by M. G. Harris
A moment later, the attendant returned.
“My companion doesn’t feel so good,” the grey-haired man stated flatly. He didn’t look up. “A touch of amoebas. I think he’ll be a while”
The attendant muttered sympathetically, “Poor thing.” It probably meant a big clean-up job for him when the guy was finished, but in his job it usually paid to be extra polite.
Without stopping to check himself in the mirror, the grey-haired man left. He strolled rapidly towards the nearest airport exit and into a waiting black Ford Explorer.
Jackson finally caught sight of the welcome signs; toll booths for the fast road south to Cuernavaca, a large city close to Temixco. As he drove his car slowly through the booth, Jackson decided to stop at the nearby roadside service station. He’d pick up some Diet Coke and some spicy chips. A change of shirt also seemed like a good idea. His green polo top was soaked in two rounds of nervous sweat. As the air warmed up, his body was beginning to give off a sharp, acrid stench.
Jackson opened the trunk of the car and selected a blue pique polo shirt from his suitcase. Inside the men’s room, he hung his suede jacket on the back of a door. He peeled off his shirt, thoroughly wiping his torso, then changed into the blue shirt. He rinsed his face and hands with cool water and used the old shirt to dry his face. He slid the jacket over his shoulders and dug his hands into his jacket pockets. He looked critically at himself in the mirror. Not too bad – considering the stressful morning he’d had. Presentable enough, especially for a scientist. Better than he usually looked when he went to his own lab in San Francisco.
To Jackson’s surprise, the fingers of his left hand touched something unfamiliar in his jacket pocket. He drew out a green Post-It note wrapped around a small plastic test-tube. It was similar to the test-tubes he’d brought over from San Francisco. This test-tube was unlabeled, apart from something written in black marker pen on the lid. It seemed to be empty. He held it up to the light and flicked it a couple of times. A small volume of liquid coalesced in the bottom of the tube. The lid was sealed with Parafilm – a stretchy, synthetic membrane. He peeled away the film so that he could examine the writing on the lid.
It was long number, divided up by the occasional dash. It didn’t take a genius to work out that it was probably a telephone number. There was no name.
Jackson’s bewilderment lasted only a couple of seconds. Then he saw something that made him freeze.
Reflected in the mirror, he could see a part of the window giving onto the car park. Two men in grey suits, from their tanned appearance probably Mexicans, were walking around his rented Honda Civic. They tried the door and peered inside.
Jackson’s eyes went to the test-tube in his hand.
Beltran must have planted it. That little accident with his jacket had been no such thing – Beltran must have used it as an opportunity to slip something into the pocket.
Had Beltran betrayed him, planted evidence that would exonerate Beltran and throw all the blame on him? If so, why would he bother with a cryptic warning?
He glanced out of the window again. The two men in suits were walking away from his car. They were heading for the bathroom block.
Jackson moved fast. He dropped the test-tube back into his pocket, ducked out of view from the mirror and crawled to the far end of the bathroom. Scrambling around, he looked for another way out of the place. A high window gave onto the rear of the block. He launched himself at the window, managed to grab hold of the top of the frame with both hands. He squeezed himself between the open pane and the frame, then fell heavily on his side onto a plastic dumpster, just inches below the ledge. Jackson rolled off that and to his amazement, landed on his feet.
Heaving rapid, shallow breaths, he cast his gaze at the vehicles going through the toll booths. He couldn’t return to the car park – it was way too open. Whoever those men were, Jackson guessed that they had been following him since the airport. Maybe they even knew where he was going. After all, it was no secret where PJ Beltran worked.
He felt faintly sick as he realized; it had been stupid to assume he’d escaped the attention of the official. A quick phone call had probably confirmed who ‘Dr. Bennett’ actually was.
Cuernavaca and Temixco were out of bounds. So where could he go? Jackson struggled to think of the name of even one place in Mexico. For the tenth time that day, he wondered at his boss’s decision to send him on this errand. How had Beltran convinced him? Or had his boss had some inkling of the danger? It seemed paranoid even to suspect his boss. Jackson couldn’t seem to stop himself racking up one paranoia after another.
