CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

January 2 dawned clear, not a cloud marring the deep blue Mexican sky. Probably not the best, Taylor thought, envisioning the plateau at Monte Alban awash in moonlight. Cloud cover would have been better. Maybe the sky would change by midnight. Maybe, but probably not.

She sat in her small stone room, staring out the window of the convent-turned-hotel. How many nuns had sat in the exact same spot, staring at the same scene? Did they love their lives? Their devotion to Christ? Or did they wonder what the other side was like? A loving husband, a family, a life that allowed pleasure. Such devotion to what they believed was their calling. But what was hers? What was her calling in life? She had no children, no business, no career and was sixteen hours from perpetuating a massive fraud. True, it was on a man who deserved it, but it was illegal nonetheless.

A man rounded the corner and limped down the narrow road that bordered the hotel. He used a cane and found the footing on the uneven cobblestones difficult, stumbling many times as he walked past her window. His clothing was in tatters, and his face heavily creased from a tough life under too much sun. He glanced up as he passed and for a split second their eyes locked. They were sad eyes. Taylor watched him until he rounded the corner and disappeared from view. Gone from her life, but for him nothing had changed. He was still decrepit and poor, living a life no one would want. As she turned from the window back to the simple room that had once housed penitent nuns, she made her final decision.

She would not have that life. Not now, not ever. She deserved better. The opportunity to live a life of wealth was within her grasp. Only Edward Brand stood in her way. Tonight he would pay for what he had done.

He would pay beyond his wildest dreams.

Ricardo Allende sat beside the pool at Hacienda Los Laureles reading a Spanish mystery novel. He was on chapter eighteen, but had absolutely no idea what was going on in the book. Neither Edward Brand nor Carlos Valendez had shown their face yet, and it was almost three in the afternoon. Not seeing the men made him nervous. He waved to the pool waiter and ordered another sparkling water. The temperature had risen during the day, peaking at over eighty degrees. The air was still and the sky a homogenous palate of deep blue. He set the book on the small table beside his chaise lounge and dove in the pool. The water was refreshing.

Midnight was closing in quickly. Nine hours until he would be standing atop the plateau at Monte Alban. Nine hours until he would give the performance of his life. Perhaps for his life. If Taylor Simons were right about what was in Edward Brand’s bank account, the payoff would be staggering. If she were wrong, the end result would be very different from what he had envisioned.

So many variables.

Ricardo pulled himself out of the pool, his athletic body glistening in the hot Mexican sun. A couple of women sunning themselves by the bar gave him an approving look. He smiled as he returned to his seat and his book. There would be plenty of time for that later. Many women who would desire the rich, attractive Mexican. Nine hours. The adage that time would tell could never be truer. Nine hours. A smile began to creep across his face, but it quickly disappeared as another thought raced through his mind.

Nine hours to live?

Alan Bestwick nursed his drink, cursing the airlines and anyone else who crossed his line of vision. It was still four and a half, almost five hours until his flight departed. Wasted time. Time he would never get back. Crucial time. Edward Brand had called two hours ago and told him the deal was on at midnight, a scant thirty-nine minutes after his flight was scheduled to arrive in Oaxaca City. He would travel with a carry-on, no checked bags and grab the first taxi in the queue. Straight to Monte Alban, but have the driver stop just shy of the plateau. Headlights showing up just as the guards were distracted to the far south end of the site was a bad idea.

Brand had checked with the local service provider and there was no cell service available on the mountain top. The best they could do was for Alan to stand on the easternmost of the four north palaces. Brand would watch for him and give one blink with his flashlight. That was it—one only. Miss that and miss the show. Brand had been adamant on that. He would not risk attracting the guards. He needed the meeting tonight to go without any complications as he couldn’t move the treasure until the next night. Something he had not been pleased about.

Alan had spent twenty minutes on the hotel Internet searching for information on Monte Alban. He was surprised at how well documented the archeological site was. The Mexican government was high on it, confident that there were other undiscovered tombs atop the mountain. It was just a matter of time before they were found. One of the Web sites had a layout of the site, and he had familiarized himself with the exact location of the north palaces. He would be where he should be when he should be.

God help anyone who got in his way.

Adolfo was a religious man. He was well aware that God was most likely looking down on him with a frown at this particular moment, but there was little he could do about that. Money was a necessary evil, and he had very little of it. Surely God would understand that He had not given this humble servant much in the way of riches to sustain a decent life. Many nights had seen him sleep with an empty belly. Adolfo was certain that God had not intended that.

He saw tonight as a gift. An opportunity to rise above the life he had lived, surviving one day to face another that was painfully the same as every other. An endless series of days spent wanting something more. To date, that something had never appeared. Not until now.

