“Andromeda?”
“Yes.”
“We have the satellite imaging you requested. I thought that we could meet at the lab in St. Gallen in a week or so to go over the lower-altitude scoops.”
“The initial experiments have been most encouraging,” said Grayle.
“I’m pleased,” said Peace. “As a long-term income stream, it may replace everything. It will certainly change the face of medicine, not to mention war.”
“All right,” said Grayle. “Have your people call me when you have the results and I’ll arrange things with Neri from the bank.”
5
The floatplane had been drawn up on the muddy beach of the old port using a pair of heavy skids and a hand-cranked chain winch. The aircraft was large, single engined and high winged with a fuselage that appeared to be fabric stretched over some sort of interior skeleton or frame. It had obviously been painted a number of times and was now a mottled dappled green, slapped on in an amateurish camouflage pattern. The leading edge of the wings had clearly been patched in several places, and the lower halves of the floats were coated with some sort of fungus or algae.
“What on earth is that?” Peggy said, staring at the aircraft.
“Our ride,” said Holliday.
“You’re kidding me,” said Rafi. “It looks ancient.”
“Nineteen thirty-six,” said a voice from behind them.
The man standing behind them was medium height wearing a pair of greasy coveralls and wiping his hands off on a rag. His features were vaguely Asian mixed with something else and he had a long jet-black ponytail. On the bulging biceps showing below his T-shirt he had a U.S Army Ranger DEATH BEFORE DISHONOR tattoo. He walked toward them, his right leg noticeably stiff.
“Peggy, Rafi, Eddie, this is my good friend Chang-Su Diaz.”
“Hi,” said the man with the ponytail.
“Diaz,” said Eddie. “Hablas español?”
“Sí.” Diaz nodded.
“Avión es bonita,” said Eddie.
“Gracias, senor. Eres un piloto?”
“Sí. Gracias a la Fuerza Aérea de Cuba.”
“Ah, Cuba,” said Diaz.
“Charlie Diaz was part of a special incursion group into Colombia that I was heading up back in the ’nineties,” said Holliday. “He can fly anything with wings or rotors. He’s just about the only person who flies supplies up to the river tribes upstream. Doctors Without Borders use him a lot. Despite his looks he’s a good man.”
“How did you lose the leg?” Peggy asked bluntly.
“Doc and I were having a sit-down with a man named Tito Valdez. He shot me under the desk with a Turkish Bullpup shotgun.”
“What happened to Tito Valdez?”
“Doc shot him in the face six times.”
“You can really fly with one leg?”
“During World War Two, there was a man named Douglas Bader who flew Spitfires after losing both legs. He played a pretty good game of golf to boot,” said Holliday. “Now, enough history.” He turned to Diaz. “Did you get everything I asked for?”
“All the practical stuff including the two inflatables you asked for, and the boat is waiting. Presumably Eddie can manage it.”
“Qué tipo de barco?” Eddie asked.
“Un barco de rio,” Diaz responded.
“Grande?”
“Quince metros.”
“No hay problema.” Eddie smiled.
“What about weapons?” Holliday asked.
“Everything you asked for. Forty-fives, Winchesters, a Weatherby, some Stoner POWs, two Heckler and Koch MSG-90s and one FN Maximi light machine gun.”
“Why do we need weapons?” Peggy asked, startled.
Holliday laughed. “Because it’s a jungle out there, Peg.”
• • •
The priest sat in his small office in the Vatican Railway Station, his computer humming quietly and a copy of Debrett’s Peerage open on the desk beside it. According to Debrett’s, Lord Adrian Grayle was a long-standing member of Brook’s. The priest, a fifty-eight-year-old man named Francisco Garibaldi, had also hacked in to the Brook’s Web site and had discovered that one Lord Jonathon Gibbs, third Baron Vauxhall, now resided in South Africa and rarely came to the club although he still kept up his membership. Garibaldi went onto Google, found a recent photo of Vauxhall and printed it out. He picked up his telephone and dialed the special number in the Vatican Printing Office.
