Assumed Identity

'On second thought, yes,' Holly said. 'Since we're having lunch.'

'White or red?'

'White, please.'

'Chardonnay?'

'Fine.'

'The same for me,' Buchanan said.

Delgado continued ignoring him and turned to the servant, who had remained at the door. 'Lo haga, Carlos. Do it.'

'Si, Se¤or Delgado.'

The white-coated servant stepped back and disappeared along the hallway.

'Sit down, please.' Delgado led Holly toward one of the padded leather chairs.

Buchanan followed, noticing a man on a patio beyond the glass doors that led to the study. The man was an American in his middle thirties, well-dressed, fair-haired, pleasant-looking.

Noticing Buchanan's interest in him, the man nodded and smiled, his expression boyish.

Delgado was saying, 'I know Americans like to keep to a busy schedule, so if you have a few questions you would like to ask before lunch, by all means do so.'

The man came in from the patio.

'Ah, Raymond,' Delgado said. 'Have you finished your stroll? Come in. I have some guests I would like you to meet. Se¤orita McCoy from The Washington Post.'

Raymond nodded with respect and went over to Holly. 'My pleasure.' He shook hands with her.

Something about the handshake made her frown.

Raymond turned and approached Buchanan. 'How do you do? Mister.?'

'Riley. Ted.'

They shook hands.

At once Buchanan felt a stinging sensation in his right palm.

It burned.

His hand went numb.

Alarmed, he looked over at Holly, who was staring in dismay at her right palm.

'How long does it take?' Delgado asked.

'It's what we call a two-stepper,' Raymond said. As he took off a ring and placed it in a small jeweler's box, he smiled again, his blue eyes bottomless and cold.

Holly sank to her knees.

Buchanan's right arm lost all sensation.

Holly toppled to the floor.

Buchanan's chest felt tight. His heart pounded. He sprawled.

Desperate, he fought to stand.

Couldn't.

Couldn't do anything.

His body felt numb. His limbs wouldn't move. From head to foot, he was powerless.

Staring above him, frantic, helpless, he saw Delgado smirk.

The blue-eyed American peered down, his empty smile chilling. 'The drug comes from the Yucatan Peninsula. It's the Mayan equivalent of curare. Hundreds of years ago, the natives used it to paralyze their victims so they wouldn't struggle when their hearts were cut out.'

Unable to turn his head, unable to get a glimpse of Holly, Buchanan heard her gasp, trying to breathe.

'Don't you try to struggle,' Raymond said. 'Your lungs might not bear the strain.'

5

The helicopter thundered across the sky. Its whump-whump-whumping roar vibrated through the fuselage. Not that Buchanan could feel the rumble. His body continued to have absolutely no sensation. The cabin's presumably hard floor might as well have been a feathered mattress. Neither hard nor soft, hot nor cold, sharp nor blunt had any significance. All was the same: numb.

In compensation, his senses of hearing and sight intensified tremendously. Every sound in the cabin, especially Holly's agonized wheezing, was amplified. Beyond a window of the cabin, the sky was an almost unbearably brilliant turquoise. He feared that he would have gone blind from the radiance if not for merciful flicks of his eyelids, which - like his heart and lungs - weren't part of the system controlled by the drug.

Indeed his heart was nauseatingly stimulated, pounding wildly, no doubt at least in part from fear. But if he vomited (assuming that his stomach, too, wasn't paralyzed), he would surely gag and die. He had to concentrate on controlling his fear. He didn't dare lose his discipline. The faster his heart pounded, the more his lungs wanted air. But his chest muscles wouldn't cooperate, and the panic of involuntary, smothering hyperventilation almost overcame him.

Concentrate, he thought. Concentrate.

He struggled to fill his mind with a calming mantra. He strove for a single, all-consuming thought that gave him purpose. Juana, he thought. Juana. Juana. Have to survive to help her. Have to survive to find her. Have to survive to save her. Have to.

His frenzied heart kept speeding. His panicked lungs kept insisting. No. The mantra wasn't working. Juana? She was a distant memory, years away - in Buchanan's case, literally lifetimes away. He'd been so many people in the meanwhile. Searching for her, as determined as he'd been to find her, he'd really been searching for himself, and as a new, all-consuming, all-purposeful thought filled his mind -

-it was unwilled, spontaneous-

-Holly-

-listening to her struggle to breathe-

-need to help Holly, need to save Holly-

-he suddenly knew that he finally had a purpose. Not for Peter Lang. Not for any of his other assumed identities. But for Brendan Buchanan. And that realization gave him an urge to look forward rather than behind, something he hadn't felt since he'd killed his brother so long ago. Brendan Buchanan had a purpose, and it had nothing to do with himself. It was simply, absolutely, to do everything in his power to make sure that Holly survived this. Not because he wanted her to be with him. But because he wanted her to live. Trapped in himself, he had found himself.

While his heart continued to speed, he sensed - from a change in pressure behind his ears - that the helicopter was descending. He couldn't move his head to notice where Delgado sat next to Raymond, but he could hear them talking.

'I don't see why it was necessary for me to come along.'

'It was an order that Mr Drummond radioed to me as I was flying to Cuernavaca. He wants you to see the progress at the site.'

'Risky,' Delgado said. 'I might be associated with the project.'

'I suspect that was Mr Drummond's idea. It's time for you to pay off your debt.'

'That ruthless son of a bitch.'

'Mr Drummond would consider it a compliment to be called ruthless. Look down there. You can see it now.'

'My God.'

The helicopter continued descending, the pressure behind Buchanan's ears more painful.

Painful? Buchanan suddenly realized that he was feeling something. He had never expected to welcome pain, but now he did - joyously. His feet tingled. His hands seemed pricked by needles. The stitches in his knife wound began to itch. His nearly healed bullet wound throbbed. His skull felt swollen, his excruciating headache returning. These sensations didn't occur all at one time. They came separately, gradually. Each gave him hope. He knew that if he tried to move, he'd be able to, but he didn't dare. He had to keep still. He had to make sure that his limbs were fully functional. He had to wait for the ideal moment to.

'Just about now, the drug should be wearing off,' Raymond said.

A strong grip seized Buchanan's left wrist and snapped a handcuff onto it. Then the left wrist was tugged behind Buchanan's back, and with force, a handcuff was snapped onto his right wrist.

'Comfortable?' Raymond's tone suggested that he might have been speaking to a lover.

Buchanan didn't answer, continuing to pretend that he couldn't move. Meanwhile the clink and scrape of metal told him that Holly was being handcuffed as well.

The helicopter's roar diminished, the pitch of its rotor blades changing, as it settled onto the ground. The pilot shut off the controls, the blades spinning with less velocity, the turbine's roar turning into a whine.

When the hatch was opened, Buchanan expected his eyes to be assaulted by a blaze of sunlight. Instead a shadow blanketed him. A haze. He'd noticed that the sky had become less brilliantly blue as the helicopter descended, but with so much else to think about, he hadn't paid the lack of clarity much attention. Now the haze swirled into the cabin, and the odor was so acrid that he coughed reflexively. Smoke! Nearby something was on fire.

Buchanan kept coughing.

'The drug temporarily stops your saliva glands from working,' Raymond said, dragging Buchanan from the cabin, dumping him onto the ground. 'That makes your throat dry. In fact, your throat'll feel irritated for quite some time.' Raymond's tone suggested that he enjoyed the thought of Buchanan's discomfort.

Holly coughed as well, then groaned as Raymond dragged her from the cabin and dumped her next to Buchanan. Smoke drifted past them.

'Why are you burning so many trees?' Delgado sounded alarmed.

'To make as wide a perimeter as possible. To keep the natives away.'

'But won't the flames ignite the-?'

'Mr Drummond knows what he's doing. Everything's been calculated.'

