The Mayan Secrets - Cussler Clive - Страница 48

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Jerry Ruiz looked up at the sky. First one, then another, then the last two helicopters soared overhead. He judged that they were moving southward toward Guatemala City.

“It’s safe to head back to the pyramid now,” Russell said. “Two of those were definitely the big troop carriers.”

“Okay. Let’s go,” said Ruiz. “Keep your eyes open to see where Fargo threw our boots.”

Russell walked for a few feet, then stepped on a sharp stone, hopped on one foot, and landed on a pointed stick in the path. “Ow! Ah!” he said, sat on the path, and stared at the soles of both feet, then got up again and moved ahead gingerly. Russell’s already red and painful face now looked worse. Much of the sandy gravel that Sam Fargo had thrown in it had been stuck to his raw skin and was held there by the Vaseline, and when he’d been hog-tied on the ground, his face had also picked up more dirt, grass, and small sticks.

Ruiz wisely said nothing. There was no need to remind Russell of his face or to warn him that the path was treacherous and studded with sharp stones or that the low brush on both sides had thorns. Russell had already sworn about it six or seven times in the last ten minutes.

Ruiz had trouble walking too. The shovel had left a shallow cut and a large bruise on his leg just above the knee, his right hand hurt, and his breathing was labored because of some damage to a rib or two. Nevertheless, he had managed to roll over to where Russell lay and chew his way through Russell’s leather bonds. It had not been easy, but he’d known that they had to get free or they’d be dragged into the Guatemala City jail and charged with attempted murder. And even if the soldiers didn’t find them, they could easily die out here.

Ruiz had been raised in a remote village in Mexico. He knew that two bleeding, helpless men could hardly go unnoticed by the jaguars that patrolled the jungles at night. He also knew that the worst dangers didn’t always look the worst. Fatal malaria, Chagas’ disease, or dengue fever could come from the bite of a tiny insect. So he had done what was necessary to free them. They’d lain still in the jungle, covered with fallen leaves, while the soldiers came and went. Maybe now all would be well. But he was concerned about Russell, who had gotten a little crazy since he’d been painted blue. He was in a constant state of rage, goaded on by the pain in his face and the pain of his anger.

Ruiz was worried. Poor judgment was a vulnerability. Mistakes one could shrug off in a city would kill a man out in the jungle. Ruiz hobbled off the path and selected two five-foot saplings from a stand of little trees growing where a big one had fallen and broke off the branches to make two walking sticks. “Here. This will help.”

Using their sticks, they moved on in silence for a time. Leaning on the sticks kept them from stepping down too hard on sharp stones and gave them enough balance to avoid some of the worst spots. It took them about an hour to reach the ancient city. While they were still on the edge of the jungle, they could see that the whole site had been evacuated except for a half dozen soldiers, who loitered by the great pyramid’s steps. They had built a small fire and pitched three two-man tents.

Russell stepped toward the open area, but Ruiz held him back. “Wait,” said Ruiz. “They’re soldiers.”

“I can see that.”

“What if they’ve been left here to wait for us?” asked Ruiz.

Russell stopped and thought, but he didn’t seem to be getting anywhere.

Ruiz prompted him. “The Fargos must have told the soldiers we tried to kill them.”

Russell said, “All this is beside the point. We’re a hundred miles from anywhere. We don’t have shoes, water, or food. They do.”

“They also have guns. Assault rifles, full auto,” said Ruiz.

“We can wait until they’re asleep, crawl up, and cut their throats.”

“There are six — two in each tent. Even if each of us could kill two men in a tent with a knife we don’t have, the one would yell while the other was being killed. There would still be two in another tent who would hear it and open fire on us.”

“We can’t walk out of here barefoot,” said Russell. “It’s too far to civilization.”

“Wait,” said Ruiz. “Look over there. They left the sun awning up. We can wrap our feet in the canvas and walk out.”

Russell’s expression made him look like a wounded animal, but when he saw what Ruiz was talking about, he seemed to calm down. “Okay. Let’s try it. I don’t want to get into a fight with six men any more than you do.”

Ruiz was relieved. “I’ll go get the canvas.” Without waiting for an answer, he started off in the jungle outside the open space. The rough, unpredictable ground tortured his feet, but he got there. He looked in the direction of the pyramid to be sure the soldiers by the steps couldn’t see him. Then he used the sharp end of one of the aluminum poles to cut a hole in the canvas, tore a large swatch of the fabric off, rolled it up, and carried it with him.

When he reached Russell, they tore four squares, put a foot in the center of each, and used the remnants of their leather shoelaces to tie the canvas around their ankles. They looked at the late-afternoon shadows of the buildings on the plaza to judge the compass points, took up their walking sticks, and began to hobble off into the jungle toward the south.

“Next time, I won’t fool around with neatness,” Russell said. “No grave digging, no taking them off somewhere else so nobody ever knows. If I see them, I’ll open fire. If there are witnesses, I’ll shoot them too.”

As Ruiz and Russell made their way along the jungle paths, Ruiz had to listen to a constant, unending litany of complaints. Each time Russell started up again, he promised to kill Sam and Remi Fargo in more elaborate and time-consuming ways. Ruiz walked in silence. Some might have advised that talking would have eased the pain in Ruiz’s feet, ribs, and hand. But the pain served to take his attention away from Russell’s complaints, and that was enough for now. Later on, if he and Russell ever made it through this green prison and Ruiz kept the use of his limbs, he would be happy to talk about the killing.

The arraignment was held a few days later in the central court building in Guatemala City. Sam and Remi arrived with Amy Costa from the embassy. As soon as they were seated, Costa said, “Uh-oh. I don’t like the look of this.”

“What is it?” asked Remi.

“I’m not sure yet,” said Amy. “But it looks as though this isn’t going to go the way we thought. Take a look at the row of men sitting behind the defense table.”

Remi held up a compact, ostensibly to check her makeup, and used the mirror to study each man. There were six of them, in expensive tailored suits. About half the people in Guatemala were of Mayan descent, and most of the rest were mestizos. But these men all looked about as Spanish as the people Sam and Remi had met in Valladolid while they were looking for the Las Casas papers. “Who are they?”

“The Minister of the Interior, the chief judge of the courts, two important commerce officials, two senior political advisers to the president.”

“What does it mean?”

“It’s like the bride’s side and the groom’s side at a wedding. They’re sitting on the defendant’s side.”

“Are you surprised?” asked Remi.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be, but I am. In 2008, the country set up the International Commission Against Impunity. It was formed to clean up the court system and rid the country of illegal security forces just like the one you faced in Alta Verapaz. At least three of these men are members. I guess they’re not against impunity for their friends.”

A moment later, a side door of the courtroom opened, and Sarah Allersby was escorted in by two police officers, who were followed by the Allersby attorneys. Remi nudged Sam. “Look familiar?”

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