“What did I tell you!” Mahler said, reaching into the hole with him.

TWENTY-ONE

A huge, blood-red neon Coca-Cola ball revolved perpetually above Guatemala City’s main traffic roundabout, where Avenida Revolución turned into Avenida De Las Americas. Russell had promised De La Madrid he would be at an important meeting at Madrid’s house at midnight. They had an announcement for the world press in the morning. It was going to be a real shocker, one that would either win the election for Madrid or send him into political oblivion. And it had been all Russell’s idea. They would propose pegging the quetzal to the dollar, to stop the hyperinflation that was destroying the country.

Russell pulled his car around the statue of Pedro de Alvarado, the infamous and brutal Spanish conquistador who’d been with Cortez. He drove into a tony neighborhood of high-rise luxury apartment buildings belonging to the rich, not too different from neighborhoods in Sao Paolo or San Francisco. At this time of night, the empty boulevard was impressive and cold looking, the high-rise buildings looking down on the world they commanded.

He pulled down a driveway and was stopped by a tall metal gate. He spoke into an intercom. Two men with shotguns stood in the shadows by the gate, making sure no one rushed the steel portal.

“It’s me; it’s Russell,” he said into the speaker in English.

“Okay.” He heard Carl’s voice. In a moment the gate swung open; he drove down a steep driveway to the parking garage and parked. The garage was full of expensive, late model cars, even a brand new yellow Ferrari. The building, with its posh condominiums, was home to several big-time drug dealers and bankers. They lived in the same apartment buildings, Russell had heard from his boss, so that it would be easier to launder all the millions of dollars a week the drug business was bringing into the country. Guatemala had become one of the most important linchpins in the international cocaine trade.

He stepped into the elevator. The Muzak played Donna Summer’s “Bad Girls.” He hit 12. As the door closed, he noticed two men in dark suits leaning against a wall of the parking garage, one of them with an Uzi in his right hand.

Carl’s maid opened the door. The Dutchman kept the apartment in the capital when he didn’t feel like driving down to his palace in Antigua. Russell followed a tiny Indian woman in a spotless black-and-white uniform into the all-white living room, with its view of the city. Carl and his lover were sitting around a white onyx coffee table, drinking wine out of long-stemmed French crystal glasses and watching “TRL” on MTV.

“Is Katherine ready? Her plane leaves in an hour,” Russell said.

“She’s getting dressed,” Carl said, lowering the sound on the TV. The jaguar scratches on Van Diemen’s face were red, and would leave an ugly scar. They’d gotten infected, and part of his right cheek had been cut away. There was a plan to rebuild his missing right cheek. In the meantime, Carl looked a little monstrous. Russell tried not to stare as he sat down across from him.

“I’m going to Europe again for my surgery,” Carl said. He looked over at his boyfriend. The kid looked sad, like a little boy whose mother was going to leave him.

“Good,” Russell said. He didn’t know what else to say. He didn’t really give a shit about Carl’s face. “Thanks for looking after my friend.”

“Of course. They say these claw marks are nothing. The surgery will fix my face,” Carl said, holding his wine glass. It looked like the son of a bitch had lost half his face, Russell thought. The jaguar had gotten him good.

“Of course, they’re nothing, dear,” the kid said. Carl had been keeping his right hand near his missing cheek; he dropped it to pat his boyfriend on his bare leg. The boyfriend was wearing pedal pushers and a tank top.

“I want to thank you for what you did for Carl out there,” the kid said to Russell.

“No sweat,” Russell said, trying not to stare. “Listen . . . can we talk?”

“Of course,” Carl said.

“We want to cut you in for a third. We found something. It might be really big,” Russell said. He stopped himself for a moment and looked at Carl’s boyfriend, then back at Carl. “Maybe a whole fucking Mayan city.” Carl leaned forward.

“What?”

“A city, a whole Mayan city,” Russell said. “On my property.”

“You’re joking,” Carl said.

“No. And we need money. I don’t have any. I’ve quit my job. We’ll sell you a third of the deal for a hundred thousand dollars cash. That’s what we figure we need just to keep going. We need cash. I have to pay off the Frenchman. And then we’ll need to hire a small army to guard the site. If the word gets out before we’ve had a chance to look into the temple we found . . . well, you know. The site will be stripped clean in a few days.”

Carl—obviously in shock—leaned forward so that he had one hand on the huge white onyx table in front of him. He was so excited it looked like he was going to get up and do a

fifty yard dash.

“Can I have a drink?” Russell asked.

“Of course,” Carl said. He was still staring at Russell. “You know what it could be worth. . . . If it’s true,” Carl said.

“A fuck of a lot, I guess,” Russell said. “We’ll be like fucking Cortez.”

“Even if we only took out the best. We’ll all make a fortune. No . . . more,” the Dutchman said. His eyes were animated. He’d forgotten all about his mangled face.

“Yeah, that’s what we think,” Russell said. “So are you in?” Van Diemen nodded his head quickly.

“Poppy, does that mean we’re going to be rich?” the kid asked. Russell turned to the kid.

“Keep your mouth shut about this, or. . . .” Russell glared at the kid. He wasn’t feeling right in the head. Maybe it was the days they’d spent in the jungle being bitten by everything there was to bite a man, or the heat as they worked cleaning off the first temple, or the excitement, or whatever. But he was feeling strangely angry since the gunfight. It was too much, he supposed, too much to try to pull down from the shelf, a whole fucking Mayan city. But he was game. He knew that with that kind of money, he could convince Beatrice to leave her husband. He would be rich, and he would simply take her and her kids and disappear into some apartment like this one, somewhere in the world. He’d steal the throne from under the Pope’s ass to have Beatrice.

The kid glanced at him, terrified.

“Poppy, he’s scaring me,” the kid said, huddling against Carl, his brown face pressed with fear.

“That’s okay. . . .” Carl put his arm on his boyfriend’s shoulders. “Pablo isn’t going to say anything, don’t worry.”

“Good. Because if anyone fucks with us, I’ll kill them.” He couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. But he meant it. He was sure of that. He wanted Beatrice, and getting her wasn’t going to be easy.

“Dios mío,” the kid said, shutting his eyes. He spilt some wine on his pedal pushers.

“No one is going to talk, Russell. You have my word,” Carl said again.

“I’ll need a hundred thousand dollars by tomorrow for the Frenchman. I want to pay him off. Get that over with. That way, I own the place outright. No question then.”

“How can Mahler and I be sure you won’t . . . how did you put it? Fuck us,” Carl said, smiling.

“Yes …Yes! How can Poppy be sure you won’t fuck us?” the kid said, looking at him sideways now.

“You can’t be. Can you have the maid get Katherine, please? I have to take her to the airport. And thanks for letting her stay here. I appreciate it. I won’t forget it,” Russell said. “I mean that.”

“You look tired,” Carl said, ringing a bell for the maid.