene she was looking at, with the exception of the parking lot and the museum, was the same as the Zapotec Indians would have seen two thousand years ago. It was an eerie feeling.

She hoisted the bag over her shoulder and trudged to the extreme north end of the complex. It was heavy, and she struggled under the weight. The path was a wavy narrow line in the light from the half-moon. Walking on the worn rocks was slower going than when the sun was out, and the cracks and loose pebbles were visible. It took far too long to reach the entrance to the cave. When she came to the spot, she was shaking from the stress of picking her way along what was a glorified goat path with an awkward burlap sack. She laid the sack on the ground and drank from the water bottle she had hooked onto her belt before leaving the hotel. The cool water felt good on her throat.

It took her a full six minutes, maybe more, to dislodge the small rock from the opening to the cave. Then, one piece at a time, she slid the artifacts into the darkness. She crawled through and pulled the flashlight from her back pocket. It was sufficient to light the room so she could see to walk. She moved the treasure into the small alcove at the back of the cave and positioned the pieces atop a jumble of loose rocks. Then she ripped the seam on the burlap bag and laid it around the pieces, giving the impression that the entire mound inside the enclosed space could be treasure. She shone the light over it from every angle possible at the opening, then made a few adjustments until she had it exactly as she wanted. One last look and she left, dragging the rock back into place and securing it so it was impossible to tell there was an opening. Then she hurried back to the Jeep.

She heard the voices before she reached the parking lot. Adolfo and the guards had already returned and were standing beside the Jeep. The first thing she noticed was that Adolfo had positioned himself so that he was facing her and the guard's backs were to her. She raised her head and shoulders above a boulder, partially exposed for a few moments. They were talking, but the moment she came into sight, he made a waving motion with his hand, as if gesturing to make a point. She got the idea. He wanted her to get moving down the mountain. She turned and skirted the farthest edge of the parking lot, then started down the road. After a couple of turns she stopped and slid behind a large rock. She didn't have long to wait. In less than five minutes, headlights appeared. The vehicle was moving very slowly, the driver scanning both sides of the road. It was Adolfo. She slipped out from behind the rock and he stopped.

“Good work,” she said, grabbing his shoulder and then leaning over and giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Very good, Adolfo.”

He grinned at the kiss. “Yes. Tonight, I am good. Everything is fine.”

“Everything go okay with the guards?”

“Yes. To them, I am Manuel Sanchez, Director of Antiquities.”