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

by Vincent Zandri

  “I thought you were planning on spending the rest of your years lounging on the beach in the Hamptons.”

  “Change of plans. I’d rather avoid the Hamptons and all the gynie’s rich friends right about now.”

  “Adventure,” I say. “You want adventure.”

  “Exactly, Mr. Man in the Yellow Hat. On a daily basis I read about adventurers and the faraway places they explore where they fall romantically in love. It’s time I experienced some of the real thing.”

  “Curious George,” I say, kissing her on the mouth.

  “Curious horny Leslie,” she says, rolling her naked body on top of mine.

  16.

  Keogh’s men pick us up at precisely five the next morning. As Rodney gets out from behind the wheel of the sedan, his big brown eyes immediately lock on Leslie.

  “Who’s the dame?” he says, while pulling down on the brim of his blue and white New York Giants baseball cap. He’s dressed like a Navy Seal in combat boots, army fatigues, and a tight T-shirt that tells me five sets of bicep curls are far more important to him than sex.

  “My agent,” I say, stuffing my knapsack into the trunk of the car, which Carlos has opened for me. “She’s my partner and she’s coming. No negotiation.” Hefting Leslie’s backpack, I toss it into the trunk beside mine.

  Carlos closes the trunk.

  “It shall be nice to have a beautiful woman coming along for the ride,” he says in that soft, almost effeminate tone of voice. He’s wearing a bush jacket and khaki pants that are professionally pressed. For footwear, brand new Timberland hiking boots. For headgear he’s wearing a brown, suede fedora that probably cost more than my entire uniform of cargo pants, lace-up jungle boots, and my well-worn bush jacket. Leslie might be a newbie when it comes to jungle trekking, but she knows enough to wear hiking boots over wool socks, tight-fitting cargo shorts, and button-down shirt under a cargo vest that supports a new Canon Rebel camera and two extra zoom lenses. Her headwear consists of a wide-brimmed, oilskin Australian outback hat with a shoestring strap that hangs down under her chin just in case a stiff wind blows.

  We pile into the car, Keogh’s men up front with Leslie and me in back.

  Rodney starts it back up and pulls out.

  “She can come with us,” he says, speaking to me with his eyes reflected in the rearview mirror. “But she’s your responsibility, Baker. You got that?”

  “Damn straight,” I say.

  Carlos turns, smiles.

  “This is going to be fun,” he says. “In just a matter of hours we will be in the jungle, and soon after that, we will become world famous for locating an aircraft that is a thousand years old. We will turn the history of western civilization onto its back.”

  “Hold that thought, Carlos,” I say. “One step at a time.”

  Leslie sets her hand on my leg, gives it a squeeze.

  “Thanks for letting me tag along,” she whispers into my ear.

  “I owe you,” I whisper back. “Me and that damned Cuban cigar.”

  I set my left hand onto my chest, feel for the .45 shoulder-holstered there. Security in the form of gunmetal, lead, and explosive powder.

  “Let’s hope you’re thanking me later,” I say. Then I close my eyes and pray for a quick, preflight nap.

  PART II

  17.

  We land in Lima some eight hours later. From there we hop a connecting flight that takes us up to the Sacred Valley. The twin prop plane bounces around the turbulent air of the Andes Mountains like a leaf in a windstorm and it’s all I can do to keep our previous in-flight breakfast of microwaved scrambled eggs and bacon from coming up on me.

  “My God,” Leslie says, as soon as she disembarks from the plane, “I can hardly breathe.”

  Rodney pulls his sidearm from a pea green military-style holster that also supports a twelve-inch fighting knife.

  “That’s because you’re more than seven thousand feet above sea level.” He smiles, clearly the type to enjoy life the more uncomfortable it gets. “That’s the equivalent of a mile and a half.”

  “Shouldn’t the air be cooler?” the lit agent turned explorer says, while wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead with a red bandanna she then wraps around her neck, Boy Scout style. Or should I say, Girl Scout.

