Shadow of the Jaguar

by Steven Savile

  “Ah, James, come in, come in.” The old man gestured toward the second empty armchair.

  “Sir Charles,” Lester said, joining him beside the fire. Bairstow lookedtired; more so than the hour accounted for. This was a weariness that had been ground in over days. He recognised the symptoms of insomnia in Bairstow’s eyes and the pallor of his skin. Dark shadows followed the line of his jaw, suggesting that it had been more than a day since he last shaved. Still, he maintained an air of dignity, despite his exhaustion.

  “Care for a snifter?” Sir Charles unstoppered an ornate crystal carafe filled with amber brandy, and poured himself a finger’s worth into his equally ornate glass.

  “It’s a little late for a social call,” Lester observed.

  “Indeed, but we are civilised men, James. We can conduct our business with a modicum of decorum, no?”

  Lester inclined his head in agreement.

  Sir Charles filled a second glass and pushed it across the table. Lester picked it up and cradled it in his hand, swirling the rich liquid gently against the sides of the glass before lifting it to his nose and inhaling. The fumes alone were intoxicating. He sipped the brandy and set the glass aside.

  “I take it there is a reason for the hour, and the location?” he ventured.

  “Indeed,” Sir Charles said, leaning forward in his chair. “It’s all very clandestine, I know, but I would ask a favour of you.” The way the old man said “favour” left Lester in no doubt that he was about to be asked for the sort of favour he could not refuse.

  “Do you have children, James?” Bairstow asked.

  “Three,” Lester said.

  “Ah, then you will understand, I am sure. I have two sons, Cameron and Jaime. They are of that age, idealistic, with a fire in their bellies. You know how it is.” Lester nodded. “We had them late, spoiled them completely, of course, like most old parents. They were our little miracles.” Sir Charles’ focus seemed to drift into nostalgia. There was obviously something he wanted to say, and it was equally obvious that he didn’t actually want to say it.

  “Cameron recently graduated in archaeology from Cambridge, Jaime is about to enter his final year. In this day and age, even an honours degree is not a guarantee of a job, and archaeology is not what anyone would call a lucrative career, so Mae and I thought it wise to give the boys a leg up. It is all about experience, after all. A man is no more than the sum of his experiences, and all that.”

  “Absolutely,” Lester agreed, savouring another sip of the ludicrously rich brandy.

  “Do you know how fiercely competitive it is, this digging up of old bones? And for what, exactly? The opportunity to sleep in a tent and live on ramen noodles?” He said it in that ‘boys will be boys’ manner adopted by fathers the world over.

  “Quite,” Lester said. He glanced at his watch; then tried to mask the gesture a moment too late.

  “Ah, I’m boring you,” Sir Charles said. “My apologies. I’m an old stick-in-the mud, I’m afraid. I don’t understand all of this fascination with bones and broken stones.”

  “Something about those who don’t understand the mistakes of history being doomed to repeat them, perhaps?” Lester offered. “Now, tell me about this favour.” His only hope for sleep was to get the old man back on track.

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Sir Charles looked pained that the conversation had steered itself back around. “We arranged for the boys to travel to Peru. They flew into Lima, and then moved on to Cuzco. They travelled from there to the rainforest in the region known as Madre de Dios — the Mother of God. It’s a nature reserve, one of the few in the world that harbour so many truly endangered species, as well, of course, as fab-ulous Incan ruins.”

  “Sounds like a dream holiday,” Lester said. But the expression on Sir Charles’ face indicated that he did not agree.

  “James, it’s been six days since anyone has heard from either of them, and nothing is being done about it.” His voice was low and firm. “The Peruvians are being deliberately pig-headed. No one will tell me anything, and as far as I am able to ascertain, there are no search parties out looking for the boys. Madre de Dios is rife with poachers; ruthless men who hunt these dying species and sell their hides to the highest bidder.

