by M. G. Harris
The grey-haired man gave him an encouraging slap. “Son, you’re Nobel prize material already.”
On The Tepozteco
Legend holds that the Tepozteco pyramid marks the birthplace of the Aztec God, Quetzelcoatl. Jackson blinked in the harsh early afternoon light. He tried to spot the white stones of the cliff-top pyramid from the far end of Tepoztlan. As well as a walk to the other side of town, past a collection of Mexican handicrafts stalls and people hawking the trappings of new age, alternative lifestyle, there would be a brief hike through the thick vegetation, to the top of the hill on which the Aztecs had, hundreds of years ago, built the pyramid.
Jackson glanced at his watch. Just under one hour to get to the top. He sauntered casually down a wide cobbled alley, flanked with white adobe cottages covered with bougainvillea flowers, birds’ nests clinging limpet-like to the eaves. The alley offered a direct view of the pyramid, visible merely as a stone structure perched on top of a sharp cliff edge, on a hill known as Ehecatepetl, or ‘hill of the wind’.
As he walked, he was besieged by small children, imploring, “Señor, señor, a massage? A fortune by your palm? Incense sticks to help you reach enlightenment?”
Passing by one of the empty seats of the massage stalls, Jackson relented. A neck massage would certainly help loosen him up for the steep climb ahead. He nodded and took a seat. The strong hands of a stern-looking middle-aged Mexican woman took hold of his shoulders and began kneading his muscles. As he began to allow himself to relax, a girl about fifteen years old, dressed in a tight-fitting white T shirt and worn blue jeans, stopped in front of him. She gazed at him intently with solemn, brown eyes.
“Buenos días,” Jackson said, politely.
“I tell your fortune, yes?” the girl asked him, in English. “Twenty pesos.”
Jackson sighed. Why not? He was perfectly aware that people disliked tourists who refused to part with a few dollars in the name of getting value for money, especially if they were American. With a wan smile, he dropped the money into the girl’s grubby, outstretched hand and held out his right palm. The girl gazed into his eyes for a second, then took his left hand. “We use this one.” She studied it for a few minutes, and looked back into his eyes.
“You are a thinker. You like puzzles – no that’s not what it says. You like questions. Your love line is strong, but there’s disappointment.”
“I still haven’t found the right girl,” he said.
“You’ve been disappointed in love, and you will be again. Your life line is strong, but you live a dangerous life; there are breaks. Sickness or accidents – I can’t tell.”
“Accidents, probably,” agreed Jackson. Most winter sports enthusiasts broke some part of their body, sooner or later, and he was obsessed with snowboarding. He felt himself immortal, naturally. The statistics were against him in the long run.
“Your fate line is deep; your life is controlled not by you but by things that happen to you.”
He eyed her with a touch of cynicism. “You got any advice? Something I can actually use?”
“Look; where it crosses the life line. You see this tiny break in the life line? This means a serious betrayal.”
Jackson smiled uneasily. “Ooh. Sounds serious.”
“A girlfriend, perhaps? Or maybe someone in your family.”
His masseuse spoke for the first time. “You should listen to my daughter. She has the gift, the third eye. If she tells you there is danger, then there is danger.”
With this, the masseuse slapped his shoulders, the blow stinging very slightly at first, the warmth then spreading to his neck. Amazingly, for five minutes’ work, Jackson actually felt substantially more relaxed.
It was nothing but new-agey garbage, he told himself. Normally Jackson would have nothing to do with unscientific superstition. But Beltran’s planting of the test-tube on him had obviously unbalanced him. He took it out of his pocket once more and looked at the liquid in the tube. It was crystal clear, didn’t look anything like a bacterial suspension. The fact that Beltran didn’t seem to mind the test-tube being at room temperature made Jackson suspect that it could only contain one thing: pure DNA.
Why would Beltran give him an unlabeled molecule of DNA? To answer that, he’d have to analyze the sequence of the DNA, track down its molecular significance within the vast repository of information within the world’s genetic databanks.
