The Amazon Job

by Vince Milam

  I ignored the twisted ankle, the blood-wet shirt along my right side where the tin had slashed. I was only partly aware of the sticky rivulets running down my cheek. Gotta move, gotta fly. As I approached another alleyway intersection, buzzing whines from two bullets ripped past me. Cut right, no stopping, the gang boundary road somewhere close. Another quick cut left, and I’d made it. I flew across the road, entered new turf. Whether I’d be followed—a large unknown. Whether the rival gang would attempt to kill me a soon-to-find-out. I kept running, a slight slow-down to accommodate both my ankle and this new playground.

  I followed a long warren-path as people leaned from windows, stood in doorways. Food cooked, music played, kids called. I kept going. Sharp left and then right, downhill again. Thirty yards later, I slammed the brakes. My passage opened onto another mini-square. Filled with armed gang members. The boss yelled orders as his men scrambled, prepared. The incessant thunderous gunshots moving his way drove the gang’s actions.

  They were prepped for either an incursion from the uphill gang or a headhunt for me. I’d stopped inside the narrow alleyway and stood in shadow. One of the young men pointed my way and yelled toward the boss. Over a dozen men gathered, the number growing as seconds ticked. Rock. Hard place. I could make it through, fight toward safety—but I’d need a careful aim, the judicious use of my remaining ammo, and a large dash of luck. A helluva gauntlet to run with the finish line so close. Harsh breaths bellowed—mine. I kept the pistol pointed at the ground and exhibited no overt sign of hostility.

  “What happened up there?” the boss demanded, our eyes locked. Young, shirtless, wearing a sheen of sweat. His pistol was holstered, and he held his Brazilian assault rifle in a neutral two-handed grip.

  Sometimes you gotta roll the dice. I stepped forward, left deep shadow, and stood within the relative light of the open space.

  “I killed Vampire.” My voice croaked as my freight train breaths slowed. “And many of his men.”

  Bright white teeth flashed back, a wolf’s grin. More orders were barked, a new goal created, an attack plan formulated. He’d lead his men uphill. A hole in the neighboring gang’s leadership required immediate exploitation. Turf and market-share expansion. No honor among thieves, baby. Or drug-dealing killers.

  I remained still. I hoped, prayed, that the “enemy of my enemy” adage was more than a simple platitude. The gang boss, his troops now assembled, initiated the uphill advance. Toward Vampire’s turf. He delivered another barked order toward the men on his left.

  “Let him through.” A final glance my way. “Leave, gringo. It would be best if you did not return.”

  No worries, bud—you’re not in my vacation plans. I nodded slowly, eased past his men, and jogged toward city lights.

  Chapter 27

  The first order of business: lick my wounds. I was a mess. I waved down several taxis. They slowed, took a gander at the potential passenger, and floored it. So I pulled the Glock when the next one slowed to a crawl, stepped in front of the vehicle, and ensured he was accepting rides.

  “A good Copacabana pharmacy,” I said, sliding in. “One that performs repairs.” I pulled a Benjamin and passed it forward. “This is for forgetting you ever saw me.”

  He flicked on the interior light and inspected the bill. “I understand. And it is good you do not plan to shoot me. But do not bleed in my vehicle.” He rummaged around the pile of stuff on the front passenger seat and tossed a roll of cheap paper towels my way. “Use these.”

  Rio pharmacies came in all shapes and sizes. Pretty much anything you could want over the counter—no prescription required. B12 shots offered every morning for the hangover crowd. Oxygen fed from a large tank also available, and for the same reason. And minor “repairs” performed at select establishments, cash on the barrelhead. Copacabana had the highest odds of a discreet proprietor. They’d seen it all.

  The driver dropped me at a back-street establishment, a well-lit sign declaring fulfillment of all your needs. A handy one-stop shop. Two young people were behind the counter, which was otherwise empty. The man averted his eyes as I entered. The woman raised one eyebrow, disapproving.

  “I require a cleanup and stitches.”

  “There is a hospital not far away.”

  A hospital meant paperwork. Not happening.

  “Clean up. Stitches. Repair. And one of those shirts you’re wearing. In my size.”

  She and her coworker were dressed in jeans and blue-green hospital scrub tops.

  “Yes. I can help, but it is quite expensive.”

