Midway through the file, I almost exclaimed out loud. I’d found what I wanted. Before I could look further, however, I heard the sound of a car engine Very nearby. I stuffed the file back into the drawer, closed it, pushed the lock shut and extinguished the light, almost in one motion. Footsteps crunched on the sand and gravel that surrounded the building. Then the back door rattled, and the glare of a flashlight swept the upper windows. Night watchman, I thought, checking the doors and windows. I hoped his patrol did not include searching the interior.
The steps moved on, then the two doors by the kiln were tried in succession.
I waited, barely breathing, until the footsteps died away. The check of the property must have been fairly thorough, because several minutes went by, and I still hadn’t heard the sound of the car engine starting, a signal that this inspection was at an end. Did this mean, I wondered, that the watchman was permanently stationed there for the night, or was he checking out the other buildings more carefully? I waited several minutes more, then, deciding I couldn’t wait all night, I plotted in my mind a route back to the truck that would take me away from the main buildings.
I remembered the old ruin of a building out back, and after looking carefully about me, and pulling the locked door shut behind me, I headed across the sand in its direction. It was quite a distance away, but I made it, then stood behind it to listen. Absolute silence greeted me. I kept close to the walls of the building and went around to the back where a door was located. That’s strange, I thought, but at that moment, a flashlight came around the comer of the main building once again, and I pulled back into the darkness. As soon as the guard, or whoever it was, had made his circuit, I looked again.
Two things caught my attention. First of all there was a padlock on the door of the ruin. That shouldn’t have been necessary, I thought. Secondly, an electric cord had been threaded under the door. As unnecessary as a padlock might be on a- ruined building, electricity was even less useful, I’d have thought. I picked it up. I couldn’t slide under the door, of course, but I decided to follow the cord back to see if it was actually plugged in somewhere. The cord snaked its way along the wall of the building farthest away from the factory. I came to the corner of the building, and followed the cord around it. It was very dark, and I stumbled over an object in my path. A large object. I switched on the flashlight I had brought with me. Carlos Montero was dead. Shot. It was all I could do to keep from screaming.
I thought for a second or two what I should do. Carlos was beyond help. They’d find him soon enough. I angled away from the building and made a large circle back to the truck.
Back at the hacienda, I opened the front door and started across the courtyard in the dark. “Hands up,” a voice said. “Turn around very slowly.”
This time, it wasn’t Lucho playing freedom fighter.
I turned around to face the voice.
15
Hilda stood in shadow, her tall, slight figure barely discernible to my eyes, framed only by the dim light from outside. I on the other hand was the perfect target, caught in the beam of her flashlight. She gestured at me to move into the dining room, then shut the door behind her. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?” she rasped. “And don’t tell me you’re Rebecca MacCrimmon just trying to catch up on some work in the lab. I’ve had your passport checked. The name and the number don’t match.”
What to do? Sometimes in life you have to take a chance, make a choice. Feeling as if I stood on the edge of a precipice, I made my decision, and, taking a deep breath, stepped off.
“My name is Lara McClintoch,” I said. “I’m co-owner of an antiques shop called Greenhalgh and McClintoch in Toronto. I’m here because several weeks ago I went to an auction and picked up what I thought was a box of junk, except that there were objects in it, supposedly replicas of pre-Columbian artifacts, that I later decided were real. One of them came from here, Campina Vieja, at least that’s what it said. Two of the objects disappeared; someone was killed, murdered in my shop; our one employee, a dear friend of mine, was attacked; and then the shop was set on fire. The police think my employee has something to do with it all, and if they think that, they’ll end up charging him with manslaughter at the very least. And if they clear him, then they’ll be after me for arson probably, insurance fraud that went wrong. So I went to New York to find the source of these objects, and someone else got murdered.”
I paused to catch my breath and then continued. “After that, I headed for the source, or what I thought was the source, and here I am. That’s the short version, but you get the general idea,” I said, trying not to sound terrified.
“That’s quite a story,” she said. Wait till you hear the rest of it, I thought. “Perhaps the missing details would make it more plausible,” she went on, more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “What did these objects look like?”
“There was a silver peanut, about life-size; an ear spool of gold, turquoise, and some other materials; and a flared vase with serpents drawn around the rim, sort of like this,” I said, dropping my hands slightly to indicate the shape.
“It’s called a florero,” she said, and then I knew I was safe. You don’t correct people’s description of things, I decided, if you’re planning to shoot them.
“A florero,” I agreed. “It had hecho en Peru stamped on the bottom, and there was a card that said it was a pre-Columbian replica from Campina Vieja.”
Hilda said nothing, so I pressed on. “So now,” I said into the shadows, “perhaps you could return the favor and tell me who you are and why you’re here.”
“What do you mean?” she demanded.
“I don’t think the average person would know how to check out a passport,” I replied.
“Even fewer average people know how to get a fake one,” she snapped.
“Touche,” I replied.
“Furthermore,” she went on, her voice heavy with rebuke, “my name really is Hilda Schwengen, and I really am an archaeologist.”
I said nothing, just waited.
“I am also,” she said reluctantly, “from time to time, a consultant to U.S. Customs.”
“Consultant? What’s a consultant? Are you an agent? And,” I added, pushing my luck a little, “could we discuss this in a little more civilized manner? Would you mind putting down the gun—is it the one we’re looking for, by the way?”
Another pause. Finally she stepped forward, to the other side of the table, and set the gun in front of her. “Sit down,” she ordered. She pulled up a chair and sat facing me: We were like two opponents in a chess match, sizing each other up. Her hair, usually tied back, was down around her shoulders, and she was wearing a bulky cotton terry robe, which emphasized her thinness somehow, and no shoes. I was also in my bare feet, having taken off my shoes to creep in. This encounter was beginning to have the rather endearing air of a pajama party, except for the gun. I could see it was a small pistol of a size that would fit in a handbag, not the one I’d been looking for.
“You’re an agent?” I prompted after a moment or two of silence.
“No,” she said. “I just give them information from time to time.”
“An informant?”
“If I’m an informant, I’m not a paid one,” she sighed. “I keep my eyes and ears open, that’s all.”
“Drugs? Artifacts?”