01-01-00 (36 page)

Susan frowned and broke the connection. “Now we wait,” she said. “Until tonight at seven, for the next event.”

“Well done.” Celina lifted the gun, brushing it gently against Cameron's left cheek. “I'll be checking on
you
later.”

Susan didn't like the sound of that.

“If it's all right, I'd like to continue my study of the glyphs. They're a good source of clues.”

The female terrorist, wrapped in incredibly tight black jeans and a black T-shirt, nodded. “Petroff has been ordered to never leave your sight. You are free to go about the area. But don't even think about going into the jungle. You'll never make it past the first dozen feet. And you're not allowed to connect to the satellite link unless I'm present.”

Susan watched her give Cameron a slow female wink before leaving.

“Skinny-ass bitch,” she mumbled, a strange feeling of possessiveness clouding her judgment.

“Now, now,” said Cameron, leaning against her, rubbing shoulders. “If I didn't know any better I'd say that you are jealous.”

“Don't you have work to do?” she snapped.

Cameron's grin broadened.

“What's so funny?”

“Come,” he said, standing. “Why don't you give me a hand with those.” He pointed at a small knapsack next to the few books on glyphs that he had brought along. “There's some of my tools in there. Let's go do some more—” His gaze shifted to Petroff. The mercenary was using a hunting knife to dislodge a large piece of jade adorning the headdress of one of the ball players carved on the stelae at the edge of the courtyard. “Hey!” Cameron shouted. “Don't touch that!”

Petroff, rocking the tip of the knife between the limestone and the jade, waved him off and continued his work.

Cameron's features tightened into a mask of rage as he sprung with the ferocity of a jungle cat, pushing the mercenary back. “I said, don't touch them, you imbecile!”

Just as Susan stood, Petroff smacked the stock of his machine gun across Cameron's head, dropping him cold on the stone floor. He then swung his leg back to kick the unconscious archeologist, but Susan shoved herself in the way, shielding Cameron. “NO! Stop! You animal!”

Petroff hesitated, breathing heavily, not certain what to do. He took a step back as Strokk and Celina rushed toward them, shouting in Russian. Petroff replied angrily in the same language, pointing at Cameron and then at himself.

Strokk knelt by Susan's side, inspecting Cameron's head wound, checking for a pulse. “Petroff says that Slater attacked him.” He spoke more Russian and Petroff handed him the canteen strapped to his belt.

“The animal was desecrating the stelae! Cameron tried to stop him, but he wouldn't listen!” Susan shouted, gently placing Cameron's head on her lap after crossing her legs and sitting by him. She softly ran her fingers over a patch of red skin between his left eye and temple.

“Fool,” commented Celina, watching with indifference.

Susan locked eyes with the female terrorist, burning Celina with her stare, before returning her attention to Cameron.

Strokk poured some water on the wound. Susan rubbed the water on the archaeologist's face and neck. “These men are trained killers, Miss Garnett,” said Strokk. “Their reactions are deadly. Slater's lucky that Petroff didn't shoot him … he's coming around.”

Cameron moaned and stirred, Susan held his head in place, looking into his eyes as he blinked, his face twisting into a mask of pain.

“My … head…”

“Easy,” she said, rubbing his face, cupping water in her hand and wetting his cheeks, his wound. “Don't talk.”

Strokk stood. “He'll be all right. Keep him awake. And by all means, keep him from taunting any of my men. I can't be responsible for his foolish acts.”

“The statues…” Cameron began, inhaling and exhaling, bringing a finger to his temple and rubbing. “Don't touch the—”

“Dr. Slater,” Strokk said. “I suggest you stay out of my team's way. If my men wish to take some souvenirs with them, they should be allowed to do so. I'm certainly not going to stop them if it helps their morale, as long as they stick to the main objectives of this mission. Is that understood?”

Cameron's eyes became mere slits of anger as he sat up and spoke with amazing calm. “Look, this site is the find of the century. It's untouched, and more important to me than my life. If your men touch so much as a single statue, I will refuse to help you. And if you kill me, you know that Susan will not help you any further—and without us, you have no hope of learning about this virus to stop it before the deadline expires.”

Strokk regarded the archaeologist first with surprise, then with contempt. He unholstered his sidearm and aimed it at Susan's face. “Is this site more important to you than her life too?”

Cameron shifted his gaze from Strokk to Susan.

“Don't interfere, Dr. Slater,” said Strokk, cocking the gun while pressing the muzzle against her left temple. “Or you'll be staring at her brains on your lap for a long time. Now, do we understand each other?”

Cameron exhaled heavily.

“Good.” The terrorist turned to Susan. “Be sure to get ready for tonight's event. My patience is running thin. I want answers on this global event. You do
not
want to disappoint me.”

