by Bob Nailor
“Is everything in place, Gianni?” The voice was frail with age but alive with energy.
“She’s onboard, Your Eminence,” he replied. “Her team will be in place in a month.”
“In eternity, a month is nothing.” There was a raspy intake of breath. “In this case, it may be too long.”
“If we draw too much attention, it’ll be over before we can blink,” Rossi replied. “I ask your patience. We have been handling these situations for a long time.”
“May I remind you we are only in this predicament because our predecessors acted too slowly. Time waits for no man.” A short pause of silence. “Nor does evil.”
Rossi was silent. He knew the voice at the other end was right. “We’ll stay on top of this, Your Eminence. Trust me.”
“You know I do, Gianni. Peace be with you and Godspeed.”
Rossi hung up and called his operations director to the conference room. The day was escaping.
“Have them take my jet,” he instructed. “Get them to Brazil by tomorrow morning.”
She balked. “But local arrangements are still not complete.” She slammed the stack of personnel folders on the table. “Trust me, Mr. Rossi, the geoglyphs aren’t going anywhere.” She gazed at her boss. “You do realize it’s at least a twenty-hour flight.”
“I’ll call the priest and work things out.” Rossi barely cocked an eyebrow. “Just get them to Manaus by the day after tomorrow, by dawn.” He paused. “No later.”
She snatched the files and walked away shaking her head. She knew she’d been dismissed, and the group would be in Brazil sooner than she would like.
The UWF corporate hangar sat apart from the other terminals at the Singapore airport. It was away from nosy tourists and the prying eyes of the press. Rossi’s Gulfstream seemed a child’s toy in the cavernous space of the hangar.
“Now this is truly cool,” Wayne said. He broke into a sprint alongside the gleaming aircraft.
“We’ve got less than thirty minutes to get in the air,” the pilot reminded Ana. “Otherwise, we lose our spot until after the rush.”
“Everybody on-board. Now!” Ana shouted. Even she was a bit goo-goo-ga-ga over the luxury of a private flight.
She heard the purr of an electric motor behind her. It was Rossi in a white golf cart. “Let’s take a little spin,” he said. “Just the two of us.” Ana glanced at the pilot and he nodded back an ‘okay.’ “Just for a few minutes,” Rossi added and gently patted the seat next to him. She hopped in, preoccupied concerning her team and equipment. They headed out toward the runway along the ocean. A few hundred yards from the hangar, he stopped in an arbitrary spot and turned toward the young anthropologist. “Ana, there are a few details about this assignment you need to know,” he said in a quiet air of discretion.
She was young and this was the first time a superior had taken her into confidence. “Fire away, boss,” she joked, then regretted the levity and familiarity.
Rossi left the golf cart to walk along the wire fence that closed off the airport. The runway stretched out along the harbor, choked with end-of-day traffic. He leaned forward on his forearms against the fence and looked out toward the harbor, a slight breeze ruffling his jet-black hair.
“Are you a religious person?” Rossi asked, then hesitated and stared at her for a few moments.
Ana’s eyes wrinkled in confusion. “Are you asking if I go to church?”
“Never mind.” Rossi shook his head, seemingly distracted by whatever was on his mind. “I want you to know you will find extremely unusual conditions at this site. There will be people who do not fit into your conventional view of the world. There will be things you cannot explain or even describe; situations which could be dangerous, physically and in many other ways. I need to know you are willing to lead this expedition under such conditions.”
She was young and rash enough to reply immediately. “Of course, Mr. Rossi. You can count on me.”
He knew she could not possibly understand the depth of what he was asking. He rolled up the left cuff of his starched white shirt to just above his old, worn Rolex. His forearms were muscled and tanned from a lifetime of fieldwork. Just at the spot on the inside of his wrist where his life force pulsed most strongly, Ana saw the tiniest of tattoos. A red cross or a “t” pulsed with the flow of his blood. He held his wrist forward for her to see while he spoke.
