The Frog Cypher: An Adventure Novel (Sam Harris Series Book 2)

by PJ Skinner

  ‘Mike, I’ve thought a lot about this since I talked to you in Lindos. I’ve decided that I’d be delighted to go to Sierramar and help you out. You won’t be sorry. I’m a very quick learner and I love working in the field.’

  This was not strictly true. Sam hated standing at the bottom of rock faces in the driving rain trying to be interested in the age of the strata. She had read up on some of the basic facts about Sierramar. She was not very keen on either rice or bananas, the two staple foods. But she loved the idea of adventure, steaming hot jungles and exotic animals. She was interested in finding gold and other valuable minerals, and discovering deposits. She was sure that she would grow to love any job that had those components mixed in. It was very exciting to be offered a job like this. Getting work as a junior geologist was difficult at the best of times. This was a genuine launching pad for her career and she could learn to speak Spanish, too.

  ‘Okay then,’ he said. ‘Sort yourself out and I’ll phone you when I have your ticket. Can you please fax me a copy of your passport and your bank details?’

  ***

  Sam went home to her parents’ house to get her field gear. She crawled up the rickety ladder to the loft, which wobbled and almost fell as she reached into the cobwebs and pulled her gear towards her. She had stuffed it up into the rafters after her last field trip and some of it smelt like it had not been washed. She dropped it onto the floor of the landing where her mother surveyed her daughter’s antics with concern.

  ‘What sort of job is this anyway?’ she shouted up at Sam.

  ‘I’ll be working as a geologist in Sierramar.’

  ‘That sounds exotic. Which company will you be working for?’

  ‘I’m afraid that none of the companies are hiring since the recession started. Do you remember Mike Morton?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, I met him in Lindos and he’s offered me a job. I’m so excited.’

  ‘That’s nice, dear,’ said her mother, who was placed in a panic by this revelation and needed a pretext to keep her at home so that she could speak to her husband before Sam left. ‘Euuuu. These clothes smell terrible. Do you want me to wash them? I can put it in the dryer and if you stay the night they’ll be ready before you leave. I’ve put clean sheets on your bed.’

  Sam was going to refuse but she was not sure how easy it would be to get anything washed in Sierramar and she needed babying before her first big trip.

  ‘Yes please, Mummy. You’re an angel.’

  Later, while Sam was watching television in the sitting room, Matilda Harris cornered her husband in the kitchen.

  ‘I’m not very enthusiastic about our Sam working with that man,’ she said. ‘Do you think it’s a good idea?’

  ‘Ah yes, the dreaded Mike Morton, scourge of the private investor.’

  ‘Don’t joke, darling, this is serious.’

  ‘It certainly is. That man took my money and made it disappear.’

  Bill Harris was not joking. He had put some money into one of Mike Morton’s schemes a couple of years before. As with all Mike’s projects, it was a very good concept. Someone had invented a way of washing aircraft twice as fast, using a revolutionary new compound which also repelled dirt and kept the aircraft cleaner for longer. It sounded like a no-brainer. But there were problems with the patent and a long and costly legal battle ensued. All the investors’ money was absorbed into lawyers’ fees. As usual, Mike got bored after a few months of this and his attention wandered to another new project. The shareholders, including Bill Harris, ended up with nothing.

  His wife looked cross. Bill raised a conciliatory hand to her face.

  ‘I know what you mean, dear, but it’s a job. Experience is worth its weight in gold these days.’

  ‘But what sort of experience will it be? Do you think he’ll actually pay her?’

  ‘I doubt it. But I don’t think that’s the point. Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on her bank account and make up for any shortfall. She told me that he’s only paying her a hundred pounds a month. Even he should be able to manage that.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘A hundred quid a month.’

  ‘But that’s terrible. We should stop her going.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Even if she gets no money out of it, she’ll have valuable experience that will give her more chance of getting the next job, hopefully one that pays more. It may even get her past the ‘women can’t get work in mining’ thing. Poor old Sam, she’s such an idealist. No one can tell her that women’s lib is still a pipedream. She believes men and women are equal.’