Raymond kicked Buchanan's side.

Buchanan gasped, making himself sound more in pain than he was, thankful that Raymond hadn't kicked him in the side where he'd been stabbed.

'Get up,' Raymond said. 'Our men have better things to do than carry you. I know you can do it. If you don't, I'll kick you all the way to the office.'

To prove his point, Raymond kicked Buchanan again, this time harder.

Buchanan struggled to his knees, wavered, and managed to stand. His mind swirled, imitating the smoke that forced him to cough once more.

Holly staggered upright, almost falling, then gaining her balance. She looked at Buchanan in terror. He tried to communicate an expression of reassurance.

It didn't work. Raymond shoved both of them, nearly knocking them down before their momentum jerked them upright and forward. They were being herded toward a wide log building that was partially obscured by smoke.

But what captured Buchanan's attention was the welter of activity around him, workmen rushing, bulldozers and trucks laboring past, cranes lifting girders and pipes. Amid the din of machinery, Buchanan thought he heard a shot, and then he saw stone blocks scattered before him, hieroglyphs on them, obviously from ruins. Here and there, he saw the stunted remains of ancient temples. At once, as the smoke cleared temporarily, he had a brief view of a pyramid. But the pyramid wasn't ancient, and it wasn't composed of stone blocks.

This one, tall and wide, was built of steel. Buchanan had never seen anything like it. The structure was like a gigantic tripod, its legs splayed, unfamiliar reinforcements linking them. Though he'd never seen anything like it, he knew intuitively what it was, what it resembled. An oil derrick. Is that what Drummond wants down here? he wondered. But why does the derrick have such an unusual design?

At the smoke-hazed, log building, Raymond shoved the door, then thrust Buchanan and Holly through the opening.

Buchanan almost fell into the shadowy, musty interior, his eyes needing time to adjust to the dim, generator-powered, overhead light bulbs. He staggered to a halt, straightened, felt Holly stumble next to him, and found himself blinking upward at Alistair Drummond.

6

None of the photographs in the biography and the newspaper stories Buchanan had read communicated how fiercely Drummond dominated a room. Behind thick spectacles, the old man's eyes were deep in their sockets and radiated an unnerving, penetrating gaze. Even the age in his voice worked to his advantage, powerful despite its brittleness.

'Mr Buchanan,' Drummond said.

The reference was startling. How did he find out my name? Buchanan thought.

Drummond squinted, then turned his attention to Holly. 'Ms McCoy, I trust that Raymond made you comfortable on the flight. Se¤or Delgado, I'm pleased that you could join me.'

'The way it was put to me, I didn't feel I had a choice.'

'Of course, you have a choice,' Drummond said. 'You can go to jail or become the next president of Mexico. Which would you prefer?'

Raymond had shut the door after they entered. Now it was bumped open, the cacophony of the construction equipment intruding. A woman in dusty jeans and a sweaty work shirt came in, holding long tubes of thick paper that Buchanan thought might have been charts.

'Not now, God damn it,' Drummond said.

The woman looked startled. Smoke drifted behind her as she backed awkwardly from the building and shut the door.

Drummond returned his attention to Delgado. 'We're much farther along than I anticipated. By tomorrow morning, we ought to be able to start pumping. When you get back to Mexico City, I want you to make the necessary arrangements. Tell your people that everything's in place. I don't want any trouble. The payments have been made. I expect everyone to cooperate.'

'You brought me here to tell me what I already knew?'

'I brought you here to see what you sold your soul for,' Drummond said. 'It's not good to keep a distance from the price of your sins. Otherwise you might be tempted to forget the bargain you made. To remind you, I want you to see what happens to my two guests.' With a fluid motion amazing for his age, he turned toward Buchanan and Holly. 'How much do you know?'

'I found this in their camera bag,' Raymond said. He placed a video tape on a table.

'My, my,' Drummond said.

'I played it at Delgado's.'

'And?'

'The copy's a little grainy, but Delgado's performance is as enthralling as ever. It holds my attention every time,' Raymond said.

'Then you know more than you should,' Drummond told Buchanan and Holly.

'Look, this isn't any of our business,' Buchanan said.

'You're right about that.'

'I'm not interested in oil, and I don't care about whatever you're doing to punish Delgado,' Buchanan said. 'All I'm trying to do is find Juana Mendez.'

Drummond raised his dense, white eyebrows. 'Well, in that you're not alone.'

They stared at each other, and Buchanan suddenly realized what must have happened. Juana had agreed to work for Drummond and impersonate Maria Tomez. But after several months, Juana had felt either trapped or threatened, or possibly she'd just been disgusted by Drummond. Whatever her motive, she'd broken her agreement and fled. Along the way, unable to risk a phone call to Buchanan's superiors, needing to contact Buchanan but without allowing any outsider to understand her message, she'd mailed the cryptic postcard that only Buchanan could decipher. Meanwhile, Drummond's people had frantically searched for her, staking out her home and her parents' home and anywhere else they suspected she might go. They had to guarantee her silence. If the truth about Maria Tomez were revealed, Drummond would no longer have control of Delgado. Without Delgado, Drummond wouldn't have the political means to sustain this project. The oil industry in Mexico had been nationalized back in the thirties. Foreigners weren't allowed to have the influence in it that Drummond evidently wanted. That this was an archaeological site made the political problem all the more enormous, although from the looks of things, Drummond had solved the archaeological problem simply and obscenely by destroying the ruins. When Delgado became president of Mexico, he could use his power with appropriate politicians. A back-door arrangement could be made with Drummond. For discovering and developing the site, Drummond would secretly be paid the huge profits that foreign oil companies used to earn before the days of nationalization. But that wasn't all of it, Buchanan sensed. There was something more, a further implication, although he was too preoccupied with saving his life to analyze what it was.

'Do you know where Juana Mendez is?' Drummond asked.

'For all I know, she's working on that oil rig out there.'

Drummond chuckled. 'Such bravado. You're a credit to Special Forces.'

The reference surprised Buchanan. Then it didn't. 'The car I rented in New Orleans and drove to San Antonio,'

Drummond nodded'. 'You used your own credit card to rent it.'

'I didn't have an alternative. It was the only card I had.'

'But it gave me a slight advantage,' Drummond said. 'When my people saw you arrive at the Mendez house in San Antonio, they were able to use the car's license number to find out who had rented the car and then to research your identity.'

Identity, Buchanan thought. After so many years of surviving as other people, I'm probably going to die because of my own identity. He felt totally exhausted. His wounds ached. His skull throbbed with greater ferocity. He didn't have any more resources.

Then he looked at Holly, at the terror in her eyes, and the mantra again filled his mind. Have to survive to help Holly. Have to save Holly.

'You're an instructor in tactical maneuvers,' Drummond said.

Buchanan tensed. Instructor? Then Drummond hadn't penetrated his cover.

Drummond continued, 'Did you know Juana Mendez at Fort Bragg?'

Desperate, Buchanan tried to find a role to play, an angle with which to defend himself. 'Yes.'

'How? She was in Army Intelligence. What does that have to do with-?'

Abruptly a role came to mind. Buchanan decided to play the most daring part of his life. Himself.

'Look, I'm not a field instructor, and Juana's Army-Intelligence status was only a cover.'

Drummond looked surprised.

'I'm looking for Juana Mendez because she sent me a postcard, telling me in code that she was in trouble. It had to be in code because I'm not supposed to exist. Juana used to belong and I still do belong to a special-operations unit that's so covert it might as well be run by ghosts. We look after our own: past members as well as present. When I got the SOS, my unit sent me to find out what was going on. I've been reporting on a regular basis. My unit still has no idea where Juana Mendez is. But they know I was in Cuernavaca. They know I was headed toward Delgado, and after him, they know I was headed toward you. They won't be able to track me here, not right away, not without questioning Delgado. But they will question him, and they will come to you, and believe me, these men care only about sacrifice and loyalty. If they do not find me, they will destroy you. Take my word - at the moment, Holly McCoy and I are your most valuable assets.'