  Five hundred bucks sealed the deal. She led me into a back room and slid the curtain divider shut.

  “Remove your shirt. You are American?”

  “Yes.” I wadded what was left of the shirt, tossed it in the garbage. I took a quick glance into a nearby mirror. My upper left cheek would require three or four stitches. My side a dozen or two, applied across multiple gashes. Ragged tin had performed a number along my right side, big time.

  “So you decided to visit our city and fight.” She began swabbing me with medical disinfectant. “I am certain you could find such activities in America. It would save you the flight down here.”

  Pretty, young, sure of herself, and—it turned out—quite adept at stitching. And adept at a running commentary on the foolishness of my proclivities. No argument from me. Shirtless, my past battle-scars were evident and an invitation for her to editorialize. I didn’t mind. Her ongoing monologue offered me a chance to think, consider my next steps. I kept coming up dry—Amsler was gone. Unequivocally. And it’s a big world, and the trail was now cold, lost. Oh, man.

  Smart money said she’d bailed yesterday. She wouldn’t have left the security of the favela without travel plans. Still in Brazil? I doubted it. I now understood Amsler possessed a feral consciousness. She’d sensed someone on her trail. Headed for parts unknown with her package of horror. Left me with nothing—no inkling, no direction, no immediate action plan.

  The blues smacked me upside the head as Novocain and stitches and sterile bandages were applied. From certainty as I stood at her doorstep to gone, gone. I’d missed her by one day. One damn day. Whupped, empty, adrift. The entire freakin’ mess now depressed me.

  Plugged, patched, with new attire. Another taxi delivered me a block from the hotel. I played it by rote—if there’s a threat of getting whacked, don’t give them the opportunity while you climb, vulnerable, from a vehicle. Approach on foot and, if necessary, go down swinging. Although I didn’t have a lot of swing left in me.

  We spotted each other at the same time. He sat at a table outside my hotel, mouth full, and waved a Popeye forearm to join him. Uri Hirsch, Mossad. Which brought me to a standstill. I wasn’t in the mood, my tolerance level rock-bottom. But he might have something—fresh intel or spook-tainted insights. He managed to swallow and spoke as I approached.

  “My friend, my friend! Join me. Sit.”

  “Hi, Hirsch.”

  “Allow me to move and make room. We will both have our backs against the wall and enjoy a drink together. Look at your attire. Have you decided to enter the medical profession?”

  A Grey Goose on the rocks was a helluva temptation. I sat. He raised a hand and caught a waiter’s attention. Ordered for us both. He remembered my preference and asked for a chilled bottle of white wine for himself. And two orders of feijoada—black beans and pork bits slow-cooked in a clay pot.

  “Although on closer inspection it appears the medical profession entered you.” A robust chuckle, a quail egg popped home, a small bread slice slathered with butter and consumed. “You were not hard to find, of course. But let it be said I wondered if you planned on staying here this evening. Eat something. Have an egg. You look as if you need it.”

  I was plenty hungry but craved the drink more. I kept an eye on my surroundings. Hirsh appeared sanguine about our wider-world exposure. I wasn’t.

  “Why would I wonder such a thing?” he asked. “It is simple. Far u
p the hillside, several miles away, an outburst of gunfire well above the normal amount. And it continued for some time… Ah, the drinks.”

  He poured wine, slurped, continued. “I thought to myself, these are the sounds of my friend Case Lee. A great deal of gunfire. An operational signature of yours, one must assume. No explosions, however. Did you forget the grenades?” He followed up with several snorts of laughter.

  “She’s gone.”

  No reason to beat around the bush. I sucked down half the vodka and cast an eye toward the night sky. Gone. What a freakin’ mess and loss of life, and so, so close.

  “As always, straight to the point.” He took a long draft of water, a slug of wine. He belched. “Let us begin at the beginning. Or begin where you and I left off. Did you validate her discovery?”

  I had nothing to lose, so I laid my cards on the table. He’d lie and maneuver and manipulate, but offer—maybe—a nugget or two.

  “Yeah. Bad stuff. As bad as it gets. Airborne and maybe waterborne as well.”

  “Can you quantify it more?”

  “Airborne, it kills a man in seconds. Not a pretty death.”

  “Ah.”

