Chase Baker and the Golden Condor: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series No. 2)

by Vincent Zandri

  “The condor is not a real bird then?” A question for which I’m already discerning the answer. Or Keogh III’s version of an answer anyway.

  “It’s an aircraft, Chase. A one-thousand-year-old flying machine.”

  11.

  For a silent moment, I try to allow the concept of a one-thousand-plus-year-old flying machine to sink in. Keogh must see the doubt in my eyes, because he raises his right hand up as if pointing to the sky.

  “Is the reality of an ancient flying machine really so hard to believe?” he begins to explain. “There’s a tremendous amount of knowledge that has been lost through the ages and the harnessing of flight could very well be one of them. Ancients like da Vinci recognized that flight was indeed possible when he engineered his early flying machines back in the fourteen hundreds. The ancient Asian Indians also believe that flight was not only possible, but that their Gods were able to travel to and from earth via spaceships called Vimanas that spewed forth fire and smoke. Great battles between these spaceships are described in precise detail in ancient Indian Sanskrit texts dating back six thousand years.”

  “But what about the ancient Incans? How is it possible that a primitive jungle tribe who didn’t even harness the concept of the wheel could engineer an airplane?”

  “They didn’t. Someone else did it for them.”

  “Who then?”

  “Ancient astronauts.”

  The interior of the B-52 falls so silent that we can easily make out the thrusting of jet engines from the airport’s outbound planes.

  Keogh III goes on, “Before you discount the idea, there are those who believe we are a species with amnesia. That there is a missing link in humankind’s continuum—a place where the story of our history comes up blank. Many believe that the ancients were far more technologically advanced than for which we give them credit. That’s where ancient aliens come into play. These ancients Gods, if you like, visited the earth many millennia ago and gifted our rather ignorant and primitive species with incredible gifts of knowledge. Not the least of which was how to construct an airplane. Problem is, no evidence of these aircraft has ever existed until my father stumbled upon it in 1939. Only peripheral evidence has been discovered, such as the Nazca lines which can only be discerned from high up at a great altitude.”

  On the TV monitor now, a video of the Nazca lines is playing. The lines are being filmed from the cockpit of a modern airplane but even then, it’s not difficult to gain a sense of how massive the line drawings are. There’s a spider, a monkey, a snake, and more.

  “On the ground, the lines appear to be nothing more than one rock placed beside another. But from the air they appear in their true form. I believe, as do many others, that the lines were utilized as landing beacons for the incoming craft of the ancient astronauts. Indeed, located directly beside the Nazca lines are long runways that have been smoothed out of the rocky, gravelly soil. Some of the runways gradually increase in height in proportion to length, as to assist in the deceleration of landing high-speed aircraft.”

  “So what you’re saying, Pete, is that the evidence has always been there. Just not direct evidence of an aircraft.”

  “Exactly,” he says, as the monitor now shows a hieroglyphic-like stone carving of an ancient Incan native who appears to be positioned on his back inside some kind of flying capsule. He’s staring out a small portal window while operating sophisticated controls with his hands and feet. Then comes another carving of a man who appears to be wearing a modern-day spacesuit which is remarkably reminiscent to the atmospherically independent spacesuits that modern astronauts don today during their space shuttle flights.

  I turn back to Keogh.

  “So what is it you want from me, Peter?” I say. “Bottom line.”

  “What I would like from you, Chase, is to follow the path of my father, and to do so on foot.”

  “Into uncharted Amazonia territory?”

  “I want you to team up with my men, Rodney and Carlos, to find the cave he drew for us on this map, and I want you to find the aircraft that is stored inside it. Rodney will be group leader, but once you are in the jungle, they will follow your lead to the site.”

  “Are you assigning specific tasks to Rodney and Carlos?”

  “Rodney is not only a trained Navy Seal but he’s flown everything under the sun and then some. If the craft can be flown by a human being then he will be the one to do it. Carlos is a trained videographer. He’ll record the entire expedition.”

