by Vince Milam
“Did you order it? The equipment?”
“No. It was custom-made. She returned to Switzerland and supervised the construction of the apparatus. I approved the expenditure.”
Kim had faith in Amsler. Faith at least in her scientific approach. Which raised the question—did she have faith in Amsler as a person?
“Do you consider Ana a friend?”
Another long tabletop stare. “Not a friend as much as a professional comrade.”
“And you’re confident she’d conduct herself as a professional regarding this discovery?”
A raised eyebrow and raised hackles as response. “Of course. How else would she behave?”
“Well, she did run her mouth at a Basel coffee shop.”
A deep dive stare into the cup of sweet black coffee. “So I have been told.”
No point pounding on Amsler’s misstep. It would put Kim into a defensive posture. And hinder further intel gathering. Kim had shot straight with me, and the questions I tossed her way had a clean purpose—to paint a legit picture of Ana Amsler. Maybe get into Amsler’s head. But the object of my mission remained enigmatic, so I moved forward and nailed down chronology.
“How long ago did she make the discovery?”
“Six weeks past. An approximation.”
“She returned here a week ago?”
“Oui. This is correct.”
“Did you see the equipment she brought with her? The custom-made equipment?”
“No. She was quite secretive about it. Which is not unusual. Not unusual for Ana.”
The paint-by-numbers picture of Dr. Ana Amsler remained unclear. A loner, focused, and—as Bernie had said—bullheaded. Fine and dandy. But my portrait of her had a shadowed off-kilter element lurking in the background. Couldn’t paint over it.
“When she returned, did she head into the jungle right away?”
“Only after two days’ preparation.”
“So she’s been missing five days?”
“This too is correct.”
Her information jibed with the Global Resolutions dossier.
“Does your entire team venture out each morning?”
“On most days we explore in pairs. Our standard regimen unless the day is spent within our small laboratory. Ana, however, would leave alone. The only one of us to do so. I addressed this with her several times, and yet…”
Kim shrugged and lifted a hand toward the heavens. Clearly her team-leader role, at times, fell on deaf ears. She explained they’d begun searching for Amsler the day after she’d ventured out. After two days, she called Bernie and an air search was conducted. All of it in vain. Ana Amsler was either dead or was enjoying an extended and secluded camping trip at the discovery site. Or she’d headed farther upstream on a weird Heart of Darkness voyage. And maybe she’d bypassed the base camp at night and headed for parts unknown, with some unknown rationale at the wheel. I broached the last two possibilities with Kim.
“Such activities and choices would have no scientific or rational basis,” she said, her hackles raised “No. We shall not consider these things and focus instead on her being lost or injured.”
Yeah, well, Kim. You never know. Folks peg the peculiar meter with greater regularity than we want to believe. But no point digging the wingnut hole any deeper.
“She has a satellite phone?”
“Of course. With a small solar charger.”
“And you’ve tried calling her?”
One raised eyebrow as response. Along with a dealing-with-the-village-idiot look. But I had to ask. Folks do miss the obvious.
“Okay,” I continued. “Now, there’s something you and your teammates must know. Please take this very seriously. None of you can return to Manaus.”
“I do not understand.”
“There are dangerous people seeking Ana. They’re in Manaus. I ran into them.”
“Dangerous people?” A slow blink; a quizzical look.
“They want this toxic discovery of hers. For bad things. Evil purposes. And they’ll kill to get their hands on it.”
“This would hardly appear possible.”
“It’s more than possible. It’s a reality. They will kill for it. In the literal sense.”
She pulled her ball cap off and scratched her head. Weighed my declaration.
“Bernie presented a viable option,” I continued. “There’s one flight a day from Coari to Rio de Janeiro. He’ll do a Coari shuttle for you and your people. Don’t go to Manaus.”
Ball cap returned, she squared her shoulders and said, “My team’s safety is the first priority. I do not understand why Ana’s disappearance could cause such an activity. You have experienced this danger?”