  “It is cool,” Carlos chimes in. He’s lighting a cigarette with a good old-fashioned Zippo. “You just don’t feel it as much because you’re in the Amazon jungle. All you feel is the humidity.”

  “Welcome to the Sacred Valley,” Rodney says, “where the only thing sacred is the name.” He turns to his left, extends his arm and points. “Over there through that foggy haze is Machu Picchu.” He turns further left. “Over there is the Urubamba Province and the Urubamba River. The road we’ll take today will follow the river around the base of Machu Picchu until we come to an entry point into the jungle that our guides have already established for us.”

  Pulling my .45 from my shoulder holster I thumb the clip release and check the bullet load. When all looks good, I slap the clip back home, make sure the safety is on, and slip it back into my holster.

  “Soon as everything is unpacked we’ll grab some water,” I say to Leslie, as I squeeze a good amount of insecticide onto my palm from a small plastic bottle. “Also, bring along some waterproof matches, some energy bars, and make sure your phone is fully charged just in case you get lost.”

  I toss her the insecticide.

  “Why would I get lost?” she says, snatching the bottle out of mid-air.

  Rodney shoots me a grin.

  “Come on, people,” he barks, “everyone helps unload. The flyboy has other charters to fly today.”

  With the unloading completed, Rodney assembles us all on the airstrip. Placed on the flat ground behind him are not only our knapsacks, but also the equipment we’ll need to carry with us on what we anticipate as a two-day expedition into the jungle. The equipment includes machetes, hand-held GPS direction finders, insecticide, LED flashlights, mosquito netting, tents, sleeping bags, washbasins, cooking equipment, water and water decontamination pills, freeze-dried food, and more. We’ll also be carting an impressive assortment of weapons. AR-15s with attached grenade launchers, .9mms for sidearms (I’m sticking to my .45), twelve-inch fighting knives in leather sheaths, assorted explosives, and other destructive treats. We have C4 charges and accompanying detonators should we need to blast our way into the cave where supposedly the aircraft is housed. We also have portable digital film equipment for recording our every step and for which Carlos is in charge.

  “You’d think we were starting a small war,” Leslie says, folding her arms over her chest.

  “The rule of thumb in the jungle,” Rodney says, as the sound of a truck entering onto the opposite side of the airfield breaks up the relative quiet, “is never get out of the boat. But since we won’t be in a boat, the rule will be, never be caught in a situation you can’t shoot your way out of.”

  “I like the way you think, Rodney,” I say. “You would have made an awesome hippie back in the sixties. Peace, love, and understanding.”

  “Rodney hates hippies,” Carlos notes, hefting a video camera up to his face, his right eye now hidden by the viewfinder. “Smile,” he says. “You’re on Hopelessly Lost in the Jungle Candid Camera.”

  “Can it, Carlos,” I say. “That’s bad luck.”

  “My apologies, fearless leader,” he says, lowering the camera.

  “Actually Rodney is the fearless leader,” I say. “I’m just trail master, and a timid one at that. Isn’t that right, Rod the Mod?”

  “Okay, everyone,” Rodney barks, his dark, round face painted with a sheen of sweat. “Cut the chatter. Our guides have arrived and it’s time for our timid trail master to assume the, ummmm, position.” Pulling a bag of chewing tobacco from his pocket, he stuffs a pile into his jaw, chews, and spits a wad of black mucus to the ground. “You ready to lead us through the dangerous jungle, Chase?”

  “Still glad you ca
me along for the ride?” I say to Leslie out the corner of my mouth.

  She turns to me, pulls her camera from her bush vest, snaps a picture of my tight, scruff-covered face.

  “I feel like I’m caught up in a testosterone war,” she says. “But I wouldn’t have missed this for the world. Thank God for fire.”

  Hope you’re still smiling tonight when the spiders and snakes come out, I want to respond, but it’s probably better that I keep my mouth shut and start focusing on the job Keogh entrusted me with.

