THE MAYAN GLYPH

by Larry Baxter

  * * *

  Robert was startled at the transformation. Kiraly stumbled up to him, shoulders hunched forward and head downcast, wearing professorial rimless glasses, a linen shirt and baggy khaki pants tucked into tall cowboy boots. Kiraly squinted at him and coughed nervously. "Uh, perfect, uh, Doctor, get into the boat, please, sir, if you would."

  Over the noise of the outboard, Kiraly asked about the chances that the Colombians would be able to recognize them.

  "There's only one of them that's not in custody—I think his name is Lopez. He was in the cave the first time, and he would certainly recognize me. And somebody may have snuck out the back door the second time, but I'd guess not."

  "Let's hope Lopez is on siesta. Or back home being disciplined. This could be the boat," as the Zodiac approached a blue fishing boat and cut the motor.

  Pépé spotted him and said, happily, "Señor Drowned Man! Hola!"

  Kiraly caught the gunwale, held the boats together, and asked, "Are you Miguel?"

  Miguel said, "Buenos Dias. Hola, Dr. Asher, you are much more alive-looking than the last time."

  "Miguel, I owe you my life. If there is anything you want, please, just ask."

  "Graciàs, señor doctor, but it was nothing. Can we help you again? You do not look like you need a hospital this time."

  "We wonder if we could borrow your eyes and your car for a few hours," said Kiraly. "We need somebody that knows the area. We'll pay for your time."

  "Papa knows every blade of grass within twenty miles," said Pépé.

  "And I will use Ricardo's car," said Miguel. "But there is no need to pay for our time. Time is all we have. As you see, the fish here today are somewhere else."

  * * *

  Robert opened the telephone after the first ring. "Dr. Teppin?"

  "Yes. I spoke to my contact in the N.R.O. They did have a bird in the right orbit, or close enough, and there are not too many large groups of people traveling together at midnight, so the infrared satellite scan could track them easily. They followed the group south from Playa del Carmen on route 307 to a spot just south of Tulum. We lost them there, but picked them up an orbit later inland a few miles. There was no bird in position until four A.M., at which time we recorded infrared signatures of twenty-eight people in prone position, scattered over a hundred-yard area. I'll give you the GPS coordinates if you are ready to write them down."

  Robert recorded the coordinates and checked them with his handheld GPS. "Great, we're heading in the right direction. Ten miles south. Thanks, Dr. T., we'll call tomorrow and let you know how it worked out."

  "What's the N.R.O.?" asked Kiraly. "They sound useful."

  "They run imaging satellites for the U.S.," said Robert. "I did a job for them a couple of years ago when they were ultra secret. Now they're just fairly secret. Three thousand people work there, burning six billion a year; it's nice to get some use out of them. They can read your license plate from space, or get an infrared image right through your roof if they want to see what's happening in your bedroom."

  "Sinister."

  "Not the N.R.O., Washington thinks they're pretty amusing. Their first launch went a little off course and killed a cow in Cuba. Lately their success rate has been about the same as the Boston Red Sox. But they do sometimes get an imaging satellite into orbit."

  "So where are they camped?"

  "Just a few miles inland from 307."

  * * *

  "There!" said Miguel.

  It was unmistakable, a recent bruising of vegetation in a clearing near the west side of the road.

  "They did not take the straight line," said Miguel. "The jungle there is very thick, it would take a day with machetes. They would leave the road here and follow the path."

  "They must have some locals with them," said Kiraly.

  "Miguel, is there a place to camp, a few miles inland?" asked Kiraly. "Some protected area without much underbrush?"

  "Good place, five kilometers west, big trees, good shade, a small cliff and a cenote."

  "Thanks for everything, Miguel. Don't wait for us, we'll catch the bus back to town."

  "I go with you?"

  "Half way," said Kiraly. "Then it could get a little dangerous."

  * * *

  As Kiraly and Robert followed the trail through the bush, Robert asked, "Why the high boots? Expecting snakes?"

  "No, not snakes. The boots were custom made by a Belgian guy, they've got more firepower than most heavy weapons platoons."

  Robert looked at the boots. Well-worn dark leather, Western style, nothing unusual. "Pretty well hidden firepower. A knife?"