Drummond sighed. From outside the building, amid the muffled roar of the construction equipment, Buchanan thought he heard another gunshot.

'For something you invented on the spur of the moment, that's an excellent negotiating posture,' Drummond said. 'I'm a collector, did you know that? That's how I came to be here. Journalists' - he nodded toward Holly - 'have always wondered what motivates me. What do you think, Ms McCoy?'

Despite her evident fear, Holly managed to say, 'Power.'

'Partially correct. But only in a simplistic way. What keeps me going, what gives me drive, is the desire to be unique. To own unique things, to be in unique situations, to control unique people. I became interested in the Yucatan because of my collection. Three years ago, an individual came to me with an object of great price. The ancient Maya had their own version of books. They were long strips of thin bark that were folded again and again until they resembled small accordions. Historians call them codices. When the Spaniards invaded this area in the fifteen-hundreds, they were determined to destroy the native culture and replace it with their own. In their zeal, they set fire to the Mayan libraries. Only three authenticated codices are known to have survived. A fourth may be a forgery. But a fifth exists. It is authentic, and I own it. It is absolutely unique because unlike the others, which are lists, mine has substantial information. Of course, I didn't know that at the time. I bought it because I had the means to and because I didn't want anyone else to own it. Naturally I wanted to know what the hieroglyphs signified, so I hired the world's greatest experts in Mayan symbols. You might say I owned those experts. And I eventually discovered that the text described the presence of a massive oil field in this area. The Maya called it the god of darkness, the god of black water, the god that seeps from the ground. At first, I thought they were using metaphors. Then it came to me that they were being literally descriptive. The text emphasized that the god was held in control by temples and a great pyramid, but the location described in the text didn't match any known ruins. Early this year, these ruins were discovered thanks to photographs taken from a space shuttle. Because I controlled Delgado, I was able to control this site, to bring in my own people, to seal off the area, to search.'

'And in the process, destroy the ruins,' Buchanan said.

'An unavoidable necessity.' Drummond raised his shoulders. 'Besides, I'd seen the ruins. Why should I care if anyone else does? I didn't want to start drilling until I was certain. It turned out that the oil seepage was exactly where the text said it would be. Beneath the pyramid. The pyramid rested on it, capped it, kept the god in control. But the uniqueness doesn't end there. Oil in the Yucatan means nothing if you can't get to it. This area is so unstable that conventional equipment is useless here. That's why no one else took the trouble to explore for oil in this region. Periodic earthquakes would have destroyed their derricks. But my equipment is one of a kind. It's designed to be flexible, to withstand quakes. Because of it, from now on geologists can look for oil in areas that they previously ignored because there wasn't any way to develop the site. Of course, they'll have to pay a considerable amount to get permission to use my equipment. I doubt they'll ever find an oil field as immense as this one is, however. It's of Kuwaiti proportions, far beyond my expectations. And that's what finally makes this situation truly unique. When the field is fully developed, the oil will not be used.'

Buchanan must have looked surprised, for in response, Drummond's eyes gleamed. 'Yes. It won't be used. To put so much oil on the market would cause the price of oil to plummet. It would be an economic disaster to the oil-producing nations. When Delgado becomes president, he'll allow me to negotiate with the other oil-producing nations for them to pay Mexico not to put its oil on the market. And there's no limit to what they will pay us. As a consequence, less oil will be used. In that sense, you could say I'm a humanitarian.' Drummond smirked.

'Or maybe you just want to collect the world,' Buchanan said.

'What we're discussing is whether your argument is persuasive enough to make me want to collect you.'' Drummond squinted toward Raymond. 'Find out if he's lying about this covert special-operations group.'

7

The sun was low, adding to the gloom of the acrid smoke that drifted across the area. Buchanan coughed again as he and Holly were shoved through the haze toward the only part of the ruins that Drummond had allowed to remain intact.

'The ball court,' Drummond said.

The haze lifted enough for Buchanan to see a flat, stone, playing surface one hundred feet long and twenty-five feet wide. On each side was a wall, fifteen feet high, the top of which was a terrace from which spectators could watch. Drummond climbed steps to the terrace, followed by Delgado, a guard and Holly. She looked sick from fear. Her handcuffs had been removed. She nervously rubbed her wrists.

Another guard removed Buchanan's handcuffs, then followed the others to the terrace. Buchanan too rubbed his wrists, trying to increase the flow of blood to his numb hands. Anxiety surged through him as he studied the walls of the court, noting the hieroglyphs and the drawings engraved on the stone.

'The acoustics of the ball court are amazing.' Drummond spoke from the terrace, peering down at Buchanan. 'I'm using a normal voice, and yet it sounds as if I have a microphone.'

Despite the roar of construction equipment in the background, despite the closer crackle of flames and the occasional bark of a gunshot, Buchanan heard Drummond with remarkable clarity. The crusty voice seemed to echo from and be amplified by all points of the court.

'The game was called pok-a-tok,' Drummond said. 'If you study the engravings on the stone wall below me, you can see images of the ancient Maya playing the game. They used a latex rubber ball roughly the size and weight of a medicine ball. The intention was to hurl the ball through the vertical stone circle projecting from the middle of this side of the court. A second stone circle projects from the other side of the court. Presumably that was the goal for the opposite team. The ancient Maya considered pok-a-tok more than mere recreation. To them, it had enormous political and religious significance. In their mythology, the two gods who founded their race did so by winning this game in a contest with other gods. There is evidence that commoners were never allowed to witness the game. Only nobles, priests, and royalty. There is further evidence that the game was a prelude to human sacrifice and that it was played most often with warriors captured from other tribes.'

'The stakes were life and death.' Raymond's voice came suddenly from behind Buchanan, making him whirl.

8

What Buchanan saw stunned him. Threw his mind off balance. Assaulted his sanity. For a moment, he told himself that he had to be hallucinating, that fatigue combined with his concussion had distorted his perceptions.

But as Raymond stepped through the haze of smoke, tinted crimson by the lowering sun, Buchanan forced himself to accept that what confronted him, however grotesque, was definitely, dismayingly real.

Raymond was partially naked. He wore thick, leather pads around his waist and groin. Similar armor was strapped to his shoulders, elbows, and knees. Otherwise his body was bare, his nipples showing. His exposed muscles displayed the strength and tone that could have come only from hours of daily exercise.

Buchanan, who had been in excellent condition before he began his assignment in Mexico, had been on the move for so long and been so wearied by his various injuries that he hadn't had time for exercise and wasn't in peak condition.

Raymond's leather armor looked grotesque enough. But what added to the dismaying sense of surreality was a helmet he wore, from which long feathers of numerous brilliant colors were swept back, creating the illusion that a Mayan warrior had stepped not only through smoke but through time. In addition, he carried a large ball that he dropped to the stone court. As it struck and rolled, it caused a thunking echo that communicated how solid and heavy it was. He threw leather pads at Buchanan's feet. 'Undress and put them on.'

'Like hell,' Buchanan said.

Raymond picked up the ball and hurled it at Buchanan, who dodged but not soon enough, the drug still affecting him. The glancing impact of the ball against his left arm was startlingly painful.

'Undress and put on the armor, or you won't last thirty seconds in the game,' Raymond said.

Buchanan slowly complied, gaining time, calculating. Above him, Holly looked even more terrified. Buchanan strained to think of a way for the two of them to escape, but no plan was adequate against the guard next to Holly and the automatic weapon in his hands. The guard would shoot before Buchanan could climb the wall and get to them.

As Buchanan's naked skin felt prickly cold despite the sweat dripping from him, he strapped on the rough, thick, leather armor.

