by Vince Milam
“Her company will pay. Coordinate with your passenger after takeoff. Make it happen.”
Another shared look between the pilots, followed with two nods in my direction. The room’s other occupants remained still and quiet.
“Go fire the engines,” I said. “You’re leaving.”
Both pilots made a hasty exit onto the tarmac. I helped Kim collect her things. Her expression was deadpan except for the slightest eyebrow lift. This was our goodbye. It rang hollow, inadequate as hell. Moving her to safety, but without shared panning for personal gold, common threads, joined sentiments. Neither of our heads were in the right space.
Then it came from left field, an afterthought, a tossed Hail Mary. I pulled a folded photo of Ana Amsler from my rucksack and displayed it to the room’s other occupants, one at a time, as a lawyer would address individual members of the jury. The first one denied having ever seen her. The second one expressed a maybe, diverted his eyes. He held back information. Threatened? Paid off? I prepared to plumb his drainpipe, no holds barred. But my questions and photo display prompted the young lady to sidle over. She took the photo from my hands.
“Yes. I’ve seen her. Maybe four or five days ago,” she said.
Out of the blue, unexpected, and borderline surreal. Everything changed. A trail, a lead, and the find-Amsler radar cranked right back up. I’d imitated a birddog on scent, nose working the air. Blind luck played a part, no doubt, but I’d take what I could get.
“Did she charter an airplane?” I asked.
“Yes. A small one.” She tilted her head toward the hangar. “Similar to those. It was the only one available, and she wished an immediate departure.”
Kim arrived at my elbow and asked, “Are you certain?”
“I explained such a small plane would make at least two stops for fuel. The trip would take the entire day. She did not care. Yes, I am certain.”
“Where was she going?” I asked. “Her destination? And how did she pay?”
“Rio de Janeiro. She paid with cash. Euros.”
Possibilities floated, the scent thin. But a scent. And I was on it.
“Did she arrive in Rio?”
A couple of fuel stops provided ample opportunity for the wingnut to go on walkabout. Land in a smaller Brazilian city and decide it was a grand hideout location. With her lethal little red box.
“Oh, yes. I talked with the pilot only yesterday.”
An attractive young lady, stationed at an obscure airport. Yeah, I could see the pilot holding a conversation with her. Chatting about recent events and passengers. Same as the two guys now waiting for Kim to climb on board. Oh, man. A trail. A few days old, but a trail.
“I’m hitching a ride with you, Kim. Going to Rio.”
“But of course. As you should.”
Delivered with a half-smile, and a half-smile returned. Signs of life and a touch of fire emerged behind those iceberg eyes. Good and fine. But a loose end remained.
“Does that guy know about this?” I asked the young lady, a thumb pointed toward the bathroom. “About the charter flight with this person?” I held up Amsler’s photo.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “He arrived yesterday and asked the same questions about her. And he’s been here ever since.”
Two realities were highlighted by her answer. Both jaw-clenchers. Kirmani would have shifted his base of operations to Rio by now. He and his henchmen were on Amsler’s trail. The lone upside—a Manaus trip wasn’t required to whack him.
And her answer shone a spotlight on why the MOIS agent had hung around this middle-of-nowhere airstrip. He’d been ordered to. After relaying the Amsler flight information, he was ordered to stay, and stay for one reason. Watch for us: Kim and me. A fallback plan in case the three MOIS agents failed with their upriver mission. Watch, wait, capture us at gunpoint. Or shoot us on sight. The urge to revisit my bathroom-floor buddy pulled like a mule. Nostrils flared, I turned for a final tile-floor visit.
Kim stopped me. She grasped the frustration and anger and the immediate object of my intent. She stepped in front of me and pressed her small palms against my waist.
“No. Please do not.”
“Kim. He’s a killer.”
“Oui. He is. But you are not.”
“Recent events would argue otherwise.”
No point skirting the obvious.
“Those were actions based upon events and circumstances.” She shifted closer, spoke with a near-whisper. “And this is a different circumstance. Prove me right. Please.”
