“They’re going to ransack this place, my friend. They’re concerned about people selling artifacts.” He patted the suitcase. “Imagine the value of this on the black market.”
“You’re kidding. You’re the parish priest, for Christ’s sake.”
“I’m also a rabble-rouser from the Guatemalan civil wars, and there are people in this diocese who would like to see me boiled in oil. If they’re the ones who told INAH that I’d found something, you can bet they’ve painted me with horns and fangs.”
Mario grasped the suitcase handle in one tough old hand, pulled it off the table, and stumbled a couple of steps as it swung on his arm. Probably forty pounds there. Stephen imagined all those envelopes sliding and slamming to a halt, their fragile contents crumbling. They probably looked like smashed cornflakes by now.
The older man put his free hand around Stephen’s arm and led him outside to the car. A breeze had picked up, and the whole hillside rustled in its scratchy, brittle, desert way.
“They’re probably close enough to hear the engine,” Mario said, “so just put it in neutral and roll. It’s solid downhill for three kilometers. Keep your lights off, too. There’s enough of a moon coming up for you to see where you’re going.”
Stephen sagged against his ancient Honda Civic.
Mario squeezed Stephen’s stress-hardened shoulders, opened the car door, and prodded him inside. “I didn’t mean for it to happen this way,” he said. “But here’s your choice: take the suitcase like I’ve suggested, or I throw it over the cliff this minute, and in the morning I hike down and burn it. I’m not going back to jail for this. If it were a matter of sheltering villagers from storm troopers again, I’d risk prison in a heartbeat, but not for this. I can’t blame you if you don’t want to take the risk, since I’m not willing to. But either way, you’ve got to leave now.”
Stephen could not have said whether he made his choice because he wanted to save the goods or because he didn’t want to chicken out in front of a guy who’d been thrown into Guatemalan jails half a dozen times under military rule, who’d had both his arms and most of his ribs busted by uniformed goons in the jungle highlands.
He felt his arm wetly push the gearshift to neutral.
“Drive south to La Paz,” Mario said. “Take the car ferry to the mainland and head home from there. Now go.”
The car was already pointing down a slight grade, and Stephen could see the trail straight ahead. He released the brake and crunched his way into darkness, startling a coyote just around the first big rock.
CHAPTER TWO
Amy had begun to think she wouldn’t spend the rest of her life looking as though she’d been flogged. The long gouge and other scrapes on her back were already fading to pale pink lines. There might be some mottled scarring from when she’d been thrown on her side by the big chimp, and the constellation of claw marks on her shoulder would probably be around for good, but that was all.
Now b ack in Dakar, Senegal, she spent a lot of time in her sunny room in the same cheap flophouse she’d been staying at when Robert had dropped out of contact.
The place had no WiFi, free or otherwise, so most afternoons she would head for the CyberCafé Pirogue. The café took up the first floor of a building probably constructed in the 1920s. It had dim lighting and dark walls, which gave it the feeling of a basement dance club. The interior constantly smelled as though it had just been repainted, although no fresh paint was otherwise in evidence. The ancient windows were murky with a resinous amber smudge, and the ceiling fan never managed to blow away a layer of sawdust that covered the floor in a corner near a small door that appeared to be lacquered shut. The darkness made the place cozy and anonymous, perfect for relaxing and tracing the impact of the photos and other files she’d sent out
“You’re kidding. You’re the parish priest, for Christ’s sake.”
“I’m also a rabble-rouser from the Guatemalan civil wars, and there are people in this diocese who would like to see me boiled in oil. If they’re the ones who told INAH that I’d found something, you can bet they’ve painted me with horns and fangs.”
Mario grasped the suitcase handle in one tough old hand, pulled it off the table, and stumbled a couple of steps as it swung on his arm. Probably forty pounds there. Stephen imagined all those envelopes sliding and slamming to a halt, their fragile contents crumbling. They probably looked like smashed cornflakes by now.
The older man put his free hand around Stephen’s arm and led him outside to the car. A breeze had picked up, and the whole hillside rustled in its scratchy, brittle, desert way.
“They’re probably close enough to hear the engine,” Mario said, “so just put it in neutral and roll. It’s solid downhill for three kilometers. Keep your lights off, too. There’s enough of a moon coming up for you to see where you’re going.”
Stephen sagged against his ancient Honda Civic.
Mario squeezed Stephen’s stress-hardened shoulders, opened the car door, and prodded him inside. “I didn’t mean for it to happen this way,” he said. “But here’s your choice: take the suitcase like I’ve suggested, or I throw it over the cliff this minute, and in the morning I hike down and burn it. I’m not going back to jail for this. If it were a matter of sheltering villagers from storm troopers again, I’d risk prison in a heartbeat, but not for this. I can’t blame you if you don’t want to take the risk, since I’m not willing to. But either way, you’ve got to leave now.”
Stephen could not have said whether he made his choice because he wanted to save the goods or because he didn’t want to chicken out in front of a guy who’d been thrown into Guatemalan jails half a dozen times under military rule, who’d had both his arms and most of his ribs busted by uniformed goons in the jungle highlands.
He felt his arm wetly push the gearshift to neutral.
“Drive south to La Paz,” Mario said. “Take the car ferry to the mainland and head home from there. Now go.”
The car was already pointing down a slight grade, and Stephen could see the trail straight ahead. He released the brake and crunched his way into darkness, startling a coyote just around the first big rock.
CHAPTER TWO
Amy had begun to think she wouldn’t spend the rest of her life looking as though she’d been flogged. The long gouge and other scrapes on her back were already fading to pale pink lines. There might be some mottled scarring from when she’d been thrown on her side by the big chimp, and the constellation of claw marks on her shoulder would probably be around for good, but that was all.
Now b ack in Dakar, Senegal, she spent a lot of time in her sunny room in the same cheap flophouse she’d been staying at when Robert had dropped out of contact.
The place had no WiFi, free or otherwise, so most afternoons she would head for the CyberCafé Pirogue. The café took up the first floor of a building probably constructed in the 1920s. It had dim lighting and dark walls, which gave it the feeling of a basement dance club. The interior constantly smelled as though it had just been repainted, although no fresh paint was otherwise in evidence. The ancient windows were murky with a resinous amber smudge, and the ceiling fan never managed to blow away a layer of sawdust that covered the floor in a corner near a small door that appeared to be lacquered shut. The darkness made the place cozy and anonymous, perfect for relaxing and tracing the impact of the photos and other files she’d sent out
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