Rafael Calderon, the man she recognized, stood off to the side, his polished leather shoes gleaming in the grass as he inspected a stone sculpture that was not old enough to qualify as one of the showcased exhibits in the museum. In essence, the piece was just a common lawn ornament.
Solis followed Alex’s eyes and grunted. “Pick someone better to start with. This man is cheap.”
“
It’s the Vice President of Venezuela.”
“
Si, and he has a wonderful collection of Mayan art. A beginner’s collection, but one to be proud of.”
“
These are
stolen
!”
A willowy woman with gleaming blond hair and a shiny satin dress turned at the pitch of Alex’s voice. Solis flashed his signature grin and threw in a wink for good measure. The woman volleyed with an anorexic simper−a practiced gesture straight from a fashion runway.
“
Quiet,” he ordered out of the side of his mouth.
The blond was ushered away and Solis resumed. “What is the saying you have?” He flailed his hand and Alex noticed that tonight he wore gold rings on three of his fingers. “If a tree falls in the woods, does anyone hear it?” Solis quoted, and then added, “If a piece sits in a
private
exhibit…who is to say that it is stolen?”
“
Your days are numbered, Se
ñ
or Solis.” She managed a tight smile to match his own.
“
Go ahead, Miss Langley. Go and sell Rafael Calderon something.” He waved her off with a crook of his head. “Your life depends on it.”
Eager faces now shifted en masse towards the limestone entrance, cocktails still clutched in their hands. The pitch of the conversation in a host of languages reached a crescendo as they entered the complex with universal murmurs of approval. Alex fell in behind them, noticing that a semi-circle of enthusiastic patrons had already crowded around Gwen as she used game show gestures while discussing the circular stone with Cancuen's king engraved on it.
With her eye on Venezuela’s Vice President who distanced himself from the throng in front of a display of less lavish pieces, Alex started in that direction, but felt the tight tug of fingers on her bare arm.
“
Excuse me−” She yanked on her arm and then choked at the sight of the short, pockmark-faced man in a beige, double-breasted suit. The top three buttons of the white shirt beneath it were unfastened to reveal two gold chains on a bed of black hair.
El Ojo
. The Eye.
It was impossible not to identify this man. He suffered from
Heterochromia iridium
, a condition that resulted in two different colored irises. His left eye bore the chocolate shade indicative of his Panamanian heritage, but the other orb was much lighter, nearly golden in hue. It was said that he was not born that way, and that possibly he experimented too much with his own drugs. The more accurate summation however, was that his eye was struck with the barrel of a rifle during a skirmish inside his stockade. Known for cocaine and heroin smuggling, and money laundering to name a few of the public offenses, El Ojo, or Felix Acosta was said to have on staff a group of assassins to eradicate any potential threats. He was also of such great wealth that Forbes magazine had ranked him in the top ten richest men one year.
Alex trembled being in such close proximity to a man responsible for an estimated thousand murders.
“
Tell me about this piece.” He spoke in English, which surprised her, but his accent was menacing.
Tearing away from the golden eye, she looked at the glass-encased item sitting on a silver pedestal. She noticed today that the artifacts had small index cards in the corner of their glass casings listing a price.
2.5 million dollars.
“
A jade mosaic mask
−” she began. “A death mask, reputed to be circa 200 to 500 AD.”
God, it was beautiful.
“You’ll notice the teeth are made of shell.”
El Ojo had his arms crossed and his legs apart, a stance to review the piece at all angles. He waved his hand, gold jingling around his wrist. “Tell me,” he nodded. “They informed me that you are one of the best in the field. Tell me. Is that price appropriate in your opinion?”
The man had his own personal band of assassins, Alex reminded herself, and yet she was about to do the unthinkable.
“
No, not really.”
Black eyebrows arched high into a receding black hairline as mauve lips puckered in consideration. “Interesting. What would you consider a fair figure on this piece?”
Alex circled the glass cabinet and tapped her chin. “Maybe eight to nine hundred.”
“
Ay, we go from 2.5 million to 900,000 dollars. That
is
a bit of a mark up.”
“
No,” she corrected. “900 dollars. This jade is plated and the shape of the lips is not authentic at all. The teeth are actually not indicative of the period either.”
“
It’s a fake?”
Alex struggled not to cower under the raised voice. What the hell was she thinking? She just couldn’t go through with this role Solis imposed on her. Most likely she would die down here, or at a minimum, rot−and she wanted Phillip’s reputation to be tarnished and his credibility in the field to be destroyed as viciously as her trust had been. She also wanted the artifacts to remain centralized in this location in the hope that someday they could be restored en masse. If they were dispersed to the private sector it would be impossible to hunt them all down.
“
That is just my humble opinion,” she murmured, and managed enough courage to walk away.
There wouldn’t be much time so she hurried, looking for the next target. She recognized a man she suspected to be Klaus Giesing, one of the richest European criminals. A female adorned each of his arms and she didn’t want the distraction they imposed.
Again she eyed Venezuela’s Vice President. He was corrupt if he had a penchant for purchasing stolen artwork, but he represented the government as opposed to the criminal sect.
Alex stepped up alongside the man, the top of her head coming even with the slope of his shoulder. “1.3 million dollars seems a little steep, don’t you think?”
Startled, Rafael Calderon stepped back from the stone depiction of a Mayan goddess.
“
It would look beautiful in my garden, but yes, I’m looking for something under a million if such an item exists around here.” His eyes vaulted up the atrium, searching the exposed floors.
“
Well, you should be able to get this piece for about three thousand dollars, I would estimate.”
His eyes jumped back down to hers. “Que´?”
