The Maya Codex (34 page)

‘Wiley will want to know.’

Thirty minutes later, Wiley and Larry Davis arrived together.

‘Roll the video,’ Wiley demanded.

Rodriguez nodded to the duty officer and the online edition of
Die Welt
appeared on screen, headlining the discovery of a body at Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof. The footage cut to the media conference conducted by Frankfurt’s Erster Polizeihauptkommissar, Franz Reinhardt.

‘In answer to your question, we can’t be sure exactly where the murder took place.’ Ellen Rodriguez stepped in again as translator.

‘An estimate, Hauptkommissar?’ The questions came from a young blonde reporter, who had elbowed her way to the front of the pack.

Reinhardt shook his head patiently. After nearly forty years in the Hessen State Kriminalpolizei, most of them as a detective, he was not about to be fazed by a pushy young journalist. ‘The train originated in Vienna and departed at 10.40. It didn’t arrive in Frankfurt until 17.36, nearly seven hours later. The murder could have been carried out virtually anywhere along that route.’

‘What about the autopsy?’ the young woman persisted. ‘Surely the state of the body, rigor mortis, temperature … an examination will enable you to be more accurate?’

‘A preliminary examination of the body has revealed that the victim was shot twice in the heart, at reasonably close range. I expect the results of the autopsy to be available some time later today, but I would caution you not to put too much emphasis on an autopsy. Determining the time of death is never an exact science,’ Reinhardt said bluntly, looking directly at the journalist. ‘In the first place, the temperature of death to which you refer, algor mortis, is only indicative. Under ideal conditions, a body will cool by one degree every hour; but that timespan can vary by up to six hours, which covers a lot of distance by train. Rigor mortis is just as problematic. That can vary from fifteen minutes to fifteen hours.’ Some of the older journalists were smiling.

‘Have you identified the body?’

‘We have a passport, and we are trying to trace the deceased’s family. Until we do, it would not be appropriate for me to comment further.’

‘We’ve heard that the toilet cubicle was locked, Hauptkommissar. How do you account for that?’ another journalist asked.

‘Time will tell. For the moment, there is no apparent motive and no signs of a struggle, but we will be seeking to interview everyone who has travelled on this particular train, and we’re asking anyone who has seen or heard anything suspicious to come forward immediately.’

Reinhardt retreated into his headquarters and the video was replaced by a live feed from the depths of the new and inelegant US$130 million US Embassy abutting the side of Tiergarten Park at the prestigious 2 Pariser Platz Square. Security considerations during the building’s construction had forced the German authorities to move an entire street. One of the major newspapers,
Süddeutsche Zeitung
, had dubbed it ‘Fort Knox at the Brandenburg Gate’.

‘Have we got anything more concrete than the party line from PC Plod?’ Wiley demanded of the Berlin chief of station.

‘The last contact we had with our asset was thirty minutes out of Würzburg. It appears that Tutankhamen took our man’s cell phone, which might be his first big mistake. We’ve been tracking it and we know that Tutankhamen, and probably Nefertiti as well, terminated at Göttingen Hauptbahnhof. They’re still in that vicinity and I’ve mobilised two assets to close on them.’

Ellen Rodriguez watched the exchange with interest. She had met Brandon Gray only once, during a conference when they’d had a heated argument over the place of women in the Agency. Along with many other Agency insiders, she had been surprised when Wiley had

appointed Gray to one of the most senior posts in Europe. Brash, ambitious and every bit as arrogant as Wiley, the tall, wiry crew-cut Gray was often wrong, but never in doubt. She looked at the screen showing the progress of the blue crosshairs annotated with the cell phone and shook her head. It would be most unlike O’Connor to make such a basic error.

‘That’s assuming Tutankhamen’s kept the cell phone on him,’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’ Gray demanded, his anger bursting from the video screen.

‘I mean that we recovered Sodano’s cell phone on a barge, presumably dropped there by Tutankhamen to throw us off the scent. Why would he keep your asset’s cell phone and allow you to track him?’

‘To monitor messages, for starters!’ Wiley exploded.

‘Precisely, sir,’ Gray responded. ‘And perhaps Officer Rodriguez can explain how the cell phone might have got off the train at Göttingen of its own accord?’

Rodriguez remained silent, torn between her loyalty to the Agency and her respect for O’Connor.

‘Sir, might it be time to bring the German and Austrian police into the loop? Without their full cooperation, it’s proving hard to track passport movements,’ Gray suggested.

‘No,’ Wiley barked, ‘that will compromise our own operations. Track the passports through the back door.’ He turned away from the screen and glared at Rodriguez. ‘What’ve we got on Nefertiti?’

‘We’ve just received her cell phone bills for the last twelve months,’ Rodriguez replied evenly, ‘so we’re still sifting through them. In the last two weeks Nefertiti’s cell phone traffic has been light – calls to her travel agent in Guatemala City, calls to the
Museo Nacional de Arqueologia y Etnologia
and the
Museo Popol Vuh
, also in Guatemala City. The only call that might be of interest, and it’s the last one she made from her cell phone,’ Rodriguez added pointedly, ‘was three days ago from Vienna to the International Tracing Service in Bad Arolsen, a spa town in northern Germany. I doubt Tutankhamen and Nefertiti are in Göttingen – they’re more likely headed for Bad Arolsen.’

Wiley turned back to the Berlin feed. ‘Concentrate on Göttingen and give your assets there a green light, but get someone out to Bad Arolsen, just in case. Either way, we take them out!’

