Carter had to jam on the brakes to avoid a collision.
One man in khakis and carrying an AK-47 at port arms shouted at them to turn around and go back. He pointedly shouted in English, Spanish, and French. Because of the man's ease with languages, Carter wondered if it were Unkefer, but there was no getting close enough to tell. Another man, his handgun holstered on his hip, made exaggerated movements that were impossible to misjudge. They were to turn around right now. No delay. No room for discussion.
"What do you think?" Zachary asked.
"I think we'll get a warning blast in another moment," Carter replied, shifting their Toyota into reverse. "And if we even look like we'd try to go around them, it won't be a warning anymore."
The shouted order to go back was repeated, followed immediately by a warning blast from the automatic weapon.
Carter spun the car around and headed slowly back toward Belmopan. They were followed for about a mile when the lights on the vehicle behind them went out.
"Old trick," Carter said. "They could still be in back of us or they could have pulled off and returned to the convoy. In either case, I think this is as far as we go tonight."
"Where do you suppose that convoy was headed?" Zachary asked. "I've checked with my people and we're sure not sponsoring anything around here."
"I'm not sure what this is yet," Carter said. "That was heavy equipment and we're close enough to Guatemala and Honduras to suspect possible contra activity, but I'm betting on Lex Talionis."
Nick Carter and Sam Zachary were up early the next morning, dressed in casual clothing and ready for the run out to the Belize Center for the Arts. They were going to play the role of intellectuals, and do some rubbernecking at the poetry festival.
Zachary ordered a breakfast of fried bananas, black beans, fish, and fruit. Carter had other things on his mind; he was eager to get going. He decided to take advantage of the microwave relay station. He left the room, found an isolated phone booth, and called David Hawk.
"Where the hell are you, N3?" The crusty director of AXE fired up a cigar. "We've got to see some results. The LT have been at it again. They've made a big score. They've taken three Japanese investment bankers."
"You're sure it's LT?"
"Damn sure," Hawk rasped. "They're taking credit for it, the bastards. They've already described things the bankers were wearing."
"Shit," Carter muttered. "I was just starting to think I had a line on how this worked. What kind of leverage could they get with Japanese investment bankers?"
"Try this, Nick. Money. A huge ransom."
"Of course," Nick Carter said. "Operating capital. The ransom is for operating capital."
"Find them, Nick. And soon."
The road to the arts center was well marked with more of the same hand-painted signs, the grading and paving different from the state roads. "They must build and maintain their own roads," Zachary said.
As they approached the center, they stopped at the point where they had been confronted the previous night. There were a few tread marks remaining in the surface dust of the roadbed, but scant other clues. They saw footprints, large enough to be a man's, probably wearing boots.
"Not one shell casing in sight," Zachary observed. "When we left, they probably combed the area and picked up the shell casings they fired at us."
"Either that," Carter suggested, "or the locals have the equivalent of a great lost golf ball business. They collect the casings and know where to sell them back."
He got out his notepad and sketched the patterns of the two distinctive tire-tread markings. One was a thick Crosshatch, the other a large diamond pattern. Neither was notably unique. Carter looked at the footprints as well, finding one good set that had a new pair of Cat's Paw heels. Judging the size against his own foot, the Killmaster estimated the wearer of these boots was a size twelve, a beefy individual or one who carried a good deal of equipment.
Driving on, they began to notice a difference in the mountainous terrain. On either side of the road were broad savannas, lined by stands of trees in the distance. A semblance of landscaping began to appear, evidenced by symmetrical clumpings of bushes and arrays of wildflowers. A large stucco arch spanned the road, timeworn and cracked, but notably kept in some state of repair. In flowery letters was the logo for the Belize Center for the Arts. A cardboard sign welcomed all to the Spring Festival of the Arts.
As they continued, they saw a pond with a number of birds and fountains. Soon the road broadened into a one-way drive circumnavigating a large bed of flowers and tropical plants. Now buildings began to appear, small, ornate outbuildings and then a larger two-story construction with covered porches. Most of the buildings were made of plaster and adobe slapped on heavily over lath. The large, two-story building had been put together by seasoned professionals. The buildings appeared completely out of place, in some state of shabbiness but still rather elegant and ornate, with designs at the tips and bottoms of decorative pillars. A freehand sign directed those who wanted the campgrounds to the rear, adding that there were electricity and water hookups.
Carter remembered what Rose Cole had told him about the place having once been a large gaming casino and fat farm. Now it was a center for performing and visual arts. Or was it?
Another sign directed them to a parking area, where yet another sign carried the designation Registration. The obvious place to go for that purpose was a smaller building with a Quonset hut roof and an identification plaque describing it as the administration area.
"Looks like a campus," Zachary said. "Feels like a campus."
The two men parked and walked toward the administration building, noting a steady hum of generators. A scattering of young men and women, looking much like students, moved in apparent leisurely purpose.
Five minutes later, for ten dollars American, Carter and Zachary were welcomed by some enthusiastic young men and women, signed up for the arts festival, and directed to another building, student housing, for their accommodations.
"You're in luck," a stout young woman with a New York accent said. "I have two single-room accommodations left."
Carter and Zachary were parted from more money and sold a meal ticket that entitled them to use the cafeteria. The young woman gave them a photocopied map of the center, marking the cafeteria, bookstore, and gift shop, where they could buy the distinctive Belize Center for the Arts sweatshirt or T-shirt. They were told that an orientation tour was under way in the central courtyard, and they could join it if they wished.
Zachary spoke under his breath to Carter. "Looks like we're going to learn more about the Center for the Arts than we ever wanted to know, but we've got to check the place out.
As they headed toward the courtyard, they noticed a group of young men and women congregated in a group and Carter heard a distinctive voice with a touch of ethnic Pennsylvania in it. "There was a famous school in the U.S. in the forties," James Rogan said. "It was very famous because it produced a group of men and women who became the mainstream of poetry, writing, and teaching in this country for a long time. It was called Black Mountain. Our library has a lot of the work done by the Black Mountain people. I've consciously tried to model this place after Black Mountain. Hey, we're really going for a worldwide reputation here. We can be as good as we want to be."
Rogan, clad in a black turtleneck sweater and denims, made a broad, sweeping gesture to impress the group as a piercing whistle came from beyond the large complex buildings.