by Vince Milam
No movement on the right, the hallway quiet. No wooden under-floor creaks, no moving shadows. But another worked his way toward the last sound of my voice. No doubt. Down the stairs, the curtain slit widened, slow and sure. The pistol’s two-hand grip eased through the opening. His head and body followed. Another quick hallway glance. All quiet.
Explosive booms, double tap, death. Two successive shots, tenths of a second apart. Both struck the MOIS agent center-chest. Gone before he hit the floor. An immediate rightward swing of the Glock, along the hallway. I adjusted position. Sat flat, back against the wall, knees propped as arm rests. Still buried in black, aim rock-solid.
My shots triggered assailant number two’s fire and verve. Big mistake. He started a dash my way, footfalls well received even on carpet. Headed toward the customer box where I’d last spoken. I was thirty feet farther down the hallway, pressed into darkness. A motionless real-life gargoyle. He wouldn’t look my way, but rather focus on my last known location.
He appeared, teeth bared, and ran with gun held chest-high. Fifty feet, forty, thirty. A slammed stop at my previous location’s curtained entrance. Bait swallowed. He gathered himself for a burst-through but didn’t get the chance. I took methodical aim, squeezed the trigger, and delivered a roared headshot. As he crumpled, a bloody haloed mist—shadowlike—hung in the thick air. Then it fell, dissipated.
My ears rang. I shot a glance down the stairs in case one of them chose this attack point again. Silence, frozen silence. I liked my position, my Alamo, but movement gave me more advantage at this point. One MOIS goon left, plus Kirmani. Time to hunt.
Unexpected massive booms blared from the theater’s interior. Somewhere on the ground floor. Two shots in rapid succession, followed by a third. Three seconds later, a fourth. All from the same weapon. The last shot a coup de grâce. What the hell? I popped upright, sought targets.
Then a clang—a metallic exit door handle bar pressed. Followed by a more muted click as the door closed. Someone split, left the opera house through a primary exit. I eased along the hallway, adrenaline meter pegged, rapid glances toward my back trail. And with a poor grasp of the situational arena.
Footfalls. Someone tromped up the steps toward the stage. A shuffle of clothing, rustling, and a critical grunt. Followed with the crinkle of paper or plastic. I stopped outside a central box seat’s curtain, straining to hear. What bloody weirdness was this?
“Was Farid Kirmani one of the two you killed?”
Uri Hirsch. My Glock eased open the curtain split, providing a view of the theater. He stood center stage, unwrapping a candy bar. As he worked the wrapper, his pistol’s barrel pointed in assorted directions.
“Or are you dead, Case Lee?” he continued. “I sincerely hope not.”
He took a bite of the candy bar. I shook my head while he chewed.
“You’re one strange dude, Hirsch.”
I passed through the curtain and stood in the private box.
“You are wrong. And this is not decent candy,” he said, inspecting the halfway exposed treat. “Brazil grows a great deal of cacao. You might think they could do much better than this.”
The acoustics were so good neither of us raised our voice.
“Sorry you’re disappointed with your snack. And Kirmani wasn’t one of the two.”
Freakin’ surreal. I stood on the third tier of an empty opera house in the middle of Amazonia conversing with a Mossad spy who stood center stage, munching chocolate. While three dead MOIS agents lay strewn about. Man, I needed a career change.
“A pity. He must have been the one who ran.”
“Yeah.”
“And so, my friend.” He deigned to look toward me. “We have a new situation.”
“Manaus is loaded with new friends. Who would have thought?”
He chuckled and took another bite. And spoke with a mouthful of candy bar.
“He will hide. In a city of half a million, this is not so difficult. I will search for him, of course. And kill him, if possible. But that doesn’t relate to your new situation.”
“You talking about standing here with three dead Iranian spies in an opera house a thousand miles up the Amazon River? I think you nailed it, Hirsch. Definitely a new situation.”
