Unlawful Chase

by C J Schnier

  I doubted smugglers would have left a plane unattended. All I could think of was it belonged to some sort of tourist operation. Perhaps some eco-tourism outfit that charged yuppies obscene amounts of money to feel like they're part of nature. Regardless of its ownership, it was an expensive piece of equipment, and eventually someone would be by to check on it. Hanging around and being discovered would lead to some awkward questions I was not prepared to answer. So, after enjoying the breeze flowing through the clearing for a few moments, and watching for any signs of people, I made my way back up to the jungle pathway and continued on my way to the village.

  Immediately after the airfield, the path grew wilder and more difficult. The flat coastal lands first began to rise and fall, often in dramatic fashion. Rocky streams and gullies crossed and recrossed the pathway, and the green canopy grew denser with thick branches, some low enough to touch. Yet, despite the rugged terrain, the pathway of twin tire tracks snaked on. It was impressive that anyone could have made those tracks. It would take an extremely skilled driver to get a vehicle down this path.

  After what felt like an hour of scrambling up and down the mountainside, I could finally hear the village. The unmistakable sounds of chickens and livestock mixed with voices and laughter. A few moments more, and the path terminated at the edge of a rural village. I held back, staying out of sight as I took in the minuscule town. It was primitive by American standards. A few dozen single-story huts and shacks made up the settlement. Most of the buildings wore thatched or corrugated tin roofs. Several had ramshackle wooden fences that contained most of the animals I had heard on my approach.

  Down the main road, if you could call it a road, for it was merely a dirt footpath, was a large two story building with a red tile roof and a balcony spanning the entire second floor. It was on the far side of the little town and dwarfed all the other buildings. That had to be the hotel Pruitt had told me about. I wondered how such a large venture could sustain itself in such a remote and tiny village. Pruitt had mentioned Blatt's house was near the hotel, but because of the undulating terrain of the village, several buildings remained mostly hidden from my view.

  Now that I had my bearings, I studied the activity of the village. Every few minutes a child would run across a pathway or the occasional chicken wandered aimlessly by, scratching the ground for food as it made its way haphazardly through the village. It was then I noticed something unexpected. Men in green uniforms were lazing about on one corner, nearly blending into the green backdrop of the jungle. Near them, poking out from behind one of the nicer looking homes, was the back of a covered military truck.

  I watched them for a few minutes, keeping low in the thick tropical underbrush bordering the village. They ignored the children playing in the streets but stopped and questioned each adult. I was too far away to make out any of the words, but I got the distinct impression they were looking for someone. Someone like me.

  The last thing I wanted was to deal with the Cuban military. The soldiers did not seem to be actively patrolling, but merely posted at strategic locations about the tiny village. Trying my best to look casual, I walked down a pathway leading away from the house with the soldiers and quickly put another house between them and myself. Carefully, I picked my way through the village, avoiding two more small groups of soldiers until I saw what had to be Dr. Blatt's two-story house.

  It was a concrete building, built in a colonial Spanish style, with a tile roof and shuttered archways. Though built in a similar style, it was not nearly as grand as Pruitt's house had been. But, compared to the shanties and huts in the village, it was a mansion. Its two stories rose above everything but the nearby hotel.

  Most of the soldiers were stationed away from the house and arranged in such a way as to give them the greatest surveillance coverage of the village. However, two men stood guard outside of the front door to Blatt's villa. Both had automatic rifles and looked to be on high alert. Their heads never stopped moving, constantly scanning from one point in the village to another.

  I'm not getting in that way, I thought to myself.

  Even without the guards, the front door was out of the question. At least two of the other groups of soldiers had a perfect view of the front of the house, and its sparse yard. I would have to find another way in. If the front door wasn't an option, I had no choice but to try the back. Carefully, I flanked the house, staying close to the jungle, my only option for escape should they see me.

  A large garden stretched out from behind the house, bordered by a three-foot stone fence. If I could get inside the garden, the fence would provide me with plenty of cover to approach the house. It was the only option I had.

