I supposed that meant ‘downtown.’ I hesitated, looked at the kids who had rescued me. I didn’t want to ask them for more, but I had to. “
Their expressions twisted and hardened into disgust. I fled the car with no money and new sympathy for beggars.
For what seemed a very long time I stood in that vast open square and gaped at its colossal architecture and hustling crowds of morning commuters, feeling half-dazed, as if in a lucid dream, knowing I was doomed to soon awaken. After what I had just been through, this sudden immersion in everyday normality, a city full of ordinary people, seemed so unreal that it was hard to accept. I felt like Rip van Winkle, or an escapee from a parallel universe.
When my brain finally kicked into gear again I realized I had no idea what to do. I was battered and exhausted and starving and parched. I knew no one in Mexico City, spoke no Spanish, didn’t really know where I was, and dared not go to any authority; I was wanted by Ortega, everyone he had ever corrupted, and every police force on the planet. I had planned for my escape but not my freedom.
There were pay phones near the cathedral, a pair of booths that looked a little like ears. I limped over and tried to use one. Eventually I got an operator, but she spoke no English.
I caught sight of a keeningly familiar symbol across the road, on the perimeter of the square: the golden arches of McDonald’s. They were open for breakfast. I limped there as if drawn by an irresistible force. Once inside I sat down, hoping to rest a moment and maybe poach an abandoned half-empty coffee or orange juice. The staff gave me wary looks but didn’t order me out. My gringo skin, even bruised and bloodied, still carried with it unwritten privileges.
“Christ, mate,” an Australian voice said, “what happened to you?”
I looked up at a big muscular man and his cute blonde girlfriend.
“Did you get mugged?” she asked.
“Mugged. Yeah. Yeah, they took everything.” Which was true. Even the clothes on my back were Ortega’s, not mine.
“What are you going to do?” the Aussie man asked.
His girlfriend said, “You should go to the police.”
I shook my head quickly. “They were police.”
Both seemed appalled but not surprised.
“I just got into town,” I said, “I don’t even know where I am. Do you guys have a map? Or a guidebook?”
“Of course, mate.” He produced a Lonely Planet Mexico guidebook.
“Can we get you some breakfast?” the girl asked.
I looked at her longingly. “Could you? That would, that would be great.”
They trusted me enough to leave their book in my possession while they ordered. I flipped to the Collect Calls subsection, and memorized the number I needed. They came back with a Big Breakfast for me. I have never felt gratitude more keenly: the world’s finest chef could not have crafted a meal as delicious and satisfying as that tray of fast food.
I disengaged from the Australians soon afterwards, told them I had friends staying at a nearby hostel and I would be fine. Back at the pay phone in the shadow of the cathedral, I gave the US operator a number from memory: that of the one person on Earth I knew I could trust.
“This is a collect call,” a robotic voice informed me. “At the sound of the prompt, please say your name.”
I croaked, “Maverick.”
Part 4. Panopticon
Chapter 53
“Sir.” A gentle hand gripped my shoulder. “Sir, I’m sorry.”
I opened my eyes and looked up into a beautiful face framed with dark hair.
“Uh,” I managed.
I had slept so deeply that for long seconds I didn’t know where I was. A long, narrow, oddly tubular room, lushly appointed with wood panelling and tasteful art. There was a faint rushing sound everywhere, the whole room seemed to be softly vibrating, my bed had a seatbelt, and a willowy supermodel had her hand on my shoulder.
“Mr. Ruby told me to awaken you,” she said apologetically. Her Russian accent was thick and charming.
“Uh.” This time I accompanied it with a nod, which seemed to release her into action. She reached down, worked some control, and my bed folded up smoothly into an upright seat. From my new vantage point I could see, through the airplane’s nearest porthole, the island of Hispaniola surrounded by the turquoise Caribbean. The border between the forested Dominican Republic and denuded Haiti was clearly visible.
The cockpit door opened and Jesse stepped back into the cabin, holding a newspaper and grinning cheerfully. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”
“Thanks.” Behind him I glimpsed a small blond man at the controls. I remembered the ride to the airstrip, and the sight of Jesse leaning casually against Viktor Kharlamov’s Gulfstream, but I didn’t remember actually getting on the plane. I had never been so exhausted.
“I figured you’d appreciate Svetlana’s gentle touch more than mine.”
“Yeah.”
“Champagne, sir?” Svetlana asked. Her uniform consisted of high heels, a short skirt, and a blouse a size too small.
“Uh,” I managed again, a little dizzy, and looked to Jesse.
“Two beers,” he said. “And two for him too.”
The beer was Russian and ice-cold. I took a long swig from my first and looked around in some considerable disbelief. I had so many questions I didn’t know where to begin.
“We’re avoiding American airspace, just in case,” Jesse said. “Stopping in the Bahamas to refuel.”
“Going where?”
“London. Anya’s uncle. He’ll keep you safe ‘til this all resolves. Not too many other places you can go. You seem to have developed something of a reputation.” Jesse slapped the newspaper onto my lap.
It was an English-language Mexico City paper called the Daily News. I sat bolt upright, all lassitude forgotten, jarred into full alertness by the sheer wrongness of my own face, my Caltech ID photo, on the front of a newspaper:
Terror Mastermind In Mexico City
James Kowalski, the alleged “evil genius” behind the wave of terror attacks that killed 114 in New York earlier this week, has fled to Mexico City, according to multiple high-placed sources in the Mexican military and police forces. [Continued on page 4]
I put it down without turning to page 4. It was already too surreal, too scary. And brilliant. How ironic that they called me the evil genius. Ortega had outsourced the job of finding me to Mexico City’s twenty million residents. If not for the aid and shelter provided there by Alejandro-the-biohacker, one of Jesse’s Grassfire friends, I would probably already have died in police custody. Although I supposed my battered face served as something of a disguise. A thin silver lining.
“The Times is a bit less histrionic, but you’ll find yourself in there, too.” Jesse shook his head with mock disapproval. “I swear. I turn my back for one lousy week and you get yourself onto the FBI’s Most Wanted list.”
