Fallen Idols Read Online Free Page A

the airport, everyone would scatter to the four winds. He had to put Diane out of his mind—he had more important issues to deal with.
    They had to leave at first light: that was imperative. Even then, they would be racing the clock to get out of the jungle before dark—the narrow scar of a road was terrible, in some places almost impassable. And they were going to be traveling without the military escort they'd been promised.
    He had received that distressing piece of news the day before yesterday. Citing growing disorder in the north, where they claimed their troops were more immediately needed, the government had pulled the four-man squad of army regulars that had come here three days ago to guide him and his party to safe harbor.
    Walt had been blistering in expressing his anger at what he described to the bearer of this distressing information as “an extremely ill-advised, stupid, and dangerous decision.” Over the scratchy wireless telephone, he had reminded the Minister of Archaeology and Culture, a man with whom he'd had a working friendship for years (who, in deference to Walt's international stature, had personally called to deliver the bad news), of the many contributions he had made to this country's archaeological discoveries, especially La Chimenea. Hadn't he slogged through the godforsaken jungles year after year, leading the efforts to unearth invaluable treasures? Wasn't he doing that right now at this magnificent site, which almost certainly, even in this early stage of excavation, was going to turn out to be the most important discovery of ancient Maya civilization since Tikal and El Mirador, potentially even more glorious than Chichén Itzé or Copén? A site, he reminded the minister forcefully, that was not only going to be important for further understanding and appreciation of Maya culture, but would also, when it was more fully developed, bring a windfall of tourist money into this impoverished country.
    “Unlike El Mirador,” he had reminded his caller, “which will never be opened to the world. Because the money isn't there to do it.”
    “I know that,” the man said meekly. “We are very appreciative of everything you have done for the archaeology of this country.”
    Finding money to develop La Chimenea had been Walt's most important contribution, even more than the actual reclamation from the jungle. He had raised over twenty million dollars from his benefactors. The initial funding had been spent on gouging the road through the jungle, which meant they could reach the site in a day instead of a week, and could bring in the necessary equipment to build the large infrastructure needed for an excavation of this size and scope. The road had cost millions of dollars and taken two years of intensive labor. Local workers had labored yard by yard to cut the ten-foot-wide gash through the thick jungle foliage, so that four-wheel-drive trucks and vans could get to the site.
    Being able to motor there, instead of transporting everything by pack animals or human bearers, had enabled Walt and the other archaeologists working at La Chimenea to excavate and restore it on a scale much grander than that of other important sites, including the great one in Guatemala, El Mirador, which he'd brought up to the minister. Those sites were too remote to get to, and the cost to restore them was too great for the Guatemalan government. The difference at La Chimenea was that Walt had gone out and raised the money privately. The government owed him a debt they could never repay. Which made this chickenshit stunt they were pulling doubly outrageous to him.
    “For the love of God,” he had implored the man, “six soldiers aren't going to make a gnat's ass bit of difference in putting down some far-off disturbance.” (If, in fact, one even existed. In this country there were a hundred rumors to one truth.) “But they're critical insurance right here,” he argued strenuously, “to guarantee the safety of my