Artifact

by Kevin J. Anderson

“If Selene Trujold is an ecoterrorist, self-proclaimed or otherwise, she wouldn’t be caught dead in Caracas,” Keene said. “She wouldn’t let any of these bozos so much as buy her a drink.”

  McKendry drained his too-sweet drink and stood up. “Get a good night’s sleep. We’ll check out tomorrow.”

  “Not quite yet.” Keene made a motion with his hand and forearm, parrying with it as if it were a sword. “Zorro the Gay Blade approaches.”

  McKendry turned toward the door. He really does look like George Hamilton playing Zorro, he thought, watching Rodolfo weave his way through the crowd.

  “So soon you leave me?” The star arrived with his latest accessory. “But I have just found a wonderful man for you to meet. Quite a coincidence. I have brought him over here to you.”

  A stranger accompanied Rodolfo, a small, wiry man with quick eyes and a feral smile. His mode of dress, not glamorous but prosperous, made it clear that he was in the Venezuelan government, and well placed at that. More important, as far as McKendry was concerned, the man’s furtive glances and calculating stare showed him to be in a security field—police, military, or something even more useful.

  “Don’t think of it as leaving you, Rodolfo.” Keene rolled ther and lengthened the vowels. “Think of us as lost sheep and know we’ll find our way home.”

  McKendry stifled a laugh and thought, not for the first time, that his partner should have been in movies.

  Keene went on, “But who is your friend here? We haven’t had the pleasure.” He thrust his hand toward the official.

  Rodolfo responded as the perfect host. “Ah, my manners. Terris, Joshua, this is Juan Ortega de la Vega Bruzual,ministro de la seguridad . Juan, these are my friends whom I told you about.”

  Señor Bruzual’s lips twisted up on one side of his face. “My pleasure,” he said, shaking first Keene’s hand, then McKendry’s.

  Music blared from the sound system as more scantily clad dancers rushed onto the stage behind them. Keene leaned in and shouted, “We can’t hear ourselves think here. Why don’t you join us in our suite for a nightcap?”

  McKendry considered that a very good idea, now that Rodolfo had finally brought in someone who might have information for them, or at least suggestions on how to proceed. He noticed that Rodolfo seemed very pleased at Keene’s offer and motioned his muscle man to clear them a path out of the nightclub, but Juan Ortega touched the star’s arm and gestured back toward the table where he had been sitting. “But my own guests, Rodolfo. I can’t simply desert them.” The minister looked genuinely stricken, then brightened. “Perhaps…I hate to impose, my friend, but could you entertain them until I return?”

  Well maneuvered, McKendry thought, nodding good night to his former employer, who bravely went to join Señor Bruzual’s guests.

  The ride up in the glass-enclosed elevator was fast and filled with chitchat between Keene and Señor Bruzual. McKendry, lacking their obvious gift for inane chatter, kept silent.

  When they reached the suite, one floor below the top of the towering hotel, the minister got right down to business. While Joshua poured drinks, Bruzual said, “I can tell that you are not men of leisure, that you would prefer to be direct. I have heard of your interest in Green Impact. Why do you seek this terrorist group?”

  “We’re actually only interested in one of their members, Selene Trujold.” McKendry took a scotch and water from Keene. No reason to beat around the bush. Bruzual had been apprised of their search.

  “Well,” the Venezuelan said, sipping his own drink, “Selene Trujold is not just a member of Green Impact, she is the leader.”

  McKendry didn’t want to get sidetracked. “That complicates things a bit. I suppose now you’re going to tell us that Green Impact is no longer operating from the Maracaibo Basin.”

  Bruzual’s lip twitched up into his crooked smile, but instead of answering, he asked, “Why do you seek Señorita Trujold?” He sipped his own scotch, obviously savoring it. During the headiest days of the oil boom, Venezuelans had consumed the highest per-capita amount of fine scotch in the world, and their taste for it had not declined despite higher tariffs and import restrictions.

  McKendry nodded to Keene, who said, “We’re working with Oilstar. She may have information about a sensitive…item stolen from Oilstar’s labs. We’re here to recover it.”

