Belmopan Page 11

  Edmundo swept inside and stopped short, “I need a huge favor Jack. There has been a girl kidnapped from the Caracol dig. I believe they are making their way close to here, and I need to use your telephone.”

  “Sure, sure, but you look terrible. Can I get you some coffee?”

  “That would be great.” Edmundo replied.

  “You know where it is,” Jack directed to the telephone.

  Edmundo gave a nod and turned left into the overcrowded, cramped office of the Aguada.

  “Sure you wouldn’t like something a little stronger?”

  Without a word, Edmundo dialed some numbers and after several minutes was only able to leave a message on one.

  “Rats!” retorted Edmundo, as he reentered the dining room. To the right stood the long, drink service bar with Jack at the far end by the patio door, preparing the coffee. “Perhaps I’ll have a shot of rum.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Jackson poured two.

  Dai dos (day 2)

  The morning light came early as Edmundo jerked awake from a deep sleep. Being convinced by Jack that a few hours’ sleep would do him no harm; the rum eased his racing brain long enough to shut down for several hours. The bed covers had hardly wrinkled under his weight on the firm mattress. Splashing some tepid water on his face and rinsing the film from his mouth down the drain, he grabbed his light leather jacket and silently left the room. Passing the palms that overshadowed the open pool, and the large thatch covered dining hut, he exited through the steel gate, careful not to let it clang. The only soul to bid him farewell was a restful iguana warming himself in the early morning sun; the roosters had already performed their early morning arias.

  Within the hour, Edmundo had passed the Hummingbird-Highway-turnoff for Belmopan and contemplated a visit to the ministry, but considered what little could be accomplished by the bureaucracy and without more thought continued on the Western Highway. The good doctor would be his first bet for starters, and if he made good time he could be Belize City for brunch; the second, some commando friends.

  Magnus’s front gate which led to the stone steps to his upper floor rooms was ajar. Edmundo could faintly hear the singing of a women coming from up above. Confident in knowing Magnus would not object, he climbed the stairs and entered the open area and looked about. The woman’s voice emanated from the kitchen at the rear of the apartment. The work desk was cluttered with papers and drawings of stelae; clay figurines lay chipped and scattered.

  “Hello!” he yelled, vying for attention.

  A middle-aged woman appeared in the doorway, startled by the intrusion. “What can I do for you?”

  “Oh, I’m looking for Mag. I phoned earlier but did not get an answer, so I dropped by to say hello. Any idea when he will return?”

  “No,” she replied. “He is in and out all the time. I never know when he returns or when he goes. I hear his gate open and close. I don’t know whether he is coming or going. He does not…”

  “Thank you,” stopping her in mid-sentence. “I will drop by later.”

  By the time Edmundo got to the museum close to Eve Street, lunch-hour was over and Maria was still not back. Sitting patiently in his pickup, he watched the pedestrian traffic pass the entrance way leading to the guard house. Eventually, a bouncy, well-endowed brunette in high-heels struggled up the incline past the gate-house. The guard leaned out the window with a smile on his face, “Hi Maria,” and watched as her buttocks and full thighs wrestled beneath the fabric of her tight, black, knee-length skirt.

  “Hi sis,” Edmundo chanted from behind the wheel of his truck.

  Startled, Maria turned and lifted her sunglasses with glee, “Mundie!” She toddled the few yards to where he was and stuck her head through the open window to give him a kiss.

  “What on earth are you doing here?” she asked surprised. “Weren’t you just in Caracol?”

  “I drove almost all night to get here,” he stated, climbing from behind the wheel and slamming the door. “Is there anywhere we can talk?”

  “Sure, follow me. My office is downstairs.”

  The coolness in the basement of the new, museum addition was welcome as they made small-talk about family matters and the need to get together more often. Closing the door behind him, Edmundo asked whether the fellow from Canada had returned.

  “Well, as a matter of fact, I have just come from seeing him at the Royal Reef. I did as you asked and found out a few more things about him and, well, he’s not a doctor. He just said that to try and get me to tell him what I knew about Shawna, which was nothing,” tilting her head sideways in thought. “But I did tell him there was a chance she could be in several different sites.”

