Always to the point, Fielding thought. Four years ago, there had been talk that Marshall O’Brien might assume the directorship of the CIA. In fact, the man had been deputy director before Fielding, but he had bristled too many senators with his no-nonsense attitude and burned even more bridges with his rigid sense of right and wrong. That wasn’t how politics were played in Washington. So instead, O’Brien had been demoted to a token figurehead here at the Environmental Center. The old man’s urgent call was probably his way of scraping some bit of importance from his position, trying to stay in the game.
“What’s this all about?” Fielding asked as he sat down.
O’Brien settled to his own seat and opened a gray folder atop his desk.
Someone’s dossier, Fielding noted.
The old man cleared his throat. “Two days ago, an American’s body was reported to the Consular Agency in Manaus, Brazil. The deceased was identified by his Special Forces challenge coin from his old unit.”
Fielding frowned. Challenge coins were carried by many divisions of the military. They were more a tradition than a true means of identification. A unit member, active or not, caught without his coin was duty-bound to buy a round of drinks for his mates. “What does this have to do with us?”
“The man was not only ex—Special Forces. He was one of my operatives. Agent Gerald Clark.”
Fielding blinked in surprise.
O’Brien continued, “Agent Clark had been sent under-cover with a research team to investigate complaints of environmental damage from gold-mining operations and to gather data on the transshipment of Bolivian and Colombian cocaine through the Amazon basin.”
Fielding straightened in his seat. “And was he murdered? Is that what this is all about?”
“No. Six days ago, Agent Clark appeared at a missionary village deep in the remote jungle, half dead from fever and exposure. The head of the mission attempted to care for him, but he died within a few hours.”
“A tragedy indeed, but how is this a matter of national security?”
“Because Agent Clark has been missing for four years.” O’Brien passed him a faxed newspaper article.
Confused, Fielding accepted the article. “Four years?”
EXPEDITION VANISHES IN AMAZONIAN JUNGLE
Associated Press
MANAUS, BRAZIL, MARCH 20—The continuing search for millionaire industrialist Dr. Carl Rand and his international team of 30 researchers and guides has been called off after three months of intense searching. The team, a joint venture between the U.S. National Cancer Institute and the Brazilian Indian Foundation, vanished into the rain forests without leaving a single clue as to their fate.
The expedition’s yearlong goal had been to conduct a census on the true number of Indians and tribes living in the Amazon forests. However, three months after leaving the jungle city of Manaus, their daily progress reports, radioed in from the field, ended abruptly. All attempts to contact the team have failed. Rescue helicopters and ground search teams were sent to their last known location, but no one was found. Two weeks later, one last, frantic message was received: “Send help…can’t last much longer. Oh, God, they’re all around us.” Then the team was swallowed into the vast jungle.
Now, after a three-month search involving an international team and much publicity, Commander Ferdinand Gonzales, the rescue team’s leader, has declared the expedition and its members “lost and likely dead.” All searches have been called off.
The current consensus of the investigators is that the team either was overwhelmed by a hostile tribe or had stumbled upon a hidden base of drug traffickers. Either way, any hope for rescue dies today as the search teams are called home. It should be noted that each year scores of researchers, explorers, and missionaries disappear into the Amazon forest, never to be seen again.
“My God.”
O’Brien retrieved the article from the stunned man’s fingers and continued, “After disappearing, no further contact was ever made by the research team or our operative. Agent Clark was classified as deceased.”
“But are we sure this is the same man?”
O’Brien nodded. “Dental records and fingerprints match those on file.”
Fielding shook his head, the initial shock ebbing. “As tragic as all this is and as messy as the paperwork will be, I still don’t see why it’s a matter of national security.”
“I would normally agree, except for one additional oddity.” O’Brien shuffled through the dossier’s ream of papers and pulled out two photographs. He handed over the first one. “This was taken just a few days before he departed on his mission.”
Fielding glanced at the grainy photo of a man dressed in Levi’s, a Hawaiian shirt, and a safari hat. The man wore a large grin and was hoisting a tropical drink in hand. “Agent Clark?”
“Yes, the photo was taken by one of the researchers during a going-away party.” O’Brien passed him the second photograph. “And this was taken at the morgue in Manaus, where the body now resides.”
Fielding took the glossy with a twinge of queasiness. He had no desire to look at photographs of dead people, but he had no choice. The corpse in this photograph was naked, laid out on a stainless steel table, an emaciated skeleton wrapped in skin. Strange tattoos marked his flesh. Still, Fielding recognized the man’s facial features. It was Agent Clark—but with one notable difference. He retrieved the first photograph and compared the two.
O’Brien must have noted the blood draining from his face and spoke up. “Two years prior to his disappearance, Agent Clark took a sniper’s bullet to his left arm during a forced recon mission in Iraq. Gangrene set in before he could reach a U.S. camp. The limb had to be amputated at the shoulder, ending his career with the army’s Special Forces.”
