“A gift from a client.”
“Nice gift. I take it you were worth it.”
“He thought so.”
Tupac turned to survey the hacienda headquarters and the beautiful surrounding countryside.
“And you think it’s safe to bring me here?”
“It’s as isolated as any spot in Bolivia. You’ve seen my only two employees, both Quechua people like yourself. And with the fifty-gallon tank on this Explorer, I didn’t have to stop for gas, so nobody saw you en route.”
“President Suarez is Quechuan, but he’s no friend of mine.”
“I’m a pretty good judge of people. I trust Rafael and Yachay with my life. I see no reason not to trust them with yours. Besides, you won’t be staying long.”
“How is that?”
“As we stand here talking, someone is making arrangements for me to deliver you to a Quechua group who can help you disappear, assuming that’s what you want. Other than a good meal, a hot shower, satellite Internet access, and a clean bed, it’s the best I can do.”
Jack felt Tupac’s deep brown eyes search his face.
“How do you know I won’t betray you?” Tupac asked.
“Like I said, I’ve got this thing. A really good sense of people is part of it.”
“And the other part?”
Jack grinned. “Not something I want to get into.”
Once again he felt the big man’s eyes studying him.
“I can see what’s inside you, to the bane that fills your mind.”
Tupac’s words left Jack momentarily speechless.
There was no way that this shaman could sense what Jack could barely bring himself to believe. But that’s what a shaman did, wasn’t it? Make a vague statement that hinted at deeper knowledge and then pause to let his subject’s imagination fill in the missing details. At least Jack hoped it was.
“That might not be such a good thing.”
Tupac shrugged and changed the subject.
“You mentioned something about dinner and a hot shower?”
“And a clean bed.”
“Done.”
As Jack turned to lead Tupac Inti through the door and into his ranch house, he couldn’t shake the feeling that things were about to get a whole lot stranger.
CHAPTER 12
It was dark as the jet started its final descent to El Alto International Airport. Janet loved flying into cities at night, especially the mountainous locales of the world, where the city lights aligned themselves with the wonderful terrain features as opposed to the boring north–south, east–west grids laid out by a city planner. At night, the sky view of La Paz reminded her of looking at the night sky in the high desert of the American southwest. Simply extraordinary.
Her thoughts shifted to Jack Gregory. He was, without a doubt, the most dangerous and exciting man with whom she’d ever worked. For a few weeks, they’d been lovers. Not in the “I love you” sense. It had been a time of extreme and shared danger, followed by a few weeks of “Goddamn . . . we made it” sex.
But Jack had issues that she couldn’t even begin to comprehend, an inner force that was simultaneously quasi-mystical and quite possibly psychotic. Of course, having killed her own father on her thirteenth birthday, who was she to make judgments about normalcy?
The bounce of the rough landing, followed by the squeal of tires and brakes, brought her thoughts back to the present. Having memorized and shredded all her background material that transformed her from Janet Price, she stepped off the aircraft into the chilly night as Janet Mueller, daughter of Friedrich Mueller and Karen Abercrombie, his American wife. With dual American and German citizenship, she had spent her high school and college years in Dortmund, Germany. Her path had led her to Greece, where she had become the Golden Dawn’s most lethal assassin.
The big albino man who met her at the bottom of the steps offered her a hand three times the size of Janet’s.
“Fraulein Mueller. I’m Dolf Gruenberg.” He grinned, his white teeth shining in the bright lights that illuminated the aircraft steps.
Janet extended her hand but gripped down onto Dolf’s fingers, preventing him from wrapping his huge hand around her smaller one, robbing him of the intimidation that handshake was intended to deliver.
“Herr Altmann?” she asked, taking pleasure at the angry glint in the albino’s eyes.
“He sends his apologies that he could not be here to meet you in person. I will take you to his estate. Your bags?”
“I just have the one.” Janet handed him her large duffel bag. “Will we need to transit customs?”
“No. Herr Altmann has made the necessary arrangements.”
Dolf directed her to the waiting sedan, holding open the door as she slid into the leather backseat. Closing the door, he climbed into the passenger seat, sliding it all the way back, sending yet another, not so subtle message.
As the car started forward, Janet scanned the other two occupants as the big man returned the favor. The albino dwarfed the driver, his pink eyes pale lanterns in the interior vehicle lights, the ghostly effect amplified by the shoulder-length platinum hair that framed his face. There was no doubt about it; this car carried a very dangerous person.
As the car pulled out into traffic, Janet smiled and closed her eyes.
CHAPTER 13
Helmeted, clad in shining armor, I stand before my Spaniards as they force the once-mighty emperor to kneel at my feet. I reach out and take the elaborately engraved silver staff topped with a golden sun from his reluctant fingers. As he releases it into my grasp, something moves within me, as if this staff conducts a wondrous power. I almost fall to my knees, but manage to hide the moment’s weakness from my soldiers.
With a wave of my gauntleted left hand, I give the signal. In one smooth motion, the executioner steps up behind the Incan emperor, wraps the garrote around his dark neck, and pulls it tight. Only dimly aware of the man’s dying kicks, I gaze in rapture at this wondrous prize, knowing I should present it to my king, knowing that I cannot bear to part with it. And that knowledge fills me with dread.