He delivered a sharp laugh, a bark. “No, no, Case. The upcoming situation. Kirmani will contact Tehran. And request many more MOIS agents. Perhaps a dozen or more. And they will kill you on sight.”
“Not too long from now I’ll be out of sight. Upriver. Middle of the jungle.”
He finished the candy, crumpled the wrapper, and shoved it into a jacket pocket. The pistol hung from his trigger finger as he belched.
“Yes. Fine. You go. I wish you well. Godspeed and such. But at some point you must return.”
“Working on alternatives.” I wouldn’t reveal any more.
“Yes. There are alternatives. But be most assured, MOIS will place their people in anticipation of your altered plans. I speak from experience.”
“Yeah, well, so do I. So count me less than frantic over the future plans of MOIS.”
“You do not fully understand. Perception as differentiated from reality.”
“Let’s stick with reality.”
“No, let’s consider perception. MOIS now perceives the US and Israel as a team. The Great Satan and the Little Satan working together. A team focused on preventing Iran from achieving their goal.”
“And what goal is that?”
“Why, the acquisition of Dr. Amsler’s discovery. Which they hope will crush Israel. And bring the US to its knees. It is not complicated, my friend.”
Spooks. With their constant end-of-the-world scenarios. Enough. Adios time, hunker down for the night. Get out of Manaus early a.m. Kirmani wouldn’t expend effort coming after me. If smart, he’d hide from the crazy Mossad agent. And I didn’t believe he was stupid. Time for an exit. This bloodletting chapter of the Amazon job was over. Finito, Benito.
“See you, Hirsch. Actually, I hope I never see you again. But good luck and all that.”
I turned and started through the drapes toward the hallway, headed for the down stairs. Hesitated, turned back, and rolled the dice. Why not, in this bizarre situation?
“How nasty do you think this stuff is—plant or animal—the good doctor discovered?”
He stuck a finger into his mouth and extricated a chewy bit of candy from a back tooth.
“I do not know. It may be nothing. It may be everything.”
“Great answer, professor.”
“It is.” He inspected his now-removed fingertip. “When our sworn enemy is in pursuit of a maybe, my people take it very seriously.”
“I’ve noticed.”
I slid through the curtains and sought the nearest exit. His voice carried after me.
“You have my card. My phone number. Call me at any time. You will need help at some point, Case Lee. Help from a friend.”
Chapter 8
Dawn. Bernie fired the Cessna while I untied the dockside pontoon. The old plane listed left—Bernie’s Added Pilot Tonnage. The Amazon River rolled past as the day’s first rays highlighted the indescribable and inexorable current, ocean-bound. Our protected floatplane area contained backwash and small whirlpools. The opposite shore, five miles distant, was discernable as a haze-covered green horizon. The Amazon jungle. I slipped into the copilot seat and donned a communication headset.
Bernie let the engine warm, idled into the river, and waited for a riverboat-induced wake of sufficient size. He slapped my thigh and spoke through the headset.
“A glorious day. Glorious. A few rainstorms between us and the base camp. But not a worry, and good morning!”
“Morning to you, Bernie. I’m glad to be underway.”
And more than glad to have Manaus in the rearview mirror.
“Alright, alright. We’re loaded up, revved up, and here we go.”
He goosed the throttle. A two-tiered riverboat passed across our takeoff path,
the lower deck filled with supplies, the upper with people. Headed upriver for a village, a town, new starts on life. Bernie was one of those pilots who rested a hand on the full-bore throttle as if more power could be eked out if needed. We lumbered along, accelerating. Hit the first half of the boat’s wake, lifted, splashed down. The wake’s other side did the trick and we were airborne. Bernie kept it straight until we climbed several hundred feet and hung a right. We were underway.
The massive Rio Negro—its tannic waters refusing an initial mingling with the Amazon’s—appeared west of Manaus. We kept left and followed the Amazon River. Bernie kept us in a steady climb.
“So you’ve taken malaria pills?” he asked, cutting the throttle back as we reached cruising speed.
“Yep. All set.”