'I designed these myself,' Raymond said, 'based on the drawings on these walls.' He pointed to Buchanan's left, just below the vertical stone hoop that projected from the top of the wall. 'That engraving, in particular, interests me.'

Buchanan frowned in that direction, and for a moment, the image -a warrior in armor, with a feathered headdress - looked disturbingly like Raymond.

'When I first stepped onto this ball court,' Raymond said, 'I felt as if I'd come home. I felt as if I'd been here, as if I'd played here. Long, long ago.'

Buchanan kept staring at the image. Appalled, he realized that the warrior was clutching a severed human head, blood dripping from the neck as the warrior raised the skull by its hair.

'That's what I meant about life and death,' Raymond said. 'You see, the penalty for the losers was execution. And the winner? He not only got to stay alive. He got to be the executioner.'

'What are we talking about here?' Buchanan demanded. 'Are you telling me that if I win, I go free?'

Except for the din of construction equipment in the background, the ball court became silent.

'That's what I thought,' Buchanan said. 'For me, it's a no-win situation.'

'It may have been for the ancient Maya as well,' Drummond interrupted, his voiced filled with phlegm.

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'There's a theory among a few historians of Mayan culture that it wasn't the losers who were executed but rather the winners.'

'That's absurd,' Buchanan said. 'Who on earth would want to play?'

'Raymond agrees with you,' the old man said. 'But the theory is that winning was such an honor it put you on a level with the gods. The next logical step was for you to be sacrificed so that you could take your place among the gods.'

'It sounds to me like the only true winners were those who watched.'

'Yes,' Drummond said. 'As I told you, I pursue the unique. I'm about to be privileged to witness a rarity. For the first time in five hundred years, a game of pok-a-tok is going to be played. For me.'

'And how is this supposed to prove whether I'm telling the truth about the special-ops unit that'll come here looking for me? Am I supposed to confess so I won't have my head cut off?'

'Oh, I think as the game progresses, you'll have many painful inducements to tell the truth,' Drummond said. 'But it's not you I'm concerned about. My interest is in Ms McCoy. I suspect that what she sees will make her more than willing to tell the truth. In exchange for ending what's being done to you.'

'It won't do you any good,' Buchanan said. 'She doesn't know anything about my unit.'

'Perhaps. I'll soon find out. Raymond, if you're ready.'

9

The ball struck Buchanan's back with such force that he was knocked to the stone floor, his chin scraping on one of the slabs. If not for the padded leather armor, he suspected that the ball would have broken some of his ribs. Gasping, ignoring his pain, he scrambled to his feet and charged toward the ball. Raymond got there at the same time he did.

Buchanan rammed his padded elbow against the side of Raymond's head, knocking him sideways. Before Raymond could recover, Buchanan lifted the ball, its weight surprising him, and hurled it at Raymond, who grunted and lurched back as the ball struck his thigh and bounced off his leather armor, thudding onto the court.

'No, no, no,' Drummond said from the platform. 'This won't do at all. The point of the game is to throw the ball through the stone hoop, not at your opponent.'

'Why didn't you tell that to Raymond when he threw it at me to begin with? What the hell was he doing?'

'Getting your attention,' Raymond said.

'How many points does it take to win?'

'Well, that's a problem.'

'Yeah, I thought so.'

'No, you don't understand,' Drummond said. 'You see, no one knows how many points are required in order to win. That information hasn't survived the centuries. We'll have to improvise.'

'Ten.' Raymond smiled.

'Ten what?' Buchanan asked in fury. 'Do you mean I have to win by ten points? For Christ's sake, what are you saying?'

'The best of ten. Whoever gets to ten first.'

'And then what?'

'It depends on the answers I receive from you and Ms McCoy,' Drummond said.

Without warning, Buchanan dodged toward the ball, picked it up, and lunged toward the vertical hoop. As he aimed to throw, Raymond battered his padded shoulder against Buchanan's arm, jolting him sideways, slamming him against the stone wall.

Buchanan groaned, spun, and struck Raymond's chest with the ball. Continuing to grip the ball, Buchanan kept spinning as Raymond stumbled backward. Braced beneath the stone hoop, Buchanan hurled the ball and felt his heartbeat surge when he saw the ball arc through the vertical circle.

Raymond's hands struck Buchanan's back, knocking him forward and down, Buchanan's chin again scraping on the court.

Jesus, Buchanan said. Not my head. I can't let anything happen to my head. Another concussion would.

He scrambled to his feet, wiped blood from his chin, and glared at Raymond.

'No, no, no,' Drummond repeated. 'You're not playing by the rules.'

'Tell that to Raymond!' Buchanan shouted. 'I'm the one who got the ball through the hoop.'

'But you didn't get the ball through legally!'

'What are you talking about?'

'You're not allowed to use your hands!'

'Not allowed to-?'

'We don't know much about the game.' Drummond gestured forcefully. 'But we do know this. Presumably except for picking up the ball, you were not allowed to use your hands. The ball was kept in motion by thrusting it with your forearms, your shoulders, your hips, your knees, and your head.'

The idea of hitting the ball with his head made Buchanan inwardly flinch. It would probably kill him.

'For breaking the rules, you have to be given a penalty. One point demerit. Now you have to score eleven while Raymond needs only ten. Unless of course he breaks a rule.'

'Sure. But somehow I get the feeling he'll make up the rules as he goes along and I'll keep breaking rules that haven't been invented yet.'

'Just play the game,' Raymond said.

Before Buchanan could react, Raymond scurried toward the ball, picked it up with his hands, threw it into the air, caught it with his forearms, and hurled it toward the hoop, the ball flying neatly through.

Thunking, the ball landed at Buchanan's feet.

'Raymond, I get the feeling you've been practising.'

'Good sport,' Drummond said. 'I like a man who loses a point graciously.'

'But I'll bet you like winners more,' Buchanan said.

'Then make me like you better,' Drummond said. 'Win.'

Buchanan managed to grab the ball. At once he felt his legs kicked out from under him as Raymond leapt, hitting with his feet.

Buchanan fell backward, the weight of the ball against his chest. He struck the court hard, grateful for the leather armor on his shoulders. Even so, his impact sent a spasm through the shoulder that was still healing from where he'd been shot in Cancun. The weight of the ball took his breath away.

Raymond jerked the ball from his hands, threw it into the air again, caught it with his forearms again, and hurled it toward the vertical hoop, scoring another point.

'Yes, you've definitely been practising.' As Buchanan came to his feet, he felt his body begin to stiffen.

'This isn't amusing at all. You're going to have to try harder,' Drummond said.

Sooner than anticipated, Buchanan scooped up the ball, grasped it with his forearms, pretended to lunge toward the hoop, but actually watched for Raymond to attack, and as Raymond darted to slam against him, Buchanan spun. Clutching the ball to his chest, avoiding Raymond, Buchanan jabbed with his elbow as Raymond went past, and Raymond lurched, doubling over, holding his side from the pain in his left kidney. Instantly Buchanan ran toward the hoop, stood with his back to it, cautiously watched Raymond, then risked a glance upward, judged his distance from the hoop, and threw the ball up behind him with his forearms, exhaling with satisfaction when the ball hurtled through.

'Excellent coordination,' Drummond said. 'You look like you've had experience with basketball. But this game has aspects of volleyball and soccer as well. How were you at those?'

Distracted, Buchanan felt the wind knocked out of him as Raymond attacked head first, plowing his skull into Buchanan's stomach, knocking him over.

Buchanan writhed, struggling to breathe. Meanwhile Raymond scooped up the ball and scored another point.

'What's the name of your special-operations unit?' Drummond asked. 'This mythical unit that's supposed to come and rescue you or else punish me if I harm you.'

