by Vince Milam
Jeez Louise. Easy enough getting a rise out of this guy. Fanaticism on full display, unlike any professional clandestine player I’d run across. But instead of job-related revelations, the guy dived down an ancient-grievances rabbit hole. So I headed toward the heart of the matter.
“Why are you talking with me?”
He poured water into the cup, a purposeful movement to tamp down his emotions. His companions, silent, continued their Rasputin-like glares my way. The small scattering of other patrons ignored us. He downed the water in a few gulps, collected himself. Gave a final shot across the bow.
“Your company steals from this land. From these people. Do not speak of theft with me.”
“Okay.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “Enough about these things. I suggest a business transaction.”
“Okay.”
“We will pay you a million dollars. US. For delivery of the Swiss scientist.”
“What if she’s dead?”
“Deliver her body and all her possessions. Notes, computers, everything. We will pay half a million for this.”
“A lot of money.”
“More, much more than your company pays you. And our transaction will exist only between us. You and me. In cash.”
I held back a strong urge to ask him what they thought Amsler had discovered, what magic elixir she’d found among the two million square miles of Amazonia. But he assumed I already knew or had insight or, at a minimum, understood her discovery was groundbreaking. I worked for a pharma company, after all.
“I’ll consider it.” Figured that would ratchet down our little chat. I was wrong.
The cigarette dangled from thin lips as he pulled a business card from his shirt pocket, hidden behind the pack of smokes. Laid it on the table while two long, thin fingers maintained pressure. The card was cream white, with an embossed phone number. No name, no organization. He tapped the smoke twice against the ashtray with his other hand and leaned forward.
“Call me if you find her, my friend. Alive or dead. Call me. Think of the money. And consider this. Either you help me, or you deny me help. Which would make you my enemy.” He paused. Took a drag and exhaled across the table. “You do not wish to be my enemy.”
I lifted the beer bottle as acknowledgement, tipped it his way.
“Back at you, my friend. Right back at you.”
Chapter 3
My earlier Clubhouse visit had been standard operating procedure. My Zurich client, Global Resolutions, had contacted me with a job proposal. It had its appeal, but I relied on input from Jules prior to formal acceptance. Standard stuff.
I headed for the Clubhouse in Chesapeake, Virginia. Left my home, the Ace of Spades, docked in New Bern, North Carolina. The Ace. An old wooden cruiser—well used, a bit rough around the edges, and reliable as sunrise. It provided shelter and movement and protection as I cruised the Intracoastal Waterway. The Ditch. It stretched from Virginia to Florida, crossing bays and traversing rivers and canals. Long river stretches and canal sections shaded with moss-laden oaks and running past quiet hamlets. An evocative pace, quiet and isolated and removed. The Ace. The Ditch. Home.
The Clubhouse occupied the upstairs of a Filipino dry cleaning establishment in a run-down section of Chesapeake. I left my weapon and cell phone left on the counter—standard operating procedure—as an expressionless Filipino employee covered the items with dropped-off laundry. Entered an obscure door and ascended squeaky stairs, the metallic latch thrown after two knocks on the steel door.
I pirouetted as Jules stared down the sawed-off shotgun’s twin barrels. I held cash in one hand; in the other a lone index card. Jules exchanged information using only two formats—verbal or handwritten notes on index cards. No electronic trails. She would make exceptions with me and send the occasional secure text message or dark web email. Communiqués cryptic and open for interpretation and, more than once, life-saving.
“Enter, enter, dear boy, and tell me a tale,” she said, lowering the shotgun. “We have not spoken since your last little jaunt among isolated parts of the Caribbean.”
“How you doing, Jules?”
I sat. She smiled and scratched under her chin.
“As well as a simple and honest broker of information might be expected. You have brought fuel to stoke the boiler.”
She referenced the index card. I laid it on her desk, slid it toward her. She remained locked on me, awaiting details.
“Contact information for a Chinese spy. MSS.”
“How lovely. Where might this happy occurrence have happened?”
