“I think so.”
“Here, you take this.” He hands me the slip of paper, then I climb into the car behind the wheel and roll the window down.
“What time have you got?” he says.
We check our watches.
“You have plenty of time. Remember,” he says, “you give us at least ten minutes head start before you leave from here.”
“Got it.”
He closes the door. “We will be there,” he says. “Good luck.” Then he turns and runs back to the other cars.
Car doors slam one after the other. Then the tires of the two sedans and the limo grind gravel, racing by me on the road heading west.
Within seconds, their taillights disappear around a curve.
I sit with the window down, listening to the sounds of dawn in the jungle, the chirping and screeching of some distant animal, the humming wings and clicking of insects.
I take another look at the little map on the pink paper, fold it in half, and slip it into the pocket of my jacket. I give them twelve minutes just to be safe.
Three miles up the road, I see the sign with an arrow pointing to a turnoff, white letters on a blue background: Villas Arqueologicas Coba.
I take the turn to the right. After a few miles, the road turns to dirt, and moments later I see the restaurant, a two-story building with a flat roof and a second-story veranda. Jutting out from under the railing on the veranda is a slanting palm-covered roof sheltering outdoor tables and chairs.
Straight ahead is a large body of water, a lake, with high grass along the edges. Ibarra has warned me, if I have to move quickly into the jungle, to try and stay clear of any wetlands. Mexican crocodiles may be an endangered species, but they have been known to eat dogs and small children and, on a rare occasion, tourists.
The road curves left in front of the hotel, and a few hundred feet up I pull into the parking area. It is flanked by a few small structures, mostly stucco, small curio shops, and next to it a small square building with a palm- thatched roof, the ticket booth at the entrance.
Beyond this, a path leads in to the archeological area. It passes between two large trees, curling bark hanging from gnarled trunks that look as if they might have been standing when the last Mayan ruler walked between them and turned out the lights. There is a rope suspended between them.
I pull up and park in front, turn off the engine, and check my watch. I have twenty minutes to get to the area around the Las Pinturas. By now Ibarra and his people should be getting close, checking for Arturo’s men hiding in the bush and taking up positions on them.
I pick up the wrapped package from the seat, get out and head toward the entrance, quickly slip under the rope, and head up the path.
The walkway is uneven. Ruts in the sandy soil, crossed by ridges from shallow-rooted trees, force me to watch my step. What little light there is at this hour is filtered through the foliage overhead.
I pass a display under a thatched roof to my right and climb a small rise. Then the path heads down, a gradual slope, and goes to the right. On either side of the path are symmetrical mounds, gentle rises with small stunted trees and saplings growing out of them, sending up shoots like hair on a beast. These are busy laying down more shallow roots, some of them winding like snakes into the crevices of rock outcroppings.
Under the trees and on the sides of the mounds, the ground is littered with stones, their edges rounded by erosion, their shapes too balanced to be formed by nature. Everywhere I look, I can see small hills, bumps in the jungle, Mayan ruins still buried.
Thirty feet on, I come to an opening, the plaza, what Ibarra called La Iglesia. It is a large pyramid with several terraced levels in front and steep crumbling steps leading to the top. As a tourist attraction in the U.S., it would be a lawyer’s dream.
I pass through the plaza and go left. Suddenly I’m lost.
I stop and find the pink paper diagram in my pocket and peer at it in the dim light. Ibarra has written the words “ball court” in tiny letters.
I turn slowly, a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree pirouette. Then in front of me, against the sharp edges of stone, I see the silhouette of a curving shape in the distance. It is a stone hoop on the diagonal wall of the ball court.
I check my watch, pick up the pace, and jog through the court, an amphitheater of smooth stone on each side.
Sixty yards on, through the dim light the path levels out and opens into a wide area under a grove of larger trees. I see twenty or more bicycles parked here, some of them leaning against the trees and others lying on their side, a few of them upright with kickstands down.
So far everything on Ibarra’s little diagram is accurate. I keep walking and shift the package under my arm to the other side. As I do this, I rub the fabric over my jacket pocket and feel the hard edges of the pistol inside.
I am hoping that I won’t need it. Still the heft from the metal tugging at my pocket offers the possibility that I can defend myself if I have to.
“Senor.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The voice coming from behind stops me dead in my tracks. My heart pounding; if he doesn’t shoot me first, I will still lose half a year of life.
In the dim light I turn, no time to reach for the pistol in my pocket. Half lost in the shadows behind a tree, I can see the slight figure of a man sitting on what appears to be a large tricycle. It has two wheels in front with a small seat over them and a single wheel in back.
He pedals out of the shadows. His eyes seem to be riveted not on me as much as the cloth-covered package I am carrying under my arm. He gestures with a hand toward the seat in front of him, an invitation for me to get on.
I shake my head. “No thanks.” I start to turn.
“Senor.” This time he is more insistent. The message is clear. There is a reason he is here at this early hour. He has been sent to collect me.
He is wearing a thin cotton shirt and jeans, worn running shoes, sockless where I can see his brown ankle above the foot resting on one of the pedals.
If he is armed, he has hasn’t shown it, and there are no bulges in his clothing. Ibarra warned me not to take a bike to the site. But by now he and his men should have had plenty of time to get in position.
I could simply turn and walk away, take my chances. But from the look in his eye, I suspect he would follow me, clattering along behind on the bike like a cowbell telling everyone in the bush where I was. No doubt they have paid him for the ride, probably more than he makes in a week pedaling tourists through the jungle. Now he feels compelled to perform the service.
“Why not?” I step toward the contraption.
He nods and smiles, gesturing toward the seat as I climb up and sit down.
I hold the package in my lap as he pedals through the clearing, picking up speed on the slight downgrade, then takes one of the paths to the right, stands up, and his legs begin pumping in earnest.
We bounce along the trail, level as a tabletop, not quite as smooth, listening to the balloon tires as they crunch over the decomposed limestone. The tricycle splashes through a puddle of standing water, and one of the tires sprays muddy water up onto the seat. I try to shield it with an arm but too late.
He laughs and says something in Spanish, but I don’t understand him.
“Just a second. Hold on a second.”
He continues pedaling.
