“Is there something wrong?” Gamay said.
“I’m somewhat concerned. One of the village men came to me. He said there were stirrings of trouble in the forest.” “What kind of trouble?” Paul asked. “He didn’t know. Only that it had to do with the murdered Indian.”
“In what way?” Gamay asked.
“I’m not sure exactly.” He paused. “Creatures are being killed in this forest at this moment. Insects, animals, and birds are constantly involved in a violent struggle for life. Yet out of this bloody chaos there is an equilibrium.” His deep-set eyes seemed to grow even darker. “I fear that the killing of the Indian has disturbed this balance.”
“Maybe the Amazon goddess is about to wreak her revenge,” Paul said, handing the medallion back.
Ramirez swung the pendant back and forth on its thong as if he were Svengali using it as a hypnotic device. ‘~As a man of science, I must deal with the facts. It is a fact that someone out there has a gun and has no hesitation about using it. Either the Indian strayed out of his territory or someone with a gun invaded it.”
“Do you have any thoughts on who this person might be?” Gamay asked.
“Perhaps. Do you know anything about the rubber industry?”
Both Trouts shook their heads.
“A hundred years ago rubber trees grew only in the Amazon jungle. Then a British scientist stole some seeds to start vast rubber plantations in the east. The same thing is happening now. The shaman who accompanied us on our burial detail today is a bit of a fraud when it comes to chasing out evil demons, but he knows the medicinal value of hundreds of rain forest plants. People come here and say they are scientists, but they are really pi rates looking for herbs that have medicinal properties. They sell the patents to multinational drug companies. Sometimes they work directly for the companies. In either case the companies make fortunes while the natives who have harbored the knowledge get nothing. Even worse, sometimes men come in and take the medicinal plants.”
“You think one of these ‘pirates’ tortured and shot the Indian?” Paul asked.
“It’s possible. When millions are at stake, the life of a poor
Indian means nothing. Why they shot him, I don’t know. It’s possible he simply saw something he shouldn’t have. These plant secrets have been with the forest inhabitants for generations.” “Is anybody trying to stop these pirates?” Gamay said.
“It is a problem. Sometimes government officials are in collusion with the drug companies. The stakes are very high. The governments care little about the indigenous people. They are interested only in how to sell the natives’ genetic knowledge of plants to the highest bidder.”
“So the piracy goes unchecked?”
“Not quite. The universities are sending teams of true scientists to track down the pirates. They are doing research on plants themselves, but at the same time they talk to the Indians and ask if there have been strangers asking questions. Our neighbors in Brazil have tried to stop the theft of genetic resources in the court. They sued a scientist for cataloging seeds and tree bark the Indians use for cures and charged him with stealing knowledge from indigenous people.”
“A difficult charge to make stick,” Paul noted.
“Agreed. Brazil is also pushing legislation to protect bio diversity, so we are making progress, but not much. We are talking about taking on drug companies with billions of dollars in re sources. It is not an even match.”
A thought occurred to Gamay. “Has your university been involved?”
“Yes,” he said. “We have had teams from time to time. But there is little money for full-time police work.”
It wasn’t the answer Gamay was looking for, but she didn’t persist. “I wish there was something we could do.”
“There is,” Ramirez said with a broad smile. “I would ask a favor. Please feel under no obligation to grant it.”
“Try us,” Paul said amiably.
“Very well. A few hours’ travel from here there is another settlement on the river. The Dutchman who lives there has no radio. They may have heard about a Chulo being killed. In any event, they should be told, in case there are repercussions.” He stuck his leg out. The ankle was heavily wrapped in a bandage. “I can barely walk. I don’t think there is a break, but it is badly sprained. I was wondering if you could go in my place. You could make a quick trip of it.” “What about the supply boat?” Gamay asked.
“It is due late tomorrow as expected. They will lay over for the night. You would be back before it leaves.”
“I don’t see why we can’t do it,” Gamay said, stopping short as she caught the quizzical look in her husband’s eye. “If it’s okay with Paul.”