“We serve a greater cause here at UWF, Ana. We are part of a struggle as old as time itself. There is not much more I can say, except to invite you to join the battle against darkness and evil. I cannot explain why I have this tattoo. I can only say it represents everything we do at UWF. Can you accept this challenge, knowing so little?”
As if on cue, the single rain cloud in the afternoon sky passed in front of the sun. A chill passed through Ana, though not from the sudden darkness. Rossi’s voice was smooth and sonorous. It had the texture of fine dessert wine and was just as intoxicating.
Again, she was neither old nor wise enough to refuse. “As I said, you can count on me, Mr. Rossi.” She offered her hand in confirmation. He took her hand to shake with one hand and then, quietly, grasped her hand with the other.
“It’s imperative you keep us informed of everything you find,” he continued. “You may not recognize what your eyes see. We can. Do you understand that? With us in the loop, there is a broad range of resources available to you, depending on what happens.”
He paused, took her hand again, and looked directly into her eyes. “Above all, Ana, you can trust no one…not even the trustworthy. Your life, and even more, may depend on it.” He searched her eyes; he wanted to tell her all the truths. The winds picked up while they stood silently on the grass, followed by the first drops of rain. Neither moved as a storm built its fury.
“Let’s go,” Rossi finally said. “You need to get into the air before the weather gets worse.”
The plane was loaded and waiting for her when they returned. Ana hustled up the small ladder and disappeared inside without looking back. Minutes later they taxied toward take-off.
Rossi stared at the brilliant white jet as it punched its way into the bank of clouds rolling in from the Pacific. He’d kept his word to Ana’s mother, Jovana, for nearly thirty years, until this day. He’d been in the rear of the auditorium when she graduated from the Academy of the Sacred Heart in Lisbon. It was the same on the day she received her diploma from the Sorbonne, his alma mater. She’d left her mark in Cambridge while she studied under the Harvard fellowship. Ana still had no clue about the trust fund in Luxembourg.
His oath prevented him from marrying, but not from being a father. He’d been content to watch from a distance as requested. He watched the pride in the eyes of João Pedro, the fisherman her mother had married whom Ana called “papai.” Now Rossi’s heart swelled in pride, knowing Ana Pavlović Carvalho had accepted, without question, to join the lineage he’d given his life to serving.
Ana stared out the plane’s window at the lone man standing on the tarmac beside his golf cart. A slight smile crossed her lips as she considered her situation: the big boss had taken her into his confidence, to share a foundation secret with her. She shook her head when she realized he had never explained the reason for showing her the odd tattoo. What evil could there be with an uncivilized tribe? she thought. Well, they could be cannibals. She chuckled to herself and lay back against the headrest. Her parents would be very proud. And her heart glowed in happiness.
Chapter Three
A NIGHT IN BOCA DO ACRE
The hammock stretched between posts on the first level of the old riverboat and the quiet roll of the Amazon rocked Ana. Two of her group snored loudly just a few feet away. Five more played cards on the upper deck, baking in the mid-afternoon sun. A Ticuna dictionary lay open on her stomach, the language she hoped the lost tribe would speak or at least be familiar with. She’d learned enough languages through the years to know it was going to be as useful as a wet match, but it gave her some
thing to do. To uncover the secrets of a people required the patience and long-suffering of a saint. Each of her assignments had taught her the same lesson: to know a tribe required one to enter their world, the one beyond the words and daily trivia. It required a researcher to leave himself behind and become one of them; it meant to go feral. This was her dream, the motivation that got her past every snakebite and tropical fever for the past three years. Maybe this time, she thought and slowly, once more, seethed about the Sumatra encounter she’d lost. No maybe this time. It’s a definite, she thought. No matter what the cost.
The Vera Cruz puttered along on most of its two functional cylinders. Paulo Santos sat at the wheel, softly whistling and smiling while sticking to shade when he could find it. His first and only mate fed oil by the gallon to the old Mercedes. He’d ferried UWF expeditions up and down the Amazon with his father since before he could walk. No one knew these waters of life better than he. Or, the deep shadows that lured one’s eyes into the rain forest.
