by Peter Vegas
I got you a notebook that you’ll be able to fill with lots of new sketches, and a fancy new smartphone. It’s the latest model and has a super-long-life battery—two weeks, apparently. So keep it on, and I will be in touch as soon as I can.
Okay, I have to go now. I am organizing a trip to Switzerland myself. Not to opera school—ski camp. Why, you ask? Well, I love skiing, and it is one of the few places my father will agree to let me go without Bassem. You remember my very talkative minder, Bassem, don’t you? He hates the cold and Father feels I’m safe up a mountain. It will be nice not to have the big guy watching my every move.
Okay, I seriously have to stop writing now. My fingers are cramping up big-time. I’ll be in touch with more helpful instructions before you get to your hotel. The Orange Walk Excelsior is one of the oldest in town and the grandest. No expense spared for my friend. But I also thought there might be a chance it’s where your parents stayed. Maybe they left some clues. Why don’t you ask a few subtle questions?
But don’t blow your cover. Remember, YOU ARE NOT SAM FORCE.
Good luck, not–Sam Force. I wish I were there to help. I’ll be in touch soon.
xxx Mary Verulam
PS: Notice anything interesting in the name of the person who wrote the letter from the Shonestein Academy?
THE BELIZE NATIONAL
THURSDAY, JANUARY 14, 2010, ISSUE NO. 8279
STORM UNCOVERS SUB BURIED IN RIVERBANK
POLICEMAN FINDS WWII SUB BURIED IN RIVERBANK
A mystery, hidden in river mud for nearly seventy years, was uncovered recently. The discovery of the World War II submarine was announced by Felix Ramos, head of the Orange Walk Police Department, at a press conference yesterday. Officials say there are no records of the submarine in Belize in World War II, and they are mystified by the discovery. Superintendent Ramos said that a calendar found on board dates the sub’s arrival to 1942. Experts were also surprised by the location of the sub, saying it was incredible that the vessel made it so far up the New River. Superintendent Ramos said the submarine had been hidden in a small side stream near the ruins of Lamanai. Had it not been for the recent typhoon that washed away large sections of the riverbank, it would have remained undiscovered.
Lamanai
Located on the New River in Orange Walk District on 950 acres of archaeological reserve, Lamanai features more than a hundred minor structures and over a dozen major ones. Lamanai is known for being the longest continually occupied site in Mesoamerica.
The thriving crocodile population in the nearby New River Lagoon gave Lamanai its name. It means “submerged crocodile.”
Only about 5 percent of the site has been investigated, and much remains buried or covered by jungle and bush. However, archaeologists do know that structures were built on top of other structures, sometimes leaving masks and other ornamental features from the older buildings in odd places in the new buildings.
“Hey, Chester.”
Sam was still thinking about Mary’s letter. He kept his eyes out the window and tried to ignore the boy in the seat in front of him. He was a few years older than Sam, with a mop of curly red hair and a mouthful of braces that sparkled every time he opened his mouth, which was a lot.
The boy and his parents had boarded the same flight as Sam in Houston, the last stop before Belize, and they were talkers, one of Sam’s pet peeves on plane trips. Luckily for him, they had been seated a few rows in front, but he had still heard them tell the cabin crew and everyone around them that they were regular visitors to Belize. They loved the weather, the people, the scenery. In the two-hour flight, they covered every single thing that appealed to them about the country.
And lucky him, when they finally got to Belize, the family got on the same bus. He had kept his head down and stayed off their radar, till now.
“Chester, I’m talking to you.”
Sam looked up and pretended he had only just heard his name. First Mary had made him a wannabe opera singer; then she had called him Chester. He decided that next time she created a false identity for him, he would have more input into it.
“I saw your name on your passport back at the airport.” The red-haired boy beamed as if he deserved special recognition for his detective work. “We were ahead of you in the line.”
Sam remembered. The boy’s mother had greeted the customs officer like an old family friend, with a big hug and a sloppy kiss, but Sam got the impression the shocked man had never seen the woman before.
“Chester’s a funny name,” the boy said. Sam couldn’t disagree. “Have they got lots of Chesters in England?”
Sam had no idea, but making him from England was another thing he would be asking Mary about. Not that he minded. He was half English anyway, thanks to his father, but he had always had an American passport. Being English was just another thing to remember.
“Hello? I asked if there were a lot of Chesters in England.”
“A few, I guess.”
Sam’s reply set the boy off. His screeching laugh filled the bus, attracting everyone’s attention except his parents in the seat opposite, who, Sam decided, must have become immune to the excruciating noise.
“You got a real funny accent,” the boy finally squeezed out.
Sam thought this was odd because he hadn’t put on an accent. He’d thought about it, but decided it was too risky, and instead had just spoken politely. He figured he could tell people he’d lost his British accent after spending a year at a boarding school in . . . California. Somewhere as far from St. Albans as he could think of.
“Hey, Chester, you got Slayers of Mayhem in England?” the boy asked.
“What’s that?”
