by M. G. Harris
He’s irritated. “Not extraterrestrial, Josh. Itzamna was human, we know that. He had human children. You are one of his descendents.”
“Maybe humans came from space. You know, originally?”
“Don’t you learn anything in school? Humans evolved on Earth. That’s proven, completely.”
Deflated, I say, “Oh.” Then, “So what is the Bracelet?”
“We don’t know its function. Another thing we hope to learn from the Ix Codex. Each of the four books of Itzamna details a different kind of technology. We’ve learned much from the three we already have. Over two hundred of our engineers and scientists are working right now trying to figure them out.”
“I thought they were decoded in the nineteenth century. What’s taken so long?”
“Let me ask you this: if Isaac Newton had come across a modern manual of schematics for building a nuclear power plant, would he have known how to use it?”
“I guess not. The world didn’t understand physics in the same way back then.”
“There’s your answer. In the nineteenth century our scholars learned how to read the Books of Itzamna. Understanding what they meant – we had to wait for Einstein’s help there.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes – 1905 and the Theory of Special Relativity. None of those books made any sense to us. Until we read Einstein. Then we could understand the Kan Codex. As scientific knowledge advanced, we gained sudden understanding of the contents of the books.”
“But that doesn’t help with the Bracelet of Itzamna?”
“No.”
“Where did he get it?”
“That’s just it,” says Montoyo. “I can only think that either Blanco Vigores gave it to him – or else he stole it from Vigores.”
“My dad went down to the Garden with Vigores?”
“Just like you.”
“Vigores and I, we just talked. I didn’t see any chambers of Itzamna. I didn’t see any artefacts.”
“All the same. I think Vigores and your father were involved in something. I think maybe it went wrong.”
My coffee’s finished now. I stand, pull off the woollen poncho and replace it on the hanger.
“So this Bracelet of Itzamna – it’s important?”
Montoyo stands up too. “I have no clue what it does. But I doubt that it’s just a piece of jewellery. Blanco Vigores is a somewhat eccentric old man. All the same, I’ve never known him do anything without good reason. If he gave the Bracelet to your father, it’s because he had a plan. I want to know what that plan was, what became of it.”
For a second or two I catch a whiff of Montoyo’s sheer determination, maybe even ambition to be in control. Seems that he doesn’t like it when he’s not at the centre of things.
“You want me to find this Bracelet?”
“Yes, Josh. That’s your very secret mission, for me alone.”
I nod. “OK. How?”
“As next-of-kin, sooner or later, they must return to you your father’s remains and any possessions they rescued from the wreckage. I simply ask that you look out for anything unusual.”
“You said my dad left here in a Muwan. Was he flying it himself?”
Montoyo nods. “Yes. It can be flown in a basic fashion with little training.”
“If it was captured, where would the Muwan be now?”
Montoyo laughs, apparently surprised. “Area 51, of course.”
“Area 51?! As in Roswell, that Area 51? You think they took my dad there?”
“At first.”
“And that’s where they strangled him?”
“That’s my guess.”
I sit down, brooding quietly. There’s no getting away from it – someone deliberately murdered my father. The Mayans may have sent him on a dangerous mission, but at least it was a mission even I could understand. Whoever killed him – they did it for their own purposes. They didn’t stop to think for a second what that would mean to Dad’s family.
I think about the weapons and technology that might now be put at my disposal. Deep inside me, anger squirms uneasily for the very first time.
“There’s no point in revenge,” Montoyo says, “if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Deliberately, I reply, “That’s up to me, isn’t it?”
“You will not even think about revenge! Like it or not, you are the heir of the Bakab Ix; you will carry out your duties; you will not allow personal vendettas to interfere!”
I just stand there, livid, returning his intense stare. “I do not have to live by your rules.”
“You think I care where you were born? You are a Bakab: it’s that simple. So, yes, you do have to live by our rules.” Montoyo grabs my arm, his fingers digging hard into the bicep. “Ignore your anger,” he implores. “Put aside your personal feelings. This agency: with them it’s not personal. OK? It’s their living. Until you have the same professional outlook, you are no match for them.”