He knew no-one in Mexico, his Spanish was only high school level and little practiced. Jackson belonged on the next flight out of the country, not stuck inside a roadside service station trying to think of somewhere to go.
Checking briefly that he hadn’t been spotted, he ran behind the next building in the complex, a step closer to the toll booths. A small lorry approached. The words “Nieves de Tepoztlan” were painted on the side, intertwined around a wreath of lime-green leaves. He recognized the name of the town from having flipped through the Lonely Planet Guide to Mexico, before his flight. There weren’t many tourist attractions close to Temixco, but Tepoztlan was one. From what Jackson could recall, the town was known for its exotically flavored nieves – water ices, as well as some spectacularly-situated Aztec ruins and a new-age, hippy scene. There’d be Americans there, and Canadians – lots of them. The ideal place to blend in and become lost.
He rushed to the driver’s side, made urgent hand signals at the lorry driver until he opened his window.
“Please, sir, help me. Do you speak English?”
The driver’s eyes narrowed. He shook his head.
Jackson groaned. “My car – stolen. Need go Tepoztlan,” he said in broken Spanish. “Please. Fifty dollars, OK?”
“Toll roads?” the driver barked, in English. “Dollars americanos, tolls?”
Jackson nodded. He knew he was lucky to be given any help – Mexicans could be notoriously unhelpful to gringos. “I’ll pay the tolls also,” he agreed, grateful for the driver’s limited grasp at least, of road terminology in English.
“Horale, vamanos!” shouted the driver. He slapped the passenger seat.
As they drove past the car park of the service station, Jackson bent low, fiddled with a shoelace. He couldn’t risk being spotted, even though his curiosity was almost unbearable. The logical part of his personality had begun to reassert itself.
Now, Jackson wondered if he hadn’t perhaps overreacted by running. He may have created more problems for himself. If those guys were indeed the authorities – maybe even the same people who had picked up Beltran – then failing to cooperate could be very risky in the long term. He might find himself refused further access to Mexico. The Institute of Biotechnology in Temixco – a government funded organization – could refuse future collaborations with him. That would just about ruin any chance Jackson had to continue the work he’d done during the past three years.
Yet, something else told Jackson that his quick reaction had probably saved him from a serious fate, maybe even worse than being arrested for trafficking in biological samples.
As incomprehensible as the idea was, Beltran must have planted the test-tube. Beltran’s discreet warning, and his strange words, minutes before they’d been separated. “There’s something more here, Jackson. Something big.”
Jackson clutched the test-tube tightly in the palm of his left hand. The tube contained something important, something Beltran was desperate for him to have. Something he couldn’t risk handing over in the open.
Beltran must have known he was being watched. A plan had been set in motion. The lorry rumbled over a pot-hole. Jackson gripped his seat-belt. He wondered, once again, about the telephone number on that test-tube.
Pyramid Sacrifice
The ice truck descended into the valley behind the Ajusco Mountains through which they’d just driven. As they
approached Tepoztlan, the landscape changed; ridges in the rock rippled in a dramatic backdrop to the village. At the top of one of those ridges was the small ‘Tepozteco’; a white stone pyramid dedicated to Ometochtli-Tepoxtécatl, a god of the fermented maguey drink known as pulque, of fertility and the harvest.
After squaring his deal with the driver, Jackson made his way to the market and found something to eat. He realized that he had little idea of how Mexican justice worked. For all he knew, people could be held with no charges and no reason, if they were suspected of bio-terrorist activity. This, Jackson knew in his darkest thoughts, was the most serious suspicion which he and Dr. Beltran might face.
Jackson couldn’t risk a call to Beltran’s lab from his cell phone. The officials were bound to ask for the phone records of the lab, and the moment that his cell phone number was revealed, that was the end of his freedom. He’d need to call directory enquiries for the number. He paid for a phone card and headed for a call booth, dialed the number of Beltran’s lab. It was best to be open with Beltran’s colleagues. They were the only people on whom Jackson could count for help.
