by M. G. Harris
Tyler and Ollie, though, that couldn’t be helped. The gringo agents had caught the hotel staff napping as far as that went. Poor kids – they’d spent a whole night in the cells down with Detective Rojas and those agents. Who knew what they’d been through. So, where was I? Come on, I could tell Paco! Was Andres really a secret agent or something? They’d suspected something like that all along.
Paco talks at me like it’s going out of fashion. Eventually I manage to squeeze in a question of my own: “Can you bring them to the phone?”
At 6.11, just as I’m pacing the tiny doughnut place and checking my watch for the millionth time, Tyler and Ollie appear at the door of Hotel Delfin, dressed in pyjamas. They’re headed my way. I duck behind the slot machine and watch them run towards the pizza place to the left. As it happens, the shop is still shut. Who knows where Benicio gets his fast-food-store intelligence, but on this occasion it’s unreliable. Tyler and Ollie press their noses up against the glass of the pizza shop, looking frantic. I check back towards the hotel. No sign of anyone following. So, I risk it. I break from Benicio’s instructions: I step into the street, beckon them round the corner.
“Where did you go?” “God, what a nightmare!” “The NRO, Josh, the NRO!”
And of course, “What’s in the case?”
I want to listen to everything that spills out of them, but I can’t listen, answer questions and ask them all at the same time. At least, not in less than five minutes.
“Guys, listen, listen, listen, dammit!”
That gets their attention.
“I’m leaving, OK? In three minutes. So, just listen.”
I tell them how Camila died. How I escaped, got lost in the jungle, wandered. Someone helped me, brought me back. “Now I need to get back into hiding. Until I know it’s safe to be around here. So I’m going. I’ve found a place to stay. I’m safe there.”
“Josh, what the hell’s going on?” Tyler says, eyes full of doubt and anxiety.
“With these US agents? I’m not sure. But I think they’re the ones who killed my dad. I don’t trust them for a second.”
“It’s true,” says Ollie. “This has to do with your father. They asked hundreds of questions about him. And about your sister. Josh, it’s awful about Camila.”
“Yeah. She was really cool.”
I want to hug them both just for being there. They feel real, concrete. They make me feel real again, plugged into the world. But I’m already splitting in two; fifteen minutes down the beach, the legacy of an ancient world waits for me.
“So, I’ll be seeing you,” I tell them both, giving Ollie a grin. They’re still protesting as I open the door. And I’m jogging down the street before I remember to shout my final instruction to them.
Don’t follow me.
In another four minutes I’m down the avenue, turning left on to the seafront boulevard, vaulting the low wall and into the beach car park at Chetumal. I check my watch: 6.15.
With timing this perfect, the mission to fetch the codex seems like a simple errand.
I dash across the car park.
I notice it but don’t notice it.
Well, I have a lot on my mind.
It’s a common enough car in Mexico. In hindsight, it’s as obvious as a lonely fishing boat on a fine, windless day.
A blue Nissan.
And that’s the last thing that goes through my mind before I hit the ground with my face, mouth open in a yelp of pain and surprise.
I was terrified when the car carrying Camila and me hit the swamp in the dark and bubbled under. That was a wild panic. Not a patch on the desperate sensation of feeling alone, helpless, tiny, insignificant; all the forces of nature and evil ranged against me, slowly becoming aware that all options have run out and that death looms, inevitable, just minutes away.
I wake up in the dark, the back of my head violently throbbing. In my mouth there’s the taste of the sea and the hard, salty crunch of sand.
How did I miss seeing that blue Nissan?
I had better things to dream about: Benicio waiting for me up the coast in the Muwan, the amazed and admiring gazes of my two friends.
I can’t deny it. That had felt great.
Result? I was attacked, surprised from behind – by Blue Nissan. The blow was clean enough – I can feel a lump now but no blood. The hand attached to the briefcase is chafed and raw. I have vague memories of someone repeatedly trying to pull the cuff free.