Jack opened his eyes to a room cloaked in darkness, his heart hammering the walls of his chest. Remaining perfectly still, Jack inhaled deeply, holding the calming breath for a handful of seconds before breathing it out. Applying the skill he’d acquired through years of practice, Jack let himself relax, drifting deeper and deeper into peaceful meditation.
An hour and a half later, after a hard workout and a shower, Jack sat outside on the front porch, sipping a steaming mug of coffee as he watched the sun spread its peach-colored glow across the eastern sky. The creak of the screen door swinging open alerted him to Tupac’s presence.
The sight of the big man wrapped in a white terry-cloth bathrobe that extended only to his thighs struck Jack so comically that he laughed out loud.
Tupac shrugged. “Yachay insisted on washing my clothes, even though I told her I’d only worn them yesterday.”
“Sorry. We didn’t outfit this place for visitors your size.”
“You’re up early,” Tupac said.
As Tupac seated himself across from Jack, the robe opened at his chest to reveal a tattoo that caught Jack’s eye. It was a man in a ceremonial robe and headdress. In his right hand, he held a staff with a golden crown piece.
“Interesting tattoo. What does it mean?”
“My father had it and his before him. For centuries, the eldest son in Manco Capac’s direct line of descent has borne this sign. It marks the lore keeper.”
“Manco Capac?”
“The first Incan Emperor.”
“That’s quite an honor.”
“It’s a pain in the ass.”
Once again Jack laughed. He was starting to like this man.
“Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“Gave it up after I left the army.”
“You were in the Bolivian army?”
“Graduated from West Point as a foreign exchange student, then cam
e home and did ten years of service.”
The statement surprised Jack. The mental profile he was building of the shaman had just taken a hard right turn.
“Why’d you get out?”
“Got sick of the corruption. Decided to try to make a real difference.”
“As lore keeper?”
“Or shaman. Whatever you want to call it. When that didn’t pay the bills, I went to work in the mines.”
“And Palmasola prison?”
“In case you missed it, I tend to speak my mind. Apparently someone didn’t like it.”
Tupac fixed Jack with a penetrating stare. “Your turn.”
Jack nodded.
“I’m just a fixer for hire.”
“A fixer?”
“People have problems. For a price, I make them go away.”
“Sounds like a mercenary.”
“If you like.”
“Or a hit man.”
Jack understood how someone could get that impression. But that didn’t mean he had to like it.
“I don’t kill for money.”
“But you do kill people.”
“Only if they get in my way.”
“Like the people who scarred you.”
“Yes.”
Suddenly Tupac leaned forward and pointed a big finger right at Jack’s forehead, an intense gleam in his dark eyes.
“How about what scarred you in there?”
Jack felt sudden anger boil up inside but tamped it back down. It was probably just something Tupac had pulled from the standard shaman’s bag of tricks, but the man was hitting a little too close to home for comfort. Rising to his feet, Jack moved to the door, opened it, and then paused to look back at Tupac.
“That’s on my to-do list.”
CHAPTER 14
Conrad Altmann sat sipping coffee on his patio, gazing out over the infinity-edged pool at the lovely view of Mount Illimani on the southeastern horizon. As usual, this high in the mountains, the mornings were brisk, even in summer. Wearing tan slacks, a white button-down shirt, and gray sweater, Altmann felt comfortable in this place where he had lived his life.
His mother had come from old money, and for purely political reasons she had kept her years-long affair with Klaus Barbie secret. Nevertheless, she had been an ardent believer in the old Nazi’s vision, so it was no wonder that Altmann had grown up sharing that view. Unable to accept Klaus Barbie’s extradition, imprisonment, and death in France, Lisa Altmann had faded quickly. After her death, the entire estate had passed to Conrad Altmann.
For decades he had used his substantial resources to bring him to the point where he was today, so close to realizing Klaus Barbie’s vision that Altmann could almost reach out and touch it. He only lacked one thing—actually only a part of one thing. Unfortunately, the one person who could help him find it had been snatched from his grasp.
Movement to his left pulled Altmann from his reverie as his newest houseguest stepped out through the sliding glass doors onto the patio. Her blond hair fastened into a bun with a six-inch hair needle, she was clad in leather boots, tight black jeans, and a soft black leather jacket over a purple blouse. The woman approached with an easy grace and confidence.
Rising to his feet, Altmann leaned forward to gently kiss the back of her extended hand, noting the twinkle in her blue eyes as he straightened. Stunning. If Janet Mueller was putting on a performance, then she was a professional. Of course that was exactly what Ammon Gianakos had called her.
“Fraulein Mueller, it’s a pleasure.”
“Please call me Janet,” she said with a laugh.
He gestured toward a chair adjacent to his. As Janet seated herself, a waiter offered her a cappuccino, which she accepted with a slight nod.
Sitting back down, Altmann watched as Janet sipped the froth from her cup and then turned her steady gaze upon him. Despite sitting in the presence of the godfather of Bolivia’s neo-Nazi movement, the woman appeared completely calm. Indeed, she studied him as if she were the teacher and he the student.