Buchanan wavered upright, wiped blood from his chin, and squinted toward Raymond.

'I asked you a question,' Drummond demanded. 'What is the name of your unit?'

Buchanan pretended to dart toward the ball. Raymond lunged to intercept him. Buchanan zigzagged, coming toward Raymond from the opposite side, once more ramming his padded elbow into Raymond's left kidney.

The repeated damage to the area made Raymond groan, faltering with his hands on the ball. Buchanan yanked it away, wedged it between his forearms, and started to throw. Pain blurred his vision as Raymond tackled him from behind at his midsection.

Falling, Buchanan was terribly conscious of the ball beneath him, of Raymond's weight on top of him. When he hit the court, he felt as if the ball were a wedge against which the top and bottom of his body were being split in opposite directions. Raymond's plummeting body shoved the ball against Buchanan's stomach. For a terrifying moment, Buchanan couldn't breathe. He felt smothered.

Then Raymond scrambled free, and Buchanan rolled off the ball, gasping, knowing that his abdomen had been bruised, worse, that the stitches in his knife wound had been torn open beneath the leather armor that girded his right side.

Raymond picked up the ball with his forearms and, without any visible strain, threw it, scoring another point.

The court echoed with the powerful thunk of the ball as it landed. Construction equipment kept roaring in the background. The fires kept crackling. A gunshot reverberated from the forest. Smoke, tinted crimson by the sunset, drifted over the court.

Drummond coughed.

He kept coughing. Phlegm rattled in his throat. He spat and finally managed to say, 'You'll have to try harder. What is the name of your special-operations unit?'

Stiff, weary, in pain, Buchanan stood. If he and Holly were going to get out of this alive, he had to convince Drummond that the old man couldn't afford the consequence of killing his hostages.

'Name, rank, and serial number,' Buchanan said. 'But I'll go to hell before I give you classified information.'

'You don't know what hell can be,' Drummond said. ''What is the name of your special-operations unit?'

Buchanan grabbed for the ball. Although his movements were an excruciating effort, he had to keep trying. He had to ignore the sticky wetness beneath the leather pad on his right side. He had to overcome his pain.

Raymond sprinted to intercept him, stooping to grab the ball.

Buchanan increased speed, getting to Raymond much sooner than expected, kicking, his right shin striking the unprotected area between Raymond's shoulders and his abdomen.

Bent over, Raymond took the kick so hard that he was lifted off the court. He tilted in midair, landed on his side, rolled onto his back, kept rolling, came to his feet, and whacked his forearm across Buchanan's face so hard that Buchanan's teeth snapped together.

For a moment, Buchanan was blind, jolted backward.

Raymond struck him again, knocking him farther backward. Blood flew. Dazed, Buchanan prepared for a third blow, shielding his face, ducking to the left, unable to see clearly.

'What is the name of your unit?' Drummond demanded.

Raymond struck again, smashing Buchanan's lips.

Then suddenly Buchanan had nowhere to go. He was thrust against the wall of the court. Through blurred vision, he saw Raymond drawing back his arm to strike yet again.

'The name of your unit?' Drummond shouted.

'Yellow Fruit!' Holly blurted.

'Yellow.?' Drummond sounded confused.

'You want the unit's name! That's it!' Holly's voice was unsteady from terror. 'Stop. My God, look at the blood. Can't you see how hurt he is?'

'That's the general idea.' Raymond struck Buchanan again.

Buchanan slumped to his knees.

Keep going, Holly. Buchanan strained to clear his vision. Damn it, keep on. Hook them.

Yellow Fruit! She hadn't told Drummond about Scotch and Soda. Instead she'd used the name for a unit that was no longer operative. She was following what Buchanan had taught her during their search. When you're absolutely stuck, tell the truth, but only that portion of the truth that's useful. Never expose your core identity.

'And what exactly is Yellow Fruit?' Drummond demanded.

'It's a covert Army unit that supplies security and intelligence to special-operations units.' Holly's voice continued to shake.

'And how do you know this? A while ago, Buchanan assured me that your knowledge was limited.'

'Because of a story I've been working on. I've tracked down leads for a year. Buchanan's one of them. I wouldn't be here if I hadn't tried to get close to him and hope he'd say more than he meant to.'

'Did he?'

'Not enough to satisfy you. Damn it, I've got nothing to do with this. I want out of this. Jesus, tell him what he wants, Buchanan. Maybe he'll let us go.'

'Yes,' Drummond said, 'take her advice and tell me everything I want.'

Buchanan was kneeling, his head bowed. Wiping blood from his mouth, he nodded. Abruptly he struck Raymond in his solar plexus, doubling Raymond over, striking again, this time with an uppercut that made Raymond's eyes cross and sent him reeling back, collapsing on the court. Raymond's feathered helmet rolled away.

Buchanan struggled to his feet. If he'd been allowed to use his Special-Forces, hand-to-hand-combat skills, he would not have had so much trouble dealing with Raymond. But winning in hand-to-hand combat wasn't the point. Winning the game was. Otherwise, Drummond might become so outraged that he'd order Buchanan and Holly to be executed. And Buchanan doubted that the rules of pok-a-tok included karate.

As it was, the damage that he had inflicted on Raymond was sufficient to leave Raymond sprawled on the court. Wavering, Buchanan picked up the ball between his forearms. He studied the vertical hoop, tried to clear his blurred vision, and threw the ball underhanded. His stomach turned cold when the ball struck the edge of the ring and thunked back toward him.

Shit, he thought. He wiped sweat from his eyes, whirled to make certain that Raymond was still on his back, then glared up at Holly.

'You bitch!' he shouted. 'You were just leading me on! All I meant to you was a story!'

'Damned right!' she shouted back. 'Did you figure you were so wonderful I'd fall hopelessly in love with you? Get real, and look in the mirror! I don't intend to get killed because of you! For God's sake, tell him what he wants!'

Buchanan turned toward the ring, threw the ball with his forearms again, and this time the ball went through.

'Tell him what he wants?' Buchanan glared harder. 'I'll tell him, bitch. Just enough to save my life. You're the threat to him, not me. You're the damned reporter! I'm a soldier! I can be trusted to keep my mouth shut!'

Buchanan threw the ball yet again. It arced through the ring. 'And I'll win this fucking game.'

'Just enough to save your life?' Holly turned paler than she already was. 'Hey, we're in this together!'

'Wrong.'

Buchanan threw the ball.

And cursed when it struck the edge of the ring.

'And you're wrong as well,' Raymond said unexpectedly.

Buchanan turned to look behind him.

Raymond had stood. Blood streamed from his mouth, dripping onto his leather armor. 'You're not going to win, after all.'

Raymond scrambled toward the ball.

Buchanan lunged after him.

And slipped.

He'd been standing too long in one place. The blood from the opened stitches in his side had seeped from beneath his armor. It had trickled down his leg and formed a slippery pool where he stood.

Although he didn't fall, the strenuous effort of regaining his balance lost him sufficient time that Raymond was able to throw the ball through the ring.

Without pause, Raymond darted toward it again. But as he scooped it up, Buchanan swept his right forearm beneath the ball, freeing it from Raymond's grip. Using his other forearm, Buchanan thrust the ball against Raymond's left shoulder. The ball's impact made Raymond groan. It rebounded, and as Raymond staggered back, Buchanan caught the ball with upraised forearms. Hurling it, seeing it touch the ring, he felt elated.

Then his chest cramped. The ball did not go through. It bounced off the edge and fell back. Jesus. Running forward, Buchanan leapt. But he didn't get there soon enough. He didn't raise his arms quickly enough. In midair, he had to strike the ball with his padded left shoulder. It flew back toward the ring.

And bounced yet again. But this time, Buchanan was ready. As he completed his leap and landed on the court, he raised his forearms, caught the ball, threw, and scored a point.

