The Serpent and the Eagle. Bruce Dow

terminal building was cloyingly hot. Bourque's head began to pound. "You don't look too good," Brown observed.

      "A surfeit of terror and booze will do it to you every time," Bourque replied with acerbity. "If we could only get away from this God-Damned heat."

      "Yeah, the wonders of Mexican technology. The air conditioning is broken, as usual. But cheer up. Our limos will be waiting outside. And there's Megan." Brown bellowed out her name. Not that anyone within a hundred yards could fail to see Brown's imposing bulk and the fawning attention from both the Mexican officials and his own staff.

      Megan McPhee was one of a number of scientists and executive assistants who had been awaiting his arrival. She was tall. Statuesque is an overused adjective, but it fit. She was 5' 9" in flats , naturally slender, without the fashion model's anorexic kind of emaciation. And Bourque, bilious as he was, could not help but notice her. She was wearing a tailored woollen Eve St Laurant pin stripe pant suit.

      "Jesus," Bourque thought. "I'm roasting, perspiring like a pig, wearing only slacks and an Hawaiian shirt and this one is dressed for a board meeting - not a hair out of place. I wonder, does she ever sweat?"

      "Jonathon Bourque meet Megan McPhee," Brown commanded. "Megan has been assigned to you for the duration of our enterprise. She is fully versed on the project and she is a first rate anthropologist in her own right." With a wry smile, he added, I’m sure you two will have plenty to talk about."

      A nod from Brown and their introduction was rudely pre-empted. Joseph Brown's phalanx of muscular shock troops drove a wedge into the milling crowds as Bourque and Megan rushed along through the steamy terminal building.

      Just before they arrived at the exit, through his alcoholic haze, Bourque noticed a commotion in front of him.

      Brown's guards had bowled over a person, who, evidently, had not moved to accommodate their 'parting of the Red Sea.'

      The man who had been assaulted got back on his feet. He stood where he was; mute, unmoving.

      As Bourque passed him, the man fixed Bourque with a dry ice stare. His clothes were ragged - peasant garb; loose fitting coarse cotton shirt, sandals made from vegetable fibre, and wide brimmed straw hat. Yet, his demeanour was aristocratic - almost contemptuous. He was tall for a Mexican Indian, just over six feet - high cheek bones; an imperious, aquiline nose. It was a deeply etched leathery face of indeterminate age.

      The man's eyes were cold, and purposeful; he emanated an aura of detached menace. Bourque shuddered; his eyes clouded. A veiny membrane began to grow over his eye balls. It pulsed bright red, filling his line of sight. The vision lifted as quickly as it had come on him. His concentration dissipated into his stomach where pools of gin were sloshing about.

      Brown's body guards pushed Bourque and Megan along, and onto the street, out of sight of the implacable observer. Bourque shook his head to clear the cobwebs. He belched repeatedly, and noisily. It made him feel better.

      Bourque noticed a procession of sleek, elongated cars. "Our personal Imperial convoy? How thoughtful!" he blurted out too loudly.

      The limousine which waited to take them to their hotel, was a white Cadillac with the customary T.V. and wet bar. The vehicle was just the sort of thing that Joseph Brown would conjure up. It was sixty eight feet, eleven inches from stem to stern; 18 wheels in total, 10 aft, 6 in front. A helicopter pad was built into the roof. Brown chose to ride solitary in a companion vehicle, while Bourque and Megan were ushered into the rear seating area of their own white leviathan. This section of the vehicle constituted a vast open space covered in deep pile broadloom. Velvet covered seats paralleled each other on either side of the open area. The enclosing panelling was oak. This opulent, cool and quiescent vehicular fortress was like an oasis of refuge amidst the outside din of glutted traffic, insufferable Mexico City heat and the noxious smells of automobile exhaust and city offal.

      "Christ almighty," Bourque blurted in tipsied hyperbole, "you could plunk down a table between up and still have room to dance."

      Megan laughed. "Mr. Brown has seen to that, of course." She leaned forward and input a sequence to the terminal built into the limo's roof. Within moments, an elegantly hand carved work table slid silently into place between them from its resting place behind the oak panelling.

      "I'll be damned. How did you do that?"

      She laughed again.

      Bourque wasn’t feeling too well. His mouth reeked of gin; he was unsteady on his feet; more than a bit woozy. He wished he had a breath mint or better still a mouth wash.

      "Now, I suppose you'll tell me that this overblown taxi comes replete with gaming tables and an arcade of Brown's mindless video games."

      She reached for the terminal again.

      "Don't bother." He took her hand, holding it a bit too long.

      After an awkward pause, he offered, “ I’ve read your various papers on the Kenyahn tribesmen. Your research has added mightily to our store of knowledge with respect to stone age cultures.” He spoke slowly so as not to slur his words. It didn’t work.

      “And I’ve read your many tomes on every subject under the sun.”

      Bourque smiled. A bit of drool dribbled down his chin.” Your research on the Kenyahns is truly encyclopaedic; you must have a lot of spare time on your hands.”

      “Well, there’s no Neiman Marcus or Sack 5^th Avenue in Papua New Guinea, and the nearest disco is about 1,000 miles away.”

      “I should think a little peace and quiet might be a good thing about now. So tell me, how did Brown suck you into our little treasure hunt?”

      “It’s a long story and probably a boring one. And, frankly, you look too tired to listen to it.”

      “That’s a nice way to put it-wasted is the word I would use; pissed to the gills.”

      Megan gave an infectious smile. ”Maybe I could brew up some strong coffee.”

      “Thanks, just the same. The thought of putting anything in my stomach makes me want to puke.”

      They rode the rest of the way in silence. Bourque began to doze off with his eyes wide open. Falling asleep with his eyes open was a skill he had mastered in order to get through the deadly dull obligatory faculty meetings over which Dean Ridley Tichborne presided. On arriving at the Camina Real Hotel, and feeling bilious still, Bourque said a hasty goodbye, went up to his room, and put out the “ Do Not Disturb” sign.