“Jackson Bennett! Hey, man. How come you aren’t here yet?” Simon Reyes answered the phone, Beltran’s newest doctoral student. Simon had graduated top of his class at university before he’d started a PhD program in University of California, San Francisco. He’d rotated through a couple of labs there before Beltran had persuaded the young man to join him in Temixco. Jackson had never actually met Simon, but his own boss at the lab spoke highly of the young graduate student.
“Simon. Listen, I think that Doctor Beltran – PJ – and I are in trouble. This is the scariest shit that’s ever happened to me.”
Jackson could tell from the silence that Simon was totally taken aback.
“Simon, you know anything about what PJ was working on? His personal research project, I mean.”
“You’re talking about phoenix, yes? Not too much. PJ’s been real secretive about it. The funding comes from a pharmaceutical company in Switzerland.”
Jackson closed his eyes in frustration. Beltran hadn’t mentioned that he was also collaborating with a pharmaceutical company. That was fair enough; there were many aspects to any research project. Some might be of particular interest to a ‘pharma’ and most labs wouldn’t turn away that kind of money. And pharmaceutical confidential disclosure agreements were notoriously troublesome. They could make productive scientific conversations almost impossible. “Anything you know, Simon. This is real important.”
There was a long silence. “PJ doesn’t tell us much. But . . . come to think of it I’m pretty sure that recently, he’s made some kind of breakthrough. He didn’t tell you?”
“He started to tell me. And then. . .”
“I had the impression that PJ’s meeting with you had something to do with what he’d found. I saw him prepare a sample for you to carry, ‘vial-in-pocket’.”
Simon’s words confirmed what Jackson had begun to suspect; Beltran was aware of a threat. That the same fate might pass to Jackson. What could be in the test-tube? Something which would protect him? Or the very item which had placed Jackson in the path of the people who’d taken Beltran?
Jackson said, haltingly, “Some guy was onto us at the airport. He may have been there when I gave PJ the samples. Then some goons showed up sniffing ‘round my car on the way to you. They could have been government. I guess the Mexican Customs department isn’t cool with me bringing this stuff in, undocumented. So I got the hell out of there. I’m in Tepoztlan. You know it?”
“Sure.” Simon hesitated. “You need me to come pick you up?”
“I think maybe I shouldn’t go to the Institute. These customs guys probably know that I was heading there. Can you take me somewhere safe nearby, and then I can meet with the rest of the lab?” Jackson gnawed anxiously on his lip. “So. . .seriously, PJ hasn’t been in touch with you at all?”
There was an empty crackle on the line, as though Simon’s doubt and growing anxiety was audible. “No.”
“OK, let’s talk when we meet up Tepoztlan.”
“You have somewhere in mind?”
“How about on the pyramid? I wanted to take a look at it properly anyway. That way we should be able to see anyone approaching us from a ways off.”
Simon breathed noisily. He didn’t seem to like the idea much. “You sure, Jackson? It’s quite a climb.”
“It’s fine. Simon, listen; you need to know something.” He then related, as calmly as possible, how Beltran had left him at Mexico City airport. The phone was silent for a long time. Jackson continued, “PJ was trying to keep me in the clear. I guess he wanted me to carry some sort of message. If only I knew what.”
“OK, so you don’t go with anyone but me; I’m wearing, like, this orange Hawaiian shirt with, ah, a kinda pineapple design. And black jeans. You got that?”
Jackson raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like you’re dressed to impress.”
Simon Reyes jumped up from the seat by his employer’s lab phone. “I’m going to pick up Jackson Bennett, that guy from the lab in UCSF. He’s in some kind of trouble,” Simon told the rest of Beltran’s research group. He didn’t want to elaborate, didn’t have the time. Jackson had sounded pretty shaken. Simon didn’t even want to think about what could have happened to PJ Beltran. But Jackson seemed to assume that PJ had been led away by the officials from the government. Whereas Simon was aware of another, even darker scenario.
