Subterranean

A stinging slap to his cheek. "You'll respect your ancestors."

Even now, he cringed at the memory. As a youngster, this heritage had shamed him. Aborigines, at the time, were considered second-class citizens, only slightly above animals. Luckily, diluted by generations of European blood, his blighted heritage was an easily kept secret. Except from himself. It was then the nightmares had started.

For countless nights, he'd awaken with his sheets clinging to his sweating body, tears coursing down his cheeks. Clenching handfuls of sheets, he would pray no one would learn his secret.

Over time, he had matured, even come to respect and appreciate his unique heritage, and the dreams had eventually faded away, like old toys put in cardboard boxes. Forgotten and no longer needed.

He shook his head. So why now? Why dredge up this old childhood terror?

Must be this bloody cell, he concluded, and burrowed deeper under his ratty blanket. Well, thanks to that timely letter, he would soon be rid of this damn place.

Thirty days later, his mysterious benefactor telegraphed Black Rock, and in twenty hours Ben found himself upgraded from his cramped cell in Australia to a suite of rooms at the Sheraton Buenos Aires in Argentina.

Ben tested the bathwater with his foot. He cringed at the heat, then smiled. Ahhh, perfect. After a month in the Black Rock prison, a month of tepid showers that barely penetrated the layer of grime caked into his pores, a full hot bath was just possibly orgasmic. He stepped into the tub and settled himself into the steaming water. He tapped the button for the jets. Tickling sprays massaged him from all sides, creating a gentle whirlpool. Definitely orgasmic.

He sighed, leaning back into the tub and allowing his body to relax and float in the jets.

There was a knock on the door.

Ignoring it, Ben slipped farther into the jets.

The knock came again, more persistently.

Using his elbows, he raised himself higher in the tub. "Who is it?"

A muffled voice replied, "Excuse me, sir, but Dr. Blakely requests your presence in the Pampas room on the main floor. The other guests are arriving now as well."

Ben rubbed his red eyes. "Gimme five minutes." He pushed out of the hot tub, the chill air raising gooseflesh on his bare legs. After dressing in an old brown tweed suit, Ben proceeded to the conference suite.

To his relief, the antechamber to the auditorium was set up with a mobile bar. A bartender hustling hooch paraded behind a shelf of bottles. Already a good number of men and women stood gathered in small groups.

He glanced around. No one looked his way. So much for the warm greeting. After searching the room one final time, he decided a whiskey would help his outlook on this "party." He stalked over to the bar.

"Your pleasure, sir?"

"Whiskey and a beer back." He leaned his elbow on the black Naugahyde padding that edged the bar and watched the room. It was not his kind of crowd. No loud laughs, no spilled drinks, no angry drunks. Boring. After dumping the whiskey straight into his stomach, he slapped down his shot glass, squeezing the burn, then settled in with his beer.

From behind him, he heard a woman's voice. "Whiskey. Neat, please."

He turned to see who had a similar taste in beverages. Whiskey-drinking women were as scarce as hen's teeth. He wasn't disappointed.

She toyed with the drink set before her, long fingers, short nails, polished. No rings. No wedding band-good. She stood as tall as him, surprising for a woman. Her skin was bronzed, a coppery rich hue that spoke of days under the sun. But what most caught the breath in his throat was her black hair, trailing in lazy curls to her waist.

"Can I buy you another?" he asked, stressing his Aussie accent. That always won a lady's attention.

She lifted her left eyebrow. "They're free," she said. "It's a hosted bar."

His roguish smile swelled. "In that case, how about two?"

She just stared at him with green eyes.

He thrust out a hand. "Ben Brust. From Sydney."

"I could've guessed from your accent," she said with a ghost of a smile. "But the drawl sounds more like western Australia than the New South Wales territory."

"Well," he said, lowering his arm and stumbling for cover, "I actually was raised on my daddy's sheep station outside Perth. Western Australia. But most people don't know Sydney from-"

"I thought so." Collecting her drink, she began to turn away. "The meeting should be starting soon."

Before she left, he begged for at least one bone. "And you are?"

"Ashley Carter." She slipped past him.

Ben watched her walk away. No professor's stroll, that. He swallowed the dregs of his beer while appreciating her exit.

THREE

Buenos Aires, Argentina

ASHLEY CROSSED TO THE YOUNG SPANISH GENTLEMAN, who checked her identification. Nodding, he opened the door. The room was lined with some fifty seats, only a quarter occupied. An usher guided her to a reserved seat in the front row, then vanished. Shivering in the light skirt and jacket she wore, she wished they'd turn up the thermostat.

Now that she was seated, her mind began sifting over the events of the past weeks; her old anxieties wormed to the surface. One, especially.

Jason.

She hated leaving her son alone in the hotel room upstairs. He had seemed so quiet this evening, not his usual boisterous self. Her fingers tightened on her purse.

And this mission. A letter with airplane tickets had arrived in the mail with instructions to be prompt. "Everything else has been taken care of," the letter had stated. No other details.

A man sat down in the seat next to her. "Well, hi, there."

She glanced over. It was the Australian fellow again. Goddamn it. Couldn't she get a moment of peace? The empty canyons of her New Mexico home had never seemed so appealing.

"Let me try this again…" He held out a hand. "Benjamin Brust."

Not wanting to insult him, she gave his hand one shake. Now go away, she thought.

He smiled at her, white teeth against a ruddy background, his cheekbones hard, sun wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Full lips. "So what do you know about all this?" he asked.

Ashley shrugged, trying to discourage conversation, and turned away.

"So many secrets," Ben mumbled.

She nodded. "Perhaps shortly we'll have a few answers."

He remained quiet. Still, she sensed his presence at her shoulder. His cologne was musky and rich; his breathing, deep and even.

She shifted. The auditorium was almost full. Now it was getting warm in here. She wished they would fix the thermostat.