  "Yeah, several, and Semtex boot heels with one-second fuses, and a nice little no-handle airport-safe carbon composite and ceramic .30 cal automatic, and a telescoping blowgun with tranq darts. And a few other things. See, my feet are size eight, but the boots are size thirteen. Lots of storage space for the playthings. The boot heels? If I say 'down,' you have half a second to hit the dirt."

  "I see. Any other words of advice?"

  "Just be unthreatening. We're mild-mannered archaeologists."

  Ten minutes later, Kiraly motioned Robert to stop, then he grabbed Robert's arm, motioning for quiet, and pointed ahead. Robert looked through the thick vegetation for a minute and finally spotted a man in camouflage—face smeared with black and green paint—lounging ten feet up in the crook of a big tree, smoking a cigarette and scanning the area.

  Kiraly waited motionless for maybe ten minutes until the man's radio whispered. The man unclipped the radio and said, "Number three. Code nineteen," in a rough smoker's rasp.

  Kiraly pulled up on the leather loop at one boot heel to reveal a telescoping tube, half an inch in diameter. He extended the tube from six inches to two feet, removed the boot and felt inside the toe. His hand emerged with a small flat leather case that revealed half a dozen color-coded darts. He selected one, inserted it in the tube, motioned Robert to stay in place and slid noiselessly closer to the sentry.

  In a few feet he had disappeared into the low vegetation. The blowgun reappeared ten feet from the sentry, emerging from a broad-leafed plant, and made a whuff sound. The bright yellow dart appeared on the sentry's cheek. He looked annoyed, reached out a hand to brush off the dart, pulled it out instead and studied it carefully for a moment. Then he pulled the radio off his belt, brought it to his mouth, and fell out of the tree into a relaxed, quiet slumber in the ferns.

  Kiraly motioned Robert forward, checked the sentry's pockets, and clipped the radio to his own belt. Then he stowed his equipment back in his boot and moved forward again.

  In a few paces he stopped again, studying the vegetation carefully. He pointed to a bush with a broken twig and to a tree with a horizontal scrape in its bark. Then he picked a blade of grass, bent it in its center and gently released it in midair. It settled a few inches and remained suspended, a foot up, as if by magic. Robert looked more closely and saw the fine black wire.

  Kiraly and Robert stepped carefully over the wire and moved forward again.

  A voice came from the radio, 'Number one, check in," followed by "Sì, number one, code twenty-eight."

  "Number two, check in," was followed by "Sì, number two, code four."

  Robert and Kiraly looked at each other and shrugged.

  "Number three, check in."

  A few seconds passed.

  "Number three, Sanchez, put it back in your pants and pick up the damn radio."

  Kiraly grabbed the radio, covered the mouthpiece with the tail of his shirt and spoke in a decent imitation of the sentry's rasp. "Sì, number three, sorry, I heard a noise. I thought I had something, here. But it is just a wild pig. It is headed your way, if you can shoot it we will have a pork dinner."

  The man laughed. "Good, very good. Number four, check in. And keep your eyes open for a pig."

  Kiraly and Robert moved again, following the wide trail left by many booted feet, feeling exposed with the sun now high overhead. They skirted a gr
oup of canvas shelters near a small clearing, then backtracked when they heard Margo Sanford's voice coming from one: "Goddamn assholes, the whole pile of you creeps, gimme a goddamn break, go back to jail or wherever the hell else you came from. Warm goddamn water, just what we needed."

  A small man in dark clothing emerged from the tent and disappeared into the thick vegetation on the other side of the clearing. Kiraly waited a minute, then moved under the shelter with Robert close behind. Margo looked up in anger, then in relief. She opened her mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again. Leo lay nearby, looking a little dazed. Both had their hands tied around a small tree, but in front of them where they had a chance to drink from the plastic water bottles the man had left.

  Kiraly produced a knife and sliced through the ropes. Leo fell to the side, eyes open, and apparently conscious but unable to balance. Margo whispered, "They hit him pretty hard. We may have to carry him."

  Kiraly took one arm and Robert the other, and they half-carried Leo from the shelter. Emerging into the sunlight, they faced ten men carrying assault rifles, well spaced around the clearing. One stepped forward, a tall man who carried himself with the unmistakable confidence of authority.

