Assumed Identity (1993) Read Free

because he was eager to leave Russia, rather because Guatemala obsessed him. But he'd persistently, repeatedly been denied permission, and all of a sudden it was merely a matter of filling out some government forms and coming back a few days later to get the necessary travel papers. Bartenev couldn't believe his good fortune. He feared that all of this would turn out to be a cruel hoax, that he'd be refused permission to enter Guatemala, that he'd be deported back to Russia.
    The jet - a stretch 727 owned by American Airlines. American! For a Russian citizen to be a passenger on a jet labeled American would have been unthinkable not many years ago - descended through clouds, past mountains, toward a city sprawled in a valley. The time was eight-fifteen in the evening. Sunset cast a crimson glow across the valley. Guatemala City's lights gleamed. Bartenev gazed spellbound out his window, his heart pounding with the eagerness of a child.
    Beside him, his wife clasped his hand. He turned to study her beautiful, wrinkled face, and she didn't need to say anything to communicate the pleasure she felt because he would soon fulfill his dream. From the age of eighteen, from the first time he'd seen photographs of the Mayan ruins at Tikal in Guatemala, he had felt an eerie identification with the now-almost-vanished people who had built them. He felt as if he had been there, as if he had been one of the Maya, as if his strength and sweat had helped erect the great pyramids and temples. And he had become fascinated with the hieroglyphs.
    All these years later, without ever having set foot on a Mayan ruin, without ever having climbed a pyramid, without ever having stared face-to-face at the hook-nosed, high-cheeked, slope-browed visages of the Maya in the hieroglyphs, he was one of the top five Mayan epigraphers in the world (perhaps the top of the top, if he believed his wife's flattery), and soon - not tonight, of course, but tomorrow perhaps or certainly the day after - he'd have managed yet another flight, this one to a primitive airstrip, and have accomplished the difficult journey through the jungle to Tikal, to his life's preoccupation, to the center of his world, to the ruins.
    To the hieroglyphs.
    His heartbeat increased as the jet touched down. The sun was lower behind the western mountains. The darkness thickened, pierced by the glint of lights from the airport's terminal. Nervous with anticipation, Bartenev unbuckled his seat belt, picked up his briefcase, and followed his wife and other passengers along the aisle. A frustrating minute passed, seeming to take much longer, before the aircraft's hatch was opened. He squinted past the passengers ahead of him and saw the murky silhouettes of buildings. As he and his wife descended stairs to the airport's tarmac, he breathed the thin, dry, cool, mountain air and felt his body tense with excitement.
    The moment he entered the terminal, however, he saw several uniformed, government officials waiting for him, and he knew that something was wrong. They were somber, pensive, brooding. Bartenev feared that his premonition had been justified, that he was about to be refused permission to enter the country.
    Instead a flustered, thin-lipped man in a dark suit stepped away from them, nervously approaching. 'Professor Bartenev?'
    'Yes.'
    They spoke in Spanish. Bartenev's compulsive interest in Guatemala and the Mayan ruins throughout Mesoamerica had prompted him to acquire a facility in the local language since much of the scholarship being done on the hieroglyphs was published in Spanish.
    'My name is Hector Gonzales. From the National Archaeological Museum here.'
    'Yes, I've received your letters.' As they shook hands, Bartenev couldn't help noticing how Gonzales guided him toward the government officials. 'This is my wife, Elana.'
    'I'm very pleased to meet you, Mrs Bartenev. If you'll please come through this door...'
    Abruptly Bartenev noticed stern soldiers holding automatic rifles. He