by M. G. Harris
“A telephone that rings, but who’s to answer?
Oh, how the ghost of you clings.
These foolish things remind me of you.”
My finger hovered above the call button. After everything I've seen, I couldn’t help wondering: is it possible that there’s somewhere in the universe where Camila’s number will ring, somewhere it might be heard?
Thank you for reading INVISIBLE CITY (The Joshua Files #1)
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Josh’s Guide to Pronunciation
In my everyday life I have to speak three different languages – English, Spanish and even a little Portuguese (for my Brazilian martial arts class). Added to that, I sometimes have to use words from the home-grown Mexican languages like Mayan and Aztec. So here’s a guide to how to say some of these words. Out loud, I mean. In case you ever need to.
A Guide to the Guide
There is no oh sound in Spanish. No tac-oh, no Catemac-oh. It’s a shorter o, like in hot or cot.
In Spanish, the emphasis is usually on the second-to-last syllable (e.g., Benicio is Ben-EES-yo).
In Spanish, words starting with v have a sort of soft b sound. Not a hard popping b like you’d have in bicycle . . . try for something between a b and a v (e.g., Vigores is Bee-GOR-rez).
The x sound in Mexican words is often (but not always) soft, like sh.
I’m going to bundle all the Mexican-origin words, like Mayan or Aztec words, and call them all “Mexican”. So there.
Atanzahab Atans-ah-hab Mexican
Au malandrau Or-malan-draw Portuguese
Agaltepec Agal-teh-pec Mexican
Bakab Bak-ahb Mexican
Becan Beh-can Mexican
Benicio Ben-ees-yo Spanish
Brujos Broo-hos Spanish
Calakmul Calak-mool Mexican
Cancuen Can-cwen Mexican
Capoeira Capoo-wera Portuguese
Catemaco Cateh-mah-cor Spanish
Cauac Ca-wac Mexican
Ceiba Say-bah Spanish
Cenote Seh-not-eh Mexican
Chaneque Chan-eh-kweh Mexican
Chechan Naab Cheh-chan-nahb Mexican
Chetumal Chetoo-mal Mexican
Chiapas Chee-apas Mexican
Cocorinha Cor-cor-rinia Portuguese
Delfin Del-feen Spanish
Ek Naab Ek-nahb Mexican
Ginga Jeen-gah Portuguese
Indigeno Indee-heno Spanish
Itzamna Eets-am-nah Mexican
Ix Eesh Mexican
Ixchel Eesh-el Mexican
Jalapa Hal-ah-pa Spanish
Jarocho Ha-roh-cho Spanish
Mayan My-ann Mexican
Muluc Mool-ook Mexican
Muwan Moo-ann Mexican
Nopales Nor-pal-ez Mexican
Orizaba Oree-sah-ba Spanish
Tapachula Tapa-choola Spanish
Tikal Tee-kahl Spanish
Tulum Tool-oom Mexican
Tuxtla Toox-lah Mexican
Queixada Kay-shada Portuguese
Valladolid Bay-add-ol-eed Spanish
Veracruz Beh-rah-crooz Spanish
Vigores Beeg-or-ez Spanish
Xibalba be Shee-bahl-bah beh Mexican
Yucatan Yoo-cat-an Mexican
Yuknoom ch’een Yook-noom ch’-ehn Mexican
Acknowledgements
To all the authors who’ve ever inspired me; to James, Lucy and Celia Catchpole for encouragement and reading early drafts; to my husband, David, for taking care of everything when I broke my leg and expressing such passion for my writing; to my daughter, Josie, for making an exception to her rule of not reading adventure stories and giving me so much great feedback; to my gifted editor Elv Moody at Scholastic for her enthusiasm and razor-sharp ability to improve the manuscript; to Georgia, Alyx, Jessica and Elaine at Scholastic for their excitement and support for Joshua; to my inspirational and brilliant agent, Peter Cox, without whom, quite simply, this book would never have happened; to all of you, eternally, THANK YOU!
First published in the UK by Scholastic Ltd., 2008
This electronic edition published in 2014 by Darkwater Books
An imprint of Harris Oxford Limited.
41 Cornmarket Street, Oxford, OX1 3HA
Text copyright © M. G. Harris, 2008
The right of M. G. Harris to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her.
eISBN 978-1-909072-04-6
A CIP catalogue record for this work is available from the British Library.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic, mechanical or otherwise, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express prior written permission of Harris Oxford Limited.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Gareth Stranks
www.themgharris.com
Contents
Beginning
BLOG ENTRY: BLUE IN GREEN
BLOG ENTRY: DEAR MUM
BLOG ENTRY: PLAN A
BLOG ENTRY: MOONLIGHT IN VERMONT
BLOG ENTRY: STUCK WITH ME
BLOG ENTRY: EK NAAB . . . SO WEIRD.