  “So that you might show it on cable TV later.”

  He smiles.

  “This is not a commercial expedition, Mr. Baker. If the aircraft is indeed there in the jungle, and we are able to prove its presence, it will be the ultimate piece of evidence that proves not only in the existence of intelligent extraterrestrials who come from inhabited planets located in both ours and distant galaxies, but it will prove our species interacted with them in order to vastly improve their culture, their science, and their overall lives on planet earth.” He pauses for a moment while the digital image of his father’s map once more appears on the High Def monitor. “It just might also prove something else.”

  “And what’s that, Peter?”

  “That humankind evolved not only from monkeys, but also from extraterrestrials.”

  12.

  I might have asked Peter Keogh III if I could have a few days to think the idea over. Maybe talk it over with Leslie, get her thoughts on the matter. But I’m already aware of how they’d both respond. The former would tell me he doesn’t have long to live and that time is of the essence. He would also plant a fat deposit in my hand which would lead to a much fatter payday, and even a triple fat bonus should I succeed in my quest (fingers crossed).

  The latter would tell me that first of all, I need the money, and second of all, the whole thing, if nothing else, will provide me with the idea for a new book.

  I can’t argue any of these points. It’s official: Taking on Peter Keogh III’s assignment to locate an ancient aircraft in the uncharted jungles of the Amazon is a no-brainer for a Renaissance man like me.

  I retrieve my pistol from the terminal locker while, afterwards, both Carlos and Rodney escort me back to my place on Prince Street.

  “Get a good night’s sleep,” Rodney says while pulling over to the curb in front of my building. He turns to me, grins. “Looking forward to getting some jungle time with you, Chase man. Word up is that you fancy yourself a tough guy.” The grin turns into a smile, revealing a solid gold cap that covers a fang-like incisor. “Can’t wait to see if it’s the truth or another one of your fictions.”

  Reaching into his chest pocket he pulls out a business card, hands it to me from across the seatback. I take a quick glance at it. There’s no name on it. No physical street address or website address. Just a phone number. I stuff the card into my chest pocket along with the card Carlos gave me earlier.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I’ll call you if I get lonely.”

  Carlos takes hold of my arm.

  “Don’t let him worry you,” he says, in his soft tone. “As you can see, Rodney likes to show his muscles.”

  “Muscles are one thing, Carlos,” I say with my eyes still locked on Rodney’s eyes. “But real strength is an entirely different story altogether.”

  Opening the door, I get out.

  “See you in the morning, gentlemen,” I say, sticking my head back inside. “I assume you’ll retrieve me at dark thirty?”

  “If not sooner,” Rodney says.

  I close the car door without saying goodbye.

  13.

  My bags are shoved up against the wood door to my second-floor apartment. Maybe it’s a relief they’ve showed up, but what’s not a relief is knowing I have just enough time to wash and dry their contents before I have to repack it all, then get some much needed rest.

  “Oh well,” I say to my three-year-old black pit bull, Lulu, as I fill her food bowl with dry food, “out of the jungle and into the
frying pan.”

  “Jeez, Chase,” she says, with a full mouth. “You just freakin’ got home. Now I gotta depend on that seedy old Italian pizza maker to feed me twice a day and let me out to poop.”

  “I thought you liked Vincenzo.”

  “I do. He plays with me and sometimes brings me pizza crusts … Oops, you weren’t supposed to know that … But nothing beats a dog and his master.”

  “You rock, Lu,” I say. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “And don’t forget your baby girl, Chase.”

  “You don’t have to remind me, Lu. But on a good note, she doesn’t even know I’m home yet, which means she’s not missing me nearly as much as I’m missing her. Soon as I get back, I’ll take her upstate for some camping.”

  “That’s a good dad.”

  I undress down to my boxers and toss everything else in the small apartment-sized washing machine. While the clothes enter into their first wash cycle, I pull out my laptop and go immediately to the Google search engine.

