The Amazon Job

by Vince Milam

  “Thanks. Could use the help. How often do these Swiss cycle out? Take a break?”

  “Oh, it varies. They work three or four weeks at a stretch. I’d flown the lost one back in about a week ago.”

  “Anything different about that trip?”

  Bernie used a sausage-sized fingertip to push his heavy glasses upward. “No. Not really. She had a pretty good-sized aluminum case with her. More scientific equipment, I suppose.”

  “Anyone besides the Swiss shuttling between here and there?”

  He pulled a handkerchief and mopped his head.

  “Had one fella just yesterday. He wore city clothes. Asked me to wait while he talked with the Swiss folks. Then I flew him back. Nice enough individual, but wasn’t dressed for the occasion.”

  “Tall and thin? Mustache and goatee?”

  Bernie laughed. “The exact opposite. Built like a bowling ball. Clean-shaven. But I’m no beauty queen myself, so I’m not one to talk.”

  “Did you happen to ask where he was from?”

  “I tried, but he clammed up. Not in an ugly way. He was nice about it. And I respect others’ privacy. Live and let live.”

  “Fair enough. Anything else you could share? Anything that could help my search?”

  He pursed his lips and considered. Sweat dripped, voices sounded along the floatplane docks. The equatorial sun lowered, and the day’s activities spread across this stretch of river began tapering down.

  “It’s not worth much, Case. But I’ll toss it out there. She was bullheaded. I could tell from our brief conversations. Those quirks we talked about.”

  “Okay.”

  “She wasn’t the type to get lost. She would know where she was going, and how to get there. I’m not saying something didn’t happen with her. But I just don’t see her as the type to wander around in a panic.”

  “That helps. Thanks.”

  “How long do you plan on staying in the bush?” he asked.

  “A week. Ten days max. If I can’t find her or a trace of her within that time frame, she’s truly disappeared.”

  “Well, I take it you’ve done this type of thing before.” Delivered with a slight smile. He wouldn’t pry, but he left the door open for any elaboration I might want to share.

  “Similar stuff.” Benign enough, and as far as I’d go.

  “Well, I have a few tips for you, which we’ll go over during the flight. Piranhas, gators—that sort of thing. It might help. I want you to find her. Or her remains. Her family must be distraught beyond belief.”

  We made plans for an early a.m. meet-up. We’d fly at dawn. A handshake and I strolled away, aware that eyes on the riverbank watched. Bernie hummed an old gospel tune behind me. Dusk approached.

  A mile or so back to the hotel, and I walked busy streets. Safety in crowds. Not safe from being followed, but no one would try whacking me while dozens of locals pressed around. An opportunity to stretch my legs and reflect on the mission.

  Find a disappeared scientist within a vast area of Amazonia. Challenge aplenty. And now the Iranian BS. Clearly tons of pressure on the head guy. It’s why he pushed, offered big bucks, threatened. I wished I knew more details about the rumor Dr. Amsler slipped into whirling winds at a Swiss coffee shop. If her discovery held global-interest water, why weren’t the big boys here? CIA, MI6, Russians, Chinese? I couldn’t be sure they weren’t, but given my past with the Company they would have shown by now. Would have appeared and attempted to leverage my efforts for their own purposes. Nope, just Iranian agents. Unpleasant assholes.

  I could turn the tables and follow those guys, suss how they operated in Manaus. Who else they contacted. Meet the players. Or skedaddle early a.m. Keep low, sidestep their presence, and do my job. Head up the Amazon River. Find the good doctor. With an added new wrinkle if I found her—I wouldn’t be able to return to Manaus. The MOIS muscle would be after her. And me. I’d talk options with Bernie in the morning.

  Citizens of Manaus strolled, laughed, called to friends across small streets. I lowered the high alert dial a bit, certain the MOIS agents—who may have followed me—would wait for my jungle return. With Ana Amsler.

  I ruminated on the nature of this gig. After several tough and gnarly bloodletting contracts, I’d asked Global Resolutions for lower-key jobs. They’d responded with a contract that, on the surface, appeared pure gumshoe. In the Caribbean. It had turned into a chaotic space with contract killers, terrorists, and a rogue CIA agent. So much for sedate sleuthing engagements.