With an ease that came from nearly ten years driving twenty-tonne waste-collection vehicles, Bernhard Baecker guided the hydraulic forks into the slots on the industrial bin at the back of a large cinema centre. With the push of a button, the heavy bin was effortlessly hoisted into the air. The big Mercedes truck rocked on its suspension as the bin’s contents tumbled noisily into the back, and its hydraulics whined as the compression rams came into play. Towards the front of the previously crushed payload, a Nokia cell phone, cushioned by a large amount of paper towel and tissue, continued to emit a signal. Baecker set the big bin back on its wheels, withdrew the hydraulic forks and put the truck into gear. ‘That’s the last one for the day, Kristian,’ he said with a smile as he eased the big truck out of the complex and on to
Godehardstrasse
to the west of the medieval centre of Göttingen. ‘I’m looking forward to a beer!’

‘Just the one today, Bernhard,’ Kristian Dieter, the younger man sitting beside him, replied. ‘It’s Sophie’s fifth birthday tomorrow, and if I don’t put the trampoline together tonight I’ll be in big trouble!’

‘You married guys. One day you’ll wise up.’ Baecker swung into the nearby busy
Industriestrasse
and picked up speed.
‘Was in Gottes Namen!’
He slammed on the brakes and the deep klaxon of the truck’s powerful air horns rent the air. The Audi overtaking them had inexplicably moved into the inside lane, slowed and then stopped, in an attempt to box them in. Two men in balaclavas, brandishing machine pistols leapt from the car and raced towards them.

‘They’ve got guns, Bernhard!’ Dieter yelled. Baecker selected reverse and began to back up, the two balaclava-clad men in hot pursuit.

‘Halten Sie der Lastwagen!’

Baecker hit the brakes again, selected first gear and drove towards them. ‘Get down!’ he yelled at Dieter, but it was too late. One of the young thugs hired by the CIA to assassinate O’Connor and Aleta panicked. He unleashed a burst of fire which shattered the windscreen. Both men inside died instantly in a hail of bullets. Baecker slumped over the wheel and the twenty-tonne vehicle slewed off the road and mounted the footpath, ploughing into the front of a small café. The dozen or so patrons sitting at the outside tables, including two young mothers with their children in strollers, didn’t stand a chance.

The two gunmen raced back to their car. The team leader floored the Audi and took off, leaving a trail of smoking rubber behind the squealing tyres. A blue-and-silver police car passing in the opposite direction negotiated a savage U-turn and took off in pursuit, siren blaring and blue roof-lights flashing. A gas bottle in the back of the café exploded and the fire quickly took hold. Thick black smoke belched from the shattered ruins. Survivors screamed. Some ran, their clothes in flames, others crawled out in agony as more sirens sounded in the distance.

40

GUATEMALA CITY

L
ow cloud hugged the highland volcanic ranges, drifting down into the valleys, as the pilot lined up the aircraft for the final approach into
Aeropuerto La Aurora
, Guatemala’s international airport. Monsignor Jennings stared out the window from his business-class seat. Below, high-rise buildings competed for space with the slums of a teeming, vibrant city of over two million people, many of whom lived in abject poverty. Guatemala City was the country’s third capital. The first, Ciudad Vieja, located just to the east, had been destroyed by floods and volcanic eruptions in 1541. The second, Antigua, also close by, had been destroyed by a violent earthquake 200 years later.

Jennings had intended to catch a ‘chicken’ bus to Panajachel on the northern shore of Lake Atitlán, but through the low cloud he caught sight of the city’s Olympic stadium, with its distinctive blue seating that could hold 30 000 of the soccer-mad country’s fans. Just to the north of the stadium was the city’s Zone 1 and the red-light district. The old feeling stirred in his loins, and he resolved to spend the night in the city. The parish of San Pedro could wait another day. And in any case, it would give him a chance to talk to his contact at the
Museo Nacional de Arqueologia y Etnologia
. What had given cause for Weizman’s excitement?

Clear of customs, Jennings waddled out of Guatemala’s new terminal pulling his trolley bag behind him. He wore civilian clothes – jeans and a yellow sports shirt. The humidity and the heat were oppressive and already sweat was streaming down his florid face.

‘Zona Uno ¿cuánto?’
Jennings demanded of the driver of a battered yellow taxi outside the arrivals hall.

‘Cien quetzales,’
the dark, wizened Mayan driver replied.

‘A hundred quetzales! Daylight robbery!
Setenta
. Seventy,’ Jennings insisted, holding up seven fingers for emphasis. ‘
No mas!
’

The old taxi driver shrugged, and Jennings stepped inside. The city streets were choked with buses belching clouds of black diesel smoke, battered lorries with suspensions that had seen better days, brightly coloured chicken buses and the ubiquitous Toyota utes in various states of disrepair.

‘Hotel Rio, Avenida 6a,’ Jennings directed further.

Once they reached the hotel, Jennings paid the cab driver and hauled his luggage across the cracked tiles of the grimy reception foyer. The staff knew him well, and for a few quetzales would turn a blind eye to him bringing back a street boy or two.

‘
Quiere chica señor? Muy limpio. Muy buen polvo
. You want girl, mister? Very clean. Very good fuck.’ Monsignor Jennings waved the young tout away with an irritable flick of his wrist.

‘Maricon! Vete a la mierda!
Fuck off, you queer!’ the young tout shouted.

Jennings ignored him and turned into a dimly lit lane behind the bus station in one of the sleaziest parts of Zona 1, and headed for his favourite pick-up joint, el Señor Chico Club. The entrance was unmarked. Jennings paid the ten quetzales cover charge to the security guard, tipping him another twenty. The moustachioed thickset security guard, his stomach bulging behind a grimy dark-blue shirt, smiled slyly and pocketed the money.