  Typing in the name Peter Keogh III, I come up with over three hundred thousand hits, which tells me Keogh III is a pretty popular guy. As logic would dictate, I click on the first selection. It’s the website for Keogh Commodities. The home page shows the exterior of a skyscraper in midtown Manhattan from the point of view of the ground-floor exterior. There’s a big American flag that’s flying from a metal post which is embedded horizontally into the metal and glass exterior wall. The flag is blowing in the wind on a brilliant sunny day, probably in the early fall. Makes me want to go for a walk and buy some commodities.

  My eyes focused on the site’s menu, I click onto a page called Bios. Keogh’s is the first to come up since he’s the commodity commander in chief. The short of it is that he was born in 1939 (the year his father disappeared in the Amazon jungle), educated in a Catholic prep school in Manhattan, then sent off to Providence College in Rhode Island, where he exceeded at rugby and something else: flying. From Providence he went straight to the Air Force Academy and from there Vietnam, where he became an ace, having shot down twenty-two Chinese flown MiGs. At the end of the war, he was decorated for bravery in the skies by then President Johnson, and from there, attended Harvard Business School. Upon graduation he began his commodities firm which, through the years, has amassed enough personal wealth for him to become a serious aviation collector.

  Serious as a coronary that is.

  From what his bio, and the accompanying full-color digital glossies, clearly indicate, Keogh III just might be in possession of the greatest private aeronautical collection in the world. He owns one of the three Wright brothers Kitty Hawk airplanes ever known to have existed (one is missing, one is housed in the Smithsonian, and the third in Keogh’s Oyster Bay Long Island hangar). He also owns a 1917 Fokker DR-1 Triplane like the Red Baron flew, a 1929 Travel Air 4000 biplane, a 1944 North American P- 47G Mustang, a 1944 Fieseler V-1 Buzz Bomb which terrorized London during the Blitz, a 1953 Bell 51C “MASH” chopper, a 1959 Boeing VC-137 Stratoliner, a mid-1970s-era MiG, and even a Gulf War–era Stealth fighter jet, or what’s more commonly known in aviation circles as a YF-23 Black Widow II.

  I lean back in my chair, attempting to comprehend how much a collection like that might be worth. In my head, I’m not seeing millions of George Washingtons flashing through my brain, but billions. How much is Keogh III paying me to find that ancient airplane for him? I think we forgot to discuss price, which is not entirely untypical for me. That’s the reason I’m usually half broke and guys like Keogh are wealthier than the gross national product of some small island nations.

  I push down the lid on the laptop and get up. Time to turn over the laundry. But before that, it’s time to pop a beer. Heading into the small galley kitchen, I pull a can from the fridge, take it back out to the combination living room/dining room with me, and pop the top.

  The first swig has yet to descend the length of my esophagus when I hear the noise coming from the bedroom.

  14.

  Quietly I set the beer can down on my writing table beside my laptop, and then pull the .45 from my jacket pocket.

  “Lu,” I say aloud, knowing that it’s possible the pit bull could be responsible for the noise, but knowing in my gut that she’s isn’t. After all, Lu’s favorite pass time aside from eating is sleeping.

  I hear the noise again. It’s a short, sharp slap. Like wood against wood, followed by the sound of my mattress creaking, like someone just sat him or herself down on my bed.

  Sliding back the cocking mechanism on the .45 so slowly I feel the bullet entering the chamber more than I hear it, I take it lightly over the wood floor to the apartment’s compact bedroom. The door is closed, but not entirely. Hiding my body behind the wood door, I try to capture a glimpse into the room through the narrow crack between the door’s edge and the wood frame. I see the bed. Rather, not only can I make out the bed, but I can plainly see that someone is lying in the bed, under the covers.

  I thrust the door open, hold the pistol barrel onto the figure in the bed.

  “Don’t move,” I say. “Just slowly pull out your hands, and then let me see your face. Do it now.”

