Excerpt of Not Without the Truth by Kay David

Summer 2005

Near Machu Picchu

THE ROPE BRIDGE SWUNG LAZILY in the bright Peruvian sun. Every so often, a loose strand of hemp would free itself and float on the warm breeze before drifting away. Most of the strings fell to the river thirty feet below where the water rolled over the rocks in an easy rhythm. No hurry, the gentle rippling sound seemed to say, no rush.

On either side of the precarious walkway, scarlet macaws preened in the warmth, their iridescent feathers flashing against the thick green foliage like priceless jewels. The birds' exotic calls filled the air, along with the perfume from the nearby balsam trees.

Pausing on the edge of the gorge, Lauren Stanley studied the tranquil scene spread out before her. For as far as she could see, serenity and beauty lay.

Breathing deeply, she tried to trap the essence of the moment and transfer its peace to a spot inside herself.

She failed.

All Lauren could feel was the fright that had her nailed to one spot. Big spiders and heights, tight spots and snakes. Lauren's list of fears was a long one and there were some things on it she couldn't even name. Despite their numbers, she'd managed to face most of them because she was too stubborn to give up on something just because it was difficult. The perfect example of that was right ahead of her. Seeing the ancient ruins of Machu Picchu would have been a straight-forward journey, but she'd had to come to the lesser ruins first, even though it had meant hacking a path through the jungle and crossing remote bridges like the one she was staring at now.

A second passed and then another one. Finally, she managed to break her paralysis. Opening her eyes, she lifted her hands and stared at them. They trembled violently, as did her body.

Behind her, Joaquin, the guide she'd hired, said something encouraging. At least, that's how she interpreted it. He spoke almost no Spanish and they'd had to make do between his Quechuan and sign language. She looked over her shoulder and the young man made a go-ahead motion with his hand. She faced forward once more and eased her right foot out.

The bridge was made of three ropes, two that acted as handrails and one Lauren would have to balance on as she walked across. They were lashed together with extra fibers at gaping intervals. The woven strand beneath her boot was probably two inches in diameter, maybe three at the most. She had forty feet to go and there was no other way to get to the other side.

She knew she shouldn't, but Lauren glanced down. The space beneath her seemed to widen and the green cliffs on either side shifted accordingly. A sickening dizziness swamped her.

I can't do this. She shut her eyes again. I can't do this. What was I thinking? Why did I come here? Am I crazy or what?

The questions were rhetorical because she knew the answer to each. She'd come back to Peru because she wasn't going to spend the rest of her life living in fear. She refused to. She'd spent enough time there and she was ready to move on. She had a great career ahead of her and nothing but opportunity. All she had to do was conquer the final frontier — her past. And she probably was nuts, but that had never stopped her.

Enough thinking, it was time to go. Lifting her left foot, Lauren carefully placed it in front of her right. She was near enough to the metal rings that held the ropes steady that the bridge stayed immobile under her shifting weight and her confidence took a step forward as well.

She continued, blanking her mind to anything but reaching the other side. Measure by measure. Heartbeat by heartbeat. Breath by breath.

She was halfway across when the rope's tension seemed to change. Gripping the side ropes tightly, she told herself she was imagining things. Then the birds became quiet.

Turning her head slowly — it seemed to take a year — she glanced behind her. Joaquin was gone, the platform where the guide had been waiting now empty.

She puzzled over his disappearance. Maybe he'd slipped behind the foliage for a moment's privacy…. Maybe he'd sat down on the forest floor to wait for his turn to cross…. Maybe he'd gone back to his village and left her to her own devices…. She couldn't reverse her steps so she looked the way she'd been heading and tried to calm her concerns.

Then the rope bucked.

It steadied almost instantly and she sucked in a gasp of relief but before she could exhale, the cables went completely slack.

She screamed in terror as air replaced the support at her feet. The rope swung wildly and, burdened with her weight, headed for the rocks in front of her. If she held on, she'd slam into the side of the cliff.

