Customs was cleaner and more efficient than Rickards was expecting, especially given the modest size of the airport.
Angela could see the look of surprise on his face. “What did you expect, people carrying caged chickens?”
“Something like that.”
She laughed. “I shouldn’t joke. There are places like that.” She reached into a pocket and withdrew her cell phone. “No signal here.”
Rickards bumped her with his arm and motioned toward a sign on the wall, banning cell phone usage in the area.
“Why don’t they want people to use their phones?”
Rickards shrugged. “Probably freaks out the chickens.”
About thirty feet behind them stood Fischer, calmly, quietly watching both as they inched forward in the line. Rickards carried a large duffel bag and the Reed woman towed a stylish green and white rolling suitcase.
His eyes shifted to the customs agents, searching for any signs of an alert, but found none. His boss Ottman would not be foolish enough to use his connections and stop the Americans at the border. Too many people and too many agents. Where they needed them was a more secluded environment.
They would wait. Until the time was right.
39
The flight from Lima to the smaller city of Puerto Maldonado was even worse. This time they were aboard a smaller prop plane that had seen better days, highlighted when the main door failed to close without the help of both the attendant and the pilot. Angela and Rickards were both relieved to be back on solid ground just forty-five minutes later.
Outside the large one-building airport, the hot, humid afternoon air absorbed them immediately upon exiting, a welcome to the tropical Amazon Basin, promptly made worse by a brief but harrowing bus ride to the car rental agency. The young bus driver appeared to believe they were on the autobahn and speed limits were merely suggestions.
Clutching the chrome handrails firmly, Angela and Rickards both glanced at each other repeatedly, surprised that none of the other passengers seemed to notice. It was just a quiet busload of locals all moving and swaying in unison while looking at their phones.
The end of a long journey that prompted them both to sit quietly in their rental car for several minutes just to relax.
Rickards studied the instruments of the automobile. A French design painted bright yellow.
“At least they drive on the right side of the road.”
“Don’t get too excited,” she said, winking. “You’re still going to need your defensive driving skills.”
At that, Rickards reached back and retrieved his seat belt.
“Welcome to Puerto Maldonado. Just like your football player.”
“Baseball.”
“Whatever.”
***
An hour later, Rickards crossed the hotel’s shabbily carpeted hall and knocked on the opposing door. He waited only a few seconds before Angela pulled it open. She was freshly showered and dressed but wore a worried look.
“What’s wrong?”
She pulled him in and closed the door while holding up her phone. “I just connected to Wi-Fi and had a voicemail come in.”
“And?”
“It was from one of the staff at the nursing home.”
“In Wheat Ridge?”
She nodded. “They can’t find Lillian Porter!”
Rickards raised both eyebrows. “Your grandfather’s girlfriend?”
“Yes! They can’t find her anywhere.”
“For how long?”
“Two days. I just called them back.”
“How did they sound?”
“What do you mean?”
“How worried did they sound?”
Angela paused. “I don’t know, not overly. They said this happened before when she went to visit her sister. She lives in the mountains where the phones had gone out. And they’re out again.”
“Did she let anyone know?”
“Not that they can find.”
Rickards thought it over. “When was the last time you talked to her?”
Angela moved to her bag and pulled out one of her grandfather’s journals. “The evening before I came to your house. When she gave me these and some other boxes.”
Rickards frowned. “Hmm.”
“And that’s not all. She was getting ready to go somewhere.”
“When you saw her?”
“Yes.”
“Where was she going?”
“She wouldn’t say. But I could tell.”
“Maybe to her sister’s?”
“Maybe.”
He stared at the journal in Angela’s hand. “Could someone else know about this?”
“I don’t know. I don’t see how.”
“The mail carrier said the envelope looked like it had been opened before.” Rickards walked past her to the window, peering out through a set of thin, faded curtains.
“Do you see anything?”
After a pause, he nodded. “Yes. Cars. People. Some mountains.”
“I’m serious!”
He didn’t look away. “Nothing unusual.”
Angela plopped down onto the bed. “What do you think we should do?”
“About what?”
“Lillian.”
He let go of the fabric and looked at her. “I think if the nursing home isn’t worried, then we shouldn’t be. And being thousands of miles away, there’s not a lot we can do at the moment.”
Angela nodded. “Right. Okay. Then what now?”
He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost four o’clock. And I’m going to be dead tired in two hours, three tops. It’s a small town. Let’s put your Spanish to work.”
“You mean Andre Lopez?”
“Andre Lopez,” he nodded. “At the Department of General Services.”
40
From the back of a black Mercedes, Karl Ottman watched from a safe distance as the two left the hotel. Not through his window, but from a book-sized screen in his hands. He watched Angela and Rickards exit from beneath the old building’s narrow arch, chipped and faded, the walls on either side covered by patches of half-dead ivy.
