by Vince Milam
She waited for an argument. When none came back, she faced front. Kim Rochat, Swiss scientist turned badass.
Chapter 19
They murdered Bernie. The SOBs whacked him at his small office on the floatplane docks. A discovery made when I called his phone for a pickup at the base camp. We were aiming to make a Coari hop, where I’d put Kim on a charter flight. But the bastards took him out.
His office manager Pablo answered Bernie’s phone and, between crying jags, explained what had happened. Bernie had made a late-day flight and, after tying off at the floatplane dock and refueling, he’d squeezed into his desk space and ground through paperwork. My mind’s eye could picture it. A MOIS agent—perhaps Kirmani—strode in. Bernie would have flashed his wide smile, pushed the thick glasses up his nose, and greeted the visitor. A visitor who pulled a pistol and put a bullet in his head.
The events leading to Bernie’s murder were clear. The three MOIS agents had landed at the Swiss base camp and informed their boss they would head upriver and hunt us the following day. Kirmani ensured escape routes were shut down. No floatplane. No Bernie.
Kirmani was a dead man. He just didn’t know it yet. I had the bastard’s phone number. We’d meet again. Maybe over another table in a makeshift bar. Didn’t matter. He was a dead man.
“Call your office, please,” I said to Kim. “Arrange a charter flight, a private plane, from Coari to either Rio de Janeiro or São Paulo tomorrow morning. And tell them you require evacuation from Brazil. First flight available.”
The sun lowered, and we were still an hour or so away from the Swiss base camp. Plenty of fuel and food for the required next steps. She stood and changed seating, facing me.
“Mr. Anderson is dead, is he not? I heard your side of the conversation.”
“Yeah. Killed.”
“The same organization? The Iranians?”
“Yeah. MOIS.”
My jaw muscles wouldn’t stop working, and my blood boiled. Perhaps I wouldn’t snap his neck. Slice him a few times, let him bleed like a stuck pig. Then feed his ass to the piranhas. Kim removed her cap and lowered her Ray-Bans.
“I am so very sorry. Such a horrible thing. Mr. Anderson was a good man. A very good man.”
“Yeah. He was.”
Her eyes were soft with sorrow and sympathy. While I squinted back, unblinking. She extended her small hand and squeezed my knee. An act noticed in passing as I was filled stem to stern with ugly revenge. Those bastards.
“We’ll travel by boat to Coari,” I continued. “Make tracks until dark and finish the trip early a.m.”
“Is it not possible, under the circumstances, to travel at night?”
“No. The Urucu River widens into a massive lake before it hits the main Amazon River. Bernie said pirates and drug runners call it home. If they come after us during daylight, well…” I lifted the Colt rifle. “But nighttime is another story. So make the call, please. You gotta get home.”
She did. Her company jumped all over it and spared no expense. There would be a charter jet waiting in Coari. And another in Rio for the trans-Atlantic flight. They would wait for her report from the base camp, although she prepped them on the probable situation.
I cut the engine a half mile upstream from the Swiss base camp and signaled Kim with a finger to my lips. At a quarter mile, I beached the boat. Rifle locked and loaded, Glock on hip.
“Wait here,” I whispered. “I’ll check it out and report back.”
Check it out and kill any lingering MOIS agents.
“No. Unacceptable.” Kim delivered her statement with an unexpected vehemence. “Provide me the other gun. The pistol.”
I was headed into potential battle. No time for this.
“I’ll give it to you if it makes you feel better. But you’re staying here. Until I get back.”
I fished out the other Glock and chambered a round. Explained it was ready to go, and a trigger pull was all it required. It appeared huge in her small hands. But a safety blanket, a comforter—a sense of emphatic power at hand I well understood. Rifle at the ready, I worked through the foliage toward the camp. She followed. I turned and mouthed an emphatic, “No!” She continued forward until face-to-face. And unloaded on me. At least she did it with a whisper.
“I have listened to and accepted your directives this entire trip. This is no longer the case. I shall walk into my camp and if necessary fight those who would harm us. There will be no more discussion on this issue! Now, lead the way.”
I remained stock-still.