  “I will not allow my boys to simply disappear off the face of the Earth, I may not have been the best parent, but I am still their father.”

  “And you think the boys might have run afoul of these poachers? Surely there may be another explanation. As you said, boys will be boys. Perhaps they found themselves a nice pair of señoritas, and are holed up in a hotel in Trujillo drinking pisco sours and dancing the nights away.”

  “No, I don’t believe that for a moment. It isn’t like them to be out of touch. They know how much their mother worries.”

  “Nevertheless, I don’t see how I can help you, Sir Charles. Surely you’d be better off talking to someone in the Foreign Office. Strings can be pulled.”

  The old man leaned forward in his chair, his expression suddenly intense as he steepled his fingers. The gesture was somewhere between a prayer and an act of begging.

  “Anything official becomes a diplomatic incident, James. You know how the system works. The Peruvians are investing more money than they can afford in promoting the region as an eco-resort. If anything threatens those investments, they’re likely to bury the truth, whatever it may be, and Number 10 won’t stand for too many waves: the entire eco-resort is being underwritten by British Insurance firms, and financed by a conglomerate of British banks. We’re talking bad business, James. No one wants adverse publicity.

  “If something has happened to the boys...” He let the possibility hang there, not wanting to finish the thought.

  “Still —” Lester began. But Sir Charles cut him off.

  “There must be a way for your department to help me, James. Your men are scientists. I was thinking that you might mount an expedition? No need for political red tape, doesn’t arouse suspicion at home or abroad to have a few scientists doing research, and therefore much easier to get the necessary visas from the Peruvians.”

  “That’s out of the question, I’m afraid,” Lester said, shaking his head. He didn’t even want to consider the ramifications of what the Under-Secretary was asking.

  “Please.” The old man stared at him.

  “Sir Charles, we have no remit for work overseas, and mercifully no proof that our research has any relevance beyond the natural boundaries of the British Isles.”

  “Then you will not help me?” The shadows beneath his brows seemed to deepen.

  “I’m sorry. You should talk to your counterpart in the Foreign Office, sir. Perhaps we have operatives in the area, or close by. I can’t imagine the Prime Minister would countenance such heavy investment from our own economy without at least a few eyes watching the pot. Eyes everywhere, and all that.”

  The old man seemed to deflate in his chair, the stiff upper lip crumbling visibly.

  “I could order you,” Sir Charles said then, a last ditch gambit.

  “If that were true, we wouldn’t be meeting like this. We would be in Whitehall.” Lester rose from his chair, setting the empty glass on the table. “Goodnight, Sir Charles. I hope you hear from your sons soon. I truly do.”

  “But you won’t help.” It wasn’t a question, so Lester didn’t answer.

  He left the old man by the fire, well aware of the fact that by saying no he had almost certainly made his life more difficult.

  It was a little after two when he clambered back into the waiting car. That left him with less than four hours sleep. Instead of returning home, he had Miles drive him to the Anomaly Research Centre. He could catch an hour or two in the ARC lounge, if needs be.

  Professor Nick Cutter was woken by the electronic voice telling him that he had mail.

  He rolled over groggily.

  Cutter had fallen asleep on the couch in his office. It still didn’t feel like his office, though — he was used to the cl
utter he had accumulated over years of study and hoarding. This place felt more like a laboratory than a place for thoughtful contemplation.

  He yawned and knuckled the sleep out of his eyes before he forced himself to sit up. Everything ached.

  The ambient light replaced the passage of time with a constant illumination; it was never night in the Anomaly Research Centre.

  He stood and stretched, working the kinks out of the muscles in his shoulders and lower back. Though only in his late thirties, and reasonably fit, he still felt joints popping. Sleeping on the couch is for a younger man, he thought wryly.

  His stomach grumbled. He had no idea what time it was, he realised, or how long it was since he had last eaten, and even then it had only been a slice of Apple Danish washed down by a cup of tepid coffee. Deciding the email could wait, Cutter went in search of sustenance.