“Good. Now, I don’t want to treat you like a nimrod, Case. But can I share some experience with you? Amazonia experience.”
“Knock yourself out.” I patted his leg. “Every little bit helps.”
“Some folks get offended.”
“Not me.”
Only a fool would bypass the opportunity to garner inside info before a weeklong push into the Amazon jungle. I took pride in my outdoor skills, but awareness and local perspective and survival tips were gold-standard commodities before such an excursion.
“Well, let’s start with water.”
“No shortage there.” I smiled as the world’s largest river flowed below us.
“Actually, there is. This is the middle of the dry season. Rivers and tributaries and creeks are dropping. It’s a big deal.”
“Okay.”
“You’ve gotta think scale. Take the entire US west of the Mississippi River. Now dump twenty or thirty feet of standing water on it. That’s the peak flood season here.”
I’d read up on my destination. Knew of the annual floods. Still, flying over this vast jungle-covered area brought it home unlike any form of research.
“Help me understand the wet and dry seasons from an operational perspective.”
“Well, it’s not flat down there. A good thing.”
He laughed and winked my way. Then used a sausage-sized forefinger and pointed toward each of the Cessna’s instrument panel gauges. Pilot habit—checks and confirmation.
“Some areas—the size of small US states—remain above the floodwaters,” he continued. “Plus thousands of small hills and hummocks become islands. Just figure about half what you see down there is submerged six months of the year. Trees and all.”
“So you work through half-submerged trees to access those dry land islands?”
“You got it. But with the waters receding, rivers and creeks are returning to their normal channels. Which will make navigation and movement easier for you.”
“Good to know.” Better than good to know. Much better. I began hatching a search plan.
Bernie shifted his bulk, sought a more comfortable position. The plane shifted with him.
“But low water brings a few other potential issues.” He turned his head and smiled my way. Bright teeth flashed across a florid face. “Now, I’m not trying to freak you out. Just tossing a few things on the table.”
“Toss away.”
“Piranhas.”
“Okay.”
“The big silver ones in the deeper big water. The little bluegill-sized red bellies up the smaller tributaries and creeks.”
“So stay out of the water.”
“Nah. Not really. You can swim and bathe with them. Until the water gets too low. Then they concentrate. You don’t splash around when they’re stacked up at low-water season in another month or so. But they’re a consideration. If you have a wound or cut that might bleed, you’ll want to avoid a swim.”
“I have a feeling this isn’t mentioned in the visit-the-Amazon tourist brochures.”
We both laughed while he checked the instrument panel again and sang a bit of a gospel tune, his voice a sweet tenor.
“Oh,” he added, “They’re also quite tasty. For fresh fish, they’re easy to catch and good to eat. But that reminds me of something else.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t pee while you bathe or swim.”
“Don’t plan on a lot of swimming, Bernie.”
“I enjoy it. It’s refreshing when you’re sweat-covered.” He pointed an index finger downward. “Just don’t pee when you’re in the water. Candiru. A tiny, tiny little fish. The locals claim it follows the urine stream, enters the penis, and locks tight.”
“Ouch.”
“Yowza. One mighty big ouch. It may not be true, but better safe than sorry.”
“Sorry on a scale seldom reached.”
“For a fact. One wonders what the good Lord had in mind. Now, let’s talk gators and snakes.”
“They truly have left a great deal out of those tourist brochures.”
He chuckled and pulled two cool guarana drinks from between the seats. We both popped tops and drank.
“Now, alligators. Technically they’re caimans, but who’s arguing? Not too much of a worry during the day. But do not visit the water’s edge at night.”
“Got it.”
“And you’ll run into snakes. Most are harmless. But the anaconda is another reason to avoid visiting streamside at night. That’s one big snake.”
“So I hear.”
“I’m talking thirty feet long. Big around as your waist. And keep an eye peeled for the fer-de-lance and bushmasters. They will kill you.”
“So what I’m hearing is stay away from snakes.”
He laughed. I joined, but with less enthusiasm. A lot less.
