Invisible City (21 page)

“Josh … I'm sorry.”

I can't speak for a second.

“We've got to get out of this place,” Tyler says in a whisper. “They keep on and on with the same questions. I'm not sure I can stand any more of it without … you know … slipping. They know Josh went to Becan. They know why. They're not going to stop looking for Josh.”

“I'm going to call my mom,” I tell him. “Get her to help. She's got contacts at the British Embassy in Mexico City. Maybe they can get you out of there. You've done nothing wrong … they shouldn't be able to keep you locked up.”

Tyler sighs heavily. “I know. Try telling them that, though.”

There's a sharp voice in the background; it sounds like someone's telling Tyler off. When he speaks again it's all rushed, in a strong Oxford accent, as if he doesn't want anyone to understand him. “Yeah, man, I'm … bloomin' give 'em what for, innit? You take care of yourself, all right, do what you can then, eh, yeah?”

And the line goes dead.

Benicio's eyeing me with interest. “Any help?”

“Not really … My friends are in trouble. Like I thought.” I
start dialing again, this time my home phone. I check my watch. It's late in England, but not alarmingly so. Miraculously, I hear my own phone at home ringing. Somehow it feels like calling a different planet. The connectedness of the world can be baffling: so near and yet so impossibly far.

Mom answers. She's happy to hear from me and doesn't seem alarmed. This is good because when we left, I wasn't sure that she'd really understood that I was actually going to Mexico.

“Have you heard from Tyler or Ollie's parents?” I ask.

“No …” Mom sounds anxious. “Why would I?”

“No reason … I just wondered, you know, what they've been saying. Of course they tell me they're having a good time but, you know.”

“So everything's okay?”

I hesitate just a little too long, hear a catch in her voice as she says, “Josh. What's happened?”

“We've been called in for some questioning, Mom. By some U.S. agency called the NRO. It's something like the CIA, I suppose.”

The line crackles with breathless horror. “What …?”

“I'm okay … I promise. I'm not with them. I ran away. But there are two things you have to know. Listen, Mom …”

Her voice is tense but controlled as she says, “I'm listening.”

“The woman in Chetumal is not Dad's girlfriend, Mom. She's his daughter.”

“What …?”

“His daughter,” I repeat, “from way back before he met you. It's true, Mom, swear to God.”

“Oh, Josh … what a relief.”

I hesitate for a few seconds. Mom doesn't need to know about Camila's death … not right now, anyway. So I skip that part. It's not something I'm ready to talk about.

“And there's something else. I've discovered what Dad found soon before he died. I'm going to find out why he was killed. And somehow, we'll find a way to make them pay, Mom. That's a promise.”

“Where are you?”

“I'm safe.”

A steely note enters her voice. “Where?”

“I don't exactly know, Mom. But I'm safe.”

“That's it,” she says, and I hear the panic rising. “I'm calling the police.”

“That's not a bad idea. Call them, yeah. And call the British Embassy—please, Mom. Get them to free Tyler and Ollie. They don't know anything and they're getting really freaked out by all this.”

“Oh my God …” She chokes back a sob. “Come back to me, Josh. Now. Please.”

“Mom … as soon as I can.”

We exchange reluctant good-byes; I hand the phone back to Benicio.

“Can they trace the call?”

“Of course not. The signal's bounced from a transmitter in Chiapas. We have our own satellite.”

“A satellite …?”

He chuckles softly. “You have any idea what we're up against, Josh? The kind of people who want our technology?”

“Yeah, yeah, the NRO,” I say.

“I've had those guys chasing me when I fly the Muwan,” Benicio says casually. “Believe me, it's no picnic.”

That's it—I've had enough of his boasting. “You
do not
fly those Muwan.”

He gives me a lopsided grin. “Sure I do. Don't believe me … you wanna see?”

I'm openmouthed. “Do I wanna …?”

“… take a trip in a Muwan with me?”

Well, yeah. Now
this
is one for the blog.

The thing is—I could almost believe it does. Because sometimes things happen and you think, hey, what happened to the world I thought I understood? It was only when I went up in a Muwan with Benicio that I realized how much, lately, the world keeps transforming into someplace darker, a place in which I have no idea how to navigate.

Then that aircraft lifted us up over the treetops of the Campeche jungle and I felt the troubles of the past few weeks melting, dripping away like snow on a car. My spirits lifted. It was as if the sun had risen on a brand-new day in a brand-new world.

Benicio sneaked me back into the chairlift station. This time it was a much shorter ride. After two or three minutes we arrived in a building of very obvious function—an aircraft hangar.

Even though I'd heard about the Muwan, actually seeing them just blew me away.

“Muwan means ‘sparrow hawk,'” Benicio explained. I could see why.

I counted five aircraft in total. Shaped like a hawk with open wings, three of them had a bronze tinge to the paintwork, a cockpit shaped like a hawk's head. They looked more like a large sculpture of a hawk than any credible version of an airplane. The other two craft were larger but sleeker, stripped-down versions of the bronze aircraft. The cockpit still looked hawkish, but in a more abstract, vaguely representative way. The wings were shorter, more squat and narrower. Instead of the bronze color, the craft were a dark bluish gray, completely matte.

