The Death Relic (5 page)

This type of crime would be difficult to pull off in technologically advanced countries such as America or England. Too many people have mobile phones, text messaging and Internet connections, allowing them to make contact with their friends and family through alternative means. But in Mexico, home phones are still the primary means of communication. And since the police force isn’t trusted, most victims would rather pay the ransom demand and guarantee the safety of their loved one than risk someone’s life by calling the kidnapper’s bluff – especially as abductions are so commonplace.

The final category is known simply as a traditional kidnapping. It is a long-term crime that has been around for centuries, one that targets people from wealthy families or organizations that have the means and motive to pay a substantial ransom demand. Though not as common as flash kidnappings, they can be far more lucrative because of the sums involved in a single abduction. One million. Five million. Ten million. It all depends on who was taken and how much they’ll be missed. In Mexico City, most corporations hire bodyguards to accompany their executives around the clock, because it is cheaper to pay for protection than to pay ransoms.

However, many foreign executives roll the dice when they come to Mexico. They figure they can slip in and out of the country without being noticed, especially if their business trips are planned at the last minute. They assume criminals won’t have the time, the manpower, or the knowledge to stage a traditional kidnapping without plenty of advanced warning. And even if they did have the ability to pull off the crime what are the odds that a criminal would target them? One in a hundred? One in a thousand? One in ten thousand?

Most executives are willing to take those chances.

Of course, some factors affect the odds. A person’s size, age and appearance can make all the difference in Mexico City. By considering risk versus reward, a young bodybuilder in a T-shirt is less likely to be abducted than an old man in a designer suit. Criminals are looking for the lowest amount of risk – someone who won’t fight back – with the biggest potential for reward – the most money. And on those rare occasions when they spot someone who is low-risk and high-reward, they pounce as quickly as possible.

Hector Garcia was well aware of the statistics. In fact, he knew them better than anyone since he ran the kidnapping game in Mexico City. Although there were some independent crews floating around – mostly flash kidnappers desperate for quick scores – Hector’s organization was so established that several multinational corporations paid him a ‘protection fee’ to guarantee that their employees would not be kidnapped when they came to town for business.

With this type of reputation, Hector couldn’t comprehend why he had been targeted, unless it was for revenge. He simply didn’t fit the profile of low-risk, high-reward. Other than the President of Mexico, there was no one in the city who was a higher risk than Hector. He had thousands of armed criminals working in his organization, yet someone had the cojones to abduct his children. Not only did they sneak into his mansion in the middle of the night – somehow getting past his world-class security system and a squad of military-trained guards – but the kidnappers had the audacity to taunt him during the initial call.

They had threatened to rape his daughter.

They had threatened to kill his son.

Now they were playing games with him.

The type of games
he
was used to playing.

Every time the phone rang, his heart pounded so hard he could feel it in his feet. No longer the puppet master, he was forced to dance when
they
pulled his strings. Be here. Be there. Get this. Get that. Do whatever we say, or your kids will die. Despite their promises, it took him more than twenty-four hours to get a proof a life. And even then, they only let him talk to his daughter. The instant Hector asked about her brother’s health – a question he had been warned not to ask – they gagged the girl and hung up.

Several hours later, they still hadn’t called back.

And all Hector could do was wait.

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

Station Square is a 52-acre entertainment venue that sits on the south shore of the Monongahela River near the confluence of Pittsburgh’s three rivers. Built in the 1800s as a major hub for P&LE Railroad, the railway complex had become virtually obsolete by the 1970s, when passenger traffic had all but disappeared into the city. Despite its prime location on the waterfront, the entire property—including the large terminal, extensive freight station, seven-storey warehouse and several minor buildings—threatened to become a ghost town.

Thankfully, the Pittsburgh History & Landmarks Foundation never let that happen. Instead of tearing down the complex, they developed the site for commercial use. Docks were added to the nearby shoreline. A hotel was built at the water’s edge. Two of the city’s iconic restaurants, the Grand Concourse and the Gandy Dancer Saloon, opened inside the refurbished terminal, while the train shed was transformed into retail space called the Freight House Shops. Dripping with old-world charm, the restored train station has more than twenty stores, including five freight cars that were left inside the building and converted into shops.

