Emerald Buddha

Chapter 23

A pair of oriental pied hornbills flapped into the sky as a trio of gunmen worked their way down the trail, having only been duped by the broken branches on the upper trail for a few minutes. They moved carefully, their sandals quiet on the ground, their AK-47s held at present arms, ready to fire. All wore the simple vestments of rice farmers, baggy long-sleeved shirts and loose pants rolled to the knee, and the skin on their exposed hands and faces was brown as pecans.

They came around a bend, and the lead gunman slowed near a banyan tree. He pointed at where the bark was frayed off a low-hanging branch and motioned for his companions to spread out, their weapons now trained on the tree’s breadth. As they approached, the leader signaled for the man on his right to circle the tree; anyone hoping to ambush them was likely hiding on the back side. The gunman nodded and crept around the trunk, squinting up at where sun was streaming through the dense cover.

The gunman looked at the lead man and shook his head. The other two moved to where he was standing, puzzled expressions on their faces. Someone had climbed the tree. But to what end?

There was now nobody there.

Drake studied the raft that he and Uncle Pete had painstakingly constructed from branches they’d gathered. The contrivance bobbed unsteadily in the current, and Drake shook his head.

“Not a chance.”

“Only way end trail.”

“It’s the best way to drown, you mean.”

“You no want kill anyone, so run like schoolgirls. Can’t run forever.”

“I don’t think it’ll support both of us.”

“We try, okay?”

Drake regarded the fronds Uncle Pete had used to tie the collection of flotsam together. It was suicide to try to navigate the river, which at this point was easily thirty yards wide and obviously deep, but he could also see the resourceful Thai’s point: they had to lose their tail if they were to avoid a gunfight. Getting a little wet was certainly preferable to being shot to pieces.

“You get on first. Let’s see how it holds,” Drake suggested.

Uncle Pete shook his head disgustedly and moved to the raft. He waded knee deep into the water and dragged himself onto the makeshift platform. The raft sank a good three inches, but remained afloat. Drake didn’t know whether to be happy or sad.

“See? No problem.” The raft shifted and creaked as though taunting Drake. Uncle Pete held out his hand. “Need help?”

“No, I think I can manage getting onto a raft.”

Drake inched into the water, holding the vine they’d used as a tether, and crawled aboard the raft next to Uncle Pete. It was now barely above the water, but still floating, Drake had to admit. The current took hold and they began drifting south. The chocolate water frothed around them, the river swollen from rain runoff. They were running out of time before dark, and the sun was now sinking into the western mountains of Myanmar. Even though Drake was reluctant to give Uncle Pete credit, he had to admit that the raft was doing its job, as every yard they drifted put another between them and the abrupt end of the trail they’d left.

“You sure they’ll give up once they see we’re no longer on land?”

“Probably. Want to get home before night, if they smart.”

“Sure. They probably have families.”

“No. Scared of other killers in jungle. This place bad. Lotsa drug wars.”

“But doesn’t the same danger also apply to us?”

“One problem one time.”

Several minutes went by, and the river curved so they couldn’t see the spit of land from where they’d pushed off any longer. If nothing else, Uncle Pete’s idea had done its job, and now, assuming he was right, all they had to do was float down the Mekong and they’d be able to find a barge headed south.

“Uncle Pete, I’ve got to hand it to you—”

Drake was interrupted by the sound of water splashing directly ahead of them. They turned to face downstream and Drake spotted a ledge no more than ten yards away where the river disappeared — a waterfall where the froth was spilling over.

“What do we do now?” Drake asked.

“Hang on.”

They picked up speed as they neared the waterfall and then they were over it, landing hard in the froth six feet below the falls.

The raft gave a sickening lurch and split in pieces as the bindings let loose. Drake watched helplessly as a third of the branches drifted away, and then he was sitting in six inches of water, the raft breaking apart beneath them.

“Damn,” Drake said, and then the rest of the bundled wood let go and he was swimming for shore, fighting the undercurrent and trying to keep his head above water. Uncle Pete was splashing a few yards ahead of him, pulling for the bank with all his might.

They made it to the rocky slope and dragged themselves out of the water. Drake spit a mouthful of brown to the side and made a face. Uncle Pete coughed and eyed their surroundings.

“You think we got far enough to lose them?” Drake asked.

“Know soon. Hope so.”

They looked up at the peak of a green mountain towering above, and Uncle Pete forced himself to his feet, dripping but uninjured. He dumped water and mud from the barrel of the submachine gun and then moved back to the water to rinse it. Once finished, he stripped the weapon and wiped away the worst of the grit. Drake watched him and then gazed off at where the sun was dipping into the hills.

“Now what?”

“We close to Mekong. Road run along Laos side. Get to road, easier going. Follow nose.”

“Not much light left.”

“We camping, for sure.”

“Would have been nice if we’d managed to grab one of the backpacks,” Drake said, thinking about the equipment now underwater in the wreckage of the helicopter. He tried to imagine the senator’s daughter’s plane going down, at night, and realized that they really were completely out of their depth — the jungle was vast, and they were only a few amateurs. A wave of hopelessness washed over him, and he felt like an idiot for allowing himself to be talked into the search. His ego had gotten the better of him, and the CIA had played to that — Drake Ramsey, master treasure hunter, unstoppable force of nature, doer of big deeds.

“What’s the saying? Never believe your own press releases…” Drake muttered, and Pete gave him a dark look. Drake tried a grin and felt grit between his teeth. “Nothing. Just thinking.”

Uncle Pete finished with the gun and began walking along the bank. “We get away from water. They still after us, they walk down bank like me. No good.”

“You really think we can find the Mekong without tracking the river?”

“Gonna give try.”

They made it no more than a quarter mile before dusk surrendered to night, and stopped near a clearing. Drake took the first three-hour watch while Uncle Pete tried to sleep with the calls of nocturnal animals for a lullaby and the elephant grass and rocky ground for a bed.