“Of course,” he says, slipping inside.
I follow.
The driver sitting behind the wheel is big and bulky. He’s wearing a black suit and his thick dark hair is slicked back with product. His eyes are covered with aviator sunglasses.
“Mr. Keogh has just landed, Carlos,” the driver says into the rearview. “Will you be notifying him of our early arrival?”
“I’ve already forwarded a text.”
With that, the driver pulls away from the curb and heads for the Williamsburg Bridge which will take us to the expressway that eventually hooks up with JFK International on Long Island. On the way, I send Leslie a simple text: “How are you?”
“I’ll live. But my business is dead.”
“I’m sorry,” I type in with my thumbs, picturing the long-haired agent sitting on her couch in her robe, having just showered, a full glass of blood-colored Merlot set out before her. “Plans?”
“Chill. Try and figure out the best way to pawn my diamond.”
“Uh-oh. He saw the news.”
“He asked me for the truth. I asked him for the same.”
“Sorry times two.”
“Where are you?”
“On way to JFK.”
“Leaving town so soon?”
“Meeting the mysterious Peru letter man for drinks.”
“He’s flying in to meet you? Must be important.”
“Whatever it is, I hope there’s lots of money involved.”
“I’ll say a novena.”
“Do me a favor.”
“Anything for you Chase (chills going up and down my spine).”
“LOL. Stay close to the phone. I don’t know who these people are. I might need you.”
“I’m your babe, Chase Baker.”
“I almost feel sorry for the gynie.”
I pocket the cell phone.
We arrive some sixty stop-and-go minutes later. The driver pulls up to Terminal 4, Delta’s international terminal, and we get out.
“I’ll text you when we’re done,” Carlos informs the driver before closing the door. Then, to me, “This way, Mr. Chase.”
We proceed through a pair of sliding glass doors and enter into a crowded, high-ceilinged airplane hangar of a building.
Carlos holds out his hand.
“Your sidearm, please,” he says, with a straight face.
“Hey, Carlos, I’m not that kind of guy—”
“I understand you carry the proper credentials on your person. But it will be much easier for us to get where we’re going if you’re not carrying a gun.”
Reluctantly, I reach into my pocket, hand it to him, grip first.
“Thank you,” he says, taking the gun in hand, slipping it into his jacket pocket. “Wait here.”
Before I have a chance to argue, he slips away into the crowd.
A few minutes later he returns. In his hand is a key to a locker. He hands it to me.
“12C,” he says. “Should anything happen to us, the lockers are located along the far west wall of the terminal. But then you surely know that already.”
“What can possibly happen to us?”
“Anything, I’m afraid.”
“Good to know,” I say, as I follow him toward an overhead sign that reads, “All Gates.”
9.
Having made our way flawlessly through safety inspection, we then move on to one of the Delta gates. Gate 35 to be precise. There to greet us is an attractive flight attendant. Tall, shapely, with long straight blond hair, the blue-miniskirted attendant unlocks the metal door and leads the way along the enclosed gangway. When we come to the end of the ramp, we don’t enter into an airplane, but instead are instructed to exit through a narrow door, then climb down the metal stepladder onto the tarmac.
As we descend the ladder I can’t believe the vision that appears before my eyes. It’s a relic of a World War II–era bomber. A B-52 Stratofortress to be precise, preserved in perfect condition. Its metal siding glistens in the afternoon sun as two of its four massive propellers come to a stop. While ground crew place chalks under the old plane’s big black rubber tires, Carlos and I begin making our way toward it.
“You’ve got to be kidding me, Carlos,” I say. “How did PCK the Third get his hands on one of these babies?”
“It’s his office, actually,” the bald man informs, as we enter the area directly beneath the fuselage. “Mr. Keogh is a bit of a World War II aviation buff, as you can plainly see. He also owns a Spitfire and an Me109. Like his father before him, Mr. Keogh was an aviator before becoming an entrepreneur. He flew fighters in Vietnam.”