  The security minister nodded. “I have had a task force keeping an eye on Green Impact’s troublesome activities for many years. For the most part, their terrorism has amounted to nothing more than an annoyance. However, two months ago their former leader was found shot along with several security guards at the site of an attempted sabotage in Cabimas. None of the guards had fired their weapons.

  “A week later, we received reports of sabotage campaigns in the east led by a woman. Our information shows that Green Impact has gone at least as far as Maturín, and it is said they have an encampment in the Delta Amacuro.”

  Keene looked at McKendry. “Just like Frik thought. Not far from Oilstar’s operations between Trinidad and the Venezuelan coast.”

  “That is all I can give you.” Bruzual downed his scotch and stood up. “It’s been a pleasure, gentlemen.”

  McKendry stood and extended his right hand. “Thank you, Señor Bruzual. We will return the favor.”

  “Just bring me Selene Trujold’s head. One of those dead guards was my nephew.”

  As the door closed behind the Venezuelan, Keene grinned. “You pack,” he said. “I’ll see about getting us a ride. Should I bring an Enya CD for mood music?Orinoco Flow , maybe?”

  “Very funny.” McKendry grimaced at Keene, pulled out his suitcase, and started to pack. His friend was well aware that Terris had turned down a lucrative assignment with the New Age star because he couldn’t stand to listen to her music.

  Keene chuckled. “I didn’t think so,” he said, and picked up the phone.

  12

  Sitting directly behind the pilot of the Cessna they’d hired to fly them from Caracas to Maturín, McKendry had a clear view of the gray ribbons of pipe forming stripes through the woven tapestry of green and brown and tan that was the coastal range. The pipelines delivered crude from the rich Orinoco oil belt in the south over the mountains to refineries in Puerto La Cruz and other cities to the north, on the Caribbean coast.

  From his seat, he couldn’t see the vast central plains and forests of the Venezuelan interior, but from Keene’s bored expression and constant attempts to find something to talk about over the growl of the engines, he knew there couldn’t be much excitement down there.

  McKendry instead used the time to review their plans. The pattern of Green Impact’s movements made it clear that Selene was attacking targets of opportunity as the terrorists relocated for their campaign against Frikkie and Oilstar. The obvious place for them to hide was the maze of the Orinoco Delta, which lay due south of Trinidad on the east coast of Venezuela. The delta, a vast fan of swampy streams and dense jungles that covered nearly eight thousand square miles, emptied into the ocean across more than a hundred miles of coastline.

  The northwestern curve of the delta fan flowed into the Gulf of Paria—where Frikkie had most of his oil wells—and the nine-mile-wide channel known as the Boca de la Serpiente, or Serpent’s Mouth, which separated the southern tip of Trinidad from the Venezuelan mainland. On the map, McKendry thought, the island’s southern peninsula looked like the head of an adder set to strike the giant body of South America.

  The snake analogy was not appealing. For all of his daredeviltry, there were two things McKendry preferred not to face: snakes and sharks. There was little he could do about the latter except avoid them, to which end he confined his swimming to lakes and pools. As far as the former were concerned, he habitually wore heavy boots and always carried a fresh snakebite kit in his backpack.

  Pausing in his review, he checked to make sure the kit was there.

  Deciding that the scenery held no further interest to him, he leaned back, closed hi
s eyes, and napped for the remainder of the trip.

  Upon landing, McKendry and Keene hired a truck and a driver to take them from Maturín across the Tonoro River to the Mánamo, on the western edge of the delta.

  They kept to the lowlands, to the less-inhabited villages, where they considered it most likely Selene Trujold had gone to ground. They paid with worn bolivar notes to take guided boats up and down some of the delta riverlets—calledcaños by the locals. In U.S. terms, the money they spent amounted to little, but McKendry was aware that their frequent hiring of the poor boat pilots helped the local economy a great deal.

  Everywhere they went, Keene and McKendry asked about Green Impact, trying to uncover secret support for the environmental group. They moved in a “drunkard’s walk” pattern across the coast, one day heading up a caño into the interior, the next doubling back down another, tending in an easterly direction, but occasionally circling around to see if their earlier questions had raised any alarms behind them.