In 2002, Station Square added a new area known as Bessemer Court. Named after the Bessemer converter, a massive machine that converted molten iron into steel, helping Pittsburgh become the Steel Capital of the World, the plaza includes a Hard Rock Café, several restaurants and a state-of-the-art fountain show featuring hundreds of multi-coloured water jets that are choreographed to music. During the warm-weather months, a new show begins every twenty minutes. They include a wide variety of musical themes – everything from Elvis to Sinatra to Christina Aguilera, a pop star who grew up just north of the city.

Unfortunately, it was far too cold for the fountain to work in the middle of February. With temperatures in the teens and dropping lower, people of all ages scurried from their frost-covered cars to the shelter of the surrounding buildings, but none of them moved faster than David Jones, whose personal version of hell contained ice and snow, not lakes of fire.

As per their tradition, Jonathon Payne pulled up as close to the restaurant as possible before Jones bolted from the warmth of the
SUV
to secure a table inside. With his hands jammed into his pockets and a wool cap pulled over his ears, he sprinted across the crowded sidewalk, dodging everyone who got in his way. At times, Jones moved so fast across the slippery surface he looked like a cartoon character learning to skate, his legs and feet flailing in all directions like Bambi on ice, yet at no point did he come close to falling. Payne watched the scene from the driver’s seat, hoping and praying Jones would fall and skid across the ice on his backside, but he made it to the entrance unscathed. Just like he always did.

Disappointed, Payne cursed under his breath, then drove off to park his car. By the time he returned, Jones had claimed a corner booth in the restaurant as far from the windows as possible. Not just to avoid the cold, but because it offered the most tactical position in the room. No matter where they went or what they did, they still thought like soldiers.

In their world, it was the small things that kept them alive.

Still bundled in his winter jacket, Jones started to complain about the weather before Payne even sat down. ‘I’m telling you, Jon, I need to get away from this city for a while. I’ve had it up to
here
with winter.’

Payne took off his coat. ‘Had it up to
where
?’

‘Here!’ he blurted while remaining frozen in place.

Payne slid into the booth across from him. ‘Just so you know, when you use that expression, you’re supposed to use your hands to show how fed up you are.’

Jones nodded. ‘I know, but it’s too cold to take my hands out of my pants.’

‘What are they doing in your pants? This is a restaurant, not an adult theatre.’

‘Not
in
my pants – in my pockets. And all they’re doing is getting warm.’

‘I can’t remember: was that Pee-wee Herman’s or George Michael’s excuse when the police busted him?’

Jones reluctantly put his hands on the table to prove his innocence. ‘Let me assure you, there’s nothing pee-wee about my herman, even in this weather.’

Payne rolled his eyes. ‘If you don’t mind, can we change the topic before I lose my appetite? It’s bad enough that I still have puke on my boots.’

Jones blew on his hands for warmth. ‘You know, that would be a great title for a country and western song. Ladies and gentlemen, it’s “Puke On My Boots” by Willie Nelson.’

Payne shook his head in frustration. ‘Seriously, enough with the puke talk. Can’t we have one meal where we talk about normal things?’

Jones took offence. ‘You are such a hypocrite!’

‘I’m a
hypocrite
? What are you talking about?’

‘Damn, Jon, that’s pretty bad. You run your own company, but you don’t know what
hypocrite
means? Talk about embarrassing. Remind me to sell my stock in Payne Industries.’

‘You know damn well I know what it means. I want to know why you called me one.’

‘Why? Because I tried to talk about something normal when you first sat down, and you accused me of whacking off under the table.’ Jones said it so loudly that some of the customers glanced in their direction. ‘Or is talking about the weather not normal enough for you?’

Payne grunted and reluctantly nodded. In a friendship like theirs, it was as close to an apology as Jones was going to get. ‘So, what were you saying about the weather?’

‘I’ve had it up to here. You know how much I hate this shit.’

‘That’s right. Now I remember.’