  Hirsch mulled it over, took another sip of wine. He wouldn’t bother asking me if I knew the dead zone’s location. Wasted breath. But he jotted a mental note—Kim Rochat had traveled with me. She knew. Mossad would approach her in Switzerland. She could count on it. Nothing I could do about that.

  “Amsler captured a sample. Carries it around with her.”

  The feijoada arrived. Fine and good and much needed. I ordered another Grey Goose and waited for Mossad reciprocity. I wasn’t holding my breath, but miracles do happen. He placed two tree-limb forearms on the table and got serious.

  “We, you and I, must cooperate, my friend. We have entered a new phase. A most dangerous phase.”

  “Not your friend.”

  “I understand your feelings on the matter. But feelings must be put aside. There were developments while you lagged behind the rest of us.”

  “You may note I don’t have a sophisticated spy organization providing intel. It’s just me. Case Lee Inc. And you may also want to note I’m the one who found her lair in Rio.”

  “Which was empty, I shall assume.”

  “She split yesterday.”

  “We do not know that.”

  “I do.”

  He dived back into the feijoada, consuming massive spoonfuls between shots of wine or water. Apparently he required sustenance prior to delivering a bombshell.

  “I observed an interesting conversation yesterday.” I enjoyed a moment of respite while he shoveled the stew in his face, dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, and cleared his throat. “Kirmani and his killers met with the good Dr. Amsler.”

  It was too far-fetched for a lie. Too bizarre for a false flag. He had my full attention.

  “You’ll have to detail that out for me, Hirsch.”

  “When I realized you failed to find Amsler in the jungle, I tracked MOIS here in Rio.” He shoved another spoonful home. “I had a strong inclination to terminate them. You may be certain. Especially after they turned the Swiss base camp into an abattoir. You must have felt terrible about that.”

  Wound, meet salt. Thanks, asshole. But I hadn’t revealed the Swiss base camp situation to Ski. Hirsch must have accessed other backdoors for intel—the Swiss a strong possibility. Not surprising.

  “I followed them instead,” he continued, sprinkling malagueta pepper hot sauce on his feijoada. “You might not think I would excel at such endeavors given my physical profile, but I am quite good at it.”

  “You want a trophy? Or are you going to tell me what the hell happened?”

  A smile, a shrug, more wine poured into his glass.

  “They met yesterday on Copacabana. It was clearly arranged. A sidewalk café, similar to this one. During daylight hours.”

  Arranged through the Russians. Then they’d wash their hands, claim no knowledge of subsequent events. A layer of separation. High odds they took the Company’s viewpoint—how dangerous could an organic compound from the wilds be?

  “And?”

  “And it is good you revealed Dr. Amsler carries a sample of this poison with her. I am relieved to report she did not exchange any containers of any type.”

  “And?”

  “She and Kirmani held intense talks. Then they hugged. Hardly typical for a Persian male with a European female he’d just met. A true spirit of geniality. I did not like this. But a decision was forced upon me: who to follow.”

  “You followed Amsler. And lost her.”

  “A sad and sorry state of affairs, I am afraid. Yes, she leapt into a taxi. By the time I was able to do the same, there was no sign of her.”

  “Sounds like a serious failure on your part.”

  “An operational challenge. It happens, my friend, even to the best of us. So I returned and continued pursuit of Kirmani. It is most unfortunate, but he and his minions fled to the airport. Of course, I pursued.”

  Bad news piled on bad news. The Amsler and MOIS meeting was a witches’ brew of future plans. Plans involving mass death. Hirsch paused, consumed several more spoonfuls, smacked his lips, and added more hot sauce.

  “They beat me to the airport. Now, Mossad has several effective strategies for termination.”

  “Do tell.”

  “I do tell. However most of them apply to individual encounters. There were four MOIS agents, standing in line at Rio’s airport. Hardly a place for the application of either stealth or hot gunfire.”

  “Where’d they go?”

  “Venezuela. The current president-for-life in that country is quite close with the Islamic Republic of Iran. Strange bedfellows, indeed.”

  “Yeah, indeed. They still there?”

  “No. Alas, we lost them. Perhaps a private charter to parts unknown.”

  Another drink arrived. I pushed the near-empty feijoada bowl away, hunger satisfied. But everything still felt lost, swirling. Gone, gone. She’d hauled it out of Brazil with grand plans.

