“That's a pretty tall order;”
“Hear me out,” said Halcon. “In less time than you can imagine, the southern third of the United States will secede and become a Latin American nation.”
“With all due respect, Don Halcon, America fought a civil war the last time someone suggested secession.”
“The situation is completely different,” Halcon declared flatly. “What I propose would happen if I lived or died. In fifty years non-Latins will be a minority in the U.S. It is already the case in the border states like New Mexico. I simply propose to accelerate the process by leading a mushrooming Hispanic movement for independence, with your help.”
“I will do my best as always, Don Halcon.”
“It will not be as hard as you might think.” Halcon spun an antique globe on its axis. “See how different the world has become. The USSR. East Germany. Vanished.” He placed his finger on the globe to stop its spinning. “It is not Halcon but the geographers who say Belgium one day will split into Flanders and Wallonia. Australia will become four separate countries. China will break up into a series of autonomous zones like Hong Kong. Italy will separate into the prosperous north and the poor south. Most important are what scientists are saying about North America.”
He guided Guzman to a heavy mahogany table where there was a large map laid out and tapped a word covering the southwestern part of the United States.
“Angelica?” Guzman read.
“The blending of borders is inevitable, even the governments know North America must change. The blueprint is being drawn as we speak. When Canada loses Quebec the landlocked maritimes will join the U.S. Alaska merges with British Columbia and the northwestern states to create Pacifica, an entity whose common interest lies in the Pacific Rim. Mexico's northern state will join with the Southwest U.S. states.” He swept his hand over the map. “I will unify those of Indian and Spanish heritage in a new wave that will sweep over territory once owned by Mexico.”
“How can you go up against the armed might of a superpower?”
“The same way Cortez and a handful of followers defeated the great empire of the Aztecs with its millions, by creating alliances, pitting one group against another. The lines are already being drawn for a military confrontation. The border towns will be engulfed in blood. None will be spared. The greater the atrocities, the stronger the reaction, the faster it will spread. When the violence starts, the U.S. will beg me to end it. I will take my place as a leader, and we will instill the old values and the old ways.” He chuckled. “One day the ball game will be as popular as bullfighting and the NFL. The bloody rebellion we fomented in Chiapas proved it can be done.”
Guzman smiled. “That was as easy as tossing a match into a pail of gasoline.”
“Exactly. The government reacted by massacring Indians. The Mayan Zapatista rebels showed the same ferocity as their ancestors in forcing concessions from the government In the United States, Californians are arming themselves against illegal crossings by immigrants that we are encouraging.” .
“Ranchers want a bigger military role to fight the drug lords whose drug operations we are supervising along the border,” Guzman said.
ill according to plan. The U.S. will lose patience. The violence will .unite the millions of Hispanics and Latinos throughout the Southwest. This is why we cannot afford to. have our glorious past rewritten. I have spent a fortune to buy territory, voting, and political influence. Halcon Industries is stretched to the limit. I built this new Chichen Itza to be the capital of the new country. But even the vast resources of our cartel can't equip an army to defend itself against a United States that might not recognize the trend of the future. This is why it is vital that we find. the vast riches that will enable us to carry out our plan. It will not succeed without the treasure."
“We are close to assembling all the pieces of the puzzle. Our agents have acquired documents from a number of sources in Spain and other countries.”
“Has there been any outcry?”
“Not yet. The International Herald reported the unexplainable theft of Columbian memorabilia from auction houses and museums, but nobody has put it together yet.”
“Not until now,” Halcon said with a sly smile.
Guzman raised a frosty eyebrow.
“Our experts have analyzed the old documents,” Halcon went on. “They have located the key that will open the secret that has baffled us for so long.”
“Congratulations, Don Halcon. I'm most pleased:”
“You won't be when you hear the details. You see, the key we seek lies on the bottom of the ocean in the hold of the Andrea Doria. ”
Guzman was stunned. “Not the artifact? How could that be? Your father ordered me to sink the ship.”
As I said, my father was not infallible. He thought the artifact could destroy us."
“There's no mistake?”
“I've had the documents checked again and again. I have read them myself. No, my friend, I'm afraid there is no doubt. The artifact that my father once thought would end the Brotherhood will show the way to greater glory. I want you to fit out a salvage project right away. You will have all the resources of Halcon Industries at your command. This should be done as quickly as possible.”
“I'll start work as soon as we are through here, sir:”
“Excellent. Are there any more archaeological expeditions that could derail our plans in the meantime?”
“There seems to be a freeze on activities around the world. Except for the shortlived NUMA project in Arizona, of course.”
“My compliments for cauterizing that infection so quickly. How much of a threat is NUMA?”
“I wouldn't underestimate them. You saw what happened in Morocco.”
“I agree: I think it best that you remain in charge of all operations where NUMA is concerned. Use all force necessary.”
Guzman's cell phone rang, and he excused himself to listen.