An engineer wearing a gray jumpsuit shined his flashlight into an open panel on one of the craft, and I noticed that the light wasn't reflected at all by the surface coating.

Benicio watched me watching the two Muwan engineers tend to their machines. There was a vaguely smug air to him, which didn't surprise me, after what I'd said.

“This is soooo cool,” I whispered. “Which one's yours?”

Benicio grinned. “The chief decides all that. It's different each time. I'm going to take you out in this Mark I today. Some people really like the Mark I's. To us they have an old-fashioned style, which is totally cool. But the Mark II is a better machine.”

“So my father was in a Mark I? The bronze ones?”

“Yep, your grandfather too. We wouldn't take the Mark II out for a simple mission. It's still very secret.”

“My
grandfather
…?”

He flashed me a look then, like he'd spoken out of turn. “You'll find out soon enough …”

The whole “bird” was almost nine yards long—hardly any bigger than a small airplane. Judging from where the engineers were concentrating most of their efforts, the propulsion system was under the cockpit. It must be tiny. As with a fighter plane, you climb in through the top of the cockpit, a dome of bronze-tinted, one-way glass that partly retracts. The pilot's seat is planted right in the middle of the bird's neck; it's a deeply padded seat upholstered in a golden brown suedelike fabric. Behind the cockpit, the craft widens slightly, with space for two narrower passenger seats. The wings sit just behind the cockpit and are angled down, giving the overall impression of a bird about to make a sudden landing. The belly of the bird is checkered with clear panels.

Watching my eyes trail over the airplane, Benicio seemed to read my thoughts. “Don't bother looking for the jets. There aren't any.”

“So how …?”

“…does it fly? Antigravity” he said. “Pretty cool, huh?”

“Antigravity? No way.”

With this self-conscious giggle, Benicio said, “Way!”

Benicio took one look into the control room and saw that it was empty. Apart from the two engineers, there was no one around. He turned to me. “Okay, now. This is just between you and me, right? Just a really quick flight. A spin—and that's it.”

I pointed to the engineers. “And them?”

Benicio gave them a quick glance. “They won't talk … they're my buddies.”

With that, he leaped over some crates of equipment, swung himself onto the ladder of the nearest Muwan, and clambered into the cockpit. So I followed.

By the time I joined him in the Muwan, Benicio was fitting himself with a headset: earphones and an eyepiece that settled a couple of inches from his left eyeball. He tapped something on the dashboard, activating a control panel. I strapped myself in and the cockpit cover slid into position. We had 360 degrees of visibility from the top of the bird.

Benicio powered up, and I felt the craft start to vibrate. In the next minute, it lifted, trembling very slightly and almost completely silently. We were hovering. In almost total silence.

We flew toward a strip of light in the ceiling. A hangar door was open to the sky outside. We whizzed right through.

And then the velvety textures of the jungle canopy stretched before us, rippling across mountains as far as the eye could see. The sky was coated with a thick layer of hazy cloud that turned an ominous gray color at the edges.

Benicio was lost in his world of piloting, concentrating hard as he flew the Muwan above the treetops. We skimmed low, almost touching the trees. We were flying over the landscape at a dizzying speed. Now and then something distant, maybe a village, appeared on the edge of our vision. Next thing I knew, we were flying over it. Trees, mountains, houses, lakes, a river, a road: we left them all behind in a matter of seconds.

“How fast are we going?”

“Just under Mach 1. That's our limit for travel close to the ground. Any faster and they hear us break the sound barrier. Next thing you know, people start reporting UFO sightings.”

“So you guys are responsible for all the UFOs?”

Benicio chuckled. “Some of them, sure. But not all. We can only account for about half of the sightings.”

“And the others?”

“Mostly, we guess that they're secret military aircraft tests.” He seemed suddenly guarded.

“Mostly, but not all?” I was dying to know. Do the citizens of Ek Naab have some insight into one of the greatest mysteries of our time?

Benicio wasn't giving anything away. “We're just like everyone else, Josh. We don't have all the answers.”

Then the Muwan slowed down, banked hard to the right, and circled. I recognized the outline of Becan's moat-enclosed structures below.

“We were miles away from Becan!” I blurted. I'd imagined Ek Naab to be right underneath.

“The
gateway
is under Becan. Remember that first ride you took with Montoyo? It took you a long way into the Depths.”

“So where exactly is Ek Naab? On a map, I mean?”

He sniggered. “That's top secret, buddy.”

It was the first time I'd had an aerial view of any Mayan city. Just breathtaking. There were a few tourists, so Benicio preferred not to take chances on someone getting a good look at us. “If they just catch a glimpse, they'll assume we're a fighter plane,” he muttered, concentrating on his controls. Then he swung us up into the clouds.

I peered down at Becan, watching it disappear behind the mist. Looked just like another relic of Mexico's Mayan past. Yet, who'd have thought …?

Benicio takes a call on his phone as we're walking back from the chairlift station. It's late afternoon and people in the city look as if they're going home from work or school.

“That was Carlos Montoyo,” he tells me when he's finished. “The ceremony to install you as Bakab will be this evening, with robes and everything. You're gonna eat with the Executive in the Hall of Bakabs.” With a touch of envy, he adds, “I've never even seen it.”

“Jeez. Sounds a bit over the top.”