CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Edward Brand listened intently as Carlos Valendez wrapped up the story of treasure on the side of Monte Alban. Brand had known the Mexican for about three years and had relied on him numerous times to cover the mundane tasks that made the scams go smoothly. He was from a working-class background, but of good intellect and absolute loyalty. Carlos had shown ingenuity on a con they had run in Buenos Aires, resulting in them raking in an additional six million dollars from one of the marks. To Brand, that was impressive. What really won Brand over was Valendez’s lack of greed. Where most men would have been looking for a good chunk of the extra cash, Valendez had taken his original pay and returned home. Not a word about more money. What that bought with Edward Brand was respect. Respect and trust.

“The CIA agent who was killed in Bolivia—what was his name?” Brand asked.

“Brian Palmer,” Valendez said.

Brand jotted down the name and underlined it. Above the name were numerous points he had scrawled on the paper as Valendez had talked. Monte Alban. Treasure—cave. Corrupt government official. Half million. January 3. Tumba 7. Millions. The last word had a series of lines under it.

“What’s this guy’s name who gave you this?” Brand asked.

“Ricardo.”

“Ricardo who?”

“Won’t say. Just Ricardo.”

“Where’d you meet him?”

“Here in Cabo. In a bar. He was bitching about how many gringos were in town, and we got talking. He seems okay.”

“All right, leave it with me. Keep your phone on. I’ll call you if things check out. If they do, I want you and this Ricardo fellow to fly down to Puerto Vallarta. I’d like to meet him.”

“Okay.” The line died.

Edward Brand dialed another number. Brent Hawkins picked up. “I want you to check on something for me,” Brand said.

There was a rustling of paper. “Go ahead,” Hawkins replied.

“There was a CIA agent got himself killed in Bolivia a little while back. Guy’s name was Brian Palmer. See what you can find on him. Run Monte Alban through your computers.”

“What the hell is Monte Alban?”

“Mexican ruins near Oaxaca City. Didn’t you take social studies in school?”

“Like I’d know anything about some fucking Mexican ruins. When do you need it?”

“Quick. Real quick.”

“Couple of hours okay?”

“Perfect.”

Brand hung up and ventured onto the main deck. The sun was high overhead, a brilliant round inferno that superheated every object it touched. Brand was amazed by the intensity of the Mexican sun, especially in the middle of winter. He felt the warmth on his skin and smiled. It was his, all his. The yacht, the money, the lifestyle—he had risen to the top of his chosen profession and now the spoils were his to enjoy. Most of the people he had stolen from were ultra-rich. They didn’t need the money to pay the mortgage. They cursed and fretted, then got on with their lives. It worked well for him.

He opened a beer and sat in one of the chairs on the aft deck, overlooking the entrance to the marina. This was an interesting one. A chance meeting had dropped it in his lap, and he was always suspicious of chance meetings. One never knew. If there was some validity to the story about the dead CIA agent, there may be some degree of truth to the entire tale. If the part about the treasure was true, he was definitely interested. Pay off some piece-of-shit government official and get access to millions of dollars in gold. Not a bad deal. No wonder no one wanted to touch the treasure without paying off the guy tied in with the government. The Mexicans didn’t like people who stole from their sacred tombs. In fact, if you wanted to end up in the dirtiest and most dangerous Mexican prison, don’t commit murder. Steal their heritage.

He cradled the beer in his lap and took an occasional sip. Time drifted past, slowly. When the phone finally rang, he answered it before the second ring. Hawkins’s voice sounded distant and crackled slightly. He was most likely on his cell phone.

“How did you get this stuff?” Hawkins asked.

“Never mind that, what did you find out?”

“Brian Palmer died in Bolivia a short time ago. Prior to his death, he had been stationed in Mexico City and had visited Oaxaca City three times. That puts him within a few miles of Monte Alban. There wasn’t much more in his personnel file, but I ran a search on the CIA computers using Monte Alban, and you’ll never guess what I found.”

“Don’t fuck around,” Brand said testily. “Just tell me.”

“There’s another file buried way back in the mainframe. It looks like Palmer had some sort of meeting with an unnamed source in Oaxaca City, and this guy told him about an undiscovered cave. The cave is stuffed with treasure. Right after this guy tells Palmer about the stash, someone kills him. When Palmer submits his report, the director of operations decides that going after the treasure, or even telling the Mexicans about it, is risky. All that will do is implicate them in the Mexican’s death. They buried the file. Did nothing.”

“What do you think?” Brand asked. “There any legitimacy to it?”

“I think so. I’ve read hundreds of files written by field operatives, and this one is pretty typical. The reasoning is good. The CIA takes enough hits without jumping into something where they know they’re going to get pounded. I’d say it’s probably legit.”

“Okay, thanks.”

He hung up and dialed Carlos Valendez’s cell phone. “Carlos,” he said. “I want you and your new friend here by tomorrow noon at the latest. Call me when you get into P.V.”

“Sí.”

Brand hit End and dropped the phone on the table. “Son of a bitch,” he said, a grin creeping across his face.