by M. G. Harris
I know now that I’ll go under very soon. The power of the sea to sap my energy so quickly comes as an abysmal shock. I become aware, floating on my back, of a sense of intense unease at the depths of water underneath me. Most people simply aren’t dumb enough to put themselves at this kind of risk. In the open water of the Caribbean, I might as well be a tasty shark biscuit. One thing I know about shark attacks – you don’t see them coming. The fish swim deep below and launch a speedy attack from directly underneath. Watching out for a fin is pointless. The first thing I’d know about it, my legs would already have been ripped off.
I’d rather drown. I’ve heard that the lack of oxygen to the brain gives you an ecstatic rush. I wonder how that first lungful of water will feel; think about the grief that’s heading straight for my mother; about all the things I’ll never do, and the stupid fact that this happened because I wanted to see my friends.
I resort to a bargain with the God I stopped believing in two years ago.
Save me and I’ll save your precious world.
I promise: I’ll do everything in my power to find the Ix Codex. Then it occurs to me that maybe He doesn’t want to save us. Maybe the disaster of 2012 is His way of wiping the slate clean and starting over: Flood 2.0.
Finally, I wonder if there really is an afterlife and if I’ll ever see my father again. In waters of the deepest turquoise blue I’ve ever seen, I prepare to drown.
Someone must have been listening to my last few thoughts before I slip under the waves. I glimpse arms reaching down to pull me out of the water. They drag me over the edge of a boat. Even without looking, I can tell that it’s Tyler and Ollie. Opening my eyes, I see Ollie standing behind us as Tyler holds me upright.
Ollie stares at me.
“Why? Why did you swim so far out? Where’s your case?”
I start to answer, but can’t speak. I collapse then, I think.
Some time later, I come around, still lying in the bottom of a small speedboat that is beached under the shade of a palm. Tyler opens a cooler and passes me a bottle of Orange Crush that’s already sweating on the glass. Fingers trembling, I clutch it.
Ollie leans on the side of the boat. For the first time I notice that they are both dressed in pyjamas.
“We knew something was wrong, you know. Right from the start. Camila wasn’t entirely straight with us, was she? She knew that those men from the NRO were following her. And she didn’t warn us.”
Tyler and Ollie are furious about what had happened to them. My disappearance made it worse for them; they were held for questioning even longer, precisely because of it. When they were released, it came as something of a surprise.
“Thought they’d never let up,” Tyler says. “But then, they let us go. Something to do with a phone call from the British Embassy.”
I’m relieved to hear that – my advice to Mum must have worked.
Earlier this morning, Tyler and Ollie woke to my phone call.
“Somehow, I knew you’d be back. And that you’d be in trouble,” Ollie tells me, grinning.
Our meeting in the doughnut shop only increased their suspicion. So, they followed me down to the beach car park. They arrived just in time to see Madison shoving me into the boot of his car and disappearing down the coastal road. A taxi driver was just picking up his morning doughnuts and coffee when they pounced on him and begged him to hightail it down the coast with them in search of Madison.
Luckily for them, he was a sport.
“This is a first for me,” the driver told them. “I’ve never actually done ‘follow that cab’.”
Tyler held his coffee and doughnuts while he broke the speed limit to catch up with Madison. Once they had the car comfortably within sight, the taxi settled at a discreet distance, always just out of sight.
“Don’t think he didn’t complain, though,” Tyler comments. “Givin’ it, ‘I don’t take credit cards’ and ‘We should have agreed a price’ and ‘Where are we going, all the freakin’ way to Cancun?’”
When they saw the car come off the road, they stopped too, arrived in time to see Madison shooting at me as I escaped into the sea. If I’d decided to head for the road – and them – instead of the sea, maybe they’d have been able to stop everything then and there.
Instead, they watched in horror as I turned out to sea, swimming into what was obviously a deadly situation. From up high they saw more accurately than I that the rocks went out way further than anyone could swim in high waves and ebb tides.
From that moment, they knew that every second would count.
“Your pal is going to drown,” said the taxi driver. “Unless we can find a boat.”
