Assumed Identity

2

GUATAMALA CITY

Despite his thirty-six-hour journey and his sixty-four years, Nicholas Petrovich Bartenev fidgeted with energy. He and his wife had flown from Leningrad-

Correction, he thought. St. Petersburg. Now that communism has collapsed, they’ve abolished Lenin.

— to Frankfurt to Dallas to here, by invitation of the new Guatemalan government, and indeed if it hadn’t been for the Cold War’s end, this journey would not have been possible. Guatemala had only recently, after forty years, resumed diplomatic relations with Russia, and the all-important Russian exit visas, which for so long had been impossible to obtain, had been issued with astonishing efficiency. For most of his life, Bartenev had one consuming dream-to travel to Guatemala, not because he was eager to leave Russia but rather because Guatemala obsessed him. But he’d persistently, repeatedly been denied permission, and all of a sudden it was merely a matter of filling out some government forms and coming back a few days later to get the necessary travel papers. Bartenev couldn’t believe his good fortune. He feared that all of this would turn out to be a cruel hoax, that he’d be refused permission to enter Guatemala, that he’d be deported back to Russia.

The jet-a stretch 727 owned by American Airlines. . American! For a Russian citizen to be a passenger on a jet labeled American would have been unthinkable not many years ago-descended through clouds, past mountains, toward a city sprawled in a valley. The time was 8:15 in the evening. Sunset cast a crimson glow across the valley. Guatemala City’s lights gleamed. Bartenev gazed spellbound out his window, his heart pounding with the eagerness of a child.

Beside him, his wife clasped his hand. He turned to study her beautiful wrinkled face, and she didn’t need to say anything to communicate the pleasure she felt because he would soon fulfill his dream. From the age of eighteen, from the first time he’d seen photographs of the Mayan ruins at Tikal in Guatemala, he had felt an eerie identification with the now-almost-vanished people who had built them. He felt as if he had been there, as if he had been one of the Maya, as if his strength and sweat had helped erect the great pyramids and temples. And he had become fascinated with the hieroglyphs.

All these years later, without ever having set foot on a Mayan ruin, without ever having climbed a pyramid, without ever having stared face-to-face at the hook-nosed, high-cheeked, slope-browed visages of the Maya in the hieroglyphs, he was one of the top five Mayan epigraphers in the world (perhaps the top of the top, if he believed his wife’s flattery), and soon-not tonight, of course, but tomorrow perhaps or certainly the day after-he’d have managed yet another flight, this one to a primitive airstrip, and have accomplished the difficult journey through the jungle to Tikal, to his life’s preoccupation, to the center of his world, to the ruins.

To the hieroglyphs.

His heartbeat increased as the jet touched down. The sun was lower behind the western mountains. The darkness thickened, pierced by the glint of lights from the airport’s terminal. Nervous with anticipation, Bartenev unbuckled his seat belt, picked up his briefcase, and followed his wife and other passengers along the aisle. A frustrating minute seemed to take much longer before the aircraft’s hatch was opened. He squinted past the passengers ahead of him and saw the murky silhouettes of buildings. As he and his wife descended stairs to the airport’s tarmac, he breathed the thin, dry, cool mountain air and felt his body tense with excitement.

The moment he entered the terminal, however, he saw several uniformed government officials waiting for him, and he knew that something was wrong. They were somber, pensive, brooding. Bartenev feared that his premonition had been justified, that he was about to be refused permission to enter the country.

Instead, a flustered, thin-lipped man in a dark suit stepped away from them, nervously approaching. “Professor Bartenev?”

“Yes.”

They spoke in Spanish. Bartenev’s compulsive interest in Guatemala and the Mayan ruins throughout Mesoamerica had prompted him to acquire a facility in the local language, since much of the scholarship being done on the hieroglyphs was published in Spanish.

“My name is Hector Gonzales. From the National Archaeological Museum here.”

“Yes, I’ve received your letters.” As they shook hands, Bartenev couldn’t help noticing how Gonzales guided him toward the government officials. “This is my wife, Elana.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Bartenev. If you’ll please come through this door. . ”

Abruptly Bartenev noticed stern soldiers holding automatic rifles. He cringed, reminded of Leningrad during the worst of the Cold War. “Is something wrong? Is there something you haven’t told me, something I should know?”

“Nothing,” Gonzales said too quickly. “A problem with your accommodations. A scheduling difficulty. Nothing serious. Come this way. Through this door and down this hallway. Hurry, or we’ll be late.”

“Late?” Bartenev shook his head as he and his wife were rushed along the corridor. “Late for what? And our luggage? What about-?”

“It’s being taken care of. Your luggage will be brought to your hotel. You don’t need to go through immigration and customs.”

They passed through another door, into the night, onto a parking lot, where a Jeep filled with armed soldiers waited in front of a black limousine, behind which there was another Jeep filled with armed soldiers.

“I demand to know what is going on,” Bartenev said. “In your letters, you claimed that I would feel welcome here. Instead, I feel like a prisoner.”

“Professor Bartenev, you must understand that Guatemala is a troubled country. There is always much political uneasiness here. These soldiers are for your protection.”

“Why would I need-?”

“Please get in the car, and we can discuss it.”

The moment an escort shut the door on Bartenev, his wife, Gonzales, and two government officials, Bartenev again demanded, “Why would I need protection?”

The limousine, flanked by the Jeeps, sped away.