'Bravo,' Drummond yelled. 'Yes, that's how the game is played! Shoulders! Angles! Rebounds!'

'Bitch, watch me win!' Buchanan yelled at Holly. 'You're the one who's going to lose! You're the one who's going to die! You'll wish you'd never met me! You'll wish you'd never led me on!'

At once Buchanan felt his breath taken away as hands slammed his back, propelling him against the side of the court. In a daze, Buchanan raised his padded forearms to cushion the impact against the stone wall. He spun and was slammed again, this time by Raymond's right padded shoulder, a full blow to the chest. Then Buchanan's back struck the wall, and a sharp pain made him fear that one of his ribs had been broken.

'Argue with her later,' Raymond said. 'How do you contact your unit?'

'Exactly,' Drummond said. He coughed again, violently. More smoke swirled over him. The construction equipment continued roaring. Increasing gunshots reverberated, closer.

'Not until we have a deal!' Buchanan winced from the pain in his chest. Another pool of blood formed at his feet. He felt lightheaded and fought to concentrate. He had to keep Holly and him alive. Play your role, Holly. Play your role.

'What kind of deal?' Drummond asked.

'I tell you what you need, and I get to walk away,' Buchanan said. 'In exchange for calling off my unit, I stay alive. But this bitch gets what she deserves.'

'You'd believe any bargain I made with you?' Drummond asked.

'Hey, your problem hasn't changed! If anything happens to me, my unit comes after you!' Buchanan held his chest, the sharp pain restricting his breath.

'And what about Juana Mendez? Do you expect me to believe you won't stop looking for her? Or maybe she no longer matters to you, either.'

'No.' Buchanan sweated. 'She's the reason I'm in this. I'll keep looking. I'll convince her this is none of her business. I want her left alone. The same as me.'

'She must be very special to you.'

'Years ago, I should have married her.'

'Buchanan, don't do this to me,' Holly said. 'Don't sell me out.'

'Shut up. Anybody who uses me the way you did deserves to be sold out.'

'All right,' Drummond said. 'Deal with the woman as you like. How do you contact your unit?'

Buchanan told them a radio frequency. 'If you're using a telephone, the number is.' He told them that as well.

'That's a lie,' Holly said.

Good, Buchanan thought. Keep going, Holly. Take my cue. Play the role. Buy us time.

'A lie?' Drummond asked.

'I don't know about the radio frequency, but the telephone number isn't the one I saw him use several times when he reported in. That number was.' She gave a different one.

'Ah,' Drummond said. 'It seems you haven't been perfectly honest,' he told Buchanan.

'She's the one who's lying,' Buchanan said. 'I have to call my people by midnight. Let me use your radio and-'

'This is bullshit,' Raymond said.

He picked up the ball and hurled it through the ring.

He did so again.

And again.

'You're stalling,' Raymond said. 'The two of you are pretending to fight with each other until you hope we're so confused that we'll keep you alive a little longer.'

Raymond threw the ball and scored another point. 'That's nine.' He stared at Buchanan. 'I don't believe either of you. One more point, and you're dead.'

As Raymond prepared to throw the ball a final time, Buchanan lunged. He felt a tremor. The court seemed to ripple. His legs became wobbly.

Nonetheless he kept charging. When Raymond threw, the ball struck the side of the rim. Buchanan intercepted it in midair, bounced it off his padded forearms, and knocked it through the ring.

But as he landed, his legs buckled. He was suddenly aware that the roar of the construction equipment had stopped. By contrast, the crackle of flames and the rattle of gunshots became louder. Men screamed.

He wavered.

'One more,' Raymond said.

He picked up the ball. 'One more.'

He glared at Buchanan. 'And the loser pays the penalty.'

He threw the ball.

Buchanan didn't even bother to see if it went through the ring. He was too busy struggling to remain upright, preparing to defend himself.

Above him, he heard a commotion. Scuffling. A shout. Someone falling.

'Buchanan!' Holly screamed. 'Behind you!'

Risking the distraction, he glanced quickly backward and saw that the guard had fallen from the terrace.

No! he realized. He was wrong. The guard hadn't fallen. He'd been pushed! By Holly.

The fifteen-foot drop had dazed the man. He lay, holding his leg as if it might be broken. The man had lost his grip on his automatic weapon.

Buchanan scurried off balance toward it and was knocked to the side by the startling, heavy impact of the ball against his back.

My head! It almost hit my head! I'll die if it hits my head!

Buchanan heard more gunshots, more screams, but all he cared about was Raymond stalking toward him.

'You lost,' Raymond said. His blue eyes glinted with anticipation. His boyish smile was stiff and cruel. It made him look devoid of all sanity. 'I'm going to kill you with this.' He picked up the weighty ball. 'It's going to take a long time. Finally I'm going to use the ball to smash your head like an eggshell.'

Dizzy, Buchanan stumbled unwillingly back. He slipped on his blood. His brain felt swollen, his skull in terrible pain. He feinted toward the right, then dove toward the left, grabbing the fallen guard's automatic weapon.

Raymond stood over him, swaying, the ball raised over his head, preparing to hurl it down with all his strength.

Buchanan aimed the Uzi and pulled the trigger.

But nothing happened.

The weapon had jammed.

Buchanan's bowels felt as if they were suddenly filled with boiling water.

With a laugh, Raymond compacted his muscles to propel the ball down toward Buchanan's face.

10

And froze, his body eerily motionless. His blue eyes seemed more empty than ever, glassy. His grotesque smile seemed even more rigid.

At once the ball fell from his hands, dropping behind him, thunking on the court.

But his arms remained upstretched.

Blood trickled from his mouth.

He toppled forward, Buchanan scrambling to get out of the way.

As Raymond's face struck the court, Buchanan saw a mass of arrows embedded in Raymond's back.

He stared forward, in the direction from which the arrows must have come, but all he saw was smoke. Hearing a noise to his right, he spun. The guard, having adjusted to the shock of his fall from the terrace, was drawing a pistol. Buchanan pulled back the arming lever on his Uzi, freed the shell that had jammed, chambered a fresh round, and pulled the trigger, hitting the guard with a short, controlled burst that jolted him backward and down, blood flying.

'Holly!' Buchanan yelled. The terrace above him was deserted. 'Holly! Where-?'

'Up here!'

He still couldn't see her.

'On my stomach!'

'Are you all right?'

'Scared!'

'Can you climb down? Where are Drummond and-?'

'Ran!' She raised her head. 'When they saw. My God.' She pointed past Buchanan.

Whirling, crouching, aiming the Uzi, Buchanan squinted toward the smoke at the end of the court. Any moment, he feared that more arrows would be launched.

He saw movement.

He tightened his finger on the trigger.

Shadows, then figures, emerged from the smoke.

Buchanan felt a chill surge through him. Earlier, when Raymond had arrived with his leather armor and his feathered helmet, Buchanan had experienced an uncanny sense that Raymond was stepping not only through smoke but time.

Now Buchanan had that skin-prickling sensation again, but in this case, the figures striding toward him from the smoke were indeed Maya, short and thin, with straight black hair, dark brown skin, round heads, wide faces, and almond-shaped eyes. Like Raymond, they wore leather armor and feathered helmets, and for a dismaying instant, his mind swirling, Buchanan felt as if he'd been sucked back a thousand years.

The Maya carried spears, machetes, bows and arrows. A dozen men. Their leader kept his stern gaze on Buchanan all the while he approached, and Buchanan slowly lowered the Uzi, holding it with his left hand parallel to his leg, pointing the weapon down toward the ball court.

The Maya stopped before him, their leader assessing Buchanan. In the background, only the crackle of flames could be heard. The gunshots had stopped, and Buchanan thought he knew why - this wasn't the only group of Maya who, outraged by the desecration of their ancestors' temples, had finally rebelled instead of allowing themselves to be hunted.

