Shadow of the Jaguar

by Steven Savile

  “I can see that,” Cutter agreed. “But I don’t see how that would account for the attempt on his life in the hospital?”

  “Well, that was almost certainly down to a terrorist faction like Shining Path or some such guerrilla group, trying to make a point by killing a privileged foreigner. It happened soon after Cam’s story started to spread. It makes him a wonderful target for these supposed ‘freedom fighters’.”

  Cutter nodded. Watching their host, Stephen was unsure whether or not Chaplin actually believed what he was telling them.

  “So,” Cutter said eventually, “is poaching really such a huge problem here?”

  “Put it this way,” Chaplin said, “we’re talking big business. The smuggling of endangered species generates billions of pounds a year. Only slightly less than drugs, and far more than armaments.”

  “Jesus,” Stephen said, the scale of it far beyond anything he had imagined.

  “The worst thing is that it really doesn’t matter if the animals are alive or dead, so that means these bastards catch the animals and keep them in conditions of intolerable cruelty. It’s all about the ivory and the penises, the pelts, skins and meat. Nothing gets wasted. Not the marrow from the bones, nor the fat insulating the skin. They even grind the sexual organs up to make aphrodisiacs for horny businessmen. They promise that the livers will cure cancer and other rubbish. People are willing to pay outrageous amounts — the rarer the creature, the greater the value. Can you imagine the price a dodo breast would command? Millions.”

  “So these people would definitely kill to protect their business.”

  “Oh, hell, yes,” Chaplin said, signalling to leave the main flow of traffic.

  The first thing Stephen noticed about Cuzco itself, as they began to drive down the dip into the town proper, was that it was very much a single-storey community of white stucco houses and clay roofs. More than once he saw steel rebar struts sticking vertically out of the walls, as though the buildings were unfinished. He asked Chaplin about this.

  “Curiously enough, it is meant to be a sign of hope. The builders want to give the illusion of prosperity. It’s all a game, though. They want you to believe that one day they might have the money to add a second storey. They aren’t fooling anyone, of course — not even themselves.”

  “Ah,” Stephen said.

  His shirt clung uncomfortably to his back. He didn’t want to sit back in the leather seat because the sticky wetness made his skin creep. Instead he leaned forward in his seat and watched the countryside roll by.

  The transition from rural to urban was every bit as distinct as anything he would have expected to see in London or any other European city. At first the roadside was dotted with sporadic trees, the colour bled from their leaves by the sun, and the occasional building. The stucco was invariably either cracked and broken or only part-finished, leaving theguts of the stone to hang out, bleeding red dust.

  Sallow-skinned men sat on plastic beer crates outside open doors, watching the cars go by. They smoked thin roll-ups and wore battered cowboy hats pulled down low over their sad eyes. Then, further into the city, the colours returned. Sprinklers kept the trees moist, in turn keeping the leaves green. Here the grass beneath could easily have been lifted from a Wimbledon lawn, and was shockingly green against the painted yellow curbs.

  Battered bicycles with rusted frames leaned against walls, their kick stands propping them up on flat tyres.

  The nature of the traffic changed as well, as bigger, newer gas-guzzlers dominated the wide roads, their lacquers bright and shiny.

  The pedestrians were a curious mix of locals, dressed to meet tourist expectations, mingled with the tourists themselves. The ruins of Machu Picchu were close by, and the Inca Express could be seen leaving for Lake Titicaca, the Pisac fortress, the Nazca lines, the puma-shaped Sacsayhuamán fortress and the tiers of Moray — all of which were also nearby. Cuzco was the ideal staging point for the holiday-of-a-lifetime adventures sought by the rich and the curious.

  Finally they reached the urban centre. Set in a basin of surrounding hills, the Incan capital was a stunning fusion of old and new, the architecture like something out of medieval Andalusia. It was a city of statues and fountains, its structures built around wide, open plazas, like the Plaza de Armas, which was the beating heart in the body of Cuzco.

