Invisible City by M. G. Harris Page B

it.”
    â€œSo if not Montoyo,” I ponder, “then what about the CIA?” Camila gives me a strange look. “Why do you say that?”
    I reply, “It’s Ollie’s theory.”
    â€œSomeone who could trace e-mails and Web searches,” Ollie says loftily. “Someone who could organize a burglary. Someone interested in extraterrestial encounters with the Maya. And the alien secrets they might have shared.”
    Camila stands up, clearly troubled. “There’s been something really weird about Andres’s death, right from the beginning.”
    â€œThe UFO incident?” I ask.
    Camila gives a wry smile. “Yeah. To be honest, we all wondered. But then my girlfriend, the one who works in the police station, she brought me a photo she took. In the plane wreckage, they found something attached to the flight controls—a small machine. My friend never saw anything like it before. Then, she told me, some gringos came. They had badges—CIA, FBI, something like that—but she didn’t see which kind. And they took it away, the little machine. None of the police ever mentioned it again. It was deleted from a list of exhibits recovered from the crash.”
    â€œA machine attached to the flight controls …,” I murmur. “Something that could have made Dad’s plane crash?”
    Camila completes my thought: “By remote control. No need for a pilot to jump out of the plane midflight. Just put the dead body in the plane and send it up. Then crash it—and you’ve got a perfect accidental death. If everything goes to plan, you don’t even need to frame someone for murder. So, that only happens as an afterthought. When they inconveniently find the missing head of a strangled pilot. And that’s when they start looking around for a victim to pin with their dumb story.
    â€œThese U.S. agents,” she says, “they killed Andres. It’s as clear as a bell. And the reason is in this Mayan inscription.”
    Camila leans back in her chair, takes a sip of tea. She picks up and stares at my half of the Calakmul letter for a few moments, concentrating. Then quite suddenly she stands up straight.
    â€œOh my God! I can’t believe I didn’t see this right away!”
    We stare at her, expectant. When Camila looks at me again, her expression has gone from one of wonder to anxiety.
    â€œThere’s one thing these people—whoever they are—cannot know. Something Andres only told to me. Something that tells us
exactly where Andres went before he disappeared
.”
BLOG ENTRY: CHECHAN NAAB

    When we met Camila Pastor—my half sister—I wanted to know everything: when Dad had first made contact with her, how he found her, what they’d done, where they’d been together, how many times she’d seen him, why he’d ignored her for so long, why he didn’t tell us. That last one more than anything.
    But once I’d seen the letter Dad left for her, and her half of the Mayan manuscript, the whole codex mystery dominated our minds again.
    How weird was it that we’d both become obsessed with finding out what really happened to Dad and why?
    Well, according to Camila, not at all. When I brought the subject up, she seemed nonchalant. “Of course. Every day I sent you mental messages, willing you to decipher the inscription, to get interested, to come over.”
    â€œYou didn’t even know I had the other half of the manuscript!”
    â€œI knew someone had it. I sent my telepathic message to him,” she countered, grinning. “And it worked!”
    It sounds odd when I write it down. But in Mexico, people really talk that way.
    Camila thought our half was the important part. “Andres didn’t realize it, but he told me where he was going. That last day. He was all excited, because he said he’d worked out something really important. He’d worked out the real Mayan name