Yeah. And stamped expired on two of their birth certificates.
“Yes. These are bad, bad people.”
“Then we shall utilize Coari. I will alert my home office and the rest of the team.”
“Good. Thanks. It could change after we find Ana. Maybe. But for now, do not under any circumstances visit Manaus again.”
“Yes. I understand. There is no point repeating such statements.”
Fair enough, but if Uri Hirsch was right, MOIS would send another contingent of killers. And I wasn’t leaving any gray areas regarding this dangerous reality.
She scratched a bug bite. I slid the area map between us. I’d flown sufficient warning flags about Manaus. Time for a move onto the search area.
“Okay. Please show me where your team has searched. I’ll mark those areas in red.”
She complied. I supposed she took my return to map activity as a definitive sign. An acquiescence that I’d let her join me. The more I thought about it, the more I vacillated, unsure and concerned. The gig was now awash with a darker, more toxic palette, and exposing Kim to whatever I’d find didn’t sit right.
The Swiss bio-prospector team worked farther upstream from the base camp. Their tributary meandered for miles, and they had concentrated along the east side. She explained Ana worked even farther upriver, focused as well on the tributary’s eastern regions.
“You and the other team of scientists would rotate out, right?”
“This is correct.”
“And both teams worked through the rainy season?”
“Again, correct.”
The Brazilian staff wouldn’t permit us to sit and talk without sustenance. They brought over thin-sliced bread, cheese, fruit, and several bottles of cold water. Hungry, I dug in.
“You have satellite images overlaid on topo maps. These would highlight the areas above flood water,” I said. Neither the cheese nor the bread had much flavor. The jungle fruit—rich beyond compare. I leaned over a napkin as the juices dripped.
“Yes. We conduct methodical searches. It is the appropriate manner for such research.”
“The daily rain didn’t alter your field schedule?” Asked with a mouthful of mango. I must have resembled Uri Hirsch.
“Yes, it did. We would spend many days in our laboratory.” She pointed out a screen window toward the base camp’s other large tent. “The rain is most challenging. But yes, we would venture out.”
“With everything flooded, how’d you get to dry land?”
“We have, of course, GPS.”
“Understood. How’d you physically get there?” She raised both eyebrows. Another dealing-with-the-village-idiot look. The fruit was so good I didn’t care. “Mercy, this is good.” I held up a chunk of unidentified buttery fruit, smooth as pudding with a lemon hint. “You tried this?”
“Every day, Mr. Lee. As to arrival at the nonflooded areas, one team member stands forward with a long knife. A machete. The other team member drives the boat.”
“So you cut a treetop tunnel?”
“If one wished to view it as such. Oui.”
“How did Ana do it? She explored alone.”
“As I understand, she would cut a path and use a paddle.”
Ana Amsler was a determined person. I imagined she would
whack a limb with the machete, forgo the paddle, and pull herself forward with the tree limb stub. Repeat until she made her destination.
“We chose high ground along the main river channels. We did not cut through more than a few hundred meters.”
“Okay. Good to know. When Ana left here the last time, how much higher was the water?”
She pursed her lips and hesitated, scientific gears turning.
“Between four and five meters.”
Twelve to fifteen feet. Quite a drop over the last six or seven weeks. And a key to the search. Two of the other scientists wandered in and sat with us. Kim relayed the decision about Coari as the new exit town for the team. Then she wandered off, stating she’d inform the home office of the decision. Satellite communications with broadband for cell phones and computers kept even the most remote locations connected.
I chatted with the other team members, asked about Ana, probed for other hints and clues. Not much there. The overall impression—Ana Amsler wasn’t popular or much admired. But I was dealing with Swiss folks. Folks seldom prone to opening personal kimonos.
I wandered toward the riverbank. Inspected the aluminum skiff lineup and selected the one least-used. Removed the smaller outboard motor and fuel tank. Kept the paddles and a small anchor. Shifted my gear into the boat and waited for Bernie’s return.