He had to get to a lab.
A little further down the road, Jackson came across a young, bearded man with a reflector telescope. Beside the tripod was a sign: “See the pyramid without the climb! Ten pesos.”
He asked in English, “How good is it? Can you see the people up there?”
“You know someone up there?”
“Maybe.”
The bearded man stood aside, letting Jackson put his eye to the telescope’s eyepiece. He stood back for a second, impressed. The view was clear enough to see individual people clambering over the staircase of the pyramid, and some of the people on the way up. Slowly, he panned the telescope around the entire area occupied by the pyramid, then down the path leading to it. Then he found what he was looking for; Simon was on his way. He couldn’t see his face but the orange pineapple shirt and black jeans could clearly be seen. Simon drew a wrist across his face and there was a flash of a golden watch glinting in the sun.
Jackson swung the telescope back to its owner. “Thanks. That’s all I need.” Moments later, he reached the end of the town, and looked up into the forest where a rocky path wound higher. Here and there he could see a few groups of tourists making the ascent. It was easy for an experienced hiker like Jackson. The first group he passed comprised some Americans in their early sixties, dressed in walking boots and tropical print shirts.
After another twenty minutes, he was sweating profusely. The day was not particularly warm, but his suede jacket was no good for a hike. He caught up with another small group of German tourists. They carried a large water bottle and when Jackson politely asked for a sip, they equally politely offered to fill his empty Diet Coke bottle.
The light was beginning to dim as he neared the summit of the climb. He looked with some satisfaction at his hand stitched Italian walking loafers – they were barely scuffed. He could see Simon sitting on a small platform next to two carved stone columns. Jackson approached the younger man, wiping his hands on his jeans.
“Jackson Bennett?” The man in the orange shirt stood, smiling, his right hand outstretched. His left hand remained by his side, the gold watch gleaming on the wrist.
As Jackson reciprocated, the image of a watch glinting gold in the sun jumped into his mind. Where had he seen that before? The image resonated, and with it, a lurch of dread. He thought back to when he had first seen this man, observing him from afar with the telescope. That was it; that was when he had seen the watch. Despite this, the sense of danger associated with a flash of gold on a wrist remained disturbingly close.
He shook the young man’s hand. “Simon. It’s good to meet you.”
“Same here. Doctor Beltran is always talking about you. We’re all worried about him. So, let’s get you to safety. Ready?”
“I just wanna take a couple of photos.” He took out his cell phone, began recording images of the pyramid and the deservedly famous views.
The guy in the bright shirt watched him closely. When Jackson was finished, he asked again. “Ready to go down?”
Jackson glanced at the path. The Germans had reached the top now and were clearly enjoying the prospect of having the ruins almost to themselves. The group of American retirees was almost ten minutes behind. Why couldn’t he stop thinking about that watch?
“OK Simon, I’ve seen all I want to see. Let’s go."
They began the descent, passing the Germans.
“Did you pass many tourists on your way up?” asked the newcomer, his tone light, conversational.
Then Jackson remembered where he had first seen the glint of gold in the context o
f danger. As clearly as though he had seen it for a whole minute instead of a just a second, Jackson recalled the image of the two men who had been searching around his car as he changed shirts in the washroom at the service station. One of them had been young, lightly built, and wore a shiny gold watch. Sunglasses had obscured the man’s face, but ‘Simon’s face looked familiar enough to be sure that his suspicions were correct.
“Quite a few,” Jackson lied, trying to stay calm. “Some old dudes should be along any second.”
For the second time that day, adrenaline surged through him. Only furious concentration concealed his anxiety. Jackson clamped his jaw shut and reviewed his options. This guy – almost definitely not Simon Reyes– was probably armed and planning to attack him as soon as they left all witnesses behind. The forest at the side of the path was thick, the drop treacherous. At this time of day, a body could be quickly disposed of with minimal disruption.
Just so long as you had the element of surprise.
