by Dan Pollock
The Capuchin priest hurried up to them, obviously full of news, but shorter of breath. In fact, he just stood speechless, mouth agape and frail chest heaving, and the old Kamarakota began to deliver the information himself, augmenting his Spanish with pantomime and occasional lapses into Pemón. By the time he’d finished, Father Tomás had recovered enough to clarify details.
Just moments ago, it seemed—right after the pair had identified the photographs and explained the legend of Kavak—they’d come upon a young man returning from that canyon, which was a favorite place for gathering orchids. Tracing the watercourse down from the canyon mouth, the Indian had discovered a curiara with an outboard motor concealed on a sandbank, under a heap of macheted shrubbery. The man had come back to ask what should be done about it.
“Does that stream connect to the Caroní?” Sam wanted to know.
Enrico thought it did, and this was confirmed by the old priest and the Kamarakota. Indeed, the dugout could have traveled all the way from Guri Lake, either straight up the Caroní to the Kukurital, or by switching to the Carrao at Canaima and following it upstream around Auyán-Tepui’s eastern flank to the Río Akanan.
Sam felt an adrenaline rush. This could be it, he thought, the break they’d been needing. Those bastards could be right across the valley! Enrico’s eyes flashed the same thought.
Sam turned to get D.W., but the man was suddenly there, having emerged from the schoolhouse and looking around.
“D.W.—” Sam started, then broke off. His old associate looked stunned. “What is it, Duke? Did the police hear something?”
“A ransom note was found this morning in Canaima—from the Bandera Roja.”
“What does it say?”
“They have Jacqueline. They want five million dollars.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Sam fired off several questions, but D.W. just stared back—not at Sam, but with his focus inward. He seemed almost to be smiling. Then he leaned heavily against the doorframe.
“Duke, are you all right?”
“Father, could you help me here?” D.W. managed to focus briefly on Sam. “The note was in Spanish. They read it to us that way first. Father Uribe took notes.”
The Capuchin priest had appeared behind D.W. “Perhaps you’ll give me a moment to excuse my pupils for another recess? They won’t object, I assure you. Then we can all come inside.”
They heard Uribe make the announcement within. Then came a flurry of feet on hard clay, and the doorway began hemorrhaging brown-skinned children. It was impossible to tally the blur, but after they’d dispersed, rejoicing, in all directions, there seemed to have been at least two dozen. In the quiet aftermath, the four visitors filed inside the oblong structure and took seats along the front bench. Father Uribe stood facing them, studying his notes.
On two sides of the schoolroom a series of embrasures admitted more than enough sunlight for students to read their lessons on the slate chalkboard, and the cursive alphabetic models bannered above. The whitewashed walls were decorated with maps and faded calendar scenes of Angel Falls and other Venezuelan vistas—including the Andes and Caribbean coasts. Above a rough-hewn corner desk were portraits of Jesus and Mary, the Pope, Saint Francis of Assisi and Simón Bolívar.
Father Uribe went to a large wall map of the Gran Sabana. “The ransom note was discovered early this morning here in Puerto Kukurital. That’s not even a village, as I recall, just some shelters built by the Indians who run a dugout ferry across the Caroní between Taraipa and Canaima Camp. But there’s enough daily traffic that the kidnappers could be sure the note would be discovered.
“It was printed on the back of a label from a can of Spam. It was signed Bandera Roja—Red Flag. It mentioned—this is a quote—‘bombing the capitalist iron mine on Cerro Calvario and capitalist ships docked in the port of San Félix.’” The priest cleared his throat. “And it goes on to mention ‘taking hostage the daughter of a capitalist’—well, the word used was tirano, which means ‘tyrant.’”
“Padre,” Sam said, “as D.W. knows, the police have gotten quite a few notes and phone calls from people pretending to be the kidnappers. Why do they think this one is legitimate?”
Uribe glanced over at D.W. “I believe the note correctly identifies the, um, apellido de soltera, the unmarried name—”
“Maiden name,” Enrico contributed.
“Yes, the maiden name of Señor Lee’s wife, is it not so? Julienne Langlois?”
“Ex-wife,” D.W. corrected. His arms were folded, his eyes cast down at the earthen floor.