"Yes. Immediately. Patch it into Don Halcon's closed circuit.
A moment later the television screen blinked into life and showed a wooded scene in black and pale green.
“What is it?” Halcon snapped impatiently.
“This was taken with a surveillance camera in the small rise on the north of the complex.”
As they watched the colors were manipulated so that the face of a man running through the woods was enlarged to fill the screen.
Guzman swore under his breath.
“Do you know him?” Halcon asked.
“Yes. His name is Zavala, and he was with the NUMA team on the Arizona project.”
“You're correct about NUMA not being a toothless dog.” Halcon stared at the screen, thinking. “You said there was another man, the leader of the team.”:
“Kurt Austin. He was running the project.”
“They'll do for a start. Have him and this man. killed. Put the salvage plans off if you have to.”
“As you say Don Halcon.”
Halcon dismissed Guzman and went back to his map.
Guzman had no illusions about Halcon. He had known him since he was a boy hovering over him like a guardian angel. He thought Halcon's megalomaniacal scheme had more to do with his selfish pursuit of power and riches than restoring the lost grandeur of those he called his people. He was using those. of Indian blood toward his own ends and would enslave them much as his conquistador ancestors had. What he was proposing would mean civil war, certain bloodshed, possibly the death of thousands.
Guzman knew all this and didn't care. When the old master took the young blond boy under his wing, he created a being of undiminished loyalty. Killing highly placed NUMA operatives could be a big mistake, Guzman thought as he left the room. But he had become bored with his work in recent years, and what had become important was the game. The NUMA men would be worthy opponents. His mind began to work on an assassination plan.
The Yucatan, Mexico
Serpent
34
THE YUCATAN HAMMOC
K WAS NEVER meant for a man as long as Paul Trout. The handwoven fiber sling was designed with the diminutive Mayan stature in mind. When he wasn't swatting mosquitoes Trout was trying to find a place for the arms and legs that dangled to the dirt floor of the Indian hut. Dawn's first gray light was a welcome relief. He extricated himself from the sack, smoothed the wrinkles out of his suit as best he could, decided he could do nothing about his morning beard, and with a bemused glance at Morales, who lay snoring in another hammock, emerged into the morning mists. He trekked across a cornfield to the edge of woods where the helicopter lay on its side resembling a big dead dragonfly.
The pilot had tried to land in the field as the helicopter used up the fuel vapors powering its engine. The aircraft plunged into the canopy of foliage that was so deceivingly softlooking from above. The fuselage crashed through the treetops accompanied by a horrendous racket of snapping branches and the screech of tortured metal.
Trout had the wind knocked out of him. The pilot hit his head and was knocked cold. Morales was dazed. Ruiz, who'd been awakened by the racket, sat there in bewilderment with drool on his whiskered chin. Morales and Trout dragged the pilot out of the chopper, and he came around in the fresh air. Everyone had bruised knees and elbows, but no serious injuries were noted. Trout was glad Ruiz had survived; he might prove a valuable source of information in finding Gamay.
With his hands on his hips Trout surveyed the damage and shook his head in amazement. The trees had cushioned the copter's momentum. The runners had collapsed, and the main and tail rotors were history, but the body remained miraculously intact. Trout rapped on the mangled fuselage. There was a stirring inside. The pilot, who had chosen to spend the night in the helicopter crawled out, stretched his arms, and opened his mouth in a bellowlike yawn. The noise awoke Ruiz, who was on the ground with his hands cuffed to the useless runners. He blinked sleepily when he saw Trout. The mosquitoes didn't seem tohave bothered him. Smelling like a swine pen had its advantages, Trout guessed. He walked around the chopper and thought again that it was a miracle they'd got down in one piece. He had counted seven bullet holes in the helicopter including the lucky fuel tank shot.
Minutes after the JetRanger hit the ground a figure had approached from across the cornfield. An Indian farmer who lived nearby had seen the crash. He greeted them with a friendly grin from under his straw hat. He was unperturbed, as if strange men dropped out of the sky every day. The pilot did a quick damage assessment and found that the radio was useless. They followed the farmer to his hut, where his wife offered food and water and four young children eyed them warily from a distance.
Morales questioned the farmer at length, then turned to Trout.
.“I asked him if there is a village or town near here with a telephone. He says a priest in a nearby village has a radio. He will go there to tell him about us and ask to send help.”
“How far is the village?”
Morales shook his head. “It's a ways. He will spend the night and come back tomorrow.”
Thinking of Gamay Trout chafed at the delay, but there was nothing he could do. The farmer's wife packed food in a cotton, sack, and her husband climbed onto a grizzled burro, waved goodbye to his family, and set off on his grand adventure. Trout watched the burro plod down a trail and prayed the unsteady animal would last the trip. The farmer's wife offered the use of her home and said she would stay the night with relatives. She was back by the time Trout and the pilot returned to the but to see if Morales was awake. Then she prepared tortillas and beans for everyone.
