Invisible City (13 page)

“The gringos—the agency—tell the police here the result
they want. They want Dad's murder pinned on someone local. Fine. They don't care on whom. So Rojas looks for a candidate. And that's where the narcos come in. They want Saul punished. As an example to the businessmen around here. Play nice with the narcos or you could end up in jail too. Everything is sewn up: the police, the military, the secret services. And all of them—when the gringos jump, they ask, ‘How high?' It's the same in your country, no?”

“No,” I say firmly, “it is not.”

Camila gives up on me. “Well, hey, man, believe whatever you want.”

It's past seven when we arrive at the Hotel Delfin. As Tyler, Ollie, and I are getting out of the car, Camila tugs gently on my T-shirt, pulls me back.

“Listen,” she whispers, “is there gonna be a chance for us to talk privately? There are some things, you know, that I didn't wanna say in front of your buddies.”

My pulse quickens. This is exactly what I need—time alone to really get into the whole long-lost-sister thing. So I call out to Tyler, ask him to pack up my stuff too and bring it to the car, telling him that I'll pay the bill in the meantime. Tyler nods his agreement. Ollie gives me a final, curious look as we separate.

“Don't be too long,” she says. There's almost a note of longing in her voice, but I couldn't swear to it.

It's a temporary good-bye. Nothing in it to indicate that by
the next time I see them both, my entire life will have irrevocably changed.

Even though the sweltering heat of the day has begun to wear down, the air still feels like soup. Before I go back to Camila, I dip into the alcove to pick up some more cans of Fresca. I'm feeding coins into the slot when American voices in the lobby stop me in my tracks. They're talking quietly; understated, calm. They sound nothing like tourists.

In Spanish they ask the receptionist, “Do you have a group of British students staying here?”

The receptionist asks to see their identification. “I can't give out guest information just like that,” he tells them politely.

There's a pause while the Americans show their identification. I hear him ask, “NRO?”

“National Reconnaissance Office,” replies one of the men. He doesn't sound all that keen to explain any further.

“You're U.S. military?” asks the receptionist.

“That's right, sir,” replies the second man.

The receptionist shrugs. It's obvious he has no idea what the NRO might be.

“Okay.”

I start searching for an escape route. There's no other way but to walk out behind them. When I poke my head around the alcove, I catch sight of the two men. Both are in their thirties, heads bent over the guest list. They're both wearing
Hawaiian shirts and board shorts but their regulation haircuts give them away—these guys are no beach bums.

In the broadest Mexican accent I can manage, I call out to the receptionist in Spanish, “There ya go, pal—I fixed it. One of the Fanta cans had gotten jammed. Call me if there are any problems, all right?”

The receptionist glances up—and when he sees me, for just a second, he hesitates. I make an imploring gesture. In his eyes, I see his agreement. One of the agents eyes me curiously. I'm careful to return him only the most uninterested glance.

“Thanks, Tony,” he replies in Spanish. “See you next time.”

I'm walking across the lobby when I hear one of the agents say, “Here they are. Josh Garcia, Tyler Marks, Olivia Dotrice. Rooms twelve and thirteen.”

It takes all my willpower not to break into a run until I'm safely out of sight. Then I sprint to the parking lot, where Camila's touching up her makeup in her mirror.

I leap into the car, hissing, “Drive!”

I don't have to ask twice. Camila steers her car effortlessly out of the car park and hightails it out of there without the tiniest shriek of burning rubber.

“The people after us,” I tell Camila, “are with the NRO.”

Camila's shades hide her eyes, but I see her lips press together tightly. “National Reconnaissance Office. That's joint CIA, U.S. military, and Department of Defense.” She gives a
low whistle. “Yep, this is it, kiddo. The big test. And don't even think I'm unprepared. I've been waiting for this.”

As we hit the coastal road, she steps on the accelerator.

“What about Tyler and Ollie?”

Camila shrugs. “How good are they at keeping their mouths shut?”

“I dunno,” I say. “What will those guys do to them?”

