Shell Game (37 page)

Taylor paid her bill for the tea and salad, and left the quiet garden. Noise from the street percolated in as she neared the front of the hotel. New Year's Eve revelers off to an early start. It wasn't even nine o'clock, and the city was starting to come to life. A sense of loneliness overwhelmed her as she walked down the short hallway to her room. It had been many years since she had celebrated the birth of a new year by herself. In fact, she couldn't remember any time in her life when she hadn't been with friends or family as the calendar switched over. She unlocked the door and let herself into the empty room.

Taylor drew a bath and settled into the hot water. It was soothing to both her body and mind. She wasn't a woman to feel stress, but right now the tension was rising, and she was beginning to wonder whether they could pull this off. Edward Brand was no fool. He was intelligent and would be suspicious of everything until he was off that mountain with the treasure. That, of course, would never happen. Alan posed a distinct threat. Kelly and Ricardo were right, they should probably back off until Alan was out of the picture. But that meant letting Brand go. All the planning. All for naught.

No way.

She ducked her head under the water, her long hair swaying gently with the ripples. She slicked it back and squeezed until most of the excess water was gone, then climbed out of the tub and towel dried. There was a full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door, and she looked at her reflection. Nowhere to hide the extra pounds or the stretch marks when the clothes were off. She had neither. Her body was taut and lean, her long legs the reason many men glanced back when they passed her on the street. She slipped on the terry housecoat the hotel provided and padded back into the bedroom.

She placed a quick call to Adolfo's room. He answered immediately. “Adolfo, it's Taylor. I need you to pick up something for me.”

“Yes. What?”

“Do you know what walkie-talkies are?”

“Yes, I know this. For two people to talk. Push the button, then let it go.”

“Exactly. Could you find a pair and purchase them. I'll pay you whatever they cost. Make sure they have new batteries.”

“
Sí
, I will do.”

“Thanks.”

“De nada.”

Taylor replaced the phone in the cradle. They needed a way to communicate while at Monte Alban. If Adolfo taped down his talk button, she could hear the conversation and know exactly when to light the fire and distract the guards. It was crude, but it didn't have to be sophisticated to work. That's all that mattered—whether it worked or not. She switched her thoughts to Kelly Kramer. His story about the CIA being involved in Monte Alban must have made the grade. She checked the time and dialed his number. He was still at the office and picked up on the third ring.

“Hi,” she said. “How are things in Washington?”

“Cold. It's miserable here. I think it's about eight degrees outside right now. There's snow everywhere. I can't remember a nastier winter.”

“Well, it's nice down here. Sixty-five and holding.”

“No kidding. It's Mexico. Is everything okay?”

“Perfect. Couldn't be better, in fact. Adolfo and I got the treasure in place. No problems that we couldn't handle. He's good, Kelly. He thinks quick on his feet. If anyone can sell Edward Brand that he's a corrupt government employee, it's Adolfo. It appears that Brent Hawkins swallowed your story about the CIA operative and then sold Brand on it.”

“Good. Did Ricardo meet with them yet?”

“This afternoon. They're flying into Oaxaca City tomorrow.” She paused, then added, “I think we should try to be ready to go on the second.”

“Twenty-four to thirty hours after they arrive. That's fast, Taylor. Maybe too fast.”

“I'm worried about Alan. If he shows up, he'll blow Ricardo's cover. Then it's over. Ricardo's dead. Brand made no bones about it—Ricardo tries to rip him off and he's a dead man. I didn't get him involved in this to get him killed.”

“Of course not. I'm ready from this end. I've got what I need to intercept the satellite call, and I've even isolated a decoding program in case he's encrypted his account number. The chances of that are minimal, but I'm just being careful. I don't want to be scrambling around trying to find a computer program when I've only got seconds to spare.”

“You'll do fine,” Taylor said. She lay on the bed, her wet hair on the pillow. “There's nothing else to do. I think that the longer we wait, the more we're inviting problems. Brand will be here tomorrow. We give him a day to settle in, then run the con the next night. That's January second. I think that's our timetable.”