  “You didn’t tell him that she…” Edmundo stopped Maria short.

  “No, no, no, that she was with you?” Maria interjected.

  “Well, she’s not anymore.” He said with head hung low. “She was kidnapped from the site yesterday. The Military are out trying to get on the trail, but I don’t think they’ll have much luck without some further help. I’ve been trying to get a hold of Dr. Magnus without much luck.”

  “Is he that archaeologist that lost his wife all those years ago and went kinda, nuts?”

  “Well yeah, but he’s not nuts, just a bit eccentric. He knows more about Mayan anthropology than anyone in the area, which is why I need to see him and Man Ocho. I need to get hold of Ocho; he will know where some of the guys are.”

  She thought for a moment, “I think he’s dating a new girl, a dancer working at the Tigris.”

  “Thanks sis,” he motioned to get up and leave. “I have another favor to ask.”

  “What is it?”

  “Could you put me up for the night? If I get stuck with Ocho and the guys, I’ll never make it back to Santa Elena tomorrow, a least not in one piece.”

  “Sure.” she replied. “I can put up with you for one night.”

  “Thanks Sis, by the way, what happened to your arm?”

  “Oh,” looking down at the slight bruise at the crease of her elbow. “I donated blood a few weeks ago. Does it look that bad?”

  “No. It’s just that Shawna had the same thing done a while back, a letter in the mail about a shortage of blood.”

  Then Maria thought for a minute, “Yeah, and then a funny, little man with glasses came a few days later and asked if I’d heard about the shortage. I just went to the clinic he suggested and thought nothing of it.”

  “Odd,” Mundie asserted walking toward the door. “I’ll catch you later.”

  Club Tigris was a wild sort of place. The patronage was younger and reflected the more affluent class of Belizeans that decided to go slumming for the night. There were some drugs, but mostly alcohol was the intoxicant of choice, which flowed abundantly. The interior décor was reminiscent of the many previous owners that had occupied the building. Spanish stucco, adorned with Caribe murals accented with pottery shards and clay figurines, lined the walls. A bamboo canopy over the bold, garish, mahogany bar remnant of years of British influence, was tucked far on the back wall; an ethnic variety of patrons perched on tall, bamboo, steel re-enforced stools adorned its perimeter.

  The British Army contingency had commandeered the Tigris as its own with a few Belize Defenses intermingling in the crowd to add some local flavor. The Belizean girls were beautiful, with Spanish, native Creole and black mixed together to make a long, shapely, seductive, irresistible, mocha desert that few could refuse. The fair skinned, British and American girls that found themselves here, were in short supply and never long without someone vying for their attention. Scantily clad, bronze, slippery dancers dotted the bar area encouraging patrons to the open floors to dance and mingle; they kept the atmosphere alive till the wee hours of the morning.

  At the bar sat a broad-shouldered, fair-haired, muscular, young man with his back to the festivities. Strategically placed in front of glass shelves with a mirror behind that reflected all who entered and left the establishment, he watched. I
t was not his job, it was what he was trained to do; by nature, he sized everyone up to determine ‘shield or friend’, with zero tolerance to anyone who did not obey the unspoken code of conduct. Passing-out, stone drunk was acceptable.

  Man Ocho was a special-ops member of the elite ‘Jungle Jedi, renowned for their skill in close hand-tohand combat and forays into the hostile jungles of a number of countries. The girls he knew and dated, gave him the nickname Ocho for his ‘special-ops’ equipment. Not restricted to the discipline of fidelity, he usually kept his girlfriends for only months at a time and moved on when things got too possessive. Mundie, (Edmundo’s nickname) got to know Ocho while serving together in the Jungles of Honduras on the lookout for Contra Rebels near the Salvadorian border. Ocho was cool-headed and had the ability to execute operations and strike in a quick, orderly fashion with no trace and little, collateral damage. Respect for his years of service and skill, had shown up in his record with commendation and no casualties under his command section; a great feat under extraordinary circumstances. If anyone would be able to find Shawna and her abductors, it would be Ocho.