Then the driver really stepped on it. He raced to the next village. It was one of those places with nothing but a fish restaurant and snorkel-hire stall on the beach.
But they did have a boat.
Ollie threw money at the speedboat’s owner until he agreed to sail them down the coast to look for me. By the time they’d both piled into the boat, twenty minutes had gone by. Down south, I was now approaching the end of the rocks, turning round and realizing what a ghastly mistake I’d made.
It took another fifteen minutes for them to get to the beach where they’d last seen me. They scanned the sea for any sign of me. Luckily, they knew more or less where to look. Even so, the waves were choppy enough to hide me until they were almost on top of me. By then I really didn’t have much fight left.
I’m itching to check the mobile phone from Ek Naab. How dry would it have to be to work again? Or has sea water shorted the circuitry beyond repair? Afraid that my frustration will show, I concentrate on sipping Orange Crush and watch as two Mexican guys stand chatting nearby.
Again Ollie asks me: what happened to the case – the one I had strapped to my wrist when they met me at the doughnut shop?
Tyler says “Yeah, mate, where’d you get that anyhow?”
I don’t answer. I can’t betray the secrets of Ek Naab. And anyway, why are Tyler and Ollie suddenly so interested in the case?
Every now and then the two Mexican guys throw our little group a glance. Tyler notices me looking. “Hope you got some dosh, mate. Speed Boat Guy and el taxiste. In case you hadn’t guessed, you owe them big-time.”
As we drive back down the coast to Chetumal, Tyler and Ollie tell me about their interrogation session.
Those NRO guys already know quite a bit. They know that Becan hides a secret entrance to some hideout. From what Tyler tells me, they’ve got it into their heads that there’s some underground, Bond-villain-type set-up down there.
It actually makes me smile, remembering my first impression of Carlos Montoyo.
“Where is the secret entrance to Ek Naab?” they asked, and, “Who has been feeding you information?” All they managed to get out of Tyler and Ollie was some vague memory of the inscription on the Calakmul letter. Luckily, it was very vague, infuriatingly so. When they couldn’t agree on the text, the NRO guys gave them a long rant. “We’ll find out who you’re protecting and put them in jail”, “We’ll extradite you to Guantanamo, you jerks, all we have to do is call you terrorists and then we can do what the hell we like.”
“So is it true?” Ollie asks, looking deep into my eyes. “Is there a secret hideout under Becan?”
I hesitate for just a second before saying, “Yes.” Well – I always said I’d be loyal to my family. These guys are like my family. I can’t deal with lying to them, but I can limit what I tell them.
They both gasp. “Aw . . . you lie!” Tyler says, giving me a shove. But he can tell I’m serious.
“Mate, if this is for real, then you’ve gotter come clean with it,” he says. “Them NRO idiots – they’ll never leave us alone. They’ve got our names, addresses; they’ve copied our passports, our tickets. We can’t leave the country without them knowing.”
“They said that?”
Ollie gives a reluctant nod. “Actually, they did.”
“I can’t tell t
hem anything,” I say. “Not a thing.”
Tyler looks astounded. “Well, I’ve had enough of this! We come out here for a bit of a laugh and to support you with your emotional problems, and what happens? We end up spending the night in a Mexican slammer – with toilets that would make you actually spew, mind you – with some bloody scary American agents who think we’re involved in some big drug-lord operation. . .”
“They said that?” I interrupt. “‘Drug-lord’?”
“They mentioned drugs, they mentioned arms dealing, I dunno what they think is going on.”
Ollie is uncharacteristically quiet. “They think this is about gangsters?” I ask her. She looks away without replying.
“Why would the NRO care about gangsters, Tyler?” I say, raising my voice. “They’re a joint operation of the CIA and US Air Force! How is a bit of weed-smuggling going to upset them?”
“I think they were trying to confuse us,” Ollie says in a soothing voice.
“I think they succeeded,” I reply angrily.
There’s a long, deeply uncomfortable silence.
“Where did you go, Josh?” Ollie asks. “Who gave you the case? And what did you do with it?”