“
I mean, yes, it is an exquisite piece, but its height, and the way the knees are bent, even the footwear are all signs of a counterfeit.”
Calderon looked at the statue again−a distinct female form bathed by the artificial bulbs tucked inside her glass container. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered.
Preoccupied with the sculpture, Calderon did not notice when Alex walked away. She picked up her pace, avoiding eye contact with the suits around her. She was permitted to go to the bathroom, wasn’t she? Trying to locate Gwen, she didn’t dwell on finding the woman as the exposure would risk her getting hauled over to review another piece. She wanted to get to Mitch. If he had an idea on escape,
now
would be the time to share it.
She made it to the limestone wall marked with the word RESTROOMS and darted behind it with a last glimpse over her shoulder to see if she had been followed. Rapping on the unmarked door, she nearly collapsed with relief when Mitch opened it, startled to see her.
“
Alex? Are you okay?” At once he was touching her, his hand on her forearm. She thought he sought to confirm she was unharmed, but realized that he was attempting to steady her quaking limbs.
“
I was giving it fifteen more minutes,” he said in his husky tone, “and then I was going to say screw it. Let them do what they will, but I needed to be out there and make sure you were okay.”
“
The guards would have grabbed you before you stepped out from behind the wall,” Joseph Pastorelli called out from the couch.
“
They didn’t grab me running back here.” Alex pointed out as she hastened inside and Mitch closed the door behind her.
“
Oh no?” Joseph held up his fist and pumped it twice, mouthing, “Knock. Knock.”
On cue the door to the apartment hauled open, and the tight living quarters flooded with security personnel she had not even detected inside the museum.
Shooting a desperate glance at Mitch, she whispered, “Oh Mitch, I did something stupid.”
Men in black and gold uniforms swarmed around her, their handguns extended. When Mitch moved in to shelter her, they arrested him with the same treatment. She recognized some of these guards from the compound, but they were polished today, freshly shaven and dressed in uniforms stamped with Xibalba’s insignia.
Mitch managed to reach for her arm to draw her closer.
The front door was still open as Solis charged in with black eyes flared and muscles straining beneath a tuxedo that was intentionally one size too small. His chest heaved and perspiration fused with the gel in his hair to produce an unbearable scent.
Loathsome would best describe the expression on his face as his eyes narrowed on Alex.
“
Are you insane?” The once rich timbre now pitched into a shrill falsetto.
“
You know damn well that everything here is authentic!
THAT
is why you were brought here. Your credentials…” Anxious eyes darted towards the door. “The fact that you could authent−authenticate them.”
“
Oh no,” Mitch clutched her arm. “You weren’t kidding.”
“
Well, I hope you are happy, Señorita.” Solis nodded with a maniacal smirk, “I hope you are goddamn happy.”
He gave a quick jerk of his wrist and manacle-like fingers clamped down on her, hauling her away from Mitch. She cried out and felt the rigid metal tip of a handgun in her back. This elite group of guards carried small automatic arms, much easier to conceal than the daunting counterparts used in the compound above ground. She caught a glimpse of Mitch’s face, so intense that his eyes alone could be used as lethal weapons.
One of the guards pointed a gun at Joseph Pastorelli who had yet to rise from the couch.
“
He is nada,” Solis snorted. “Vamos.”
Alex resisted the tow on her forearm and yelled, “Where are you taking us?”
Solis paused in the doorway. “
He
wants to see you. He wants to see
both
of you. He is not happy right now. May God have mercy on your souls.”
***
They were escorted out of the apartment, surprised to discover that the museum was empty. Signs of life could be heard from out in the gardens. Shouts and loud exchanges volleyed with anxious female laughter, but both grew faint and were drowned out by the band playing as if this were the sinking of the Titanic.
Mitch tried to think. His plans for an escape did not call for a six man escort. Only a few feet away Alex held her chin up as he was accustomed to seeing her do, but there were wrinkles of fear tugging at the corner of her eye. Motion in her jaw revealed that she was grinding her teeth, and at that moment she turned her head and her eyes pleaded forgiveness.
He tried for a smile or any consoling gesture to ease her tension. But how much comfort could you extend when six armed men surrounded you on a convoy heading towards the ringleader who would issue your death sentence on the spot? If there was one saving grace, Mitch was pleased that he was going to get to see Nicholson face to face one last time.
They reached the base of a grand staircase with zigzag landings and gold floral-patterned carpeting−a flagrant touch straight from the decks of a cruise ship, but instead of ascending this, Solis motioned them towards an elevator off to the right. Inside the compartment, he wrenched open the top two buttons of his white shirt and kept his head tilted back, his lips moving, perhaps rehearsing his defense.
Three floor numbers ticked by and the metal door swung open on a ding. They were on the fourth floor, a level above the atrium. Mitch was no expert on Mayan history, but he swore they were stepping out into what might have been the replica of a tomb. Limestone walls were lined with primitive artwork and water trickled down one wall into a basin loaded with rocks of varying size and color. A huge stone altar sat in the middle of red carpeting and behind it a black wrought iron balcony overlooked the museum floor below. This was not a tomb. This was an office. And behind the stone altar sat an upholstered chair facing away from them. The white hair at the back of a man’s head was visible above it as the man stared out onto that balcony, disregarding their presence.
To hell with it, Mitch thought. He had no patience.
“
Phillip,” he called out and saw the man’s shoulders tense.
The chair swung around to reveal the arm of a navy blue jacket. It continued its rotation until finally the white hair and tan face glanced at him with the respect one might extend a tick. The man passed over him to focus on Alex.