“Well-“
“Ah, I apologize. My request has created marital discord.”
“Oh, no,” Paul reassured him. “It’s simply my New England caution. Of course we’d like to help you.”
“Splendid. I will have my men gather supplies for you and fuel my boat. It will be faster on the river than your inflatable. She should make the round trip in the same day.”
“I thought you had only dugout canoes in the village,” Gamay said.
Ramirez smiled. “They serve most of my needs, yes, but occasionally more efficient transportation is desirable.”
She shrugged. “Tell us more about the man you call the Dutchman.”
“Dieter is actually German. He’s a trader, married to a native woman. He comes here occasionally, but mostly he sends his men once a month with a list, and we relay it to the supply boat. He is an unsavory character in my opinion, but that is no reason not to warn him of possible danger.” Ramirez paused. “You do not have to do this. These things are really none of your affair, and you are scientists, not adventurers. Especially the beautiful Senora Trout.”
“I think we can handle it,” Gamay said, looking at her husband with amusement.
She was not speaking with bravado, but as part of the NUMA Special Assignments Team she and Paul had been on any number of dangerous assignments. And as attractive as she was, Gamay was no delicate flower. Back in Racine, Wisconsin, where she was born, she had been a tomboy who ran with a pack of boys and later moved with ease among men.
“Well, then, we have an agreement. After dessert we will have a glass of brandy and retire so we can be up at the crack of dawn.”
A short while later the Trouts were back in their room getting ready for bed when Gamay asked Paul, “Why were you hesitant about helping Dr. Ramirez?”
“Couple of reasons. Let’s start with the fact that this little side trip has nothing to do with our NUMA assignment.”
Paul ducked the pillow tossed at his head. “Since when have you gone by the NUMA rule book?” Gamay said.
“Like you, whenever it has been convenient. I’ve stretched the rules but never broken them.”
“Then let’s just stretch them a little by saying that the river is an integral part of the ocean, therefore any dead person found on it should be investigated by NUMA’s Special Assignments Team. Must I remind you that the team was formed precisely to look into matters nobody else would?”
“Not a bad sales pitch, but don’t put too much stock in your powers of persuasion. If you hadn’t suggested looking into this thing, I would have. On similarly flimsy grounds, I might add. I have an aversion to someone getting away with murder.”
“So do I. Do you have any idea where we might start?”
“Already handled that. Don’t let my taciturn Cape Cod nature deceive you.”
“Not in a hundred years, my dear.”
“Back to your original question, the reason I hesitated was my surprise. This is the first time Ramirez mentioned his boat. He’s given us the impression he used dugouts. Remember the fuss he made about how great our little putt-putt inflatable was? I was sniffing around one day and found a shed holding an air boat.”
She leaned up on one elbow. “An airboat! Why didn’t he say something?”
“I thin
k it’s obvious. He didn’t want anybody to know. I think our friend Ramirez is more complicated than he appears.”
“I have the same impression. I think he was being disingenuous about sending us scientific geeks off on a potentially dangerous mission. We’ve told him enough about the Special Assignments Team for him to know what we do when we’re not counting river dolphins. I think he wants NUMA brought into this thing.”
“Looks like we’ve played right into his hands, but I’m not sure why he’d be so Machiavellian.”
“I’ve got an idea,” Gamay said. “He was talking about the scientists from the university acting as bio police. He is a scientist from a university. He sort of side-slipped the implication.”
“I noticed.” Paul stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes. “So you think he’s actually a bio cop disguised as a botanist?”
“It would make sense.” Gamay paused in thought. “I must confess that the real reason I want to investigate was in those bags we found with the Chulo. I’m intrigued at how a backward Indian got all those high-tech toys, aren’t you?”
There was no sound from the other side of the bed except that of low breathing. Paul was exercising his famous talent for dropping off to sleep on command. Gamay shook her head, pulled the sheets over her shoulders, and did the same. They would be up with the sun, and she expected the next day to be a long one.
