The Green Cathedral

by Kerry Mcdonald

  The author of this book is solely responsible for the accuracy of all facts and statements contained in the book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by Level 4 Press, Inc.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  This book is printed on acid-free paper.

  Published by:

  Level 4 Press, Inc.

  13518 Jamul Drive

  Jamul, CA 91935

  www.level4press.com

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019944544

  ISBN: 978-1-933769-92-9

  Printed in the USA

  Other books by

  KERRY McDONALD

  The Lost Treasure of LIMA

  The NAZI GOLD TRAIN

  JIM LORD

  INTO AFRICA

  THE AMBER ROOM

  Dedication

  To Cynthia, my Rimi

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  CARTAGENA Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  SAN JERONIMO Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  PLAYA DE PALMA Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  ISLA DEL DIABLO Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  LA CATEDRAL VERDE Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  ISLA HEREDIA Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  EL DIA DE LA MUERTE(The Day of Death) Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  —

  Central Pacific Coast—Republic of Costa Rica

  Circa 1905

  Juanito, a boy of ten, ran out of the little house that he and his mother, father, and sister lived in just back from the pristine beach that formed at the mouth of the Rio Palma. It was sunrise and time for his favorite chore of the day. He carried a bucket filled with rats that he’d trapped around the house and in the storehouse where freshly picked bananas were kept until they could be picked up each day by the wagon that took them on their long journey to San José. Sure enough, there at the mouth of the river, the old, toothless crocodile lounged, just like he’d done for nearly all Juanito’s life.

  His father had found the fifteen-foot behemoth there one morning and could see that a fight with something, perhaps a shark, or even something man-made like the propeller of one of the boats that occasionally steamed down the coast toward the new canal project going on in Panama, had stripped the thing of most of its teeth. Knowing that being without teeth would eventually cause the croc to starve, Juanito’s dad, an American named James, had taken to feeding the beast. And now, that was just another chore that either he or Juanito did every day. Juanito’s mother, Juana, a native Costa Rican, told them they were both loco, and his sister, Julisa, was too small to care, but still, Juanito and James faithfully fed the croc.

  Perhaps this was because James, though strict with Juanito, was also an unusually kind man. Juana had told Juanito that that is why she had married him. James had been a convicted criminal who had chosen to go to Costa Rica and help build the railroad from San José to Puerto Limon on the other side of the country, rather than rot in an American prison. It was hard work, and James had survived many trials, including a knee injury that had hobbled him and a bout with malaria. Many other workers had died outright.

  But after finishing with the railroad, James had gotten what he’d worked for—freedom and a small tract of land near a village where everyone worked for an American company that grew bananas and sent them back to the United States. James had been so grateful, Juana had said. And when he’d seen Juana’s first husband, a foreman on the banana farm, whipping her for not pleasing him, James had beaten the man up and reported him to the boss man. The foreman was fired and sent away, and Juana refused to go with him. Instead, she married James and enjoyed a kindness she’d never felt before. So she didn’t mind when others looked at her strangely as she went to market with her white American husband. Her man was kind to her and their children. That was all she cared about.

  But being kind to a toothless crocodile was ridiculous!

  Juanito laughed as he tossed rats into the croc’s open mouth. He thought having a toothless crocodile was the most perfect pet for their family in the whole world.

  Juanito now dropped his bucket and picked up his fishing pole. He ran to where one of their family’s dugout canoes was lying and pushed it skillfully into the gentle waves of the Pacific Ocean. The beach stretching down the coast from the mouth of the Rio Palma was sheltered by a small but not insignificant island a little over a mile out to sea. This island broke the waves enough so that they were calm and gentle, unlike the waves farther down, where the surf pounded onto the beach directly from the ocean.

  Juanito loved to fish and to be out on the water, so he spent an hour or so every morning around sunrise out in one of the canoes, hoping for fish to bite while he enjoyed the sun rising behind him and gradually turning the water from opaque to a crystal blue.

  But today, as he sat in his canoe with his fishing line in the water, something was disturbingly different.

  The sun was definitely rising behind him, but before him, coming in from the ocean, there was another bright sun approaching, lighting up the sky nearly as much as at midday. It became brighter and brighter. Juanito, confused and terrified, wanted to paddle for the shore and find his father, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the approaching light. It was mysterious and terrible, captivating and fascinating.

  There was an enormous booming sound that swept across the waves, and then the light separated into two—a giant fireball diverting up the coast, and a much smaller one approaching as if it were aimed right at him!

  “Juanito! Get outta there!” his father’s voice called frantically to him, but Juanito was frozen in a dreadful fascination. He looked at the light that streaked up the coast. It moved with unimaginable speed, then suddenly disappeared and collided with the land somewhere far away. Juanito could hear a muffled roar, and then seconds later, a mighty wind swept over him like a tidal wave. The water rocked violently, and Juanito tumbled out of his canoe. Skillfully, he grabbed onto it and waited for several seconds as the wind finally blew out and the water calmed.

