by Vince Milam
“I assume they have a runway? Nothing against slow floatplanes, bud, but Amsler and I might like something that could land us in Rio de Janeiro or São Paulo. Like, sometime this month.”
Bernie patted the top of his baby’s instrument panel. “Pay him no mind. The race is not to the swift and the battle not to the warriors.”
“Hope you’re right. I’m in the ‘avoid battles’ mode. Now, about that runway?”
“One commercial flight a day. To Rio de Janeiro.”
“Good. A solid alternative.”
“Plus plenty of plane traffic between Coari and Manaus. Floatplane traffic. Remember those? They look a lot like your current conveyance. The one making a door-to-door delivery. At a remote base camp in the middle of the Amazon jungle.”
Delivered with a wry smile. Man, I liked this guy. And wished he’d heed the danger warning with more intent.
“Got it. And nothing against your baby. Speaking of imminent delivery, who’s the base camp boss now?”
“Dr. Rochat.”
The dossier on Ana Amsler included a few tactical considerations. The Swiss base camp held five or six scientists at a time. The lead scientist—the base camp boss—rotated out every three or four weeks with the rest of the team as the new team arrived. I’d deal with Dr. Kim Rochat, PhD in biochemistry and molecular life sciences. She hailed from Switzerland’s French-speaking area.
“What’s she like?”
“Solid. A nice person.”
“Anything else?”
“A good leader. And great to work with. I like her.”
Knowing Bernie, I’d now plumbed the depths of his opinion regarding another person. One final stab at information gathering. Bernie helped search for Amsler. He might have insights into her discovery. A long shot.
“So who flew with you on your air search?”
“The Doc. Dr. Rochat. Since she’s team leader and all.”
“Did she happen to mention anything about a discovery Ana Amsler made? Some remarkable discovery?”
Bernie adjusted the plane’s throttle. A flock of electric-red parrots skirted treetops, their plumage highlighted against the shades of green.
“Yes. And it was kinda weird.”
“How so?”
He glanced my way and struggled with delivery, context.
“Well, the Doc didn’t detail what Ana found. Remarkable discovery, I think she said. But her tone was strange. Fearful.”
“Fearful?”
“Yes. That’s the weird part. I mean, her body tightened and face tensed. Not the reaction you’d expect when discussing a potential miracle cure.”
We started our descent in earnest.
“It made my gut knot,” he continued. “And since you tossed in the possible involvement of men with ill intent, the knot—a tight one—has reappeared.”
“Good. Maybe it’ll keep you on your toes.”
He shot a quick glance and shook his head.
“I’m not much of a ballerina. But it reinforces my initial impression when I talked with the Doc. I think Ana Amsler found something bad. Real bad. Something I don’t believe people should mess with.”
Chapter 9
The Urucu River narrowed and meandered. Smaller rivers fed it from all directions. Bernie turned west and aimed at one of the larger tributaries, hemmed with dense overhanging rain forest. A rapid descent, and we dropped below treetop level. The walls of massive trees and green growth flashed past less than twenty feet off each wingtip. A poor time for pilot error. Splashdown brought relief and new appreciation for a guy who’d handled these landings for decades.
We cruised up the unnamed river toward a bend, the water with a slight off-color but otherwise clear and inviting. Until my mind wandered toward piranhas. And the urine-flow-seeking tiny critter.
Camp smoke clung to the treetop canopy ahead. As we rounded the bend an organized tent camp appeared on a steep-sloped bank, well above the high-water mark. A half-dozen aluminum skiffs were arrayed in a neat line along the shoreline. Bernie edged the Cessna onto the bank for offloading.
A small, fit woman descended wood-reinforced steps cut from the riverbank. She strode toward us as the engine died, wearing khaki shorts and a two-pocket khaki work shirt. A navy Houston Astros ball cap above Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses. And bright purple bootlaces with her hiking boots. Dr. Kim Rochat. Had to be. She removed the sunglasses. Instead of sliding them into her shirt’s neckline or one of the shirt pockets, American style, she popped open a Ray-Ban belt case and secured them. Because, being Swiss, it’s where they went. Bernie squeezed from the pilot’s seat, stood on a pontoon, and made introductions.
