Yaeger interjected, “Could be they're just hiding assets from the IRS and it has nothing to do with the murders?”
“We may well find that's the case,” Sandecker said, “which is why I want you to keep digging. Explore every possible angle.”
“Did you ever get any leads on the hovercraft that tried a hit-and-run on Dr. Kirov?” Zavala asked.
“Slightly better luck,” Yaeger said. “From your description I narrowed the manufacturer to an English outfit called Griffon Hovercraft Ltd. Only so many were built of. the model you described. This one is especially interesting. It's called an LCAC type.”
“Navy jargon for landing craft air cushion, as I recall,” Gunn said
“That's right. It's a souped-up high-speed over-the-beach version of a commercial model. Eighty-eight feet long. Two props and four gas turbines give her a speed of forty knots with payload. Gun mounts for .50caliber machine guns, grenade launcher, and M60 machine gun. We've got a few in the U.S. Navy.”
“Why didn't they use their guns to stop Dr. Kirov?” Zavala said.
“My guess is that they were afraid her body would be found. There would have been questions. Have any orders come in from private parties?” Austin asked Yaeger.
“Only one. An outfit in San Antonio.”
Austin leaned forward. “That's where Time-Quest has its headquarters.”
“Right,” Yaeger replied. “Could be coincidence. The hovercraft is owned by an oil exploration corporation, but the company could be one of a series of dummies. It's going to take a while to see if they're linked. Careless of them to allow the chance of a connection.”
“Not really,” Austin said. “They didn't expect any witnesses: If they'd been successful with their attack on Dr. Kirov, nobody would have known about the killers. Those on the Nereus noticed the hovercraft, but it was too far away to see that it was being used for assault and battery”
Sandecker said, “Kurt is right, Hiram. I'd like you to keep exploring the San Antonio connection. Any proposals on more direct action?”
“Yes, I've been thinking,” Austin said. “Maybe we can make them come to us. The trigger in these incidents is the pre-Columbian angle. What if we set up an archaeological expedition and let TimeQuest, know we've found something pre-Columbian?”
“Then we put on our Kevlar jackets and see what happens,” Zavala said. He puffed on his cigar like Diamond Jim Brady. “A sting. Brilliant.”
Sandecker arched an eyebrow. “Zavala's dry wit aside, how would we go about doing that?” Sandecker asked. “It would take weeks, perhaps months, to organize, wouldn't it, Rudi?”
“I'm afraid so, sir. There would be a lot to pull together.”
Austin couldn't figure why Gunn looked so amused at his proposal, and the irritation showed in his voice when he said, “Maybe if we really try we can accelerate the process somehow.”
“No need to go hellbent for leather, my friend.” Sandecker showed his teeth in his familiar barracuda smile. “While you and Joe were laid up, Rudi, Hiram, and I came up with the same scheme and started things moving. Everything is in place. For reasons of speed and ease of logistics, we've set it up in the American Southwest. The bait will be an Old World `artifact' found on American soil. That should attract someone's attention. Consider this a task for the NUMA Special Assignments Team.”
“Assignment accepted,” Austin said. “What about Gamay?”
“A marine biologist in the desert might be harder to explain,” the admiral said. “I see no need to take her away from her work in the Yucatan. Let her know what we're up to. If we need her, she can be on hand in a few hours. She's been working pretty hard lately. She's probably enjoying the tropic sun on the beaches of Cozumel or Cancun even as we speak.”
Zavala took along puff on his cigar and blew a smoke ring. “Some people have all the luck,” he said.
The Yucatan Mexico
Serpent
16
THE FOURTH PERMANEMT MEMBER OF the NUMA Special Assignments Team would have been the last person to describe herself as lucky. While her colleagues enjoyed their air-conditioned comfort, Gamay MorganTrout was drenched with perspiration, and her usual good nature was ebbing in direct proportion to the rise of the ambient air temperature, which was in the eighties and climbing. She couldn't believe the humidity was 100 percent without a cloud in the sky.
