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told me it was electronics engineering."
    Langly shrugged. "So, I had a lot of varied interests."
    Byers grew serious, looking back at Mulder. "Central America? I hear a lot of unconfirmed rumors about events in the area. There's been a separatist movement brewing in one of the states in the Yucatan. It's called Liberation Quintana Roo. The violence seems to be escalat-ing—car bombs, threatening letters—and of course, you know about the U.S. military complex supplying arms at an exorbitant price to the freedom fighters."
    "Why would they do that?" Mulder said.
    "To create political instability. It's a game to them," Byers said, passion flickering behind his normally calm eyes. "And don't forget about some of the more powerful drug lords in the area who have become arms merchants themselves. Buying up technology. Serious stuff that we never would have dreamed about a decade ago."
    "I dreamed about it," Frohike said.
    "And how does this tie in with your particular inter-est, Mulder?" Langly asked.
    "As I said, an American archaeological team disap-peared there a week ago.
    They had unearthed new arti-facts in the ruins—artifacts that are now turning up on the black market. The locals won't go near the place. Apparently there's a long-standing curse on the city. It was abandoned a thousand years ago, and now I've been hearing talk about the revenge of Kukulkan and his fero-cious guardian feathered serpents."
    "Knowing you, Mulder, I'm surprised you're not out chasing ancient astronauts," Langly said.
    "I'm keeping an open mind," he answered. "There are plenty of mysteries connected with Maya culture and his-tory, but I'm not necessarily ready to adopt any of them yet. With ancient astronauts and the Maya curse ... not to mention the drug lords and military operations and revolu-tionary movements Byers was talking about, the Yucatan really sounds like a happenin' place."
    "So are you and the lovely Agent Scully going down to investigate?" Frohike said, sounding hopeful.
    "Yeah, we leave for Cancun tomorrow."
    "Our tax dollars at work," Langly snorted.
    "I'd love to see Agent Scully with a healthy tropical tan," Frohike said.

    "Down, Frohike," Mulder said.
    Mulder turned to leave. It was late in the afternoon, and traffic on the Beltway would be horrendous. He thought he might go back to the office and do more research. "Thanks for the information."
    As he stood by the door, Byers called after him, standing up and straightening his tie. "Agent Mulder," he said, "if you do find anything interesting, be sure to let us know. For our files."
    "I'll see what I can do," Mulder said.

    Private villa of Xavier Salida, Quintana Roo, Mexico Tuesday, 5:01 p.m.

    The old Mexican police cruiser with official state markings rolled along the tree-lined driveway, working its way uphill. The walled fortress of one of Quintana Roo's most powerful drug lords stood like a citadel in the dense forest.
    The car rode low on the damp driveway made of packed limestone gravel.
    Blue-gray exhaust belched in oily clouds from its tailpipe. The police car had been painted recently, but unevenly, so that it did not look as new as it should have.
    In the front passenger seat reclined Fernando Victorio Aguilar, feigning a calm and ease that he had learned always helped him to do better business. He rubbed his fingers along his slick cheeks. He had shaved only an hour before, and he loved the delicious, glassy-smooth feel of his skin. The sharp but pleasant scent of his cologne filled the car, masking other less pleasant aromas that Carlos Barreio, the chief of Quintana Roo's state police, had collected during his daily work.
    Barreio drove slowly, easing around muddy puddles in the driveway. He wore his clean police uniform as if he were a military general, pleased with his position and flaunting it in a way he thought was subtle. Aguilar didn't find many things about Barreio to be subtle.
    In the back seat rode young Pepe Candelaria, Aguilar's assistant, a