“Go!” she said, the pistol held with a two-handed grip and pointed toward the ground. Jeez Louise. Not a lot I could do. So I opted for subterfuge.
“Okay. You stay ten paces behind me. Ten paces. Got that?”
“I shall do no such thing.”
“We’re headed into potential battle. A position ten paces back has a name. It’s called covering my back.”
She mulled it over, lips pursed, with a hard glare digging for BS. Not finding any, she returned a tight nod.
“And please don’t shoot me,” I added, leading the way.
It took a half hour to cover the short distance. We moved slow, deliberate, silent. And at the camp’s edge, we hunkered down among deep green and observed. I could smell it. Carnage. Great amounts of blood don’t soak in and disappear. Or quickly evaporate. A scent signature is left behind, and it takes only one such lifetime experience for etched-in-stone recognition. The buzz of fat flies joined the horror show, audible from a distance. Ten minutes later I moved in, Kim on my tail.
No bodies. It was a relief not to see their direct handiwork—for Kim’s sake and mine. They’d dragged their victims into the river and let the piranhas and gators and slow current handle it. The blood trails, one after the other after the other, led toward the river from the mess hall. Inside was sufficient gore to paint an accurate picture. Each camp member tied to the mess hall’s stout center pole, one at a time. Each tortured. The horrific screams and cries ghosted around me. The plywood around the center pole wet, sticky, blackish-red. Those inhuman bastards.
Kim stood at the tent’s entrance and absorbed the scene. She’d figure it out, and if she didn’t, all the better. She emitted harsh breaths, a slight tremor in one leg. Her blue eyes attempted comprehension, a reason or rationale. At some point—perhaps today, perhaps ten years from now—she’d understand. Evil. Pure evil.
“Let’s check the other tents,” I said with a gentle grip on her arm, turning her. “Collect what we can.”
There was nothing left other than a few personal items. Laptops, phones, anything of potential intelligence value taken. Loaded onto a floatplane and sent back to Kirmani. I wondered about their pilot. He deserved a chunk of my ire. But he may have performed his duties with a pistol at his head. I’d never know. Kim spent a half hour collecting her personal items and those of her teammates. Remembrances. Their families would appreciate it. I grabbed a bedsheet, piled everything, and tied a tight bundle. Tossed it over my shoulder. Departure time. And time for experiencing the all-to-often hollowness of expressing sympathy for these situations. Words held no meaning, no magic. Time and reflection the solitary healer.
“I’m sorry, Kim. So, so sorry.”
She handed back the pistol. A symbol of violence, or death, or a signifier of her potential participation. Hard to say. She turned and headed toward the boat, not having uttered a single word during the entire ordeal.
We headed downriver until near dark. A brief shoreline stop for personal matters and a boat-bound cold camp, anchored in an eddy. We ate energy bars and prepped the sleeping quarters. I had little compulsion to speak of tomorrow’s plans and dangers, but such items formed an icebreaker with a still-silent Kim Rochat.
“We’ll have to be careful in Coari. I’m expecting an enemy or three.”
Dead eyes looked back in the Amazonia dusk.
“Why?”
Oh, man. A question wide as the sky. But I didn’t tread outside o
perational bounds. Cold, I know, but Case Lee’s personal counseling tank ran on empty.
“Because MOIS has declared war.”
She struggled and brought my statement into current context.
“On who?”
“Me. And to a lesser degree, you. I’m sorry, Kim. Sorry for everything. It’s a big freakin’ mess.”
She returned a long hollow stare.
“I should contact my office.”
She did. The boat performed a languid dance as the eddy’s currents shifted us to and fro. Flocks of birds roosted, their calls now muted, settled. Scuffles from the dense jungle, animals hunting or hunted. A bright night, cloudless. And while I couldn’t understand the words she said, I welled with sympathy the times she broke down during the home office conversation. Just flat tore me up.
We settled for the night, the tarp draped over the boat’s sides and us underneath. Dog tired, worn out, sick and tired of being sick and tired. I held Kim, wrapped her in my arms. An embrace received with limp acceptance. Sleep came in short sprints. I was woken often by my bunkmate’s shaking sobs. One helluva way to live.