  Edmundo talked briefly with Ocho at the bar, the two retreated to a less audibly, intrusive area of the club to drink beer and strategize.

  “You know we have no mandate to do this Mundie.” Ocho argued, taking a sip of his beer. “I know, but some of the guys are already on the hunt, a least I think they are. A Gazelle flew over the area before I left, and I could swear I saw part of the team.”

  “You’re probably right. Some of the guys are on a training run in the western mountains. I’m not sure who the commander is; Gizmo should be there, but I can go to Price Barracks and try to dig up some info.” Ocho thought for a moment and grabbed up his beer. “I’m owed a few favors,” he announced, with a sly grin from one corner of his mouth while he strained a sip of beer through the other.

  “I’ll see you in the morning.” Edmundo sighed, grateful for his friend’s involvement. Dia tres (day 3)

  The noise and traffic along Albert Street, was exceptionally loud for a Thursday morning. The sun was noticeably higher in the sky than he would have liked. Realizing he had slept late, Edmundo reached for the clock temporarily placed on the coffee table in front of the couch and read, “8:30.” The beer from the night before, and two days of nearly no sleep had caught up with him; he was getting soft. Reaching for his cell, he flapped it open to see if any messages had been sent; none. Grabbing his duffle bag, he rummaged through till he found his toothpaste and a change of underwear and socks; the rest would have to wait. Splashing some water over his face and running his wet fingers through his hair, Edmundo ran down the stairs of the quaint, centuries-old, second story apartment building to the bustling street below. His blue, pickup truck had remained untouched for the night and threw his bag into the passenger’s seat. Wheeling around the corner, he headed down toward Haulover Creek and then over to the museum. Within ten minutes, Edmundo was entering the lane to the museum and was confronted with a lineup of cars and a small crowd of people. An ambulance and several foot-patrol Police were blocking the way and helped to direct the cars and pedestrians away from the area. Parking the pickup as close to the museum as the traffic would allow, he edged his way, by foot, to the security gate and the officer inside. Recognizing Edmundo, the security guard waved Edmundo through and then gave the police guard a nod in approval. Allowed to pass, he entered the rear of the building and down the stairs to the offices below. Outside Maria’s office stood a plainclothed officer who barred him from entering.

  “I’m Edmundo DelaCruz, Maria’s brother.” He flashed his Ministry badge and looked toward the attending officer in the room. The police Sergeant noticing Maria’s motion of recognition, looked at the officer by the door, and nodded for Edmundo to enter.

  “What happened?” Edmundo quarried, as he walked by the young, museum security guard on the gurney, to Maria waiting on a chair.

  Maria’s face was scratched and bruised, her knuckles raw from contact with a rough pavement or object. “We were attacked,” she said emphatically. “If it hadn’t been for Romi,” nodding to the young man wrapped about the ribs with gauze, “I would be gone, Lord knows where.”

  Mundie looked toward the young man with a nod of appreciation, “Thanks.”

  In like, Romi nodded in return.

  “Did these guys try and take you?” Mundie asked.

  “He offered to sell me a figurine, and when I said no, he left and waited for me in the parking lot. He forced me into his van and punched me.” Tears started to well up in her now distraught face.

  “Don’t talk about it now sis. Are they taking you to the hospital?” Edmundo quarried.

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  Mundie squeezed her hand gently and kissed her cheek. “I have to get back to Santa Elena, and find out what is going on.” With that, he hurried by the guard officer and another onlooker by the door, out into the street above and back to his pickup. He had to get in touch with Ocho, and find-out what he’d come up with; trying him on the cell, there was nothing. Pulling out into the pedestrian traffic, he turned and headed west toward Haulover Bridge and the Western Highway.

  Once over the other side, his cell chimed, “Mundie? Ocho. We’ve got some intel on a camp in the Mountain Ridge that was recently deserted.”

  “Great!” Mundie replied.

  “The trail leads deeper into the jungle. Satellite shows two light vehicles there two days ago; they’re working on make and model; should have more later today. I’ve contacted a couple of guys. We have a go, but keep it discrete. I’ll meet you at Jack’s.” The signal went dead.