  "Ah, we have more visitors," he said in passable English. "Good to see you. I am Ernesto Diaz."

  Diaz shifted his feet, leaning forward, his face a few inches from Robert's. "Why are you here?"

  "We're with the medical people looking for a cure for the virus," answered Robert. "We needed to gain access to the cave that you were using. You lost some inventory in the process, and we will pay you for this loss. We're not with the police, and we do not want to interfere with you or your business. The epidemic has killed thousands of people. You can help us stop it."

  Robert thought that Diaz was considering him seriously when Lopez entered the clearing carrying an automatic weapon. Robert's confidence dropped like a rock.

  "You fuck!" screamed Lopez. "Ernesto, that's the guy from the cave, the guy with the broad! He led 'em back! They killed our people!"

  Ernesto drew a pistol, his expression darkening. Robert didn't like the odds. They were grouped in a loose circle in front of the limestone cliff rising behind Diaz, near a camouflage canvas shelter. They had infiltrated through at least twenty troops to reach this command post, and half a dozen of the well-armed troops were now watching the conversation. Suddenly this seemed like a bad idea.

  Kiraly stood on the other side of the circle, shoulders slumped, apparently defeated, but Robert noticed his pale eyes missed nothing. But Kiraly was shadowed by a man with a body like a front end loader, as tall as Kiraly but twice as wide.

  Ernesto Diaz slammed the pistol barrel into the side of Robert's face, drawing blood. Damn, this again. So much for peace at any price.

  "Tie him up," screamed Ernesto. "Tie those two up again." A man tied Robert's hands together, swung the loose end of the rope over a tree branch, pulled it so tight that Robert was standing on his tiptoes and tied it off. No topological tricks possible here. Maybe those Semtex boot heels.

  "Diaz, damn it, you're really making a bad mistake. We're not your problem, the virus is your problem. Believe me. There's cases in the Yucatan. Haven't you seen it on television?"

  "Where's your girl friend? How many more with you?"

  "Just us," said Robert.

  "Just you creeps? Right. Ten men, safeties off, get out past the perimeter and see who you can flush. Three men, check the road, do not engage. Report back quickly. Me and Hector can handle these assholes. Hector, kill that one."

  Hector nodded and smiled happily and with no warning brought his left hand around into Kiraly's face. Kiraly appeared startled, gave a little scream and stumbled forwards, bending his head down into the blow and catching the force on the top of his shaved head. There was a crack like a breaking twig and Hector stepped back in surprise, puzzled, looking at his hand. Kiraly held his hands up apologetically, stepping back to the cliff face.

  Hector charged like an angry rhino and Kiraly put his hands in front of his face and stumbled back a step, tripped and fell heavily onto his back. Hector drew back a leg and swung it like a placekicker directly towards Kiraly's testicles. Kiraly seemed to draw back into a fetal position and somehow the kick was intercepted as his shin landed on Kiraly's outthrust boots. Robert could almost feel the pain himself as Hector drew back, grunting and rubbing his shin as Kiraly lurched back to his feet.

  Hector made a noise like a big truck in low gear and closed quickly on Kiraly, wrapped both big arms around his midsection, and squeezed.

  Kiraly looked at Robert over Hector's head and flicked a glance at Ernesto. What was he trying to say? Maybe his pistol. Robert tore his eyes away from the execution and saw Ernesto, grinning in anticipation, pistol dangling from his hand, but a little too far away for Robert to reach. The other troops had fanned out into the brush. Kiraly's expression changed from his look of fear into a happy smile as he slid both hands onto Hector's neck and worked his thumbs through the sheets of muscle. Robert understood; the carotid artery, Kiraly could go without breath for maybe two or three minutes but Hector's brain would not function without blood for more than a minute.

  Robert watched for what seemed an hour as Kiraly's expression again registered convincing distress, and he caught the first slackening of the huge man's muscles. But Ernesto was out of his range. Macho streak a mile wide, Kiraly had said. "Hey, big man," Robert said. "Do you always hide behind a gun and a gorilla?"