Arms folded across her chest, she leaned her tall, willowy body against the Jeep parked on the grassy shoulder of the asphalt ribbon that slashed through the lowlying rain 'forest Shimmering water puddle mirages danced on the mottled gray tarmac. The desolate spot reminded her of the lonely highway in North by Northwest where Cary Grant gets chased by a crop duster.
Gamay looked up at the pale sky. No crop duster. Only a couple of turkey vultures making lazy circles. Bad place for hungry buzzards. The roadkill pickings must be slim indeed. One vehicle had passed in the last hour. She heard the old pickup coming for miles. It rattled by with its load of half-dead chickens leaving a trail of white feathers in its wake. The driver hadn't even slowed down to see if she needed help.
Thinking it was dumb standing out in the sun, Gamay climbed back into the shade under the Jeep's convertible top and took a slug of cooling water from a thermos. For at least the third time she unfolded the map Professor Chi had faxed her from Mexico City. The paper was damp and limp from her moist hands. Earlier that morning she had driven inland from Ciudad del Carmen where the Nereus was anchored, following the map to the letter through the monotonous flat Yucatan landscape, paying strict attention to the neatly written precise mileage notations, pulling over exactly where the arrow indicated. She studied the carefully drawn lines. No mistake. X marked the spot. She was exactly where she was supposed to be.
The middle of nowhere.
Gamay was regretting having begged off when she and her husband, Paul, got the call to return to Washington for an important meeting of NUMAs Special Assignments Team. She, had been trying to arrange this rendezvous with Professor Chi for days and didn't know if she would ever have another opportunity. She wondered what merited yanking them back to headquarters on such short notice. They had joined the Nereus shortly after it arrived in the Yucatan to take part in the meteorite project. Paul would be creating the undersea computer graphics that were his specialty. Gamay would bring in her expertise as a marine biologist. It seemed like a very pleasant assignment indeed. No heavy lifting. Then the call came in from headquarters.
She smiled to herself. Kurt Austin must be back on the scene. Things tended to happen when Austin was around. Like the shootout she'd heard about on the Nereus. She'd call Paul when she got back to the ship to see if she should hop a plane home.
Good God, she wondered, taking in her surroundings, why had the professor asked to meet her in this dismal place? The only signs of human habitation, past or present, were the faint grass-grown tire tracks that disappeared into the forest. She waved away an insect that strafed the tip of her nose. The Cutter's bug repellent was wearing thin. So was her patience. Maybe she should leave now. No, she would wait fifteen more minutes. If Professor Chi didn't show, she would pack it in and head back to the NUMA ship. She would have to admit that the two hour drive in the rented Jeep had been for nothing.
Damn. She'd never get a chance like this again. She really wanted to meet Chi. He sounded so pleasant on the phone, with his American accent and a Spanish courtliness. Wilted by the heat, a strand of the long darkred hair swirled up on her head dropped down over her nose. She stuck her lower lip out and tried to blow the wisp out of the way. When that didn't work she brushed it away, checking from habit in the rearview minor. She saw a speck in the road. The dot grew larger, vibrating in the heat waves. She leaned out the door for a better look. The object materialized into a blue and white bus. Obviously lost, she concluded. She withdrew her head and was taking another swig of water when she heard the hiss of air brakes.
The bus had stopped behind the Jeep. The door opened, and
the tomblike silence was shattered by a blare of Mexican music that was heavy on decibels and brass instruments. The local bus systems all had speakers that must have been left over from Woodstock. A lone passenger stepped from the bus. He wore the standard Indian garb, a cotton shirt, baggy white pants, and sandals. On his head was a hard straw hat with a slightly rolled-up brim. Like most Mayan men he was short, barely over five feet tall. There was an exchange of rapidfire Spanish between the passenger and the bus driver and a waved goodbye. The door clunked shut, and with a grinding of gears the bus took off down the road like a large rolling jukebox.
Ouch!
Gamay bent forward to slap a bug that had sunk its fangs into her calf. When she looked in the mirror again the man had disappeared along with the bus. She checked the side minor. Only the empty highway. Odd. Wait. Movement to her right. She froze. Eyes like black stones were staring at her from the Jeep's passenger side.