“Dr. Rochat, this is Case Lee.”
I stepped onto shore and extended a hand. We shook.
“Mr. Lee. I was told someone would arrive soon.”
Up close, her eyes jarred. Ice-blue. Siberian husky blue.
“Glad I’m here. And ready to get started. Let me unload. I’ve got work assembling the inflatable boat while Bernie makes another trip. Fuel and the boat engine still sit in Manaus.”
“We will depart this afternoon?”
I blinked. She didn’t. Her eyebrows were white-blond. Her voice carried a French lilt.
“We?”
“But of course. I will accompany you.”
She emphasized her statement with two fingers extended and pointed my way. Like a kid shooting an imaginary pistol. Three other Swiss scientists made their way from large, neat tents and descended the bank to join us. Introductions and handshakes all around.
“Well, the thing is, I work alone,” I said, addressing Kim Rochat.
“I will provide assistance. I am prepared for departure at any time today. My preference is to leave as soon as you are ready.” She assessed me stem to stern with pursed lips. “You are American, Mr. Lee.”
A series of statements, not a single question hidden among the bunch. And accompanied with several finger-pistol gestures.
“That a problem?”
“I do not know yet.”
Delivered with a half-smile. I held up a forefinger.
“Excuse me and hold that thought. Bernie could use a hand.”
Delivered with my own half-smile. Bernie and I wrestled the crated Zodiac from the cargo area and carried it ashore. Next came my large case of equipment and special tools. The unloading tasks allowed weigh time. Weigh the pros and cons of Kim Rochat as a search partner.
My initial reaction—kneejerk. Based on habit and experience. Now tempered with the acknowledgement that we weren’t entering a hot-fire zone or human-induced danger. Rochat might provide field insights. A plus. A second set of eyeballs, another plus. And, yeah, she was cute as could be. Although the finger shots would take getting used to. And the statement about my country of origin—a dig? Maybe. Maybe not. But then again, I’d made a cultural broad-brush mental assertion with the Ray-Ban storage. Within ten minutes we had the floatplane emptied. And I’d emptied most of my pushback against Dr. Kim Rochat as a search party member.
“If you’ll give a shove once I’ve fired her up,” Bernie said, pouring sweat. He pushed the eyeglasses back up his nose. “A strong shove. Put me in the center of this river. I’ll return in three or four hours.”
As he lifted his bulk into the plane, he shot a question toward the camp. “You need anything, Doc? While I’m in Manaus?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Anderson.”
The floatplane fired, I shoved, and in short order Bernie had navigated the river’s tight turn. Couldn’t see it, but I heard the takeoff as baby received full throttle. As the noise faded, she sidled alongside me.
“And so. We shall depart this afternoon, Mr. Lee.”
“Yeah, well, there are a few items we should discuss first.”
“Items?”
“Items. First, do you mind if I tour the camp?”
Lay of the land, enquiries, habits and peculiarities of Ana Amsler—grist for the search mill. The other scientists headed u
p the riverbank. I stood face-to-face with Kim Rochat and wore a small sincere smile. An emphasis we were on the same team. With the same focus. Find Amsler.
In lieu of answering my camp tour question, she removed one hand from a hip and with a half-hearted flourish waved an arm toward the carved-out steps. Accompanied with either a half-smile or half-smirk. Hard to say.
“Like your bootlaces,” I said and turned toward the steps. I did appreciate them—a splash of color revealed that the base camp boss had a lighter side.
Several small generators hummed nearby. Paths between tents covered with small tree limbs, split, flat side up. A series of jungle timber sidewalks. Sturdy living-quarters tents organized around two larger tents. Kim pointed at one as the kitchen and mess hall. The other, their field lab. The tent floors consisted of thick plywood laid across more timber, dry and above the mud. Three Brazilian camp workers occupied the kitchen and prepared the noon meal.