  Stephen wasn’t sure what he had expected, but the opulence of the Cathedral, with its glorious cupola and twin bell-towers, wasn’t it. The architecture was spectacular. Their SUV slowed to a crawl as pedestrians wove back and forth across the busy road amid the blaring of horns. Chaplin took them around a huge two-tiered fountain supported by what appeared to be water nymphs, and drew up alongside the curb outside their hotel.

  “This is it,” Chaplin told them. “I’ll pick you up at ten tomorrow to take you to the hospital.”

  “I’d rather go straight away,” Jenny said. “Time really is of the essence, and frankly, if there’s been one attempt on his life already, I’d rather not leave anything to chance. Stark and I can pick him up and bring him back to the hotel, where we can keep an eye on him.”

  Chaplin made a face.

  “Really not the best of ideas. At Sir Charles’ behest, I have two armed guards, both ex-special forces, on watch outside his room. Two more are located on the lobby level of the hospital. He is safer there than anywhere else in the city.”

  Jenny wasn’t convinced. But Chaplin wouldn’t be swayed.

  “I appreciate your concern, Miss Lewis, but honestly, angels would fear to rush in. Your expedition has raised a few eyebrows in certain official circles, and you are no doubt going to come under some rather intense scrutiny. I would therefore strongly suggest that you act like scientists and, of course, tourists. Running to the hospital now would immediately tip our hand. It’s all about appearance.

  “I don’t need to teach you how to do your job, I’m sure, but this place isn’t like London. We have factions, governmental and what are euphemistically called ‘freedom fighters’, like the Shining Path I mentioned before. When a new factor comes into the equation, something that might unsettle the precarious balance, a lot of eyes become very interested.

  “So, tomorrow we can make arrangements to slip you out from under the watchful eye of whoever, after you’ve spent this evening doing exactly what every other visitor to this fair city would do. I suggest you get your bearings, and take a little wander around. There’s plenty to see, and you really want to work up an appetite.”

  Jenny couldn’t really argue with him, though her expression said that she was far from happy at being told what to do, and especially by this man. There was something about Chaplin that didn’t sit right. It wasn’t the brylcreem smile or the Our Man In Havana shtick. Stephen couldn’t put his finger on it.

  “Peruvian cuisine is rather distinctive,” Chaplin went on, convinced the argument was won. “I feel duty bound to point out that you’re unlikely to get cow or pig, so if you see a steak advertised, it’s liable to be alpaca, or lama meat. Guinea pig is quite popular as well.”

  “Abby will be pleased to miss out on those delicacies, I’m sure,” Cutter said, clambering out of the car.

  “You might want to try crema de tarwi or chalona. Traditionally, you’d be served alpaca, but most restaurants serve lamb instead. Wash it down with a nice Inca Cola, that’ll give you the complete Peruvian experience.”

  “Thanks, I think.”

  “No problem. I’ll see your equipment is brought to the hotel later.”

  Stephen closed the car door behind him, and stood on the side of the road. Again the sheer physical force of the heat hit him. The window across the way advertised Cusqueña in painted letters. He assumed it was beer, though it might equally have been the name of the bar itself.

  Chaplin hadn’t been lying. Even from that vantage point, there was plenty to see, the most noticeable thing by far being the two armed militia members leaning casually against the hotel wall, sub-machine guns dang
ling at their sides. They fit every preconception Stephen had ever harboured about the military junta stereotype. Neither man acknowledged them as they entered the lobby. The others hadn’t yet arrived, no doubt delayed in the chaos of traffic.

  The hotel itself was curious, and not at all what he would have called ‘luxury’, with clay pots and grotesque statuettes dominating the lobby. The floor was a chequerboard of terracotta tiles, some rubbed smooth by the passing of bags and feet, others still rough with their rustic charm. The colours were bright and mismatched. Woven tapestries hung in place of pictures behind the reception.

  Stephen followed Cutter and Jenny up to the desk, where Cutter collected their keys.

  “We’re short of rooms, so we’re going to have to double up. Jenny can you share with Abby? And Stephen, you can bunk in with me.”