The video feed was being broadcast by Fischer, who was parked closer, within a hundred yards, one of several sedans parked along the street. A small camera had been placed atop the car’s dashboard.
Fischer watched the two stop at the street and look back and forth, orienting themselves.
“Where are they going?” Ottman’s voice crackled over the phone’s speaker.
It took only a block and a half to know exactly where the Americans were headed.
41
Caught up in the great rubber boom of the late 1800s, Puerto Maldonado resided less than forty miles from the Bolivian border and was one of the last of the outlying areas to finally be explored. The city was permanently established when Carlos Fermin Fitzcarrald, a rubber baron, found a passage over land between two Amazon River tributaries, allowing him to easily and more efficiently float his revolutionary new product downstream.
Now, situated between three large natural reserves, modern-day Puerto Maldonado’s current role was the capital city of the entire region. It was small by most standards but bustled as one of the largest incorporated cities located within the actual boundaries of the Amazon jungle. An urban sprawl of dozens of short buildings made up over two and a half square miles of flattened jungle and waterways, with a small cluster of government offices located downtown.
“Peruvians are more formal than we are, so expect a lot of handshaking. And try to remember to greet people when entering a place. Buenos días or buenos tardes. And also when you leave.”
Rickards nodded and moved out of the way of several passing locals, their rich, darkened skin contrasting perfectly against brightly colored and remarkably modern clothing.
“And also,” she continued, “keep your wallet in your front pocket. Pickpocketing and purse snatching are common here.”
“Charming.”
She shot hi
m a sarcastic glance as they neared the corner, where Angela peered up to study a street sign.
It was farther than they thought, especially in the heat, which was quickly turning Rickards’ gray T-shirt dark with perspiration around the collar.
When they finally reached the street they were looking for, they didn’t have to travel far before spotting the cluster of government buildings. Most were average-sized office buildings that looked to be modestly maintained.
They found the General Services entrance and entered through a white-painted metal door that clanged loudly when closing behind them.
As if calling everyone to attention, the door caused all three heads in the room to look up. All women, with the closest the first to speak.
“Puedo ayudarte?”
“Perdonanos,” Angela replied with a smile. “Estamos buscando a alguien.”
Upon detecting Angela’s accent, the younger woman, dressed comfortably in a blue-green dress, switched to English. “Who are you looking for?”
“Andre Lopez, please.”
The woman, still sitting, turned and looked at one of her colleagues, who abruptly stopped typing.
The typist, a heavyset older woman, stood up and approached the counter. “You are looking for Andre?” Her English was also surprisingly good.
“Yes. Is he here?”
The woman placed both hands on the waist-high counter. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid he is not here.”
“When will he be back?”
Rickards noticed a slight fidget in the woman’s hands.
“I am sorry. But Andre Lopez is not here. He has not been seen for several days. He left.”
Angela looked curiously at Rickards. “What does that mean?”
The woman leaned forward and lowered her voice, pausing slightly to make sure she used the correct wording.
“He has run off.”
“Run off?”
“Yes,” the woman said quietly. “With another woman.” After a moment, seeing the confusion on Angela’s face, she leaned in a little further, now whispering. “His fiancée came home to find another woman’s clothes in their house. And their money at the bank, gone.”
Angela continued staring, unsure of what to say.
“When did this happen?”
“Last week.” The woman looked at Rickards. “Was he supposed to help you with something?”
Angela started blinking, before shaking her head and reaching into her bag. “Uh…we believe he mailed this letter a few weeks ago. From here. A special delivery. Something that had been lost for a long time.”
The woman took the photocopy and studied the picture of the envelope before shaking her head. “It does not look familiar.” She turned and called the third woman, who was short, with long, gray-streaked hair.
After a rapid exchange in Spanish, she, too, shook her head.
“None of you know anything about this?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“Nothing in your computers?”
The two women looked at each other.
“No notes, or anything?”
“I’m sorry,” the woman repeated. “Perhaps his supervisor knows something. She works in another building.”
“Can we get her name and address?” Rickards asked.
“Sí. Of course.” The woman reached under the counter and retrieved a small piece of paper. Finding a pen, she jotted something down. The other two women watched without a word.
“Here is her name, address and phone number. She is in the large administration building about a half kilometer down this street.”
When they stepped back outside into the heat, Angela immediately whirled around.
“Are you kidding me? He ran off?! Days before we get here?”
Rickards didn’t speak, instead squinting and peering out over their surroundings.
“Doesn’t that strike you as a little odd?”
“It does.”
Angela suddenly stopped and grabbed Joe’s arm. “Wait a minute! Do you think this Andre guy was the one who opened the letter?”