  Our team of guides is comprised of four men who are clearly descendants of the ancient Incans. They are short, but stocky, and dressed in baggy-fitting blue jeans, leather boots, and hand-knitted llama wool ponchos. Covering their heads are wool hats shaped like cones and that possess flaps for ear protection as well as fuzzy-tipped tassels. Their faces are as dark as milk chocolate and weathered like old leather, while their eyes are even darker, but at the same time, somehow bright and alive. All four are chewing something that is clearly not gum since every few seconds they spit the remnants of the substance to the ground.

  “They chew coca leaves,” Carlos says. “For energy and to curb their appetite. Some of these men will hike for a full day without eating, sustaining themselves only with the leaves. You should try it.”

  “I survived on the stuff back in ninety-five,” I say, “when I was unearthing those mummies in the mountains outside Cuzco. I shed ten pounds.”

  “I could stand to lose five pounds,” Leslie laughs. “Where do I get some?”

  “You stay away from it,” I say. “It’s not cocaine, but the drug is derived from the leaf. Tell you what. You can enjoy some coca tea later on. It’s better than coffee but safer than chewing the raw leaf all day.”

  The men disembark from the truck.

  “Vease bien hijos de puta,” says one of the men directly to Rodney. The shorter and older of the three who seems to be the leader.

  “Besas a tu madre con esa boca!” Rodney barks in response, he being the only member of the team, aside from Carlos, fluent in the language. All the men let loose with belly laughs as they begin loading the equipment onto the truck. When the job is done, Rodney hops up into the truck’s flatbed, turns to us.

  “Okay, people,” he says, “the bus is ready to go.”

  “We’re riding in that?” Leslie says.

  “This ain’t a joyride in Central Park, lady,” Rodney shouts, spitting another cheek full of tobacco juice.

  Leslie glances at me, rolls her eyes.

  “Maybe it’s better if I stop offering up my opinions to the support staff,” she suggests.

  “Maybe it is better,” I say, offering her a hand to help her up onto the truck.

  As I climb in, I feel the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. My gut tells me someone’s eyes are focused on us. Setting myself down onto the hard flat surface of the truck bed, I turn to peer over my left shoulder. In the distance, a green military Jeep occupied by two men is coming up on the landing strip.

  “Rodney,” I say, “let me borrow your binoculars.”

  “Is the trail master interested in the scenery?” he says, handing them to me.

  I place them to my eyes.

  Both men are seated in the front of the Jeep. The driver is sporting long black hair and his narrow face is covered with a scraggly black beard. The one in the driver’s seat also has long black hair, but he’s clean shaven. He’s wearing a cowboy hat, and for warmth, a worn Levi’s jean jacket. The one in the passenger side wears an olive green baseball cap and a military-style jacket with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He’s cradling an AK-47 like it’s his newborn baby.

  The eyes of the two men are focused on us. The fact that they are stopped, however, tells me they are choosing to keep their distance. For now.

  “We’ve attracted an audience, Rodney,” I say, handing him back the binocs. “Ballsy of them to reveal themselves out in the open.”

  “What’s your take?” he says, his face having suddenly turned serious. “Curiosity seekers?”

  “Bandits?” Carlos poses, while taking a drag on a new cigarette. “Bandits don’t care about revealing themselves to anyone. They fear no one.”

  Stealing a glance at our guides, I try to gauge their reaction to the presence of our new curious new friends. While I’m certain they’ve taken notice of the Jeep and its occupants, they don’t seem frightened or concerned one way or the other. This might be a good thing or a bad thing. Take your pick.

  “Could be bandits,” I say, once more locking my eyes on the Jeep. But in the back of my head I’m remembering the trouble I had with the Tupac Amaru Rebels the last time I spent time in Peru. Since then, the group has all but disbanded what with the country’s introduction of new terrorism laws and military might. But could it be that the group has resurrected itself? I could pose this question to my crew, but maybe it’s better that I don’t. Why get them worked up for nothing? Sometimes it’s what you don’t say that matters most. Chase the cautious.

  The Incan workers stuff themselves into the front of the truck, start up the engine. The truck bucks, then begins moving forward.

  I turn to Leslie. “Last chance to get out and go home.”