“No shit,” I whisper under my breath. “I’m beginning to like Keogh more and more.”
Suddenly, a big square panel opens up on the belly of the fuselage. A young black man sticks his head out. He’s clean shaven and wearing only a crimson T-shirt that fits so tightly to his massive biceps and chest that it might as well be a second skin.
“Carlos,” he barks. “Turn that bald bulb of yours off. It’s hurting my eyes, bro.”
“Very funny, Rodney,” Carlos responds. “This is Mr. Baker. He’s arrived for the meeting.”
The upside down Rodney glances at his wristwatch.
“Little early isn’t it, Baker?” he comments.
“Blame the bald guy,” I say, raising up my left arm, cocking my thumb at Carlos.
“Figures,” Rodney says. “Let me get the ladder.”
Rodney disappears back up into the belly of the beast. But a few seconds later, he lowers a metal ladder.
“Let’s go, gentlemen,” he says. “Mr. Keogh needs his rest so let’s get this show on the road.”
As I climb the ladder, I can’t help but think, PCK the Third likes to sleep a lot. But as we climb into the old bomber and enter into the main cabin, I can see why. At the aft end of a cabin that’s been renovated to resemble a rich man’s smoking room complete with cherry wood paneling and a black and white tile floor, a tall, thin man sits in a leather easy chair. There’s a black, plastic and metal mechanical device that resembles a vital functions monitor planted beside him. A series of clear plastic tubes extend from it. The tubes look as though they are inserted into the veins on his inverted left arm via numerous needles.
The man is pale and sickly, but somehow sharp looking in his neatly pressed khaki trousers, blue blazer, and brown-, yellow-, blue-, and red-striped rep tie. The tie is also ornamented with the silhouette of a red, naked, haloed woman who stands before a bright yellow star while joyfully waving her left hand.
“Mr. Baker,” PCK the Third says with a deep voice. A voice that is surprisingly strong considering his physical condition. “Glad you could make it.”
“The Flying Tigers,” I say, nodding at his neck tie.
“I see you’re schooled in your World War Two aviation history,” he says with a smile while holding out his right hand. “That’s certainly a plus in my book.”
Leaning down, I take hold of his right hand with my own. His grip is cold and tight for a man who isn’t well. We shake once and release our hold on one another.
“You’ll have to excuse the cryptic nature of my operation,” he says. “It’s, how shall we say, cloak and daggerness.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“I trust you’ve become acquainted with my associate, Carlos.”
“Very well acquainted indeed,” I smile, shooting the little bald man a look.
“Carlos is a tad tenacious in his work,” Keogh explains, his stunningly blue eyes also locked on Carlos. “He likes to pretend he’s playing the role in a detective novel. Perhaps one written by Chase Baker himself.”
“You a fan, Mr. Keogh?”
He nods.
“Most certainly,” he says. “Since the onset of my cancer almost two years ago, I spend a lot of time sitting at this infernal machine. I try and spend that time wisely by catching up on my reading.”
“I’m honored.”
“I
also understand you are in the possession of many talents, Mr. Baker. A true Renaissance man if ever there was one.”
“Thank you for saying so. Which talent are you interested in today, Mr. Keogh?”
“I would like you to find something for me.”
Behind my left shoulder stands Rodney, his arms crossed over his massive iron-pumped chest. Standing behind my right shoulder is Carlos, who exists as Rodney’s polar opposite on planet earth. Apparently the only thing they have in common is their employer.
“I’m listening, Mr. Keogh,” I say, glancing at the clear fluid that runs through the tubes into and out of his veins.
“Have you ever been to Machu Picchu, Mr. Baker?”
“Please call me Chase.”
“Indeed, and please call me Pete.”
“Sure, Pete.” Then, “Machu Picchu? Never. Although I have worked in Peru a couple of times as a sandhog.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that,” he says. “You helped uncover some of the famous mummies of the Andes which are now stored in the Cuzco Museum.”