  This contract had the earmarks of a challenging environment—the Amazon rain forest—but one with a great big plus: isolation. Me, the bush, a missing scientist. Well, that whole premise was now shot to hell. Still, gone tomorrow morning. Unfettered, focused, a specific mission with few incidental entanglements. All good. So I began shedding the MOIS encounter as ugly noise from the sidelines and looked forward to a shower and a good night’s sleep. Decision made. Leave Manaus in my wake, focus forward. Focus on the mission. Keep it simple, Case. Don’t get wrapped around the axle over a run-in with spooks a thousand miles up the Amazon.

  I passed through small sidewalk tables set up outside my hotel and nodded toward the front desk staff with a smile. The room offered AC, and I took full advantage. Soon enough I’d be bivouacked in the jungle. But at least equatorial jungles cooled off once the sun set. Concrete jungles less so. I stripped and stood under a cold shower while the day’s stench—both real and perceived—washed away.

  I dried in the now-cool air when the room phone rang. An unwanted intrusion. I picked up and waited for whoever was on the other side to speak first. The AC hummed. My wet footprints tracked across the exotic hardwood floor.

  “Mr. Lee? Uri Hirsch. I’ll be waiting at a table outside the hotel entrance.”

  He hung up. Great. Uri Hirsch. Whoever the hell he was. I stared at the Glock I’d brought from the bathroom and tossed on the bed. My lone trusted companion, who would join me and address this phone call from out of the blue. Jules was right. I’d forgotten the one big item.

  Chapter 5

  I eyeballed the immediate area outside the hotel’s entrance, right hand under my loose, untucked shirt, and scratched my side. I didn’t itch. But the ruse kept five fingers poised alongside the waistband-hidden Glock. A half-dozen tables and chairs in either direction. A waiter worked the few patrons. Evening’s start, and Manaus slid into its after-work relaxation rhythms as the day’s heat and hustle abated.

  He sat at the far end of tables on the left, smiled, and raised a hand toward me. Bernie had nailed the description—a human bowling ball. Had to be the same guy. Thick, round, and bald except for a dark friar’s fringe of hair. He sat with his back against the building’s outer wall, lighting provided by a few electric sconces along the hotel’s facade.

  As I approached, right hand resting on the pistol’s grip, he popped a tiny hard-boiled quail egg—shell and all—into his mouth. He chewed with mouth open and motioned toward a seat opposite him at the small table. Which would expose my back street-side. And hide his movement below the table. Movement that might involve weaponry. Not going to happen.

  “Scoot over,” I said, standing near him.

  “First, I don’t know you well enough for such intimate seating,” he said, chuckling. “Second, there is not sufficient room for us both along this side of the table.”

  “The hell there isn’t. Move your ass over.”

  Raised bushy eyebrows, a shoulder shrug, and more open-mouthed smacks. He scooted his chair farther down, remained against the wall. I moved a chair nearby, back now protected. He grabbed his glass and gulped white wine. Then burped, covering it with the back of his ham hand. Round head, round body. But not soft. Bowling-ball hard. The dude had forearms the size of Popeye.

  “Have an egg,” he said and signaled the waiter. “Or try the bread. Or both. The eggs are better.” He emphasized his assessment with a quick wrist flick. Another tiny egg entered his maw. “I’m Uri. Uri Hirsch
.”

  His English had an accent—European, perhaps, or the Levant.

  “So you said on the phone.”

  “And you should introduce yourself. It would be the polite thing to do.”

  “You already know my name. Want to tell me about that?”

  The waiter appeared, and he ordered another wine and a cafezinho, Brazil’s ubiquitous tiny cups filled with nitro-grade sweet coffee. I ordered a Grey Goose on the rocks. No immediate danger vibe, no mental alarms, emanated from this guy. He lacked menace, unlike the Iranian. He also lacked table manners.

  “I’m Mossad.” He popped another quail egg, the shell crunching as he chewed, and talked. “You’ve heard of us.”

