by Adam Hiatt
Not having anything to declare or luggage, apart from Reddic’s backpack, they passed through unmolested. The marbled-floor main terminal was long and congested like any other major airport. An array of snack, souvenir, and magazine shops were ubiquitously located throughout the wide, naturally lit corridor. Dozens of restaurants, currency exchange stands, ATMs, tourist offices, and information booths bordered both sides of the terminal.
They made two stops before leaving the airport. The first was the Conaculta bookstore where Reddic bought a Mexico road atlas. The second was a small kiosk outside of security. There they purchased two pairs of wool slacks, two cotton button-down shirts (one green, one red), and two pairs of generic sneakers. Quickly changing in a restroom, they disposed of their old clothing and exited the airport on the west end, nearly a mile away from where their plane landed.
Outside on the sidewalk they approached a small Mexican man with a clipboard sitting on a stool underneath a canopy. The man energetically jumped up at the sight of the two potential customers and greeted them warmly.
“Buenos días, mis amigos. Lesconsigo un taxi?”
“Of course you can,” said Reddic in flawless Spanish.
The short attendant scribbled something on the clipboard and whistled loudly, motioning with his other arm. A compact yellow Nissan Sentra started its engine and pulled away from a long line of parked taxis, screeching to a halt at their feet. They hopped in and were met with a stern glare from the driver.
“A dónde van?” he asked gruffly. He was missing two teeth and his breath reeked of cheesy potato chips.
“Take us to the bus station,” replied Reddic.
“Which one? There are four in the city,” the driver retorted.
Reddic glanced at Jaxon. They assumed that there was only one major bus station in the city. An assumption that was clearly wrong. “There are four stations. Any idea which one,” he mumbled.
“The red arrow on Langford’s map pointed north,” Jaxon said, shrugging. “What do you think?”
Reddic considered the suggestion. “It could be intentional,” he said. “Let’s find out.” Addressing the driver, he shouted, “Is there a station in the northern part of the city?”
“Sí, señor. Es la más grande y ocupada.”
“Then take us there,” said Reddic.
The diminutive Sentra recklessly weaved in and out of traffic on the BOULEVARD RIO CONSULADO, throwing Reddic and Jaxon from side to side in the backseat. Bracing themselves for each turn, they attempted to absorb as much of the cityscape as possible. Surrounded by spectacular mountains, the city was a salient admixture of the old and new. The air was thinner, much thinner, and smoggy; a sensation they immediately felt upon arriving. It truly was a high mountain city—the scenic valley sat at over seven thousand feet in elevation.
The city was rich with history too. Jaxon tried to imagine what it must have looked like during the time of the Aztecs. The island city of Tenochtitlan, accessed only by causeways, was built in the middle of Lake Texcoco, a lake that has since desiccated and been built over several times. It was difficult for him to envision a city of greater splendor. He pictured the evolution of the city from the Spanish rule to the Mexican Empire to the days of the country’s inchoate independence. The history was compelling and complex. If only he had more time to act as a tourist.
In the distance on the left was the main plaza, what the local residents called the Zócalo. The largest cathedral in Mexico, exemplifying one hundred years of Spanish-era artistic expression, the Palácio Nacional, and ancient Aztec temple ruins overlooked it. All around were colorful Spanish and baroque buildings, contrasted nicely by magnificent hotels, modern businesses, and shopping districts.
On the other side of the boulevard the urban landscape significantly changed. Gone was the imaginative architecture and artistic influence. In its place were dense neighborhoods composed of tightly packed brown and gray stucco and cinderblock shacks. The baseness of Mexico’s society living in abject poverty, amounting to several million, inhabited these barrios. The sight of such privation pained the heart. It was difficult to look at. How any government could allow its people to live in such destitution was baffling.
The driver turned right onto EJE CENTRAL LÁZARO CÁRDENAS and pulled into the parking lot of a massive warehouse-type building that easily covered two blocks. Reddic paid the driver and gingerly stepped out of the vehicle, massaging the knots in his neck sustained from the violent ride.