“D.W., that isn’t exactly privileged information,” Sam said. “You’ve been profiled in a lot of business publications, in a lot of countries.”
“They also know my pet name for her—Chewy. That’s how she said I used to pronounce Julie. Besides Julienne and me, only Jake knew that.”
“Okay. Go ahead, Padre.”
“What have I mentioned? Ah, yes. To obtain her release, this Red Flag demands a sum of five million dollars, which is to be left at a designated place in the Gran Sabana. I will show you this place on the map. It is only fifty kilometers from here. Let’s see, the money must be left on Sunday night, that is three nights from now.”
“Or?”
“If the Red Flag messenger does not return safely with the money, or if he is followed, the note says Señorita Lee will not be released. There is a further, um, unspecified threat.”
“Unspecified?” D.W. shouted.
“What the note actually threatens is—,” Uribe glanced down again, “to, quote, do unto yours what you have done unto us, unquote, and to, quote, seek retribution equal to the rape and destruction of Venezuela by Proteus and other foreign exploiters, unquote.”
“And if the ransom is delivered?” Sam asked.
“They promise only that Señorita Lee will be released, but not where or when. We must trust them, they say.”
“How do they want the five million?”
“In dollars, bolívars, diamonds, gold. The proportions aren’t specified.”
Enrico got up and walked to the map of the Sabana. “Padre, you said you could show us where they want the ransom left?”
“Yes,” Uribe said, as the others joined them. “Here is the Sabana Road. It runs from El Dorado all the way south to Brazil, three hundred kilometers. But here at Kilometer 140, this side road leads west sixty kilometers to our Mission at Kavanayén, then another twenty kilometers beyond to the Karuay River. The road ends at the river, and a trail leads through forest to Karuay Falls.” Uribe consulted his notes again. “The ransom is to be left at midnight, in a waterproof sack, under a thatched shelter beside the trail head. The money will be collected before sunrise on Monday morning.”
“You know this place?” Sam asked Enrico.
Enrico nodded. “I’ve been there.”
“Okay. Padre, thank you very much,” Sam said. “We apologize for disrupting your morning here—”
“Please, I’m at your service.”
“Then perhaps you could stay with us a while longer? I have some more questions.” Sam turned to D.W. “Duke, Enrico and I just found out something else—while you were on the radio to Puerto Ordaz. It may fit in with all this.”
“What is it?”
“Maybe we have an idea where Oscar and his buddies have gone to ground.” Sam told about the Indian finding the concealed dugout outside Kavak Canyon. He pointed to the map.
“Here’s Canaima, where the ransom note was found. Or actually in Puerto Kukurital, here, by the river. Now, as Father Uribe just showed us, here’s where they want the money dropped three nights later. Judging by this legend, it’s got to be at least a hundred kilometers. Assuming they’re in a dugout, how would they do it? Padre?”
“The long way—by the Río Carrao—goes right through Canaima Camp and requires portaging around waterfalls and rapids. They would almost certainly be seen. The shorter way is to come right up the Kukurital to our valley, then take the Río Kavak to reach th
e Akanan.
“From here, the ransom drop location is only about fifty kilometers by various tributaries across the savanna to the southeast. In fact, there were plans to continue the road from the mission there to our mission here in Kamarata. Fortunately, the government created Canaima National Park, and the plan was canceled.”
“So, basically, Padre, here in Kamarata—or in Kavak, just across the valley—we’re halfway along the most direct route between where the ransom note was found and where the money is supposed to be picked up.”
“That is correct.”
D.W. stared at the map, then placed a stubby forefinger on the tiny, indented canyon of Kavak at the southern tip of arrowhead-shaped Auyán-Tepui. “Sam, you actually think they’re here now... the kidnappers... and Jacqueline?”
“It’s worth checking, D.W.,” Sam said. “They need a place to hide out during the day—maybe longer, if Oscar sends his Indians to fetch the ransom. If not, where the hell did that outboard canoe come from, and why is it being hidden there?”
D.W. swung toward the priest. “F ather Uribe, how far is that canyon from here?”
“Fifteen kilometers. An hour by motorized dugout.”
After an interval of silence in which anxious glances were exchanged, Sam spoke: “Padre, perhaps if you could leave us a moment? I think we need to decide some things in private.”