  Ernesto spun towards him, his face darkening, reversed the gun in his hand and took two steps closer. As he pulled back the gun to swing, Robert jackknifed back, then kicked forward to hook his right foot around Ernesto's neck. He pulled Ernesto towards him and slammed his left foot into his throat. Ernesto dropped the gun and spun down on hands and knees, out of range, shaking his head back and forth.

  Kiraly caught Hector's bulk as Hector lost consciousness. With Hector under an arm like a sack of potatoes, he ran towards Ernesto, now frantically searching the ground for the gun, and, using Hector as a battering ram, drove Ernesto into the rock wall. The men fell in a tangle. Kiraly stepped from the pile holding a knife and the gun, his jungle-cat fluidity regained. Again slipping off a boot, he dug out more of the yellow darts and inserted one into each exposed neck. Then he cut Robert's rope and freed Leo and Margo again and they retreated into the brush.

  Kiraly stopped them, listened for a minute, then picked up a few small stones and launched them well into the jungle on the other side of the clearing, and they heard a satisfying hue and cry converge on that spot.

  "Hey, Kiraly," said Robert, when they'd finally cleared the area. "Good job. Are we back to Plan B? Hope they can't find us?"

  "Yeah, and I'll hang out here and keep an eye on them."

  "Another thing. Why didn't you use the Semtex boot heels?"

  "Screws up walking. Didn't need 'em."

  * * *

  A television news truck from Mexico City was now parked in the back of the hotel near the equipment trailers and a newswoman and her cameraman were underfoot, either snooping for a catastrophe or eager to share in the breakthrough. In the next few hours, more news trucks arrived from CBS and ABC and a satellite antenna farm appeared in the brush. They were continually underfoot, but at least they took over cafeteria duty, with a significant improvement in quality. Robert, after initially answering requests for interviews, finally had to politely refuse, or he would get no work done.

  In the evening the stress of the situation carried over to the sleeping arrangements. Teresa kissed him softly on the lips after dinner and told him not to worry, but she could not bear to think of all those people dying. She worked until two or three o'clock in the morning, slept fitfully, and arose at six or seven. The translation effort had hit a wall. Some tree, some plant held the answer. But which one?

  Chapter 44

  * * *

  Austin, Texas, November 23, 2010

  A cold misty rain was falling on the r
ed mud and the remnants of last year's corn crop. The big round humidity gage was in the high nineties and the wind was twenty mph from the south, a lethal combination. The rain had been falling off and on for days, the humidity had been well into the danger zone, but the wind had been at zero until a few hours ago, giving the medics at least a chance of survival with the new masks

  A hundred miscellaneous vehicles were moving in the field—a slice of farmland that had escaped the urban sprawl, another failing link in the latest chain of quarantine and isolation which had broken under the relentless assault of the outbreak. The virus had overrun the isolation barrier somehow, maybe through the air, maybe through a human or animal carrier, and a dozen cases had been reported behind them.

  Dr. Gary Spender spoke into a bullhorn. The tension in his voice survived the distortion of the small speaker. "Leave it! Forget the equipment! Get out now, we'll pull back to Bull Creek. We're going to set up a new barrier zone. Don't forget to leave your radios on!"

  The biochemists who had been struggling with a portable generator let it go and walked quickly to the trucks. Dr. Mort Scheinfeld sat with the driver of the BL-3 trailer, in a truck cab intended for tandem eighteen-wheelers, complete with a microscopic bedroom in the back. The trailer carried their losses, as they called them. Twenty five of them in this vehicle alone, crowded in bunk beds but floating uncomplainingly on heavy doses of morphine. They were not dead yet, but most would be dead within a day or two. Scheinfeld's friend of twenty years, Al Giovanni, was among them, victimized by a second of inattention while mopping perspiration off his face. Giovanni was well into the disease's final days. Scheinfeld had finished with his grieving; the disease was heartless, it did not permit even a slender thread of hope.

  Dr. Spender moved towards their vehicle and Scheinfeld slid over to give him room. Spender hauled himself slowly onto the step, let out a long breath and sprawled, loose-limbed, on the seat. "Thanks, Mort. Helluva thing. Sorry about Al, I know you were friends. Did you talk to his family?"