  Slightly relieved, Edmundo pulled over to an ABM machine, pulled some cash and headed in the store for supplies.

  In one of the rooms on the upper floor of the Aguada, Ocho had laid out several, aerial maps on the bed. Smaller, satellite photos pinpointing the target camp were being passed around to several other participants waiting patiently in the room. A final determination would be made shortly. All were dressed in civilian clothes, with their togs and kit in duffle bags skirting the perimeter of the room. Mundie wore the standard issue kaki of the tourist department, only now a firearm was strapped to his hip, also standard equipment in certain areas of the Petén and jungle. A gentle tap came on the door.

  “All’s ready.” Oz opened the door a crack with his foot automatically placed at its base to restrict a forced entry.

  “Your tucker has been placed in the Rover, and all the rest in the Humvee,” Jack offered through the opening.

  Let him in Oz,” Mundie requested. “Jack will cover surveillance here, San Ignacio, and up to Del Carmen. We’re expecting the abductors to cross the river near San Jose Succotz. Jack’s wife’s brother’s best friend operates the ferry there. Should they decide to cross; he will contact Jack.

  Jack nodded to the remaining team, Knobby and Gizmo. Jackson had met Ocho with Mundie on previous occasions here and at some of the clubs in Belize City. They had become well acquainted, exchanging stories of Ocho’s previous forays into Malaysia, and Jack’s into the jungles of Vietnam. They cried as much as they laughed and had still moments of cool reflection over some of the things they were required to do; some things they mentioned not at all. It was in Malaysia that Ocho had met Oz and Knobby, and all requested to be come apart of the same special ops regiment under the Command of a kiwi, Major Tully, of the British Army Training Unit Belize, stationed at the Price Barracks near the Belize Airport. Gizmo, the medic and Zoologist, was assigned later.

  Gathering up the papers, photos and bags, they quietly headed out the door and down the stairs to the parking lot and the waiting vehicles. Mundy’s blue pickup was nearly dwarfed by the camouflaged Rover and the flat-forest-green Humvee (a gift from the yanks), and was left behind. Not a word was uttered until they were underway and spoke briefly over hands-free, satellite phones and ear-pieces with wire microphones that bobbed rhythmically with the contours of the road. The GP
S embedded in the dash along with a myriad of sensing and other locating devices, spoke in a seductive, female voice directing them inland from Buena Vista, into the mountains toward Black Rock. Ocho, Mundie and Gizmo, took up the rear in the Humvee, while Oz and Knobby in the Rover, took lead with the specialized coded GPS called Wanda, the seductress.

  Once they got off of the more traveled trails and onto the less, they apologetically turned off Wanda and proceeded with eyesight and wits. Within the hour, they bounced and jogged into the clearing that had been located by satellite previous. Several monkeys chatted briefly in the ceiba tree-tops, but became still and quiet as they watched the intrusion from their lofty height. A scarlet Macaw took flight toward a stand of mahogany and disappeared into the foliaged canopy that shadowed the secluded, jungle coppice. Orchids adorned some of the trees but were noticed little by the determinable team; if not for the task at hand, this would be a restful, appealing place.

  Careful not to disturb any clues that may lead them to the perpetrators, they crept in stealth through the heat and dense humidity to search the half dozen wood and bamboo buildings. Several green, vinyl, lawn chairs scattered the area along with make-due tables of planking and tree trunks. Certain that they were alone, but cautious, always mindful of misplaced ordinance and booby-traps placed for unsuspected visitors, they searched with calculating diligence.

  Within minutes, the soldiers had secured the area and Mundie was called over to a thatched, bamboo hut with a swinging door. Together with Gizmo, he knelt to view blood-stained gaze and a pair of women’s soiled shorts. Haphazardly thrown to one side, was a handcarved, wooden bowl, its contents long evaporated in the jungle heat.

  “It looks like we have an ID. Do you recognize these shorts?”

  Mundie gave a sigh, noticing the small killer whale embroidered on the rear pocket, and nodded to the affirmative. “Yeah, they’re Shawna’s.”