Jackson on the other hand, had no weapon. He’d taken a few kick-boxing classes, years ago, but doubted that he could seriously disable a determined assassin. Escape, therefore, was his only chance. Other assailants might be waiting, but for certain, this one had settled on a target. He stopped to sip from his Diet Coke bottle before offering it to the other man.
“It’s just water,” he explained, managing a genial smile. When the guy accepted and raised the bottle to his lips, Jackson made his move.
He spun hard, raised his leg in the only kick-boxing move he had ever seriously practiced. As his body swung around, Jackson’s foot connected satisfyingly with the imposter’s ribs. The guy was already going for a weapon under the back of his shirt, but Jackson had taken him entirely by surprise. The would-be assassin was thrown off the path and into the forest at the side.
***
Jackson bolted down the rocks on the path. A shot exploded from a gun. The bullet whizzed past his ear, a sound as terrifying as any he’d heard in his life. He faltered, lost his footing and hurtled to the ground. He rolled a couple of times before he felt something sharp rake across his upper left thigh. He gasped loudly then immediately clenched his teeth together, to stop any further outburst. A fallen tree lay beside him, one broken end of a small branch now coated in his blood.
He was shocked by the sudden burst of searing pain. A survival instinct had him in its grip. He leapt off the path and into the forest. In the corner of his eye he could just see his assailant, about twenty yards above. The man was taking aim. Jackson lunged forward, and skidded on pile of rotting leaves. Another bullet thumped into a tree trunk, just ahead of him. The air erupted with splinters; one shot straight into his cheek, just below the eye. He didn’t stop, or look around again. He kept running, zigzagging through the forest, hearing shots ring out and the heavy rustle of the imposter giving chase. Jackson continued until his heart was hammering, his lungs ready to explode.
The guy wasn’t going to give up. Jackson couldn’t see him any longer but he could hear him crashing through the dense forest. The pain in his left leg rose to a sharp crescendo. A splinter of wood was lodged deep in his cheek. It stung like crazy, made his eyes water. He hardly slowed enough to pluck it out. His trousers were sticking to his skin, damp and heavy with blood. If he didn’t stop soon, he might pass out.
After what seemed like ages, but was barely ten minutes, he paused behind a large tree with exposed roots.
Underneath the roots was a hole just large enough to contain one person, doubled over. Jackson scanned the undergrowth, and then climbed under the roots, pulling a pile of loose twigs and leaves over the entrance.
Seconds later, the assassin thundered past his hiding place. Jackson stilled every muscle. Inside his head, blood flowed as loud as a waterfall. It didn’t seem possible that no-else could hear it. Any minute now, he’d be found. The assassin would catch him, and this time there’d be no element of surprise. Only a slightly delayed, professional execution.
His entire body was concealed by the tree. Under cover of darkness, with any luck, he’d be impossible to find, without search equipment.
Jackson remained there, unmoving. Time passed, perhaps an hour. There was no more sign of the assassin. At least, not yet.
Silver Beetle
Night fell; Jackson stayed put. There was no sense in moving, not until he had a plan. The assassins must know he was still somewhere on the pyramid hill. They’d be watching the exit points. He had nowhere to go. The Institute was obviously being monitored. The airport was crawling with customs agents.
He made a mental checklist of all the items still in his possession. His cell phone was intact, but was almost out of power. Jackson knew his device well enough to realize that there could be no chance of risking the GPS location app. A couple of minutes of that would gobble whatever was left in the battery.
His passport and wallet were in his jeans back pockets. His house keys were in the pocket of his jacket. To Jackson, his data was everything; phone numbers, credit card numbers, PINs, he couldn’t feel comfortable without any of these. So really, he figured with a certain amount of optimism, he was almost as good as new. Except for a raw, bloody, gash in his left thigh.
The wound would be a problem. Blood had soaked the lower part of his trouser leg. He examined the laceration by the light of his cell phone. The broken branch had inflicted damage deep enough that blood loss could become a serious concern. He pulled off his jacket, tore the left sleeve away from the shoulder of his shirt and used the fabric as a makeshift bandage. He grimaced and pulled it as tight as he could bear. In movies, tough guys stitched themselves up with their own needle and thread.
