After about an hour Ronnie held up his hand again and waited for the others to come up to him. Here, the trail widened a bit. They stood close together. Selena drank some water.
"We're close," Ronnie said. "Doesn't look like anyone's come back this way, yet."
Selena became acutely aware of the sounds all around them, a constant murmur of life that never ceased. The jungle had it's own voice. Chattering birds. Sounds she couldn't identify. Insects. The hum of mosquitoes grew louder. She wiped sweat away. Her hand came away smeared with green camouflage paint. She drank some more water.
"All right," Nick said. "Whoever is here has to be hostile."
He looked at Selena. She still needs looking out for. "We'll get close and scout the area and play it by ear," he said to her. "Follow our lead, you'll be fine. Watch your back."
She nodded.
"Let's go."
Ronnie led them down the trail. After another ten minutes, he signaled. Ahead, the dark mass of the pyramid rose through the trees.
"That's it," Nick said. His voice was very quiet. "Get off the trail. Selena, watch the noise."
They moved off the trail and crept through the foliage. Selena saw a tiny frog jump from a broad leaf. A brown spider as big as her fist scuttled away underfoot. She shuddered. They came to the edge of what had been a wide plaza in front of the Mayan ruin. She peered out through the leaves. The uneven pavement of the plaza was twisted and broken where trees had pushed up through the stones.
The pyramid rose high into the canopy overhead. The passage of time had not been kind. The stones were stained dark by the rains of centuries. Tall trees pushed up against it. Carvings of faces and serpents peered out from behind the jungle growth. Tangled vines with thick trunks and deep green leaves blurred the outlines of crumbling stone ledges. A steep set of steps ran up the center of the ruin from the plaza to a stone altar and a square-shaped temple on the peak.
At the foot of the steps were two tents. Two men stood by one of them, talking and laughing. They were dressed in dull green. Not an official uniform. Not civilian clothes. They were armed.
"They're carrying AN-94s," Ronnie said. "How the hell do they get those?"
The AN-94 was Russia's newest assault rifle, a highly advanced weapon. 5.45 mm, with a radical design that fired two rounds at a time and minimized recoil. The shooter had trigger selection to control the rate of fire, from 600 to 1800 rounds per minute. Production problems and a Kremlin hard up for cash meant only elite forces had access to them. Their presence in the Yucatan proved high level government involvement.
"I don't think those guys are archeologists," Lamont said.
Selena listened. "They're speaking Russian."
"What are they saying?"
"Something about a woman called Nadia." She listened. Her face tightened. "They're pigs. They raped her. They're laughing about it."
A radio squawked. One of the men spoke into a shoulder microphone.
"They've found something," Selena said. "Whatever they were looking for."
Three men emerged from the doorway at the top of the ruin. One held something wrapped in cloth up over his head, grinning. He shouted something. The three started down the steps leading to the plaza.
"How you want to do it?" Lamont brushed a mosquito away. The men had reached the half way point in their descent.
"Wait until they're almost at the bottom," Nick said. "Then hit them."
Selena rubbed her nose.
"Try to keep one alive," he said.
Then Selena sneezed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Malcolm Foxworth's villa in Tuscany was built on terraces cut into the steep slope of a rugged promontory jutting out into the Arno River. A narrow road wound down the side of a small mountain and ended at a set of formidable iron gates. Twelve foot high walls topped with glass shards surrounded three sides of the property.
The river side was dominated by a massive stone landing. Behind it was a channel leading from the river to a boat house under the villa. Entry to the boat house was blocked by steel gates. Two neo-classical statues of Roman gods stood guard on the ends of the pier. An elegant stone railing followed a long flight of steps and landings leading up from the river to the main house.
The villa was old. It was large, four stories high. Two narrow, pointed towers flanked one end, commanding a view of the river. Above the main building more steps rose to a second building and then to the level of the landside entry, where there was a large paved courtyard and another three story structure that housed the guards and the villa staff.
The walls glowed yellow in the welcoming Tuscan sunlight. The villa with its red tile roofs by the river looked like a vacation dream of Italy. No one could have guessed the kinds of dreams that took place within those picture perfect walls.
Doctor Morel put the syringe back in his case and closed it. Foxworth felt the pain ease. Lately the headaches were much worse. More frequent.
"Send Healy in," he said.
"Of course, Malcolm."
Morel picked up his case and left. A moment later Foxworth's chief of security came into the room. He looked calm, but Foxworth was a master at reading people. He knew Healy was nervous. As he should be.
"You fucked up again, Healy."
"The team in Mafra were good. It should have been enough."
Foxworth waited. He drew the silence out, let Healy sweat. Finally he said, "All right. Harker's people are damn good. But there better not be any more problems. Give me a progress report."
"There's a sealed room at the top of the pyramid. They're working to get into it. If there's anything there, that's where it will be. Aside from that, it's just another pile of stone."
"How are Ogorov's men performing?"
Healy shrugged. "They follow orders. It was Ogorov's people that got it in Portugal. You give me the men I want, we'll be better off."
"No. There are too many leaks in the mercenary groups. Too many ears. Besides, I tried it your way in California and Washington. Ogorov's men are trained and they're not on the radar."
"Whatever you say, sir."
"That's right. Whatever I say. Keep me informed." Healy turned to go.
"Find Mandy and send her in."
"Yes, sir."
He watched Healy shut the door behind him and thought about Mandy.
Damn the woman. It had been a long time since he'd let a woman get under his skin. She was like a drug, like one of Morel's concoctions. It wasn't just the sex, though Mandy was inventive and enthusiastic. She was smart. She did her job well in her official capacity as his assistant. She was brilliant at sensing when someone was lying, an extremely useful asset. Probably because she was such a good liar herself.
She was having an affair with Healy. Foxworth was almost ready to do something about it. Healy had been making mistakes. Mandy was one mistake too many.
Foxworth didn't love Mandy. He wasn't sure what love meant. But he needed her, he was sure about that. As long as he kept her satisfied with the trinkets his fortune could buy and gave her freedom for the occasional affair, she'd stay. But Healy was too close to home. He couldn't allow it to go on much longer.
As Healy went to find Mandy he thought about Foxworth. The arrogant son of a bitch. He wouldn't last a second in a firefight. He walked through the villa looking for her and found her on the garden terrace. She sat at a table, sipping something red with ice in it.
"He wants you," Healy said.
Mandy Atherton wore a designer dress of pale blue silk that highlighted her unusual beauty. Anyone could see why she had graced the covers of every important fashion magazine in the world. Around her throat was a chased gold choker of diamonds and sapphires. The sapphires and the dress picked up the color of her eyes. The hard white gleam of the diamonds went with something unseen inside her.