BLOG ENTRY: GRAN CAFÉ DEL PORTAL
BLOG ENTRY: WAITING
BLOG ENTRY: SMOOTH JAZZ AT 14,000 FT
Acknowledgements
Ice Shock Copyright Page
About MG Harris
The Descendant Alternate Reality Game
The Joshua Files on the Internet
Praise for The Joshua Files
In memory of my aunty Jose, who told me to go to Veracruz
Time is a river which sweeps me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger which destroys me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire which consumes me, but I am the fire.
Jorge Luis Borges
‘Ek Naab’ Map design by Megan Evans from Birmingham, winner of the Joshua Files “Design a Map” competition
Paragliding daredevil steals ancient Sumerian artefact
Paragliders enjoying the views from Mount Lebanon near Beirut were the first to spot the lone American who launched his flight from behind the mountain’s cedar trees.
Under an electric blue canopy, the thief with a taste for a daredevil stunt rode the air currents until he reached the luxurious villa owned by successful banker Abdul-Quddus Al-Thani, 52.
Under the nose of Souraya, 32, the wife of Abdul-Quddus, as well as six armed security guards, the paragliding madman swept over the high perimeter walls of the property, cut himself free of the canopy and landed in the azure waters of the villa’s 20m swimming pool.
The reckless bandit then held the terrified wife of Abdul-Quddus at gunpoint with a Beretta 92F pistol and forced her to pour him a glass of her husband’s liquor, before helping himself to the wealthy banker’s most prized possession – an ancient Mesopotamian artefact rumoured to be protected with a magical – and deadly – curse.
A curse to which the robber seemed strangely immune…
“Once he had the artefact in his hand, no one dared to go near him,” Souraya told our reporter. “When the piece was originally brought here, our houseboy died. He got too close to it. Everyone in my household was terrified of the artefact. That’s why we kept it behind glass.”
However, Abdul-Quddus’s wife refused to comment on claims that the object was originally stolen from the Baghdad National
Museum during the Iraq War, later purchased by her husband as part of a collection of relics from the ancient Sumerian city of Eridu, near modern-day Abu Shahrain in Iraq.
The theft was captured on closed-circuit TV cameras around Abdul-Quddus’s villa. The daring thief made his getaway on a vintage Ducati motorbike stolen from Abdul-Quddus’s own collection.
Although the ruthless outlaw wore a helmet throughout, the image proved enough to identify him as Simon Madison, a suspected terrorist known to be wanted by both the FBI and CIA.
The sound of humming gives it away. I’m wide awake within seconds, listening to a sound that I haven’t heard for months: the unforgettable sound of a UFO. This time it’s hovering above my house. By the time I pull on a sweater and some jeans, the sound has gone. I’m left waiting.
Minutes later, there’s the roar of a motorbike riding up my street on a chilly December morning. I lean out of my window to see the outline of a guy in a leather jacket zoom up to my front door riding a Harley Davidson. I peer at him through the early-morning gloom.
“All right, Benicio?” I mutter as casually as I can. But inside I’m fizzing with anticipation.
Benicio here, in Oxford!
The sound of my voice is swallowed by the damp air. My second cousin Benicio pulls off his helmet, shakes his hair free of his eyes. He peers back at me.
“Yes, thanks, Josh, I’m all right.”
We stare at each other for a second.
“You gonna come down, then?”
“You’re not coming in?”
“I thought we agreed. Safer to go somewhere away from your house. So get a jacket, cos it’s really cold!”
I can hardly remember what I’d agreed. I mean, when you get a call at two in the morning on a strange-looking mobile phone that you’ve never heard ring before . . . a phone you thought you’d switched off. . . Well, you’re not in the most focused state of mind.
Mainly, you’re excited.
A call like that comes in and it shakes everything up – in a good way. In a great way. I needed to be woken up like that. Feel like I’ve been asleep for months.
Josh, there’s something I need to tell you, to show you. Some important news from Ek Naab. And . . . I’m gonna come in person.
Good old Benicio – I can always count on him.
Only a few minutes later I’m squeezing my head into Benicio’s spare helmet, wrapping a scarf around my neck (it really is freezing), closing the front door softly and joining Benicio on the back of that Harley.
We zip down our little suburban Oxford street and head out towards the main event – Sunnymead Meadow – where Benicio’s hidden the Muwan aircraft that flew him from Ek Naab in Mexico to Oxford.
“I’ve always wanted to see Oxford,” Benicio tells me, his words muffled against the visor.
Well, me too. I’ve always wanted to see Oxford – from the air.
