The Roswell Conspiracy (30 page)

Next was a great monkey, its prehensile tail curled into a spiral. Straight lines intersected the drawings and each other in all directions. A casual observer might come to the conclusion that these majestic symbols were alien spaceship landing instructions. It defied belief that a primitive culture could not only make them, but envision a reason for doing so in the first place.

Jess waved for him to check out her side of the plane. He leaned over and saw the shape of a massive condor, and beyond that the eight legs of a tarantula.

“Nana has seen this view a dozen times,” Jess said. “She’d come here just to fly over the lines and see if she could figure out why she’d been chosen by the alien to be entrusted with its secret.”

Tyler admired Fay’s tenacity. He had never believed in aliens—at least not in ones that had visited Earth—but he understood her need to find the truth. Her experience at Roswell had obviously set all of this in motion, and until he had the answers he was ruling nothing out. He was a skeptic, but he was also a scientist. The scientific method meant doing away with preconceived notions. He would go wherever the evidence took him, no matter where it led.

Jess gazed at the desolate landscape with a haunted expression. “Do you think she’s down there somewhere?”

“Yes, and I believe we’re going to find her.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t have any reason to think we won’t.”

“Sometimes I like your arrogance.”

“It comes in handy.”

Jess pointed at the astronaut drawing waving to them from the side of a hill. Tyler had to admit it did look like an otherworldly figure, two round eyes gazing from its otherwise featureless bulbous head.

“You think he’s going to lead us to Nana?” Jess asked.

Tyler nodded. “And to the xenobium.”

“Why are you so sure?”

“Because Colchev is sure.”

“What do you mean?”

Tyler lowered his voice. “We know that Colchev got away with two Killswitches, each one worth hundreds of millions of dollars.”

“And we know that they’re useless without the xenobium trigger.”

“Right. So what does he do when he finds the only xenobium that we know about?”

Jess frowned. “You mean, why did he set off one of his two Killswitches?”

“Exactly. Colchev had to be absolutely sure that there was more xenobium. And it’s possible that the specimen from the cave wasn’t big enough for whatever he has planned. The sample that Kessler destroyed in Australia was twenty times bigger than the speck we found.”

“The drawing at Easter Island did imply that the Nazca had a much bigger specimen hidden in the pyramid.”

“Kessler told us about a scientist from Russia named Dombrovski. What if Dombrovski was a Russian spy who found the xenobium but couldn’t get it out of its hiding place for some reason? That would explain why Colchev is so positive it exists.”

“He just didn’t know where to look until Nana made that appearance in the video.”

“It also means that Dombrovski found a way inside the Grand Pyramid more than sixty years ago, before anyone even started doing a thorough excavation of the site.”

“So we shouldn’t be looking for the entrance anywhere that’s been uncovered since then.”

Jess eyes lit up as if she remembered something and plunged her hands into her bag. She opened a notebook and leafed through it.

“This is Nana’s. It contains her notes for the book she’s planning to write. She left it in our room because she had scanned everything into her computer and didn’t want to risk losing it at the site of the cave. It has a detailed map of Cahuachi in it, including dates.”

Jess flipped the pages until she got to the map. Jess pointed to a spot on the northwest corner of the Grand Pyramid.

“Look! This is one of the first discoveries of the adobe bricks that led to them uncovering the pyramid.”

“Did floods bury it?” Tyler asked. “The river looks close by.”

“No, that’s the odd thing. The pyramid is more than thirty meters tall. It would have taken centuries of natural floods to cover the entire four-hundred-acre site. For some reason, the Nazca buried the whole city in mud themselves before they abandoned it.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Maybe they didn’t want anyone to ever find the xenobium.”

“So it was literally a massive cover-up, but they left one point of access into the pyramid, something only they and the gods would have known about.”

“They drew the Mandala to show how to get into the pyramid,” Jess said. “Then they drew the Nazca lines as a map to the pyramid. A map that would be decipherable only to those with the ability to see it from the sky.”