“This is Father Garibaldi. I’d like a full identification package on Lord Jonathon Gibbs.” The priest paused. “Yes, a U.K. passport, as well, and also a membership card for Booth’s Gentlemen’s Club. Two days. Thank you.”
Garibaldi broke the connection, then hit the buttons again. “Gino? Francisco. How is my father? Good, good. Look, Gino, I need a favor. I need you to find out the kind of playing cards they use at Booth’s in London, then make up a deck in my prescription. Fast, two days maybe.” He waited, listening, and then smiled. “Buono, Gino. You are a good friend. Call me when they’re ready and I’ll meet you at Rosati’s. Good, good, see you then. Give Papa my love.”
• • •
Hank Rand sat on the couch in the Oval Office with his boss, Harrison White, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, seated beside him. Hank Rand was director of the National Resources Division, the most secret of the CIA’s covert departments.
“I hope you’re right about this, Hank,” said White, flipping through the brief they were about to hand to the president. “You know how he hates that bitch, but I don’t want him thinking we’re ass-kissing.”
“It’s from our team in Venezuela and it’s rock solid, Harrison. One of the Pallas Group’s subsidiaries is about to bomb the piss out of the Indians in northern Brazil. Another Pallas division is managing that big dam project in the region.”
“And another division provides contract security troops and VIP transport in Iraq and Afghanistan and have been since Bush and that bozo Cheney,” Rand responded. “And the guy who sits behind that big desk over there would like nothing better than to boot their asses and put Kate Sinclair in jail. This is his chance.”
The president came in, slipped off his suit jacket, loosened his tie and dropped down into the high-backed chair behind the resolute desk. There was nothing on the desk except a telephone and a wooden box full of giveaway pins. On the windowsill to his right were a few family pictures, including his wedding portrait.
“Boy Scout Medal of Honor Award with Crossed Palms,” said the president, having just come from a photo op.
“What do you do to get that?” Harrison White asked.
“This twelve-year-old kid was walking back to his tent at a jamboree or whatever you call them and he found two little kids, Cubs, I suppose. It turned out these two kids had been chewing on some sort of house plant that paralyzes your throat. He used two pieces of a ballpoint pen and a penknife to give them emergency tracheotomies.”
“Jesus!” White said.
“So now he wants to become a surgeon, I suppose.” Hank Rand smiled.
“Nope,” said the president. “He wants to become a lawyer.”
“Why in hell would he do something like that?” White asked.
“Said he’d have a better shot at the Oval Office. Twelve years old, he’s already after my job.” They all laughed briefly. The president leaned forward, hands clasped in front of him. “So, what do my favorite spies have for me today?”
“Kate Sinclair on a skewer if we play our cards right.”
“Best news I’ve had today. Almost as good as Osama bin Laden shot full of holes. Now, that was something to see!” The president gave a sigh of contentment and leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. “Do tell, gentlemen.”
• • •
The jungle unrolled like a mottled green undulating carpet of forest beneath the wings of the old aircraft. Charlie Diaz flew the plane on a rock-steady course that followed the dark snaking river a few hundred feet below them.
Contrary to Peggy’s fears, Charlie Diaz was a top-notch pilot and the old bush plane flew without a clatter or a bang. Holliday sat on one of four jump seats directly behind the cockpit, and Eddie had the copilot’s chair. Between Eddie and Diaz on the dashboard was a plastic sign that said COPILOT’S CHECKLIST: DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING AND KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT. It was repeated in Spanish and Portuguese. Rafi and Peggy sat opposite, Peggy clutching the side of her seat white-knuckled. The rest of the cabin was stuffed with their gear.
“So, what do you think now, Peg?” yelled Holliday, raising his voice above the unmuffled monster outboard motor bellow of the engine.
“I think I’m going to puke,” she answered, her face white. “He flies like he’s operating a roller coaster.”
Rafi patted her knee consolingly. “Is smooth as silk,” he said. “It just sounds like we’re going to crash any second.”
Right on cue the engine noise changed, and they went into a long, steep dive.
“Oh, crap!” Peggy screamed, gripping her seat even tighter.