“Oh, and bullet ants. Take a wasp sting’s pain and multiply it thirty or forty times. Another yowza.”
“Makes me want to run naked through the bush. Take in all that nature offers.”
“You’ll be fine. Be aware. It’s not a benign environment.”
The downside presented by Amazon critters wasn’t a dissuader, nor did it implant fear. Stings, critter bites—part of the deal and accepted. A matter of simple precautions, and never let your guard down. This wasn’t an English meadow that flashed past below us. And flash the appropriate word—flocks of bright red and yellow and blue parrots flew formation over treetops, visible as neon colors against a green horizon-to-horizon backdrop. We rode in silence, the propeller droned, and smaller tributaries glistened as we passed overhead. Bernie plowed through a couple of rainstorms. The plane’s cabin cooled prior to breaking into bright sunlight and warming again.
“What about the locals? Natives?” I asked. I wasn’t counting on encounters with rain forest folks, but preparedness was the name of the game.
“Ah. A favorite topic of mine. Congregants. More or less. Perhaps less than I would like.” Said with a wide smile. “The Rio Urucu area you’ll be in has several tribes. I haven’t had much contact with them.”
“Friendly?”
“Depends on the day of the week. And the hour of the day. And maybe the moon’s phase. Would you fish one of those sandwiches out for me? Help yourself as well. Part of the in-flight service.”
The paper sack behind us contained a bag of Brazil nuts and several sandwiches. I handed one over, and Bernie dug in.
“So, any tips in case we do bump into them?”
“Smile. Extend an open palm. Leave. Go explore another spot.”
I caught myself performing an unconscious scratch of the scar left by a New Guinea tribal arrow. Bernie’s advice held real-world water.
“Okay. Anything else about the flora and fauna? Land sharks? Jungle krakens?”
He chuckled. “I’ve laid out a few things to be aware of. But it’s a place like no other. An amazing spot on this grand ball we call earth. The Amazon rain forest is filled with wonder and beauty.” He sang a gospel line. “Let your worries go, and trust the Lord has a plan.”
Bernie Anderson extended an acorn-squash-sized fist. I bumped it with mine and grinned, so relieved at having Manaus behind me. Filled with posi
tive mission-oriented anticipation. Headed into my kind of turf. My kind of operational area.
A couple of items remained unresolved. We’d been airborne for a while, and the mission’s exit required addressing. Along with a warning.
“I won’t return to Manaus. With or without Dr. Amsler. What are other options for an Amazonia exit?”
“Can I ask why?”
“Better if you didn’t. Call it personal reasons.”
A lousy response given recent events. Valid under other circumstances; sufficient and final. But reality shone bright—Bernie was exposed. Seen with me. So I delivered a tangential warning.
“There’s something associated with my personal reasons you should know about,” I added. “There are bad characters in Manaus keenly interested in Ana Amsler.”
“Was the fellow in business clothes one of them? The round one I flew here the other day?”
“No. I mean, he’s associated with the whole mess. But I don’t believe he’s a threat. There are others. Be careful for a while.”
He chuckled. “You make it sound very mysterious. But I’m not worried.”
“I’m talking bad, bad dudes. Among the worst. I’d appreciate it if you’d heed my words.”
“The Lord is my strength and my shield.”
“Yeah, I get that. But on a more secular and tactical level, watch your back. I’m serious.”
“So you seek options other than Manaus.” He chomped the last bit of sandwich before answering. He’d moved on from concerns about his safety. “Coari.”
A finger directed my attention toward a spot on the horizon. Toward evidence of a town, a small city, along the main Amazon River’s bank.
“When you’re ready and—Lord willing—successful, I’ll pick you up at the base camp and drop you at Coari. In a pinch, you could travel by boat. It’s about sixty miles from the base camp. Down the Urucu and Amazon rivers.”
I considered a danger zone revisit for emphasis. Opted for a mission-oriented tack and kept things light. Plant the danger seed now, fertilize later. I’d bring up Manaus issues with him before final departure.