“Speaking of that, I took some time last night to compare our photos to southern hemisphere star charts. The animal constellations match up perfectly. If you follow the lines according to the sequence of constellations ordered by their position in the zodiac, they lead directly from the Mandala to the Grand Pyramid.”

As their plane touched down at the Nazca airport, Tyler could see a police car waited for them on the tarmac.

“If Colchev figures all this out,” Jess said, “he might know how to get into the pyramid.”

Tyler didn’t have to respond. They both knew the ominous outcome if Colchev had beaten them to Cahuachi. Fay would be no further use to the Russian spy once he had all the components of a weapon that could kill millions.

FORTY-THREE

Morgan noted that getting out of the US was much easier than getting in. Even at the break of dawn, the line of cars at the Highway 905 US–Mexico border crossing stretched half a mile—on the Mexican side. On the US side it was a clear road to the immigration checkpoint. Morgan flashed her credentials at the officer, and he directed her to the customs building.

She elbowed Grant, who dozed in the passenger seat, still sleeping off the effects of the Ambien he took for the flight back to LA. He had awakened just long enough to make the transfer to the helicopter that took them to the San Diego airport, and then again when they got in the car.

His eyes flew open. “What?”

“Wake up. We’re here.”

“I’m awake.”

“Next time, just take one pill.”

“For someone
my
size?”

“You took enough to down a bull elephant.”

“Well, I’m up now,” Grant said, yawning. “Remind me. Who are we meeting?”

“Captain Filipe Benitez of the Mexican Federales.”

“
Excellente
.”

“You speak Spanish?”

“
Tenemos los exitos más calientes
.”

“You have the hottest hits?”

“It’s from a radio station I listened to when I was at Fort Hood.”

“If the Killswitch played music, you’d be a big help.”

“It’s the only Spanish I remember.”

“Let me do the talking.”

“
Si, si, señorita
.”

She pulled into a parking spot next to the customs building. When she opened the car door, a blast of hot air hit her, reminding her that it was summer now that she was back in the northern hemisphere.

“Good God,” Grant said as he got out. “I must have really been out of it at the San Diego airport not to notice this heat.”

“We’re ten miles inland here.”

“Aren’t you hot?” He nodded at her suit. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans.

“I’m fine.”

“Suit yourself. Ha! Get it?”

“I’m amused.” She wouldn’t admit it to him, but she actually almost cracked a smile. His bad jokes were starting to grow on her.

They went inside, where they were met by air conditioning and Policìa Federal Captain Benitez, who was dressed in full tactical gear.

“Special Agent Bell?” he asked in precise English.

She nodded and showed him her ID. He responded in kind, then eyed Grant.

“This is Sergeant Grant Westfield,” Morgan said. “He’s on temporary assignment with me from the Army Rangers.”

They shook hands.

“I was instructed to give you every cooperation I can, Agent Bell.”

“I appreciate your help. This is a dangerous situation, and I understand that you are this state’s top anti-cartel officer.”

“Until they kill me,” Benitez said without a trace of humor. Mexican anti-drug officials had a depressingly short lifespan.

“We think the Baja cartel is going to attempt to smuggle some explosives into the US sometime today,” Morgan said.

“You think they will meet at this address that I was given?”

“It’s possible. Do you have it under surveillance?”

“Yes, for eight hours now.”

“Any unusual activity?”

Benitez shrugged. “A few men came and went. Nothing strange.”

“Were any of the men Caucasian?”

“No. All Hispanic.” He showed her and Grant the surveillance photos.

Grant shook his head. “None of them look like our guys.”

“Captain,” Morgan said, “it is vital that we get those explosives before they enter the US.” She wasn’t going to share that they were looking for a top-secret weapon, only one of which now remained in existence according to the message she’d received about the EMP blast that disabled Easter Island.

“We are prepared for a full tactical breach once you confirm that the explosives have arrived on the premises,” Benitez said.

“We’d also like to capture these men alive, but the explosives are the top priority.”

Benitez shook his head. “The Baja cartel is responsible for over a hundred murders in the last month, including a night club where twenty-five were killed. If this house is theirs, they won’t come quietly.”