Chapter 20
Morning—and much improved in mind and body, if not spirit. The flu-like effects were gone. Talk about a major relief—man oh man. Now to run the gauntlet—travel through drug-runner and pirate waters into Coari. Arrive at the airstrip unseen and unscathed. Put Kim on the charter flight. A mini-mission and one needed because I had no clue as to my next moves. I stood empty within the find-Amsler world. Enough. Enough of this crap. I itched for confrontation, for a fight, for righteous justice. Stupid and irrational and unprofessional, sure. But it was an attitude I made zero effort to tamp down.
“Tell your company we’ll arrive at the airstrip within three hours. Come hell or high water.”
Kim called and was informed the plane had left Rio de Janeiro and would land in Coari within our arrival window. So far, so good. Kim looked better—no smiles, no eye crinkles of amusement, but with back straight and a hard set to her jaw it was evident she wasn’t as torn apart inside. A cathartic experience during the night, maybe. Or she’d adopted a Swiss facade of reticence and lack of public emotion. Hard to say.
To mitigate the risks posed by pirates, drug-runners, and other motorcraft miscreants, I stood while piloting the boat. Stood bold as brass with the rifle slung over one shoulder and both Glocks holstered on my hips. Don’t even think about it, boys. Don’t even think about it. They didn’t.
We arrived at the outskirts of Coari on the Amazon River and tied off alongside other small boats at a rickety pier overlooked by shanties. A Coari favela, or slum. Good. The weapon stayed slung across my back, visible to the residents of this out-of-the-way area. I was confident we’d be left alone. Until I initiated a conversation. The location also ensured that this wouldn’t be an area MOIS agents covered. They’d stake the main docks. And the small airport. I’d deal with the latter when the time came.
“We’ll take the rucksacks and a bundle of personal items from your base camp. Toss whatever else you want into your travel bag.”
“And the other items? Our supplies? And this boat?”
“Currency for barter.”
She didn’t question or suggest alternatives. She stayed in her personal headspace with the drawbridge raised and the moat filled. Understandable and accepted. I wasn’t a shrink, but I was capable of delivering her safe and unharmed to her own people. About all I could do at the moment.
“Fetch me the boss.”
I tossed the statement toward a young teenage boy at the end of the slapdash pier. He’d watched our arrival. Each favela, or section of favela, had a syndicate. A criminal organization. This one wouldn’t be any different. Dirt-poor, they’d steal and kidnap and kill—driven in no small part through competition with surrounding shanty neighborhoods. The kid nodded and took off among the plywood and plastic and tin shanties. We packed. I’d brought a small travel duffel bag of sufficient length to house the rifle. Added the extra Glock and a coil of nylon rope. The weapons had a specific purpose. The rope much less so, but it’s never a bad idea to pack some.
Five minutes later the kid returned with three men. The lead guy was midthirties, open shirt, tats galore. Clothes tattered but his ball cap, with a Brazilian soccer team insignia, new and bright green. The two guys trailing were his posse, muscle.
“Just you,” I said as they approached the pier. I wouldn’t tolerate input and argument from the muscle. Me and the boss, a deal struck. Let him sort the divvying of the spoils. He gave a hand signal, and the entourage remained behind. The boss walked forward.
“I need a car and a driver. Take us to the airport. No problems, no hassles. Just get us to the airport.”
He fired a cigarette, pointed a chin toward my waist, and said, “You are well prepared for problems.”
He meant the holstered Glock.
“Yeah. I am.”
He took a drag and exhaled. “What of your boat?”
“Payment. Boat, motor, and everything left in it.”
He’d commandeer the boat. Dole out the rest. The plastic tarp would become a shack’s new roof. Extra fuel tanks, food, camping sundries. Plenty of hard goods for trade. All for unhindered passage to the small airport. A large smile, white teeth flashed. His lucky day.
“I will provide you a ride. And guarantee a safe passage.”
“Yeah. I know you will. Because you’re driving. And I’m sitting behind you.”