“Dr. MorganTrout, I presume.”
The man had the same softspoken voice with the American accent she had heard on the call from Mexico City. Tentatively she said, “Professor Chi?”
At your service.“ He realized that Gamay was staring at the double-barreled shotgun curdled in his arm and lowered it from sight. ”I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. My apologies for being late. I was out hunting and should have allowed more time. Juan, our driver, is a good-hearted but garrulous man who chats with all the female passengers young and old. I hope you weren't waiting long."
“No, that's quite all right.” This little brown man with the broad nut-brown face, high cheekbones, and long and slightly curved nose wasn't exactly what she expected. She scolded herself for thinking in stereotypes.
Dr. Chi had lived in the white man's world long enough to recognize the embarrassed reaction. The stony expression didn't change, but the dark eyes sparkled with good humor. “I must have surprised you, a stranger coming up suddenly like that with a gunlike a bandito. I apologize for my appearance. When I'm home I go native.”
“I should apologize for my rudeness, letting you stand out there in the hot sun.” She patted the seat beside her. “Please sit in the shade.”
“I carry my shade around with me, but I will accept your kind invitation.” He removed his hat, revealing gray bangs over a retreating forehead, unslung a canvas game bag, and climbed into the passenger side, carefully resting the shotgun, breech open, between the seats with the muzzle pointing toward the rear. He placed the game bag on his lap.
“From the looks of that bag I'd say you had a successful hunt,” Gamay said.
Sighing theatrically, he said, "I must be the laziest hunter in the world. I stand at the roadside. The bus picks me up and drops me off. I walk into the forest. Poppop. I walk out to the road and catch the next bus. This way I can enjoy the solitary
delights of the hunt and the social rewards of sharing my triumphs and failures with my neighbors. The hardest part. is timing the buses. But yes, all went well.“ He lifted the game bag. ”Two plump partridges."
Gamay flashed a dazzling smile that displayed a slight space between her upper front teeth like the actress and model Lauren Hutton. She was an attractive woman, not gorgeous or overly sexy, but lively and vivacious in a tomboy way most men found appealing.
“Good,” she said. “May I give you and your birds a lift somewhere?”
“That would be very kind of you. In return I can provide you with some liquid refreshment. You must be very hot from waiting out here.”
“It wasn't bad,” Gamay said, although her hair was dearly out of control, her T-shirt stuck to the seat, and her chin dripped with perspiration.
Chi nodded, appreciating the polite lie. “If you could back up and then follow that track for a bit.”
She started the Jeep, put it in reverse, then shifted into. low' gear and turned off the road. The tires followed the dried mud ruts through dense forest. After about a quarter of a mile the trees thinned and the ruts gave way to a sunlit clearing dominated by a native shelter The walls of the but were fashioned of sticks and the roof thatched with palm leaves. They got out of the Jeep and went inside. The only furniture was a metal folding table, a camp chair, and a woven hammock. A couple of propane gas lanterns hung from the rafters.
“Be it ever so humble there's no card like me casa,” Chi said, sounding very much as if he meant every word. Scuffing the dirt floor with his toe, he said, “This land has always been in my family Dozens of houses have stood on this spot through the centuries, and the design hasn't changed since the first one was built at the beginning of time. My people 'learned that it was easier to throw a house together every so often than to try to build one that would outlast hurricanes and damp rot. May I get you a drink?”
“Yes,” Gamay said, looking around for a cooler. “Thank you. I'd like that.”
“Follow me, please.” He led the way outside the but to a well-worn path through the woods. After a minute's walk they came upon a cinderblock building with a corrugated steel roof. The professor opened the unlocked door, and they stepped inside. Chi reached into a dark alcove and rummaged around, muttering in Spanish under his breath. After a few seconds an engine popped into life.
“I turn the generator off when I'm away to save gas,” he explained. “The air conditioner should kick in momentarily.”