“No quieres intentar lo hacer aterrizar, mi amigo?” Diaz asked Eddie, turning in his seat.
“Con mucho gusto!” Eddie replied.
“What are they saying?” Peggy asked. “What are they saying? Are we going to crash?”
“Charlie just asked Eddie if he wanted to land the plane, and Eddie said sure,” translated Holliday.
“Shit,” Peggy said.
Eddie pulled back on the wheel of the Norseman and took a long, shallow run just above the water, looking for deadheads and other obstacles. Ahead of them and to the right was a series of rickety docks jutting out onto the smooth dark river, the jetties crammed with boats of all shapes and sizes. Whatever town existed here seemed to be higher up the steep bank of the river—roughly made plank buildings with thatched roofs.
“São João Joaquin, gentlemen,” said Diaz, pointing.
Eddie finally eased back on the throttle and simultaneously pulled back on the wheel, guiding them down onto the water, the long aluminum cutting neat wakes on either side of the fuselage. It was a perfect landing.
“Muy bien.” Diaz smiled.
“Gracias,” replied Eddie.
Diaz took over the controls and guided them toward one of the longest piers that jutted out into the river. Across from Holliday, Peggy’s color was noticeably returning and her fingers had released their death clutch on the sides of her jump seat.
“There’re boys who will transfer the gear onto the boat, but we must go up the bank to speak with Nanderu.”
“Who’s Nanderu?” Peggy asked.
“The man who’s going to guide us upriver,” said Holliday.
They clambered out of the plane and headed up the rickety pier. A swarm of young men dressed in kiltlike skirts crowded around the Norseman like baby birds around their mother. The leader was about twelve years old with skin the color of buckwheat honey. He was the only one of the crew giving orders and the only one wearing a Chicago Bulls T-shirt.
Diaz led the way up a steep flight of roughly made plank steps to the top of the riverbank. There were half a dozen plank buildings along the bank, some of them cantilevered over the slope. There seemed to be a small boatyard where at least a score of men in their kiltlike clothes were building narrow plank-on-frame boats, the planks joined with handmade rope and the seams sealed with a thick white tarry sap applied with strips of bark dipped into turtle-shell containers. The sap dried to a hard brown color that looked exactly like a heavy layer of varnish.
Diaz entered an open-sided thatch-roof establishment with half a dozen or so men drinking at tables and a makeshift bar. The beer of choice appeared to be a brand called Brahma.
Two men were sitting at a large round table on the far left. One was in his sixties, his long jet-black hair threaded with strands of white, his skin the color of a seamed and ancient oak. The man beside him was in his thirties with the same long black hair.
His skin was a richly creamed coffee. Both men were high cheekboned and strong faced, their brown eyes large and intelligent. Neither man was drinking, but the younger man had a rifle in front of him on the table. It looked to Holliday like a Short Magazine Lee-Enfield Mk. 1, in use from the mid-1920s on and a staple of the British Army.
“This is Nenderu,” said Diaz, nodding toward the older man, “and this is his grandson, Tanaki. Tanaki’s English is quite good, so he will be your translator. He is also a fine hunter and tracker.”
“Tell your grandfather we are grateful for his help,” said Holliday.
The younger man turned to Nenderu and spoke briefly to him in Hupda.
The older man nodded formally at Holliday. “My grandfather says he is glad to help,” said Tanaki. The grandfather spoke again and once again Tanaki translated. “My grandfather says that we should get on the boat as quickly as possible. It is about to begin raining and it will be better to get under way before it does.”
“It’s bright sunshine out there,” Peggy whispered to Holliday.
“It’s his territory. We follow his advice,” he answered.
• • •
The heavy rain hissed against the thatch of Yachay’s hut with a sound like the crackling of a fire. The xhenhet paste was in a stone bowl between his knees. Xhenhet’s botanical name was Banisteriopsis caapi, also known as ayahuasca, a potent psychotropic drug that had been informing Yachay’s dreams and visions since he had first been selected as shaman at the age of thirteen.