The Mayan chieftain narrowed his gaze with fierce emotion and raised his machete.

Buchanan didn't know if he was being tested. It took all his control not to raise the Uzi and fire.

The chieftain whirled toward Raymond's body, striking with the machete, chopping off Raymond's head.

With contempt, the chieftain raised the head by its hair.

As blood drained from the neck, Buchanan couldn't help being reminded of the engraving on the wall of the ball court that Raymond had singled out at the start of the game.

The chieftain pivoted and hurled the skull toward the stone ring. It whunked against the rim, spun, then hurtled through, and landed on the court, spattering blood, rolling, making the sound of an overripe pumpkin.

Raymond, you were wrong, Buchanan thought. It wasn't the loser but the winner who got sacrificed.

The chieftain scowled toward Buchanan and raised his machete a second time. Buchanan needed all of his discipline not to defend himself. He didn't flinch. He didn't blink. The chieftain nodded, made a forward gesture with the machete, and led his companions past Buchanan, as if he didn't exist, as if he and not they were a ghost.

Buchanan felt paralyzed for a moment, watching them stride forward into the smoke, disappearing as if they had never been, and then his legs felt wobbly. He glanced down, appalled by the amount of blood at his feet, his blood, the blood from his reopened knife wound.

'Holly!'

'Next to you.'

He spun. Her features strained with fright, she seemed to have appeared from nowhere.

'Lie down,' she said.

'No. Can't. Help me. This won't be over' - he swallowed, his mouth dry - 'until we find Drummond and Delgado.'

Ahead, through the smoke, men shrieked.

Dizzy, Buchanan put his arm around Holly and stumbled forward, ready with his Uzi. They entered the smoke. Briefly, nothing could be seen. Then they emerged into what seemed a different world. The ball court had been left behind. So had hundreds of years. They faced the obscene, pyramid-shaped oil rig that stood where a pyramid of stone, a temple, a holy place, had once stood, focusing the energy of the universe.

Except for the crackle of flames, the place was unnervingly silent. The bodies of construction workers lay all around.

'Dear God,' Holly murmured.

Abruptly Buchanan heard a metallic whine. An increasing whump-whump-whump. An engine's roar.

The helicopter, Buchanan realized. Drummond and Delgado had reached it. He strained to peer up, squinting in pain past the flames that whooshed up from trees ahead of him. There. He saw the blue helicopter rising.

But something was wrong. It wobbled. It had trouble gaining altitude. As Buchanan struggled to clear his vision, he saw the cluster of men that clung to its landing skids, desperate to be carried away. Inside the crowded chopper, someone had opened a hatch, kicking at the men, trying to knock them off the struts.

The helicopter wavered, fought for altitude.

And plummeted into the blazing trees. An instant later, a walloping explosion burst from the flames, scattering bodies and wreckage in all directions. The blast reverberated across the site and into the jungle.

Buchanan and Holly were jolted back, horrified, smoke drifting over them. Coughing, wiping sweat and grime from their faces, they surveyed the wreckage. The steel pyramid had been struck by a huge, spinning chunk from the helicopter. A support beam had been severed. The derrick listed, drooped, and toppled, metal screeching. Construction equipment was buried by twisted metal. Only the remnants of once great monuments, the ruins of the ruins that Drummond had allowed to remain, seemed permanent.

A man groaned, 'Help.'

Buchanan glanced around, hobbling, following the voice through the smoke.

'Here. Oh, God, please help.'

Buchanan recognized the voice before he saw him. Delgado. The man lay on his back, a spear projecting from his chest. His face was ashen.

'Help.' He gestured weakly toward the spear. 'Can't move. Pull it out.'

'Out? Are you sure?'

'Yes.'

'If that's what you want,' Buchanan said. Knowing what would happen, he gripped the spear and tugged.

Delgado screamed. At once his scream became a gurgle as the force of the spear's removal caused him to hemorrhage internally. Blood erupted from his mouth.

'For what you did to Maria Tomez,' Buchanan said, 'you deserve a whole lot worse.'

Holly clung to him, just as he clung to Holly. The sun was setting. The crimson-tinted, smoke-obscured area seemed completely deserted.

'Dear Christ,' Holly said,'did all of them die? Everybody?'

'The Maya. I don't see them,' Buchanan said. 'Where are they?'

The bump of a falling log disturbed the illusion. Buchanan stared toward the right.

And bristled, finding another survivor.

Alistair Drummond staggered from a leaning, smoking remnant of the log building that had been the camp's office.

At last he showed his age. Even more than his age. Stooped, shriveled, his cheeks gaunt, his eyes sunken, he seemed the oldest man Buchanan had ever seen.

Noticing Buchanan, the old man shuddered, then hobbled to try to get away.

Weakness forced Buchanan to hobble in imitation. Several times, Drummond fell. So did Buchanan. But relentless, Buchanan persisted, passing hieroglyph-covered blocks of stone that stood next to fallen clumps of twisted girders.

Drummond faltered from something before him. Turning, he tried to stand proudly, failing miserably, as Buchanan stumbled up to him.

'I thought you died on the helicopter,' Buchanan said.

'They wouldn't let me on.' Drummond's white hair had been singed by flames. His scalp had been seared. He was almost bald. 'Can you believe it?' Drummond's voice wavered. 'They were all so eager to escape that they wouldn't let me on.'

'Tell me,' Buchanan said. 'What made you ever think you could get away with this?'

'Think? I know. As old as I am, as powerful as I am, what can anybody do to punish me? Never forget I'm so very rich.'

'What you are is a bastard.'

Buchanan reached out and pushed him with his right index finger. The minuscule force was enough to throw the old man off balance. His gangly arms flailed. He listed. He screamed. He fell.

What had stopped him from continuing to hobble away from Buchanan was a deep, wide pit above which the ancient Maya had built their stone pyramid to hide and control the god of darkness, the god of black water, the god that seeped from the earth. The steel pyramid with which Drummond had replaced the original pyramid had collapsed into the pit, and at the bottom, oil rippled thickly, its petroleum smell nauseating.

Drummond struck the surface of the oil.

And was swallowed.

'He wanted that oil so damned bad. Now he's got it,' Buchanan said.

He sank to the ground. His mind swirled.

11

Holly's blurred face hovered over him.

The Mayan chieftain, who'd confronted him in the ball court, seemed to hover next to her, the colorful feathers of his headdress radiant in the crimson sunset. Other warriors appeared, gripping blood-covered spears and machetes. Holly seemed not to realize her danger.

Buchanan tried to raise a hand to point and warn her. He couldn't move the hand. He tried to open his mouth and tell her. His mouth wouldn't move. The words wouldn't come. He felt as if the earth spun beneath him, tugging him into a vortex.

The Mayan chieftain stooped, his broad, round face distorting the closer it came to Buchanan.

In his delirium, Buchanan felt himself being lifted and placed upon a litter. He had a floating sensation. Although his eyelids were closed, he saw images. A towering pyramid. Statues that depicted gigantic snake heads. Evocative hieroglyphics. Magnificent palaces and temples.

Then the jungle rose before him, and he was carried through a clearing in the trees and bushes, a clearing that went on and on, his litter bearers proceeding along a wide pathway made of gray stone, higher than the forest floor. It seemed to him that everywhere, except on the pathway, snakes made the ground ripple.

Night settled over them. Nonetheless they continued, Holly staying close to his litter, the Mayan chieftain guided by moonlight, leading the way.

This is how it was a thousand years ago, Buchanan thought.

They came to a village, where through a gate, beyond a head-high wooden stockade, torches flickered, revealing huts. The walls of the huts were made from woven saplings, the roofs from palm fronds. Pigs and chickens, wakened by the procession, scattered noisily. Villagers waited, short, round-faced, dark-haired, almond-eyed, the women wearing ghostly, white dresses.