Paulo collected the tiny expedition from Manaus International Airport, groggy from the flight. Five grad students and three professors, all lost in ear-bud solitude. Only the leader, Dr. Carvalho, and her anthropologist, Dr. Theodouros, connected with the early morning tropical air that slapped them into a sweat outside the baggage claim.
Paulo’s routine for newbie gringos was always the same, though each time it seemed as spontaneous as an impromptu picnic. He would fling luggage and equipment onto the flatbed of his ancient Toyota Bandeirante and his first mate would tear out of the airport in rehearsed efficiency. Then he would cram the expeditioners into a rented minivan, complete with his magnetic signs, and head into the city. When the inevitable morning traffic halted his progress, Paulo would take to the side streets with breakneck fury, all the while droning quick tour details about the capital of the state of Amazonas. By calculated chance, they would pass in front of the Manaus Artisan Market where his mistress’ brother-in-law ran an Indian handiwork shop. Inevitably, someone would ask for a quick stop.
An impromptu lunch of crispy fried fish and manioc at his wife’s cousin’s booth in the Municipal Market would fuel them for the rest of the day. Without fail, a traveler would fall in love with guaraná, the local fizzy soda made from forest berries which were more popular than Coca Cola. On the dock, they’d make a quick stop to buy cases of the molasses-brown stuff for the voyage. The friendly shop owner, Paulo’s oldest soccer buddy, would smile and announce he accepted dollars and euros as well as the Brazilian real.
The launch was fueled and freshly painted, waiting at the simple dock at the end of Avenida dos Solimões. Beneath the waterline, she shone a vivid colonial blue. Above, she was white with the same blue for trim. Chips on the handrails gave away how many coats she’d gotten while he and his father waited between expeditions. From a pole rising from the second deck, a Brazilian flag the size of a king-size bedsheet drooped above the state flag of Amazonas.
The Vera Cruz puttered away from the dock just after high noon and well before the afternoon rain. Just upstream from the city, the Black River and the Solimões joined to form the full flow of the Amazon. The two streams flowed along, unmixed, for miles. The locals called the spot “the meeting of the waters.” The two halves of the world’s largest waterway continued blue and brown as if divided by an unseen glass septum.
It had been three days and the group was sunburned and bored. The guaraná was gone and cabin fever had spread like lice in a kindergarten class.
“Another two hours, Dr. Ana,” Paulo finally announced. “We’re approaching the delta where the Acre River pours into the Solimões. It’s the tributary on which the geoglyphs were discovered.”
Exploration seemed to have nothing to do with his excitement. Paulo’s lips were already wet with anticipation of the frosty bottle of Antartica beer he knew would be waiting in Boca do Acre. He’d been bugging Ana all day about the little bar he knew and a silly grin now curled the edges of his lips at the memory of the server with that frosty cerveja.
“Hold on, everyone!” he shouted. The deep rumble of powerful twin diesel engines approached from the rear and then overtook them. The Federal Police rode in style, yet the fast patrol boat slowed to avoid swamping the Vera Cruz. Still, waves washed over its low first deck and the sole crewmate muttered, “Merde” before grabbing a bucket to bail water back into the river. A lone Federal Police officer waved before the engines once more gunned to full power. The gleaming craft again rose above the water and sped away.
The shadows were just beginning to stretch out for the day when they tied up behind the same police launch. The students chattered about scantily clad natives. The lone crew mate hustled to tie up the Vera Cruz, brush his teeth and run his filthy fingernails through his short, curly hair.
Paulo gave Ana a lascivious wink. “Now you’re going to learn what life in the Amazon is truly like,” he promised.
The tiny port was quiet, for only tourists tied up so late in the afternoon and Boca do Acre lay too deep in the forest for many of them. The dirt road leading away from the landing was lined with tiny vegetable and fish markets, formed from slabs of weathered tropical wood. One by one the vendors closed their doors for the day. Fish heads and guts had been slopped to the gutters while dogs fought for the best pieces in low growls and yips. Rotten lettuce and peppers littered the muddy ditch which carried the tiny port’s unwanted liquids to the river. Small brown people with furrowed eyes finished up, chatting without pause between the huts in accents impossible to decipher. The scent of the river, dank and pungent, permeated everything.