“But the body in the morgue has both arms.”
“Exactly. The fingerprints from the corpse’s arm match those on file prior to the shooting. It would seem Agent Clark went into the Amazon with one arm and came back with two.”
“But that’s impossible. What the hell happened out there?”
Marshall O’Brien studied Fielding with his hawkish eyes, demonstrating why he had earned his nickname, the Old Bird. Fielding felt like a mouse before an eagle. The old man’s voice deepened. “That’s what I intend to find out.”
Act One
The Mission
CURARE
family: Menispermaceae
genus: Chondrodendron
species: Tomentosum
common name: Curare
parts used: Leaf, Root
properties/actions: Diuretic, Febrifuge,
Muscle Relaxant, Tonic, Poison
Snake Oil
AUGUST 6, 10:11 A.M.
AMAZON JUNGLE, BRAZIL
The anaconda held the small Indian girl wrapped in its heavy coils, dragging her toward the river.
Nathan Rand was on his way back to the Yanomamo village after an early morning of gathering medicinal plants when he heard her screams. He dropped his specimen bag and ran to her aid. As he sprinted, he shrugged his short-barreled shotgun from his shoulder. When alone in the jungle, one always carried a weapon.
He pushed through a fringe of dense foliage and spotted the snake and girl. The anaconda, one of the largest he had ever seen, at least forty feet in length, lay half in the water and half stretched out on the muddy beach. Its black scales shone wetly. It must have been lurking under the surface when the girl had come to collect water from the river. It was not unusual for the giant snakes to prey upon animals who came to the river to drink: wild peccary, capybara rodents, forest deer. But the great snakes seldom attacked humans.
Still, during the past decade of working as an ethnobotanist in the jungles of the Amazon basin, Nathan had learned one important rule: if a beast were hungry enough, all rules were broken. It was an eat-or-be-eaten world under the endless green bower.
Nathan squinted through his gun’s sight. He recognized the girl. “Oh, God, Tama!” She was the
chieftain’s nine-year-old niece, a smiling, happy child who had given him a bouquet of jungle flowers as a gift upon his arrival in the village a month ago. Afterward she kept pulling at the hairs on his arm, a rarity among the smooth-skinned Yanomamo, and nicknamed him Jako Basho, “Brother Monkey.”
Biting his lip, he searched through his weapon’s sight. He had no clean shot, not with the child wrapped in the muscular coils of the predator.
“Damn it!” He tossed his shotgun aside and reached to the machete at his belt. Unhitching the weapon, Nathan lunged forward—but as he neared, the snake rolled and pulled the girl under the black waters of the river. Her screams ended and bubbles followed her course.
Without thinking, Nathan dove in after her.
Of all the environments of the Amazon, none were more dangerous than its waterways. Under its placid surfaces lay countless hazards. Schools of bone-scouring piranhas hunted its depths, while stingrays lay buried in the mud and electric eels roosted amid roots and sunken logs. But worst of all were the river’s true man-killers, the black caimans—giant crocodilian reptiles. With all its dangers, the Indians of the Amazon knew better than to venture into unknown waters.
But Nathan Rand was no Indian.
Holding his breath, he searched through the muddy waters and spotted the surge of coils ahead. A pale limb waved. With a kick of his legs, he reached out to the small hand, snatching it up in his large grip. Small fingers clutched his in desperation.
Tama was still conscious!
He used her arm to pull himself closer to the snake. In his other hand, he drew the machete back, kicking to hold his place, squeezing Tama’s hand.
Then the dark waters swirled, and he found himself staring into the red eyes of the giant snake. It had sensed the challenge to its meal. Its black maw opened and struck at him.
Nate ducked aside, fighting to maintain his grip on the girl.
The anaconda’s jaws snapped like a vice onto his arm. Though its bite was nonpoisonous, the pressure threatened to crush Nate’s wrist. Ignoring the pain and his own mounting panic, he brought his other arm around, aiming for the snake’s eyes with his machete.
At the last moment, the giant anaconda rolled in the water, throwing Nate to the silty bottom and pinning him. Nate felt the air squeezed from his lungs as four hundred pounds of scaled muscle trapped him. He struggled and fought, but he found no purchase in the slick river mud.
The girl’s fingers were torn from his grip as the coils churned her away from him.
No…Tama!
He abandoned his machete and pushed with his hands against the weight of the snake’s bulk. His shoulders sank into the soft muck of the riverbed, but still he pushed. For every coil he shoved aside, another would take its place. His arms weakened, and his lungs screamed for air.
Nathan Rand knew in this moment that he was doomed—and he was not particularly surprised. He knew it would happen one day. It was his destiny, the curse of his family. During the past twenty years, both his parents had been consumed by the Amazon forest. When he was eleven, his mother had succumbed to an unknown jungle fever, dying in a small missionary hospital. Then, four years ago, his father had simply vanished into the rain forest, disappearing without witnesses.
