Undercurrents

by Pamela Beason

  “The police seem suspicious of me,” she told Wyatt.

  “What do you mean?”

  “They took my passport.”

  “Why?”

  “I suppose they don’t want me to leave the area.” You idiot, she added in her head.

  “You aren’t thinking about disappearing on us, are you?”

  She sighed. “I intend to fulfill my contract to the best of my ability, Tad, although you’ve got to admit that circumstances have changed. What would you do if I suddenly went missing?” If I was kidnapped. If I was killed.

  “Good question. I have no clue. There’s probably some sort of HR policy for employees, but you’re an independent contractor.”

  “Thanks.” Rolling her eyes, she caught a glimpse of the tree branches overhead. Two geckos were stretched out on the lowest bough. “I feel a lot more secure now.”

  “I’m sure we’d think of something. Anyway, good job,” Wyatt said. “Try to keep up the momentum when you post tonight.”

  “Right. Sure thing.” She pressed End. As she continued toward Darwin Station, she tried to forget about the Internet, TV news, and the media in general.

  She explored the Exhibition Hall with a pack of visitors that included the Birskys. Along the wall, huge photos of erupting volcanoes caught her eye. Crimson molten lava spewed through the air, cauldrons of ash-colored mud bubbled, and the sea boiled and steamed. Fernandina and Isabela Islands were the most often featured, with spectacular images of columns of ash and red-hot seams of lava bursting forth. The most recent photo was dated only a few years ago.

  “Good heavens,” she murmured. She raised her camera and snapped a picture of the image on the wall. A tourist beside her glared and pointed to the sign on the wall. no photography.

  “Oops,” she said.

  The walls held hundreds of photos of flora and fauna as well as explanations of Darwin’s study of finches, from which he developed his theories of evolution of species through natural selection.

  The finches all looked similar. It must have taken many hours of observation on the naturalist’s part to note their slightly different beaks and the different ecological niches they occupied. Charles Darwin clearly possessed more patience than she did. Or maybe he had been plagued by fewer distractions. He probably didn’t have to pretend to be two different characters, for one thing. He didn’t have to carry a camera everywhere and dredge up exciting stories each day. He probably didn’t have to constantly look over his shoulder to be sure that a killer wasn’t stalking him, either.

  A Station employee rang a bell, startling her out of her speculations. He loudly announced that a slide show would start in five minutes in the theater area toward the back of the hall. Most of the visitors eagerly walked toward the wooden benches there. She headed for the door.

  Using the map she received at the gate, she located the Darwin Station headquarters building. There she showed the secretary her most official-looking piece of ID, her press pass from Out There. “May I see the director, please?”

  The secretary’s English was almost as minimal as Sam’s Spanish, and the woman soon abandoned her and crossed the foyer to knock on the executive director’s door.

  The man who emerged was tall for an Ecuadorian, maybe five-ten, middle-aged, and scholarly-looking. Along with gray cotton pants, he wore a white guayabera, the pleated, pocketed, short-sleeved shirt that passed for business attire in the tropics.

  “Dr. Ignacio Guerrero.” His handshake was firm. His dark hair was cut into short curls, and his beard was neatly trimmed.

  “Mucho gusto. Me llamo Sam Westin.” She handed him her identification badge from Out There.

  “Ah.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Usted habla español.”

  “That was the extent of it, I’m afraid,” she said.

  “Then we speak English.” He glanced at the ID. “It says Summer Westin here.”

  “Sam’s a nickname.”

  “You are a reporter? My secretary will provide you a press kit . . .”

  “Thanks, but I write adventure articles, not your standard news or travel stories. I came here on a joint project with Dr. Kazaki . . .”

  His expression brightened. “Daniel Kazaki? From the University of Delaware? I have received email from him. I would like to meet him.” His gaze expectantly searched the open doorway through which brilliant sun spilled onto the worn tiled floor.

  Was Guerrero feigning ignorance? “He died two days ago,” Sam said.