I nod.
“What I’ll be looking for you to uncover might be a tad more difficult than that expedition.”
“I’m still listening.”
He raises up his free hand.
“Rodney, if you don’t mind.”
“Right away, Chief,” Rodney says, hitting a switch on the wall which causes a flat-screen HDTV to lower itself from the cabin ceiling. Flashing onto the screen is a full-color 3D representation of Machu Picchu and the surrounding Urubamba River Valley which is a part of the Amazon basin, or what’s sometimes referred to as Amazonia.
“As you can see, the excavated portion which was discovered by the explorer Professor Hiram Bingham in 1911 is the area typically visited by thousands of visitors each day, seven days a week, three hundred sixty-three days a year.” Pointing to the green area beside the mountain peak. “But it’s this area I’m interested in. The other seventy percent or so of the mountain and its neighboring Huayna Picchu to the right. This part of the mountain and its associated valley are still unexplored.”
“Certainly indigenous Incans live there,” I say.
“To be sure, and there are said to be many trails that cut through the thick vegetation. But no one dares access them for fear of these same tribal peoples.”
I laugh. “Is that your nice way of saying people are still afraid of head hunters in the Amazon jungle?”
He cocks his head.
“Perhaps,” he says. “But if I were a betting man, I wouldn’t wager against their existence. Indeed, my own father may have met his own fate at the hands of these head hunters.”
“Your father,” I say like a question.
“Yes,” he says. “My father.”
Now on the television monitor is the figure of a handsome, if not dashing man dressed in long leather coat, leather flier’s cap, tall boots, and khaki pants. He’s smiling for the camera with the same blue eyes and mouth that his son now possesses, while he stands to the right of the propeller that belongs to his 1930s-era biplane.
“That’s a de Havilland,” I say. “Probably 1935, Tiger Moth model.”
“Right you are again, Chase,” Keogh says. “Back in 1939, my father was hired by Standard Oil to explore this uncharted territory for existing trails that might provide an accessible ground route into the Amazon basin. He was convinced that he could find it by engaging in low-level flights that began at the uncharted side of Machu Picchu and continued all the way into the basin. He would record these paths on film and then bring the proof with him back to Texas.”
“I’m sensing a big ‘But’ coming up.”
“But, he encountered a problem. He flew too low and crashed into the trees. I never saw him again. In fact, no westerner would ever see him again.”
“Did he perish in the crash?”
He shakes his head.
“Not at all. In fact, he survived and lived long enough to produce this.” He shoots Rodney a look. In turn, the beefy employee makes his way toward the plane’s cockpit, but stops short of it at a bulkhead wall. Removing a small mirror from the wall, he reveals a safe. Typing in a code, the safe door opens. He reaches in and grabs hold of something, which he carries back out to us. What he’s carrying is entirely familiar to me and most of the world.
It’s a Coca-Cola bottle.
Rodney hands me the 1930s-era vintage Coke bottle. Back then the bottle was not only made of real glass but the words Coca-Cola were embossed into the thick glass itself. There’s something stuffed inside the bottle. A large piece of paper that’s been rolled up to fit through the bottle neck and that’s browned over time.
I lock eyes with Peter Keogh III.
“What’s this?” I laugh. “An honest to goodness message in a bottle?”
“I’ll do you one better, Chase.”
“How’s that?”
“What you are holding in your hand is a genuine treasure map.”
“Treasure map,” I say, feeling my pulse speed up. “No shit.”
“No shit, indeed,” Keogh says with a laugh. “You, Mr. Baker, have entered into the no shit zone.”
10.
“Be careful of that,” Keogh goes on. “It’s very old.”
Rodney hands me a pair of white gloves which I slip on before sliding the paper out of the bottle. Gently I unroll it and discover a hand-drawn map.
“I’m allowing you the pleasure of viewing and touching the real thing,” Keogh explains. “I’m well aware of your love of antiquities, Chase. But my team has assembled a comprehensive computer-generated map for your smartphone and/or iPad for your real-time use in the field.”