  He turned to see the small light. It, too, was racing toward the Earth at an unfathomable speed. Juanito was sure that it would strike the water right where he was and he’d be tossed around like a toy boat in a bathtub. Suddenly, though, the light faded some, and the object seemed to slow. It dipped lower and lower and then disappeared behind the island. A shudder went through the water. A brief roar of wind came but stopped almost as soon as it started.

  And then, all was calm.

  Juanito’s father rowed up beside him in the big family canoe. “Come on, buddy! Let’s go check it out!”

  That was another thing
about James. He was insatiably curious, and once he got an idea in his head, he was unstoppable. Juanito pulled himself up into his father’s canoe, tethered his own to the stern, grabbed a paddle, and stroked for the island with his father. Juanito was excited. He’d never been to the island before. He didn’t even think his father had been there. It was hard work paddling so far for so long.

  Finally, they pulled their boats up onto a large beach and looked back at the village and their home, both of which appeared very small.

  “Sweet Jesus,” marveled James, and then he signaled Juanito to follow him.

  They crossed the beach and ran into the jungle, which was more like a forest, with tall, arching trees covering smaller trees and scrubby undergrowth. Everything was dazzlingly green, and the trees reminded Juanito of the tall arch over the door to their church, which was couched under a tall bell tower. He wondered if such magnificent arches were what the cathedrals in big cities like San José looked like.

  They ran farther in, watching their steps because both were barefoot and had no shirts on, only pants that came halfway down their legs. James led the way, an amazingly agile man considering his past injuries, and as Juanito followed, he thought he saw through the forest an area where many trees had fallen. Just as he noticed that, his father called out, “Stop, son!”

  Juanito did, and then saw the reason why. A huge brown cat, a puma, was lolling in a tree above them. It gave a threatening growl, then stood menacingly on the limb it was on, as if daring the two humans to go farther. Juanito went to James and held on to his waist, terrified, as James studied the big cat.

  “Let’s move a bit to the right, son,” James said without taking his eyes off the puma, and he and Juanito took a few steps.

  But the cat growled loudly and leaped to another tree limb directly in front of them. Both father and son jumped with surprise and fear.

  “I don’t guess we’re going any farther into this forest today, son. Let’s back up toward that beach. Keep your eyes on the cat.”

  The two slowly backed away several paces, then turned and dashed back the way they’d come, not stopping until they got to the beach. Both shaken, they took one more look into the forest, noting that the big cat had followed them, but at a safe distance. They hastily pushed their canoes into the water and were off.

  What they didn’t see, though, was that above the puma, walking along a tree limb as if she’d done it hundreds of times, was a small girl, perhaps seven or eight years old, with brown skin and uncommonly large green eyes. She watched them go as well.

  CARTAGENA

  1

  —

  If one had seen the three men standing together on the ramparts of the massive walls of the Castillo de San Felipe de Barajas, one might have thought they were typical modern tourists. That’s because they were staring at portable electronic devices rather than taking in one of the Western Hemisphere’s most beautiful and historic cities. To the left was the Laguna de San Lazaro, and farther beyond, the Bahia de Cartagena and the skyscrapers of the hotels along the Bocagrande peninsula. To the right were the Laguna del Cabrero and the green parklands along its shores. And straight on in the center was the crown jewel of Cartagena: its storied Walled City. It was filled with cobblestone streets, colorful colonial adobe homes and hotels, ornate cathedrals, historic government buildings, and restaurants of every description. All these were surrounded by four kilometers of venerable stone and mined coral walls, which had shielded the city for centuries from countless attacks by invaders and pirates.

  But these three men couldn’t have cared less.

  Two were dressed in business suits, one a smallish man with a classic Spanish look, complete with the pointy goatee. A much larger man stood beside him. He looked as though his suit was stuffed with boulders beneath a much smaller head.

  The other man, though, was swarthier, dressed in khaki cargo pants and a button-down thrown over a black T-shirt. He was taller than the Spaniard but not as large as the other man beside him. His Caucasian skin was deeply tanned, and his arms rippled with muscle. Though lithe in build, one would not question that his clothes most likely hid a similarly impressive physique. His name was Abel Nowinski, former US Navy SEAL and current special agent with the American Drug Enforcement Administration, the DEA. A smile cracked his somewhat craggy face as he watched the balance of his secure Internet bank account suddenly grow by $200,000. The transfer had gone through without a hitch. He almost looked like the thirty-seven-year-old that he was rather than the older man his overly weathered face usually indicated.

  Next to him, the shorter Spaniard, who went by the outsized title of Don Vicente Galvan, frowned and twisted his goatee as he pocketed his cell phone.