“Everyone needs to be back on the boat at 11:00 tonight,” Ana called to the group already heading up the dirt street leading to the town. “I’m not your mother. Don’t make me come looking for you with a flashlight.”
She stood alone on the deck of the Vera Cruz, content to be a solitary soul for a few hours of study and make a quick call to UWF headquarters. The group scurried up the road like suburban housewives to a white sale. She felt a tug at her elbow.
It was Paulo, reeking of toothpaste and aftershave. “I told you,” he said. “Tonight you learn what the Amazon is all about.” His hand circled her waist, closing a bit tighter than she would have liked He yanked her off the boat in the direction of the town before she could even summon an objection.
Up the street at the first corner, the little bar called Porto Velho was just heating up. The crew of the police craft stood in green camo fatigues, their elbows on the bar and their eyes on the tiny Indian serving everyone. She darted from table to table like a hummingbird in a garden, delivering beer and baskets of fried fish strips. A plastic table with two empty glasses was waiting for Ana and Paulo. As they sat, the beer appeared. The small native girl never stopped but left behind the tiniest of winks at Paulo.
Ana slowly nodded her head toward her boat’s captain. “Now I see what the Amazon is all about,” she said as she sipped the icy beer. “A girl in every port.”
He never took his eyes off the indiazinha. “You can’t call this place a port, Dr. Ana.”
“Ah, but you can call her a girl, can’t you, Paulo?” Ana nodded toward the stunning native working the tables.
The flush of youth and the heat of the tropical night painted her skin with a sensuous glow. Reddish-brown skin the color of cinnamon; almond eyes, green and radiant; the delicate body of a river nymph. Paulo’s grin nearly split his cheeks. Ana couldn’t remember the same electricity between him and his wife, Maria, at their mooring in Manaus. Even she felt a tingle in her tummy every time the girl flitted past their table.
“Her name is Jussara,” Paulo said, never taking his eyes off the way her derriere snapped with each step. “She’s from the Arara tribe in Pará. The first time I saw her, she was on the beach downriver wearing nothing but uluri. Nossa Senhora Aparecida, what a sight.”
“What is uluri?” Ana asked. She’d learned Portuguese in Lisbon where Indians were few and far between.
/> “It’s kind of like the bottom part of a bikini except smaller. A few strands of straw draped around those fabulous hips like the ribbon on a present.” Ana felt the heat rise at the little table and in her belly. “She asked for a lift to the capital. I couldn’t refuse. I steamed right by Manaus until we got to Boca do Acre.” He winked at Ana. “I certainly didn’t want her anywhere near Maria.” Paulo drained his beer. Jussara caught it out of the corner of her eye and flashed him a smile.
One corner of the little bar echoed with the clank of billiard balls and male chatter. The men around the table were muscled and tan and they wore pistols at their belts. That look would scream “cop” anywhere in the world.
The tallest of the group leaned with one shoulder against the grimy wall just behind the others. He sipped dark, sweet guaraná from a sweaty glass. His eyes swept through the crowd, while he listened in on conversations here and there. His free hand was shoved into jeans which hung loosely from the hips of a body that had spent time in the gym. A black Polícia Federal t-shirt was stretched over a physique that would make a smuggler think twice before he launched an attack. He stood nearly a head taller than the rest of his men, with curly, razor-cut black hair and a few days of carefully-trimmed growth. His eyes were dark and serious as they scanned the collection of river rats in the Porto Velho.
As Jussara plunked down another beer, Paulo picked up on the way Ana’s stare followed the man’s every move. The talk had been contagious.
“Edson Macedo,” Paulo said.
Ana’s eyes jerked back to Paulo. “Who?” She fidgeted as Paulo topped off her glass.
Paulo nodded toward the group. “Lieutenant Edson, Doutora,” he answered with a smile. “Federal Police. The river belongs to him and his men. Plus a few hearts and other selected portions of the women of Boca.”
