Since 9/11, parking anywhere near the embassy had been forbidden. Traffic cops in black ponchos were out in force, making sure no car stopped anywhere near the building. Russell drove along for several blocks, then parked. He ran back towards the embassy pelted by the rain, feeling stupid, and yet hoping that someone inside could stop Katherine’s murder. Like a child running home, he made his way towards the cold, menacing building.

The first checkpoint was a simple guard shack, the second a larger guard house, with a metal detector. The Guatemalan guard asked him for his ID and made him empty his pockets as another policeman ran a metal detector over him. He was stopped again and made to sign a piece of paper giving his full name and address in the country and his business at the embassy.

As he filled out the form, a group of young DEA agents he recognized, beefy, collegiate and boisterous, moved through the checkpoints, skirting the metal detectors without being challenged, simply holding up their ID’s. They were armed and all carried police knives, their metal clips tucked into the front of their jean pockets.

Russell handed back the form and rushed finally up the marble stairs and into the lobby. The embassy’s enormous lobby was empty. There were two doors leading into the interior of the building. When he’d been here before, there had always been elaborate plans made so that when he arrived he was met by whomever he had an appointment to see. Now, unannounced, he realized that the lobby was as far as he was going to be allowed to go without dealing with the Marine guards. The Marines manned a booth that controlled the lobby, which they’d turned into a kind of no man’s land. The white shaved head of a Marine wearing a bullet proof vest acknowledged him with a suspicious nod from the other side of the glass of the guard booth. Russell could see stacks of bulletproof vests lying on shelves and stacks of helmets on the floor.

“I’d like to speak to someone,” Russell said, trying to act calm. He was wet. His jacket was soaked, and he could feel his shirt sticking to his skin.

“You can speak to the duty officer,” the young soldier said.

“No, I need to speak to someone inside. Someone from State.” The young man looked at him stupidly, as if Russell were speaking a foreign language, or were mentally deficient. “From the ambassador’s office.” He searched for the state department’s press relations woman’s name, but had forgotten it.

“What’s your business?” The soldier picked up the phone, said something quickly into it, and then looked at him again through the thick glass. Instinctively, Russell’s hope began to retreat.

“It’s. . . .” He searched for the right thing to say. “I just need to speak to an embassy official,” he said, repeating himself. “As soon as possible.”

“You have to have an appointment,” the Marine told him. “Yes, I realize that, but certainly there’s someone on duty who can speak to an American citizen with an emergency.”

“No, not without an appointment.”

“I’m a reporter. I have a press credential.” He felt for his credential, but they’d taken everything from him at the guard shack—his wallet, cell phone, everything. He moved his hands foolishly over his pockets. An older Marine officer, in his thirties, stepped into the lobby and approached him.

“Can I help you, sir? I’m the duty officer.” Exasperated and realizing he’d been a fool to expect help from the embassy, Russell looked blankly at the duty officer. Disdain scrolled across the officer’s face.

“I want to see someone in the embassy. Any embassy official will do,” Russell said. He tried to sound calm and sensible.

“You’ll have to make an appointment,” the officer said. He gave him a quick courteous smile that said “Fuck off.”

“I would categorize this as an emergency,” Russell said. The duty officer shot a glance at the soldier in the booth and stepped closer.

“Are you reporting a threat to the embassy?”

“No! I’m not.”

“Well then, you’ll have to make an appointment. You can use the phone on the wall. You’ll be connected to someone upstairs. They’ll make the arrangements.”

“I’m here to report an intended crime against an American citizen,” he said. The officer looked at him, stiff-jawed.

“Why not tell the Guatemalan police? That’s what they’re for.”

“I don’t think they’d be much help in this case,” Russell said.

“Well. I can understand that,” the officer said with a smirk. “I wouldn’t call them either.” The man glanced up at the booth and smiled at the young soldier.

“I’ve met the ambassador, Mrs. Stamp. I work for the Financial Times; I’m a reporter. I have a credential if you’d like to see it. And I’m an American citizen,” Russell said. He couldn’t keep the anger out of his voice now; he could feel his face getting red with anger.

“Tell that to the operator on that phone on the wall,” the duty officer said. “She’ll be glad to help you, sir.”

For a moment Russell was about to give the name of the man he knew from gossip in the office was probably the CIA’s station chief in the country, but he realized that it wouldn’t make any difference. Why would the CIA help Katherine? he thought, looking in the duty officer’s steely blue eyes. She was no one of consequence. And even if the spooks decided to help, by the time they masticated the problem—as they most certainly would—she would be dead. He went to the house phone hanging on the wall anyway, and lifted the receiver.

“I’d like to see an embassy official,” he said when the operator came on. “It’s an emergency.”

“Certainly, sir. You can come in next Tuesday at ten,” she said happily. “Is that a good time for you?” Russell hung up the phone and walked quickly through the lobby.

Katherine called him back as he drove to his office.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry I hung up.”

“Go to Tres Rios. I want to see you. Tonight. I’ll meet you there tonight.”

“Are you still seeing her?”

“No. It’s over,” he said.

“All right. I will . . . I love you . . . you prick,” she said.

TWENTY

She can’t stay here,” Mahler said. “It’s too dangerous. They’ll kill us all.” “She can go out with us to the bush,” Russell said. He put down his pack.

“I won’t take her,” Mahler said.

“Yes you will,” he said. “You’ll take me, and you’ll take her too.” Mahler looked at him.

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll go without you,” Russell said. He picked up his pack and walked down the hallway. He was exhausted from the drive from the capital. “I know where to look now. I don’t need you. Remember, I own the place.”

“You’ll never find it without me,” Mahler said. The look on the German’s face changed. He’d been sitting in the kitchen, and he stood up. His hair was loose at his shoulders. He’d taken his shirt off. It was hot in the room. Mahler wore just jeans, without shoes. “Don’t be a fool. They’ll kill us too. Send her away. . . . I’m close now. Since you left, I found something.”

Russell could hear the fans in the room turning, feel the warm air hit his face.

“Why didn’t you tell me,” he said.

“I wanted to surprise you. I tell you, we’re close. And it may be a very big find. . . . A city, maybe,” Mahler said.

“What?”

“An entire Mayan city,” Mahler said. He walked out into the living room. “Do you know what that means? You’ll be richer than you can possibly imagine. It’s all there, gold, silver, jewels. You see, I think Bakta Halik was just the outskirts. I think this site is big. Like Tikal. The jungle swallowed it all. But it’s there,” Mahler said. “And we own it.”

“I don’t care. She’s still coming with us,” Russell said.