I’m in the trunk of a car. Moving. I check my pockets. I still have my soaked UK mobile phone and the wad of cash. But the mobile phone from Ek Naab is gone.
There is no way to call the Mayans to rescue me.
After about thirty minutes, the motion sickness gets the better of me. The inevitable happens – I throw up. Then I get tumbled around in it. Which makes me throw up some more. I finally figure a way to brace myself in the trunk so that I don’t move about too much. That, and working hard on keeping my stomach muscles tight, helps stop the vicious cycle of nausea.
All pretty grim. But as a prelude of what’s to come, it’s no big deal.
I lose track of time. The car slows to a stop. The driver’s door opens. Someone pops the boot. I blink, dazzled by the sunlight. The driver is just a dark silhouette. I still can’t see his face and have no idea where we are.
I hear him say, “Get out.” American, definitely.
Reluctantly, I climb out. We’re alone on a beach; totally isolated. On the coast, cliffs rise to the left, rocks to the right. After a few seconds my eyes adjust. I get my first proper look at the guy – Simon Madison – whom I still think of as “Blue Nissan”.
My mouth falls open. “You!”
It’s him – the burglar, the guy who bought that book from under me back in Oxford.
The NRO – they’ve been on to me from the beginning!
He doesn’t smile – too busy making faces. He’s just figured out that the nauseating smell is coming from me. He holds his nose, calls me a variety of disgusting insults.
“Now look what you’ve done, you stupid jerk. You messed up my trunk. Do you know what rental companies charge for cleaning that? I should make you do it yourself.”
“You broke into my house . . . you stole my bloody book. . .” I say, my voice getting louder. “Why? Why take the book?”
Now he does smile; a nasty, self-satisfied grin. “If you don’t know the answer to that, then there’s no way I’m telling you.”
Simon Madison sounds pretty American, but now that I see him properly, there’s a definite Hispanic touch. I pick up the same whiff of cologne that I first noticed when he burgled my house. Unlike his two Hawaiian-shirted counterparts who came calling for me at Hotel Delfin, there’s something vaguely refined about his accent, clothes and grooming.
I scan the surroundings for any hint of other people. It’s no use; we’re alone and not far from the coast road; that much I can hear. Unless a passerby were to actually stop and walk right to the edge of the road, I doubt they’d see anything.
This is the sort of beach you’d search for hours to find and be tickled pink to discover you had all to yourself on a clear, perfect morning like this. But I see it another way. This could be the last place I ever see.
Madison slaps me hard across the face. The attack takes me by surprise; I’m still woozy from the car trip. But the burning pain from my cheek does wonders for my state of alertness.
He uses his right fist the second time. I sidestep easily enough, moving in to trip him up with a wide arcing swipe at his legs. I don’t wait around to watch him hit the ground; I’m already running back towards the road.
I don’t get far. There’s a loud crack of gunfire. I throw myself to the ground, head tucked under my arms.
He calls out, “Hey, scumbag, think I enjoy chasing you? Now, stand, slowly.”
I get to my feet, turn to see him about ten metres away. There’s an automatic pistol in his hand pointed straight at me. They say it’s tricky to shoot a
moving target, but once I hear that bullet whiz past me, I stop being able to think rationally. I’ve never faced a guy with a gun before. And I’ve no idea what to do.
Walking towards me and still pointing the weapon, he says, “Undo the handcuff. I want that briefcase.”
I shake my head. There’s no way he can remove it without my help.
Madison cocks his head and a nasty smile turns the corners of his mouth. “No? Oh well, I had to try.” He turns away, then whirls around. This time, he hits me for real; this time, it’s with the gun. I’m toppled, clutching my ear. It rings with pain.
When I open my eyes, I see nothing but stars. I stay on the ground, trying to protect my head from the blows I’m sure are about to rain down on me. He takes something out of his pocket, holds it up to show me. It’s the mobile phone from Ek Naab.
“It’s from Ek Naab, correct? You’ve been there, I know it. Well, I promise you, before I’m done with you, you’re going to tell me every goddamn thing you know about that place.”