It takes all my self-control not to struggle against him. I must know seven different ways to get out of a simple hold like this. Yet, somewhere along the line, Montoyo’s won my respect.
Still gripping my arm, he adds, “You want justice, yes? That’s beyond your control. What you can do is bring back the Ix Codex and maybe the Bracelet of Itzamna too. This must be your revenge. Understand?”
Cold fury envelops me. “Let go of me,” I tell him quietly.
“You’re not a member of the Executive yet, Josh. When you turn sixteen, take my place, then you make your own orders.”
Finally he lets me pull myself free. Without giving him another look, I storm into the bedroom, throw myself into the hammock.
“Get some sleep,” I hear him say, his voice tired and dull. “Tomorrow, Josh, you must take your first action as the Bakab we have awaited these past forty years.”
I wait for Montoyo to leave before I let myself fall asleep. Just like the night before, it takes me ages to get to sleep. The occasional shiver runs through me. My past, my future; it all brims with possibility.
When I wake up, the place is totally quiet, totally dark. I roll out of the hammock, pad around the apartment looking for signs of life. It’s deserted. I gravitate to the kitchen, open the fridge. I find some sliced cheese and ham, fold them inside two flour tortillas and warm them on the griddle.
It hits me then that I haven’t thought of Ollie and Tyler for ages . . . back when I tried to phone them, near the cenote. In fact, I haven’t thought of anything much, except what’s happening to me, and Ek Naab. I stare around the living room.
Can it really be so easy to step into another world, another life?
I’ve heard people say you can get used to anything. But it scares me how quickly I’m getting used to this. I don’t want to forget about everything else – I want to get this mission over with and get back to my life in Oxford.
Yet it’s hard not to forget. This is all so foreign and at the same time, eerily familiar. Part of the strangeness is the lack of ordinary things, like advertising posters and television and stuff. I’m sitting on the sofa, eating and wondering how the people of Ek Naab survive without television, when the front door opens. Benicio strolls in wearing a navy flightsuit. There’s no insignia, badge or anything. He might as well be a window cleaner for all his clothes tell.
Benicio doesn’t seem surprised to see that I’m awake, but he doesn’t look too pleased either. In fact, he’s got a face like thunder.
I take a guess. “Bet you’re fed up with babysitting me.”
“No,” he answers shortly. “It’s fine.”
But pretty obviously, it’s not. The sudden difference in Benicio really throws me.
I don’t really know any of these people.
I’m still wondering what to say when he breaks in, all business-like. “Have you made your decision yet?”
“Yes. Don’t see that I really have a choice.”
“Well, that sounds real committed,” he says with a hint of sarcasm.
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“I didn’t mean it like that. Well, maybe a bit. No, I’m in. I can do this.”
“Excellent,” he says without expression. What the heck is wrong with him? “Let’s go through your instructions again.”
“You know what I have to do?” I ask, a bit surprised that he’s in on it.
“I was part of the team that proposed and planned the mission,” he says, giving me a sharp look. “So let’s go over it again.”
I return my plate to the kitchen, hesitating on the way.
“Benicio. Is something wrong?”
He seems slightly irked. “No.”
I’ve never been much good at pressuring people to “open up”. Normally I’m only too pleased to ask once and then leave it at that. In this case, though, I’m too anxious.
“Sorry, mate, but I think there is.”
Now he looks really irritated. “There’s stuff going on in my life that’s . . . complex.”
“Uh huh?”
“Yeah,” he says. “And I prefer not to talk about it.”
“Have I done something?”
“You?” His show of surprise seems just a tad insincere.
“No. It concerns Ixchel, if you must know.”
“Pumas Girl?”
“I’m the one who helped her run away from home,” he admits. “Catching some flak for it now.”
“Why’d she go?”
“A difference of opinion.”
“She told me to say it was a ‘matter of principle’,” I say.
