August 14
“How much farther?” panted Navarro.
Up ahead, Margaret wiggled through a narrow gap in the thick underbrush, unconcerned by her companion’s entreaty. She craned her head below a drooping branch and listened for rushing water amid the chatter of birds in the trees above. Though it was faint, a definite trickle could be heard in the distance.
Leaning over to catch his breath, Navarro’s shiny, black ponytail slid over his shoulder and dangled by his face. Again, he cried out to Margaret. Again, she ignored him.
Over the past two days, Navarro had done nothing but whine. If it wasn’t the slippery terrain, it was the humidity or the bugs. When nature’s discomforts didn’t top his bitch list, he railed about her failures in Stockbridge and her perceived general incompetence. On more than one occasion she considered hauling out the Breylofte to fling him atop a kapok tree, but she’d managed to suppress the urge. Foucault was paying her to keep tabs on Navarro, not kill him. The longer they trekked, however, the more she craved to silence the fop.
Why Navarro insisted on tagging along was beyond Margaret. This kind of excursion was definitely not in his wheelhouse. The man lived in a mountainside castle with a staff of twenty, for heaven’s sakes! Anytime he traveled, at least three assistants handled his every need, and he almost always was accompanied by two brutish bodyguards. “Roughing it” wasn’t exactly his style.
For this reason, Margaret resisted his late demand to join the search team, but Navarro declared the request nonnegotiable. He was funding the expedition, including the party’s fees, and he wanted to keep a close eye on his “investment.”
“You’ll slow us down,” Margaret had argued. “There’ll be snakes, spiders and God knows what else,” she added, but to no avail. He had puffed out his scrawny chest and announced the decision was final. Margaret chirped back, “Won’t be any Armani boutiques or cafés…”
It was a needless thing to say, but watching his near-orange tan morph to purple was worth the tirade that followed.
Truth be told, Margaret’s resistance to his majesty’s participation went well beyond inconvenience. When Navarro introduced Drummond and his troupe after arriving in Manaus, she had assumed they’d all go together. But Navarro claimed a large expedition would be noticed by the swarm of prospectors residing in Apuí, their proposed jumping-off point.
Stating he wanted a minimum of prying eyes following their path, Navarro announced the group would split into two teams and follow two different paths to the proposed search area. It seemed paranoid to Margaret, and the feeling was reinforced when Navarro tabbed her to join his team. He said he wanted her and the Sound Stone close to him — a sentiment she didn’t understand at the time.
Then there was his choice of site to search. Margaret freely acknowledged she didn’t know how to read the map, but she was convinced the coordinates Navarro had selected were too far inland and she’d told him so. But per usual, her opinion was ignored.
It was her own fault, really. Their alliance, once strong, was now beyond shaky. She’d been sloppy in Stockbridge, reckless even, and it had cost them both dearly. So, she acquiesced to his site choice, fully aware that if they failed to find a stash of Stones, Navarro would point the finger at her and not Drummond.
Navarro’s voice rang out again. “Wait up! You’re going too fast!”
Turning to look back, Margaret did her best to hide a smile. Navarro staggered through the tree gap, nearly falling over from the weight of his pack. Then he tripped on a slick root and tumbled to the ground with a splash. He frantically rocked on the ground like a turtle on its back. When he finally flipped himself over, he blurted several expletives in a bizarre mix of Portuguese and German. Stumbling to his feet, he vainly wiped at the slimy mud coating his shorts and spat, “Do you have any idea where we’re headed?”
She rolled her eyes and unclipped the GPS tracker from her belt. Foisting the device’s screen toward Navarro’s dripping face, she asked, “You see the red dot?”
“Yes, yes. You’ve shown me a dozen times already,” he snorted, waving his goo-covered hand dismissively.
“Then why keep asking?” Margaret asked as she reattached the tracker.
“Because it makes no sense!” Navarro said. “We’ve already passed the ruins! Drummond is probably already there. We will be late!”
Margaret reached into a pocket of her hiking vest and withdrew a scrunched-up bandana. Dabbing her forehead, she said, “We can always swim across the river here if you want.”