  There were fewer guards here on the outskirts of the village. Most of the soldiers appeared to be concentrated in the town's center. The only obstacle in my way was a lone guard standing by an old iron gate. It served as the solitary entrance to the garden.

  This part of the village was relatively isolated, with few houses besides the hotel and the mansion. Except for one old lady who had just finished sweeping the porch of her house, there had been no movement. I watched the guard for at least five minutes and could tell he was bored, but alert. I was going to need a distraction to get by unnoticed.

  I did not have very many options. Knocking the man out would raise the alarm once he came to. I briefly considered throwing a rock nearby and hoping he would leave to investigate, but that trick probably only ever worked in movies and video games. At a loss for what to do, I surveyed the few surrounding homes and my eyes finally fell on a small pig pen along the side of the old lady's house. Inside, a fat sow was munching on scraps, grunting with contentment. I had an idea.

  Stealthily, I made my way over towards the pen, keeping a wary eye out for both the soldiers and the old lady who had thankfully disappeared into her house. I timed my advancement with the head movements of the guard to minimize my chances of being seen. It took me two minutes to cover the sixty or seventy yards, but I made it to the pen unseen.

  Like most things in the village, the pigpen was crude but effective. I followed the crooked line of posts and sticks with my eyes until I found the gate. A length of rope nestled into a deep notch cut into the gatepost held it closed. Certainly crude, but effective.

  I slipped over the low fence unnoticed by everyone but the pig, who let out a tiny squeal of surprise. After a moment it waddled over to me and poked me in the thigh with its snout and grunted.

  I gave her a quick "shh" and made my way to the gate, staying low and out of sight. The fat sow followed me, interested in who this intruder was. I pulled the rope loop over the gatepost and shoved the raggedy gate open. The pig looked out of the open gate, looked up at me, and "oinked."

  "Go on! Get!" I commanded in a hushed whisper. But the pig stood dumb and unmoving. "Vamamos, er, marcharse," I added, realizing the pig wouldn't understand English.

  Still, the pig didn't budge.

  I pushed the animal towards the open gate but she stood firm, her hooves rooted to the ground. I even slapped her on the hind quarter with no luck. My distraction wasn't working out so well.

  One last thought occurred to me. I grabbed the rope that had been used to keep the gate shut. It was made of a prickly natural fiber, probably hemp or sisal. Gripping both sides, I tested its strength. Then, I brought it up, took aim, and slung it forward with a snap, popping the pig on her rump as hard as I could.

  The sow let out an ear-piercing scream and shot out of the pen like a bullet. I barely had time to duck behind the fence before a dozen faces turned towards the squealing pig. Peeping through a hole in the fence, I could see a set of guards pointing and laughing at the panicked animal. Moments later the old lady came running from her house with her hands waving comically as the pig ran through a neighbor's dilapidated fence, scattering chickens in every direction. The soldiers doubled over with laughter, and I had to suppress a chuckle of my own.

  I climbed back over the fence, certain they would not see
me. My distraction had worked. The soldier guarding the rear garden left his post to witness the spectacle.

  I slipped from my cover and made my way towards the rusty iron gate. I forced myself to walk casually, not wanting to draw attention to myself with any sudden movements. By the time I had covered the distance to the stone wall of the garden, the old lady and one of the soldiers wrangled the upset pig and were guiding it back towards her house. Casual wasn't going to work, I was going to have to move faster.

  Holding my breath, I worked the latch of the ancient gate and swung it open. To my relief, it did not squeal or protest. I slipped inside and pushed the gate shut, only to have my heart skip a beat. The old iron gate let out a loud and mournful screech. I froze, straining my ears, listening to see if the guards had heard me.

  A moment passed, and then another. Then, when I relaxed, thinking I had gotten lucky, I heard the voices of two men and the unmistakable sound of footsteps. Panicked, I slung the gate shut, which now barely made a noise, and dove under one of the stunted orange trees growing in the garden. It was near the stone wall and I rolled until my back was flat up against it, my eyes fixed on the iron gate that had betrayed me.