“Greatest band in the world.” The boy knelt on his seat facing Sam and pointed to his T-shirt. Splattered across the top in red were the words SLAYERS OF MAYHEM. Under this ominous banner were four shirtless men with long hair, tight purple pants, and dog collars. Sprawled across their feet was a tiger. Sam figured the purple pants were fireproof, because the tiger had flames coming out of its mouth.
“Oh,” Sam said thoughtfully. “Those Slayers of Mayhem.”
“You heard of them?”
Sam shook his head. “No. Sorry.”
The boy pulled a pair of earbuds out of his pocket. “You wanna listen?”
Sam almost gagged as he spotted a lump of earwax on one of them. “No thanks. I’m into opera,” he said politely.
The boy’s brow wrinkled with concentration. “I’ve never heard of them. They from England?”
Thankfully for Sam, the conversation came to an end as the boy’s parents began informing their son of their plans for that evening.
Sam sat back and gazed out the window, relieved to have the boy’s focus redirected. But as he listened to the family’s animated chatter, part of him felt jealous and sad. He imagined the conversations he would have had with his mom and dad on vacations, and at home. The kind of simple family moments that had been stolen from him when his parents disappeared.
The emotions got stronger, hanging over him like a dark cloud. Sam twisted in his seat to snap himself out of the mood. He focused on the view, scared of where his thoughts were taking him and angry he had let himself go down this path. For five years he had lived with the idea his parents were gone. Then in Egypt, he’d been given hope. He’d been told they were alive.
At first Sam had been overjoyed. Back in Boston, he had begun researching Belize and Lamanai. There was plenty to read; the Internet was great for that. But over the weeks, he had gotten bogged down and frustrated. Nothing he found offered any obvious links to his parents. Then Mary seemed to lose interest. As time passed, new questions arose for Sam and doubts began to grow. Five years with no word. How could that be possible? And why had the bearded man turned up in Boston to warn him away? Sam had come anyway. But after five long years, he was scared about what he would find.
Sam got out his notebook and started to draw. There was no point in thinking about what could
have been, or what might be. There was only now. He was here, and this was his best chance to find his parents.
The bus rolled down a two-lane highway, lined on each side by dense green forest. Every few miles, the green walls would drop away to reveal a small, dusty town or homes surrounded by fields of churned brown earth. The landscape was different from anything Sam had seen before. With his yearly trips to Cairo, Sam had begun to think of himself as a well-seasoned traveler, a man of the world, but sitting there he knew he had been fooling himself. Until now, his world was only Cairo and Boston.
When the red-haired boy finished his family conversation, he didn’t turn back to Sam. Instead, he inserted his earbuds and rocked his head rhythmically to what was surely the torturous sounds of the Slayers of Mayhem. Sam was relieved, but it meant he was left alone with his thoughts and doubts. He checked his phone for the hundredth time since he had gotten off the plane. Why hadn’t Mary gotten in touch? She would have known what time his flight got in.
The forest got thicker and crept closer to the road, blocking out the sun and plunging the bus into semidarkness. Sam stared at his blank phone screen in the gloom, willing it to light up. Then he returned to his notebook.
The phone was still blank when the bus arrived in Orange Walk. The parents of the red-haired boy wandered off, making a loud fuss about finding a taxi to take them to their motel. Sam got a map from a battered information stand and located the Orange Walk Excelsior. It was only three blocks away, and he decided the walk would do him good.
The town was smaller than Belize City, where his plane had landed, but he was relieved to see it wasn’t a village like the ones the bus had driven through. It would be easier to blend in. Assuming that a young, white schoolkid traveling alone could blend into a town in Central America.
Orange Walk was full of old, colonial-style buildings, mostly two or three stories high and painted in a variety of bright colors. The place had a tropical island feel, with dusty streets and trees dotted between buildings. It wasn’t hard to spot the Orange Walk Excelsior. The brown, seven-story box towered over the buildings around it.
Sam checked in, using his exchange-student cover story. An elderly lady with a tanned face and big white teeth that shone as if they had just been painted gave Sam a key to a room on the third floor and wished him a pleasant stay. Her English was so thickly accented, it was difficult for Sam to understand.
The room, like the hotel and the town, was tired, but it was clean. In the corner, the double bed had a bedspread with a crazy pattern of orange and yellow swirls that seemed to move when Sam stared at it. A battered wooden coffee table in the middle of the room was lined up between a faded brown couch and an old-school television the size of a refrigerator.
The pattern on the bedspread was so busy that Sam didn’t spot the envelope lying on it until he put his bag on the bed. Mr. Billington was scrawled on it in black pen. His undercover surname was Mary’s final joke. Sam wondered how St. Albans’s headmaster would feel about being used for a fake identity.
In the envelope was a note from the hotel manager informing him a secure fax from Yarm Ralmevu was waiting for him to access at reception. Mary had gotten in touch.
4
BATHROOM STOP
SECURE FAX To; Chester Billington
From; Yarm Ralmevu
Well done, Chester Billington.
If you are reading this, that means you rang the number and answered the security question—What is the anagram of Yarm Ralmevu? Mary Verulam, of course. But I know you spotted that little clue when you read my letter from the Shonestein Academy.