  “Díos mío!” Guerrero lowered his head and made the sign of the cross. He rubbed a knuckle across his bearded chin, then folded his hands together beneath his nose as if praying. After a few seconds in this pose, he looked up again. “I am sorry, Señorita Westin. I heard about a scuba accident, but I had no idea it was Dr. Kazaki.”

  “I don’t believe it was an accident.”

  His eyes widened. “Why do you say that? How did this happen?”

  “I really don’t know. He was here doing a survey for the Natural Planet Foundation, and—”

  “NPF?”

  “They’ve worked with you before, haven’t they?”

  Guerrero grabbed Sam’s arm and pulled her into his office, closing the door behind them. “Why was the Natural Planet Foundation doing a survey? They didn’t coordinate with our office.”

  “Were they supposed to? I wasn’t in on the planning.”

  He considered for a few seconds, then said, “I’m sure it was . . . what is the word? Routine.” He looked at her for confirmation.

  “Don’t they do this every ten years?”

  “Do they? I have only been here for two.” He rubbed the back of his neck as he stared, distracted, at the floor. Then he glanced up. “But where are my manners? Would you like a cup of coffee?” He gestured toward his desk, where a steaming cup sat amid stacks of paper.

  “No, thank you, but please, go ahead with yours.”

  He nodded, walked behind his desk, and took a tiny sip from the cup. Sam wondered how anyone could drink coffee when it was at least eighty-five degrees outside.

  “Please, sit.” Guerrero indicated the upholstered chair in front of his desk.

  She pulled off her day pack, placed it on the floor, and sat. He lowered himself into his chair. “How can I be of service to you, Miss Westin?”

  Sam cleared her throat. “I need some information about the political climate here.”

  He leaned forward and clasped his hands together on top of the desk. “Political climate?”

  She wasn’t quite sure what she wanted to ask. “I think it’s likely that Dan was murdered.”

  Guerrero swallowed nervously, but his gaze held steady on her face.

  “I want to know about the local attitudes toward the park and conservation groups and scientists. Especially the fishermen’s union. Are they violent?”

  He sat back and swept his hand through the air as if to brush the question away. “You are perhaps thinking of the occupation of Darwin Station a long time in the past, in the 1990s. Or maybe you wonder about what happened to the Park Service director years ago?”

  That got her attention. “What happened to the Park Service director years ago? Was he murdered?”

  “She,” Guerrero corrected. “She was urged to leave.”

  Interesting phrasing. “How was she urged to leave?”

  He squirmed and took another sip of his coffee before saying, “Darwin Station and the Galápagos National Park Service are not the same. Darwin Station is a research facility; the Park Service manages the park and the marine reserve and issues permits for fishing and tour boats and such things.”

  Finally, she had a direction. “I need to talk to the Park Service director, then. You see, a few days ago Dan got bad air and then we were thrown out of our hotel and I’m trying to find out what’s going on—”

  Guerrero continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “We have many new agreements with the government and the fishermen now. We have a new constitution that state
s the rights of Nature. We are all pledged to work together to protect the Galápagos and to improve the lives of the local people.” He picked up his coffee cup again.

  She’d heard it all before, but she was no longer buying the company line. “So there’s no more illegal fishing?”

  He choked in mid-swallow, and then quickly passed the back of his hand over his mustache. “We have strict regulations now, and the area of the marine sanctuary has been increased. Commercial fishing is prohibited. Local artisan fishers must have permits.”

  Sam frowned. “I know all that. But is there enforcement? I saw two patrol boats anchored out in the bay.”

  He gestured toward the window. “Have you seen our marine research facility? It was very damaged in the tsunami of 2011, but it is rebuilt now. We are studying how much fishing can be accomplished without destroying the ecosystem.”

  “That’s nice.” She forced her lips into a brief smile. “Does Darwin Station believe that the illegal fishing has stopped?”