Chapter 6
The Mexican customs agent leaned from his window and checked out the two men in the white Ford pickup truck. They were wearing beat-up shorts and T-shirts, Foster Grant sunglasses, and baseball caps with bait shop logos on them.
“Purpose of your visit?” the agent asked the husky man be hind the wheel. The driver jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the fishing rods and tackle boxes in back. “Going fishing.”
“Wish I could join you,” the agent said with a smile, and waved them on into Tijuana.
As they pulled away, Zavala, who was sitting in the passenger seat, said, “What’s with the Spies Like Us routine? All we had to do was flash our NUMA IDs.”
Austin grinned. “This is more fun.”
“We’re lucky our clean-cut appearance doesn’t fit the profile for terrorists or drug runners.”
“I prefer to think that we’re masters of disguise.” Austin glanced at Zavala and shook his head. “By the way, I hope you brought along your American passport. I wouldn’t want you to get stuck in Mexico.”
“No problem. It wouldn’t be the first time a Zavala sneaked across the border.”
Zavala’s parents had waded across the Rio Grande in the 1960s from Morales, Mexico, where they were born and raised.
His mother was seven months pregnant at the time. Her condition didn’t stand in the way of her determination to start life with her newborn in El Norte. They made their way to Santa Fe, New Mexico, where Zavala was born. His father’s skills as a carpenter and woodcarver brought him steady work with the wealthy clients who built their fashionable homes there. The same influential people helped his father when he applied for a green card and later for citizenship.
The truck was on loan from the Red Ink’s support team because rental cars couldn’t be taken into Mexico. From their hotel they headed south from San Diego, passing through Chula Vista, the border town that is neither Mexican nor American but a blend of both countries. Once into Mexico they skirted the sprawling slums of Tijuana, then picked up MEX 1, the Carretera Transper linsula highway that runs the full length of Baja California. Past El Rosarita with its concentration of souvenir shops, motels, and taco stands, the commercial honky-tonk began to thin out. Before long the highway was flanked by agricultural fields and bare hills on the left and by the curving emerald bay known as Todos Los Santos. About an hour after leaving Tijuana they turned off at Ensenada.
Austin knew the resort and fishing city from the days he crewed in the Newport-Ensenada sailboat race. The unofficial finish was at Hussong’s Cantina, a seedy old bar with sawdust covered floors. Before the new highway brought the tourists and their dollars, Baja California Norte was truly the frontier. In its heyday Hussong’s was a haunt for the colorful local characters and rugged individuals, and the sailors, fishermen, and auto racers who knew Ensenada when it was the last outpost of civilization on the eight-hundred-mile-long Baja peninsula before La Paz. Hussong’s was one of those legendary bars, like Foxy’s in the Virgin Islands or Capt’n Tony’s in Key West, where every body in the world had been. As they stepped inside Austin was heartened to see a few scruffy barflies who might remember the good old days when tequila flowed like a river and the police ran a shuttle service back and forth between the cantina and the local hoosegow.
They sat at a table and ordered huevos rancheros. “Ah, pure soul food,” Zavala said, savoring a bite of scrambled eggs and salsa. Austin had been studying the sad expression on the moose head that had been over the bar for as long as he could recall. Still wondering how a moose got to Mexico, he turned his attention back to the map of the Baja that was spread out on the table in front of him next to the satellite photo showing water temperature.
“This is where we’re going,” he said, pointing to the map. “The temperature anomaly is in the vicinity of this cove.”
Zavala finished his meal with a smile of pleasure and opened a Baedecker’s guide to Mexico. “It says here that the ballena gris or gray whale arrives off the Baja from December to March to mate and give birth to its young. The whales weigh up to twenty-five tons and run between ten and forty-nine feet long. During mating, one male will keep the female in position while another male-” He winced. “Think I’ll skip that part. The gray was almost exterminated by commercial whaling but was made a protected species in 1947.” He paused in his reading. “Let me ask you something. I know you’ve got a lot of respect for any thing that swims in the sea, but I’ve never thought of you as a whale hugger. Why the big interest? Why not leave this up to the EPA or Fish and Wildlife?”