  They met with no success. Oilstar’s work was the salvation of the local economy. The local Warao Indians did not seem to have much of a global perspective, and it was clear they would not have joined Green Impact’s cause. The same was true of most of the villagers who lived in thatched huts atop stilts in the muddy marshes. They cared little or nothing about protecting the ecology. In fact, many of the taro and yucca farmers were in the process of hacking down rain forests and slashing and burning the land so they could plant crops.

  Time trickled by like the water in the languid river, but just like the river, the current of days was deceptive. McKendry, perhaps because he understood the people less, was growing impatient. It annoyed him that his partner seemed perfectly content to go on sitting in dockside cantinas, looking out toward the ocean, or sometimes just under overhanging foliage beneath an awning on a dock beside the river, drinkingmicheladas and asking questions. While they both understood the language, McKendry freely admitted that his partner seemed far more comfortable with the culture.

  Eventually, they began to pick up word of a group of radicals headquartered in some unnamed village farther south, a group led by a young woman. Unfortunately, no one seemed to know exactly how to find them.

  More likely, nobody gave a damn.

  “Damn bugs,” McKendry said as they sat in yet one more cantina eating yet one more plateful of black beans and spicy empanadas filled with an unknown meat from the jungle.

  “To them, you’re a necessary part of the food chain,” Keene said, grinning.

  Terris pushed the rest of his meal aside and reached for his beer. He was about to make some rude comment when two newcomers entered the cantina.

  The owner sat in a chair behind the bar and paid no attention to the strangers, but instinct born of long experience told McKendry to take note of the young white man and his companion. The man marched into the restaurant as if he belonged there. He wore his hair in a long ponytail, a floppy leather hat, and a plaid shirt, and had a guitar in a case slung over his shoulder. Hisindia girlfriend, a short dark-haired beauty, held a tambourine, and spoke not a word.

  The young man slipped his guitar case off his shoulder, opened the case on the floor, and eyed McKendry and Keene the way a con man eyes his marks.

  McKendry did not change his expression, but Keene sat forward and stared with intense interest. With a preliminary strum of the strings, the young man played and sang, though not particularly well, a Beatles song followed by an old Bob Dylan tune.

  “Hey,” Keene called out to him. “Why don’t you play one of those old activist songs, like how the oil companies are wrecking the environment?”

  He raised his eyebrows and looked over at his partner. McKendry cleared his throat and nodded.

  “How ’bout ‘The Wreck of theExxon Valdez, ’ sung to that old Gordon Lightfoot tune?”

  The young man laughed and strummed his guitar. “Well, I’d have to make up the words.”

  “That’s all right,” McKendry said.

  Joshua Keene fidgeted, but could not contain his impatience. After the young man struggled through half a song, Keene clapped loudly. He tossed a handful of coins into the guitar box. “Say, you wouldn’t know anything about Green Impact, would you?”

  The young man stiffened. “That’s a terrorist group, and they’re not terribly welcome around here. Why would I know anything about them?”

  “Not saying you do, amigo,” Keene said carefully. “It’s just that we’re looking for Selene Trujold. She’s supposedly one of their members, maybe even their leader.”

  “I know of Selene,” the young man said, equally carefully.

  “We were friends of her father’s,” McKendry said. “He died a little while ago.”

  “Didn’t Selene’s father work for Oilstar, the one with that big faulty rig off the coast between here and Trinidad?”

  “The big rig in the Serpent’s Mouth?” McKendry played dumb. “Oh, yeah, theValhalla . What’s wrong with it? I heard that it’s at the top of its form.”

  “It—” The young man caught himself. “Well, I hear Green Impact has been claiming the rig is a monstrosity, unstable, a disaster waiting to happen.” He shrugged, flashing an embarrassed smile; his india girlfriend still said nothing.

  “Selene’s father was killed by the oil company,” McKendry said. “Paul Trujold was a friend of ours, so we’re not big fans of Oilstar either.”

