They needed to buy some supplies and told us that they would be ready to go the next morning. As a sign of goodwill—and because they needed it to buy the supplies—we gave them half the money up front. They directed us to a small hotel within walking distance of the waterfront.
Our night was relatively quiet. We were exhausted from the traveling and just wanted to get a good night's sleep. The hotel had a restaurant that served decent food. We took a guess since we couldn't read the menu, and ended up lucking out with tasty fish dishes.
Luis and Paulo were waiting for us at the dock bright and early. Paulo sported a wide smile and informed us that the boat was stocked up and ready to go. As we boarded, he looked around, then motioned for us to follow him into the cabin, where he produced two revolvers with holsters. He handed them to us.
"For protection," he said quietly. "Good, huh? Take with you to find treasure."
I was glad we had been honest with him. "Thank you very much."
Sabrina went a step further. She gave him a quick hug. "Thank you, Paulo."
Well that certainly cemented their relationship. I was going to have to pry him off her with a crowbar from that point on.
We stowed the guns in our bags and went back out on deck. Ten minutes later Paulo cast off as Luis put the boat in gear. As we motored into the river Sabrina said quietly, "Del, look back at the dock. Who do you see?"
It took me a minute, but then I saw them, the goons from the hotel in Wahoo.
"How the hell …?"
"Do you think they followed us down here?" she asked.
"Or did they assume we were coming and came down before us?"
"Maybe they were watching the flights from the states. Could they have followed us from the airport?"
"I suppose they could have," I answered. "We weren't really looking for anyone."
"Do you think they know where we're going?"
"If they followed us from the states, then they might not know. But if they were waiting for us, then they have to. Either way, we have to assume that we won't be alone when we reach Fordlandia."
"I guess that's not a total surprise."
"If we were right and the guys in the hotel were Mario's men, I don't think they're the ones we should be most afraid of."
"So the question is," said Sabrina, "where are the Russians?"
Chapter 30
We were pretty sure that for the trip anyway, we wouldn't have any trouble—an assumption we almost came to regret—so we tried to settle down and enjoy the scenery.
The head of the Amazon was busier than I expected, and many of the boats were tour boats. We passed several that had dozens of brightly-colored hammocks covering the deck. I had read that many of the tours gave the option of private cabins or hammocks. Each time we passed one of these boats was just a confirmation that we had made the right choice in hiring Luis and Paulo. We appreciated the privacy of a smaller boat, and somehow felt a little safer in their presence.
Luis, probably because of his lack of English, kept to himself piloting the boat. Yet despite that, we felt a closeness to him. Paulo, on the other hand, was gregarious and informative, spending much time narrating our trip in his broken English. Most of the tour boats kept to the center of the river. Luis, maybe at the suggestion of Paulo, brought us closer to shore to get a better feel of the jungle. The farther we went, the fewer boats we saw.
There were long stretches of unspoiled jungle, full of some of the most beautiful plants we had ever seen. But as gorgeous as it was, it was the animal life that blew us away. We had never seen such brightly-colored birds. And they were everywhere. It was like passing through the world's largest zoo. And it wasn't just the birds that filled the color spectrum. Millions of butterflies of all sizes and hues dotted the shoreline, often coming out to the boat and flying around our heads.
Sabrina had a constant smile. I didn't ask, but I wondered if she reflected back at all to her years in prison, and each day filled with drab gray surroundings. If it hadn't been for the lenient judge, she could still be there today.
We saw enormous river turtles, and on occasion Paulo would point out a caiman sunning itself on shore. A couple of times we looked down in the water to see bulbous eyes peering back at us.
"What are those?" I asked Paulo.
"Baby Caimans," he answered. "Eyes and snout maybe all you ever see."
Late in the second afternoon on the river, Paulo called to us from the other side of the boat and frantically motioned for us to join him. When we got there he pointed down at an enormous shape passing us in the water. It had to be fifteen or twenty feet long and five feet wide.
"Manatee," said Paulo. "Rare to see. People kill them for skin and oil. Once there were many in the river. No longer."
The wildlife we weren't happy to encounter were the mosquitos and black flies. They came out in force in the evening and we had to use bug spray and cover up. But somehow, it was all part of the experience—one I could have done without, I suppose.
Luis and Paulo took turns operating the boat and also took turns resting. At night, however, we stopped for a few hours so that they could both catch up on some sleep. It was the third night of our journey and Luis had just turned off the engines. Every time he did that at night, we almost collapsed in appreciation for the silence. We had gotten used to the constant throb of the engines, but the silence was heavenly. In reality, it wasn't silent. The jabbering of the birds and the monkeys never let us forget the paradise we had stepped into.
This particular night, though, there was a different sound—a cry. No, not even a cry, really. It was the most chilling sound I had ever heard in my life. It came from the jungle—not very deep in the jungle though. At the sound of it, it seemed like all the other jungle noises came to a sudden stop. Paulo got up from his hammock on deck and joined us at the rail.
"Jaguar," he whispered. "You are very lucky to hear that."
One more time the cry came, longer than the first time. And then it stopped. Eventually the other jungle noises resumed and all was back to normal. But it took many minutes for the goose bumps on my arms to disappear.
