Necropolis

a teacher and that we were on a school exchange. It was a pretty unlikely story— but nothing compared to the truth.
    I've spoken to Pedro via satellite phone a couple of times while we've been here. He and Scott reached Vilcabamba without any problem. We've agreed to contact each other every day while we are apart. If there's silence, we'll know something is wrong. Pedro told me that Scott was okay. But Scott didn't come on the line.
    Jamie asked me something today. It took me by surprise. "Why did you really leave Scott behind? You didn't think you could rely on him, did you?"
    "I never said that."
    "But you thought it." He lowered his voice. "You have no idea what he went through with Mrs.
    Mortlake. It was worse than anything you can imagine."
    "Has he talked to you about it?"
    Jamie shook his head. "He's put up barriers. He won't go there. He's not the same anymore. I know that.
    But you have no idea how he looked after me all those years. When Uncle Don was beating me around or when I was in trouble at school, Scott was always there for me. The only reason he got caught was that he was helping me get away." He suddenly took off his sunglasses and laid them on the table. "Don't underestimate him, Matt. I know he's not himself right now, but he'll never let you down."
    I hope Jamie is right. But I'm not sure.
    I looked across the road. There were some little kids throwing a ball on a lawn beside the beach. A couple of rollerbladers swung by. A pale green convertible drove past with music blaring. And just a few feet away, we were talking about torture and thinking about a war that we might not be able to win. Two different worlds. I know which one I'd have preferred to be in.
    We finished eating and went back to the hotel. Our car was already there. The concierge carried out our cases, and then it was a twenty-minute drive across the causeway. The water, stretching out on both sides, looked blue and inviting. We reached Miami International Airport and went in, joining the crowds at the check-in desks. Thousands of people traveling all over the world. And this is what I was thinking…
    Suppose the Old Ones are already here. Suppose they control this airport. We are allowing ourselves to be swallowed up by a system…tickets, passports, security. How do we know we can trust it, that it will take us where we want to go, or even let us out again?
    We got to the baggage check. Richard took one look at the X-ray machines and stopped. "I'm an idiot,"
    he said.
    "What is it?"
    He was carrying a backpack on his shoulder, cradling it under one arm. He'd had it with him at the restaurant too and I knew that, among other things, the monk's diary was inside. But now he was watching as people took out their computers and removed their belts, and I could see that he was furious with himself. "The tumi," he said. "I

    meant to transfer it to my main luggage. They'll never let it through."
    The tumi is a sacrificial knife. It was given to him by the prince of the Inca tribe just before we left Vilcabamba. I could understand Richard wanting to keep it close to him. It was made of solid gold, with semiprecious stones in the hilt, and it must have been worth a small fortune. But this was a mistake. He might try to argue that the tumi was an antique, an ornament, or just a souvenir, but given that the airlines wouldn't even allow you to carry a teaspoon unless it was made of plastic, there was no way it was going to be allowed on the plane.
    It was too late to do anything now. There was a long line of people behind us, and we wouldn't have been allowed to turn back. Richard dumped the bag on the moving belt and grimaced as it disappeared inside the X-ray machine. I suppose he was hoping that the security people might glance away at the right moment and miss it. But that wasn't going to happen. The bag came out again. It was grabbed by an unsmiling woman with her name — Monica Smith — on a badge on her blue, short-sleeved shirt.
    "Is this yours?" she asked.
    ''Yes." Richard prepared for the worst.
    "Can you unzip this, please?"
    "I can explain…" Richard began.
    "Just open it, please."
    The tumi was right on the top. I could see the golden figure of the Inca god that squatted above the blade. I watched as the woman, wearing latex gloves, began to rifle through Richard's clothes. Briefly, she picked up the diary, then put it back again. She examined a magnifying glass that Richard had bought in Miami, trying to decipher the