  I see movement coming from under the blanket and sheet. A drop of sweat rolls from my forehead, down my left cheek, where it remains suspended under my chin. For all I know, there will come a shotgun blast from under the blankets and my inside are about to be spattered all over the wall. Too late now.

  Suddenly, a hand emerges from under the covers. Then another hand. They are beautiful hands. The hands of a beautiful woman. A head emerges. The head is veiled in shoulder-length brunette hair, and the face is one I recognize well.

  I pull back the pistol and thumb on the safety.

  “Christ almighty, Leslie,” I say. “A text warning me of your arrival might have been nice.”

  “That would have spoiled the surprise, Chase Baker. Now aren’t you glad you’ve entrusted me with a key?”

  I wipe the sweat from my chin with the back of my free hand.

  “You scared me half to death.”

  “I thought the Man in the Yellow Hat doesn’t scare so easily.”

  “It’s called grace under pressure.”

  “Well,” she says, pulling off the covers to reveal her entirely naked body. “Are we going to talk? Or are we going to have an adventure together?”

  “I choose adventure,” I say, jumping onto the bed.

  15.

  Afterwards, we’re drinking red wine from the same plain little drinking glasses they use in the Italian restaurant downstairs. Taking my time in order not to skip over any detail, I fill Leslie in on the assignment Keogh III just laid in my lap. When I’m done I pour more wine and ask my agent what she thinks.

  “First off,” she says, “you were right to take the job. You need it. But you never negotiated a price and that will be my job.”

  “Thought you were done with agenting.”

  She cocks her head, flips back her thick hair with her free hand, sips some more wine.

  “I’ve decided to maintain a small list of writers who sell. I’ll work from out of my apartment.”

  “Did I make the cut?” I smile.

  “It just so happens you did, Man in the Yellow Hat.” Lifting up her right hand, she makes a pinching gesture with her thumb and index finger. “By this much. A smidgeon.”

  “Wow, I feel blessed.”

  “You are blessed. Very blessed, and I’ll tell you why.”

  “Okay. Why?”

  “Because I’m not only going to remain your ever loyal and superlative agent, I’m going to go you one further.”

  I’m silent for a minute, wondering just what it is she has up her sleeve. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

  “I’m waiting.”

  She sets her hand on my naked thigh.

  “With the gynie not being entirely happy with me now, and me not being entirely happy with him, I’m as free as a bird to do anything and go anywhere
I want.”

  I’m beginning to see where this is going, and because I can see where it’s going, I feel my pulse pick up.

  “Not a chance,” I say. “Not only do we have no idea who we’re dealing with in terms of my expedition leaders, Rodney and Carlos, but we’re heading into territory that is entirely uncharted, even by today’s digital GPS standards. We don’t know what we’re going to encounter once we get past Machu Picchu and enter into the Amazonian canopy. Plus, there’s lots of spiders and snakes and creepy crawler things that girls hate.”

  She smiles and shoves herself closer to me, as if her skin on my skin will become more of a convincer.

  “What’s the matter, Chase?” she says. “You afraid I might break a nail?”

  “I’m afraid your shrunken head might be used as a charm on some native’s necklace.”

  “You’re being dramatic, letting that fiction mind run away with itself. Head hunters are long gone. The natives in the Amazon have smartphones, satellite TV, and Netflix accounts.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I read National Geographic.” Shrugging her shoulders. “Or look at the pictures anyway.”

  “That’s reassuring.”

  She drinks down her wine, holds out her glass for more. I fill it.

  “Listen,” she says, “do you want me to negotiate the right price for this job or what?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then I’m your partner.”

  “Partner.”

  “Take it or leave it,” she says, slowly slipping her hand from my thigh to another, more sensitive place altogether. “Besides, you owe me. I might not be without an agency if you hadn’t set that lit cigar on the edge of the desk of all places.”

  I take a drink of wine and think about it for a brief second or two. I know my agent. When she gets an idea in her head, not even a hammer drill can pound it out of her.