ascended the concrete stairs beneath the gray marble portico, he focused on the task at hand: upload the digital images into the program that would compare them to the passport photos of all Americans still in Peru, starting with those who had registered their travel plans with the Embassy. Once he had positive identification, he could make his calls, get the body embalmed and on a plane back to the States, and wash his hands of the whole mess.
'Mr. Monahan,' the receptionist called in a thick Spanish accent as he strode into the lobby. She pronounced it
He pretended not to hear her and started up the staircase beside her desk. The middle-aged Peruvian national climbed out from behind her post with the clatter of high heels.
'Mr. Monahan!'
With a frustrated sigh, he turned to face the frumpy woman and raised the question with his eyebrows.
'There's a man waiting for you outside your office.'
'I assume he's been properly cleared?'
'Yes, Mr. Monahan.'
'Thank you, Mrs. Arguedas.'
He ascended to the top floor and headed toward his office at the end of the corridor. A man with shaggy chestnut hair and pale blue eyes sat in one of the chairs outside his office, a filthy backpack clutched to his chest. The armed soldier beside him snapped to attention when he saw Eldon, while the other man rose almost casually from his seat. His discomfort was apparent, yet he seemed less than intimidated by his surroundings. He had broad shoulders and a solid build that suggested he had been shaped more by physical exertion in the real world than by countless hours in the gym.
Eldon extended his hand and introduced himself as he approached. 'Consulate-general Monahan.'
'Wes Merritt,' the man said. He offered his own hand, but retracted it when he noticed how dirty it was.
Eldon was silently grateful. He lowered his hand, gave a polite smile, and gestured for the man to follow him into his inner sanctum. The soldier fell in behind them and took his place beside the closing door.
'How can I be of assistance, Mr. Merritt?' Eldon seated himself in the high-backed leather chair behind his mahogany and brass Royal Louis XV Boulle desk, and made a show of checking his watch.
'Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Monahan. Especially with no notice.'
Eldon waved him off, but he would definitely have to discuss such improprieties with Mrs. Arguedas.
Merritt opened the flap of the rucksack and set it on the edge of the pristine desk.
'I wanted to give this to you in person. You know how the authorities are down here...'
Eldon nodded and fought the urge to shove the vile bag off of his eighteenth century antique desk.
'I found this with the body you just visited at the morgue. I need to make sure it reaches the right people back home.' Merritt shrugged and rose as if to leave. 'You'll make sure it does, Mr. Monahan?'
'Of course. Thank you, Mr. Merritt. I'm sure the decedent's family appreciates your integrity.'
Merritt gave a single nod in parting and exited through the polished oak door.
His curiosity piqued, Eldon plucked a handful of tissues from the box on the corner of the desk and walked around to inspect the bag. He gingerly moved aside a tangled nest of dried vines and appraised the contents. His eyes widened in surprise.
He leaned across the desk and pressed the 'Speaker' button on his phone.
'Yes, Mr. Monahan?' Mrs. Arguedas answered.
'Please hold my calls.'
'Yes, sir.'
He disconnected and returned his attention to the rucksack.
Now he really needed to figure out to whom the body in the morgue belonged.
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VECTOR BORNE
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One
Dr. Graham Bradley waited for the rooster tail of dust that had followed them for the last twenty miles to pass over the forest-green Cherokee before he finally opened the door and stepped down onto the sun-baked earth. His chief of security, Roland Pike, remained rigid behind the wheel, staring fixedly through the dirty windshield. The setting sun bled the sandstone escarpments crimson and cast long shadows from the sparse pockets of sage and creosote that spotted the sandy valley. A faint breeze ruffled Bradley's ebon hair and returned the dust, forcing him to shield his azure eyes. His custom-tailored Caraceni slacks and calfskin shoes were already gray with accumulation. At least he'd had enough foresight to shed his jacket in the car, just not enough to have packed a change of clothes in his hurry to reach the site. When the call came from Dr. Brendan Reaves eight hours ago, Bradley had been in the middle of a board meeting. The anthropologist had refused to divulge the nature of his discovery over the phone and had insisted that Bradley needed to see what he had found in person. Considering the scope of Reaves's research, Bradley couldn't imagine why he would be summoned in such a fashion, which only served to heighten his curiosity. The corporate jet had been fueled and waiting at Sea-Tac when he arrived. Four hours in the air and three more wending through the New Mexico desert in the rental Jeep, and here he was, parched and irritated, and tingling with anticipation.