“Sounds like our boys have connected with some real winners,” Grant said.

“If your suspects need smuggling assistance, they chose the right gang. The Bajas have moved three tons of cocaine out of Tijuana this year, and we’ve intercepted none of it going into the US.”

“Could this house be their staging area?” Morgan asked.

“Possibly. It’s very close to both the truck and car crossings. It’s also possible that they could be planning to smuggle your item under the border. Some of the cartels’ drug tunnels have been found to be more than a quarter-mile long.”

“I’ll let my team in the US know to be ready for anything. Let’s get over to the house. Oh, and one other thing. Westfield and I need to go in with the tactical team. Sergeant Westfield is a bomb-disposal expert, and we may need him in there.”

Benitez nodded. “Of course. Come with me. We will supply you with uniforms and weapons.” He walked toward the rear of the building. Morgan and Grant fell into step behind him.

“He didn’t bat an eye,” Grant said under his breath. “That was easy.”

“That’s what happens when the Secretary of the Air Force calls up the Commandant of the Federales,” Morgan said.

Ten minutes later they were fully geared up with black fatigues, ballistic vests, M4 rifles, comm units, and helmets.

“You’ll have to leave your car here,” Benitez said. “They’d spot the US plates immediately.”

“Lead the way,” Morgan said.

They went outside to a beat-up Chrysler minivan with blacked-out windows.

Benitez saw Grant’s bemused appraisal. “Our black Suburbans would be noticed even faster than your car.”

They climbed in the back. The driver was one of Benitez’s men dressed inconspicuously in a dingy white tank top. When the sliding door closed, he steered onto the road leading south from the border.

“We’ll only be able to drive by the house once. Any more would be suspicious.”

“How are you watching the house?” Morgan asked.

“Someone abandoned construction of a four-story building across the street. Only the girders have been put up. I had one of my men climb up late last night and install three wireless cameras facing the house.”

“And your man wasn’t seen?”

“It was a moonless night, and I made sure the streetlights went out for a short time.”

In two minutes they were cruising down a boulevard paralleling the border only two hundred yards away. On the left were enormous warehouses supplying the truckers shipping goods back and forth to the Mexican factories. On the right were tiny stores, freight yards filled with semis, street food vendors just setting up shop in their trucks, apartment complexes, and homes. It wasn’t Beverly Hills, but it wasn’t a slum, either.

“There’s the construction,” Benitez said, pointing out the windshield.

A chain-link fence protected the skeleton of bare girders rusting in the sunlight.

The driver turned right at the next street.

“This is Licenciado José López Portillo Oriente. Number 22 is the pink house on the left.”

The second house down from the boulevard was a rundown home set back from the road just enough to make room for a paved front yard. The paint was peeling, tiles on the roof were missing, and old lawn furniture was piled against the garage door.

The only thing that looked out of place was the new iron fence and gate that protected the parking area.

The driver didn’t slow down for Morgan and Grant to get a better look.

“The garage looks big enough for a full-sized van,” Grant said.

“Trucks are very common in this area,” Benitez said. “If they’re planning to move the package across the border that way, it would take only a few seconds to put it on a passing semi.”

“Grant and I are going to need line-of-sight to the house,” Morgan said. “It’s the only way we can identify our subjects.” The night-vision goggles for the ID dust had a limited range, and the cameras on the abandoned building wouldn’t pick up the signal.

“I told you that’s impossible,” Benitez said. “They would see you.”

“Well, we have to figure out something. Otherwise, they could drive straight into that garage, and we wouldn’t know if the explosives had arrived.”

Grant raised his hand. “I have an idea. Is anyone else hungry?”

“You’re hungry?” Morgan said. “The only thing you did on the plane besides sleep was eat.”

“I’m always hungry, but that’s not the point.”

“What
is
your point?”

Grant smiled. “My obsession with food will get us that surveillance spot.”

FORTY-FOUR

Zotkin swept the ground with his radiation meter.