The bike speeds across the short river-bridge near the meadow; then we’re riding over slippery grass in the meadow. I stop for a second, admiring the “UFO”. Because deep within the wisps of low cloud, that’s exactly what it looks like – a humming object covered in blue and orange flashing lights. Nothing like any airplane I’ve ever seen.
“How did you land here without anyone noticing?” I ask Benicio as we slide off the motorbike. With a remote control, he opens a panel in the belly of the Muwan. It’s parked behind some low, scrappy trees. “We’re right next to the ring road!”
Grinning, Benicio pushes the bike into the Muwan and closes the panel. The Oxford ring road is less than fifteen metres away, on the other side of a row of trees and hedge. Even at this early hour it’s so noisy that I need to raise my voice to be heard.
“Maybe someone saw me. But UFO sightings are so boring now – most people won’t bother to report them.” He opens the main body of the plane. “Anyway, Josh, I’m not gonna make a habit of this.”
“So why are you here?”
Benicio shrugs. For a second or two, he tries to look serious. “Get in. We need to have a talk.”
He takes the Muwan up almost vertically. In just over two seconds we’re above the low clouds. I’m in a seat behind Benicio in the Mark II Muwan; in Mayan it means sparrow-hawk.
I can’t think of it as “Mayan” technology. The people of Ek Naab may be descendents of a hidden tribe of the ancient Maya, but their technology comes from somewhere and someone else. When I was in Ek Naab they didn’t tell me from where or who. Could it be they don’t even know?
The Muwan has room for one pilot and two seats in the rear. The cockpit window covers the pilot’s seat and extends just over the passenger seats, so I can see up as well as ahead. The glass – if it is glass – is tinted a sort of pinky-gold colour. Or maybe that’s a reflection of the Oxford dawn sky? As I watch the cloud layer through the window, it’s as though the tint actually changes colour, cycling through pinkish-gold to silver-grey.
“Where do I go for a good view of these ‘dreaming spires’?” Benicio says.
I remember my dad once driving me up a hill near a golf course, where he showed me the famous view of the spires of Oxford. “Hinksey Hill,” I say.
A few seconds later we drop below the clouds, swoop over the golf course and land in a quiet spot. Benicio gazes at the view before us. The lowlands near the city are waterlogged from recent rain, settled over by thick white mist. The spires seem to rise from the centre of a magical island surrounded by clouds. I can’t remember seeing Oxford look so beautiful.
“Wow,” Benicio murmurs. “That’s something.”
I unbuckle and lean forward, touching the edge of his seat. “Yeah . . . Oxford’s pretty cool.”
He takes a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket. “It’s from Carlos. For you.”
I start to unfurl it. “A letter?”
It’s not a letter but a newspaper cutting. Still crisp and new – from a recent edition of a newspaper called The Lebanon Reporter. I scan it. At first I don’t get why Benicio’s given it to me. Until I read the end.
“Simon Madison. . .?”
“Carlos is watching every news source in the world. Waiting for any mention of Simon Madison. He made us buy some incredibly expensive software to analyse news – the kind the intelligence services use.”
Well, that sounds like the Carlos Montoyo I remember. Totally single-minded – I reckon he’d do anything to protect Ek Naab from being found. And if there’s one guy who ever got close to discovering the secret entrance to Ek Naab, it’s Simon Madison. The newspaper report makes out that Madison is a suspected terrorist. But until some US secret agents from the National Reconnaissance Office – the NRO – told me the same thing, well . . . I honestly thought Madison worked for them.
“So Madison’s back,” I say to Benicio. “And what’s this artefact he’s taken?”
“No clue,” Benicio says. “Montoyo wanted you to know that he’s on the move. Madison was in Beirut – but he could easily return to Oxford. He broke into your house once . . . so take care.”
“We’ve changed all the locks since then,” I say. “And we have a really high-tech alarm.”
“Just keep your eyes open,” Benicio says. “OK?”
I nod, glancing at the newspaper article again. “Gotcha.”
“And, Josh. . .” Benicio sounds a little embarrassed. “There’s something else.”
“Yeah?”
“Your blog . . . it’s gonna have to stop.”
“My blog?”
“Montoyo found your so-called secret blog. The one you’d been keeping since you supposedly closed it down.”
My mind goes immediately to my last blog post, just a few days ago. Probably the most personal post I’ve ever written. I begin to turn red. Luckily Benicio isn’t looking at me.
“Montoyo found it with this amazing new Web-searching program he bought. If he found it, Josh. . .”
“I get it. If Montoyo found it, then so might the NRO. So might Madison.”
&nb
sp; And whoever Madison really works for.
I sigh, resigned.
“So I can tell Carlos that you’ll delete it?”
I sigh again. “All right.”
Benicio becomes brisk. “Excelente! OK, good. Now – is there someplace I can take you?”
“Take me?”
“In the Muwan. Do you need to go to school or something?”