  “Before we dig deeper into your and Mossad’s failures,” I said, “assure me again that Amsler didn’t reach into a large straw bag and hand a container to Kirmani before she fled the country.”

  He pushed back, refilled the wineglass, frowned. “Dr. Amsler remains in Brazil.”

  “No, she doesn’t. Straw bag. Container.”

  We locked eyes. He attempted to wait me out. Get me to speak again. It wasn’t happening. He broke eye contact, swirled the wine.

  “No such exchange occurred between them. And no commercial or charter flights originated in Rio with her on board.”

  Ski would have assigned assets to cover Amsler’s escape route. Fed Hirsch the information. But neither of them knew Amsler as I did. Clever, aware, cautious—a wily fox. She’d hire a car and driver, scoot via road to Belo Horizonte or another midsized Brazilian city. Charter a private flight from there. She’d know there weren’t enough assets to cover all the options, the possibilities. Gone, gone.

  “So Kirmani and his men flew out after a deal was made, actions assigned. Apocalyptic scenarios envisioned. A hug, great victories assured. And they aren’t victories over Israel, Hirsch. Maybe later. But not now. It’s my country she’s after.”

  “We, together, can still stop her. Before she escapes again.”

  So you and Israel can nab the sample.

  “Get this into your thick skull. She’s gone. Count on it.”

  “We shall see.”

  “You shall see.” I raised a hand, ordered another drink. “I’m outta here. It’s over. Finito Benito. At least this part, this phase.”

  The drinks took the edge off the ache from the face and side wounds. But the big ache came from the sinking, the despair. So close. So, so close.

  “I did not take you as a man who would throw up his hands and quit. No, I did not. But you do what you must do, my friend. I shall not quit. We do not quit.”

 
“I’m not quitting. And I’m not your friend. I’ll do a reset. Clarification on next steps.”

  “Ah. A rather unstable commitment. You do not have the assets, the organization to assist you. Which is why, more than ever, we must work together.” He leaned forward and entered my personal space, face florid, eyes stone-hard. “This is serious business, Case Lee. Lives, many innocent lives, are at stake. Working together is our best chance.”

  I wasn’t working with Mossad. And wasn’t working with the Company unless I hit a stone-wall dead end. What I did have was a last-ditch ace in the hole. Jules of the Clubhouse.

  Chapter 28

  Booked an early a.m. stateside flight. End-point: Norfolk, Virginia. I wouldn’t arrive until late, so I scheduled a morning Clubhouse visit. Sent Jules a message, dark web, the detailed content a first, and a breach of Clubhouse standards. Given her proclivities, operational details were handled face-to-face. Not this time. I kept the intel succinct but thorough. Background, events, contacts, and an informational dump on Amsler. The whole shebang. No choice. Jules represented my last shot, my last chance before handing what I knew over to law enforcement. A hand-off best avoided like the plague as such an act involved questions, with outside-the-law answers, delivered and logged and recorded. A last resort, but one I’d take if all else failed. This was too big, too dangerous: an embryonic terrorist attack with the potential for death on a scale beyond imaginable.

  I sent my client, Global Resolutions, a mid-contract report. Another first. One which reeked of failure. I attached expenses to date and expected they’d pull the plug on the job. Surprised when they responded within an hour—continue my endeavors. Don’t quit. Interim expenses paid. One possible translation—the Swiss pharma company working through Global Resolutions now had Kim Rochat’s assessment. They understood the gravity and were freaked about corporate fingerprints on their wingnut’s activities. Helluva jaundiced view, but welcome to the real world.

  Nighttime found me plopped within an obscure bar alongside an obscure Chesapeake hotel, checking messages. Jules replied quickly, an affirmative toward the a.m. meeting. Then the vodka prompted musings on where I’d screwed up. I knew it would happen, fought it, failed. The blues washed over me with coulda-shouldas, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. I could have hit Coari first, before initiating the search. Confirmed Amsler hadn’t split the scene. Left a reward at the airport for intel. I could have been more emphatic with Bernie. Maybe saved his life. Could have asked Hirsch to look after him. I could have called for an evacuation of the Swiss base camp. Demanded they contact their Swiss company and announce a mandatory evac. All hands, get the hell out of there while Kim and I headed upriver. Could have hunted Kirmani in Manaus. Taken the SOB out after the opera house fandango. On and on and on.