Drummond looked astonished. “You’re telling me a handful of ignorant Indians are capable of outthinking you and paralyzing the project?”
“There might be more of them than you think. And as for being ignorant, this is their backyard, not ours. They know this territory a lot better than we do.”
“Excuses.”
“I’m sure they’re watching our every move from the jungle,” Jenna said, “and I strongly suspect that this site has religious importance to them, that they’re furious about what we’re doing here.”
“Superstition and nonsense. I’m amazed that you’ve let it interfere with the project.” Drummond scowled. “But you’ve given me an idea. You’re right. This is their backyard.” He turned to the fair-haired, pleasant-faced, well-dressed man who leaned against the closed door. “Raymond, how would you like to go hunting?”
“I’d like that very much, Mr. Drummond.”
“The captain of the guards will see that you’re outfitted properly.” Drummond turned to Jenna. “Where do these natives live? Have you got their village marked on the map you’re preparing?”
“Village?” Jenna said. “I’ve had problems enough mapping the site. We’re surrounded by rain forest. There aren’t any trails. You don’t just go wandering around out there. You’ll get lost or worse. Village? We haven’t seen even one native, let alone a village.”
“And yet you’re certain they’re responsible?” Drummond turned to his assistant. “Raymond, find them. Stop them.”
“Yes, sir.” Raymond opened the door.
“But Raymond. .”
“Yes, sir?”
“Since this is their backyard, since they know it thoroughly, I want one native able to talk. Bring him to camp for questioning. Maybe he’ll know where to find what we’re looking for.”
As Raymond left the building, a man in a blue pilot’s uniform appeared. He had a red logo-DRUMMOND INDUSTRIES-on his jacket pocket.
“Sir, there’s a call for you on the helicopter radio.” He was slightly out of breath.
“Have it transferred to here. McIntyre, what frequency have you been using?”
McIntyre told the pilot, who hurried away.
Drummond gestured toward the map that Jenna had braced beneath her left arm. “Let me see what you’ve accomplished.”
Jenna spread the map across a table.
“No, no, no,” Drummond said.
“What’s wrong? I was thorough. I double-checked every-”
“That’s exactly the problem. You were thorough. I told you specifically. I wanted a map that would look convincing to the Mexican authorities.” Drummond led her out the door, gesturing toward the commotion of the site, workers clearing trees and stacking equipment.
Assaulted by harsh sunlight after the shadows of the room, Jenna shielded her eyes and directed her attention toward where Drummond pointed. As more and more trees were cut down and dragged away to be burned, as more bushes were plowed free, as what seemed to be hills became ever more distinctly pyramids, temples, and palaces, the legacy of the once-great Mayan empire, her heart pounded.
“Too much depends on this,” Drummond said. “Your map can’t-”
He was suddenly interrupted by a crackly, static-ridden voice on the radio.
“That’s your call coming through,” McIntyre said.
“Is the scrambler functioning?”
McIntyre nodded. “Just flick the switch.”
“Stay here. I won’t be long.”
After Drummond entered the building and shut the door, leaving Jenna and McIntyre outside, Jenna shook her head, frustrated, puzzled, angry. “That son of a bitch.”
“Keep your voice down,” McIntyre said. “He might hear you.”
McIntyre was right, Jenna realized. Even with the noise from the vehicles and the workers, she was close enough to the door that her voice might carry.
But by that same logic. .
The door fit the crude frame loosely. It had inched open after Drummond closed it. Jenna heard occasional raspy outbursts.
“. . Find the woman. If Delgado learns she isn’t cooperating. . ruined. Everything. Find her. Use every pressure. I don’t care what you have to. . Kill him if. .”
Then Jenna couldn’t hear Drummond anymore, and at once she stepped farther from the door, joining McIntyre, feeling sick but trying to seem as if she was a good employee waiting patiently.
Drummond jerked the door open and stalked outside. A black pall appeared to surround him despite the sunlight that gleamed off his thick white hair and his glasses. He was about to continue verbally assaulting Jenna when he noticed something to the left and looked briefly heartened.
Following his gaze, Jenna saw Raymond wearing outdoor clothes, carrying a rifle, entering the jungle. Even at a distance, his excitement was evident.
Then Drummond’s brittle, forceful voice jerked her attention back to him.
“All of this,” he demanded, gesturing. “You’ve been far too faithful on your map, far too diligent. The Mexican authorities can’t be allowed to realize how massive and important a find this is. Your map has to make it seem minor, an insignificant site that doesn’t merit undue attention, something that won’t he an irreplaceable loss.” Drummond pointed toward the majestic temples, the hieroglyph-engraved palaces, and the great terraced pyramid where gigantic snake heads guarded the bottom of the wide, high stairs that went up each side. “Because ten days from now, I expect all of that to be leveled. Do you hear me, McIntyre?” He glared at the foreman. “You knew the orders. You understood the schedule. Use bulldozers. Use sledgehammers. Use dynamite. If you have to, use your fingernails. Ten days from now, I expect my equipment to be set up and all of this to be gone. Level it. Scatter the rubble. Truck it out. Dump it in sinkholes. Have the helicopters lift it out. I don’t care how you do it. I want it gone!”
SIX
1
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
The safe site was on the third floor, yet another apartment in yet another sprawling complex into which Buchanan could easily blend. After he’d arrived in Washington from Florida, he’d used a pay phone to report to his controller, just as he’d reported at various stops along the Amtrak route. A man’s voice told him to be waiting, seated, on the steps outside the Library of Congress at 3:00 P.M. Precisely at that time, a middle-aged man wearing a blue blazer and gray slacks stopped beside him and bent down to tie his right shoe. When the man departed, Buchanan concealed the small envelope that the man had slid toward him. After waiting five minutes longer, Buchanan then went into the Library of Congress, entered a men’s room, and locked himself in a stall, where he opened the envelope, took out a key, and read a slip of paper that provided him with a name, some biographical information, an Alexandria address, and an apartment number. The paper and the envelope were far from ordinary. He dropped them into the water in the toilet and watched them dissolve. In the library’s reference section, he used an area directory to tell him which major streets were near the Alexandria apartment, and shortly before six that evening, he got out of a taxi a few blocks from his destination, walking the rest of the way, out of habit using evasion procedures in case he was being followed.
His name was now Don Colton, he’d been informed. He was supposed to be a writer for a travel magazine that he assumed was affiliated with his controllers. Posing as a travel writer was an excellent cover, Buchanan thought, inasmuch as a travel writer by definition was on the move a great deal and hence the neighbors wouldn’t consider it unusual that they never saw him. However, because Buchanan’s controllers would not have had sufficient time to tailor the cover specifically to him, he automatically assumed that this identity would be temporary, an all-purpose, one-size-fits-all persona that his controllers maintained for emergencies. As Don Colton, Buchanan was in a holding pattern and would soon be sent to God-knew-where as God-knew-who.