  The voices grew louder and then stopped as they approached the gate. Once again, I found myself holding my breath as I flattened myself farther. I knew they couldn't see me unless they came into the garden, and with any luck they would quickly move on. I'm not a religious man, but I muttered a quick prayer, figuring it couldn't hurt.

  The gate swung open and a soldier's head leaned in and did a quick sweep of the interior. I remained deathly still as the man's eyes passed right over my hiding spot. His eyes continued searching for another few seconds before he shrugged and stepped back outside. The gate shut behind him, and I heard the two voices move off, back the way they had come. That was too close, I thought, and for a moment I wondered if the money Pruitt was offering was worth it.

  When my pulse returned to normal, I got up, dusted myself off and made my way to the back door. The soldiers had been an unexpected surprise, and I had been extremely lucky getting this far unseen. I just hoped the rest of this job wasn't so difficult.

  I reached for the heavy brass knocker of the villa's rear door when it jerked open. A hand darted from inside the house, seized my wrist, and before I could react, yanked me inside.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The heavy wooden door slammed shut as I stumbled inside the house, tripped, and fell to a sliding stop in the middle of a cavernous kitchen. I looked around me and saw cabinets held together by grime and peeling paint lining the room. Their doors were missing, displaying empty shelves of dust and rotting wood. On the countertop were a handful of pots and a few plates and bowls. An ancient refrigerator sat on one wall, open and unused, its wire racks leaning up against its side. The only modern appliance was a cheap-looking stainless steel stove that was completely out of place in the rustic and rundown kitchen.

  I pulled myself to my feet and turned to face the man who had pulled me inside. He was a thin, almost emaciated looking fellow in his mid-thirties. A pair of delicate wire-rimmed glasses rested on his hawkish nose and magnified the disappointment in his pale blue eyes. He scowled, his full ginger beard twitching with annoyance.

  "Are you trying to get yourself killed, mate?" The man's voice rasped out with admonishment. "What is wrong with you?"

  I stared at him, confused. "Dr. Blatt?"

  "Of course I'm Miles Blatt, ya bampot. How many other Scots do you think there are in this no-name village?"

  His hostility was off-putting. I couldn't see why he was angry with me. "I apologize if I've caused any problems, I didn't want to have to explain myself to the troops crawling through the village," I replied, still confused.

  Dr. Blatt softened at that. "Yes, I could see where that would be an uncomfortable situation to find yourself in. I forget Americans typically aren't allowed here. And since you're working for that jobby jabber Pruitt, you're probably not here legally, are you?"

  "If Adrian Pruitt does anything legal, I'd be surprised."

  "Ha! You're probably right. Come in," he said in a much more friendly manner and gestured to the interior of the house. "You must be Chase Hawkins. Well, I guess I better give you the information that you need so we can both get back to work."

  I followed him out of the spartan kitchen and into the chaos that was Miles Blatt's work. Academic clutter covered every surface of what was probably a dining room. Or it had been once, before Blatt turned it into his office. He had used every square inch of space for his work.

  Papers spilled over from the bookshelves lining the walls. More papers were spread across the small tables scattered throughout the room. Books teetered in towering stacks, ready to fall with the slightest disturbance. Some lay open, others seemingly forgotten. Maps and charts spread out on a large table took up nearly all the remaining free space of the room. In one corner, much to my surprise, was a child. He couldn't be more than twelve years old, but he sat at a desk, scribbling notes as he frantically searched through a dusty leather-bound tome. He was so absorbed with his search he didn't look up or even notice my presence.

  My eyes ached as they adjusted to the dimness of the house. Even though it was midday and bright outside, a smoggy sort of brown haze was all that filtered through the windows. Dirt and grime clung to them, turning the once grand windows dingy and opaque. A couple of table lamps cast out their weak light into the room, but did little to lift the feeling of gloom.