The Capuchin left, taking, at Enrico’s suggestion, a reluctant Bernardo with him. Sam resumed:
“Obviously, it’s your call, D.W. But maybe I should go over the options as I see ’em.
“One, we get back on the padre’s radio and call in the troops. Tell them everything we know. They’ll be down here fast—hell, there’s gotta be a planeload on the way already. They can send a hostage-rescue team to explore Kavak.
“Two. We radio Acosta and Siso, tell them we found out who the Indians are. Tell ’em everything except about Kavak. Then, because that’s the only way they’ll play it, we let them arrange a phony, electronically tagged money drop, or set up a high-powered ambush, or whatever.
“Three. We go and check out this Kavak Canyon ourselves. Today. Right now, before anybody else shows up. Get a Kamarakota guide to take us to the entrance. If we find Oscar and his pals, we try and convince him to deal with us instead of the feds. Make him see it’s in his best interest. Trade him Jacqueline for the money you’ve brought. If he demands a guarantee of safe conduct out of the area, hell, he can take me along as a hostage.
“Anyway, those are the three options I see. You guys see any others?”
The llanero leaned against the wall, smoking a cigarette. He shook his head. D.W.’s response was not to Sam’s question:
“You definitely think security forces are on their way here?”
“They sure as hell know where your radio call originated. And they know you’re holding out on ’em. I’d say we have two hours at the most before the first government plane hits the mission runway.”
D.W. regarded both men in turn, then spoke brusquely:
“I can’t ask either of you to risk your life. If I choose Sam’s third option, I’ll go in alone.”
“No, D.W., that’s a fourth option, and it’s no good. We all go in together, and you call the shots. Agree or disagree, Enrico?”
“Agree. Señorita Jacqueline is also my friend.”
“I’m in no shape to argue.” D.W. finger-combed his thinning hair. “So I won’t. I’ll just say that I’m grateful, deeply grateful. I won’t forget it, whatever happens. But here’s another question for you. I’ve been carrying around my .45 auto ever since the fire aboard the Kallisto. Did either of you happen to bring anything along?”
“No gun,” Sam said.
“I have a lever action thirty-thirty,” Enrico said, slapping his daypack. “It’s a take-down gun, in four pieces. In the States what you’d call a deer rifle. It goes back together in thirty seconds. From a hundred meters I can put five bullets into that old bastard’s head—if he stands still.”
D.W. nodded thoughtfully. “Excellent. But please leave it disassembled, understand, Enrico?”
“Yes, absolutely, I agree with you, Señor. We must do nothing to endanger your daughter. I think that is why you do not wish to send in the federales with their machine guns.”
“That’s exactly right.”
“So,” Sam asked, “we go in?”
D.W. hefted the zipper bag. “We go in.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Bernardo had talked himself into the expedition only to be dismissed on the threshold of adventure—left behind with their dugout canoe outside the entrance to Kavak Canyon. But the youth’s dejection was visibly relieved as Enrico emphasized the importance of his assignment. He must not only stand watch over their canoe, but also keep an eye out for Oscar and the Indians—since the kidnappers’ canoe, assuming it was the one discovered earlier by their Kamarakota guide, lay concealed right around an upstream bend of the river. Most importantly, if Oscar and the Indians did appear—with or without Señorita Jacqueline—Bernardo was to stay out of sight and radio immediately for help. The spike-haired youth was given a hand-held transceiver preset to a frequency being monitored both by Enrico, with an identical two-way, and by Padre Uribe at the Kamarata Mission base radio.
Having motored and pushed their curiara as far as possible up the Kavak’s boulder-strewn main channel before beaching it in Bernardo’s charge, the others now continued on foot. Their guide, a barrel-chested, bow-legged young Kamarakota named Julio, led off barefoot beside the churning river. His faded T-shirt advertised an unlikely Hollywood connection: “ARACHNOPHOBIA CREW 1989—ON LOCATION, VENEZUELA.” He was closely followed by D.W., squinting beneath a golf cap and carrying his airline bag. Then came Sam, bare-headed and unencumbered; and finally Enrico with his ranch hat, daypack and belt-attached radio. Though wearing their own shoes, all three men now sported shapeless, faded walking shorts courtesy of Father Uribe. Apparently they could expect a lot of wading ahead.