I patted the Glock. The smile disappeared, as well as any double-dealing plans he’d concocted in the last fifteen seconds. He took another drag, exhaled through his nostrils, and called for his men to produce a vehicle. Ten minutes later we loaded our stuff and slid into an old sedan’s backseat, the boss behind the wheel and, for a brief interval, another gang member in the front passenger seat.
“Get out. Now.”
The additional passenger twisted in the seat, started to address me. I lifted the unholstered pistol for emphasis. He slid out. His boss watched my part of the exchange in the rearview mirror.
During the drive I formulated the next steps once Kim was on board the Rio plane. I’d take a flight to Manaus. Kill Kirmani. The sole actionable step making any sense at the moment. Triggered in part through interactions with the favela boss and his minions. Neck-deep in the world of hitters, thugs, crime, cheap life. Well, Kirmani wanted my head on a stake. Happy to oblige, asshole. Except you get the whole Case Lee package.
An uneventful drive through town and four isolated miles to the rudimentary airport: a decent-sized tin-walled hangar with a couple of prop planes parked. A cinder-block building, small, like the terminal. A private jet sat nearby. Kim’s ride. A locked gate prevented us from driving to it, so we bailed at the terminal and collected our stuff.
“Are we good?” the young favela boss asked.
“Yeah. We’re good.”
He smiled, waved, and drove away. He’d cogitate usage of the small boat and new engine. Pirating or running drugs or selling the whole kit and caboodle for quick cash. Decisions, decisions.
“I’ll see you onto the plane after checking with the pilot.”
Kim nodded and hefted her gear. I had logistical concerns with the pilot and would attempt to ensure his personal oversight of her Rio charter jet transfer. A jet prepared to whisk her out of Brazil. MOIS agents could be present, and the pilot’s escort mitigated risks. As crazed as they were, I couldn’t envision them running onto the tarmac in Rio, guns blazing.
We entered the terminal’s small back door. The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee filled the room, along with three male airport employees draped across two couches. Kim’s two pilots stood with elbows on a counter, chatting with a pretty young female employee. All good. Until the bathroom door creaked open and a MOIS agent wandered into the room, checking his fly. The dumb bastard never had a chance.
He had the same look and feel as the other MOIS thugs. As he fooled with his fly, he exposed the semiauto pis
tol slid into his waistband. I dropped everything and launched. He looked up as my boot detonated into his solar plexus. He flew backward through the bathroom door, airborne. Performed a desperate backward roll and ended on his feet. On him in an instant, I slammed the door behind me. He made a desperate grab for his pistol, terminated when I took his wrist, twisted, and dealt an elbow hammer blow. Bones shattered, and he screamed. I ripped the pistol from his pants and tossed it into the bathroom sink. He cradled his broken elbow and exposed both sides of his body. I pounded him with two consecutive left hooks—one rib-breaking punch mid-body followed with a vicious kidney shot. He went down again, poleaxed, head bouncing off the tile floor.
I should have questioned him. Found a common language. But I’d had it up to here with these sadistic bastards. Filled with controlled fury, I wasn’t in the mood to converse. I slammed a boot toe into his testicles. He screamed again, curled into a ball, and puked. I dragged him upright and applied the sleeper hold. Pressed both arms against the carotid arteries on either side of his neck. He rag-dolled, unconscious within three seconds. I let him drop like a heap of laundry. Removed his belt and ripped off a portion of his shirt. Hog-tied him with hands behind back and feet tied to hands. Trussed the bastard. Left him unconscious on the floor. Pocketing his cell phone and plucking the pistol from the sink, I exited and shut the door behind me.
Dead quiet, eyes on Case Lee Esq., several mouths open. I strode toward and addressed the two pilots.
“She’s your passenger,” I said, nodding toward Kim. “When you land in Rio, she transfers to another private charter. I want the transfer coordinated and quick. Understood?”
“Yes. Of course. Understood,” one of the pilots said. “It shouldn’t take long to pass through immigration.”
“You’re not listening to me. I want it coordinated. And quick.”
The pilots looked at each other. A long agonized groan emanated from the bathroom.
“I know an excellent despachante,” the second pilot said. “But there is the question of payment.”