No more killing and death and horror related to her. Understood. But still. The SOB hog-tied on the bathroom floor would kill us both given the chance. No doubt. None.
Kim squeezed my sides, eyes crinkling. “Please. For me.”
Sometimes you’ve gotta let it go. At least the bastard wouldn’t draw a pistol with a broken elbow anytime soon. And killing him would involve the Brazilian national police—unlike a severe ass-kicking delivered in an obscure Amazon basin town. Yeah, I’d walk. For Kim. But cold reality pointed toward unfinished business on a bathroom floor.
“Okay. Enough. I get it.”
She guided me away from the bathroom door.
“And so,” she said, a side-pat delivered. “I shall remember you as a special man. An explorateur extraordinaire. As it should be.”
I thanked the young Brazilian for her help, collected my possessions, and held open the door. The jet’s engines whined, warming up.
“Let’s get you home, Kim.”
Chapter 21
The first order of business was to make arrangements for a Rio de Janeiro immigration official, who would greet us upon arrival, provide a perfunctory passport stamp, and Kim would board a private flight and head home. If MOIS was present, I’d handle it. Odds were high such actions wouldn’t be necessary, but fanatics could be, well, fanatical.
The second order of business was a cocktail. I wasn’t jonesing for a drink, but small victories realized and a several-day dry spell prompted the request from the plane’s steward. Grey Goose on the rocks. Kim declined the steward’s initial offer but changed her mind after I ordered and asked for the same.
We chatted. Casual, personal, relaxed—the first and last time. I came to like her even more. She talked about growing up in her neck of the woods. Mom and Dad owned and operated a bakery in a smallish Swiss town. A family tradition, several generations deep. Married for a short while, then divorced. “I suppose I am married to my job,” she said. A passion for microbial life forms—exploration at the cellular and chemical-compound level. A Grand Prix racing fan and a reader of obscure biographies—fellow scientists more often than not. Plus a strong fondness for Mexican food. I sorely regretted her not opening the personal-life kimono during our search. But at the end of the day she was Swiss, and perhaps it took time and trauma and shared experiences before such a personal conversation could unfold.
She asked about my background. I kept it benign and shaded and obscure. She flashed a wry smile often—“Yeah, right” was my best interpretation of her feedback. But she also responded with humor and understanding. All good, a bond forged through a once-in-a-lifetime series of events. Two of the three people on earth who knew the dead zone’s location and fatal reality. A bond solidified through discovery and horror and death. A rare bond, and one we both recognized.
“So how did you pick your team?” I asked. “For this Amazon project?”
“There is a volunteer element, of course. Compatibility is also a consideration.” She sipped her drink. “A balancing of skill sets as well.”
“It doesn’t sound like Amsler was all that compatible. Taking off on her own, disregarding directives.”
“She is the most brilliant scientist I have ever met. Such an attribute overcomes many peculiar behaviors.”
Given the nature of the discovery, Kim and I might disagree on such a trade-off, so I didn’t go there, and instead eased toward Amsler’s lifestyle characteristics.
; “You mentioned Grand Prix racing and biographies. And Mexican food. What about Amsler’s interests? Bungee jumping? Falconry?”
She laughed. “Very little in such regard. She has a complete work focus. I must assume she had other interests growing up. The Amsler family is quite wealthy.” She took a sip, closed her eyes for a moment, and continued. “She would often read at night, but otherwise Dr. Amsler is absorbed with her profession.”
The steward served us cheese and pâté with toast. Offered wine, which Kim accepted.
“What kind of stuff did she read?”
“This is quite good,” Kim said, crunching into toast topped with pâté. She chewed and stared out the plane’s small window. “Strange books. Apparently we are all part of a vast conspiracy.”
“Including you and me?”
“In particular you, I am afraid. She is not fond of your country.”
“What’s her issue with the US?”
Kim wore a smile as she prepped another slice of toast. A slug of wine followed a hearty bite. Her eyes sparkled, humor lines at the edges.
“Your country is to blame for everything, it would seem. You see, the US leads the global conspiracy. Although you have kept your role in the conspiracy well-hidden during our time together.”