‘Seriously, Jon, I have to get away before I kill someone.’

Once again the four men at the neighbouring table turned round and stared at Jones, but this time he met their glares with one of his own. One by one he shot them a look that had gotten him out of more fights than he could possibly remember. A look that had been honed on the bloodiest of battlefields, one that came from years of training, fighting and killing around the globe. It wasn’t a look that could be faked. It was a look that had to be earned.

Not surprisingly, the men backed down without saying a word.

Payne fought the urge to smile. ‘Did you have somewhere in mind?’

Jones shrugged. ‘Somewhere warm.’

‘That’s too bad. I was tempted to go skiing this weekend.’

‘Skiing? Black men don’t ski. You should know that by now.’

‘Hold up! Aren’t you the one who’s always telling me that black people can do anything?’

‘We
can
do anything. We simply
choose
not to ski. I mean, Martin Luther King never said anything about skiing. He never said, “I have a dream … about strapping two boards to my feet and sliding down a mountain.” If he did, we would ski. But he didn’t, so we don’t.’

Payne grinned. ‘Wow! I learn something new every day.’

‘Now don’t go telling white folks I said that. It could get me in serious trouble. Heck, the only reason I told you is because you’re an honorary black man.’

‘I am? When did that happen?’

‘Last month. We took a vote.’

‘And I passed?’

‘By the slimmest of margins.’

Payne smiled. ‘Thanks, man. I appreciate it.’

‘Don’t go thanking me. I voted against you.’

‘You what?’

‘You heard me. I voted against your ass.’

‘Why did you do that?’

‘Why? Because I’ve seen you dance.’

Payne groaned in embarrassment. He was great at nearly everything he tried, but dancing wasn’t one of them. ‘Now that you mention it, I would’ve voted against me, too.’

‘Don’t get me wrong: we can still be friends and all, but …’

‘Say no more. I completely understand.’

‘No,’ Jones stressed, ‘you can’t understand because you didn’t see it for yourself. To this day, I still have nightmares about your dancing. Honest to God, it was worse than anything I ever saw in Iraq. You looked like Frankenstein getting zapped with a taser.’

Payne laughed at the description, which was more accurate than he cared to admit. ‘Fine. No dancing for me, and no skiing for you. Is that what we’re looking for?’

‘And warm. It has to be warm.’

‘A warm place without dancing or skiing. Anything else?’

‘Women wouldn’t hurt.’

Payne nodded. ‘Amen to that.’

‘What about Vegas?’

‘Fine for me, bad for you. It gets cold at night in the desert.’

‘How cold?’

‘Low forties.’

‘Screw that. I need something warmer than forty.’

‘How about Miami?’

Jones shook his head. ‘Too many nightclubs.’

‘And that’s a bad thing?’

‘It is for you, because everywhere we go women will be dancing.’

‘That’s OK. I’ll sit at the bar and watch.’

‘You say that now, but what happens when a pack of supermodels summons you to the dance floor? What are you going to do then?’

Payne laughed. ‘Yeah, because
that’s
going to happen.’

‘You never know, it might. And we simply can’t risk it.’

He rolled his eyes. Sometimes Jones got ideas in his head that were a little less than rational. Of course, that was part of his charm. ‘Listen, it’s too late to arrange a flight for tonight, so let’s plan our trip after dinner. We can hop on the Internet and look for somewhere new. If we’re lucky, maybe we’ll find a coupon.’

‘Sweet! You know how much I love coupons.’

Hamilton pushed the chips and salsa aside. Now that he had established a rapport with Maria, he was ready to talk business. ‘Tell me, what do you know about the Maya?’

‘The Maya?’ she repeated, pausing for a moment to gather her thoughts. ‘Local civilization, very advanced for their time. They ruled this region for several hundred years, until the Spanish conquistadores arrived in the sixteenth century. After that, they kind of faded away.’

Hamilton considered her response for several seconds before shaking his head from side to side. He punctuated his thoughts by giving her a thumbs down. ‘If you were my student, I’d give that answer a D-minus at best. About the only thing you got correct was their name.’