The job’s contours had been altered, no doubt. But I remained focused on the primary mission. Find her. Take her, or her remains, back to Switzerland. The Iranians and Israelis and whoever else avoided, sidestepped. If Amsler possessed a toxic care package, I’d deal with it at the appropriate moment. I sure wasn’t toting it around with me. And odds existed—reduced odds after I’d met with Kim Rochat—the toxic plant was less potent than Amsler had declared. Either way, I wasn’t fooling with it. The contract was stark: bring Amsler home. It didn’t say a thing about her special little treat.
Bernie’s baby hummed in the distance, headed our way. Somewhere around the river’s bend he splashed down and cruised into sight. Ran the pontoons onto the shore, killed the engine, and threw open the door.
“Good to go, good to go,” he said, delivered with a wide, sweaty grin. “Would you mind lending a hand?”
We unloaded the plane. The new outboard motor and a dozen gas containers. Kim and two other scientists joined us.
“I’ve gotta run,” he said. “One last trip this afternoon. A short one. You have my number, right?”
“I do.”
“Call me anytime, day or night.”
“I appreciate it. Now, there’s a change in this team’s travel plans.”
I looked toward Kim. She nodded and explained to Bernie the new base-camp-to-Coari logistics.
“Suit yourself,” he said. “And good luck on the search. I’ll pray for success.”
“Help me wrestle this crated inflatable boat back into your baby. I’ll take one of the camp’s skiffs. It’s a donation, Bernie. Me to you. Sell it back to the despachante.”
He grinned widely, thanked me, and we squeezed it back into his plane. I was less interested in the inflatable boat and more focused on a chat with him away from the others.
“And you have my number, right? Call if you have any questions. Or concerns. Or want my perspective on events in Manaus.”
He squeezed my shoulder and shook it. “You make it sound like a James Bond movie. We’re talking about Manaus. Where we’re pretty far removed from much excitement along those lines.”
“Do you believe in evil? True, walking evil?”
His expression became rock-hard. “Of course. I know it to be real.”
“It’s real in Manaus. Right now.”
He returned a grim nod.
“Watch your back, Bernie. For the next couple of weeks, watch your back. Do it for me. Please.”
We shook hands, I shoved his baby into the river, and he roared away. I mounted the new outboard motor on the skiff and arrayed the gas tanks at the stern and amidships. The Swiss disappeared, back to their lab and computers and field notes. Kim joined them.
Between the floatplane unload and skiff prep, I’d sweat-soaked every square inch of clothing. The river called, invited. A hundred yards downstream, toward the river bend, the base camp became obscured by jungle. I created a small tepee from shoreline sticks and stripped. Socks, underwear, shorts, and shirt—all quick-dry material. I rinsed everything, squeezed out what water I could, and draped my attire around the tepee. Then stood at the water’s edge. Gotta trust somebody, and Bernie claimed no worries until the water dropped to its low point. Still. Piranhas were there. Right there. Guaranteed. Get a grip, Case. You’re former Delta. Get your butt wet.
I did. And it felt great. Can’t say it was relaxing. Cool water, a thorough rinse, but minimal splashes. Just in case. Bernie’s yowza factor. Ten refreshing minutes later I pulled skivvies and socks from the driftwood and air-twirled them for a final dry. Donned everything but the shirt and flung it around my head on spin-dry. And noticed Kim standing fifty feet away, arms crossed, a half-smile and full head-cock.
“You understand not to urinate while you bathe?” she asked.
“Yeah. So I’ve been told.”
“You carry multiple marks. Battle scars, I would assess.”
Bullets, shrapnel, blades. A recent arrowhead. All totems—life markers on the Case Lee path.
“Yeah. Something like that.”
She cast a glance up the shore, toward the base camp.
“My things are in the boat.”