“Okay, Taylor, you're the one with your finger on the pulse. I'll be wired on caffeine and wide awake by ten at night on the second. Any time after that is fine.” There was a break, then he said, “Hey, Happy New Year.”

“Yeah, you too.” Taylor took a deep breath. “We're going to do this, Kelly.”

“Absolutely.”

C
HAPTER
F
IFTY-SEVEN

At Aeropuerto Internacional Gustavo Díaz Ordáz in Puerto Vallarta, the private jets melded into the takeoff queue with the same priority as the commercial airliners. At eleven minutes after noon, Edward Brand's chartered Learjet was fifth in the queue, but he refused to give the pilots permission to enter the line. The co-pilot left the cockpit and ventured back into the cabin. He did not look happy.

“Sir, the tower is demanding we move into the queue. We have to leave now.”

“Tell the tower we'll take a later spot. I'm not ready yet.” There was no mistaking the authority in Brand's voice.

“Mr. Brand, we were supposed to depart Puerto Vallarta over an hour ago. We've already shifted our position three times. The pilot will not do it again.”

“I'm paying you,” Brand shot back. “You'll wait if I tell you to.”

“No, sir. I'm afraid it doesn't work that way. You chartered this plane to Oaxaca City, departing ten-thirty-seven. We booked a return flight with a paying customer based on that departure time. We can't bump our spot in the queue again. I'm sorry.” He turned and headed toward the cabin.

Brand cursed and glanced out the window. Where the hell was Alan Bestwick? He had called Alan the previous evening and told him to be at the airport for ten-thirty. Alan had been partially inebriated, but forgetting a flight the next day? That was totally out of character. Where the hell was he?

“What's wrong?” Carlos asked. He was sitting in one of the plush leather chairs, a very satisfied look on his face. This was his first flight in a private jet.

“I'm waiting for someone,” Brand snapped back. The plane wasn't moving yet, and he scanned the outside of the private terminal for Alan. Nothing. He glanced back inside the plane. Ricardo was reading a magazine, totally engrossed in the article. The man hadn't even noticed they weren't moving. Damn it. Once he decided on something, he wanted it to happen. And he had decided last night that having Alan along to Oaxaca City was a good idea. He was moving into unknown waters with only one other person he could trust. Two allies were far better than one. He knew the decision would cost him some money, but he was willing to take the hit. Safety in numbers.

He took another look out the small oval window. Heat waves rising from the black asphalt distorted the view, but what he was seeing was pretty clear. No Alan Bestwick. He felt a tiny shudder as the chocks were removed from the wheels and the pilots revved the engines slightly. Time was running out.

Ricardo Allende kept his eyes focused on the page. Keep them moving, line after line, pretend to read the text. Brand was watching. He had no idea what the article was about. None whatsoever. Not one word had sunk in except for what Edward Brand had said.
I'm waiting for someone
. Christ, he didn't have to have an IQ above that of a tree frog to know who Brand was waiting for.

Alan Bestwick.

And if Bestwick made it to the plane before they began to taxi, he was a dead man. Ricardo could feel a slight dampness in his armpits. He concentrated on not sweating. Relax, just keep calm. Bestwick wasn't here yet. Don't try to solve problems that don't exist. There was a slight motion and the plane began to move. He tried to keep his breathing even.

Get into the takeoff queue
.

Once they were in, there was no turning back. Another private jet, a Gulfstream II, was immediately ahead of them. An Air Canada 707 was being pushed back from its gate. That was their spot, between the two planes. Seconds now, only seconds and he'd be okay.

“There he is,” Brand said, staring out the window. He unbuckled his seat belt and hustled to cockpit. “The man we're waiting for, he's here.”

There was a muffled response from the pilot, but Ricardo didn't need to hear what he had said. Brand's response told the story.

“He's standing right there,” he yelled. “This is insane. Just stop and pick him up.”

Again, the incoherent reply.

“Shit,” Brand said, returning to his seat and snapping the seat belt in place. He was a blistering shade of red.