“Panama City, Panama. The airport. A return leg from the Caribbean. He tried to recruit me.”
She cackled and plucked up the card. Her fingertips evidenced the shine of applied sealant. No fingerprints.
“An unsuccessful endeavor, I take it?”
I smiled at her unserious question. “They come out of the bloody woodwork. It’s like I attract them.”
“Your contractual endeavors attract them, dear. Now tell me about your current fandango.”
“A lost scientist in the Amazon. A simple gig. Find her. Haul her back to Switzerland.”
“Yes. Of course.” The Clubhouse network had already alerted her regarding the lost scientist. Did she have viable intel related to my gig? Maybe. Would she reveal everything she’d picked up? I doubted it.
“But note my dismay,” she continued. “A simple contract? You have already lost sight of the one big item.”
The one big item—nothing was ever as it seemed. Her personal admonition toward my simplistic worldview. Then she delivered her “deadlier shadows” assessment and the “remarkable discovery” statement and eyes-in-the-back-of-my-head counsel.
I delivered a reflexive sigh in response. As former Delta Force, cut-and-dried was my preferred realm. Good guys. Bad guys. Take out the latter. But I dealt with Jules and her peculiar tendencies because she delivered salient operational information—for a price. Information that assisted my field endeavors. And saved my scarred rear end more than once. But Jules and her associated brethren swam in cloudy water, signals unclear, motivations and actions obscured behind espionage curtains. Light years from cut-and-dried. And a pain in the ass.
“Okay,” I said. “We’ve covered the deadlier shadows thing. Let’s talk remarkable discovery. What’s your best guess? Cancer cure? Fountain of youth?”
Jules shrugged. The double-barreled shotgun rested on the desktop alongside the embedded Ka-Bar knife and old wooden abacus. The knife cut the end off her cigars. The abacus constituted her accounting system.
“One can hardly separate fact from fiction with such situations,” she said and puffed her cigar back to life. “The world of Big Pharma is rife with innuendo. With tradecraft often involved. Competitive advantages and such. It is a large and contentious industry, Ponce de León.”
Her conversational path showed signs of fading into the pharma-world weeds, so I shifted toward tactical considerations.
“Logistics. I require a fixer. An airfreight shipment unopened by Brazilian customs officials.”
“You require a despachante. I know of an excellent one.”
“And a reliable floatplane pilot. A person who both knows the area and handles a tight spot when necessary.”
The tight spot criteria pointed toward exit strategy development—a first consideration when entering an operational area.
“I know of just the individual. A heavy ecumenical bent, so I’m told, but first-rate piloting skills.”
She slid open a wooden desk drawer and rifled through a stack of index cards. Produced two and slid them across the desktop. She waited while I memorized the contact information. Her cards never left the Clubhouse. Information digested, the cards returned.
Head tilted, she ran several black balls down her abacus’s rails. I held a credit with Jules due to past provided information. A credit disappearing with great rapidity. She’d calculate the value of my Chinese spy information
and factor it into my balance sheet. None of her customers had the foggiest notion about her debits and credits valuations. And no one argued.
“Now tell me more of this engagement,” she said. “Share what you know, and I shall endeavor to reciprocate, albeit with details perhaps less than pertinent toward your prime concern. That of staying alive.”
She chuckled, and I performed the usual informational dump. Part of my soliloquy might have represented old news for Jules. Parts, perhaps, containing new interest. I’d never know.
A missing scientist. A bio-prospector. One of a thousand high-degreed folks employed by pharmaceutical companies scouring this good earth for the next cure, the next big-bang drug compound. The bio-prospector had gone missing from a base camp deep in the Amazon rain forest. And given the base camp was run by a Swiss pharmaceutical company, it stood clear they had contacted Global Resolutions and requested someone with the appropriate field skills. Find Dr. Ana Amsler. The gnomes of Zurich had added a kicker to the contract, a first for me. Personal delivery of the good doctor back to Switzerland. Fine and no sweat. Unless she was dead. A fifty-fifty proposition in my book. You didn’t get lost in two million square miles of tropical wilderness for fun and adventure.
