The Martian Sentence, page 5
Manwaring, like anybody waking up from a good drink, tried to recall the previous night. Turning his head to the right, his open eye looked at the nightstand, where he saw the remnants of the cash he had taken into town with him. Because he only carried cash, he didn’t have to worry about a huge, and erroneously signed for, amount on next month’s credit-card statement.
Opening the other eye, he recalled the first few hours in Puerto Cortés, before he started seriously drinking. He grinned. A grin that originated the week before. However, that enjoyment disappeared when he started to think about the hours he couldn’t remember. Trying to review each blurry slide flashing across the screen in the front of his mind, he pulled his hands from under the covers and held them above his head. Although he enjoyed alcohol daily, it had been years since he got himself blind drunk. Still looking at his hands and keeping them apart, he prayed.
The week before, early Sunday morning, when he heard the staff return from a night in town, Manwaring buried the cylinder, the scrolls from inside it, and the spiral-bound notebook in the tote containing the extra field school supplies. While he understood the significance of his discovery, he knew it would take time to fully develop that understanding before making any public announcements. He could not simply hop on the next plane out of Honduras and wave that cylinder above his head like he was a football team captain hoisting the winning trophy for the cameras. Like a multimillion-dollar lottery ticket, this discovery needed stewardship. He also knew he needed to maintain the discovery’s provenance to quell any accusations of creating a hoax.
While he considered himself an ethical archaeologist, there were some who were not as ethical. It was then, that early Sunday morning, when he heard Bethany yelling at a student for peeing on the toilet seat, that he realized his first security threat.
Later that morning, he woke up and started his normal routine, just like everybody else. His usual Sunday was spent alone in the backyard studio apartment catching up on his work. When Monday morning arrived, he kept his routine at the site, directing Bethany and the students with their archeology. That night, though, after showering and dropping off his dinner crockery in the kitchen sink like he always did, he returned to his room and locked the door behind him. Those few hours were the most magical hours Manwaring spent recording any single artifact. It was the happiest week of his entire life.
Not trusting his cell phone to take pictures, for fear of hacking, Manwaring used his basic drawing skills and the first half of that week to draw and copy everything he could discern, from the cylinder itself to the scrolls inside it. He hurriedly copied everything into the spiral-bound notepad. The same notepad that Bethany and the others had seen him carry around and doodle in. Being a habitual doodler, no one would ever question its presence out in the open. And if they did happen to get a peek inside the covers, they would consider the scribbling nothing more than a middle-aged archaeologist exercising his mind.
He could have used their laboratory conservation camera, but they kept it in the backyard studio, where the students usually spent a couple of hours after dinner processing artifacts. So sneaking into the building in the middle of the night was out of the question. Bringing the camera into his room was also out of the question, as the sound of a camera shutter going off in the middle of the night would prove disastrous.
After filling the notebook with notes and drawings of the relic, among the notes already there, Manwaring used the last half of the week to summarize the information in a more codified manner. Inside, into a blank, hardback field book using a cheap mechanical pencil.
By Friday night, every bit of information the cylinder, and its contents could offer rested between the covers of a field book. One marked with Bethany Rogers 2020 on the spine, and one smeared with a little dirt from the backyard, sweat from Manwaring’s well-used bandana, and a little blood from a cut he’d received out in the field that week. With the goal of making that field book look just like hundreds of other field books, he remembered a cut Bethany received across her palm the previous week. She had smeared some of the blood across the covers while recording notes inside of it.
After including that field book with others inside blue cardboard curation boxes, he wrapped them inside a bigger, single box slated for storage and curation at the university. Since they were over halfway through with the season, and Manwaring sent off his update to the university, they normally sent unnecessary items back early so that they would have less to carry back with them at the end of the dig season. Yesterday, Saturday, Bethany fulfilled one of her duties of visiting the local FedEx store and sending back parcels ahead of them.
The next question was what to do with the cylinder, its contents, and his notebook until he was ready to face the world with his find. For right now, during the remainder of the field school, they were safe while locked inside that bedroom. However, in three weeks’ time, the season will be over, along with the lease on the property. Thinking about his schedule after the field school he smiled. While the students would return to their homes, he was scheduled to assist in the restoration of another Mesoamerican site. The same site the truther wearing the Area 51 polo shirt referred to as the “Cape Canaveral of Mesoamerica.”
Now, lying in the bed holding his hands in the air above his head, he scrolled through the last blurry slide in the front of his mind. Reassured that those hands had spent an innocent night drinking, he rolled out of bed, wearing only boxer shorts, and poured himself a cup of coffee. A minute later, wearing faded jeans, flip-flops, and a T-shirt, Manwaring unlocked his door and walked down the hallway to the living room, stopping behind the back of the couch. Behind him, he could hear running water coming from the hallway bathroom. He saw nobody in front of him. The students who slept on the living room floor, had rolled up their sleeping bags and were probably in the backyard studio apartment. Sipping his coffee, he smelled freshly baked bread rolls. A Sunday morning responsibility for whoever woke up first was to go to the panadería down at the corner for warm rolls and the local newspaper.