Buchanan was taken into one of the huts. He was placed on a hammock - so the snakes can't get at me, he thought. Women undressed him. In the light from a fire, the chieftain peered at his wounds.

Holly shrieked and tried to stop him, but the villagers restrained her, and after the chieftain sewed Buchanan's knife wound shut, after he applied a compress to Buchanan's almost-healed bullet wound, after he put salve on Buchanan's cuts and bruises, he examined Buchanan's bulging eyes, and used a knife to shave the hair from one side of Buchanan's head.

And raised a pulley-driven wooden drill to Buchanan's aching skull.

The sharp point was excruciating.

As if a huge boil had been lanced, Buchanan fainted from the ecstasy of tremendous release.

12

'How long have I been unconscious?' Buchanan managed to ask. His mind was clouded. His body felt unrelated to him. Words were like stones in his mouth.

'Two weeks.'

That so surprised him his thoughts were jolted, forced to be less murky. He raised his right hand toward the bandage around his skull.

'Don't touch it,' Holly said.

'What happened to my-? How did-?'

Holly didn't answer. She soaked a clean cloth in rain water that she'd collected in half a hollowed-out coconut shell. While Buchanan lay partially naked on a hammock outside a hut, the late afternoon sunlight comfortably warm against his wounds, she bathed him.

'Tell me.' He licked his dry, swollen lips.

'You almost died. You'd lost a lot of blood, but the medicine man was able to stop it.'

'My head. What about my-?'

'You were raving. Convulsing. Your eyes were so huge I was afraid they'd pop out of your head. Obviously there was pressure behind them. He operated.'

'What?'

'On your head. He drilled a hole in your skull. Blood spurted across the hut as if.'

Buchanan's strength waned. His eyelids drooped. He licked again at his dry lips.

Holly raised another hollowed-out half of a coconut and gave him rain water to drink.

It dribbled down his chin, but he kept trying and was able to swallow most of it, luxuriating in its cool sweetness.

'Drilled a hole in.' he murmured.

'Primitive surgery. From a thousand years ago. It's like this place is suspended in time. No electricity. Everything they need they get from the forest. Their clothes are hand-made. Their soap is. They burn corncobs to boil water. Then they put the ashes from corncobs into the water and use it to scour dirty clothes. Then they take the clothes out and rinse the ashes from the clothes in other boiling pots. The clothes are incredibly clean. Then they pour the water on their crops so the corncob ashes can be a fertilizer.'

Buchanan had trouble concentrating. His eyelids kept drooping.

'Primitive surgery,' he said in muted dismay.

That was two days later, the next time he wakened.

Holly told him that she'd managed to get him to swallow liquids -water and chicken broth - while he was unconscious, but although he was hydrated, he'd lost an alarming amount of weight and would have to try to eat soon, regardless if his stomach might not feel up to it.

'I'm ready,' Buchanan said.

She dipped a wooden spoon into a clay bowl, tested the squash soup to make sure it wasn't too hot, and placed it into his mouth.

'Delicious.'

'Don't give me credit. I didn't make it. There's a woman who comes with food. She gestures to tell me what to do about you.'

'And the medicine man?'

'He comes twice a day to give you a spoonful of a thick, sweet-smelling syrup. It might be the reason you didn't get an infection. I wish I understood their language. I tried the little Spanish I know, but they don't seem to recognize it. We communicate with sign language.'

'Why did they go to so much trouble?' Buchanan wondered. 'Why did they let us live?'

'I don't know,' Holly said. 'They treat you as if you're a hero. I don't understand.'

'Something to do with the game,' Buchanan said. 'Fighting against Raymond. Being obvious enemies with Drummond. The natives decided we're on their side.' Buchanan brooded. 'I lost the game, and yet. In the old days, it could be the Maya felt so sorry for the loser that they took care of him.'

'Why would they feel sorry for him?'

'Because the winner was sacrificed and got to be with the gods.'

'Raymond isn't with the gods.'

'No. Nor is Drummond. He's in hell where he deserves to be,' Buchanan said. 'He reminds me of the colonel.'

'The colonel?'

Buchanan hesitated. 'What happened at the drilling site is yours. Write about it. Just leave me out of it. But what I'm going to tell you now is off the record.'

'Hey, if you don't know enough to trust me by now.'

Buchanan hesitated again, then made a decision. 'Maybe trust is another part of what it means to be human. I certainly trusted you back there in the ball court. You were convincing, and yet I believed you were acting when you said that you'd stayed with me just because of the story.'

'And I trusted you, even when you told Drummond that you didn't care if I died. All I did was believe you were acting and follow your lead, but I didn't know where we were going. What did you hope to accomplish?'

'Raymond had part of it right. I wanted them to be so confused that they'd have to keep us alive until they figured out which one of us was telling the truth. Eventually they'd have been tempted to try those telephone numbers we gave them, and the automatic trace would have led the colonel's hit team in this direction. With luck, we'd have still been alive.'

'Chancy.'

'No kidding. In that kind of situation, there aren't any long-term plans. But you and I sure made a good team.'

'Well, I had a good teacher,' Holly said.

'I was telling you about my commanding officer. The colonel and Drummond are very much alike. The colonel has a goal, and nothing matters except achieving it.'

'But that's standard military discipline.'

'No. The military has ethics. Politicians don't. It's politicians who give soldiers immoral goals. But sometimes a soldier like the colonel comes along and.' Buchanan's fragile strength waned. Only his angry thoughts kept him going. 'I'm beginning to think that it was the colonel who had Jack and Cindy Doyle killed. And Big Bob Bailey. Because of the photographs you took of me with the colonel. Because he was afraid he'd be identified as the director of Scotch and Soda, and his career would be ruined. Also, I think it was the colonel who arranged to have me knifed in New Orleans. So you wouldn't have anybody to question. So the story would die with me. He turned against his own to protect himself. Maybe he's getting kickbacks from the drug deals that Scotch and Soda is making in Latin America. Who the hell knows? But one day I'll find out. And one day the colonel will have to justify himself to me.'

'What about Juana?'

'Drummond's men will stop looking for her now that he's dead and they're not being paid. Knowing how skilled she became at disguising her appearance, I don't think I can ever find her.'

'But do you intend to keep trying?'

'You mean, does she still matter to me?'

Holly nodded.

'Yes,' Buchanan said.

Holly lowered her eyes.

'But not the way you matter,' Buchanan said.

Holly looked up.

'She's a friend who needed help, and for too long in my life, I wasn't able to help friends I'd known under other identities. I need to find out that she's safe. My guess is, once she learns that Drummond and Delgado are dead, she'll gradually come into the open. I look forward to seeing her again.' Buchanan touched her arm. 'But I swear to you. She's not your rival.'

Holly felt overwhelmed by emotion. 'What happens to us now?'

'One thing's certain. The colonel will never find us here.'

'True. That's certainly looking on the bright side.'

'Is it so bad here?'

'With you. No,' Holly said. 'Strange. As beat up as you look, there's something about. Your eyes. Even though you're angry about the colonel, you seem at peace.'

'I'm myself.'

Holly frowned in confusion.

'Something's missing from me,' Buchanan said. 'Maybe it's because of everything we've been through. Or maybe it's because of you. Or. When the medicine man drilled into my skull, I think he took out more than blood. I think he took out whatever was in my head that tortured me for so long. I've come to terms with the past. I want to move on. With you. What matters now isn't the past but the present.' Buchanan squeezed Holly's hand. 'And the future. No more trying to run from myself. No more assumed identities.'

'It'll be a pleasure getting to know you,' Holly said.

'I'm kind of curious about it myself.'

'Yes.' Holly kissed him. 'It's what I've been waiting for.'

The End