“Ha!” Navarro scoffed. “Not a chance!”
With a smile, Margaret said, “Thought so.”
The Argentinian’s face trembled. Margaret yawned and unfurled the red neckerchief. He clenched both fists and glared at her through twitching eyes. Smoothing the wrinkled fabric against her thigh, she glanced up at him and thought, God, he really does look like a weasel!
As Navarro edged toward liftoff, Margaret hoped the rat-bastard would at least toss in a fresh, colorful dig instead of resorting to his usual trilingual “bitch whore” shtick.
During his profane tantrum, Margaret calmly rolled the bandana into a long band and tied it around her neck. When Navarro paused to wipe away spittle from his chin, Margaret said, “It’ll be dark soon. We need to keep moving.”
Navarro quivered with rage. “Where are you going? I’m not fin—”
“Rehashing this now is useless,” Margaret called over her shoulder. “Besides, it’s your own damn fault it’s taking this long.”
Navarro hurled another vile insult and again demanded she halt. Margaret disappeared into a grove of trees and yelled back, “Shhh! You’ll wake the Cinta-Larga!”
The gibe was met with instant silence.
Margaret mumbled, “Touché!”
Ah, yes, the Cinta-Larga. She was still furious Navarro waited until the last second before revealing the possibility of meeting the dangerous tribesmen on their own turf. She should have suspected something fishy when he insisted they begin their trek on the east side of the Roosevelt River, while Drummond’s group jumped off on the west side.
“Look,” Margaret had argued, “this isn’t going to be easy, even if we start on the right side of the river, so why complicate it? Let’s just stagger our start and follow the same path as Drummond.”
Navarro had refused, saying he expected they’d find a shallow place to slop across when they neared their destination. Margaret had ridiculed the notion and warned him there was little chance of an easy crossing point anywhere along the river’s four-hundred-mile length. But Navarro valiantly declared he’d wade across if necessary. When she reminded him that piranhas and caimans inhabited the river, Navarro’s bravado had quickly fizzled.
Before hopping the rickety charter flight in Manaus to head for Apuí, Margaret had tried another approach. She had lobbied to rent an inflatable raft from a local fishing lodge. But Navarro was unwilling to heft more gear through miles of dense jungle.
Margaret had said, “Fine, let’s charter a fishing boat and a couple locals. It’ll be much faster, and you won’t have to lug anything through the jungle.”
Idea rejected. Navarro had seemed suspicious of everyone’s motives but his own, and he again stated he wanted no prying eyes or curious minds following their trail.
The night before they started out, she had pushed one last time to begin their journey on the river’s west side. He vehemently dismissed the notion. When pressed for a reason, he had said only, “The Cinta-Larga. They don’t like miners.”
“Huh? Who?” Margaret had asked.
Navarro wouldn’t elaborate at first, but Margaret persisted. The Cinta-Larga, he had finally explained, were known to inhabit parts of the rainforest south and west of the river. The reclusive tribe was notoriously hostile toward outsiders, especially prospectors.
“Where we are headed is rich in diamond deposits. The Cinta-Larga consider the land and the diamonds their own,” Navarro had said.
&nb
sp; For more than fifty years, he had clarified, the Cinta-Larga had battled with “trespassing” miners — including several fatal run-ins with local prospectors contracted by Navarro.
“I intend to steer clear of them as long as possible,” he had said.
“Does Drummond know?”
“He is a professional, it’s his business to know. There was no need to tell him.”
Those words echoed in Margaret’s mind as she snaked through another narrow cut in the thick underbrush. When he first uttered them, she wondered if Navarro was using Drummond as bait to lure the Cinta-Larga. It seemed to fit his devious M.O.
She knew Navarro’s insatiable desire for rare and shiny objects led him to lie, steal and kill as necessary. He might consider himself a refined businessman, a miner and “exporter,” but to Margaret he was nothing more than a petty smuggler. Yet, he paid well, so she had swallowed her anger and agreed to start on the east side. Besides, the real money would come from Foucault, and that would only happen if she was with Navarro when he found a Maerlif.