Kim Rochat represented solidity, leadership, smarts, and commitment. No downside with her joining me other than some moronic Lone Ranger ache or tough-stuff strut or a mental buildup for flying solo. I didn’t know for sure. But I knew it was time to jettison that crap.
We locked eyes, a decision made. I’d cross the Rubicon into uncharted toxic turf. With a Swiss scientist and the clock ticking.
“Alright, Kim. Alright. Let’s go find her.”
Chapter 11
Underway and filled with purpose. The weather fine as the four-stroke outboard kicked us upriver, making watery tracks. The mission more muddled but real and here and now. Man, it felt good—movement, a plan, a goal.
And a mission. One officially kicked off at last and more low-key and appropriate for a guy who now emitted the occasional involuntary groan when bone-tired and rising from a comfortable chair. It wasn’t the years as much as the mileage. And while not a classic sleuthing job, this engagement held its own powerful appeal. The jungle, my skill set, a dash of intrigue. With no indicators the body would take a hammering during the search. Kim glanced my way from the front of the skiff and shook her head. Must have been the mile-wide grin the chief bottle-washer of Case Lee Inc. carried.
“It is quite nice, isn’t it?” she asked, an arm waved toward the passing green.
Another attribute of a four-stroke outboard motor—quiet running. No shouted voices required across the short distance between us.
“All good,” I replied, keeping us centered in the tributary. A river among other parts of the world, over a hundred feet wide with dense green-hued jungle walls. A small tributary in Amazonia. “First things first. We both have satellite phones. Let’s exchange phone numbers. Just in case.”
We did.
“Now, turn them off. Both of us.”
“Why would I do such a thing?”
“Because we could be tracked. GPS. Lots of Hoovers float around up there.”
I pointed toward the sky. Spy agency satellites—the US’s NSA as a prime example—might track our movement. A long shot and a dash or three of paranoia, sure. But possible.
“I shall turn off the navigation function.”
She lowered the Ray-Bans, looked over their upper rim, and began disengaging her GPS.
“Not sufficient. If they want in, they get in. Trust me, Kim. They have the capability.”
“And how shall we find the search areas? I have the coordinates programmed into this device.�
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She lifted the phone and displayed it with a slow side-to-side rotation. As if the boat’s official moron couldn’t grasp the coordinate concept.
“You know the general area. Activate the phone, acquire a relative position, and turn it back off. Navigate from there.” I smiled. “Repeat as needed.” Pointed toward the sky again. “Don’t want them tracking us.”
Lifted eyebrows and lifted Ray-Bans and crooked neck as she looked at the sky. I took the opportunity to lay claim to nonmoron status and reviewed the search plan with her. She accepted it without argument or alteration. Accepted, maybe, that I knew what I was doing. The initial goal—observe where she and her teammates had explored in both the high-water conditions as well as during recent weeks. A view of their treetop tunnels benchmarked my search. Provided examples corresponding with Ana Amsler’s explorations. The first area was thirty minutes upriver and allowed time for more intel gathering.
“So what does a bio-prospector look for?” I asked.
A troop of howler monkeys vocalized from nearby trees as we sped past. Their raucous calls faded, replaced with the steady hum of the outboard engine and the light rush of humid air.
“Unknown macro- and microorganisms.”
“Okay. So you stomp around in the jungle and look for unknown plants and animals.”
“Hardly. It is quite a systematic approach.” Kim aimed her finger pistol my way. “For example—plants, fungi, and animals.” Three hand-pistol shots.
“For commercial use. Things that might benefit people.”
She smiled. “But of course. The commercial aspect is one incentive. For many of us, the motivation is much more than money.”
“Okay.”
“Our research focuses on biochemicals. Biochemicals, Mr. Lee, which might be synthesized and, if needed, altered. New drugs and new compounds.”
“Case.”
“As you wish. Case. We approach a search area.”
I cut the engine back and maneuvered close along the left bank. The Swiss team explored the right side, westward, and the farther back from the wall of dense foliage the better for the capture of machete-work pathways fifteen feet above us.