I leaned toward taking this gig for several reasons, and was honest with Jules about personal motivation. At its roots, the job entailed search and rescue. Search and rescue within a tough physical environment. My former Delta status ensured I had the chops to pull it off. And, while I’d visited Brazil and spoke Portuguese, the opportunity for mucking about in the vast Amazon wilderness offered a new experience. And held something of a cool factor. Hey, I’m human. And, yeah, the saving someone’s life aspect had its own strong appeal.
“Not an altogether strange rationale or perspective,” Jules said. “It highlights your positive attributes, dear. A can-do approach with a dash of altruism. Bully for you.”
She smiled. I think.
“How did the rumor get started?” I asked. Her turn to share.
“A coffee shop.”
“Okay.”
“Your learned quarry, after the alleged discovery, took a brief sabbatical. In the motherland.”
“Switzerland.”
“Basel, to be exact.” She paused, puffed her cigar. “Numerous Swiss pharmaceutical companies make their nests there.”
“So she blabbed over a cup of coffee. Which was overheard and disseminated and sent through assorted clandestine grinders.”
Jules wafted a dismissive hand. She owned one of the best grinders out there. Her one eye stared, unblinking. But this was the beauty of the Clubhouse. The dossier on Dr. Ana Amsler sent from Global Resolutions failed to mention operational background such as her Basel return. Valuable intel and a burr under the saddle. Global Resolutions should have included such details.
“So, bottom line, Jules. We don’t know diddly-squat about what this scientist may or may not have discovered.”
“Hardly the case. She has clearly discovered a method of kicking an espionage hornet’s nest. No small feat.”
“That’s not helping me find her.”
“True. And sadness reigns. Sadness and contrition.” She slumped, her chair squeaked. “I have no further information. Nothing worthy of expressing. This poor creature before you is bereft of further insights. So allow a brief interlude as I admit failure and wallow in the discomfort.”
I did. She cast her lone eagle eye in my direction. Cigar smoke drifted around her face. Her close-cropped DIY haircut had lost the white-spiked tips evident at our last meeting, months earlier. But she had changed her eyepatch. Deep blue replaced the usual black, the band lost amid unruly hair. Somewhere the AC unit hummed. The Cirque du Soleil poster remained taped to one of the steel walls—the lone bit of decor. She puffed. We stared. Welcome to the freakin’ Clubhouse.
“A word. A whisper,” she continued, straightening up. “Be aware movement is underway among less savory players. I can offer nothing more.”
“There’s a big bucket of unsavory players.”
“Indeed there is.”
She wouldn’t elaborate, the informational well in that sector having run dry. We chatted awhile, and the metallic click of the Clubhouse door lock disengaging sounded. She’d pressed a hidden switch, signaling the end of our sit-down.
“One last tidbit, dear. If you engage with my world during your sojourn south, do prevent escalation.”
“Always do.”
“No, you do not. You cut a wide swath, Mr. Lee. And escalation will bring larger interests into the game. And the game is, indeed, afoot.”
Chapter 4
I tamped down a strong hankering to confront the Iranian SOBs—all four—and clean house. But the urge, while often present, was tempered with age and experience. And provided no value for the situation. The Iranian spook had had his say and made his play. Fine. I’d hit the rain forest tomorrow, away from these clowns.
The MOIS agent removed his fingers, and I pocketed the business card. He returned to his table. I drained my fresh beer, stood, and left. Headed down the slope and back toward the floatplane collection. The sun broke through; sweat flowed.
I didn’t enjoy rubbing elbows with spooks of any stripe. But this gang with their threats and attempts at intimidation raised my hackles big time. The lead guy was a bully. I couldn’t abide bullies. And the outright lies about the development of Iranian pharmaceutical capabilities grated. Something didn’t jibe. Plus the whole righteous indignation over the theft of his history and rightful place on the world’s stage. A blindside delivery and a reflection of unstable fanaticism. A dangerous worldview, and one prone to violence. The MOIS agent was filled with a wingnut element, and his crazy zealotry owned a hair-trigger. Fine, my new friend. I owned one too.