  He examined his cup as he swilled the liquid around in his mouth for a long moment before swallowing. Finally, he set down the cup and focused his gaze on her. “Miss Westin, the local fishing men are simply trying to live. If anyone is—was—to blame, it was the Japanese, the Chinese. You cannot offer so much money to a poor country like Ecuador; of course people will grab for it.” He turned toward his office window, which overlooked several research buildings. “Asians,” he hissed. “The more rare an animal, the more they want to eat it. The more they pay to eat it. I detest Asians.”

  Shades of Jerry Roberson. She frowned. “Dr. Kazaki was half-Asian.”

  Guerrero considered that. “Maybe his name was Japanese, but he was American. I know Dr. Kazaki was a true conservationist.”

  They were getting off-track. “Asians don’t control the Galápagos,” she pointed out. “Like you said, it’s Ecuadorians who are selling to the Asians. And wasn’t it the local Ecuadorians who threatened to kill the giant tortoises here? Who held scientists hostage with machetes? Who threatened to sink a tour boat?”

  Guerrero rose from his chair and walked around his desk.

  “Were any of those Ecuadorians punished?” she persisted.

  Taking her hand, he pulled her up from the chair and then continued to hold her hand, clutching it a little too tightly between his broad paws. “Miss Westin, please consider. Puerto Ayora is a small town. Santa Cruz is a small island. Galápagos is a small province. Ecuador is a small country.”

  She stared at him. “So? That should be even more reason to preserve your natural resources for the future.”

  He frowned. “The government of Ecuador maintains a position on the board of the Charles Darwin Foundation.”

  Was he saying that Darwin Station would not do anything that might upset the government of Ecuador? “I guess I need to talk to the National Park director.”

  His grip on her hand tightened. “The director of the National Park is in Guayaquil at present. He has been in the position only three months. The old one . . . many old ones . . .” He swallowed, and then started again. “Lives were threatened. You understand?” His eyes beseeched her.

  She understood that she could expect no assistance from Darwin Station or the Galápagos National Park Service.

  Guerrero released her hand. “We all do the best we can. You will tell the rest of the world that, won’t you?”

  She turned the doorknob to let herself out of his office. “I wish you the best of luck, Dr. Guerrero.”

  “My condolences for Dr. Kazaki,” he called after her. “He will be missed.”

  Outside, Sam walked the short distance down the worn pathway to the pen where Lonesome George had once lived. Now there was only a plaque as a reminder. The giant tortoise was easily the most famous reptile in the world. Leaning on the railing, she stared at his replacement—Diego, according to the sign—through tears of frustration. Lonesome George was over ninety years old when he died, a lumbering ancient dinosaur, nearly twice as big as the galápago she’d encountered on the Isabela mountainside.

  Lonesome George was the only known member left of his subspecies of island tortoises. None of the eggs he fertilized had ever hatched. She wondered if he had felt a unique loneliness.

  She certainly felt alone right now. Her fingers closed around the wire mesh of the fence, squeezing until the links pressed painfully into her hands. Darwin Station was supposedly all about conservation, and the Natural Planet Foundation supplied the data that supported conservation efforts around the world. She’d expected to find allies here.

  Guerrero was clearly worried about NPF’s survey. Dan would have merely reported his count. That was NPF’s mission: to publish the unvarnished truth—good or bad—about the state of the planet.

  If the NPF report on Galápagos National Park was filled with bad news about poaching and overfishing, conservation groups would take notice. They’d try to apply pressure; maybe encourage their members to petition the Ecuadorian government. That could spark a reaction; maybe the government would impose new crackdowns on fishing in the islands.

  But the conservation community had filed complaints for years about Ecuador allowing too many immigrants, too many tourists, and too much commercial activity in the islands. UNESCO had once listed the Galápagos as an area at risk. What would make Dan’s report any different from all the previous ones?

  Maybe the issue was all about the timing. This might be the first survey to come out after the new constitution and all the promises of doing a better job of protecting the area.

