Vatican: OPERATION MAYA DDO EYES ONLY Contact in San Pedro confirms Hernandez made a hasty departure from the presbytery where he lived. Point of interest is a quantity of scuba gear left behind. Will advise. Felici
Scuba gear. Wiley pondered whether Lake Atitlan might be the repository for something of great interest. His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.
‘Come.’
‘I thought you ought to know, sir. The media are carrying a story on this morning’s Minuteman test… CNC are about to cross live,’ Larry Davis announced.
‘What the fuck? That’s a top-secret firing!’ Wiley reached for the remote.
‘I’ve spoken briefly with Gakona. It seems there’s been a malfunction. Input into the computer may have been out by a decimal point, which they think has caused the missile to impact the wrong side of the ionospheric shield, sending it south-west instead of north-east – here it is now.’
A ‘breaking news’ pull-through was scrolling across the bottom of CNC’s coverage of the Australian Open golf tournament: MYSTERY OBJECT
PLUNGES INTO SEA OF JAPAN, 300 METRES FROM CRUISE SHIP. RUSSIA ACCUSES
‘This is Lee-Ann Ramirez; we interrupt this coverage of the Australian Open with breaking news. We cross to our Pentagon reporter, Sheldon Murkowski. Sheldon, I know it’s early in the morning in Washington, but is there any response yet from either the Pentagon or the White House to the accusations by the Kremlin that the US has fired a missile towards Korea?’
‘Lee-Ann, the Pentagon has not yet released a statement, but the mystery cone-shaped object, reportedly the size of a small car, was seen by dozens of tourists on board a Japanese cruise liner as it plunged into the ocean off the island of Hokkaido just before 6.30 p.m. local time.’
‘These are very serious allegations, Sheldon. Do we know what the Kremlin is basing them on?’
‘The Russian Defence Minister, Vladimir Andropov, was quite determined in his remarks. A Russian satellite- tracking station near Vladivostok followed the missile from the west coast of the United States at around 5.15 a.m., Californian time. Minister Andropov claims it was initially tracked across Alaska, but then it inexplicably altered course two minutes into the launch. We expect that either the Pentagon or the White House will hold a media conference shortly, Lee-Ann.’
‘That was Sheldon Murkowski, reporting from the Pentagon. And in other breaking news, a violent storm has blacked out communications over most of Japan and in parts of Korea and southern China. Authorities claim the storm arrived without warning and is the most violent in recorded history.’ The broadcast cut to live footage of Tokyo. The evening sky over the Japanese capital was a strange orange-purple. There were very few clouds, yet the city was being struck repeatedly with huge lightning strikes.
In scenes reminiscent of the September 11 strike on the World Trade Centre in New York, a jagged, forked silver-indigo flash exploded onto the Midtown tower, Tokyo’s tallest building, demolishing the Ritz-Carlton hotel and the rest of the top twenty storeys, which tumbled into the crowded CBD below. Almost immediately after, another immensely powerful flash struck the 750-year-old Great Buddha of Kamakura, splitting the eighty-four-tonne statue down the middle. Nearby, Yuigahama Beach was being peppered with strikes at temperatures approaching 30 000 degrees Celsius, which instantly melted the silica, fusing the sand into fulgurites – hollow glass tubes that penetrated metres into the beach. More powerful bolts struck the ancient heart of the city of Tokyo and more still had thundered into the area around Shinjuku, reducing to a pile of rubble the world’s busiest train station, used by four million commuters every day.
‘Already there is speculation that the events off Hokkaido and the violent storms above Tokyo may somehow be connected. We’ll bring you updates on this unfolding drama as they come to hand. This is Lee-Ann Ramirez, returning you to Australia.’
Wiley got up and walked over to the large map of the world mounted on the far wall of his office. ‘The impact area’s around the Mariana Trench?’
‘A little to the north,’ Davis confirmed.
‘Fuck ’em. Just deny it. They won’t find anything out there, and the media will lose interest.’
‘Well, that will be up to the Pentagon, and perhaps the White House, sir.’
‘Neither of whom would know shit from clay. Get on to their press secretaries and tell them it’s only a suggestion, but remind them who’s making it. In the meantime I want a team of divers up at Lake Atitlan,’ Wiley said, handing Davis a hard copy of Felici’s report. ‘Hernandez was a qualified high-altitude diver, and I’ve got a hunch he didn’t buy all that gear to go fishing. Any word on Tutankhamen or Nefertiti?’
Davis shook his head. ‘The asset’s got the ship in sight, but no one’s disembarked.’
‘For fuck’s sake! Get Rodriguez on the secure video. I want some answers.’
51
O ’Connor surveyed the busy bus terminal at Escuintla, a rural city of 70 000 people on the border of the Guatemalan highlands and the Pacific Plain. He followed Aleta aboard a chicken bus even more brightly coloured and crowded than the one from Puerta de Hierro. A half-hour later, the bus clawed its way up the narrow winding road that led into the mountains towards Panajachel. O’Connor shook his head as the driver pulled out to overtake another bus belching black smoke, the roof festooned with pots, pans, bicycles, and wicker baskets. Together they approached a blind corner and still the driver persisted, drawing level with the other bus. Suddenly a mini-van appeared around the corner. The bus driver leant on the air horns and the mini-van swerved into the foliage overhanging the road, missing the side of the bus by centimetres. A group of young boys on the bench seat at the back of the bus cheered.
‘Do you have to apply for a licence in this country, or does it come on the back of the cereal packets?’
Aleta smiled. ‘You get used to it. There are T-shirts in Panajachel with ‘I Survived’ on the front and a photo of a chicken bus on the back. I’ll get you one.’
‘We’ve got to get there first,’ O’Connor replied, leaning towards Aleta as a man with a piglet under one arm made his way past them to the front of the bus.
It was midafternoon by the time they arrived at the Panajachel terminal. Aleta and O’Connor shouldered their backpacks and made their way down the cobblestoned main street. Bright-red tuc tucs buzzed up and down, looking for fares. Woven mats and rugs juxtaposed with brightly coloured dresses and pants hung from poles beneath the corrugated-iron awnings above the stores. Power cables and phone lines were festooned around poles in spaghetti- like bundles strung above the street. Wonderful aromas of spices and freshly ground coffee beans filled the air. O’Connor maintained a constant watch on the crowd as they walked down Avenida Santander towards the shore of Lake Atitlan, past vendors sitting underneath their yellow and red umbrellas, with their offerings of mangoes and candied nuts. Aleta smiled at a little boy with big brown eyes. The boy hung on to his mother’s skirt and shyly returned the smile as his mother hoisted a huge basket of bananas onto her head.
They reached a paved-stone path that led down to the jetties, and as they rounded a large tree Lake Atitlan came into view. Across the lake to the south stood Volcan Toliman with Volcan Atitlan behind it, each soaring over 10 000 feet. Clouds streamed off both peaks, giving the impression they might erupt at any moment. Further to the west, the third of Lake Atitlan’s volcanoes, Volcan San Pedro, towered over the little town that had given the powerful mountain its name.
‘?Cuanto a San Marcos?’ O’Connor asked the old boatman.
‘ Ochenta quetzales… for you. For the beautiful lady, sesenta quetzales.’
O’Connor grinned. ‘?Como se llama usted?’