  ‘Well, she’s always wanted to be a boy, ever since she was little. She got very cross when I told her it wasn’t possible. I despair of her ever settling down to a normal life.’

  ‘Sam will be okay, darling. You’ll see. Maybe a trip to the jungle is what she needs to straighten her out. She can look after herself, you know. She’s tough. She’s got your genes.’

  ‘You’re right, of course. Anyway she’s so excited. Did you see the way her eyes are shining? Nothing will stop her now.’

  So they kept their counsel and waved Sam off the next day with her clean field gear in a dirty rucksack, giving her a lecture on the evils of Mike Morton. Her father had tried a word of caution but Sam did not want to hear anything bad about her new boss. She formed her own opinions.

  ‘Watch out for those Latino men,’ quipped her father.

  ‘I’d say Mike Morton is far more dangerous,’ muttered her mother.

  ***

  Mike Morton had gone straight from his meeting with Sam to see Edward Beckett. He stopped outside the house on the Regency crescent and composed himself. He was sweating after his trip across town on the underground, surrounded by cute French exchange students with adorable accents. Almost distracted from his mission by the lure of the ingénue, he managed to concentrate for long enough to get off at the right stop, leaning in to inhale the scent of the long brunette hair of the nearest student as he got off. What a waste!

  He steeled himself for the sarcastic comments that were bound to be made about his latest ‘sure thing’ and knocked on the door.

  It was opened by Ophelia, Edward’s wife, who looked at Mike as if he was something nasty that she had picked up on her shoe.

  ‘He’s in there,’ she said, indicating the study with a flick of her head. ‘He’s waiting for you.’ She stepped back, as if to avoid being contaminated by contact with the visitor.

  Mike was immune to disapproval. He had the skin of a rhinoceros, which was vital for any entrepreneur who relied on other people’s money.

  ‘How nice to see you so soon after our trip, Ophelia,’ Mike said. He headed straight for the study, where Edward Beckett was sitting in an armchair, reading the Daily Telegraph with studied concentration.

  ‘Edward, old mate, how are you? Back to the grindstone, are we?’

  ‘I’m leaving for Sierramar next week.’

  Mike forced himself to sound as upbeat as possible. He was stony broke after his run-in with the alluvial project in Sierramar and he suspected that Edward knew this, even though they had not talked about it much on their holiday. He was confident that he could still interest Edward in the possibility of owning a gold mine in South America, if only for the kudos he would gain down at the club.

  Mike decided that asking for more than he needed was the best policy, as he had experience of being bartered down in similar circumstances. Edward Beckett could afford to be generous and he loved investing in high-risk projects just for the thrill of the chase. They had never managed to crystallise a profit but Edward loved the risk and the rollercoaster ride that generally led to him losing what he called his ‘casino money.’ Mike knew that Edward tolerated Ophelia’s dislike of him, but every now and then, he would ask her if he did not have a right to some fun with his own money. After all, he was a self-made man and he understood Mike’s need to get rich quick as well as anyone could.

  Edward lo
oked up from his newspaper with a warm smile. Mike could feel that it was going to be a good day. He extended his hand and smiled back.

  ‘Let’s hear it then,’ said Edward, knowing his friend needed no encouragement.

  ‘Do you remember Sam, the geologist we met in Lindos?’

  ‘Of course,’ he answered. ‘We had dinner with her. She seemed like an interesting young woman.’

  ‘I’ve convinced her to come over to Sierramar for a modest salary. I believe she’ll prove her worth very quickly.’

  ‘How modest?’

  ‘Fifteen hundred dollars a month.’

  ‘That sounds about right.’

  Mike felt bad lying to Edward about what he was paying Sam but he knew he might need extra funds if he got into a tight spot. He genuinely believed that Sam could profit from he shares in time and that everything would turn out alright.

  ‘Well, as you know, that is, um, I’m sorry our first venture in Sierramar didn’t go to plan. I was well and truly done up like a Christmas turkey on that one. But I’d like to have another go.’