“Fair question. I could say I want to find out what started the chain of events that ended up with the sinking of Pop’s boat. But there’s another reason that I can’t put my finger on.” A thoughtful expression came into Austin’s eyes. “It reminds me of some scary dives I’ve made. You know the kind. You’re swimming along, everything seemingly fine, when the hair rises on the back of your neck, your gut goes ice-cold, and you’ve got a bad feeling you’re not alone, that something is watching you. Something hung7y. ”
“Sure,” Zavala said contemplatively. “But it usually goes be yond that. I imagine that the biggest, baddest, hungriest shark in the ocean is behind me, and he’s thinking how it’s been a long time since he’s had authentic Mexican food.” He took another bite of his huevos. “But when I look around there’s nothing there, or maybe there’s a minnow the size of my finger who’s been giving me the evil eye.”
“The sea is wrapped in mystery,” Austin said with a faraway look in his eyes.
“Is that a riddle?”
“In a way. It’s a quote from Joseph Conrad. ‘The sea never changes and its works, for all the talk of men, are wrapped in mystery.’” Austin tapped the map with his fingertip. “Whales die every day. We lose some to natural causes. Others get tangled in fishing nets and starve to death, or they get nailed by a ship, or we poison them with pollution because some people think it’s okay to use the sea for a toxic waste dump.” He paused. “But this doesn’t fit any of those categories. Even with out interference from humans, nature is always out of kilter, constantly adjusting and readjusting. But it’s not a cacophony. It’s like the improvisation you see with a good jazz group, Ahmad Jamal doing a piano solo, going off on his own, catching up with his rhythm section later.” He let out a deep laugh. “Hell, I’m not making sense.”
“Don’t forget I’ve seen your jazz collection, Kurt. You’re saying there’s a sour note here.”
“More a universal dissonance.” He thought about it some more. “I like your analogy better. I’ve got the feeling that the
re’s a big bad-ass shark lurking just out of sight and it’s hungry as hell.”
Zavala pushed his empty plate away. “As they say back home, the best time to fish is when the fish are hungry.”
“I happen to know you grew up in the desert, amigo,” Austin said, rising. “But I agree with what you’re saying. Let’s go fishing.”
From Ensenada they got back on the highway and headed south. As in Tijuana, the commercial sprawl thinned out and vanished and the highway went down to two lanes. They turned off the highway past Maneadero and followed back roads past agricultural fields, scattered farm houses, and old missions, eventually coming into rugged, lonely country with fog-shrouded rolling hills that dropped down to the sea. Zavala, who was navigating, checked the map. “We’re almost there. Just around the corner,” he said.
Austin didn’t know what he was expecting. Even so he was surprised when they rounded the curve and he saw a neatly lettered sign in Spanish and English announcing they were at the home of the Baja Tortilla Company. He pulled over to the side of the road. The sign was at the beginning of a long, clay drive bordered with planted trees. They could see a large building at the end of the driveway.
Austin leaned on the steering wheel and pushed his Foster Grants up onto his forehead. “You’re sure this is the right spot?”
Zavala handed the map over for Austin’s examination. “This is the place,” he said.
“Looks like we drove all this way for nothing.”
“Maybe not,” Zavala said. “The huevos rancheros were excel lent, and I’ve got a new Hussong’s Cantina T-shirt.”
Austin’s eyes narrowed. “Coincidence makes me suspicious. The sign says ‘Visitors Welcome.’ As long as we’re here, let’s take them at their word.”
He turned the truck off the highway and drove a few hundred yards to a neatly tended gravel parking lot marked with spaces for visitors. Several cars with California plates and a couple of tour buses were parked in front of the building, a corrugated aluminum structure with a portaled adobe facade and tiled roof in the Spanish style. The smell of baking corn wafted through the pickup’s open windows.
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