“As I told you, politics. For many years, Guatemala has been ruled by right-wing extremists.” Gonzales glanced uneasily at the government officials, as if he suspected that they would not approve of his vocabulary. “Recently, moderates have come into power. The new government is the reason that your country now is permitted to have diplomatic relations with ours. It also explains why you were invited here. A visit from a Russian academician emphasizes the goodwill that the Guatemalan government wants with your country. You were an ideal man to invite because you are not a politician and because your expertise relates to Guatemalan history.”

“The way you speak. .” Bartenev hesitated. “It makes me think you work less for the National Archaeological Museum than you do for the government. What is the name of the dynasty that ruled Tikal?”

Gonzales didn’t answer.

“In what century did Tikal reach its zenith of power?”

Gonzales didn’t answer.

Bartenev scoffed.

“You are in danger,” Gonzales said.

“What?”

“The right-wing extremists strongly disapprove of your visit,” Gonzales explained tensely. “Despite the collapse of communism in Russia, these extremists see your visit as the beginning of a corrupting influence that will make this country Marxist. The previous government used death squads to enforce its rule. Those death squads are still in existence. There have been threats against your life.”

Bartenev stared, despair spreading through him. His wife asked what Gonzales was saying to him. Grateful that she didn’t understand Spanish, Bartenev told her that someone had forgotten to make a reservation for them at the hotel, that their host was embarrassed about the oversight, and that the mistake was being corrected.

He scowled at Gonzales. “What are you saying to me? That I have to leave? I refuse. Oh, I will send my wife to safety. But I did not come all this way only to leave before I see my dream. I’m too old. I will probably not have this chance again. And I’m too close. I will go the rest of the way.”

“You are not being asked to leave,” Gonzales said. “That would be almost as ruinous a political act as if someone attempted to kill you.”

Bartenev felt blood drain from his face.

Gonzales said, “But we must be extremely careful. Cautious. We are asking you not to go out in public in the city. Your hotel will be guarded. We will transport you to Tikal as quickly as possible. And then we request that after a prudent length of time-a day, or at the most two-you feign illness and return to your home.”

“A day?” Bartenev had difficulty breathing. “Perhaps two? So little time after so many years of waiting for. .”

“Professor Bartenev, we have to deal with political realities.”

Politics, Bartenev thought, and wanted to curse. But like Gonzales, he was accustomed to dealing with such obscene realities, and he analyzed the problem with desperate speed. He was out of Russia, free to go anywhere-that was the important factor. There were numerous other major Mayan ruins. Palenque in Mexico, for example. He’d always been fond of photographs of it. It wasn’t Tikal. It didn’t have the emotional and professional attraction that Tikal had for him, but it was accessible. His wife could accompany him there. They would be safe there. If the Guatemalan government refused to pay for further expenses, that wouldn’t matter-because Bartenev had a secret source of funds about which he hadn’t told even his wife.

Indeed, secrecy had been part of the business arrangement when the well-dressed, fair-haired American had arrived at Bartenev’s office at St. Petersburg State University. The American had shown him several photographs of Mayan glyphs. He had asked in perfect Russian how much Bartenev would charge to translate the glyphs and keep the assignment confidential. “If the glyphs are interesting, I won’t charge anything,” Bartenev had answered, impressed by the foreigner’s command of the language. But the American had insisted on paying. In fact, his fee had been astonishingly generous: fifty thousand dollars. “To ensure your silence,” the American had said. “I’ve converted some of it to rubles.” He gave Bartenev the equivalent of ten thousand dollars in Russian currency. The remainder, he explained, would be placed in a Swiss bank account. Perhaps one day Bartenev would be free to travel, in which case the money could easily be obtained. Failing that, couriers could be arranged to transport prudent amounts into St. Petersburg for him, amounts that wouldn’t be so large that the authorities would ask questions about their source. Since that visit, the American had come two more times, in each case with more photographs of Mayan glyphs and with the same fee. Until now, the money had not been as important to Bartenev as the fascinating, although puzzling, message (like a riddle within a code) that the glyphs revealed.

But now the money was very important, and Bartenev bitterly meant to get full value from it.

“Yes,” he told Gonzales. “Political realities. I will leave whenever you want, whenever I have served your purpose.”

Gonzales seemed to relax. But only for a moment. Abruptly the limousine arrived at a hotel, the steel-and-glass modern design of which was jarringly un-Hispanic. The soldiers escorted Bartenev and his wife quickly through the lobby, into an elevator, and to the twelfth floor. Gonzales came with them while a government official spoke to a clerk at the check-in desk.

The phone was ringing as Gonzales unlocked the door, turned on a light, and guided Bartenev and his wife into the suite. Actually, there were two phones, one on a table next to a sofa, the other on a bar.

Gonzales locked the door behind them. The phone kept ringing. As Bartenev stepped toward the one by the sofa, Gonzales said, “No, let me answer it.” He chose the closer phone, the one on the bar. “Hello.” He turned on a lamp. “Why do you wish to speak with him?” He stared at Bartenev. “Just a moment.” He placed a hand over the telephone’s mouthpiece. “It’s a man who claims to be a journalist. Perhaps it would be wise to give an interview. Good public relations. I’ll listen on this phone while you use that one.”

Bartenev pivoted toward the phone on the table beside the sofa. “Hello,” he said, casting a shadow against the window.

“Go to hell, you goddamned Russian.”

As the window shattered inward, Bartenev’s wife screamed. Bartenev did not. The bullet that struck his skull and mushroomed within it killed him instantly. The bullet burst out the back of his head, spraying blood across the flying glass.