Sequestrantes – kidnappers – had been the word he had not dared bring himself to use in his conversation with Jackson. A word Simon couldn’t keep out of his thoughts now. Everyone in Mexico knew what kidnappers were capable of. Recently the gangs were branching out beyond the simple fare of cash-for-victims, exploring the corporate possibilities of industrial espionage. If anyone had got wind of what Beltran and Jackson were exchanging at the airport, kidnapping was a genuine and chilling possibility.
In the parking lot of the Institute of Biotechnology, Simon Reyes hastily maneuvered his old, silver Nissan Tsuru out of its position and made straight for the highway to Tepoztlan.
A black Ford Explorer which was parked across the road from the Institute pulled into the traffic behind him. Simon’s heart began to thud as he watched, in his rear view mirror, the Explorer take the same lane as did he towards Tepoztlan.
Today, there could be no coincidences.
Desperately, Simon began to hunt for a way off the road, back into the tiny town of Temixco. It was hopeless; as soon as there were no cars in the immediate vicinity, the Explorer drew so close behind him that slowing down or turning off the road was an impossibility.
As the two cars moved further into the winding road to Tepoztlan, Simon began to feel the keen edge of fear. “They torture people,” he remembered, with barely controlled terror. “They slice off your fingers, your balls.”
Then it happened; the moment he had dreaded. The Explorer drew level with Simon's car, taking the other lane. As the window of the Explorer drew down slowly, Simon could see a pistol in the hand of the man in the passenger seat. Waving the pistol, the man gestured to Simon to get off the road. For good measure, a warning shot rang across the bonnet of Simon’s car.
Shaking, Simon parked. He began to pray silently as he watched two men get out of the Explorer and walk over.
“Get out.” The door to his car was opened; the order was barked by the younger of the two men, who pointed a gun at Simon’s head.
They motioned to Simon to move off the road, into the woods alongside.
“God have mercy on my soul. . .” Simon mumbled, his voice cracking.
“Don’t worry Simon. We won’t hurt you bad, I promise. It’ll be easy, quick.” The older of the two men, a grey-haired man in his late thirties, spoke with apparent sincerity.
Simon broke down.
“Come on, come on. We all have to die. Finish your prayers like a good boy. Think of it this way; we’re saving you from a cancer. Or Alzheimer�
�s. Who knows, in the future maybe something even worse. You scientists invent new diseases to kill us as fast as you find the cures.”
Simon sobbed uncontrollably. He was twenty-two years old, the first person from his family to even dream of being ‘Dr. Reyes’. Simon didn’t even bother to beg. The men were completely serious, carrying out their jobs with consummate professionalism. The grey-haired man took his arm, gripping him firmly but not painfully.
“Simon. We’ll make this quick. Trust me, you won’t feel anything. But you have to do something for me. Take off your clothes. The shirt, the jeans. Nice and slow. It’s nothing weird or sick, don’t worry. Just don’t want to get blood on them.”
Then, with unbearable clarity, Simon understood everything. The older man saw the light of recognition in his eyes.
“Yes, that’s right. I’m glad you understand. I’m sorry. Dr. Beltran’s phone is tapped. It has been for a while. We know all about PJ’s research, and about your meeting with Jackson Bennett. We really need his help, you see. But I don’t think he’ll want to speak to us. So now, we need your clothes. Come on, Simon. Finish your prayers.”
Moments later, the two men lifted Simon’s body, rolling it into a ditch, where the dense undergrowth partially obscured it.
As he began to remove his own clothes, Simon’s assassin commented, “I like the merciful touch, boss. It’s classy.”
“You think so, Fernando?” replied the grey-haired man, holding out Simon’s discarded clothes for him to change into. “You should see me with the ones who struggle, or fight back. Violence is a precision weapon. You don’t waste too much of it on a good man like this. Save it for the dangerous bastards. Because it ages you; it destroys you inside. If you want to last in this profession, you’ve got to have a plan for psychological longevity.”
Fernando buttoned the orange shirt, hooking the pistol into the back waistband of the jeans. He lifted his palms and grinned. “What do you think, boss? Do I pass for a genius?”