“Ammon has told me a lot about you,” Altmann said. “What he hasn’t told me is why you’re here.”
“He sent me to kill Tupac Inti.”
Feeling his temper rise, Altmann unconsciously yielded to an old habit, stroking his neatly trimmed graying beard with his left hand.
“Why would he care about Tupac Inti?”
“For the same reason that President Suarez has kept Inti locked up in Palmasola. Ammon Gianakos believes he is the one man that could potentially unite the indigenous peoples, not just of Bolivia, but of this entire region. If that were to happen, governments would fall, to be replaced with a communist alliance that would set back our movement for decades to come. Ammon’s been very surprised that you haven’t had Inti killed before now.”
“He should have asked my permission before launching an operation like that on my turf.”
“Maybe he didn’t think you’d allow it.”
“Damn right I wouldn’t!” Altmann studied her face intently. “So why tell me now?”
“When I take an assignment, I do it my way.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then we both know we’ve got a problem.”
Once again Altmann was struck by this woman’s utter self-confidence in the midst of a dangerous situation. Janet Mueller sat across from him, right leg crossed over left, sipping cappuccino, knowing full well that he’d killed people for far less. It was time to shake her tree.
Altmann reached into the leather valise that leaned against the leg of his chair, extracted a folder, and tossed it on the table, sending documents and a number of bloody crime-scene photos sliding into view.
“You know I’ve been a long-time supporter of the work the Golden Dawn is doing to advance the Nazi agenda in Greece, particularly that of Ammon Gianakos. So when he vouches for someone’s skills, I take him seriously. He sent me that file as your introduction. But the funny thing is that every killing he attributes to you via that folder is officially listed as unsolved. I checked. Your problem is that I’ve never heard of an assassin named Janet Mueller.”
“And you would have expected someone like . . .?”
“Carlos the Jackal or Jason Derek Brown—someone who can prove they’ve done what they claim.”
Janet smiled. “The people you’ve heard of are either rotting in prison, hiding from the authorities, or dead. Didn’t some of your assassins get themselves killed the other day in Palmasola?”
She leaned forward. “According to my sources, the man who killed your UJC thugs was the same one who helped Tupac Inti escape Palmasola before I could get here to make the hit. Guess what? The authorities don’t know that guy’s real identity either. I checked. So don’t preach to me about the merits of getting caught.”
The smile on Janet’s lips had subtly shifted to match the mocking glint in her eyes. He’d thrown down the gauntlet, and she’d picked it up and slapped his face with it. And as furious as that made him, all doubt had been purged from Altmann’s mind. Janet Mueller was even more dangerous than Ammon Gianakos had said.
A new idea took root in his head. Maybe if he handled this situation with appropriate care, Altmann could entice this woman away from the Golden Dawn.
If Dolf didn’t kill her first.
CHAPTER 15
It was moving day. Late last night, Jack had received an encrypted e-mail message instructing him to take Tupac to a river boat where Highway 9 met Rio Mamore. The scheduled rendezvous time was just after sundown today, and despite being only a few hundred kilometers straight-line distance from Jack’s hacienda, it would be an all-day trip.
Jack and Tupac had been on the road since long before sunrise. As the Ford Explorer made its way north of Trinidad on Highway 9, the nearness of the snaking Rio Mamore and the Amazon rain forest into which it fed became ever more apparent. The day was hot and muggy, so naturally the air conditioner was the first thing to break. Rolling down the windows helped, but not
much.
Jack glanced over at the shaman and saw him staring back, leaving the impression that Tupac had been studying his face for some time.
“Something bothering you?” Jack asked.
“Maybe.”
Once again Jack found himself mulling the comments Tupac had made back at the Hacienda. Might as well get this cleared up right now.
“You said you could see what’s inside me. What was that about?”
Tupac shook his head. “It’s your head. You tell me.”
“I’d expect that from a two-bit carnival mentalist.”
A low laugh rumbled from Tupac’s throat.
“You can try to laugh it away, but you’ve got a problem and you know it. You just don’t want to admit that I know it too.”
Jack gritted his teeth. “Then how about telling me something useful?”
Tupac paused. Although his eyes remained locked on Jack’s face, they acquired a distant stare, as if Jack had faded into thin smoke that the shaman’s dark eyes easily penetrated. When Tupac spoke, the rumble in his voice sent a shiver along Jack’s spine.
“You’re not the first to have your problem, but you might be the last.”
Attempting to shrug off the sudden sense of foreboding that Tupac’s cryptic statement had imparted, Jack turned his attention back to the road. Screw it. This conversation is going nowhere.
When the right rear tire blew, Jack was hardly surprised. It was turning into that kind of day. Pulling onto the shoulder of the narrow highway, Jack killed the engine, opened his door, and stepped out into the sweltering afternoon sun. This close to the mighty Amazon rain forest, there was no escaping the heat.
“You need my help?” Tupac offered.
“No. We can’t risk passing motorists recognizing you.”
Luckily, the traffic on this section of highway was light. Ending on the eastern river bank of Rio Mamore, Highway 9 was truly a road to nowhere.
Dead Wrong Page 4