He leans over me, sticks the gun in my face and speaks very clearly.
“Josh. I want you to listen to me real careful. You’re, what, thirteen, fourteen? This thing you’re involved in is way beyond you. Doesn’t end with me; I answer to a boss.”
I say nothing. Madison sighs and then kicks me in the ribs. I crumple once again, gasping in agony. He waits for my groans to subside. “I need to know if we understand each other. Do we?”
I nod and in a tired voice reply, “Yeah.”
“That’s good. That’s excellent. Because the people I report to, they don’t play nice and reasonable like me. I don’t enjoy hitting kids, but in this regard, well hell, you don’t qualify.”
By now I’m springing tears, terrified, sick with my own fear.
This guy killed Camila. And unless I do something soon, he’s going to kill me too.
He pulls me to my feet, leans me against the car.
“OK, Josh. The combination for the case.”
I shake my head. I don’t dare to speak in case my voice cracks. He waits, biting his lip.
With his left hand, he begins to hunt around in his pockets. “If that’s your final answer, Josh, then I’m gonna have to cut you out of it. I don’t think you’ll have to lose your whole hand. If I take your thumb, I’m pretty sure I can slip the case off. Course, I’ll have to tie you down. That bone takes some sawing through. It’s none too quick.” He chuckles, adding, “And there’s gonna be some blood.”
I’m frozen to the spot, just like in those dreams where you’re being chased but your legs won’t move. I try to flex my fingers, testing to see if I’m really paralysed or what. Madison looks annoyed. What the hell is he doing? He smiles suddenly. I peer over his shoulder, catch a glimpse of steel through the glass. A hunting knife, on a bed of coiled climbing rope. I can hardly breathe.
“Listen, kid. With or without your help, I’m taking that case. Then me and my associates, kid, we’re going to Ek Naab. And we’ll do something that should have been done five hundred years ago: we’ll destroy them. Superior little smart-aleck half-breeds, they think they can keep all those secrets to themselves? We’re gonna teach them a lesson. And, kid – that’s starting with you.”
I struggle to take in what he’s saying.
Madison knows all about Ek Naab. How?
As Madison opens the car door, I make my decision. When his attention is momentarily distracted, I throw myself forward into a handstand spin, knocking the mobile phone out of his hand with my kick. The phone flies into the air and lands a couple of feet away. When I land, I run for it. But this time, I head down towards the sea, ducking to pick up the phone on the way.
I sprint down the sands, holding the briefcase behind my head as a shield. A second or two later, I leap into the surf. A couple of bullets zoom past my ear, one even hits the briefcase, and I’m zig-zagging, hoping that it’s true what they say about hitting a moving target. By the time he decides to swim after me, I’m already underwater.
I hear him shout things like, “Where do you think you’re gonna go, punk?”
I dive under the first line of waves, put my head down and keep going. I swim hard until I’m disoriented, tossed around by the waves, pulled under by the riptide. The bigger waves come in on the third line. Each wave picks me up and slams me down. I hit the sand, roll, but I keep swimming.
By the time I surface and turn to look around, I can see that the sea has dragged me out beyond the fourth wave. Madison has stopped behind the third, which I guess is where the undercurrent hits him. He’s treading water, shouting, “Come back, dumbass. You’re gonna drown. Get back here and we’ll cut a deal for the case.”
I’m fighting to stay put, resisting the pull of the waves that threaten to tug me further out. I stare at him defiantly, daring him to come out further, risk his own life to grab me.
I see him spit mouthfuls of water before eventually he yells, “All right, jerk. We’ll do this your way. I’ll wait for you to drown, then I’ll come in and cut the case from your freakin’ dead body. It’s all the same to me.”
And he turns, swimming back to shore.
In the relative calm of the outer waves, I think through my options. Up the coast, tall grey limestone cliffs block access to the road for several hundred metres. In the far distance I can see the clifftop ruins of Tulum. Even if I could make it to an inaccessible beach, I’d be trapped. There’d be no guarantee that he wouldn’t be able to follow.