  “I can’t tell you where you can find them in the jungle. Nobody knows that. Only official members. But I hear she’s coming out of hiding real soon now. You’ll see it on the news.” He adjusted his guitar on his knee. “That is, when weget news out here. Green Impact wants to strike back, hit that platform out in the Serpent’s Mouth or an oil tanker in the vicinity or something like that. You know, make a spectacle.” He seemed to catch himself, looked embarrassed. “But other than that, I couldn’t tell you how to find her. Just keep your eyes open.”

  “We will,” McKendry said gruffly.

  The india girl shook her tambourine in impatience, and the young man looked down meaningfully at the few coins in his guitar case. “Now, do you guys have any other requests? I mean, for a song instead of for information?”

  Keene threw another hundred bolivars into the guitar case and requested “Stairway to Heaven.”

  McKendry looked at him over their warm cervezas.

  Both men knew where they were going next.

  “Looking good.” Keene took stock of himself in the bathroom mirror. He ran his fingers around his clean-shaven chin. “You could use a shave yourself, buddy.”

  McKendry grinned and elbowed his friend out of the way. He hadn’t shaved since leaving Caracas. His beard, which had always grown fast, was already beginning to take shape.

  “Tell me you’re not thinking about growing it again. Remember last time? The good guys took one look at you and thought we were the bad guys….”

  Reluctantly, McKendry picked up a razor. It had taken them two days to get back to Caracas. Amazing, he thought, how it always feels like it takes forever to get somewhere and no time flat to get back. Like shaving a beard. Takes forever to grow and comes off in a minute.

  When they looked fully presentable again, McKendry called Rodolfo. The actor willingly gave him what he needed—a way to contact Security Minister Bruzual. The minister in turn connected McKendry with the harbormaster in the major refinery city of Puerto La Cruz, where Oilstar’s largest tanker, theYucatán, was currently moored.

  The rig actually produced more oil than Frikkie’s facilities on Trinidad could handle, and the refineries at Puerto La Cruz were the closest place he could use to turn a profit from the excess. The complex had been built to take crude from the long pipeline that extended through the deep jungles from the inland Orinoco oil belt. Oilstar had arranged with the Venezuelan government to use the refinery facilities—which had been nationalized in 1976—in order to prepare the offshore crude and send it up to the United States through the Caribbean and
the Gulf of Mexico.

  Keene—the better linguist—called the captain and made an appointment for them to speak with him, privately and in person.

  “Perfect timing.” He put down the phone. “We see Captain Miguel Calisto tomorrow morning while theYucatán offloads. By afternoon she’ll be on her way to refill at Oilstar’s offshore rig,Valhalla, in the Serpent’s Mouth.”

  “Now all we need is a way to hitch a ride. Any suggestions?” McKendry sounded dubious.

  “Piece of cake,” Keene said. “I’ll explain over breakfast.”

  With no further explanation, Keene placed two calls. The first was to Bruzual. All McKendry gleaned from the conversation was that his partner had asked the security minister to send them a fax care of their hotel.

  The second call was to Frik on board theAssegai . Again, Keene asked that a fax be sent to them at the hotel, one that urged Captain Calisto to give them all possible assistance.

  “Frikkie’s in Grenada,” Keene said after he’d completed the call. “Simon’s flying in today.”

  13

  Peta was pleasantly surprised when Simon called her before leaving Miami to ask her to pick him up at Grenada’s Point Saline Airport and transport him and his equipment to theAssegai . Given the fact that she had made it so clear that she believed he was risking his life to dive again, now or ever, she had thought he would slip quietly onto and off the island.

  Simon was one of the last people to debark. He looked pale and tired.

  “How was your flight?” Peta asked.

  “Fine until we landed. The pilot must have had a hot date the way he stopped short on the runway.”

  “I guess he didn’t want to taxi very far. Lord knows there’s no lack of runway. The Cubans saw to that.”

  Simon laughed. “As I recall, they were building it long enough to handle bombers. That’s one of the real reasons why our forces took the revolution seriously, no matter what the president said about the medical students.”