The Accused (21 page)

Will turned to Agabba—a handsome, dark-skinned man with short hair and glasses—who was unperturbed.

“I'll be glad to answer that—there were several such groups.”

“Would you list them for me?”

“I object—on the same grounds—this is getting us nowhere. Mr. Chambers, you are insisting on polluting this record with nonsense, and false and irrelevant accusations,” Linton argued.

Will calmly turned toward the witness and repeated his question.

“Doctor, would you list those groups for me?”

“Certainly. Hezbollah. Al-Qaeda. Asia Islama. And the AAJ.”

“Objection! You must stop this, Mr. Chambers. There is no connection between any of these groups—even if they do exist within the Sudan borders, which I believe is an entirely false allegation—and the issues in this case.”

Turning back to Agabba, Will glanced down at the notes he had just been taking. He looked up briefly. Then the switch was turned on.

“You said the AAJ. Do you mean the al-Aqsa Jihad?”

“Yes, that organization—most certainly.”

“Do you have knowledge about a man purporting to be the head of al-Aqsa Jihad by the name of Abu Adis?”

“Oh, yes, I saw him meet with General Nuban. I believe they were discussing Nuban's demand for royalties from the AAJ's drug operation in Mexico and Central America.”

Cesar Linton peppered the room with more objections.

“Was there anybody else in that meeting between General Nuban and Abu Adis on the drug-running issue?”

More objections from attorney Linton.

“There was a man—I believe he was an American—at least it sounded like he had an American accent.”

Objection upon objection from Linton.

“Do you remember his name? Anything about his identity?”

“Well,” Agabba continued thoughtfully, “as I recall—I believe his name was Black…Mr. Rusty Black, I think.”

Linton was now leaning across the conference table, waving his solid gold pen in the direction of Will Chambers, folding objections into a speech and then a diatribe.

Will waited quietly until the other attorney had finished. Then he turned back to Dr. Agabba.

“Anything else you remember about this American?”

“Well, he was working on this drug thing down in Mexico. I don't think he was part of the AAJ—but he was working with them in some capacity, on drug sales. There was something that really struck me about him, though.”

“What was that?”

“He had a tattoo on the side of his neck—you couldn't see it all that well unless he turned his head. Then you could see it.”

“A tattoo?” Will asked. “What kind of a tattoo?”

“It looked like an eagle…I think that's what it was.”

“An American eagle?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then what kind of an eagle?”

Agabba shook his head and indicated he didn't recall—it simply did not look like any type of eagle you would see on American currency or American insignias.

Cesar Linton took what was left of the afternoon trying to disassemble and rebut the answers Agabba had given to Will. All in all, however, Linton's effort was fruitless, and his examination was full of sound and fury, but it established very little.

Driving back to Virginia on I-95, Will felt good about the deposition. But he was also thinking about something else.

About the AAJ…and about an American drug dealer whose activities centered in Mexico attending a meeting with the leader of the AAJ. A dealer named Rusty Black. And Will was also thinking about Colonel Marlowe…wherever he was…and whatever he was doing. And whether Marlowe's uncompleted “mission” had to do with Mexico—with finding those who had set the trap for his commando operation and wreaking vengeance on the ones who had put Carlos and his family in the line of fire.

The attorney then called his office from his cell phone and went through the usual litany of office issues and client calls with Hilda. His secretary also said that Captain Jenkins from the DC police department had phoned.

Will told himself that, even though he was going to return the call to Jenkins, he was also going to keep this matter of Audra's murder in perspective. There would be more phone calls from Jenkins in the future, more facts coming out, more leads that turned down blind alleys, more waiting—and all of that had to be secondary to his marriage to Fiona. That was the truly important thing now.

He put the call through to the police captain, and after the exchange of a few pleasantries Jenkins got right to the point.

“The fact is,” he said, “we now feel we have an identity for the second perpetrator involved in the death of Audra.”

Will was stunned.

“Who is it?” he blurted out.

“He is a man named Damon Lynch. Also a member of that same neo-Nazi group up in Brooklyn. Whereabouts unknown. Did some time both in county jail and in state prison on a variety of charges. But he's been out of prison for about two years. Shortly after being released on parole, he disappeared. Obviously there's a warrant out for him for parole violation. But now we've got a warrant on him as a possible accessory to the murder. I say ‘possible,' because we have no evidence that he was actively involved in the commission of the crime. We only have his presence at the scene.”

“What else do we know about this guy?”

“We're collecting as much information as we can, trying to get some current data on where he's been last sighted. Of course we'll keep you updated. So that's all I've got for now.”

Will thanked the captain and turned off his phone.

On the rest of the drive back to Monroeville, Will tried not to obsess over this newest piece of information. Over the fact that the other demon at the vicious murder of his first wife now had a name. He had an identity. He was
Damon Lynch.
Will tried not to let all of that consume him and control his every thought.

But he failed.

33

C
ALEB
M
ARLOWE OPENED THE TALL
, weathered doors of the old San Bernardino Church in Valladolid in the Yucatán. He walked slowly down the middle aisle of the aged structure. In the fourth row from the front, at the right, there was a woman dressed in black kneeling and praying.

On the left-hand side there was a man—a Mayan—paging through a missal. Marlowe walked up the aisle and scooted down the pew to his side.