“Probably won't hurt them. After all, they're just kids. They don't need to hurt us; they just want the Calakmul letter. And what it leads to—the Ix Codex.”

My hand goes automatically to my money belt; I finger around the edges, feeling for the manuscript. It's still there.

“Your buddies know where we're headed. It was a big mistake to talk so much in front of them.”

I'm on the defensive. “Hey, they're in this with me. Ollie's been helping me right from the beginning.”

“Yeah … that's very interesting.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just seems odd to me that some British kids should get so interested in Mayan archaeology.”

“It didn't start out that way. It was about why my father was murdered.”

“Are they good friends of yours?”

“They are now.”

“But not before all this?”

“Well, no, but …”

Camila shrugs. “All I'm saying is—how much trouble can you expect them to take for you? How long do ya think they'll hold out before they give us away?”

There's no way to know. There's a lot of information. If they tell it slowly, reluctantly, piece by piece and from the beginning, it might be an hour before they get to the part about Becan.

Camila seems to have forgotten that she's asked me about them anyway, she's so busy concentrating on the road. “I'm betting their first stop will be my place. They'll go back there. So we need to call the maid, get her to hide the box with the manuscript.” She hands me her cell phone. “Press two and hold it down. Ask for Fernanda.”

Then, her voice tinged with regret, she says, “We should get to Becan in, like, an hour. Well, with the way I drive, anyhow. Too bad for you and me, bro. I was hoping we'd have time for a heart-to-heart. It isn't every day I get a new brother.”

I smile at her. “Yeah. I guess we can't really do that while we're on the run.”

Camila stretches out an elegantly manicured hand, seeking my own. When our fingers meet, she squeezes my hand. I can't say anything, but I squeeze back, waiting for Fernanda to pick up. I pass on the instructions and hang up.

Ten minutes later we slow down, turn off the road, and pass through the gates of a smart-looking hotel. “I'm a member of the health club here,” Camila explains. “And for a few weeks
now, I've had an emergency bag packed, ready to go. In case of exactly this eventuality.”

I follow her as she jumps out and marches up to the door of the Mil Sueños Health Club and Spa.

“A few weeks?”

“Yep,” she replies. “Father murdered, husband locked up in jail for something I know he didn't do, no one believing my story, strange sounds on my telephone, engineers in front of the house at odd times of day, a guy in a blue Nissan who follows me … What, you think I'm a moron? How could I
not
be suspicious?”

“Well, when you put it like that …”

“Right,” she says, taking a key from a chain around her neck. She uses this to open her locker, where she has a tan-colored Louis Vuitton backpack. She removes this, as well as a pair of black and tan Skechers sneakers. Then she changes into the sneakers, takes off her rings, bracelets, and earrings, stashes them in the locker, and turns to leave. The whole operation takes less than five minutes, and as we leave Camila pulls a Fendi baseball cap low over her face.

When we reach the parking lot, instead of heading for her yellow Beetle, she turns toward a red Dodge Stratus.

“The Stratus?”

Camila nods. “Right again. Everyone in Chetumal knows my Beetle. So I bought this car two weeks ago. Been keeping it here ever since. Like I say, just in case.”

“Wow,” I murmur with admiration. “You're really good.”

“Had a lot of time to think, bro. Lot of time on my own.”

“It's a good plan.”

“Not really,” she says. “It depended on one thing—you. Only I didn't know it. I didn't expect that you'd be the one to put me on the road to Becan. And now that you're here … well, I didn't bring anything for you.”

“Oh,” I say, not knowing what to add.

“S'okay.” Camila grins. “We're brother and sister; we're supposed to share. There's enough food, money, and water for both of us.”

We pull out of the hotel's driveway. I stare into the dusky road ahead. The sea's already turned a flat mauve color. A warm breeze drifts across the bay, rustling through the fronds of coconut palms. In the distance are faint sounds of tropical music playing on someone's car stereo. I lean an elbow out of my window and enjoy the sensation of rushing air as we turn west and head for the interior, toward the jungle ruins of Becan. I know I should be scared, worried about my friends.