Tonight everything could change. He would have to be on his game. He was facing the greatest test of his life. Convincing Edward Brand that the treasure was real, that he could catalogue the items so they could be sold and that the money must be transferred immediately. Tonight he must be Manuel Sanchez, Director of Antiquities for the Mexican government.

Tonight he must be invincible.

Kelly Kramer pulled into the NSA complex at six o’clock, Tuesday, January 2. He parked and headed directly to his office, bypassing the coffee station. That would come later. He set up in his office, deflected a few questions from colleagues who were working late as to why he was back to work a day early and powered up his computer.

Edward Brand had taken the bait. He had instructed Brent Hawkins to check out the CIA connection. Kelly knew this because he had placed a tracer in the file that would ping anyone who entered. The only hit on the file had come from the San Francisco office of the FBI. As of eleven o’clock tonight, that file would cease to exist. Its usefulness was at an end, and he intended to erase it from the computer’s hard drive. The less evidence they left for Brand and Hawkins, the better. In fact, even the slightest shard was too much. Brand was no fool, and he would be looking for who had ripped him off. Kelly was sure he had covered his tracks.

That left the human element. Ricardo and Adolfo needed to convince Brand that they held the key to a great treasure. They needed to get Brand to instigate the wire transfer for five hundred thousand dollars. Then they needed to get the hell out of there. Because once Brand knew he had been scammed, there would be the devil to pay.

Taylor was directly in harm’s way. She would be at Monte Alban, scrambling along a dangerous mountainside, trying to evade the guards as they came running to see the cause and the extent of the fire. Her timing had to be perfect. Adolfo would have seconds, not minutes, to link up with her and for them to get back to the vehicle he brought to the meeting. Then they had to get off the mountain and back to Oaxaca City. From there it was overland by secondary highways to Minatitlan, on Bahía de Campeche. If all went well, Ricardo would travel back to Oaxaca City with Brand and Carlos, then steal away in the middle of the night. He would also head for the Caribbean coast. Nothing to do with Mexico City. Once Brand knew he had been taken, he would be watching. If Taylor were right, what they were doing would almost demolish him financially, but he may still have some resources to come after them. That’s why Brand could never know who was behind the con. Ricardo and Adolfo were the front men. They would have to meld back into Mexican society and keep a low profile because Brand would be targeting them. Things would be very different if Brand managed to tie Taylor and him into this.

Very different. Probably fatal. They could never hide from him.

Kelly took a deep breath and stared at his computer. It was all there, waiting. The program that would track the call from the satellite phone, then capture the millions of bytes of digital information between the man at Monte Alban and his banker. The program that would initiate a second transfer. The program to decode the data in case it was encrypted.

In theory, everything was perfect.

A fully loaded Browning pistol sat on the bed. A second clip, complete with bullets, lay beside it. Across the expansive hotel room, Carlos Valendez was sitting by the window oiling a Smith & Wesson 1911. A classical guitar CD played on the stereo. The music was barely audible to Edward Brand, on the balcony overlooking the gardens. The quiet of the late afternoon was exactly what he wanted. Time to sit and reflect.

He closed his eyes, the waning sun still warm on his skin. He had just checked his watch and knew it was six-thirty. Five and a half hours until the meeting at Monte Alban. There were certain aspects of this deal he liked, certain ones that he didn’t. Ricardo’s story was believable—stuff like this did happen. There was an abundance of undiscovered treasure out there, the actual amount unknown simply because it had yet to be found. Everything and everyone had checked out just fine. Brian Palmer, the murdered CIA agent, was real. He had filed a report indicating the treasure at Monte Alban not only existed, but it was substantial. Worth well into the millions. That was one of the deciding factors that had convinced him to get involved.

The second was Manuel Sanchez. Brent Hawkins had called an hour ago with the news. Manuel Sanchez was the Director of Antiquities, stationed in Mexico City. He was out of the office on holidays. By all appearances, Brand had stumbled onto a goldmine. That was what worried him. He didn’t like packages that fell in his lap. All neatly tied up, no loose ends. It reminded him of what he did for a living. When things looked too good to be true . . .

Brand hoisted himself out of his chair and wandered back into the cool of the air-conditioned room. A fan beat out a slow tempo, and the music was slightly louder inside. He walked over to the bed and stared down at the gun and the extra bullets. Would he need them tonight? He had no idea. Would he use them if he had to? Absolutely.

Ricardo Allende had better be exactly who he said he was. Manuel Sanchez had better produce once the artifacts were out of the tomb and safely stashed. He had already rented a panel van and would pick it up the next day around noon. Then, tomorrow night he would return to the site and plunder the cave. He didn’t like waiting an additional twenty-four hours, but there was nothing he could do. This was Sanchez’s show, and it moved at the speed he wanted. Ricardo was simply the messenger boy.

Brand reached down and picked up the gun. The metal was cool in his palm. Cool and reassuring. He wondered if anyone would die tonight.