After breakfast Trout took some tortillas out to Ruiz. Morales unlocked the chiclero's cuffs but kept his legs bound. Ruiz noisily devoured the tortillas, and Morales gave him a cigarette. He puffed on it gratefully. The crash had wiped the cocky sneer off his face, and he was more. than cooperative when Morales asked a series of questions.
“He started working with this gang of looters about six months ago,” Morales translated. “He says he used to gather chime sap before that, but I don't believe him.” He quizzed the man again, more forcefully this time. “Si,' he said, laughing. ”It is as I thought. He is a thief. He used to steal from the tourists coming to Merida. A friend told him he could make more money smuggling artifacts. The work is harder, but the pay is better and there is less risk.".
:Ask him who he works for," Trout suggested.
Ruiz shrugged when .the question was presented to him. Morales said, “He worked for a man who used to be a policeman guarding the ruins. There is a small gang, maybe a dozen. They find a place and dig trenches. The jades and the pots with the black lines are the best, he says. Maybe two hundred to five hundred dollars for one pot. His boss takes his cut and arranges transport.”
“Transport to where?” Trout said.
“He's not sure,” Morales translated. “He thinks his boss was connected with people operating out of the Petan, just over the border in Guatemala.”
“How does he get the artifacts there?”
“He says they would move the goods down the river in the small boats to a place where trucks come in. Then maybe they go to Carmelita or probably across the border to Belize. I have heard what happens then. The artifacts go on planes or ships to Belgium or to the States when: people pay big money for them.” He glanced, almost with pity, at Ruiz. “If this toothless idiot only knew these people make hundreds of thousands of dollars and he takes all the risks.” He chuckled. Ruiz, sensing a joke but not understanding with his limited English that he was the butt of it, grinned his toothless grin.
Trout turned the information over in his mind. Gamay and Chi must have stumbled onto a smuggling operation. They escaped on the river, using the same route as the smugglers, and were trying to get away when the helicopter found them. He asked Morales to find out how far the truckloading spot was from the rapids.
“Couple of nights on the river, he says. He doesn't know the distance in miles. He says the river goes dry, in places sometimes, and they work it after the rainy season.”
At Trout's request, the pilot dug a map out of the helicopter. No river was depicted, confirming the information from Ruiz. There was no way to trace the course Gamay would take.
The interrogation was interrupted by a commotion. A boy of about ten was running across the cornfield, shouting in his highpitched voice. He rushed up to the helicopter and announced breathlessly that his father was home. They retied Ruiz and went back to the hut.
The farmer said he would have been home sooner, but he took the opportunity to visit his brother who lived near the village. Oh, yes, he said after a long description of his family reunion, he had talked to the priest, who no longer had the radio. Trout's heart fell. Then rose again a minute later when the farmer said the priest used a cell phone that he kept for emergencies, mostly medical. The priest had called for help and asked the farmer to relay the following message, which he wrote on sheet of paper: “Tell the men in the helicopter that someone will be sent to find them.”
With rescue imminent Trout was even more impatient. He paced the edge of the cornfield, frequently glancing at the cloudless blue sky. Before long he heard a faint roughrough sound. He cocked his ear. The noise became louder until he could actually feel the vibration of whiplashed air.
A Huey painted in greenish brown flashed into view above the trees with another right behind it. Trout waved his arms. The helicopters made a tight circle around the field, then touched down at the perimeter of the corn rows. The doors opened even before the rotors stopped, and men dressed in camouflage Uniforms spilled from the choppers. Morales, the pilot, and the farmer and his family went to greet the new arrivals. There were six of them, including a captain in the lead helicopter and a medical technician in the second. The med tech examined everyone and gave them clean bills of health except for superficial injuries.
Trout and Morales went to the downed helicopter, but Ruiz was gone. The chiclero had squirmed out of his hastily tied bonds. After a quick parley they decided against a time-co
nsuming search. Trout would have liked to see if Ruiz had more information to offer, although from what the chiclero recounted he was at the bottom of the smuggling totem pole. Looking at the escape optimistically, maybe Ruiz would be eaten by a jaguar. He would pity the jaguar. They thanked the farmer and his family for their hospitality and got into the Hueys. Within minutes they were skimming a few hundred yards over the treetops.
Less than an hour later they set down at an army base. The captain said the base had been established near Chiapas at the time of the Indian uprising a year earlier. The captain asked if they would like food and a bath and a change of clothes. A shower could wait. Trout had other priorities. He asked to use a phone.
Austin was in his office at NUMA headquarters examining the photos Zavala had taken in Halcon s underground garage when the phone rang. Zavala had just described the trip to Halcon's complex and the bloody ball game, and Austin was bringing him up to speed on his Nantucket encounter with Angelo Donatelli. A broad smile crossed his face when he heard Trout's voice. “Paul, good to hear from you. Joe and I were talking about you a few minutes ago. Did you find Gamay?”