Fallen Idols Read Online Free Page B

students and me. You wouldn't want anything unfortunate to happen to any of us, would you?” Walt said bittingly. “People the world over still recoil over the massacre of the nuns. Tourism is your golden egg. You don't want to kill the bird that lays it,” he added bluntly.
    He could feel the man wince over the phone. That was, at least, a small piece of momentary satisfaction. But it was all he got. The minister had apologized profusely (from his air-conditioned office), but could offer no help, he had bluntly informed Walt. The decision, regrettably, was out of his hands; the military, as usual, answered to no one but themselves. They were still, as a country, learning the nuts and bolts of democracy. But not to worry: everything was peaceful where they were, everything was running smoothly. There would be no problems.
    “A promise,” the minister assured Walt, “from the highest authorities to you. Besides,” he'd reminded Walt, trying to salvage something from this sticky situation, “the nuns were social agitators, not neutral scientists.”
    As if that gave their murderers license to kill—a typical bureaucratic reply.
    In the end, Walt had no recourse but to accept the decision, and he knew it: despite his prominence, he was still a guest here, he had to live by their rules. But before hanging up, he'd fired one last shot.
    “Let me remind you,” he told the minister, “unfriendly actions like this cut both ways.”
    “This is not an unfriendly action,” the minister had sputtered.
    “What I'm trying to make you understand, my good friend, is that there has to be mutual trust. We had an agreement. You've broken it.”
    In fact, the soldiers had already left earlier in the day, while Walt and his people had been at the site, working their butts off under the blistering sun. Slinking away like dogs with their tails between their legs; an act done deliberately, Walt knew, to prevent him from trying to stop them. Typical behavior in this country—pass the buck, avoid confrontation whenever possible, and lie about it when you're caught.
    Things had changed from the days when he was young and the government would give foreign scholars anything they wanted. Now the patron countries decided how to develop the sites. Which was the right thing to do, but hard for outsiders like him to swallow. Thank God, he thought, he was near the end of his career instead of the beginning.
    “There's nothing I can do about this now,” the minister had concluded. “I sincerely wish I could help you, you know that. But I cannot. Although perhaps …” He paused. “There might be another solution,” he said slowly.
    “Which is what?” Walt answered in a dubious voice. “Right now I am in no mood to be jerked around.”
    “I would never do that,” the minister said unctuously.
    “Okay, fine. So what's your solution?”
    “Take the men who are guarding the site.”
    Hearing that, Walt groaned. “That's your solution? That's a wonderful idea.”
    “It would only be for a day and a half. Two days maximum.” The minister didn't sound convincing, even to himself.
    “We can't leave this site unguarded, not for one night,” Walt answered dismissively. “Forget that. It's an insane idea. Which you damn well know.”
    Walt never left a dig in which he was in charge unguarded. Protection against looting and vandalism, the scourges of developing sites, superseded everything. In one night, knowledgeable
guaquereos
—tomb raiders—could swoop in and haul off precious artifacts that could be worth millions of dollars on the antiquities black market. Having your site looted was an archaeologist's worst nightmare. Which was why every night of the year, without exception, native guards armed with shotguns and semiautomatic rifles stood watch over La Chimenea, to keep predators out.
    “I won't leave this site unguarded,” he told his caller again.
    “I'm sorry, then,” the minister replied. He tried to sound convincing.