Kim explained that the initial setup—boats, tents, plywood, generators—were shipped upriver via riverboat. Bernie flew in personnel and ongoing necessities. The Swiss had done this right. Not the Taj Mahal, by any stretch, but comfortable and functional and professional.
“Could I look around Ana’s tent?”
“Dr. Amsler?”
“Yeah. Ana. And this brings into play one of those items.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“I understand it’s a breach of Swiss protocol, but let’s drop the formal names. Okay? I’m Case. She’s Ana. You’re Kim.”
She blinked, frowned, and digested the item. For a good five seconds.
“If you insist.”
“Great. Thanks. Now, Ana’s tent?”
“Why would you wish to enter her tent?”
“Not sure.”
A poor answer. She responded with a head tilt and furrowed brow. I was facing a high-end scientist. “Not sure” failed the scientific method test.
“There might be clues, indicators, evidence of habits,” I added.
She nodded and said, “Yes. Then it will be fine.”
Amsler’s tent contained no away-from-home items. No photos, no sketches, no personal decor. A bunk draped in a mosquito net, a simple desk and chair, and a bookcase half-used for clothing and toiletries. Spartan. Alongside the desk, a small tin bucket half-filled with dirt. And long cigarette butts. I pulled out several—each smoked for a puff or two and ground out.
“Davidoff,” Kim said, standing nearby with arms crossed. “Swiss cigarettes.”
“She’s a one- or two-puff smoker?”
Kim shrugged.
“I don’t see any photos or remembrances. Does she have family?”
“She never spoke of such things. Dr. Amsler is a private person.”
I considered probing the private person line but opted for a neutral-ground noninvasive path.
“How about a cup of coffee? Could we do that and discuss a few more items?”
“But of course.”
I loved the Swiss-French accent. She led the way into the mess hall. Two cafezinhos soon appeared.
“Okay. About you joining me on the search. First, we may be out there ten days. That’s a long time given the environment.”
“I am most prepared for such an endeavor.”
She pulled off the Houston ball cap and scratched her head. Her hair—like her eyebrows a white-blond—was clipped a uniform two-inch length. A jungle cut. I couldn’t tell if the head-scratching represented an affectation or, well, a head scratch.
“Are you an Astros fan?”
“No. My brother works at the Texas Medical Center in Houston. This,” she said before sliding the cap back on, “is a gift from him. You have brought your own boat.”
“Yep. Bernie will return with fuel and the engine.”
“We should use one of our boats.”
The row of aluminum skiffs bankside. A solid point and solid offer. A fifteen-foot skiff offered more room and more comfort for a two-person search party. If two became a reality.
“That would be great. Thanks. If you come with me.”
“I will join you on this search, Mr. Lee.” She delivered another finger shot.
“Case.”
“I will join you on this search, Case.” No finger shot.
I pulled the contract card—potent and perhaps unfair given I dealt with a Swiss-scientist mindset.
“My contract does not require me to take anyone along.”
A potential showstopper for Kim Rochat, so she countered with a mighty solid statement.
“I could show you where Dr. Amsler did not go. Areas where the rest of my team explored. And I could show you where, I believe, she did explore.”
A helluva hole card, for sure. Fruitless search days avoided. I pulled a detailed area map from a cargo pocket along with a red pen.
“Let’s start there. If you don’t mind, I’ll ask questions while you point out those areas.”
She sipped her coffee and stared at the map. Lifted her head and locked eyes.
“No.”
“No?”
“You must commit, Mr. Lee. Commit and take me with you.”
Not a bad poker move. A bit out of place coming from a Swiss scientist. But solid, and a hand well-played. We stared, unblinking, while I chewed on an answer. One of the Brazilians thwacked a cutting board with a knife, slicing food for the pot. Dregs from the nitro-grade coffee remained on my tongue. Kim fired another salvo.
“Be most assured of my commitment regarding Dr. Amsler. She is alive. This I know. Now we—you and I, Mr. Lee—must find her.”
Yeah, well, I wasn’t committed to shoving off with Kim Rochat in tow until the sixty-four-dollar question was addressed.