Ignoring her questions, I say, “That guy in the blue Nissan, he was going to kill me, you know. After he’d tortured me to find out what I knew. He shot Camila, drove her car off the road. I almost drowned, and she died. These NRO people are dangerous. And you want me to go back and tell them?”
“They weren’t like that with us,” Tyler says. “They were all talk, no trousers.”
“Because they could see you didn’t know any more than them,” I yell in frustration. “With me, it’s a different story.”
“With you, they know they can get real information,” agrees Ollie.
“The blue Nissan guy is called ‘Simon Madison’. Whether that’s his real name or not, I don’t know, but that’s what his passport says.”
Very curious, Ollie asks, “How do you know that?”
“I just do.” I can see she’s not satisfied with that but I don’t care. “He wanted the case. And to know how to get into Ek Naab. But I’m not sure I could get in again. They were waiting for me. They led me there.”
Tyler and Ollie stare at me. “They?”
I sigh. “I’ve already said too much.”
Tyler scratches the stubble on his chin. “Now you’re scarin’ me. Josh, you’re in danger so long as you keep this to yourself. Just tell ’em. They’re on our side, right – the Yanks? What harm can it do?”
“I’m not sure I agree with you there,” Ollie says carefully.
The taxi driver interrupts to tell us he has to stop for petrol at the next service station. Do we want to grab some snacks? He pulls in at the crowded service station, where half a dozen tourist coaches have stopped to refuel. Tyler and Ollie go for the drinks whilst I visit the bathrooms. Washing my hands with pink liquid soap, I watch them on the other side of the concourse, talking to local people selling home-made cookies, crisps and fresh juice. There’s something too cosy, too familiar about the way they are together. He even feeds her a crisp, while she laughs at something he’s said. I’m suddenly jealous.
“Who gave you the case?” “Just tell them!”
If I didn’t know better, I’d wonder if I could even afford to trust my two friends. But they did save me.
Or did they?
What if the NRO somehow got to them – made a deal? Maybe they just saved me from drowning so that they could make sure I delivered myself into the hands of the NRO again.
A sudden feeling of desperation sweeps through me. I have to grip the washbasin to stay upright.
What if the NRO got to them?
I can hardly breathe. Standing over there they look so calm, relaxed. I watch them smile, choose bags of fresh potato crisps sprinkled with lime and chilli, watch them wait as a woman cuts green-skinned oranges, lining them up to be squeezed for juice.
Between us, an aging yellow bus prepares to pull out of the station, blocking my view of Tyler and Ollie. I make my decision. I race out of the washroom and jump on to the bus just before its door closes. The driver isn’t unduly surprised, just asks me how far I’m going. I ask, “Where are you headed?”
“Valladolid,” he replies. “Via everywhere.”
I’m not sure where Valladolid is, but it sounds fine. Not on the beaten track, that’s for sure. And I like the sound of “via everywhere”. For what I’m planning, that sounds perfect. I peel off a fifty-peso note and wait for change. There’s nowhere to sit on the bus, which is full of tired-eyed workers coming home from night shifts at the tourist resorts and plantations hereabouts. I check my watch – it’s almost 9 a.m. I’m pretty conspicuous at this time of day. Backpackers carry backpacks and they don’t show up anywhere before 10 a.m.
I catch a final glimpse of Tyler and Ollie as the bus drives off. They’re tasting the juice. It looks good. I wish I’d thought to bring something to drink. How long, I wonder, until they work out that I’ve gone? Another bus pulls out almost at the same time, the destination listed as Cancun.
They must have chosen to chase the Cancun bus, because my bus takes a leisurely journey through villages from Felipe Carrillo Puerto to Valladolid without ever being followed by a taxi containing two curious British teenagers.
The minute we’re away from the bus station, I take out the Ek Naab phone, give it a hard shake and try the power switch again. Absolutely nothing. I’m not surprised, but my heart sinks. I stand, legs still aching from exhaustion, hanging on to my leather bus strap. I stare out of the window. Like the road to Becan, this road cuts directly into the jungle. The sides of the road are littered with black patches that, when we draw closer, I realize are made up of big tarantulas warming themselves on the early morning heat of the tarmac. They rear up as we rush past.