  “There. I hope you’re happy. I feel like I’ve just been robbed.”

  Abel smiled. “I imagine it does hurt a bit. Kind of like I used to feel when I was a kid and had to pay a day’s worth of lunch money to my big bruiser friend on the playground so I wouldn’t get my ass kicked. I used to pity the fools who couldn’t pay up. They didn’t get it all the time, but, boy, when they did . . . I’d never seen so many bruises on one nine-year-old body. Kind of like your competitors down in Urabá are feeling right now after their hundred-million-dollar shipment was seized last night by my DEA friends in Miami.”

  Don Vicente winced ever so slightly as Abel pocketed his cell phone.

  “But you, my friend,” continued Abel, “have just purchased an insurance policy guaranteed to keep you safe from pain like that.” At this, Abel gave Don Vicente’s gargantuan enforcer a wink. “I’ll make a call later this week. The next day, you’ll be depositing a hundred million.”

  “And if I’m not,” spoke Don Vicente sharply, “I’ll be depositing you in my pond filled with crocodiles. Do not trifle with me, Mr. DEA Agent Abel Nowinski.”

  Abel gave him a grim smile. “No ‘ifs,’ no trifling. I’ll take that backpack now.” He indicated a daypack that Don Vicente’s giant had slung over his shoulder. “I’ve got an appointment to keep.”

  He grabbed the bag as soon as the giant let it slide down his sleeve and unzipped its main compartment. Five packets of American one-hundred-dollar bills, just as ordered. He zipped it back up and slung it onto his back.

  “Aren’t you going to count it?” asked Don Vicente dryly.

  “Just did,” replied Abel. “Gotta run. Besides, we trust each other, right?” He gave Don Vicente a condescending pat on the cheek, then walked swiftly away.

  Scuttling down some old stone stairs, Abel found his electric rental bike among others in the rack near the fortress’s entrance. He hopped on it, donned a simple helmet, and whisked himself away onto the busy avenue that would take him into the Walled City. The bike’s electric motor barely made a whir as he sped along.

  Back on the fortress wall, Don Vicente looked to his monster protector. “He’s being followed, eh?” The big man nodded silently. “And his apartment?”

  “An older building near the Hyatt Regency,” said his man, sounding almost as robotic as he acted. “Our team is in place.”

  “Bueno,” said Don Vicente. “Kill him at the first sign of trouble.”

  ***

  E-bikes were a new thing in the Walled City. Like other larger cities, the Walled City struggled with too many cars on the same roads as hordes of pedestrian tourists, and e-bikes were an excellent alternative to cabs and Uber drivers. For just a few thousand Colombian pesos, which wasn’t even a dollar, they were the perfect mode of transportation. Tourists could get from place to place without having to walk endlessly in the hot, sticky afternoon heat. Someone could get to places quickly and cheaply without being assaulted by the city’s herds of prying street vendors.

  And, for Abel, they also served a more clandestine purpose. They assured him that he would be tough to follow, something that Abel was sure one of Don Vicente’s minions was doing now. Becau
se e-bikes had a top speed of only about twenty-five miles per hour, cars could not discreetly follow them. A car would have to go too slow to blend in with the traffic flow, and thus become highly conspicuous. He could also quickly lose a tail once in the Walled City, with its narrow streets and broad plazas, by zipping through places where cars could not go.

  And so, barely ten minutes after leaving the Castillo de San Felipe, Abel had identified and deftly lost Don Vicente’s tail and was zipping through one of the tunnels of Cartagena’s famous Torre del Reloj gate. From there, he crossed the Plaza de los Coches, with its famous yellow colonial clock tower. Abel didn’t even give it a glance as he sharply turned left, then right up to Calle 33. He zipped past a pleasant park known as the Plaza de Bolivar and then passed the Palacio de la Inquisición. Abel had always thought he’d enjoy a tour of its museum of post-medieval torture devices.

  Not long after, he approached one of the most popular and well-preserved areas of the city wall, just a matter of meters from the Caribbean itself. He parked his electric bike, locked it, checked once again to make sure his tail was nowhere in sight, and then looked for a stairway to ascend the steep rampart.

  For the entire time he’d been riding, Abel’s mind had been whirring along with the sound of the bike’s tires. His boss, Victor Garza, a veteran DEA special agent with fifteen years’ experience in foreign service, had asked Abel to meet him this evening at the Café de Vista Sol, an unusually quiet international eatery located on the city wall literal steps from the shore of the Caribbean. It was a place famous for its multiple food selections, serene atmosphere, and incomparable views of the sunset over the sea. Being one of the most sought-after dinner spots in the Walled City, Abel knew that Victor must have planned well ahead to secure such a dinner date. Then again, he might also have a connection with the owner, or be a regular. Victor had led the DEA post in Cartagena for years, and anyone who was anyone seemed to know him.