“This must be it,” he said, noting the large number of buses coming and going.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you when you learned Spanish,” said Jaxon.
“I did go to class you know.”
Walking through the main entrance, the ticketing area was the first thing they saw. Florescent signs advertised the name of each bus company. The area was frenzied; hundreds of people bustled about shouting over one another trying to catch a peek of the departure time and destination board.
They moved forward into the heart of the terminal directly underneath a pyramidal skylight. They saw kiosks, waiting areas, and small fast-food restaurants scattered throughout the spacious building. An American couple rushed by arguing over which bus was theirs. The confusion was understandable. Over one hundred shoddy municipal buses and luxurious charter coaches were tightly packed along the curved perimeter waiting for passengers to board.
On the opposite side of the buses, built into the wall, were rows of compact security lockers measuring only one cubic foot each. During the flight Reddic conveyed to Jaxon that if Langford did leave a message then the best place to do so would be in a public locker. They approached them discreetly. Reddic surveyed the crowds, looking for anybody acting unnatural.
Jaxon heaved a sigh. “I didn’t think there would be so many,” he said. Neither did Reddic. The number of lockers appeared to be in the hundreds. The question was which one was Langford’s? They couldn’t simply break into each locker. Even in Mexico City, a city known for its high robbery rate, they would surely get arrested. And spending time in a Mexican jail cell was not a pleasant thought.
“Did your professor have any favorite numbers?” asked Reddic.
“No. He was not superstitious at all.” That wasn’t the response Reddic wanted to hear. “Wait!” exclaimed Jaxon. “I have an idea. What if the answer is on the map?”
“I’m not following.”
“The pins. Do you remember how many there were on the map?”
“Five white and four red,” Reddic said. He wondered where he was going with this.
“Right, nine pins. He could have put any number of pins on that map, but he didn’t, he put nine, and I believe he did for a reason.”
Reddic nodded pensively. The theory did have some Langford logic to it. The man clearly had a complex mind. Fortunately, Jaxon’s thought process operated in a similar, intricate manner.
Standing before locker 9, they saw that the key was missing, meaning that it was currently being utilized. Palming his makeshift tools, Reddic swept the crowds one more time before inserting the slim utensils into the lock to pick it. Twisting counterclockwise, the lock snapped back and the small door fell open.
The only object inside the grimy compartment was a plain white envelope addressed to Jaxon Smith. Reddic held it out for his brother to take. Snatching it away, Jaxon ripped open the seal and pulled out a single sheet of paper folded in thirds. He looked over it and identified the handwriting as Langford’s. He read the letter slowly.
Jaxon,
I did not want you to find this letter, for if you are reading it then I am probably already dead. Be that as it may, I apologize again for my recent aloofness. For the better part of two months I have been followed and watched. This was the only way I could effectively communicate with you without compromising your safety. I warn you against trusting Joseph Faulkner, Jaxon. That man is mendacious and his intentions are disingenuous. He was using me to find the Stone of Truth and will use you too. Y
ou must not allow him to find it.
The men with whom he associates are fanatical believers of the Eben Shetiyah. They are distinguished by a small mark on the right hand (the covenant hand) showing twelve dots surrounding one in the center. You may not be familiar with these people. Their origin dates back to the 19th century BC, to the time of Jacob’s wondrous journey from Beer-Sheba to Jerusalem where he supposedly followed his grandfather’s (Abraham) path to Mount Moriah to the exact place where his father (Isaac) gave of himself on an altar. It has been said that there Jacob built his own altar with twelve stones and supplicated the heavens for a sign.
According to the legend, the twelve stones were miraculously fused into one to become the foundation stone marking the center of the earth. The great Jewish temples of Palestine were constructed over this very spot, with the foundation stone being exposed only in the Holy of Holies. Moslems uphold a similar tradition, the difference being that Esau built the altar, not Jacob. The Dome of the Rock was purposely erected over the foundation stone to manifest Islam’s rightful claim to the Eben Shetiyah.