  He placed a business card on the table. Uri Hirsch. Mossad. And contact information. This cat didn’t try and hide anything. An Israeli spook. Great. Just freakin’ great. Which card-carrying member of spookville might drop in next? The Russians? The Brits? The heat and insects and crawling critters in the deep jungle had never held such appeal as at this moment.

  “Yeah. I’ve heard of Mossad. Once or twice.” I pocketed his card. I was collecting the things like at a real estate convention.

  Uri chuckled again. “You are an interesting fellow, Case Lee. I’ve met people who are much more interesting, but you do have an active background.”

  “Good to know. Maybe I should get a Facebook page going.”

  “Maybe you should tell me why you are in Manaus.”

  “Maybe you should shove it where the sun don’t shine.”

  He delivered a belly laugh, choked a bit, and swigged water from the table’s shared bottle. Pedestrians—individuals, friends, lovers—meandered past. Traffic was light as Manaus adopted a slow-paced nighttime mantle, and locals grabbed the opportunity to socialize.

  This guy had tracked me though flight manifests. Mossad had the ability—as did many others—to backdoor airline information. The name Case Lee blinked a few lights. Followed with a search of likely hotels. Money exchanged, guest registrations checked.

  My mental processes tugged me in two directions. Leave, exit, and focus on tomorrow’s kick-off. The mission. And tell this guy adios. Can’t say it’s been fun, but best of luck with whatever spy dance you’re engaged with. Or play espionage poker with the Israeli on the off chance he could provide something that would help my search. With reluctance I chose the latter.

  He drained the water bottle, cleared his throat, and smiled again. “Good, good. I always enjoy interactions with your kind. Emotions on your sleeve: red, white, and blue. Good. You are here to find Dr. Ana Amsler.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Ah. An answer more complex, I’m afraid. Are you hungry? I am.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “I believe I will try their fish. Something fresh from this magnificent river flowing past. Do you have any idea how impressive such a sight is for an Israeli? We are a dry country, in case you aren’t familiar with our geography.”

  “Do tell.”

  “I do tell. And I will tell you we also have interest in Dr. Amsler. Perhaps.”

  “Perhaps?”

  This guy wasn’t playing his cards close to his chest. Blunt and forward. Same as the Iranian.

  “We both know of the rumor. Such as it is. But we would not expend limited resources on chasing such a rumor except our sworn enemy is chasing the rumor.”

  “Okay.”

  “You may run into them. MOIS. Iranians.”

  “I’m not part of your geopolitical battles. It’s between you and them. Leave me the hell out of it.”

  The waiter arrived with the drinks, and Uri placed his food order. My neck became stiff from looking in his direction, so I shifted for a more face-to-face position. And moved a bit farther from his reach, back still covered.

  “I would love to do so. Unfortunately, they are here. A fact. And I am here because of them. And you are here to find whether the rumor is real.”

  “I’m here to find Amsler. Period.”

  Man, what did these guys hear in the rumor mill? Global Resolutions had provided no insights, no clues in Amsler’s dossier. And Jules had provided zero specific insight as well—a rare and inopportune Clubhouse failure. Or she knew more details regarding the rumor and opted not to share for whatever convoluted Clubhouse reason. Hard to say. Our drinks arrived. I took a hefty swallow.

  “So what I’m seeing is spook-on-spook movement around a rumor,” I continued. “Do you really think I give a damn?”

  “You will soon. Quite soon. But first, understand the context. And do call me Uri.”

  “Okay. Context.”

  “The Iranian government desires expansion of their terrorism support. This is well known. And desires to wipe Israel off the face of the earth. Also well known.”

  He’d lost all pretense of bonhomie and now delivered a hard stare. He took a sip of coffee, followed with a slug of water—while remaining eye-locked with me.

  “Yeah. I get that. And it’s awash with politics and fanaticism. I don’t swim there.”

  “Don’t confuse worldviews. They wish to wipe us out. We wish to survive. They spread their religious dogma. We don’t. For instance, I’m an atheist.”

  I chewed on that, took another swallow of Grey Goose, and asked, “So let’s play this out, Uri, old buddy. I find Amsler. Then what?”

  “Then I convince you to hand her over to me.”

  “Fat chance.”