  “No problem.”

  “Let’s go make camp then, shall we?”

  Their rooms were on the fourth floor, the beds hard as boards. Stephen pulled off his shirt and flopped down onto the one closest to the window, closing his eyes. It was all he could do not to fall straight to sleep.

  He heard the key in the lock of the next room, then the slam of another door, and assumed the others had arrived — which meant they needed to go downstairs to collect their gear.

  He opened his eyes. A ceiling fan spun lopsidedly above his bed, the rhythm of its rotation just slightly wrong. Watching it was hypnotic.

  Cutter went through to the bathroom. A moment later Stephen heard the spray of the shower running. He waited for Cutter to finish up, then followed him through to rinse off the grime of the flight and the sweat from his skin with soap that refused to lather. He ducked his head under the shower nozzle, massaging his scalp vigorously as he tried to wake himself up.

  He towelled dry and pulled on his boxers and jeans, then picked up the shirt, and dropped it again. The thin material was as thoroughly soaked as it would have been if he had still been wearing it when ducked under the shower. So he rummaged in his backpack for a clean t-shirt and pulled it on over his head.

  It felt good to be clean again.

  “You notice our friends downstairs?” Cutter asked.

  “A little hard to miss.”

  “We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto,” Cutter said. “Come on then, let’s go get the gear. The sooner we start, the sooner we finish.”

  It took the best part of twenty minutes to drag their equipment up to the room, and the effort left them as sweaty and uncomfortable as they had been before their showers.

  When everyone was done, they gathered in the lobby, then went out for a reconnoitre, taking in the vicinity. They were centrally located, close to most of the tourist traps. The gun-toting guards were still at their station, as disinterested as ever. A lama grazed on the grass across the road.

  “You don’t see that every day,” Stephen said to Connor as they left the hotel.

  “Unless you’re Jeff Minter.”

  “Sometimes you’re just weird, Connor.”

  “Killer Trivial Pursuit player though,” Connor said with a grin.

  The hour in their room and lugging the luggage had taken the worst of the heat of the day. The first thing Stephen noticed as he stepped out onto the street was the gentle kiss of the breeze. There was a tall pole in the centre of the main square, the colourful ribbons that dangled from it blowing in the soft wind.

  They crossed the grass, walking slowly and turning in circles, trying to take everything in. Stephen saw the spray of two small fountains on the roof of a neighbouring building, which struck him as just plain peculiar. The others talked and walked and gawked. He looked over his shoulder to see Stark’s eyes narrow. It was a marginal thing, something he wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been less than five feet away.

  Stark nodded once and, reading his silent intent, Stephen turned away.

  It didn’t take long for Stark to catch up with Stephen and match his leisurely stride for a dozen paces before saying, “Your shoe lace is undone. You better tie it up, I’ll wait for you.”

  Stephen looked down at his trainers. Neither lace was loose. Without a word, he went down onto one knee and pretended to fasten them properly.

  “We’ve got eyes on us. Three sets I can see. One in the nearest bell-tower, another pretending to read The New York Times beside the fountain in the garden, and the third making a pig’s ear of following us.”

  “What do we do?”

  “They want to see tourists, let’s give them tourists,” Stark said matter-of-factly.

  FIVE

  They led the watchers on a merry dance around the landmarks of Cuzco, making a show of pointing at this and that, pausing to read every plaque and admire every statue. Performers in garish local costumes were busy untangling the ribbons from the pole when they returned to the main plaza.

  “Let’s watch for a minute,” Cutter said, putting his arm around Connor’s shoulder, then barely vocalised a second instruction, “How good is the camera on your phone, Connor? Good enough to take a few photos of our uninvited guests?”

  “Five megapixels, boss.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes, then. Just be careful, make it look like you’re taking a few holiday snaps.”

  “No problem.”

  Connor reached into his pocket, pulled out a neat little camera phone, and proceeded to take a couple of photographs of the Peruvian acrobats limbering up with the ribbons, then a few more of them in full flight as they ran clockwise around the pole, jumping and clinging to the rope as they did, so that their momentum carried them higher.