As Nate remembered the heartbreak of losing his father, rage flamed through his chest. Cursed or not, he refused to follow in his father’s footsteps. He would not allow himself simply to be swallowed by the jungle. But more important, he would not lose Tama!
Screaming out the last of the trapped air in his chest, Nathan shoved the anaconda’s bulk off his legs. Freed for a moment, he swung his feet under him, sinking into the mud up to his ankles, and shoved straight up.
His head burst from the river, and he gulped a breath of fresh air, then was dragged by his arm back under the dark water.
This time, Nathan did not fight the strength of the snake. Holding the clamped wrist to his chest, he twisted into the coils, managing to get a choke hold around the neck of the snake with his other arm. With the beast trapped, Nate dug his left thumb into the snake’s nearest eye.
The snake writhed, tossing Nate momentarily out of the water, then slamming him back down. He held tight.
C’mon, you bastard, let up!
He bent his trapped wrist enough to drive his other thumb into the snake’s remaining eye. He pushed hard on both sides, praying his basic training in reptile physiology proved true. Pressure on the eyes of a snake should trigger a gag reflex via the optic nerve.
He pressed harder, his heartbeat thudding in his ears.
Suddenly the pressure on his wrist released, and Nathan found himself flung away with such force that he half sailed out of the river and hit the riverbank with his shoulder. He twisted around and saw a pale form float to the surface of the river, facedown in midstream.
Tama!
As he had hoped, the visceral reflex of the snake had released both prisoners. Nathan shoved into the river and grabbed the child by the arm, pulling her slack form to him. He slung her over a shoulder and climbed quickly to the shore.
He spread her soaked body on the bank. She was not breathing. Her lips were purple. He checked her pulse. It was there but weak.
Nathan glanced around futilely for help. With no one around, it would be up to him to revive the girl. He had been trained in first aid and CPR before venturing into the jungle, but Nathan was no doctor. He knelt, rolled the girl on her stomach, and pumped her back. A small amount of water sloshed from her nose and mouth.
Satisfied, he rolled Tama back around and began mouth-to-mouth.
At this moment, one of the Yanomamo tribesfolk, a middle-aged woman, stepped from the jungle’s edge. She was small, as were all the Indians, no more than five feet in height. Her black hair was sheared in the usual bowl cut and her ears were pierced with feathers and bits of bamboo. Her dark eyes grew huge at the sight of the white man bent over the small child.
Nathan knew how it must look. He straightened up from his crouch just as Tama suddenly regained consciousness, coughing out gouts of river water and thrashing and crying in horror and fright. The panicked child beat at him with tiny fists, still in the nightmare of the snake attack.
“Hush, you’re safe,” he said in the Yanomamo dialect, trying to snare her hands in his grip. He turned to the woman, meaning to explain, but the small Indian dropped her basket and vanished into the thick fringe at the river’s edge, whooping with alarm. Nathan knew the call. It was raised whenever a villager was under attack.
“Great, just great.” Nathan closed his eyes and sighed.
When he had first come to this particular village four weeks ago, intending to record the medicinal wisdom of the tribe’s old shaman, he had been instructed by the chief to stay away from the Indian women. In the past, there had been occasions when strangers had taken advantage of the tribe’s womenfolk. Nathan had honored this request, even though some of the women had been more than willing to share his hammock. His six-foot-plus frame, blue eyes, and sandy-colored hair were a novelty to the women of this isolated tribe.
In the distance, the fleeing woman’s distress call was answered by others, many others. The name Yanomamo translated roughly as “the fierce people.” The tribes were considered some of the most savage warriors. The huyas, or young men of the village, were always contesting some point of honor or claiming some curse had been set upon them, anything to warrant a brawl with a neighboring tribe or another tribesman. They were known to wipe out entire villages for so slight an insult as calling someone a derogatory name.
Nathan stared down into the face of the young girl. And what would these huyas make of this? A white man attacking one of their children, the chieftain’s niece.
At his side, Tama had slowed her panic, swooning back into a fitful slumber. Her breathing remained regular, but when he checked her forehead, it was warm from a growing fever. He also spotted a darkening bruise on her right side. He fingered the injury—two broken ribs from the crushing em
brace of the anaconda. He sat back on his heels, biting his lower lip. If she was to survive, she would need immediate treatment.
Bending, he gently scooped her into his arms. The closest hospital was ten miles downstream in the small town of São Gabriel. He would have to get her there.
But there was only one problem—the Yanomamo. There was no way he could flee with the girl and expect to get away. This was Indian territory, and though he knew the terrain well, he was no native. There was a proverb spoken throughout the Amazon: Na boesi, ingi sabe ala sani. In their jungle, the Indian know everything. The Yanomamo were superb hunters, skilled with bow, blowgun, spear, and club.
Amazonia: a novel Page 2