While the students preferred to spend their waking minutes catching up on their cellphones, Manwaring enjoyed holding a real newspaper in his hands, even if it was printed in Spanish. Expecting to see a paper sack with its top folded over and full of warm rolls, he looked down at the top of the coffee table and froze in horror.
The photo on the front showed the outline of a body lying on concrete pavement covered with a white sheet. Above the photo, headline read, Una Prostituta Estrangulada en Puerto Cortės.
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Bahamas, early June, AD 2020
Listening to the overplayed Jimmy Buffet music and bar laughter, both accentuated by the summer night air hanging over Nassau Harbor, Sean Flanagan surveyed the anchored vessel in front of him. Standing on his paddleboard just outside the aurora of the white anchor light mounted to the yacht’s masthead, but under the glare of a full moon, he saw a flared bow with a sharp stem, a gleaming white hull with a row of polished brass portholes piercing the hull, and rectangular windows framing the three-story superstructure. Through cracks in the curtains that closed off the windows and portholes, he could see occasional chinks of light escaping from inside. There was also the open fantail, where he’d witnessed parties and meetings the last three days while on his paddleboard, communing with nature.
When not on his paddleboard, Flanagan frequented the bars and beer kiosks scattered along Junkanoo Beach, where he observed the comings and goings from the yacht. While he patronized the bars and restaurants stretched along Nassau’s waterfront, he found one that proved most suitable. A beer joint called Junior’s. One frequented by locals, including city officials and off-duty police officers. Sitting at the bar, he listened to conversations while pretending to scratch out the world’s greatest novel in a notepad and bragging about his nascent literary prowess to any bartender on shift. Unfortunately, his presence at Junior’s also attracted the persistent attention of one of the bartenders.
From his eavesdropping, he learned that the Mexican drug czar, along with his security detail and majority of his crew, were coming ashore that night, meaning those left onboard would take advantage of the czar’s absence and relax their guard. Sitting at the bar, with his notepad and a bottle of Sands beer in front of him, a plan gathered in his head. What better way to kill your target when the target, and his security detail, are not around.
Now, dipping one blade of the double-ended paddle into the water, he put that plan in motion. It was right before sunset when he witnessed his target, and others, step into the yacht’s motorboat and go ashore. He also watched as the on-duty deckhand electrically hoisted and folded the gangplank against the deck railing. Coming alongside the hull, he reached up with one end of his double-ended paddle, and used a notch cut into that paddle blade to hook the bottom rail of the main deck railing. Wearing neoprene athletic gloves with finger pads, he pulled himself up using the paddle shaft and grabbed the upper rails, letting the current take the paddleboard from under his feet. He looked forward and aft, along the main deck. Seeing nobody in the shadows, he finished hoisting himself up, rolled over the top rail, and landed on his feet. Stooping to lift the paddle blade from the bottom rail and letting it drop, Flanagan looked at the staircase leading to the aft section of the deck above him. He stepped toward it while listening for any footsteps, and as he did, the light from the moon created a reflection of himself in a drape-backed glass window. Trim and well built, he wore black-gray Barefoot shoes, board shorts, a dark-blue wetsuit vest, a black backpack, and a thick, but trimmed red mustache. All of it topped with a Red Sox baseball cap.
He smiled at his reflection and at his bravado, thinking, One of these days, your balls will bite you in your stupid Irish ass.
Returning to the moment, he looked through a crack in the rich blue drapes and saw what should have been the vessel’s salon, at least according to the diagram he’d studied over the last three days while drinking beer at Junior’s. He saw a room that assumed most of the ship’s central section on the main deck. Two men, wearing orange coveralls, sat at a table drinking wine and playing on their cell phones. Another man, wearing a white naval uniform, sat at the bar with a cocktail while watching a soccer match on a wall-mounted large-screen television. Satisfied, Flanagan reached out for the railing of the staircase.
Minutes later, he was standing inside the target’s stateroom, with the door closed behind him. Although it was not as large as the salon, Flanagan appreciated the rich furnishings and the glass-enclosed balcony on either side. The furnishings included a beautifully made bed with a nightstand on either side and a wooden desk with bookshelves on either side. Opulent trappings of a once-impoverished, now overly wealthy drug kingpin overwhelmed the stateroom. Satisfied with his research, Flanagan slid the backpack straps off his shoulders and placed the backpack on the carpeted deck. He opened his backpack while thinking about the subject of his contract.
The subject started out a twelve-year-old foot soldier in a drug cartel years ago and ended up a fifty-year-old multimillionaire and the head of one of Mexico’s most murderous cartels. While akin to the Mexican drug czar, El Chapo, in stature, the subject matched Pablo Escobar, a Colombian drug czar, in cruelty, action, and vision. Keeping those business practices in mind, the subject had expanded his operations to include dealing in ancient artifacts, international money laundering, human trafficking, and extortion. However, those extracurricular activities also led his target to intrude into territory already established by other gangs in the Boston area.