I disembark at every bus stop to keep an eye out. At one stop I buy a map to keep track of our route. I get a drink from the omnipresent street vendor who’ll sell you a fizzy drink cheap if you chug it straight down and return him the bottle. The bus isn’t air-conditioned, and by eleven in the morning, the temperature inside is forty degrees, with almost a hundred per cent humidity. The sweat pours off my head and down my sides.
If they think I’ve run, where do they think I’d run to? I figure that I’ll stay hidden better by taking short trips on local buses, avoiding the main cities.
I could try to go after my grandfather’s Muwan in the museum in Veracruz. But without the contents of the case – how will I break in? It’s not as though I have a natural talent for thievery. I could aim for Mexico City, hide out with some colleagues of my father’s, maybe find a way to contact the Mayans of Ek Naab. I even toy with the idea of trying to find my way back into Ek Naab, but I don’t dare be seen anywhere near Becan. I could be leading Simon Madison and the NRO right to the city they seem so keen to destroy.
My plan to aim for Mexico City has a tricky flaw, though. I’m assuming that I can find a colleague of Dad’s just by walking into the archaeology faculty of the university. Picking a name to trust, that’s another matter. But Carlos Montoyo didn’t turn out to be who he claimed to be. What if there are other secret agents posing as Mayanists? If any of them have connections with the NRO, I’m sunk.
So, it has to be the museum. I check the map again – it’s in Jalapa. If I manage to dry out the mobile phone from Ek Naab, get it working again, I could call Benicio up to Jalapa. With another case of equipment, we’d be back in business. If the Ix Codex is there, I’ll do my job and then leave the Mayans to it.
I smooth out my road map until I can only see the states along the rest of my route: Tabasco to Veracruz.
Via everywhere.
In this part of Mexico every town looks the same: rough buildings covered with political graffiti on the outskirts of town; cramped roads that can hardly fit a bus and yet seem to be the main thoroughfare into town; street vendors with their boxes of roses, phone cards, Chicl
ets, trays of pink meringues or whatever they happen to be selling.
I never step out of the bus without taking a good look around the station. I’m on a constant watch for police, smartly-dressed men in sunglasses, people who carry nothing. In almost every station there’s something to set me off. A guy in a sleeveless T-shirt who stares openly at me. The helmeted guy on a Harley who, I’m almost certain, has been behind my last two buses. A guy in a shirt and tie who makes urgent-sounding calls on a payphone, casting nervous looks around. Could any of these people be grassing me up?
When I’m hungry, I buy potato crisps or cupcakes. Even though I’ve spent the whole day sweating uselessly in muggy, blistering heat, by early evening I’m dying to eat something hot.
I’m staring out of the window, watching the endless jungle scroll by. The light is beginning to fade. It’s on my mind that I’ve been on the go since 5 a.m. As we cross into the state of Veracruz, the vegetation turns into banana and coffee plantations, orange groves with fruit at the bullet-hard, shiny green phase. The surroundings become mountainous. Volcanic peaks with coatings of mossy green frame the distant landscape like mouldy shark’s teeth.
Somewhere around here, my eyes close.
I wake to find myself the last passenger on the bus. The driver is shouting at me, “Hey, dude, get off my bus!” I stagger to my feet and stumble to the front. Through the window, at the end of a street, there’s water stretching as far and wide as the eye can see. Somewhere along the way, there’s been a big mistake. The bus I’d taken was supposed to go deep inland.
In Spanish I say, “What the heck . . . is that the sea?”
“The lagoon,” replies the driver. “Catemaco.”
Catemaco. He pronounces it to rhyme with taco. I’ve never heard of the place. I grab my map, baffled. “I thought your last stop was Acayucan.”
“It was. You missed it. I started on my next route and abracadabra, we’re off to Catemaco. Shouldn’t be such a sleepy-head, should you?”
