Eventually, he had been briefly reunited with Sid and the two lovers had fallen into each other as though they were both parts of the same whole. Again, he’d fingered the engagement ring hidden in his satchel which had been left safely in his tent. But, yet again, the correct moment had just never presented itself to bring it out into the open.
Both the Moon Mask and the fake mask which he had found on Kha’um’s remains had been secured inside lead-lined containers, blocking out the harmful tachyon radiation of the former.
An hour later, four more helicopters had arrived, ferrying in a full medical team. Shortly thereafter, the evacuation had begun in earnest. Despite their objections, Sid and Nadia had been shipped out with the rest of the sick scientists while King had remained on the mountain with the soldiers to ensure that the two masks, as well as anything relating to them, such as the remains of Pryce and Kha’um, were carefully stored for transport.
“I’ll be with you soon,” he had promised Sid. But he saw the hurt in her eyes. Once again, his obsession with the Moon Mask took precedence over her. To make matters worse, that had been over two days ago, and he still had no idea where his girlfriend, or any of his colleagues, were.
He had felt an odd sensation as he stepped off the summit of Sarisariñama, the last of the doomed expedition to leave the site where so much had happened.
For him, it was more than the tragedy of the deaths of so many people; it was more than the horrors and the exhilaration of what he had lived through.
Sarisariñama now represented the culmination of his life’s work, of his father’s work. Of his obsession. It had brought to life the Moon Mask, Kha’um and so much more. Xibalba. Surely the biggest archaeological discovery since Hiram Bingham had unveiled Machu Picchu or Howard Carter had opened King Tut’s tomb.
King’s family name would no longer be remembered as a laughing stock, but as the discoverers of the wonders of history.
The Black Hawk had taken off from the summit in the dead of night, leaving the burned and bullet-riddled remains of the expedition’s base camp to the lonesome Evil Spirit of local folklore once more.
In Caracas they had transferred to a U.S. Army Gulfstream C-20G jet which shot north over the continental United States. He had tried to sleep, but the weariness of his body could still not give in to the adrenaline rush that had overcome him.
Six hours later, they had landed at an unspecified military base. There, he had been ‘debriefed’ by the leader of the Special Forces team, a man named Gibbs. The debriefing, however, had felt more like an interrogation.
At first open and cooperative, as Gibbs had pushed him for all he knew about the Moon Mask, tachyon radiation, the Chinese and the unknown hostiles, King had closed up. His previous suspicions about the motives of the Americans came back to the forefront of his mind. He had demanded to speak to a representative of the British Embassy and to be reunited with Sid. Seven hours later, without either of his demands being met, he’d been shipped by helicopter to the United Nations Headquarters in New York City. There, he’d been met by a representative from Great Britain’s mission to the United Nations Security Council.
Due to the serious nature of the events that had occurred in Venezuela, normal British counsel couldn’t be supplied, he had been told. Very few people in the world knew the truth about what had happened. Even the scientists themselves had been fed a cover story about Weil’s Disease and mercenary tomb raiders who had detected the expedition’s mayday and taken advantage of the situation.
The Official Secrets Act had popped up a number of times during his new debriefing with the British Security Council Representative. Sid and Nadia, he had been told, were both responding well to the treatment they had received at John Hopkins hospital and were being shipped to New York. As another two people who could not be spoon-fed the lie, they would undergo a similar debriefing.
Until the Security Council had convened and decided on a course of action, however, none of them would be allowed to talk to each other or to anyone outside of the small circle of knowledge.
And so, as Langley stepped into what amounted to little more than a cell — a basic, windowless room with a single bed, a chair and desk, a television and a small shower/toilet room — King couldn’t keep the anger out of his voice.
“I’ve already told you everything I know,” he snapped at the ambassador’s extended hand.
“I know, Ben,” Langley replied. He picked up the metal-framed chair, turned it around and straddled it casually. “May I call you Ben?” he double checked, eyeing the archaeologist perched on the edge of the bed, muscles tense, eyes tired. He didn’t reply to his question so Langley continued smoothly. “I’m sorry if your stay here has been less than friendly so far. You know what these military types are like,” he shrugged. “They had to be certain you didn’t pose a threat to national security.”
“I’m an archaeologist,” King answered, losing some of the bluster in his voice. It was more resignation now. Exhaustion.
“Of course,” Langley smiled. “But I’m afraid that since 9/11 everyone looks like a terrorist to this country’s security forces. I make no excuses for that. These are dangerous times. And quite frankly, Ben, you are at this moment one of the most dangerous men in the world.”
King’s expression of surprise quickly descended into one of humour. He laughed bitterly. “I heard that you yanks had a habit of coming up with a load of cock-n-bull to justify throwing people into Guantanamo without trial, but I think you’re going to have a hard time pegging that title on me.”
“I’m afraid it is the truth, Ben.” Langley’s face softened. “But don’t worry. No one is throwing you into Guantanamo Bay or any other prison.”
King studied the man in front of him. Despite the relaxed demeanour and the casual nature, he could see an analytical mind at work behind his grey eyes. Yet, strangely, he sensed that it wasn’t the behind-the-scenes manipulative analysis of an ordinary politician. There was something open and honest about the man. Refreshing, following his days spent being interrogated by harsh soldiers and slimy bureaucrats.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“As I said, my name is Alexander Langley,” he repeated. “I am the United States Permanent Representative to the United Nations Security Council.”
“And what do you want with me? Shouldn’t I be speaking to the British ambassador?”
“I am a United States national,” Langley explained, “but in my position, I do not represent the interests of the U.S. but of the United Nations. And, right now, the U.N. needs your help.”
“My help?” He had been expecting a battle to remain in any way involved with the study of the Moon Mask, given what it’s physical composition represented in terms of world power. All he cared about was understanding the cultural and historic link between Xibalba and the Bouda that the mask represented.
Langley threw his thoughts off track. “Would you like a coffee?”
Catching him by surprise, all King could think to do was shrug, non-committal.
“Follow me,” Langley said. He knocked on the door which was opened by the guard. Obviously, King’s jail-break had been prearranged as the guard didn’t question him. After a moment’s hesitation, King followed him out into the corridor, to an elevator which ferried them up through the heights of the Secretariat Building. On the twenty-second floor, the doors opened and he was led down another corridor to the ambassador’s office.
A long mahogany desk sat to one side of the room, its polished surface clear of clutter, a state-of-the-art touch-screen computer occupying most of the space. A large, abstract painting hanging on the wall in front of the desk looked vaguely African in origin, its bright colours a nod to the ambassador’s ancestral roots. Unexpectedly, a large, bright green cheese-plant loped against the side of the desk, effectively dividing the room in two.