“I'm looking for the bird of paradise.”

The Indian man smiled.

“You Americans—always big on code words and code names. Yes. I'm the man you're looking for.”

“You have some information for me?”

“Yes. But I need something from you first.”

“What's that?”

“When all of this goes down, I want the Mayan people to benefit. I want the Independent Revolutionary Party to be punished for the mistreatment of the Indians. And I want the United States government to help us with that.”

“I'm afraid we can't promise anything like that,” Marlowe replied.

“Then why am I talking to you, my friend?” the man answered. “Do you know who I am?”

“Yes, I do,” Marlowe said. “You're Juan Oxla Tulum. You are a leader of the Mayan insurgents who are trying to overthrow the IRP. You're tired of the Indian people getting kicked around, persecuted, and killed.”

“So you've done your homework. You know that the Indians have been fighting for their survival for more than a thousand years. And it's
still going on. I've spent my whole life fighting for my people. This is not a game. This is my life.”

Marlowe nodded understandingly.

“Juan, if there were promises I could make, I would do it. If I could get the American government to back you people down here, I would do it. All I can tell you is this—by helping us with our snake hunt down here, you will be doing yourself and your people a long-term favor. If you think it's been bad for the Mayan people for the last thousand years, think what's going to happen to Mexico—and to your people—if terrorists start taking over.”

Tulum gazed forward at the altar and the large crucifix that hung over it. “Did you see anything ironic in my choice of this as the place where we were going to meet?” he asked with a chuckle.

“I'm assuming that, as a Mayan, you still follow the old religion?”

Tulum nodded.

“Someday I'd like to talk to you about that,” Marlowe said with a smile. “But about your information—I would appreciate it if you could share with us what you know about the American drug dealer.”

The Indian man studied Marlowe for a minute, then he reached into his faded short-sleeved shirt and pulled out a small piece of paper.

“Mr. Marlowe, these are all the names—aliases—that this man has used. And here's his present location, as best as I can determine. I think he'll lead you to what you're looking for.”

Marlowe thanked the man, and shook hands with him, then they walked out of the church together.

“This information is going to help me settle a score with someone,” the American said as they squinted in the sun outside.

“You better watch yourself, Marlowe,” Tulum warned. “You may have been followed. If you aren't careful you're going to get yourself arrested.”

“Oh, I'm not worried about that,” he responded. Then he gave a smile and a wave to his informant and walked over to his car.

34

W
HEN
F
IONA STOPPED BY HER
father's modest apartment near Georgetown, she was greatly burdened. Reverend Angus MacCameron had just returned from a short trip in Israel. Fiona was increasingly concerned about his health, particularly because in the last few years he had survived a heart attack, a stroke, and the death of his wife. But there were also other buried fears that she was struggling with—about Will…and their marriage.

As she sat next to her father on the couch, he looked so much older—even though it had only been two weeks since she had seen him last.

“Da,” she said, “I'm concerned about you traveling alone on these trips. The next time you want to travel back to Israel, work it out with Will and me so we can accompany you. Or perhaps have the new editor of your magazine go with you.”

“Are you saying that I'm in need of a baby-sitter? Is that what you're saying?” Angus replied brusquely in his Scottish brogue. “I'm as strong as a Highland steer. I've got energy to spare. Don't be treating me like an invalid.”

“No, that's not what I'm saying,” his daughter replied. “I'm simply saying you have to pace yourself. I want you around for a long time.”

“And I plan on being around a long time—exactly as long as the Lord has planned for me. Not a minute sooner or a minute later,” Angus declared, waving an index finger at her.

“So you feel like it was a successful trip?” Fiona asked. Her mind had been drifting.

Angus cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. He stared at his daughter for a few seconds before he spoke.

“Fiona, darling, I don't think you have heard a word I've said! I just explained how I was trying to chase down this rumor about a recently discovered fragment from the book of Deuteronomy—and how every antiquity dealer and archaeologist I spoke to led me down a blind alley. Everybody's gossiping about it, but no one has any information about it. It was the most frustrating trip I can remember. I feel that this might be another archaeological hoax, and I want to get to the bottom of it and then expose it in
Digging for Truth
. You do remember my magazine? Honestly, Fiona, I don't think you've been listening to a thing I've said all this time.”

His daughter took a deep breath and then shook her head. “I'm sorry, Da. I guess my mind has been wandering a little.”

“So what is it?” Angus asked, softening. “Besides worrying about your father.”

“Well—in addition to worrying about you,” she said with a smile, “things between Will and me have been…rough.”

Angus leaned back against the couch, taking his walking stick and laying it across his lap. He smiled at Fiona and waited for her to continue. Beneath his ruddy complexion and lined, life-worn face, the old Scot knew how to use silence to unwrap the secrets of his daughter's heart.

“It's not that we don't love each other, because that's not the problem,” she continued. “We are passionately in love. Crazy for each other. But it's…it's just that life, and who he is, and everything else, seems to get in the way of our marriage.”

“How is he doing?”

“He's a good husband. He now recognizes he's dragged this business with Audra into our marriage. He thought he had put it all behind him. And now it seems like every couple days something intrudes—something brings back all of the old memories.”