“Tell me about her discovery.”
Silence from the other side of the table, along with pursed lips and averted eyes. Ten seconds ticked off. Two other scientists chatted outside the mess hall. Food prep continued behind us. She understood this bridge would get crossed. Had to. And crossed before any commitment to her joining. She glanced my way, eyes filled with concern, awe, and a touch of fear.
“A plant.”
“Okay. A plant.”
“One which—and this aspect is most incredible—emits an airborne toxin. A neurotoxin, Dr. Amsler believed. A toxin beyond any ever discovered. Beyond belief.”
“How potent are we talking about?”
She shifted her gaze toward the tabletop.
“You must understand we are able to synthesize and alter such compounds. My profession is capable of delivering remarkable results with such alterations.”
“Understood.”
She lifted her chin with a touch of defiance. “Wonderful, life-saving results.”
“Yeah. I understand. And no one is blaming anyone for anything. No finger-pointing.”
A quick nod of appreciation or acceptance or perhaps relief at my statement.
“Now, how toxic is this plant?” I asked.
Nostrils flared, jaw muscles clenched, she leaned across the table.
“It could save lives. Yes. In the appropriate hands.”
“In the wrong hands?”
“It could kill millions.”
Chapter 10
Oh, man. I’d suspected, wondered, considered. Kim’s statement validated my suspicions and altered the mission’s scope. And not in a good way. For starters, Case Lee Inc. wasn’t in the high-caliber toxin-handling business. In any way, shape, or form. And I wouldn’t allow MOIS or Mossad or pick-your-outfit to get their hands on this stuff. If it was real.
And Kim’s statement provided back trail clarity. The Manaus violence. Not definitive—a thin-ice assumption anytime you dealt with spooks—but now it made more sense. Dark, death-dealing sense. My anger toward Ana Amsler rose. What the hell was she thinking? I visualized the Basel coffee shop. In a city home to over thirty pharma companies, many of them cutting-edge research outfits. They’d budget funds for industrial espionage. No doubt. A line item on their co
rporate financial spreadsheet. Masked as “Competitive Analysis” or some other BS. There wouldn’t be a bar, restaurant, or coffee house there without a couple of folks performing “competitive analysis.” The money was too big, the opportunities too lucrative. And Ana Amsler barfed up her discovery while on home turf as she drank coffee with an associate. Pass the cream and oh by the way there’s this airborne toxin I’ve discovered in the Amazon rain forest. World’s deadliest. Isn’t that exciting?
How the overheard conversation filtered into the global clandestine world would remain a mystery. So be it. What mattered was it tied with the Iranian’s interest. And Mossad’s. And helped explain the frantic and violent Manaus kick-off.
“Do you think it’s real?” I asked. A question prompted by incredulity or fear or straw-grasping.
“Ana is not the type of person to exaggerate about such things.”
“Do you think this plant killed her?”
“No. She would take appropriate precautions.”
Still, the world’s deadliest toxin. The standard precautions rule book wouldn’t apply. And she’d dealt with this stuff in the middle of a jungle. Fair odds Ana Amsler lay stretched out somewhere in the bush, well past her expiration date.
“How would she have approached this whole thing?”
“Whole thing?”
“Recovery of this plant. Collection of a sample.”
“A meticulous approach, I would say. Quite methodical.”
Yeah, fine. So maybe she had success collecting a sample. Then she disappeared. Which threw open a barn-door-sized possibility. Was Ana Amsler a card-carrying member of wingnut central? A weird, jaundiced view on my part—fair enough. But a consideration. Or maybe I’d hung with Jules too long.
“What else did she tell you about the discovery? Implications? Possibilities?”
Kim stood and wandered toward the kitchen staff, tiny porcelain cup in hand. One of the Brazilians smiled, nodded, and poured her another cafezinho. She returned, sipped, and finger-tapped the tabletop—a moment for Dr. Kim Rochat to gather her thoughts, to choose her words with care.
“She described the find. The discovery. She did not discuss possibilities. She did inform me there would be special equipment required from our company.”