The rough hemp burned through her palms, peeling the flesh from her fingers and setting them on fire with pain. The overhang zoomed closer. A tree branch, reaching out from the precipice as if to help, scraped her cheek instead.

A thousand different scenarios careered through her head but she knew she only had one choice. She held on until the last possible moment, but she finally opened her hands and let go.

She shrieked all the way down and hit the water with a splash. There was silence after that. When the last echo died, the birds resumed their calls.

"HOW YOU DOING? Seen any ruins lately?"

Meredith Santera spoke in a casual way but Armando Torres wasn't fooled by her tone. Meredith wasn't a woman who telephoned just to chitchat. Her intensity never abated and she remained focused at all times. On occasion, she pretended otherwise, but in reality, she never let up.

"Why do you wake me in the middle of the night to ask how I feel?" A native of Argentina, Armando's accent became more obvious. "I think you have something other than my welfare on your mind."

A pause came over the line before she answered. "How come you say so little but understand so much?"

He made a sound of dismissal. "If you listened more and spoke less, you would hear what I hear. I have no special skills."

"I disagree, which is exactly why I've called you." He waited in silence.

"I had an interesting conversation yesterday," she began.

Armando heard the sound of shuffling papers and he imagined Meredith sitting at her desk in Miami. She'd moved there after she'd left the CIA and started the Operatives. At the beginning, there had been four of them — Meredith, Armando and two others, Stratton O'Neil and Jonathan Cruz — but in the past few years, some changes had come about.

Stratton had been the first to leave. Following a job that had gone tragically wrong, he'd moved to L.A. to escape his past and disengage from life. His plan had been foiled when he'd taken one last job then had fallen in love. Cruz had been next. He was teaching at Langley now and he, too, had a new wife. She happened to be Meredith's best friend. Cruz had married her after he'd rescued her and her son from the drug kingpin who was the child's father.

Armando had also wondered from time to time about leaving the team. He had more work at the clinic than he could handle and it was good work, productive work. But what he did with the Operatives was important, and he wasn't sure he could ever give it up.

Meredith's voice brought him back. "I got a call from a doctor in Dallas by the name of J. Freeman Stanley. He's a very well-known child psychiatrist. His expertise is in repressed memories. Does his name sound familiar?"

Armando held his breath, his past rising up from the grave where he kept it buried. "Not really," he lied.

"You'll remember when you hear the rest. You must be getting old."

I am, he thought, and growing even more so as you speak. He'd never told Meredith much about his early years. Her father had helped her form the company and he'd been the one she'd trusted to choose the men. He'd known everyone's secrets but he was gone now. All Meredith knew was that Armando had been involved with the Peruvian job. She had no idea he'd seen the girl. No one knew that, except for him and her.

"Dr. Stanley has a daughter named Lauren," she said. "Her mother was Margaret Stanley." Meredith paused. "Don't tell me you don't remember her. She was —"

"One of the consuls in Lima." He dropped his pretense. "Christmas eve, 1989. I was sent there that night, but she was already dead before I could get to her. They said she interrupted a burglar and he killed her. I remember."

"Finally! I was getting worried about you for a minute."

He interrupted her, an act of discourtesy he'd normally never indulge in. "What's wrong?"

If she noticed his shortness, she ignored it. "Lauren Stanley is twenty-six now. She's a writer for a travel magazine called Luxury and she's been on assignment in Peru doing an article about the ruins."

"Luxury, eh?" Armando forced the tightness in his chest to loosen. "That sounds like a nice job. To visit rich people's resorts and write about them."

"It sounds good, yes, but something must have happened. About two weeks ago, she stopped checking in and her father is getting frantic."

"How did he connect with you?"

"He didn't. My father was still in Washington when Stanley's wife died and Dad debriefed the doctor after he and his daughter left Peru. According to Stanley, Dad told him if there was ever anything he could do for him to call. So he did. The office forwarded the message to me. Stanley had no idea that my father was dead."