“It’s what they’ve trained me to do. That, and maintain communication with the alien spaceship orbiting overhead.”
“Then you shall have most interesting conversations with Dr. Amsler if you find her.”
We both chuckled. I raised my Grey Goose as salute to the proposed encounter. And added more information to the Amsler data bank.
“Okay. So she holds a grudge against the US. Does she have friends? Lovers? Space alien escorts?”
“This word grudge. No. It is most inadequate for describing her feeling. She hates your country. And is quite passionate about it.” Another swallow of wine. “Which is peculiar given her relationship—her lover, one might suppose—is also Américain.”
“You know this guy?”
Why she’d waited until the last minute to reveal such pertinent information would remain unknown. Didn’t she understand this was vital stuff? Maybe not. My expectations regarding valid intel were seldom matched when dealing with folks who lived within a more sedate world. A normal world. Still, it grated, but at least the faucet had opened.
“To be sure. We have met. At a Berlin conference. He holds a doctorate in organic chemistry.”
“So the original odd couple met at a conference?”
“So it would seem. He, too, is peculiar. I do so remember him staring into my eyes. There was something behind his look. Quite strange. Of course, this is my interpretation.”
And high odds a valid one. This guy and Amsler—two wackadoos hooked up. Great.
“Do you remember his name?”
“But of course. Dr. Archer. Dr. William Archer.”
A side trail, maybe. Or not. Still, intel gathered and added to the pile.
“Where does he live?”
“I have told you. The US.”
“Big country.”
“California, I believe. Los Angeles, perhaps. May I have your toast and pâté? It does not appear you are hungry.”
I handed it over with a smile while wheels turned in my head. Kim opted to end our conversation and focus on the scenery outside the window while finishing off my food. So I leaned back, sipped, and thought about Amsler. One ballsy scientist. Collected the toxic sample, formulated a plan. And carried it out. Waited to travel at night, killed her boat’s engine at the appropriate time. Floated past her base camp, silent and aware and conniving. Continued down the Urucu River. Past pirates, drug runners, and men who’d kill for a laugh. Done with a strange Amsler insouciance. Maybe it was the tinfoil hat. Shiny mojo. Chartered a small prop plane and flew to Rio. Then what?
There are six million folks in Rio de Janeiro. It’s not a challenge hiding out. But why hang around? Indecision, maybe. I’d seen it more than a few times. Pull off a phase one of a grand plan. Reconnoiter before next steps. Possible. Or she’d moved on. To where?
Gotta assume she kept her phone off. Otherwise tracking her was possible. Unless she owned a satellite phone like mine with 256-bit encryption. Even with this precaution, the NSA might crack the algorithm and track her, listen in. If they cared. Or she could be tracked through credit card purchases. Even MOIS—not a top-line espionage outfit—would have the ability to backdoor credit card systems and follow her. Mossad, and Uri Hirsch, for certain had the capability. So I would remain behind the curve regarding electronic sniffers. But Amsler came from wealth, according to Kim. Access to cash. Lots of cash. Her Rio charter flight as an example. And cash fostered anonymity. Hotels, restaurants, sundries. So yeah, she could have slipped away with her prize to anywhere. Bolivia, Botswana, Bangladesh.
The lurking vibe of Amsler having talked with someone about her discovery—someone outside the Swiss coffee house—made me itch. One I couldn’t quite scratch. I couldn’t connect those dots. I couldn’t even identify the dots to connect.
“I’ll miss you. Do you know this?” Kim asked. She lolled in her seat, a decent buzz evident.
“I’ll miss you, too.”
I meant it. But seeing her safe, tucked onto an international flight back home, was a cause for celebration. A small chunk of this gig with rock-solid satisfaction.
“I suppose we shall never meet again.” She giggled. “I sound as if we were in a Hollywood movie. We shall never meet again.”
More than a decent buzz. “Probably not. But you never know.”
“One never knows. So true.” She returned to staring at the passing landscape below. A sea of green.