  ‘You think we have a chance of hitting it big this time?’

  ‘Armed with our experience of the first dud project and with the help of Sam, I think we’ve got a much better chance of success. We have first mover advantage over there. I’m sure there are amazing projects lurking all over the country. If you want to be involved again, I guarantee you that it’ll go better this time. The gold price is on the move and there’s lots of money to be made out there. We could make millions this time with the right deal. Millions.’

  Edward looked at his friend, who was sweating with anticipation. He could not help feeling that frisson of excitement that kept him investing with Mike, time after time. He was not going to miss out on a gold mine. That was for sure.

  ‘What’s the deal?’ he asked laconically.

  III

  Ten days later, Sam boarded a flight to Sierramar. Her stomach lurched as the plane took off and she found she was holding on to the armrests as if her life depended on it. Her head was whirling with possibilities. Had she made an awful mistake? She did not speak a word of Spanish. Would she cope in the jungle? Would she like the food? Where would she live and work? Did she really know enough geology to be reviewing projects for Mike Morton?

  Sam’s heart raced with anticipation. She ate the lunch without tasting it and tried to distract herself by listening to the comedy channel on the aircraft’s entertainment system. Later she slept despite herself, worn out with speculation.

  Afterwards, her only clear memory of the trip was of the refuelling stop at Curacao in the Dutch Antilles, on the way to Calderon. No one was allowed to remain on the plane during refuelling, so all the passengers had to disembark and wait in the transit lounge. When Sam got off the plane, the hot, damp air hit her as if she had opened a tumble- dryer halfway through the cycle.

  Some of the people on the flight had been travelling only as far as Curacao and disappeared into immigration. They were replaced in the airport lounge by people who spoke very loudly, laughing and throwing their hands around so descriptively that she could almost understand what they were saying. The new passengers included a group of mountain climbers on their way to the high altitudes and snowy peaks of the Andes Cordillera. They were all wearing their mountain boots to avoid using up room in their luggage. They looked slightly incongruous in the lobby of the Curacao airport with their light, comfortable travelling clothes and huge clumping boots. The names of the mountains were bandied about with the fake familiarity and terrible pronunciation that showed they were less experienced than they pretended.

  Sam sat quietly in a corner of the lounge. She was joined by a group of earnest looking people with dandruff and beards. One of the alarmingly fierce-looking women sat next to Sam and scrutinized her with a laser-like intensity.

  ‘Are you going to Sierramar?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Sam.

  ‘Tourist?’

  Sam took a deep breath and considered her answer very carefully. She knew very well that if she said yes that she could avoid a ferocious interrogation. But Sam was not very good at backing down. She had met lots of women like this at university. Most of them were away with the fairies but some of them were very aggressive. They were the sort of people who fiercely espoused a cause and then defended it to the death, without ever doing the research required for a water-tight defence of their belief. Sam was quite fond of these committed people in principal, but resented the reaction to her vocation enough to goad them just a little if they attacked her about the evils of her chosen field. On this occasion, she decided that discretion was the better part of valour.

  ‘Yes. I’m very excited. And you?’

  The woman’s face bore a look of disdain, reserved for people who were not saving the planet as they should, but using its resources for holidays. She turned away.

  Sam regretted not standing up for herself. But she knew it would be futile. Arguing with people who ‘know’ they are right always is.

  ‘Without mining, there would be no trees,’ she muttered under her breath and got up to walk around the sterile building containing the three boarding gates.

  ***

  The descent for landing at Calderon was alarming and exhilarating at the same time. The plane swooped low over the city, seeming to graze the tops of a row of tall apartment blocks that made up the southern end of the Avenida Miranda. It then crossed the Avenida 8 January and flew north down the Avenida Colorado, passing over the bull fighting stadium. During bullfights, the aficionados would glance up from the carnage to the aircraft for a hair-raising instant. When the annual fights were boring, the crowd would shout ‘Olé’ at the planes instead of at the matadors.