"I think that was the most amazing thing I've ever heard," Sabrina said quietly, almost reverently. "It was the epitome of nature at its most spectacular—of life like I've never heard it." There was nothing more to be said.
Meals aboard the boat were simple, but tasty. They usually consisted of some combination of rice, beans, chicken, and local vegetables. Dessert was fruit or sweet bread. Paulo was the official cook and took great delight in our reactions to his meals.
At Santarém we turned off the Amazon and onto the Rio Tapajós river. About twelve more hours until we reached Fordlandia. River traffic was heavy around Santarém, but most of the boats were continuing down the Amazon on their way to Manaus. A speedboat passed us going at a high rate of speed—the only other boat heading our way. We were always on alert for trouble, but only one person was visible and didn't seem to be paying any attention to us, so I didn't worry unduly.
If it weren't for the fact that we were on a mission—and a dangerous one at that—the river trip would have been a wonderful vacation. It was so different from anything either of us had ever experienced, every minute seemed to hold a new surprise.
An hour after making the turn onto the Rio Tapajós, Sabrina, who seemed to be staring into space, suddenly sat up straight and pointed.
"What's that?"
I stood and looked in the direction she indicated. At first I saw nothing, then something jumped high out of the water and gracefully sliced its way back under the waves.
"I'd swear that was a dolphin," I said.
As if they heard me, three more jumped in perfect synchronicity.
"They are," said Sabrina. "They're beautiful."
"River dolphins," said Paulo from behind us. "They often follow the boats. They like to play."
We watched their antics for another half hour, until they got bored and moved on. We sat back d
own and dozed. I guess the excitement was too much for us.
When the attack came, it was sudden and violent. Sabrina and I were sitting on deck next to the cabin holding hands. After an animated conversation as to whether we saw a log or a Caiman, we had lapsed into a comfortable silence. I don't know what Sabrina was thinking of, but for me, it was another time of reflection about how my life had changed in just a very short time. Sabrina, sitting to my right, put her head on my shoulder—a move that probably saved her life. A second later, a horrific clang sent us diving for cover.
Reflecting on it later, I think what happened was that the bullet hit the railing where Sabrina's head had been and ricocheted down through the sole of my boot. I can't say with any certainty that I heard the gunshot, but I didn't need to. The shot came from ahead of our boat. It was the same boat that had passed us at such a high rate of speed a few hours earlier. Sabrina came within inches of dying. That made me angry—beyond angry—but not until later. At that moment, we were scrambling for our lives as a hail of bullets tore up the boat.
Most of my reactions came after the fact. There just wasn't the time to think at that moment. However, I noticed how cool and calm Luis was during the whole attack. He reached for his rifle and—while also trying to steer the boat—calmly aimed and shot. One after another. Paulo was brave as well, and hid behind the cabin, letting shots fly at the other boat. But it was obvious that this was new territory for him and the nervousness showed.
Sabrina and I were near Paulo behind the cabin, and had pulled our pistols from their holsters when it dawned on me: Other than in the alley in Fairfield, which didn't count, I had never even pointed a gun at anyone before, much less shot at them. This wasn't the movies, where the hero just whips off a few shots. This was real life. I had seen Sabrina shoot someone right in front of me and she didn't seem altered in any way—thanks to her years in prison, most likely.
She must have sensed my hesitation, because she said in a very clear and forceful voice, "Someone is trying to kill you. Are you going to allow that to happen?" The underlying message of my self-defense training.
"Hell, no," I answered, and aimed my pistol and fired. There was something about it that felt good.
Luis yelled something back to us.
Paulo interpreted. "My father says to hold your fire. A pistol will not hit its mark so far away."
The boat was coming closer, so I knew it was only a matter of time before I could fire back with a reasonable chance of hitting something … or someone.
Our boat was a mess, but it was mostly cosmetic. With a steel hull, it would take a lot to disable it. Meanwhile, the bullets continued to rain down on us. There were three of them. The other two must have been hiding when the boat passed us earlier. These guys were serious. They had chosen their attack location well; it was a fairly remote section of the river—no civilization on either side and no other boats in sight.
Luis did whatever he had to do to stabilize the boat—I had no idea what that was—and jumped to a more secure location to continue his firing. He was calm and methodical. He yelled something back to Paulo.
"You can fire now," said Paulo.
And so I did. I was actually trying to kill another human being. When, just a few minutes earlier, I was reflecting on how my life had changed, this possibility hadn't come up. But it was real now and I took Sabrina's words to heart: If I wanted to protect myself or someone I loved, I had to be willing to kill. I was willing now. In fact, with each shot I fired, I became more comfortable with the idea. They had no right to do what they were doing, and I was going to make them pay.
Their boat was getting dangerously close to ours, but so far no one had yet been hit on either side. The only casualty was a hole in my boot that I could now stick my toe through.
In the end, it was Luis—calm, cool, and collected Luis—who got us out of there. He began to change the direction of his shots away from the attackers themselves and more at something on the boat. Unlike our boat, theirs was a fiberglass hull. Luis, who had spent his life on the river in boats, knew exactly where to shoot once their boat swung around a little. Suddenly, I heard a "ka-chunk" come from their engine compartment, followed by silence. He had destroyed their engine.