The legend states that without the Stone of Truth the foundation stone was of no value. When the two stones were united the ineffable name of God, allegedly engraved on the Stone of Truth, became visible. He who possessed this knowledge and knew how to wield it had power over nature, and over life and death.
Whether you or I lend credibility to the legend is irrelevant. The fact remains that there are people that do. And as we have seen throughout history, fanatics do not require anything more than a shallow belief to act foolishly.
You were my most gifted student, Jaxon. I do not wish this burden upon you, but we are out of options. You are the only one I can trust. Tell my family that I love them dearly and that my integrity and honor was not compromised.
Be Careful,
Dr. Langford
PS: UDLA, CIRIA, Terra Nostra
An uneasy feeling came over Jaxon as he finished reading the letter. The last update that he heard indicated that Langford was recovering in the hospital. The letter, however, made him think otherwise. Handing it to Reddic, he typed a number into his phone and dialed. After four rings a woman’s voice answered.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Renee, this is Jaxon Smith.”
“Hello Jaxon,” Renee responded soberly. “Where are you? You sound a long ways away.” She didn’t seem like her cheerful self, but how could she be with her husband lying in the hospital in a coma? The wait must be agonizing.
He had met Renee Langford a handful of times, mostly in social settings. His impression was that she was caring and thoughtful, and a terrific mother to her four children. Jaxon enjoyed her company greatly; she reminded him of his own mother.
“I’m off doing research as usual,” he said. “I apologize for calling so early. I wanted to hear how Dr. Langford was doing.” He thought he heard a whimper.
“You haven’t heard, Jaxon?” she said, fighting off tears.
“No, I’ve been out of town. What’s to hear?” His stomach felt upset anticipating her reply.
“He passed away Saturday afternoon in the hospital.” Grief struck her intonation. “He was doing so well, the doctors said.” She was sobbing now. “Then he just died.”
After ten seconds Jaxon managed a response. “I’m so sorry, Renee,” he said.
“Thank you, Jaxon.” Trying to compose herself, she sniffed and swallowed twice. “The funeral is next week. I would appreciate it if you attended. He spoke of you like you were his son, you know. If he’s looking on somewhere I think he would like you to be there.”
“I’ll be there. I promise.”
“Okay, thanks. I have to go. Stay well, Jaxon.” He lowered the phone and wiped away a tear on his left cheek.
“I will not let them get away with what they’ve done,” he said, anger pulsating in his tone.
Reddic rested a hand on his brother’s shoulder, trying to offer unspoken encouragement and support. Sadly, he knew that Hasaan wouldn’t have allowed Langford to live. There was no chance of that happening; he knew too much.
“Remember the E.S. from Hall’s office?” Reddic asked.
“Yes. Eben Shetiya, the foundation stone. I was thinking the same thing,” Jaxon said. “Dr. Hall obviously knew about it.”
As he peered out over his brother, Reddic’s gaze fell on a man holding a newspaper across the terminal, leaning against the wall. There was something about him that was off kilter. His clothes were noticeably foreign—short pants, sandals, yellow shirt—giving him the appearance of a tourist. Yet his skin color was tan, blending in with the natives. Sure the temperature was warm, but the Mexican working class seldom ever wore shorts to work. Plus, he looked too casual amongst the terminal’s turbulent commotion.
Reddic continued to scrutinize the stranger. The man looked up from the diario to steal a peek. His eyes met Reddic’s for a half a second before he pulled away. He casually folded the newspaper and stuck it under his arm. He checked his watch and briskly scooted off. Reddic followed him with is eyes for at least fifty yards.
“Come on,” he said. “We’ve got to go.”
Spinning around, Jaxon peered up and down the terminal. “Are they here?” he asked tensely.
“I don’t know, but I don’t want to take any chances.”