“iPads, real-time, smartphones…Sounds rather unromantic, doesn’t it?” I point out while peering up from the old map.
“Perhaps one hundred years from now, it will be a different story.”
“That is, if the earth lasts another one hundred years.”
I take a moment to examine Keogh the Second’s crude map. It’s not very detailed. Fact is, it’s altogether sparse in detail. Depicted on the upper left-hand side of the paper is Machu Picchu, its very vertical, exposed granite, needle-like summit clearly recognizable. Taking up the middle portion of the map is a narrow trail that snakes itself through what is clearly Keogh II’s translation of thick growth, since the open space surrounding the trail has been shaded to near black with pencil. Taking up the entire right edge of the paper is a river. The words “Amazon River” have been penciled vertically into the center of the river in Keogh’s rather fanciful handwriting.
But what interests me is what’s depicted about three-quarters of the way across the map, looking from left to right. It’s another mountain, the tall, needle-shaped summit of which is not altogether different from Machu Picchu’s. What’s mind-blowing is that there’s a man-made staircase that corkscrews itself all around the mountain and that leads to a large opening, which Keogh describes simply as “Cave.”
At the very bottom of the map, in the lower right-hand corner, is an area that’s been boxed off. A heading appears at the top of the box. It says CAVE in large capital letters. There’s no doubt in my mind that this is Keogh’s way of offering a sort of crude, 3D blowup of the cave’s interior. While the artistry is a far cry from 3D, there’s no disputing the identity of the object that takes up the very center of the cave.
It’s a huge bird.
“If that’s a real condor nesting inside that cave, it would have to be as big as a dinosaur.”
Keogh smiles as though in full agreement.
“Rodney, if you please,” he says.
“If you wouldn’t mind placing the map back inside the bottle, Mr. Baker,” the big man asks, while holding out his bear-like hands.
I roll the map up, gently place it back through the bottle neck, and hand it on to Rodney. I also peel off the gloves and hand those to him too. As he makes his way back across the cabin to place the bottle back inside its safe, another image ap
pears on the HDTV. It’s a precise copy of Keogh’s father’s map. But unlike the original, this map has been digitally enhanced, making it go from crude drawing to detailed chart complete with GPS coordinates, 3D geographical imaging, and color-coded enhancement in order to separate those areas with heaviest vegetation from the more sparsely covered areas, including existing walkways and paths.
“As you can see from this new map,” Keogh III explains, “the very trails my father was hired to uncover did indeed exist. Problem is, he had to crash in order to find them.”
“Did anyone ever try to find your father after he went missing?”
“After the map was discovered washed up on the shores of the Urubamba River, a rescue party was sent out after him, but not a single man returned. A few months later, a native emerged from the forest. He was wearing a ceremonial necklace that was said to contain the six shrunken heads of all the expedition members. A second expedition was not attempted.”
“I can see why,” I say, trying to conjure up an image of a half dozen shrunken heads hanging from a man’s neck by a leather necklace. “But your father’s head was never discovered, shrunken or otherwise?”
“Strange, isn’t it?” he says. “But perhaps not so strange. I can only assume he was injured in the crash, survived for a time long enough to draw this map, and then perished. More than likely, some of his flesh was consumed by the cannibals as part of a ritual that would have included the burning of his body as an offering to a very special God.”
“What God?”
“The God of the sky. The same God who makes lightning. His name is Apocatequil.”
I nod. “Which, I’m guessing, is where the big bird comes in. The condor.”
“Not just any condor, Chase. That’s not a real bird my father discovered.”
“If it’s not a real bird, then what the hell is it?”
“Let’s put it this way. When was the last time you saw a bird with an elevation rudder?”
I glance at the drawing of the bird as depicted on Keogh II’s map once more. For certain the “bird” contains a rudder, much like a modern airplane.
Chase Baker and the Golden Condor: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series No. 2) Page 5