Quickly, he put our boat in gear, somehow avoiding getting hit. I didn't know if these guys were just poor shots, or if the movies made it all look a lot easier than it was to shoot moving targets. Judging by the fact that some of my shots weren't even hitting their boat, I'd say it was the latter.
A minute later, we were out of range, leaving our attackers standing in their disabled boat and looking around at the desolation. No AAA out there.
It would take them a few hours at least to fix their boat or commandeer another, but I had no doubt about one thing: We were going to see them again, and it was going to be ugly.
Chapter 31
The dock at Fordlandia was old, but still usable. It had never been updated. There was no reason to. After all, the town had been abandoned for over seventy years. But boats still came on occasion and I could see spots in the dock that had been haphazardly patched. Beyond the dock, a large statue of Henry Ford welcomed us. It was almost eerie. He must have had high hopes for the place. What did he feel when it failed? Was there a sense of loss … of mourning? Or was it all business and he just moved onto the next scheme? After all, he never actually visited the place.
Many of the buildings still stood, but they were in a bad way, overgrown and sagging. From my reading I knew that some of the larger ones were the factory buildings and one or two were used as dining halls and for social gatherings.
It may have been a ghost town, but there were enough squatters to erase the "ghost" part from the equation. We didn't know what kind of reception we were going to get from the residents, so we were pleasantly surprised when we saw smiles on most of the faces of those who met us at the dock.
A man approached us even before we got off the boat and said something in Portuguese. Paulo answered him and then said, "He say welcome. Ask if you are tourists."
"Please tell him we are looking for something," said Sabrina. Of course, asking Paulo to interpret for us was just marginally above useless.
"Could you ask if anyone here speaks English?"
Paulo put out the request. Secretly I think he was relieved. He liked to think his English was better than it was, and to have to interpret would only show off his deficiencies.
"Come," motioned the man. Probably his one word of English. "Follow." Okay, two words.
He brought us up a road that was once paved in brick to a small cottage that wasn't showing the ravages of time. In fact, it had been recently painted and the yard was nicely kept. He knocked on the door, which was answered by a man about Sabrina's age—maybe even younger. He was a handsome man of indeterminate heritage. He definitely had some South American blood in him, but there was something else, too. Our guide said something to him—I was pretty sure I caught the word English—then turned around, gave us a wave, and walked away.
"You're looking for someone who speaks English, I'm told."
Except for a very slight accent, he could have almost passed for an American. He must have seen the surprise on my face.
"I went to college in New York. SUNY Albany. Majored in business." I looked around and he laughed. "So what am I doing in such an out-of-the-way place?"
"It crossed my mind," I said. "I'm Del and this is Sabrina."
He held out his hand. "Emil." I cocked my head. "My father was German," he said by way of explanation. "And to answer your question, I came here at the request of some friends who wanted to restore the town and turn it into a tourist destination. A few days here convinced me that their idea would never fly. So they abandoned it—much like Henry Ford did—and I stayed. Suddenly my business background seemed silly. I loved the peace here, so I moved into one of the abandoned houses. That was five years ago."
"How do you earn a living?" asked Sabrina.
"Don'
t really need to here, but I cheat. My family has money. I keep a boat on the river and any time I feel the need to remember why I'm living here, I'll take it and go to a city or town for a few days. I'm always ready to come back." He opened his door wide. "Come in. Have a beer with me and tell me why you're here. You don't look like tourists."
"We're not. It might take two beers. It's a long story."
So we told him. Sabrina and I were quickly on the same wave-length and knew that we didn't want to mention the eggs. We did use the word treasure, though. When we finished, he said, "so what is the treasure?"
We liked him. He was intelligent, friendly, and forthcoming. His eyes didn't light up when we said treasure. He seemed more interested in the story and in the hunt.
"Part of it is gold," I said. "There is supposedly something else, but we'd rather not say what it is until we can confirm it."
"Fair enough. If it is gold and you find it, what are you going to do with it?"
We looked at each other. We had never actually talked about it.
"I suppose," said Sabrina, "if we find gold here, it should go to the Brazilian government or the people of Fordlandia. Like you, we both have money, and to be honest, it's not the gold we're after. It's the other thing. And even that we wouldn't keep. We'd turn it over to a museum. Believe it or not, this is more about clearing up the past than it is about finding treasure."
"I could use something to do right now. It may be peaceful, but it does get a little boring around here sometimes. What can I do to help?"
"We have a photograph of a painting. It holds a clue, at least we hope it does," said Sabrina. She took out her phone and showed him the photo. I had to give him credit, he didn't critique the quality of the artwork.
He looked at it carefully, finally shaking his head. "We have a cemetery here, but this picture doesn't look like any part of it that I've seen. The house could be any one of a couple of dozen. The tree? Well, it's a rubber tree, so it could be anywhere around here. And then there's the gravestone. It doesn't have a name on it—which probably wouldn't have helped, by the way—just RIP. If I had seen that, I would have noticed it."
All Lies Page 18