“You could say that,” he agreed.
“A row with her parents?”
He nods. “That’s one way to see it.”
“You’re not gonna tell me?”
“Not possible,” he says. “I’m sworn to secrecy in so many ways, you can’t believe it.”
“So you and me, we’re cool?”
Benicio shrugs. “Sure. Why wouldn’t we be?”
I pull what I hope is my most vacant expression. “No reason.”
Who knows whether he’s convinced or not. Either way, he doesn’t pursue it further. He joins me on the couch and draws the occasional table closer. My Mission: Impossible case – the aluminium briefcase from Chief Sky Mountain – sits on top of the table.
“First,” says Benicio, “the lock combination.”
We spend the next hour going over the details of the mission to find the codex. When I’m word perfect, Benicio escorts me across the city and back to the aircraft hangar.
I keep a tight grip on to the mission briefcase. There are things in there that they don’t want falling into the wrong hands. The responsibility of keeping all those secrets is beginning to weigh pretty heavily.
When we arrive, the place is lit up by giant arc lamps. A Mark I Muwan is being checked over by two jumpsuited engineers. From behind the Muwan, Chief Sky Mountain appears. He plants his hands on his hips and watches us approach, beaming widely. When we reach him, he puts a wide, heavy palm on each of our shoulders, gives us a proud smile.
“Josh, you are all prepared?”
I give a quick, hopefully competent-looking nod.
“That’s good.” He grins and tips his head slightly at the Muwan with pride. “You like our aircraft?”
I remember that I’m supposed to be seeing them for the first time. I widen my eyes, nod vigorously. “Yeah. Wow!”
“Any questions?”
Mentally I run quickly through Benicio’s instructions and the various gadgets in the case that he showed me how to use.
“Can I get the mobile phone out of the case?”
The pockets of my jeans are packed with the cash I salvaged from Camila’s backpack in the jungle two nights ago. My UK mobile phone is somewhere amongst the cash – but it doesn’t work right now. I figure that in an emergency, I’ll need one that does. The chief decides that for extra security, he’ll handcuff the case to me. I take out the little mobile phone and pocket it while he cuffs the case to my left wrist.
If I’d been expecting any grand ceremony – the big send-off – I’d have been disappointed. The chief and a few engineers loiter, watching as Benicio leads me to a Mark I Muwan, climbs a ladder and disappears inside the hawk’s head. He doesn’t invite me to follow, so I make to climb the ladder, glancing at the chief for confirmation. As his eyes meet mine, the chief appears to make a decision of some sort. He waves me to come back. Benicio is already strapping himself in as I climb back down.
“I talked to Montoyo this morning,” begins the chief. “You know about what?”
It’s obvious from his searching expression that he means business. I restrict myself to a short nod.
“So we’re agreed, yes? No revenge. You go to the museum in Jalapa, you break into the room with the wreckage fragments, find the codex if it’s there, bring it right back. OK? Just stick to your orders.”
Orders.
I nod again.
He pauses; I wait, itching to pull away, to join Benicio in a Muwan once again.
“You don’t know a lot about us yet. Then again, we don’t know a lot about you. But we do know this: you’re family. And there are some things you don’t do with family. You understand? You don’t cheat and lie to your family. That is something we do not forgive.”
He speaks casually, almost avuncular in his manner. But who does he think he’s kidding?
“Are you threatening me?”
The chief gives a mild shrug. “Just telling you how it is. If you’d grown up here, this wouldn’t be necessary. But frankly, I don’t know how you’ve been raised, or with what values. So I’m telling you the way things are with us.”
“I’m for my family. That’s how I’ve been raised. You needn’t worry.”
“Good.”
“But if I find the people who killed my dad, or my sister, I want my chance,” I add. “Today, tomorrow, next year; it’s all the same to me.”
We stare each other out until my eyes almost water. The chief nods slowly, considering. “If that’s so,” he eventually says, “better wait. See how you feel next year.”
I can’t imagine that it’s ever going to change. How could it? Dad and Camila – they’re never coming back.
