Sanibel Flats

parks looking cool and green in the clear mountain air. Then the plane jolted, tires screeched, and, to the roar of reverse thrust, the hundred or so people aboard, most of them slightly tipsy with all the complimentary wine, settled a little as their sphincter muscles relaxed, the cheerful mood of traveling replaced by the communal awareness of survival, and they applauded the good landing.

'I didn't expect this, man, no way.' Tomlinson was looking out the window at the city, a little wide-eyed. 'I thought it would be like a grass runway. You know, with cows and stuff running to get the hell out of the way of the plane.' It was one of the few observations Tomlinson had made during the entire two hours, which was a relief to Ford. No chattering, and that was good, too.

'Plenty of grass runways around. We may see a couple before we're done.'

'Far out. I'm for it.'

Then they were off the plane, each with his carry-on bag, their only pieces of luggage: Tomlinson looking taller in his faded jeans and T-shirt, a canvas backpack swung over one shoulder, standing in line with all the shorter Costa Ricans. Ford had ticketed them under the names of Johnson and Smith. Then, on a different airline, had booked himself into Guatemala City two days later and under his own name: a flight he would not take, but that might fool someone watching the reservation list. Bernstein, for instance. He had arranged for Jeth and MacKinley to share the responsibility of feeding his animals, and mailed the data search materials to Les Durell and Henry Melinski. Into each envelope, he had added a typed, unsigned note that read:

I believe that a person or persons with the Everglades County Sheriff's Department, working with members of Sealife Development, have been involved in a smuggling operation. In this operation, munitions and weaponry obtained through the auspices of the Sheriff's Department are being sold for cash or traded for valuable pre- Columbian artifacts to a guerrilla army in Masagua, Central America.

At the immigration desk, Ford presented a bogus passport, Tomlinson his real passport. Both were passed without question.

Outside the terminal, the air was cool; bruised clouds shrouded the volcanic mountains: rainy season in Central America. Tomlinson said it felt like Colorado, only no SAVE ASPEN, SKI VAIL bumper stickers and no BMWs. 'Really weird, man.' They took a cab to a garage on the west side of San Jose where Ford rented a Toyota Land Cruiser, then drove into the heart of the city, through the wild fast traffic on Calle Central, past the modern skyscrapers and neat tiendas. The sidewalks were crowded—crowded with pretty secretaries and with men who looked like they'd just come in from herding cattle, with school kids in clean uniforms; everyone rushing, but smiling, too. On street corners were fruit carts, the smell of sliced mangoes and pineapples mixing with mountain air and the bakery smell of San Jose in the late afternoon.

'Great,' Tomlinson kept saying. 'I love it.' Looking out the car window, really enjoying it.

They got two rooms at a small hotel downtown, the Balmoral, and just as Ford was about to get in the shower, Tomlinson knocked on the door and poked his head in. 'What we do now, boss?'

Ford said. 'We get some sleep. Tomorrow morning we head out early, north to Masagua.'

'Do you have a plan yet?'

'I wish I did, but I don't. Sorry.'

Tomlinson stepped into the room, slouched into a chair. 'Just gonna kind of wait for things to happen. That's cool. But you said something about an exchange, right?'

'Yeah, it's one possibility. The boy's father took something from the guerrillas. They want it back. Maybe we can work out a trade.'

'You have what the kid's father took?'

Ford threw his backpack onto the bed and took out the small cloth bag, scattering the emeralds and jade carvings onto the bedspread. 'I hope this is what he took.'

Tomlinson whistled softly. 'Man, these things are beautiful.' Holding the small green owl, then the parrot under the light, touching the stones to his cheek, appreciating the smoothness as a child might. 'And these are emeralds, right? They gotta be.' He was peering into one, as if gazing into a microscope.. 'These things gotta be worth a fortune. I've never seen stones as big as—' But then he stopped talking as his eyes widened, a light going on. 'Hey! Like the story I was telling you about the Kache and the Tlaxclen—the stone star chart that used emeralds to mark the constellations. These dudes could have found it!'

Ford was nodding. 'Let's hope so. '

'Why?'

'Because it tells me where they probably are: the lake, remember? On the Pacific Coast.'

'Right. Hey, maybe they found some of the other stuff, too; pieces of the temple. Man, no wonder they want this stuff back. '

Ford said, 'That's what we're counting on. See, once we locate the guerrilla group, I figure our best bet is to stay in the nearest town and send a messenger into the hills. Tell them they can have the artifacts if they bring us the boy. Do everything right out in the open, in view of the public. That would provide the only safety factor we're going to get.'

'Sounds simple enough.'

'Yeah, but what if the boy's already dead? They're going to want the stuff anyway, and they're going to come looking for us. '

'Oh yeah, right.'

'Or what if they take a look at what we have and tell us it's not all there? Maybe they expected more.'

'More? Your friend had other stuff, too?'

Ford sat looking at Tomlinson, wondering if he should tell him everything he knew, everything he suspected. The computer check had said he was clean, but Ford decided not to risk it, to keep things compartmentalized for now. Besides, wasn't it possible that Sally Field, the friendly D.C. secretary, had been asked to help set him up? It wasn't the first time Ford had considered that possibility. With her, work always came first— she'd said as much more than once.

Christ, now you're becoming paranoid.

Ford said, 'I don't know, Tomlinson. We're just going to have to take it as it comes. Remember: We've got karma on our side,' smiling, trying to humor him.

Tomlinson said, 'Right. Right.'

Ford read until 10 P.M. He'd heard Tomlinson go out just after nine and now he rose, slipped the latch on the door, and found Tomlinson's backpack beneath the bed. He went through it carefully, but all he found of interest was a passport that showed the man had traveled in Europe and Japan. There were no entry stamps from South America or Central America, but that meant nothing. The passport could have been faked, or he could have a second or a third passport back on his boat. Or in a safety deposit box in Boston. Or D.C. Duplicates were easy enough to get.

Ford returned to his own room, changed into fresh cotton slacks and a blue chambray shirt, then left his room key with the desk clerk.

He had a ten-thirty appointment with Rigaberto Herrera, a former CIA operative and longtime friend, at a bar called the Garden of Eden. He'd made the appointment from Florida the night before, giving Rigaberto a list of things he would need. They had spoken again by phone after Ford's arrival.

The Garden of Eden was a big white aristocratic house— gables, verandas, and wrought-iron fences—built on its own grounds at a time when San Jose was still a small colonial town. The city had grown up around it. The house had been converted into a garden restaurant with a dance floor inside and a funky little bar, but mostly it was a whorehouse, the classiest in San Jose. One of the names Ford had found in Rafe Hollins's address book was Wendy Stafford. According to Bernstein, Stafford now worked at the Garden of Eden—which didn't surprise Ford. He had known the woman years ago. They'd slept together a couple of times, back when she was a Peace Corps volunteer, a rich American girl with an itch to help the less fortunate, ripe with guilt and eager to make restitution, but who somehow seemed destined to be swallowed up by the very darkness from which she wished to wrest others. Ford had met many Wendy Staffords in his travels: American princesses who sought out the jungle on a lark, but who soon found themselves entangled beyond any hope of escaping.

He walked past the American Embassy where he had worked for a short time, up the calle, through the little park, and there was the house, the Garden of Eden, with pale lights in the windows and trees throwing shadows. The doorman nodded at him, then he was inside, feeling the eyes of the women on him. Costa Rica produced some of the most beautiful women in the world, and the Garden of Eden