  It was quite something to see, as they wrapped their muscular calves around the ribbons and hung upside down while others ran and leapt and pivoted, the display becoming faster and faster the higher the first rank of acrobats ascended.

  Connor casually switched from still images to video, and turned in a full circle as though trying to take everything in all at once. He scratched at the side of his head and turned back to watch the acrobats for a few minutes longer. He let the camera run; the memory on the thing was enough to record an hour’s worth of video. He would dump it onto the PDA later for a closer look.

  The acrobats formed a pyramid, six men on the lowest tier, running for dear life, three men seemingly running on their shoulders, and one final acrobat forming the pinnacle. Each tier moved at a different pace from the next, clockwise and counter-clockwise, their bodies in constant motion.

  But Connor wasn’t watching them. He was looking beyond the streaming ribbons at the man who sat beside the water fountain, folding the copy of yesterday’s newspaper and laying it down on the bench beside him. The bloke was utterly nondescript, average in every way. Mousy hair, thin face, not too tall, not too short, he was the Goldilocks of spies.

  Connor chuckled at the thought.

  It took him a moment to realise that he was staring, his imagination wrapped up in thoughts of James Bond and Spy vs. Spy, he quickly looked away.

  “My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut,” he said to no one in particular.

  “Fancy a lama burger?” Stephen asked, coming up to stand behind him. The man could move with unnerving quiet when he chose to.

  “I was thinking more alpaca steak and chips, to be honest.” Connor’s grin was infectious. “Come on, let’s go eat.”

  They found a small restaurant on a side street off the Plaza de Armas, that promised a fusion menu of genuine Andalusian, Italian, and traditional Peruvian food. Despite the shabby exterior, the aroma drew them in.

  There were eight small tables for two lined up alongside a long faux-leather banquette, and six more tables in the centre of the small room, each covered with a red and white chequered tablecloth and a stout wine bottle that had been turned into a candlestick. Wax of a hundred colours had run and hardened around the fluted stem of the bottle. And each table was empty. The restaurant’s walls were decorated with Incan masks and fertility symbols. The whitewashed walls and low ceiling gave the impressio
n that they had just entered some kind of grotto.

  A craggy-faced woman smiled in welcome as they walked through the door. She dusted her hands off on her apron and said something in Spanish that Connor didn’t understand. When no one said anything, she ushered them toward the banquette, chittering away like an excited mynah bird, her voice spiralling up through the octaves the more animated she got.

  “Do you speak English?” Cutter asked, and the old woman shook her head briskly. Her reaction was almost comical.

  Connor sat across from Abby — his back to the wall — and beside Andy Blaine. Stephen sat on his other side. He noticed that the three soldiers positioned themselves so that each faced in a different direction, with a different vantage point. He assumed it wasn’t paranoia but some sort of training on their part that had become instinctive. Then again, maybe healthy paranoia isn’t such a bad thing after all. He could see the logic of not allowing your enemies to sneak up behind you when you were eating.

  The old woman hovered over Abby’s shoulder, lighting the candles one at a time as she moved down the tables. Her hands shook, causing the flame to waver. She needed three tries to light the wick of their candle.

  “Water?” Connor asked, miming the act of taking a drink as the old woman handed out menus. “Aqua Minerale? Frizzanti? Vattan?”

  “Agua, por favor,” Blaine said to the woman in flawless Spanish, much to Connor’s surprise.

  She nodded. The rising light from the candles transformed her face from old to ancient, bringing out the depths of the creases in her cheeks and chin. For a moment he thought he saw the skeleton beneath, picked out in shadow and shade.

  “You were just making words up, weren’t you?” Abby teased Connor, moving the silverware slightly so she could rest her elbows on the table. He shot her a mock look of chagrin, but she was already looking around the room. “I can’t believe we’re here.”

  “I know, it’s completely mad, isn’t it?”

  “And aren’t you the dark horse,” she said, turning to Blaine.