A bare bulb went on overhead. They were in a small entryway. Chi opened another door and hit a wall switch. Fluorescent lighting flickered on to illuminate a large windowless room with two work tables. On the tables were a laptop computer, scanner and laser printer, stacks of paper, a microscope and slides, and assorted plastic bags holding hunks of stone. Larger pieces, carefully tagged, lay here and there. Manila folders were piled everywhere. The bookshelves groaned with the weight of thick texts. On the wall were topographic maps of the Yucatan peninsula, site photographs, and drawings of Mayan carvings.
“My lab,” Chi said with obvious pride.
“Impressive.” Gamay never expected to see a fully equipped archaeological lab in, well, the middle of nowhere. Dr. Chi was full of surprises.
Chi sensed her astonishment. “People sometimes wonder when they see the contrast between where I live and where I work. Outside Mexico City I require only the barest essentials to exist. A place to sleep and to eat, a hammock with mosquito netting, a roof to keep the rain out. But it's a different story when you have to work. One must have the tools. And here is the most important, tool in conducting scientific inquiry”
He went over to a beatup but serviceable refrigerator, stuffed the game bag on a shelf, and took out two Seven-Ups and ice cubes which he put into a couple of ail plastic tumblers. With a sweep of his arm he cleared space among some files and brought over two folding chairs. Gamay sat down, took a sip, and let the cool sweet ..liquid flow down her parched throat. It tasted better than a fine champagne. They sat a few moments quietly enjoying their drinks.
“Thank you, Dr. Chi,” Gamay said after accepting a refill, of bottled water this time. “I'm afraid I was more dehydrated than I thought.”
“It's not difficult to lose body moisture in this country. Now that our energies are restored, how may I help you?”
As I said on the phone; I'm a marine biologist. I'm involved in a project off the coast."
“Oh, yes, NUMA s tektites survey near the Chixulub meteor impact site.”
Gamay cocked her head. “You know of it?”
He nodded solemnly. “Bush telegraph.” Seeing her puzzled expression, he chuckled and confessed, “I can't lie. I saw an email to the museum from NUMA headquarters informing us of the survey as a courtesy.”
He reached over to a file cabinet, opened a drawer, and pulled out a manila folder.
“Let me see,” he said, reading from the file's contents. “Gamay MorganTrout. Thirty years old. Resident of Georgetown. Wisconsin born. Expert diver. Holds degree in marine archaeology from the University of North Carolina. Changed specialties, enrolling in Scripps Institution of Oceano
graphy, where she eventually attained a doctorate as a marine biologist. Puts her talents to work for the world-renowned . National Underwater and Marine Agency.”
“Not a fact out of place,” Gamay said raising a finely curved eyebrow.
“Thank you,” Chi said, replacing the file in the cabinet. “My secretary's work, actually. After you called I asked her to hook onto NUMA's Web site. There's a complete description of ongoing projects with brief biographies of those involved in them. Are you any relation to Paul Trout, the deep ocean geographer whose name was also listed?”
“Yes, Paul is my husband. The site probably didn't mention that we met in Mexico. We were on a field trip to La Paz. Otherwise, I'd say you did your homework”
“It's my strict academic training, I'm afraid.”
“I tend to retain details, too. Let's see if I can remember.” Gamay dosed her eyes. “Dr. Jose Chi. Born in Quintana Roo, Yucatan peninsula. Father was a farmer. Excelled in his studies, sent by the government to private schools. Undergraduate studies at University of Mexico. Graduate degrees from Harvard University, where he is still affiliated with the prestigious Peabody Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology. Curator at Mexico's National Anthropological Museum. Winner of the MacArthur Award for his work in helping to, compile a corpus of Mayan inscriptions. Now working on a dictionary of the Mayan language”
She opened her eyes to see Chi's toothy grin. He dapped his hands lightly. “Brava, Dr. MorganTrout.”
“Please call me Gamay”
A beautiful and unusual name."
“My father was a wine connoisseur. The color of my hair reminded him of the grape of Beaujolais.”
“Well chosen, Dr. Gamay. I must correct something, though. I'm very proud of my work on the dictionary, but the corpus is actually the work of many talented people. Artists, photographers, cartographers, catalogers, and so on. I contributed my skills as a 'finder.' ”