Yachay leaned forward and scooped up the paste with two fingers, laying them across his tongue. He waited, humming quietly to himself, listening to the rain and staring at the two skulls on the altar. Both of the skulls had gold and silver teeth and both had eye sockets filled with the green stones the miners fought and killed for. The skull on the left had a talisman clutched between its upper and lower jaws. It was a round object of steel and glass that the man whose skull it was had valued highly for its magic. There was even a magic incantation written on the back that Yachay had pondered over many times. Three letters: PHW.
Yachay felt the xhenhet begin to take him and he sighed happily. Soon the skulls would talk to him and tell him what must be done.
6
The young woman ran through the rain forest jungle, her bare feet instinctively avoiding the pitfalls and dangers that lay in her path. Soon after they had taken her, they’d given her shoes and a bright red tank top and a short pink skirt to excite the men they brought to her, but once through the fence she’d shed everything, the colors of the clothing no better than a target on her back in a jungle where no such colors existed.
She ran to the west, searching for the river, for she knew that if she found the river she would find her way home. She was a Yuruti, daughter of a chief. Her name was Kachiri and she was sixteen years old.
What Kachiri was running from was an illegal diamond-mining facility, the exploitation of any mineral resource on an Indian reserve being strictly prohibited by law.
The location had initially been mined as an alluvial gold deposit, but deeper exploration had revealed a much deeper layer of so-called “cascalho” or diamondiferous-bearing rock. The open pit mine was now two hundred and eighty feet long, seventy feet across at its widest point and seventy-eight feet deep.
The entirety of the mine was covered by a steel girder, mesh and nylon camouflage net graciously provided by White Horse Resources, one of the major partners in the Itaqui Dam Project ninety miles or so to the north. The same camouflage covered the sorting buildings, the grading house, the office, the barracks and the brothel-bar nearby. A quarter of a mile to the south, there was a helicopter LZ used to ferry in shifts of the sorters, graders and security squads on a two-week rotation. The mine workers were given one day off in ten and worked twelve-hour shifts.
When not working they were required to stay within the compound fence, which was electrified. They were not allowed to hunt or forage and were forced to follow a high-protein diet of concentra
ted foods usually fed to the military when on active duty. There was a great deal of sickness among the workers, but as attrition lowered the labor force, more workers were brought in from outlying areas.
Since the horror show in Cuba the year before, the Pallas Group had wisely decided that the image of Blackhawk Security was permanently damaged and needed a major overhaul. The company was dissolved and out of its ashes was born White Star Protective Solutions, a name with a much lower profile and a benign image.
Of course in reality very little had changed beyond the shoulder patches and the letterhead. In an effort to keep that low profile, the rank indications on the operation camouflage of the White Star battle dress uniform bore no relation to the previous standard military markings. At White Star rank was shown by a strip of colored ribbon below the name. Green for a sergeant, blue for a lieutenant, red for a captain, white for a major, black for a colonel and silver for a general. It was all simple and unobtrusive.
The man tracking Kachiri was a captain named Thomas Plunkett, the direct descendant of Sergeant Thomas Plunkett, who had fought in the Battle of Waterloo against Napoleon Bonaparte.
Like the Thomas Plunkett of history, his present-day namesake was a master sniper, which had been his occupation in both Iraq and Afghanistan as well as several missions into Pakistan and more than a few jobs for Blackhawk Security.
In a number of emerging countries as well as some very ancient ones, not having an assassin in your Rolodex could be a serious flaw in your business plan. During slow times in corporate assassination, Plunkett was usually assigned to jobs like this: protection of high-value assets like the diamond mine and somewhat lower-value assets like Kachiri—valuable because of the services she performed and a major security risk should she reveal what she knew about the hidden and illegal mine.
Plunkett had been trailing Kachiri in the rain for half a day, following broken foliage, crushed undergrowth and muddy footprints through the jungle heading almost due west. She was making for the river and what she assumed was safety, but she was slowing and Plunkett knew he would catch her eventually. In some ways he was saddened by the inevitability of his success.
Lost City of the Templars Page 4