  "Impressive, isn't it?" Blatt said with cheery pride as I took in the room. "I've only been here a couple of weeks, but it's already feeling like home."

  "Yeah, if home is a rat's nest. How do you find anything in this mess?" I asked, horrified anyone could find this cozy.

  "Mess, ya say? I thought I had the old place cleaned up pretty well," he replied with a frown.

  "Maybe I've been on boats too long. 'Everything has a place and everything in its place,' takes on a new meaning when your whole house pitches and rolls violently," I said, and then nodded towards the child. "Who's the kid?"

  "Oh, Pancho? He's... my assistant. The wee lad took a shine to me when I first arrived in the village and has proved extremely helpful. He reads well, speaks English, and does not mind running my errands or doing the other mundane chores of life so I can work."

  At the mention of his name the boy finally looked up, wide eyed at the appearance of another gringo in the house. He scrambled to his feet, obviously unsure if he should greet me or not. Blatt took care of the situation, speaking to the boy rapidly in Spanish. A moment later the boy hung his head and skulked past us and out the back door.

  "What did you say to him?" I asked.

  "I asked him to go buy some groceries while you and I talked business. The little devil would have rather stayed and listened. He'll get over it. Now, have a seat and I'll tell you about this idol you're searching for."

  I removed a stack of books from a chair and pulled it up to the big table in the middle of the room. Miles did the same on the other end. As he sat down, I got the distinct impression he was about to give me a lecture. In fact, he looked like he would have been right at home in some dark college library in New England. All he needed was a tweed jacket to complete the look.

  "What do you know about La Alma del Taino?" He asked.

  "I'm sorry," I said, confused. "The what?"

  Blatt's eyebrow cocked up, and his eyes narrowed. "Fer fuck's sake man," he swore, letting his Scottish accent fly, "It means the Soul of the Taino. Do you speak any Spanish?"

  "I know enough to order a beer, that's about it," I replied. "Pruitt never called it by such a name. Truth be told, I know almost nothing about it," I admitted, "just the legend Pruitt told me. It was some idol the chiefs hid away from the Spanish. Right?" Blatt nodded, and I continued. "It was supposedly very sought after, but they never found it. Honestly, I don't even know what it looks like. Pruitt never sent me a picture."

  Blatt sighed. "
That doesn't surprise me. Adrian always did like to withhold information. He gave you the short version of its history," he said and leaned forward towards me. "The reality of it is much bloodier. The Taino people of course were unprepared for the Spanish explorers. They were no match for the advanced weapons and cavalry, but the actual killer was disease. As the population of the tribes dwindled, the chiefs realized they were doomed. They banded together to preserve something of their people and hid their most valued possession. The idol's single purpose is to keep the memory of the Taino people alive."

  "La Alma del Taino." I said, allowing the gravity of the name to wash over me. "And you're OK with giving me information to find and remove such an important cultural piece?"

  "As a historian and archaeologist, I would prefer that you leave the idol alone. Part of me is curious to examine it, of course, but I believe it should, at a minimum, be given to a museum, and preferably left alone. But General Bardales, the so-called minister of antiquities, would sell it to the highest bidder on the black market and pocket the money himself. There are probably other unscrupulous people searching for it as well. I know Adrian Pruitt. I've worked with him in the past. He's an utter ass, but he truly appreciates the past."

  "And he funds most of your research, doesn't he?" I asked, seeing through the thin veil of praise.

  "And yes, he funds most of my research," he conceded. "Losing one artifact to a private collector such as Pruitt is a small price to pay for the amount of knowledge the world has gained from the research he has funded."

  "I don't know, I had a long time to think about this on the way here. It feels like I'm doing the wrong thing stealing such an important artifact."

  "Think of it this way, Mr. Hawkins. Nobody has seen it for hundreds of years, it's not like it is going to be missed," Blatt said flatly.

  I nodded my head. The man had a point. It was too late for an attack of conscience; I was here to do a job, and I would do it. "Alright, Doc, tell me what I need to know."