But I'm not. As my sister and I drive into the shadows, I feel alive, energized, free.

Highway 186 stretches out ahead of us, plunging deep into the depths of the jungle. Any minute now we'll pass the state line of Quintana Roo and enter the state of Campeche. I feel the jungle closing in behind us, thick shadows encroaching on either side of the road. Every few minutes the trees give way to a small lagoon or a mangrove swamp, black holes of water that shimmer reflections of a purple, moonless sky.

I rummage through the contents of Camila's backpack. There is a sealed water bottle, a dozen high-energy snack bars, a waterproof flashlight, a Swiss Army knife, spare batteries, matches and cotton wool (sealed in a plastic bag), water purification tablets, and ten thousand pesos in cash—around five hundred pounds. And a pink iPod. “In case I got bored,” Camila admits, smiling. “I didn't know I'd have you along for company.”

Where was she planning on going?

Camila was prepared for anything. Me, on the other hand, I wasn't prepared at all. I had no idea what I was getting into.
I have all the preparedness of a kid out on a jaunt with his big sister.

“Don't you wish we'd known about each other before?”

“Uh-huh,” I reply.

“No, but seriously. It's sad to be an only child. I'd love to have grown up with a little brother.”

I can't imagine growing up with an older sister. That world of teenage girls, lip gloss and hair straighteners, pink sneakers, pinups of Orlando Bloom and Brad Pitt. I've had glimpses when visiting my friends with sisters.

“It's so cool that you actually chose to stay at the same hotel as Andres.”

“Not ‘cause of the jazz,” I point out.

“No, but still, you chose it. And so much of you is like Andres. The way you roll your eyes when you don't believe what you're hearing. The way you eat with your hand in front of your mouth. How you scratch your sideburn when you're happy.”

“I don't do that.”

“Sure you do,” she says with a wry grin. “You're doing it now.”

“What makes you think I'm happy?”

“You don't have to play it cool with me. I'm not Ollie, after all.” She arches an eyebrow as she says this. I pretend not to notice. “You like her, don't you?”

“Yeah.”

“Too bad,” Camila says, shaking her head.

“You don't like her?”

“It's not even that. It's just that—there's something strange about a girl like her being so interested in a kid like you.”

“Cool, isn't it?” I grin. “I think maybe the mystery about my dad made me interesting.”

Camila frowns. “I'll bet. How old is she? Like, twenty?”

“She's only sixteen,” I say, laughing. “She just knows how to look
fine
.”

“Hmmm.”

“No offense, but—why are you bothered?”

Camila turns to me with a sly grin. “Just looking out for my
hermanito
.”

For a few minutes, there is silence. Then Camila says, “Plug in my iPod. Might as well have some music.”

I dock the mp3 player. The car fills with yet more jazz.

I groan. “Not you too?”

“That's right.” She's grinning from ear to ear. “I grew up apart from our father my whole life, and yet what do you think is my favorite jazz album of all time?”

“No clue.
Kind of Blue
by Miles Davis?”

“Way to go, kiddo,” she says, giving me a little shove. “Not such a space cadet after all.”

“I lived with him, remember? He must have played that CD every week.”

“Well, when we listened to it together for the first time he got tears in his eyes. Seriously. It was quite a moment.”

Another silence.

She asks, “What do you miss most about our father?”

I take a few seconds to think it over. There are so many things, but the one that hurts most when I think about it is knowing that when the phone rings it will never again be him. Calling from his college, saying he'll be home late. Calling from Mexico, in the middle of nowhere.

“Not hearing his voice on the phone,” I reply.

She releases a long, slow breath. “Just the same as me. It's like in that song: ‘These Foolish Things.' Do you know it?” She hums the tune, then sings in a surprisingly young, girlish voice: ‘A telephone that rings, but who's to answer?'”

When she puts it like that, I get a little shiver. I'd never thought of it quite that way, but … “That's exactly it.”

Camila grips the steering wheel a little tighter. “Well … I guess none of us know the time or place. That's why you have to live with death at your shoulder.”