Their initial path led southward along the riverbank, but it wasn’t long before the soupy shoreline terrain forced them to shift course inland. Every so often, they curled back toward the river in search of a manageable place to cross. Finding no such place, they meandered farther south, past their intended destination and closer to the Cinta-Larga.
Twice a day at predetermined intervals, Navarro went off alone to the riverbank in search of an unobstructed satellite signal to call Drummond for a progress update on his side of the river. Thus far, he was fifty-fifty connecting with the Scotsman.
As they neared the heart of Cinta-Larga territory, Margaret was comforted by the weight of the Breylofte bumping against her hip. Nestled in a small pack fastened around her waist, the ancient Stone was within easy reach. In a sudden onset, she might not get off a quick enough blast to kill, but she’d surely scare the hell out of the natives!
Navarro, on the other hand, had turned jumpy. Hanging from his belt was a machete-like knife. Early in the expedition, he occasionally unsheathed it to comically hack at hanging vines in his way. Now, Margaret noticed, he gripped it constantly. Watching him brandish the weapon as if expecting imminent attack, Margaret wondered whether Navarro could wield it in self-defense without mortally wounding himself.
Margaret’s musings were cut short by a booming crack of thunder. She turned and strained to spy Navarro’s slight figure trailing behind. If not for swaying branches disturbed by his hulking backpack, she may not have picked him out against the darkening backdrop. She called back to him. “Thunder sounds close. Let’s stop and set up camp before it cuts loose.”
He replied with a faint “hallelujah” and wobbled in her direction.
By the time he reached her, Margaret had already tied a tarp to surrounding trees, creating a lean-to. Beneath the makeshift shelter, Navarro hastily unpacked his pup tent and grumbled once more about Margaret’s tracking skills.
They had barely finished erecting their tents before the deluge commenced. Curling into her tent to wait out the downpour, Margaret unzipped the waist pack and slid out the Breylofte. Lying back, she caressed the smooth curves of the woofer-shaped stone and imagined how easy it would be to step outside, place the Stone to her lips and send Navarro and his tent airborne. An evil smile crossed her face. “That’s one way to get his pansy-ass across the river!”
The rain seemed to go on forever, pounding the tarp until it seemed to sizzle. Margaret closed her eyes and tried to relax, but her mind kept drifting to Navarro’s questionable reading of the Waterland Map.
She rested the Breylofte against her chest and wondered why the Munuorians would hide their Stones a thousand miles deep in the Amazon. It also puzzled her why Foucault didn’t seem to share her surprise. When she called him to relay the coordinates, Margaret held on the line while he punched the numbers into an online mapping app. When he rejoined the call, there was a hint of admiration in Foucault’s voice. What did they know that she didn’t?
With these thoughts spinning in her mind, she drifted off to sleep.
When Margaret awoke, the storm had passed. She emerged from her tent and went in search of kindling amid the wet jungle floor. Soon after she stoked a fire to life, Navarro popped out of his tent in dry clothes and a much-improved disposition. He even briefly smiled at her while warming his hands over the fire.
“I’ve been thinking. We are wasting too much time. I’m going to call the lodge and have them send a boat for us. They can take us back upstream and we can cross close to the ruins,” Navarro said.
Geez, why didn’t I think of that? she silently mocked. Pointing up at the dense canopy above, she said, “Good luck getting a signal.”
Ignoring her pessimism, he said, “It’s almost time to talk with Drummond anyway. I’ll go to the riverbank. Give me the tracker so I can find my way back.” Margaret handed it over and Navarro marched out.
He was gone for more than an hour, far longer than his earlier sojourns to the river. When he returned, Margaret sat by the fire munching on trail mix. He said nothing as he approached, but the look in his eyes signaled the return of his bad mood. Soon the flood of complaints would gush forth.
“No luck?” she asked.
“Bah! Drummond’s found the site! And the lodge can’t have someone here until the morning,” he said. “We can do nothing until then.”
Margaret pondered suggesting they pack up and try swimming across but thought better of it. Navarro’s head might pop off. Instead she said, “Well, at least we won’t have to get any closer to the Cinta-Larga.”