  It was this cavalier manner of sweeping over the Avenida Miranda that ensured that several planes had managed to land short of the airport over the years, clipping the tops of buildings, claiming their share of victims and lowering the rents on this exclusive street. The plane landed with a big thud on the runway and continued along it for what seemed like miles, the thin air of Calderon providing little resistance.

  Sam staggered down the steps from the aircraft, stiff from fourteen hours in a very small seat at the back of the plane. The bright sunlight assaulted her eyes. She fumbled in her bag for her cheap sunglasses. Airport security guards with large guns watched as she joined the long queue at immigration with the rest of the weary travellers.

  When Sam finally emerged from the ordeal of immigration and customs checks at Calderon, Mike was waiting for her outside, surrounded by hundreds of excited relatives of the other passengers on her flight. Some of them had balloons. Mike looked much the worse for wear. He had put on weight and looked tired and cross

  ‘Hi Sam. Good flight? I’ve got a terrible chuchaqui myself. That your bag? Okay, let’s go then.’

  ‘Chuchaqui?’ asked Sam.

  ‘Chuchaqui means hangover in Quechua, the most common of indigenous dialects in Sierramar, which often lends its vocabulary to Spanish. I use the word a lot.’ He grinned at her.

  They got into a battered four-wheel-drive vehicle and then drove along pitted, scarred roads with rows of dangerous looking concrete bumps up the middle, lined by low-level, shabby buildings made of breeze blocks. Here and there, with increasing regularity, a tall new building broke up the lines of houses. They turned into a long avenue lined with modern blocks of flats. Mike stopped at one of them, opened the automatic security gate and drove down into the basement. They went up to the apartment in a chrome lift.

  ‘You’ll like the apartment, Sam. I took advantage of a recent unscheduled landing on the Avenida Miranda and rented a very large apartment in this new building for far less than the going rate. The complex has an indoor swimming pool and a gym.’

  ‘That sounds wonderful,’ said Sam, who was very impressed until they entered the flat. It was huge, light and airy with beautiful wooden floors and almost no furniture. Mike saw Sam’s look of
dismay.

  ‘We’re a bit short on furniture,’ he admitted, ‘but we’ve ordered more. Your bedroom is the one on the left at the back.’

  There were three large bedrooms in the apartment, all with ensuite bathrooms and built-in wardrobes. Each bedroom held a double bed, a bedside cabinet and a table lamp. The dining area had a round table and six chairs and led into a huge living room that had a lone stereo system on the floor against the back wall. There was also an area off the living room that served as an office. This held two desks and a filing cabinet. There were no carpets, rugs or curtains. The furnishings were sparse but she could not complain about the view.

  From the front of the apartment, she could see most of modern Calderon and the enormous volcano on the other side of the valley. The windows at the back looked out over the valley of Bela Vista and several more snow-capped volcanoes, including El Grande, which resembled a large ice cream cone.

  Sam went to bed early, tired out by the time difference and her first long-haul flight.

  ***

  The next morning Sam awoke to a beautiful sunny day. Because of the high altitude, the climate in Calderon was mild most of the year, even in the rainy season. Being on the equator meant that daylight lasted from six in the morning to seven in the evening, every day of the year with almost no variations. The light was very bright. Sam had to put on her sunglasses, as her eyes started to ache.

  She ventured out of her room and bumped into a very pretty young mulata woman who seemed unsurprised to see her.

  ‘Buenos días. Yo me llamo Tati,’ she said. ‘Yo soy la empleada.’

  Sam had already been reading a Spanish phrase book on the flight, and she recognised the phrase for ‘my name is’. ‘Empleada’ sounded like employed, so she guessed from the word and her clothes that Tati was telling her that she was the maid.

  ‘Buenos días. Yo me llamo Sam. No hablo español,’ replied Sam.

  Tati had become used to foreigners who did not speak Spanish. There was an awkward silence while Sam searched her memory for another phrase that might suit the occasion. She was very jet-lagged. Eventually she shrugged apologetically. Tati was not put off. She beckoned Sam over to the table and gave her a breakfast of eggs, toast and tea.