And part of me can’t help wondering . . . will I?
It feels amazing to be back in a Muwan. The minute we lift out of the underground hangar, my spirits soar. The sun hasn’t risen yet; there’s a pinkish sky. I’m hoping that Benicio will fly back over the ruins of Becan, but he takes some other route, flying straight towards the sea, which fills our field of vision quite suddenly: immense, flat, grey.
Finally I see a proper chance to check in with my mates. I’m desperate to know what’s happened to them. “Is there any way we can drop by Hotel Delfin?”
Benicio sounds doubtful. “It’s kinda risky.”
“I need to know. Please. It’s really important. I can’t relax until I know if they’re OK.”
“We don’t need you relaxed. We need you focused.”
But I’m adamant. “Relaxed, focused. Whatever you want to call it.”
I can hear him sighing. “I can’t get anywhere near Chetumal. We’ll be noticed.”
“There has to be a secluded spot somewhere. Maybe up the beach?”
My watch says 5.30 a.m. The beaches will be deserted.
“OK,” he says after a long pause. “About a mile north. There’s a place I know, trees on both sides of the inlet. I’ll drop you and wait an hour. You walk to Chetumal, make a call from a payphone in the doughnut place across the road from the Delfin. Whatever they tell you, you don’t go into the hotel. If you speak to your friends, you tell them to walk out, to meet you in the pizza place next door. Got that? Not the doughnut place. You watch to check that they come alone. If not, you wait until they leave. If they come alone, you follow them into the pizza shop. Take a few minutes with them – no more than five. Tell them you’re safe, you’ll be back soon, not to follow you. Not to follow you! But if you hear that your friends are still with the
NRO guys, you hang up. Right away. And you come back to the Muwan. If you don’t return in one hour, I’ll raise the alarm. Believe me, you don’t come back in one hour, the chief will give me hell. And then I’ll hand it over to you.”
Benicio makes me repeat his instructions back to him three times. When he’s convinced I know them, he takes the Muwan down. As we drop through the clouds, the sea sweeps into view, rapidly filling our entire field of vision. I see the landing spot that Benicio’s aiming for – it’s a small cove surrounded by trees.
He lands the craft with a rapid vertical descent that reminds me the Tower of Terror ride at Disney Studios in Orlando. It’s just fast enough to be thrilling, but I don’t quite lose my stomach. Which is what I think he may have been hoping for, judging by the mischievous look Benicio flashes me as he leans over his seat once we’ve landed.
“This plane . . . seriously, it’s incredible.”
“You think this is good,” he remarks, removing his headset, “you wanna see the Mark II.”
Three rungs spring from the body of the craft just under the cockpit. They’re enough to bring me within jumping distance of the sandy beach. The metal briefcase swings down, dealing me a slap to the thigh.
Benicio waves as I start a slow jog back towards Chetumal’s main beach. I don’t even hear the Muwan take off, but I do hear it humming as it flies overhead. The sound seems vaguely familiar – like a cloud of swarming honeybees.
I check my watch: 5.40. As I round the outline of palm trees on the beach, Chetumal comes into view. It’s further than I’d guessed. Time to pick up some speed. The briefcase doesn’t help. Before long I’m cursing the irritating way the handcuff cuts into my wrist.
It’s 5.51 as I cross the seafront boulevard and stroll down Chetumal’s main road. Hotel Delfin is about a hundred metres away; the pizza and doughnut places slightly further.
Three minutes later I’m calling from the doughnut place. The first batch of doughnuts is just being dropped on to cinnamon sugar – an unbelievably delicious smell. In a corner there’s a slot machine and a payphone to entertain customers while they wait. The reception desk at Hotel Delfin takes their sweet time answering the phone. It’s Paco. Yes, of course he remembers me. They hadn’t given the game away to the gringos, no way. The hotel’s owner wouldn’t hear of it – the Professor was one heck of a guy. Lying to the gringos to protect the Professor’s son? Paco considered it a privilege.