A small crowd of people getting off a rickety municipal bus rushed down the terminal in search of other gates. Hurrying to meet them, Reddic and Jaxon worked their way into the middle of the group. Slumping his head and shoulders, Reddic walked with a slouch so he wouldn’t tower over the shorter natives. As the pack of people passed by a small exit, he nudged Jaxon’s elbow and veered away toward the door.
Outside of the terminal they came upon the south end of the parking lot. “We need to find a car,” Jaxon said.
Reddic looked out over a few scattered vehicles. He walked over to an archaic green Volkswagen Bug and jerked on the driver’s side door. It didn’t budge; it was locked. Through the glass window a small dust accumulation was noticeable on the steering wheel; evidence that the car had not been driven for a few days. Moving to the front of the vehicle, Reddic opened the gas tank flap and examined the inside. There was a thin silver key taped to it. He wasn’t the least bit surprised to find it there. After all, it was a common place to hide a spare key, especially if the owner was out of town, where the likelihood of losing the original existed.
Ripping the adhesive, Reddic took the key with his thumb and finger and stuck it into the door. Wiggling it about, the lock finally popped loose. He yanked the door open and slid into the driver’s seat, pressed down on the clutch, and turned the ignition. When the Bug rumbled to life a dark cloud of vapor billowed out of the exhaust pipes. Jaxon tapped on the passenger’s window and pointed at the handle. Reaching across the seat, Reddic unlocked the door and stuck the car into gear.
“Let’s travel with haste,” Jaxon said, securing his safety belt. “I know where we need to go.”
***
On the far side of the lot, on the north end, the stranger in shorts lowered a set of binoculars and jumped into a red Ford Fiat. He punched redial on his phone and waited.
“Give your account,” Amjad Muhktaar said flatly.
“An envelope was found inside a locker in the bus terminal,” the stranger said. “There was a letter inside, but I did not view the writ.”
“Where are they now?”
“They are leaving the terminal in a car.”
“Good,” Muhktaar said. “Continue to follow. I expect updates at the top of each hour.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
The green Volkswagen sluggishly rolled into a flat parking surface on the outskirts of Puebla. The seventy-mile drive from Mexico City took nearly two hours to complete. At least two-thirds of that time was spent trying to get out of the world’s second largest city and lethargically climb the CARRETERA FEDERAL 190 up a mountain pass with a gutless car. They putted along at a tortoise-like p
ace, as every other vehicle on the road seemed to effortlessly race by them. Still, Jaxon considered the small German car a significant upgrade from his Yugo.
From the time they left the capital city Reddic endured a quasi-history lecture from his brother. He learned much more than he ever wanted to know about Puebla. Descending into the Valley of Cuetlaxcoapan, the metropolitan area looked large. In fact, it was the fourth largest in the country, in terms of population (over two million) his brother had told him. Like Mexico City, it was surrounded by volcanoes and snow-capped mountains. According to Jaxon, to the north was the most recognizable peak, infamously known as La Malinche. The dormant volcano was named after the treacherous Doña Marina, he explained, the indigenous interpreter and mistress of Hernan Cortes.
Puebla was the first city founded by the Spanish conquerors in 1531. It was built as a strategic halfway point between Mexico City and Veracruz during the colonial period, and the Spanish influence was still strong in the valley. Jaxon pointed out neoclassical and baroque-style buildings, lavish cathedrals and small churches that stood out amongst the more modern industrial and residential areas.
“Do you know where 5 de Mayo comes from?” he asked as they coasted through the parking lot.
“Please enlighten me,” said Reddic sarcastically.
“We Americans often assume that 5 de Mayo is the Mexican Independence Day, an assumption that is ignorantly misguided. On May 5th, 1862, General Ignacio Zaragoza and his army defeated a French expeditionary force right here in Puebla. The country celebrated the victory, consecrating the day as a national holiday, eventually becoming 5 de Mayo. The French, however, ultimately seized control of the country, making the victory very short-lived.”