“Maybe.”
“What if he did? What if he opened it and saw what was inside?”
“As in?”
“As in he saw what was written on the pages?!”
“And then what?”
“Maybe he figured something out!”
“Figured what out? We can’t figure it out, and we know a lot more than him. That’s why we’re here.”
“He would have seen the name of the village,” she said. “Alerta! It’s only a couple hours away. What if he knew something, or found out what this ‘Almv10’ means at the end of the message?”
Rickards mulled it over with a frown.
“Possible?” she asked.
“Possible maybe, but I doubt probable.”
Angela turned and spotted the same three women through the window. All were speaking together and watching her and Rickards standing outside.
When they reached the street, Angela continued left for several feet before realizing Rickards had stopped.
“What is it?
“Something doesn’t feel right here,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. But I’m not sure we want to go marching into his boss’s office just yet. Suppose this Lopez figured something out and ran off. With a woman. Frankly, those two don’t seem to mesh,” Rickards said, thinking as he spoke. “But let’s just assume for the moment it does. Secondarily, the guy disappears for some other reason. Maybe just for the woman, and our letter has nothing to do with it. Regardless, I think either scenario may engender more than a little curiosity by the authorities as to why you and I are here asking questions.”
She nodded. “Okay. But what if his boss knows something?”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know. Where he is. Maybe he left a note. At the very least, I’m guessing someone in the department has been looking through his emails. Isn’t that how you guys do it?”
Rickards nodded. “Yes, it is. But it also means that anyone even remotely connected would be a person of interest. And we are remotely connected.”
“Okay. Then what do you suggest?”
“A phone.”
42
The phone used was in a convenience store back the way they came and a few blocks from the hotel. After purchasing two bottles of cold water, Angela asked the owner, an old woman likely in her seventies, if she could use her teléfono.
As she dialed the number on the paper, Rickards edged closer to the small shop’s front window and peered up and down the street.
“Hello,” said Angela. “I’m calling for Maria Camila Sanchez.” After a pause, she nodded. “Yes. Fine.”
She said to Rickards, “They’re getting her.”
He nodded and noticed something curious outside. He gave a quick motion to Angela with his finger, signaling he’d be right back.
Even at five o’clock, the sun had not fallen near enough to provide any noticeable relief from the heat, inducing Rickards to shade his eyes with one hand while peering across the street.
In the shade on the other side, at the edge of a small park, were several boys not much older than nine or ten. All were walking in a group behind a smaller boy in the front.
At first glance, they appeared to be together. But after a few moments, it was clear they weren’t. The group of boys was actually trailing the first, taunting the small boy in front, who appeared slightly darker skinned than the rest.
They were calling after the younger boy in words Rickards couldn’t understand. But the sound was derogatory.
Finally, one of the kids in the lead reached out and knocked something from the small boy’s hands and then snatched it away to show those behind him. It appeared to be a small bag of something.
Rickards watched the boy in front quickly twist around in an effort to take his bag back, but the rest had spread out and began tossing it between them.
Rickards looked up and down the empty street and took a swig of cold water before stepping off the curb. He approached silently as the boys continued taunting and laughing and was less than twenty feet away when they noticed him.
The smallest boy did not see him. Instead, he turned away, trying to retrieve both his bag and now an item the others had taken out.
Silently, Rickards passed beneath the shade of several large trees and stopped a few feet from them. When the small boy noticed the expressions on the other faces, he turned and looked back with the rest.
“Give it back,” Rickards said in English.
The group of boys slowed to a standstill, all wearing a look of uncertainty.
“Give it…back,” he repeated and pointed at the bag.
When they didn’t move, he moved closer, still pointing, and snapped his fingers.
The message was clear. And the boys responded—first, by looking back and forth at each other, then slowly reaching out and handing the items back.
The smaller boy grabbed them both and scurried away, glancing only briefly at Rickards as he did so. His face was dark, with a slightly wider-bridged nose and cheekbones. He resembled pictures of natives Rickards had seen in a magazine on the plane.
He watched the kid leave and turned back to find the other boys had suddenly scattered, resulting in a small grin—until he heard a loud voice.
Not one, but two voices. Deep and loud, from two men not more than a hundred feet away.
And were approaching.
Both were large and appeared young, perhaps in their twenties, dressed in casual clothing. And both appeared visibly upset.
One of the men pointed to the scattered boys as they marched toward him, shouting in Spanish, words that were completely unintelligible to Rickards.
He took a step back and checked behind him, then raised both hands in a nonconfrontational gesture.
“Take it easy. Take it easy.”
But the two men didn’t. If anything, they became more incensed, now spreading apart as they drew closer.
The Last Monument Page 12