Chapter Sixteen

010000

1

December 17, 1999

From time immemorial, outsiders had come and taken from Joao's land. The first Spaniards arrived on the shores of the Yucatán in the early 1500s, not only claiming a soil that didn't belong to them, but also ushering Old World diseases into the New World. Smallpox, influenza, measles, unknown illnesses among the Maya that claimed more lives than the steel of the conquistadores' swords, killed over ninety percent of Mesoamerica's native population within a century. Outsiders had come and taken from the Maya. They had robbed them of their land, of their women, of their traditions, of their dignity. They had come and imposed an alien way of life, a different religion, strange beliefs. They had raped the women, enslaved the men, indoctrinated the children. They had burned their codices, desecrated their temples, looted their palaces, stolen gold and precious stones, ridiculed their culture, and enforced a way of life that valued the accumulation of wealth rather than the enhancement of the human spirit. But the Maya had fought back with surprising vigor, bravely refusing to be subdued, resisting the incessant waves of invaders, inflicting fear in their hearts. Their valiant efforts, however, could not push back the overwhelming tide drowning their land, razing it with the rage of the most violent of forest fires, attempting to uproot their culture like an unwanted weed in the gardens of another Spanish-claimed territory. Only this garden was too vast to be fully controlled. The surviving natives retreated to the lowlands of the Petén, deep within the protection of the vast jungle, of mangroves, of swamps, of jaguars and caimans, safe from the unyielding fist of the Spaniards. But the ancient warriors remained alert, ready to launch jungle-style warfare on any invader foolish enough to enter their green sanctuary. Many did come in, following Mexico's independence from Spain in 1821, when the new government tried to subdue the Maya into laborers on cash-crop plantations, triggering the beginning of what became known as the War of the Castles. Armed by the British in neighboring Belize, the rebelling natives not only expelled the Mexican army, but managed to gain control of the entire Yucatán Peninsula until 1901, when a new wave of government strikes destroyed many aspects of Mayan cultural traditions and agricultural methods. And the true Maya retreated once again to its beloved Petén, hiding beneath its thick canopy, beyond impenetrable terrain, past treacherous swamps, preserving their core beliefs, their heritage, their culture. But they also remembered the invaders, never forgetting their atrocities, their wickedness, the brutality with which they had attempted to eradicate their entire civilization.

Wickedness. Brutality.

Joao Peixoto's heart filled with anger as he surveyed the site from the lush branches of an opulent ceiba. The wrath of his ancestors boiled inside of him, a fury kindled by the sight of so much death, so much blasphemy. He had seen the new soldiers dump the bodies of the first team into the pure waters of the cenote, defiling the virgin pool. Now the same men desecrated the holy temple of Kinich Ahau, the jaguar sun god. They also carved out the precious stones and metals from the stelae of Chac, rain god and cosmic monster, and of Ix Chel, the moon goddess of medicine and childbirth.

Joao closed his tearful eyes, controlling the urge to attack the invaders, to avenge this unforgivable crime, to appease the angry gods. But he couldn't do so without permission from the high priests, without their consent. He was a
nacom,
a Mayan military leader, loyal to the shamans, the carriers of his people's traditions, keepers of his culture's unstained values, of the secret ways to enter the limestone structure, and of its deadly traps.

The Mayan warrior noticed the shadow of the trees shifting across the cenote. The sun had began its decline toward the western horizon, which meant the strangers he had captured should have been delivered to his village by now. He hoped to learn much from them, perhaps even enough to generate a recommendation to the high priests.

Before he returned to his village, Joao watched with personal satisfaction that the long-haired man who had been respectfully inspecting the area for the past two days was now standing. The stranger had made a valiant effort to prevent the desecration of the large stelae honoring Hunahpu and Xbalanque, the hero twins engaged in a game of
pokatok.

Honor lived within that man, as well as within the woman who had come to his defense.

2

Ishiguro Nakamura watched the body of Luis being splattered over the jungle's leaf-covered terrain. He heard Jackie scream, saw her contorted face reflecting her horror. The dark jungle came alive with the sounds of the enemy. Kuoshi clutched a weapon, warning them to run away, to find a way out, to preserve their research. He saw faceless figures bearing automatic weapons nearing, heard the multiple reports from Kuoshi's gun, listened to his agonizing scream. Ishiguro watched the trees rush past as Jackie and he raced through the thick underbrush. He felt the ground giving beneath him, heard Jackie shriek once more. The heavy backpack pulled him back, nearly flipping him in midair as he fell into a black hole.

Drenched in perspiration, Ishiguro woke up with a monstrous headache. In spite of the relentless pounding against his temples and behind his eyes, he opened them and found himself staring at the sagging breasts of an old woman. She was kneeling across the room in front of a flat rock while using her hands to mold a yellowish, soggy mass. Flies droned around her.

Jackie,
he thought.
Where are you?

The woman slowly raised her stare until her weathered eyes met his. She studied him for a few seconds before going back to her work while mumbling something that sounded more animal than human.

Ishiguro brought a finger to his right temple and slowly rubbed it, feeling as if he'd been asleep forever. He managed to sit up and take a better look at what appeared to be the inside of a stone shack, in the center of which stood a tripod made of sticks. A clay dish hung over two small burning logs. Smoke curled up to the top of the bullet-shaped roof, escaping through a tiny opening. He saw no sign of his wife.

He inspected his body and noticed he only wore the khaki slacks and shirt. His gear was gone.
Even the boots,
he thought, staring at the straw and dirt caught in between his toes.

How long have I been out?

He looked at his left wrist, but his G-shock Casio was also gone.

Ishiguro frowned as he recalled hitting his head right before passing out. He brought a hand up and felt a lump between his left temple and the back of his skull, letting out a sigh of relief. The wound had not bled. His hair still felt smooth, not clumped and knotted as it would have been if it was caked with dry blood.

Slowly, very slowly, his mind kicked in. They had been ambushed and were being chased when the earth had given way under them.

He had to find out what had happened. Was Jackie all right? Where was she?

Ishiguro tried to stand but felt light-headed and collapsed back on the bed, his mind drifting to the faceless strangers who had attacked them. His skin tightened at the thought of Jackie being hurt, the thought renewing his desire to stand up, to look for her.

Ishiguro pushed himself and stood, ignoring the overwhelming headache. He staggered toward the shack's entrance. The toothless woman began to speak the dialect again. He shrugged and left her.