  Diego pushed himself to his scaly feet. It looked like a huge effort to raise that huge, heavy shell. His toenails scratched across the packed dirt of his pen as he waddled pigeon-toed toward his food pile. Stretching his head forward, he snagged a chunk of lettuce with his beak-like mouth. It was like watching an elephant dine at a salad bar.

  She felt outrage that some of these defenseless creatures been slaughtered to protest fishing regulations. Galápagos National Park was supposed to be a safe refuge for the giant tortoises. Conservation groups the world over donated large sums to protect them.

  Her brain supplied another possible reason for Guerrero’s concern. If Dan’s report showed that the reserve was still being damaged by overfishing, would some conservation groups withdraw their funding from Galápagos National Park and Darwin Station?

  She moved to the captive breeding pens and took photos of the dozens of baby tortoises. When they reached a large enough size to be safe from predators such as dogs and hawks, they would be released back into the park to repopulate the islands. Assuming the park still existed.

  If conservation groups labeled the Galápagos a lost cause, Darwin Station might cease to exist. Scientists would stop coming to study the area if it was no longer considered a unique living laboratory. Would the Ecuadorian government be content to let Darwin Station vanish into history, allow settlements and hotel zones to take over the park land, and watch the Galápagos Islands develop into just one more Pacific tourist destination? It was a depressing thought.

  Without the park and the unusual animals, the tourists might eventually stop coming, too. There were better climates and more accessible beaches elsewhere. If the tourism trade petered out, then the Ecuadorian commercial fishermen would be completely free to ply their trade.

  But there was always the possibility that a negative NPF report could cause the pendulum to swing in the opposite direction. If the Ecuadorian government opted to pacify the conservationists, the Navy would allow park rangers to crack down on poaching, and maybe prohibit even local artisan fishing within the reserve.

  There were so many possibilities in play here. It seemed like all parties in the islands had their own reasons to dread an accounting. How the hell could she sort this out? Anyone could be an enemy. A prickle ran down her spine.

  She surveyed the crowd. The tourists were easily identified by their cameras and sun hats. Two uniformed Darwin Station employees fed the
baby turtles and spoke in English or German to the tourists. Another raked litter from the gravel alongside the paths. Only one person stood out: a mustachioed man in a black tank top who leaned against an ancient gnarled tree, his hands behind his back. His mirrored sunglasses seemed to be focused on her. She quickly turned back to the baby tortoises. When she glanced over her shoulder a minute later, he was still there, his face still turned in her direction. Why did he have his hands behind his back? His tight-fitting jeans couldn’t conceal a pistol, but he could easily have a switchblade in a pocket.

  Jeez, she was getting paranoid. Black Tank Top was probably waiting for his girlfriend. For all she knew, his eyes were closed behind those mirrored lenses. There were no obvious hit men here. But a hit man wouldn’t be obvious, would he? He’d probably carry a camera and wear funky shorts, like that freckled guy over there in a Boston Red Sox T-shirt.

  A group of Japanese tourists approached, laughing and chattering. They carried identical green tour bags. With a few loud syllables, their guide brought them to polite attention, pointed to the baby tortoises, and said a few words. The entire group laughed, the women raising their hands to cover their mouths.

  Maybe a joke about making the tiny reptiles into soup? Sam found herself scowling. Then she gave herself a mental slap. The Japanese tourists were probably chuckling about how cute the miniature tortoises looked, or about how minuscule the tortoise babies were in comparison to their humongous parents. She needed to examine her own prejudices.

  She walked toward the exit. Black Tank Top stayed at the tree. Stopping at a stand that advertised all profits went to Darwin Station, she selected a turquoise tee with a map of the islands for herself. For Chase, she chose a large burgundy one that sported a pile of iguanas. At least she’d have something to give him when they met in a few days.

  If they met in a few days.

  She couldn’t get on a plane without her passport. And where the hell was Chase, anyway? She’d checked her email and phone messages this morning. She bit her lip. If something had happened to him, would anybody notify her? She wasn’t his live-in girlfriend or his wife.