The pilot was back in his tiny office. He filled the place. A huge man. As I approached, his voice boomed from the office’s open door and window and across the floating docks. An American, he belted out the country song “Jesus, Take the Wheel.” I smiled—a needed break from anger and confusion—and gave a quick thought to my reliance on Bernie taking the wheel. Bernie Anderson. My pilot.
I stuck my head through the doorway and introduced myself. He stopped singing, extended a ham hand, and threw a big smile my way.
“Bernie Anderson. You’ve already met my assistant, Pablo.”
Pablo, now crammed against his desk as Bernie’s bulk occupied all the available free space, raised a disgruntled hand in recognition.
“I have. And thanks for seeing me. I wanted to go over logistics for tomorrow.”
“Fine! Are those containers yours?”
He lifted a chin toward a row of gas containers arrayed on the dock outside his office door. The man exuded enthusiasm, sweat, and humor. Bernie maintained a shaved head, and a sweat ring collected above his florid face before joining other rivulets headed south. Thick glasses eased their way down his nose, which he pushed back up with regularity. A bright Hawaiian shirt strained against his bulk.
“They are. And the outboard engine and crated Zodiac and the container of my stuff. Plus a rucksack. And me.”
“Well, Case—may I call you Case?”
“Please do.”
“Well, it would appear your yoke might be easy, but your burden is most definitely not light.”
He laughed. You had to like this guy. He provided me background mixed with good humor. Bernie was a missionary, spreading the Word across Amazonia. Funded his mission through hauling people and equipment into the Amazon basin. Landing strips were comprised of smaller rivers and tributaries across vast wilderness tracts. Bernie, it became clear, knew the conditions and environments as well as any native, and possessed a can-do attitude. He’d lived in Manaus twenty-five years.
“Well, Bernie, I appreciate you taking my load of equipment. It’s a bundle of stuff. No doubt.”
“It’ll take two trips, I’m afraid. You’ve gotta figure for APT.”
“APT?”
&nbs
p; “Added Pilot Tonnage.” He laughed again and headed toward the door. I pulled away onto the dock, allowing him room. He turned sideways to exit. “Let me show you my baby.”
His baby consisted of a forty-year-old Cessna 185 Skywagon floatplane. It bobbed alongside the dock, one among a dozen others. The aircraft’s age didn’t concern me, as long as it was well maintained. A six-seater, the two farthest back seats long-removed for cargo space.
“How long is the flight?” I asked.
“Hour and a half. I’ll drop you and your essentials, then return and pick up the gas and outboard engine.”
“Have you visited this base camp before?”
“Multiple times. I helped set them up. And I haul their folks in and out. But they aren’t the only team prospecting the jungle, and I’ve helped them all. They know I’ll drop everything if someone gets hurt and needs out.”
“Good for you, Bernie.” I meant it. The old Cessna was a lifeline.
“Give, and it will be given to you.” He smiled, slapped my back—which almost sent me into the water—and added, “Let’s get shade-side. It’s a tad warm in the sun.”
We did. The small plank office offered shade, and we stood and completed business. I paid cash and opened the door for potential insight.
“I’m here to look for a missing scientist.”
“I figured.”
“You know about her?”
“It’s the worst-kept secret in Amazonia. I flew multiple trips on a search pattern with one of the Swiss. But we didn’t have any luck. The poor lady may have met her maker.”
“Did you know her?”
Insights, perceptions, small clues. Anything to help my search.
“In passing. A nice person, I suppose. One of those whiz-bang scientists, so she had a few quirks. Like they all do, I suppose. The really smart ones.”
“Quirks?”
“Oh, speech patterns, single-minded focus, that sort of thing. But a good person in her heart, I’m sure. I’ve prayed for her often. And I’ll pray you find her.”