  His footsteps echoed hollowly as he walked across the cement floor of the loading bay, the quality of the echo changing as he entered the corridor of offices and laboratories that led down to the team’s rec room.

  He caught a glimpse of himself in the glass of the vending machine, and ran his hand through the dark blond rat’s nest he called hair, trying to bring it to its normal sense of order. Then he fed a handful of coins into the machine and punched in the code for a multigrain nutritional meal supplement bar that sounded both healthier and tastier than it was, and a diet caffeine-free low-sodium soda that was essentially fizzy water. Collecting his bounty, Cutter headed back toward his office.

  Re-entering the loading bay from the other side, he saw that the light was on in Lester’s office. The man was a bureaucratic machine. Cutter watched a shadow move against the wall, but didn’t see Lester himself. Shrugging, he wandered back through to his own office, peeling back the foil on his multigrain treat and eating half of it before he sat back behind his desk.

  The computer screen had fallen asleep. Lucky bastard. He pushed the mouse to wake it.

  He opened the mail box and saw that he had three messages flagged as new, one from Lester, another from someone distinctly fictional promising increased length and girth for only ninety-nine dollars, and the last one from someone called Nando Estevez. Cutter recognised the name in that vague I’ve met you at a function or somewhere kind of way.

  He popped the tab on the can and drank a mouthful of too-cold soda.

  Opening the email, he read through it twice; then sat back in his chair.

  Even with evidence in black and white, it took him a moment to associate “Nando” with Fernando Estevez, a student of his from almost ten years ago now. All sorts of ghosts come back to visit, sooner or later, he mused darkly. But he remembered Fernando well, a short, serious young man, gifted with a fearsome intelligence that was only held back by his blatant disregard for grammar and spelling. That, at least, seemed to have improved marginally over the years that had passed since he had last read his student’s essays.

  But this was no essay, and even a third reading left him with a growing sense of concern.

  From: Nando Estevez

  Date: May 17, 2008 4:44:28 AM GMT+01:00

  To: Nick Cutter

  Subject: Behaviour and Bones

  Dear Professor Nick Cutter,

  It is me, Nando Estevez!

  I am sure you remember me. It has been a long time for both of us, but how could you forget old Nando?

  I would ask for your help in something. I think, perhaps, you will find it very interesting, and very mysterious.

  After graduating your class I took a job along with Esteban, my half-brother. We worked for a few years off the coast of Trujillo on a marine expedition. It was fascinating work, though I must admit it was mainly to impress the girls! But all good things come to an end, they say, and recently we began working in the new nature reserve at Madre de Dios. The work is sadly less impressive with the ladies, but it is far more interesting for us!

  There are things happening in the reserve that I do not understand. In fact, they make very little sense when I think about them.

  It is my job to identify the various species that dwell in the reserve, to tag them and follow their movements and record their habits. We have a great variety of rare animals like the capybara, Hydrochoerus hydrochaeris, and the giant river otter, Pteronura brasiliensis. It is a zoologist’s dream!

  Now, to the crux of the matter, the animals have been behaving strangely, you see. Their patterns no longer match our expectations, even considering for the increase of poaching and the threat of mankind. All I can think is that something else is causing this peculiar behaviour.

  Only this week I have identified several tracks that should not be here. I am confused by them, yet I do not wish to mention this to anyone for fear they will think I have gone mad. These are tracks and bones that do not make sense. There is no one I can trust with the secret I believe I have found. For I have checked all of the books, and the only conclusion I can find makes no sense.

  Who could I show the bones to? Who would believe that these fresh bones are also old bones? Who would believe me if I said I thought they were from the Plio-Pleistocene perhaps, or even earlier, but show no signs of fossilisation? The marrow in the bones is fresh.

  It seems absurd to me that these strange bones and wrong tracks would be here now, and with my animals behaving so strangely. I fear I am losing my mind! My number at the resort is 84235151, with the Peruvian prefix, 0051 from England. Please call me, Professor Nick!