Once past the other dugout in its brushy concealment, Julio began to crouch periodically and peer closely at the riverbank path they were following. After many such inspections, he announced that several people had passed that way since last night’s rain. Two Indians, a man wearing shoes.
And a woman? Enrico prompted. Julio shrugged.
Directly ahead of them now reared the massif of Auyán-Tepui, a brooding presence in the noon savanna sun, with shredded cumulus wreathing its purple-streaked brow. But here, at its southern apex, the great plateau had crumbled in places into projecting spurs and forested foothills. It was through these fallen ramparts that the Río Kavak first emerged, slicing a knife-edged gorge; then, in a series of headlong plunges and lazy serpentines, carving out a canyon that gradually widened into a broad, alluvial wedge, fanning far out onto the valley floor.
As they headed up this twisting, tumbling watercourse, the stocky Kamarakota occasionally pointed things out to them. Here and there in the embankment thickets, lavender orchids could be glimpsed. A morpho butterfly jinked across their path, flaunting iridescent blue forewings and brown hindwings. Julio also indicated that the Kavak was running higher than usual, owing to the previous night’s thundershowers.
But the rest of his party was plainly not interested in tropic scenery, flora or fauna. All were internally preoccupied and, as far as externals, attuned only to danger, not beauty. And, after their hour-long dugout voyage, the first few minutes of midday hiking up the winding riverpath had them mopping sweat-stung eyes and laboring for breath. Even Enrico moved without his usual nonchalance. Only their guide remained unaffected by the wilting heat.
Had Sam Warrender and Duk-Won Lee compared their besetting fears, they would have found them horribly parallel. Naturally, both men were afraid of what they might find ahead. What if Jacqueline was already dead, having been carried in as a corpse—thus leaving no footprints? What if her precious life was being snuffed this very instant, while they wheezed and plodded u
p this path, amateur cavalry late to the rescue? Or what if she was in no immediate danger, but their clumsy arrival caused her death? Were they, in fact, endangering her simply to assuage their own sense of helplessness? Should they have relied on that roomful of professionals?
And both men feared what they might not find up-canyon. Nothing at all, or perhaps an innocent party of adventure trekkers. Such futility would crush whatever feeble hope each was harboring. It would be like losing Jacqueline a second time.
Sam and D.W., of course, had argued these points together in rationalizing their present course of action. It seemed clear, for instance, that the security police’s primary concern was that this terrorist-kidnapping not engender others. Which meant that Jacqueline’s safety could only be a secondary objective. Which explained why the police were rejecting all demands in advance, refusing to negotiate and instead readying their shoot-to-kill commandos. Under these circumstances, it was too easy to visualize Colonel Higueras and his red berets fast-roping out of choppers or charging up this canyon path, intent only on taking out the bad guys, even if it imperiled their hostage, and unleashing a full-auto barrage the instant they were fired upon. On the contrary, D.W. and Sam had agreed to put Jacqueline’s safety above their own. And, in a discussion that had not included Enrico, each had expressed a willingness to offer himself as hostage, if it would avail her release.
But suppose they were wrong in all this? Or suppose they were right, yet their best efforts still proved fatal to Jacqueline?
Such unanswerable anxieties exacted a far greater physical toll on them than did the heat or humidity. Fear clutched the throat, coiled in the chest and stomach. A sharp sound in the bordering underbrush could lift the hairs along the back of the neck and forearm. The eye swept ahead for danger, while the mind perversely withdrew, observing this march into the unknown and wondering under what irrevocably resolved circumstances they would pass this way again... or if they would pass this way again.
The Kamarakota crouched again as the footpath narrowed, encroached upon by foliage. He was pointing at the light green underside of fresh-slashed leaves. Machete work. They saw similar blade wounds ahead, as the trail traced the brink of an undercut embankment; and even more as it turned away from the rushing water, tunneling through a solid tangle of exposed roots, screening undergrowth and hanging vines and lianas. Their guide was moving much more slowly and cautiously now, watching and listening at almost every step—especially when the path looped down to rejoin the river, depositing them on an exposed rock ledge. His aural and visual acuity had been demonstrated during the journey by curiara when he had heard an aero engine over the savanna and pointed to the sky—long seconds before the others could detect its presence.