Jackson couldn’t help wondering if he’d be capable of that. He doubted it. For one thing, he’d never learned to sew. The wound would have to be repaired, somehow. A hospital would ask for his insurance papers. It seemed too much to hope that the Mexican Customs officials wouldn’t be tracking him through all the databases. Would an insurance claim trigger a response?
Then it struck him. His entire hypothesis had been wrong. Had he totally lost his mind?
The guy who’d tried to kill Jackson was obviously not Simon Reyes. Yet he’d had been dressed in the clothes Simon had described. This could only mean one thing: their conversation had been overheard. Jackson’s guess was that Beltran’s lab phone was bugged.
Bugging phone lines sounded like government behavior. Murdering an innocent graduate student and using his clothes as a disguise for a second assassination – that was surely going too far. Jackson liked to think he was suitably suspicious about the government, but even he balked at something like this.
Either the government had some real evidence to link Beltran with something like bio-terrorism and Jackson himself had been lied to by PJ – or else the guys that were after Beltran and Jackson had nothing to do with the government.
As for poor Simon Reyes, Jackson guessed that the outcome had been pretty bleak.
“Damn, PJ,” he muttered. “What the hell have you gotten me into?”
There could no longer be any doubt; Beltran’s cryptic message, his warning, the appearance of the test-tube in Jackson’s pocket: Beltran was trying to lead him along a path of discovery. Now that he’d had time to get his bearings, the next step seemed inevitable; the telephone number taped to the test-tube.
Jackson typed the number into his cell phone and waited. The line rang three times.
“Bueno?” A woman answered; she sounded tired.
In faltering Spanish, he mumbled, “Uh. . . You don’t know me. Sorry. Pedro Juan Beltran gave me this number and ah. . . ” He stopped, already out of his depth in the language.
There was a brief silence, then, “You wanna try English?”
“English! You speak English, great! OK well, Miss, frankly I don’t know why, or who you are, but I know that PJ Beltran wanted me to call you.”
“Who’s speaking?”
“My name is Jackson Bennett. I’m a molecul
ar geneticist, I’m doing some research in collaboration with PJ Beltran. I’m here visiting from San Francisco; from UCSF. Earlier today, he gave me this number, in case I ran into trouble. Which is what happened. And I could sure use some help.”
Her silence was lengthy. Was it his imagination, or was this woman seething?
“OK, Jackson Bennett, molecular geneticist: If Pedro Juan told you to ask for help, then I’ll help. Just tell me this: where is he now?”
Jackson’s heart sank; he had dreaded this question, because what he had observed and been told, he somehow knew, did not match up with what had actually happened.
“Honestly, right now, I don’t know.” He ventured another question, this time in Spanish. “May I ask, with whom do I have the pleasure?”
He heard the reluctant smile in her voice. “Very nicely put, Mister Bennett. Or is it Doctor?”
“Almost, ma’am, almost.”
“You work with my cousin?”
“Ah. You’re PJ’s cousin.”
“Yes I am. Marie-Carmen Valencia Beltran. Pedro Juan is like a brother to me. And you?”
“Well, I’m no-one. I mean no one important. Just a messenger from a lab in UCSF. PJ is one of our most important collaborators. My boss asked me to bring him some stuff.”
“Stuff?”
“Genetic stuff. It’s kinda technical.”
“I’m an archaeologist. Not entirely unacquainted with the ways of you geneticists.”
“Subcloned DNA samples,” Jackson replied firmly. “Genes that Beltran and I were studying.”
“OK, all very intriguing. But you know what? It’s kind of late in the night for a girl like me to be talking genetics over the phone with a total stranger. So Jackson: long story short?”
“I’m going to owe you big time for this.” He took a deep breath. “I’m near Tepoztlan. In the woods. I’m lost. Someone just tried to kill me.”
“Sounds terrible,” Marie-Carmen said, clearly unimpressed. “And you’re calling me, why?”