“What's wrong?” Carlos asked. “Why won't they stop?”

Brand didn't answer for a minute, and when he did it was very tight-lipped. “He said we'd lose our spot in the queue.”

Ricardo didn't say a word. He looked up from his magazine and glanced out the window. Standing in front of the executive terminal watching the plane taxi onto the runway was Alan Bestwick. Ricardo could see Bestwick through the tinted window, but the man could not see in. No chance of recognition. Not now. But if Brand wanted Alan in Oaxaca City, then the chances were pretty good that Alan would be following on a commercial flight. Which meant they would have to move quickly. He hoped Taylor and Kelly would be ready. He settled back with the magazine and focused on the content of the article he'd been staring at for the last ten minutes. It was the latest issue of
Chatelaine
—“Ten Ways to be a Better Lover.”

He closed the magazine and tucked it under a copy of
Sports Illustrated
.

Alan Bestwick stared at the Lear as it taxied onto the runway. He cursed under his breath at the Mexican police. Some minor fender-bender on the main road from the Sheraton to the airport and they'd completely shut down the highway. Idiots.

He made his way into the main terminal and waited in the long line at the Aeroméxico counter. When he finally reached the ticket agent she didn't speak English. An airline employee pulled him out of the line and when an English-speaking agent opened they slid him in.

“I need to get to Oaxaca City,” Alan said.

“When would you like to fly, sir?” the woman asked.

“As soon as possible.”

Her fingernails clicked on the keyboard as she searched the outgoing flights for availability. “It's very busy, sir, being New Year's Day.”

“Yes, I'm sure it is. But it's important I get there quickly.”

“I understand.” She glanced at the series of lines snaking back from the counter. The meaning of the look wasn't lost on Alan. No one was standing in line for the fun of it. “The best I can do is tomorrow evening. Eight-fourteen departure.”

“When does that arrive in Oaxaca?”

She checked the screen. “Eleven-twenty-one.”

“Nothing today?” he asked and she shook her head. “Standby?”

“Already six people on the waiting list.”

“Okay, I'll take it.”

“I'll need to see your passport please.”

Alan traded the cool air-conditioning of the airport for the hot streets of Puerto Vallarta. Taxis were doing a brisk business, ripping off the tourists by charging them double the usual rate. The heat was irritating and the stench of diesel hard on his throat and lungs. He slid into the backseat of the first taxi in line.

“Sheraton,” he said, handing the man twelve dollars. The driver started to say something, but Alan just held up his hand and looked out the window. He'd already been screwed enough for one day, he wasn't going to let a cab driver nail him too.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTY-EIGHT

Monday morning. New Year's Day.

The streets of Oaxaca City were quiet, most residents of the city sleeping late after a night of celebrating. Taylor had taken an early morning walk about the cobblestone streets, getting some fresh air. Once Edward Brand arrived in the Learjet from Puerto Vallarta, she would have to stay inside. Ricardo was right, her hair would be a dead giveaway in a country where almost one hundred percent of the people had black hair. If Brand were to spot her, he would know he was being set up.

There was a knock on the door. It was Adolfo. He had a set of compact walkie-talkies that he had somehow found in one of the many tiny shops tucked away in the city center. They were new, still in the box. Four nine-volt batteries were necessary to power them, and Adolfo had purchased those as well. Taylor looked over the gear and nodded.

“Good work, Adolfo,” she said, slipping the batteries in the housing and clipping the plastic cover closed. “Let's try them out.”

“
Sí,”
he said, taking one and heading out the door. “I go to the street?”

“Yes, that's good. Maybe five hundred yards.”

“
Sí
, I understand. Five hundred yards is same as five hundred meters.”

“Yes. Five hundred meters. Give or take.”

“What?” he asked, confused at the colloquialism.

“Nothing. Five hundred meters.”

He closed the door and the room was silent for a few minutes. Then there was a slight crackle and his voice came through the walkie-talkie. It was very clear.

“That's fine, Adolfo. I can hear you okay. Can you hear me?”

“
Sí
. I hear you.”