  “Not on your life, Mr. Man in the Yellow Hat. I’m here for the duration, and you’re here to get the goods to write a wonderful new book that will make us wealthy beyond our wildest dreams. Maybe then I can get my agency back.”

  “Not putting too much pressure on me, are you?” I smile, but knowing the dangers that might be lurking about in the jungle, there is little to a smile about.

  “You deserve every bit of it,” she says.

  I was afraid she’d say something like that.

  18.

  The narrow road winds and bends its way around the base of Machu Picchu, the fast-moving, white-capped Urubamba River running parallel to the road almost the entire way. Two hours later the driver turns onto an even narrower dirt road that zigzags its way up a steep mountainside. The dirt road is wet from a recent rain, super slick, and boasts no roadside barriers, wooden or otherwise, to prevent us from dropping off the sheer cliff face that rises rapidly with every foot of ground covered.

  Although I say nothing about it, my heart lodges itself in my throat with every tight one-hundred-eighty-degree turn the truck makes up the corkscrew road. The few times I’ve looked over the side of the flatbed, I haven’t witnessed any kind of road at all, but instead, open air. It’s no wonder fifty doctors and nurses were killed in this exact area only a few months ago when the bus that was transporting them up the mountain slid off the side and tumbled two-hundred-plus feet down into the riverbed. Better not to think about that right now. Better to think happy thoughts, like those involving a snake-infested jungle that may or may not still house head hunters.

  I have to give Leslie credit. She’s not saying a word about it, but I know she’s scared to death. That is, judging by the way she grips my hand, squeezing it tightly every time the truck negotiates one of the hairpin turns. Carlos senses her discomfort also, because he does something that takes me by complete surprise. Shifting himself in his seat, he takes hold of Leslie’s other hand.

  “I’m told the Peruvians have a saying,” he says. “‘When it is time to see God, it is time to go see God. Until that time, however, you must fear nothing. For nothing cannot hurt you.’”

  Leslie bites down on her bottom lip.

  “Dropping off the cliff could certainly hurt me,” she whispers. “Hurt us.”

  “Ahhh,” Carlos exhales. “But the guide operating this truck has been doing so for ages, as did his father before him, and his father before him. The Peruvians have another saying. ‘Place your trust in the unknown. It is what makes life interesting.’”

  Leslie issues the faintest of laughs. “You making this shit up, Carlos?”

  Now it’s his turn to giggle. “But it sounds like something a Peruvian would say, does it not?”

  By
the time we come to a stop inside an area carved out of the thick forest, I’ve worked up a sweat. The moisture combines with the humid vapor of the rainforest, making my skin feel slick and my clothing damp.

  “Okay, everyone,” Rodney says, standing up. “This is where we get off.”

  We’re all happy to exit the truck, including Carlos, who only now releases Leslie’s hand.

  “I told you it would be all right,” he says.

  Once on the ground, Rodney pulls out his map, lays it out over the hood of the truck. With Carlos on one side and me on the other, he points to our present position with a red Sharpie. He then hands me the pen and without a word, I draw a quick red line to the position where we want to go, based on Keogh’s instructions. This isn’t rocket science, but someone has to lead the way, and that’s where I come in. But judging from the sometimes steep terrain we’re sure to encounter, it’s not going to be an easy trek.

  Rodney insists, “If it’s kosher with you, Chase, I’ll take lead since I’m not bad with a gun should we run into trouble. You stay close behind. Leslie, you take the position behind him. Carlos, you take up the rear. Agreed?”

  “What about the guides?” Leslie inquires.

  “They go ahead of us, clearing a path as they go,” I inform. “One will stay in the rear and act as an equipment porter. It’s likely that the lead men will reach the day’s destination point long before we will. Trust me on that. These guys grew up climbing in these forested mountains, barefoot.”

  “What about bandits and natives?” Carlos asks. “Have the guides showed any concern whatsoever?”

  “Rodney,” I say, “you’re the only one who’s been communicating with them. What’s your take?”

  The black man shrugs his big shoulders while gripping his AR-15.

  “No concerns other than asking us to take the usual cautionary measures,” he says.