  “It’s your best move. MOIS will forget about you once I have her.”

  “Not interested in MOIS.”

  “Maybe not, my friend.” He paused and drained the cafezinho. The tiny porcelain cup appeared dollhouse scale in his paw. “But they will be very interested in you.”

  How would he know that? I hadn’t revealed the riverbank sit-down with their head guy. So I opened the lid on the can-of-worms.

  “I’ve met them.”

  His hand halted, a tiny egg positioned between thumb and forefinger.

  “When? And with whom?”

  I described the vignette, figured nothing to lose. Plus, this guy—while not an ally—was, in the immediate picture, less of a threat.

  “What did their leader look like?” Uri asked, both forearms now on the table.

  “Thin, fit, goatee, smoked a lot.”

  “And you didn’t kill him?”

  “Can’t say I did. Sat in a public place, daylight, while three of his spooks watched. No, Uri, I didn’t whack him.”

  I failed to mention the possibility, and the urge, as I sat at the table during our visit. Uri and I shared unblinking stares. He lifted a thumb toward himself.

  “I would have.”

  I finished my drink with a brief reflection on the violent world Mossad and MOIS inhabited. Little or no nuance there. His food arrived and he attacked, using a fork and knife combination to shovel the dish home. He continued with a food-filled mouth as he talked.

  “Farid Kirmani. Remember the name. Kirmani. You chatted with one of MOIS’s head killers. We’ve crossed paths before. In different parts of the world.”

  “I’m not interested. Well outside my realm of concern. So tell me what you have on Amsler. Every bit of intel helps. Because I’m headed deep into the bush. A helluva lot more than a brief base camp visit attired in business clothes.”

  “So you’ve met Bernie. Another interesting man. A bit heavy on the Jesus metaphors, but a good pilot.”

  “Amsler?”

  “Nothing you don’t know already.”

  Man, did he have that wrong.

  “I had hoped the Swiss collection at the base camp would have revealed more,” he continued. “But they are most protective. Protective of their work and of Amsler. My charm and good looks failed to open any cracks in their protective shell.” He chuckled. “And as for your not interested dismissal, you no longer have such an option.”

  “How’s that?”

  “When Kirmani delivered the friend-or-enemy ultimatum, he was not ki
dding. It is unfortunate, Case Lee, but you are now an official enemy of his. Which makes me your friend.”

  He cast a casual smile my way.

  “How do you figure?”

  “Because a MOIS agent followed me here. And out there,” he said, pausing to wave an oak-limb arm toward our immediate environment of city street and traffic and pedestrians. “Yes, out there they have seen us break bread. Have a drink. Why, we’re close personal friends. Kirmani will not like that. Or you.”

  He’d set me up. Knew how this would play out. A forced enlistment on the Mossad side. Dragged me into spookville’s muck and mire. And put a target on my back. My blood rose and anger bubbled.

  “Thanks, you son of a bitch. But know this. I’m gone in the morning. So screw you and your grand plans.”

  He shoveled more food into his wide mouth, a contented expression across his face. Content with the food, the setup, my response. A Mossad spook. One who reinforced pretty much all I knew about them. They also played for keeps.

  “Don’t you want to position on the side of God’s chosen people?” he asked, pausing to wipe his mouth with a linen napkin before gulping more wine.

  “Thought you were an atheist, asshole.”

  “Any port in a storm.” He smiled large. “So let’s talk about what happens if you find her.”

  I shifted position again and scanned the surroundings. MOIS agents observed us, somewhere. This guy might have been full of BS about their current watchfulness, but I didn’t think so. So how would they now react? Try and whack me? Wait for my return from the jungle? I considered my options and paid little heed to the Mossad agent.

  “They will not kill you now,” he continued, glomming onto my adjusted physical demeanor. “They will wait. Wait until your return to Manaus. Then they will kill you.”

  I continued a focused scan, sought a glimpse, an indicator. Even within this setting’s minimal light I’d pick out one of the MOIS agents from the riverbank bar.

  “Although, and this is important, Case Lee, Kirmani may want another chat with you prior to tomorrow’s departure,” he added. “What with us breaking bread together.”