  Your old student,

  Nando Estevez

  Cutter set aside the soda can and stared.

  His first instinct was to dial the number and press his old student with a dozen questions about the nature of these tracks, and his suspicions about the behaviour of the indigenous fauna. Cutter felt a tingling thrill of excitement at the possibility that what he was looking at was proof of the first anomaly off the British mainland.

  The implications were massive.

  His second instinct was to call the team in and share the excitement. However, he didn’t succumb to either urge. Instead, Cutter opened a web browser and entered ‘Madre de Dios’ into the search function.

  A lot of the pages the search returned were either religious in nature, illuminated with iconic images of the Virgin Mary cradling the baby Jesus, or they were written in Spanish. Refining his search to provide English-language results only, Cutter trawled through the rest for the better part of an hour, finding miniscule maps he could barely read and spectacular scenic photographs of the Amazon rainforest and the misty peaks of Machu Picchu.

  The first non-religious hits were all for the same sort of stuff: trail tours for Incan ruins, Kon Tiki rafting trips and dream vacations in the Andes, and they were followed by virtual tours and the wiki page for the region. ‘Biobridges.org’ provided him with a list of the research stations such as the one to which Nando and his brother had been assigned.

  Deeper into the search he found a host of Inca ruins, some so breathtaking they looked like oil paintings of imaginary places. He wasn’t particularly interested in the old stones, though — it was old bones that piqued his curiosity.

  Since the rest of the ARC team wouldn’t arrive for quite some time, he had time to kill, and ran various searches on South American fauna using a variety of keywords, one being ‘Plio-Pleistocene’.

  The results were even less encouraging than the initial search, though more Darwinesque than intelligent design: hominin evolution in the Amazon basin, climate change and glacial shifts, volcanic history of the region, geological abstracts on the Madre de Dios River and the clay strata, and even a paper which promised paleomagnetic evidence of a counter-clockwise rotation of the Madre de Dios arch-ipelago in Chile.

  He paused for a moment and glanced at the clock in the top corner of the computer screen. It was barely a quarter to six — which, according to the time and date function on the computer, meant that it was almost midnight in Lima. Too late to call Nan
do, and it would still be a couple of hours until the others rolled in. So he contented himself with printing off any articles that seemed even remotely promising. There were times when he still preferred paper to electronic files.

  He tried a blog search next, using one of the many web crawlers that trawled through the inanities of the world’s everyday lives. Most were glorified diaries for public consumption, and they were very much the modern disease, reflecting the Average Joe’s need to prove that his life had genuine meaning, and that had its advantages. But every now and then there were hidden nuggets of gold to be found in the blogosphere, so once again Cutter ran through a number of keywords, looking for anything that even vaguely hinted at a South American anomaly.

  Every one drew a blank.

  He didn’t know whether or not to find it reassuring. After all, that didn’t mean there wasn’t an anomaly out there — only that no one had seen it.

  So he left the computer and wandered across to the window that looked onto the loading bay. There were no windows opening out of the ARC into the world at large — more to stop people from looking in than to stop the staff from looking out — and it lent the facility an oppressive feel. He braced himself on the sill.

  It still seemed so alien.

  There were times when it was difficult to reconcile himself with the fact that evolution had taken the slightest of nudges, and drifted askew just enough for this pseudo-military government establishment to exist. Stranger yet, everyone else seemed to feel so natural with it.

  The world around him had changed without anyone realising it. Anyone but him.

  Cutter clenched his fists.

  Thinking about it just left him feeling frustrated and angry, and not a little guilty. He had stepped out of the rift with Helen, thinking... what? Cutter laughed bitterly. Thinking just brought it all back, and for however long he thought about it, it didn’t matter that the affair had happened a decade ago.

  But that way lay madness. So many ifs, buts and maybes. Cutter pinched the top of his nose, furrowing his brow.