In the other direction there’s a tiny chink of hope; jagged rocks rise from the sand out into the sea, but only for a short distance. If I can make it out beyond, I’ll maybe have a chance to swim round the rocks to the next beach. That beach also seems inaccessible from the road. If Madison tries following me, he’ll definitely be risking his life. And we might both be trapped.
Either option looks grim. The briefcase bobs in the water next to me. Luckily, it’s very slightly buoyant, from the trapped air in the packing foam, I guess. I’m still clutching the mobile phone from Ek Naab in my right fist. It’s probably ruined by the sea, but I open it up anyway, hoping that their technology can make phones waterproof. It can’t – the phone is dead. I drop it into my front pocket and work on treading water.
Taking the decision to ditch the case is tough, but I know that to stay alive that little bit longer, I’ll have to sacrifice it. I dial the combination on the handcuff and release it. I try to use it as a float in front of me, but it just sinks immediately under my weight. Slowly, I open the case and remove all the gadgets, dropping them one by one into the sea. They’re safely destroyed. The only thing that can be useful now is the phone – if it can ever be made to work again.
I study the rocks to the left. Looks as if they stretch about a hundred metres into the sea. I know that once I set out to go round the rocks, there’s no turning back. If I hit exhaustion too soon, that’ll be it. I have to make it around the rocks and in as far as the third wave. After that, I should be able to ride the waves on to the shore. I’ll be beached, bedraggled, but hopefully still breathing.
I gaze back towards the beach. Then I see something that almost paralyses me. Madison is walking back from the car, carrying what looks like scuba-diving equipment. Up on the beach, he’s suiting up.
That’s when I know I have to get moving. Stay where I am and he’ll find my body – and the phone – no problem. If I move out beyond the rocks, the constant pull of the open water might take my body out too far for him to ever find me. If I do drown, at least I’ll be taking the secrets of Ek Naab with me.
So, I turn round, face the horizon and begin to swim.
I’m already tired when it occurs to me that the rocks actually stretch more than a hundred metres out to sea. I’m sure I’ve swum much more than a hundred metres, but the rocks appear to be just as distant as before. The waves hadn’t looked significant from where I started the swim.
After another exhausting few minutes, I’m feeling the first real sense of
being defeated. Plan A is not going to work. There’s no way I can swim back, either. The tide is pulling me hard into the rocks. Clearing them has to be the priority. I need a Plan B.
I ease into a slower rhythm, not trying to go over the choppy waves but letting them pass over me. It’s closer to drowning but I feel more in control; less like I’m fighting a losing battle against the sea. I’m about ten metres from the rocks, another ten from the end point, the head. I know I’ll have to swim at least another ten metres past the end or risk being pulled into the rocks and injured, probably fatally.
I count every metre, think about nothing else. My muscles already know the truth. I don’t let my brain go there. Not yet. I have to keep moving.
I stop hearing any sound except the waves and my own breathing. When finally I clear the rock head safely, I turn around. I’m shocked to see that I’m probably two hundred metres out to sea. At least Madison and his car are almost too far away to see.
I can’t see what he’s doing, but I’m guessing that he’s livid. I manage a tiny chuckle. Leaning my head back, I rest for a few minutes. I wonder what might be going through his head, watching the prize slip through his fingers. I hope then that the people Madison works for show him no mercy. I hope they’ll get medieval on him.
I try to persuade myself that I’ll just rest here awhile and then start the swim back to shore. Part of me believes it. But in my arms and legs and lungs I know that it’s over. The sea is too rough. Staying away from the rocks is just too much work. The minute I turn in towards the shore, I’ll be battling the currents forcing my body against the rocks. I need to swim a lot further away; so far that I’ll probably never make it back to shore.
Luckily my brain is still in charge. It orders the lazybones muscles to take me further out, at least thirty metres beyond the rocks. But then the body takes over. And I stop swimming. I float up on to my back, my eyes closed. Rest – that’s what I need. Every fibre of my body screams out for it.