The comment drew a sullen sneer. Then, without another word, Navarro disappeared into his tent. Once he was asleep, Margaret thought of sneaking in to borrow the satellite phone. She was sure Foucault would want to know Navarro’s man had found the Maerlif. But it was too risky. She had to hope for a better chance tomorrow.
Seeing no point in lingering by the fire, Margaret retired to her tent and lolled toward sleep. As she drifted off, she remembered Foucault’s parting words: “Under no circumstances allow Navarro to leave with a Tuliskaera. Use whatever means necessary.”
She hadn’t said it to Foucault, but once the connection terminated, Margaret had mumbled, “With pleasure.”
Two hours later Margaret was awoken by a ruckus outside the tent. She could hear stomping feet and grunts. Above the commotion, she heard Navarro meekly call out, “Margaret! Margaret! The Cinta-Larga! The Cinta-Larga!”
She shook her head to clear the cobwebs and bolted into action. She snatched the Breylofte from the waist pouch and raised into a crouch. Quickly, she unzipped the tent and duckwalked through the small opening. Once through, she popped up with the Breylofte poised to attack. It was pitch dark; the fire had extinguished long ago. She blinked to adjust her eyes while wheeling around to locate the intruders.
All was suddenly quiet. It was then she realized Navarro’s tent was unzipped. Damn! she thought. Did they get him? Unsure whether to call out or not, she spun around once more but could see nothing in or around the surrounding foliage.
Margaret risked a terse whisper. “Navarro!”
There was no response.
“F——!” she spat in a hushed voice.
Something plunked onto the leafy floor beyond the tents. Her head snapped in the direction of the sound and she raised the Breylofte to her mouth. So intense was her focus, Margaret was totally unaware of the figure lurking two feet behind her.
The point of the long blade sliced through her back and out through her abdomen in a violent thrust. Margaret staggered forward under the force of the blow. Shocked by the surreal sensation, she dropped the Stone and reached for the searing pain. The figure stepped forward and tugged her back against the blade. An involuntary gasp escaped her mouth as the blade’s leading edge pushed further out from her abdomen.
Wild-eyed, Margaret flailed against the attacker’s grip and cried out for Navarro. A blow met the back
of her head and she slumped forward. As she fell to the ground, the blade slid from within her body.
Instinctively, she covered her hands over the wet gash beneath her ribs while she tried to regain her feet. The only thought racing through her mind was, Run! Run!
Margaret scrambled only a few steps before the attacker grabbed her hair and yanked her head back. Without a word, the blade slashed across her throat. Rabid with fear, Margaret cried for mercy. The appeal was met with a swift kick in the ribs and another to the head. She collapsed in a heap and hovered near unconsciousness.
Aware only of sounds, Margaret heard rustling in the foliage around her. Then she felt hands patting her body and tugging at the empty waist pack. The gashes to her throat and torso burned with pain. She curled into a fetal position and tried to clear her milky eyes. Though she was unable to focus, she could sense the sudden change in light. Before her, an orange glow erupted, followed by crackles and hisses. Soon, the orange glow was all around her.
Through the brain fog came a rush of adrenaline, urged forth by the smell of smoke. Rolling onto her side, Margaret’s eyes cleared long enough to see a slim figure sashaying away, ponytail bobbing happily as it disappeared beyond the reach of the inferno.
In her fading moments of consciousness, Margaret made a feeble effort to crawl away from the fire. As she did, her hand bumped against a smooth rock beneath the leaves. Fumbling frantically, she caught the edge of the stone and pulled it free from cover.
Too weak to give chase and gasping from the smoke, Margaret fell onto her back and closed her eyes. In the palm of her bloodied hand, she gripped the Breylofte.
The boat zoomed upriver, churning the dark water as it sped along. Navarro, standing near the bow, squinted ahead in the darkness. Turning to the young Brazilian piloting the craft, Navarro asked, “How much further?”
The man held up two fingers. Navarro wasn’t sure if he meant two miles or two minutes, but either way, they were close. Darting a look down, Navarro observed their progress on the GPS device. The site wasn’t far from the river. Less than a mile, he reckoned.
Race for the Flash Stone (The Anlon Cully Chronicles Book 2) Page 17