When I saw your hotel had a secure fax number, it was perfect. How cute that they still use fax machines in that part of the world. I’m still sorting out a new e-mail and phone number.
Now, to business. I have been trying to track down Superintendent Ramos, the policeman who found sub 518. It seems he left the Orange Walk Police Department soon after his discovery. I’ve had even less success tracking down the submarine.
So I’ve decided that the best place for you to start is the Orange Walk Police Department. I rang them pretending to be your teacher and explained you’re a big fan of World War II submarines and are keen to talk to anyone who might be able to help you track down sub 518. They are expecting you this afternoon at two p.m., Chester, so that should keep you busy. You might even be able to find out what happened to Superintendent Ramos.
I have also been monitoring your school e-mail account in case anything important pops up. We can’t have you accessing it, can we? Imagine if someone traced you to Belize. But I’m sure you already thought of that. :)
The night you left, I intercepted an e-mail from your uncle. I printed it and added it to this fax. I’ve rerouted his e-mails so that from now on they will come to the new mail account I set up on your phone—this is where you give me a round of applause. :)
Good luck at the police station. Remember your cover story. Talk soon.
xxx Yarm Ralmevu
From: Jasper Force [email protected]
Date: Friday, Sep 18, 2015
To: Sam Force [email protected]
My Sam,
How are you, dear boy? I must apologize for my lack of correspondence. Since you saved my life in the desert, an act for which I will be eternally grateful, I have had quite the time with the legal system here in Cairo. The case to clear my name of the money-laundering charges with my employer, the EEF, is moving at glacial speed, and I fear it may take many more months. In the meantime, I have been forbidden to leave. Guilty till proven innocent, it would seem. Sadly, dear boy, this is an unwanted distraction at a time when my thoughts, like yours, I am sure, are more concerned with your parents.
Our adventures inside the iron tomb of the Panehesy uncovered more than the possibility that your parents are alive, Sam. The knowledge that the Ark of the Covenant was designed to fit inside the sarcophagus of the Great Pyramid in Giza, and that there were once many Arks in pyramids around the world, is information some have killed for. Those same forces are behind the false charges I face here in Cairo. This should be a warning to you, Sam, that you must be careful.
Your parents and this conspiracy are irrevocably linked, but please be patient, my boy. I promise you that as soon as I extricate myself from my legal problems I will devote my full energies to solving the mystery of your parents’ disappearance.
You asked me if I could recall the details of the last piece of correspondence I received from them. The answer is yes. Your mother penned the letter, she spoke of pirates and buried treasure; she used the phrase “X marks the spot,” I remember. All of this made perfect sense to me as I was under the impression they were in the Caribbean, the heart of pirate country, so to speak. How these details fit in with what we know now, I am unsure. But as I said, Sam, as soon as I am able I will begin to unravel this mystery.
I can imagine how difficult it must be for you, stuck at your school in Boston. I am sure, like mine, your thoughts often drift to Belize.
It is an intriguing country, Sam. From the research I have done, I can see why your parents believed that by following the lost Ark there they would learn more about the link between the pyramids around the world. Belize is full of them. They are mostly credited to the Maya, a civilization that flourished for hundreds of years in central South America from 1800 BC. The Maya are famous for their obsession with time and their long count, which ended in 2012. What you may not be aware of was that the pyramid building and the long count were in fact inherited from an even older civilization that predated the Maya, called the Olmec. All intriguing stuff, I think you’ll agree. Rest assured I will be doing more research into the Maya and Olmec, because I am sure it will help us understand what happened to your parents.
I will not let this rest, Sam. On that, you can be sure. But for now I ask you to bear with me and let me know if there is anything I can do for you.
xxx Jasper
PS: Here is a picture of the Mayan c
alendar. Is it just me or does this design appear to show a circle of pyramids? One might say a network.
Chester Billington, Chester Billington, Chester Billington. Sam sat in the waiting room repeating the name in his head. On the walk to the police station, Sam had reflected on his latest correspondence from Mary and his uncle. For weeks he had been thinking about getting to Belize. But not alone. He’d always figured Jasper would accompany him. And Mary. She’d never actually said it, but Sam assumed her promise to help meant she would be coming with him. Sam knew he had to get over it. He was on his own; he had to start thinking for himself. That’s why he was so angry with what happened when he entered the police station.
He’d walked up to the woman behind the plastic window at the front desk and introduced himself as Sam Force. It didn’t even sink in what a grave mistake he’d just made.
The woman, who spoke English, had looked at her computer screen and then questioned Sam. Yes, he’d assured her, he was there to see someone about the old submarine.
There was a flicker of understanding in the woman’s eyes, and she checked the screen again. That was when it hit him. “Sorry. Not Sam. My name is Chester. Chester Billington. I’m, um, reading a book, and the author’s name is Sam Force.”
The excuse was so flimsy he was sure she’d seen through it.
If the woman seemed surprised by the schoolboy who had got his own name wrong, she didn’t show it. Sam watched her pick up a phone. As she dialed, she nodded for him to take a seat.