Peeling back the top flap of the backpack, Flanagan pulled out a crossbow. While he had used a variety of weapons to complete his contracts over the years, he had never used a crossbow before. Relishing the prospect of employing a five-hundred-year-old Iberian weapon for a modern contract, he hefted the weapon in his hands. It had a wooden stock with old steel and brass fittings. He purchased the weapon years ago in Madrid for its antique appearance and novelty, but with the prospect of future use in mind. To date, though, after stripping it down to parade rest, and refurbishing each individual part, he reassembled it and used it only for target practice on a private range. When not shouldering it on the private range, it resided on a fireplace mantle in a cabin outside of Boston.
After retrieving a couple of books from one of the bookshelves in the stateroom, Flanagan stepped up to the headboard and turned to look at the richly stained wooden door. He spent the next minute surveying the room and the angles from the room’s furnishings to the door. Finding a suitable firing position, the nightstand next to the bed’s headboard, he went to work.
He started by moving a solid brass lamp and a silver chalice full of cocaine apart. During his reconnaissance, Flanagan had seen women brought aboard the vessel, and the state they were in when they left hours later.
Continuing, he positioned the stock of the crossbow between the lamp and chalice and used the two books to elevate the front of the weapon, and to hold the stock down. Stepping back to his pack, he removed a Command picture frame hook, a roll of black wire thread, and his cell phone. Stepping back to the crossbow, he tied the end of the wire thread to the end of the flight groove and stepped backward to the door, unrolling the string as he did. Reaching the door, he held his cell phone in the other hand and used his thumb to find the right app. Like tourists busy flashing their cellphones at whatever caught their interest, he took pictures of the target when he made his few, and brief, visits ashore. Using the app on the cellphone, he recorded the man’s exact height along with other tertiary measurements. Holding the wire string tight, he held it against the door and moved both the wire string and cell phone up and down until he found the height of the target’s chest, marking the spot on the door with his finger and string. After placing the cellphone in his mouth, he pulled the Command hook from his pocket and set out to complete his remote-firing assembly.
After photographing his work, and retrieving his backpack, he found himself standing next to an open glass door leading out to the balcony facing downtown Nassau. With the empty pack strapped to his back Flanagan took one last look at his work. The crossbow secured to the nightstand with wire and angled exactly right. Another length of that same wire ran from the trigger of the crossbow through more Command hooks, up the wall, across the ceiling, and down to the doorknob. There was no slack in the wire, and just enough tension to pull the trigger when the door opened fully. He looked at the crossbow one more time. While the weapon itself was five hundred years old, the bolt it would fire was not. Made in the workshop behind his cabin, he tipped the twelve-inch hickory wooden bolt with an explosive warhead the size and length of a good cigar. The impact on the target’s chest would be fatal, but the addition of a capsule of nerve gas would ensure the completion of his contract.
With a nod of satisfaction, he stepped through the open door and pulled it shut behind him. Stepping up the railing, he reached out with his hands to help himself over it. He looked at the lights of downtown Nassau. I could have simply wired the door with five pounds of C-4, but then what’s the fun in that?
With that affirmation, he lifted himself over the railing and dropped into Nassau Harbor, holding his Red Sox ball cap in his right hand as he did.
An hour later, and after a shower and change of clothing, Flanagan sat in a chair back at Junior’s. With a bottle of Sands beer in his hand, his cell phone in his back pocket, and a paperback book in front of him, he watched as Bahamian police boats surrounded the anchored yacht. The flashing lights dazzled over the black water of Nassau Harbor. He listened to the patrons and bar staff talk about what was going on aboard the yacht. Among the patrons were off-duty police officers monitoring their cell phones. After overhearing a conversation between two officers, Flanagan pulled the cell phone from his pocket and texted a message: Clean up Aisle Four completed. Once he hit the send button, he set the phone down and thought about his latest contract. While pleased with the ingenuity of the hit, he started to think about the crossbow he’d left behind. Based on experiences, he realized that it would eventually disappear from the evidence locker and end up in some cop’s closet. The sound of a female voice interrupted his thoughts.
“How’s your novel going, Flanagan?”
Flanagan turned to look at the well-endowed bartender standing behind the bar.
While Flanagan was not his real name, he responded as if he were born with it. He looked down at the book in front of him before looking up at the bartender. Eastern European-born, she was of medium height with blond hair, a good tan, and store-bought breasts accented by a pink V-necked T-shirt.
“Pretty good, Nikki,” he lied, “but I’m just catching up on some light reading for now. And I’ll have another Sands when you get a chance.”
She nodded as they both heard a patron from the other end of the crowded bar calling her name.
“Be right back,” she said as she turned around for a bottle of rye. “And don’t forget, we’re going out for sandwiches after my shift.”
He nodded and returned his attention to the rest of his beer and book. Forgetting about his crossbow, he looked down at the paperback. A fan of military history, Flanagan was halfway through a historical piece about the German general, Erwin Rommel, and his North African campaign. Titled Rommel’s Other Afrika Korps, the front cover’s backdrop was that of the featureless North Africa desert with a burned-out panzer tank in the foreground. Behind the tank, the pyramidion, or capstone, of a pyramid rose in the background. A Nazi swastika bathed in a glow of golden yellow hovered above the pyramid’s pyramidion. Under the panzer was a superimposed image of the famous Afrika Corps logo: a slightly bent palm tree with the letters A and K on either side of the trunk.