Amsler hated the US. Worrisome. I wouldn’t give a rat’s rear end under normal circumstances. This was anything but. She and MOIS had common cause. If those two teamed, then “Katy, bar the door.” And MOIS was hell-bent on them hooking up.
“Kim, does Amsler have the ability to synthesize her discovery? Produce a quantity of it? By herself?”
She had lowered the seat back and now faded toward a nap. She raised a hand and waggled it back and forth. Added a shrug.
“Does that mean maybe?” I asked.
“Oui.”
Alrighty then. A potential Wingnut Central chemical company. A small operation, granted, but filled with potential. If she did synthesize the toxin, create substantial amounts, a terrorist tool second to none became a reality. More than enough impetus for finding her.
Now with the soon-to-be-added distraction of spookville’s major leaguers engaging. Bound to happen. The violent Manaus activities between Mossad and MOIS and me. The Swiss base camp slaughter. Word would filter out. Out into the gray fog where the shadow players lurked. Guaranteed to rattle a few major clandestine cages. The big boys wouldn’t sit on the sidelines long. Nope. I understood all too well how it worked. Whiteboard sessions at headquarters, apocalyptic scenarios presented, budgets spent. A major difference this time around—the apocalyptic possibility held water. So they’d assign assets, wondering what had gone down in Brazil. The CIA, Russians, Chinese, Brits, French—you name it, they’d sniff around. Great. Freakin’ great.
Along with their involvement was the little matter of my scarred-up hide. I’d been cannon fodder for the CIA, target practice for the Russians. The Chinese had attempted my birth certificate’s cancellation through proxies—several times. So this gig now featured the additional angle of Case Lee gallivanting through a sea of spooks. I’d rather lick a rodeo parking lot clean.
Toss the whole bloody thing into the pot, and another big question loomed. If I was successful—long odds at the moment—and found Amsler, who kept the football? Not yours truly. I couldn’t see the little red container stowed safely on the Ace of Spades. The CIA? I didn’t trust them as far as I could toss a sumo wrestler. The Swiss were the probable candidates. They’d bury it under one of their mountains and never speak of it again. Maybe.
I catnapped the flight�
��s final hour. Faded in and out of mission focus, anger, and futility. The Clubhouse aside, I didn’t own the technical necessities for electronic tracking—flight manifests, GPS, credit cards, phone call interceptions. What I did own was a thin trail. Inside a city of six million.
I would miss her. Kim. We shall never meet again. A poignant and pulling statement. True and nothing funny about it. I’d miss her, plain and simple. A solid teammate with backbone and fire and smarts. Lots to offer there. Yeah, I’d get her on the Switzerland charter flight and chalk up a small victory. But still, I’d miss her.
Flaps and landing gear lowered, waking us both. Rio de Janeiro. I untucked my shirt and slid the Glock into the waistband. A casual exit from our plane and into the private terminal lounge. Leather seating, vacuumed carpet, and the aroma of pilot’s fuel—brewed coffee. Two dozen folks lingered about, conversed, read emails or chat messages. No MOIS agents present. A signal their Coari agent was still kissing tile. Or the kidney shot had killed him. Either way, all quiet on the Rio front.
A well-attired European pilot addressed us, followed by a Brazilian immigration official. The pilot introduced himself and pointed out the Gulfstream hired to whisk Kim home. Two airport employees hoisted her luggage—the sheet-wrapped artifacts from the base camp included. The official stamped her passport. The pilot held open a glass door leading to the tarmac and her jet. Done and done.
I expected a hug of goodbye and Godspeed. I did not expect the arms-around-neck passion of a full body-on-body deep kiss. I reciprocated without hesitation. For all too brief a time we stood embraced within our own bubble of reality. Without a second’s consideration what others saw or said or thought. We’d run the gauntlet and been put through the wringer. Together. And she’d walked with me step by step.
The embrace ended and tore a small rip in my heart. Our bodies separated first, lips last. The kiss’s final release slow, lingering, absolute. A final lock with those ice-blue eyes, no words, and she turned. Gone. Oh, man.
“Marvelous stuff, Mr. Lee. I mean that with sincerity and more than a touch of envy.”