Ramsey's Gold

Chapter Eighteen

Drake’s nap turned into sleeping most of the day. After a lazy dinner at the hotel he was still wiped out, so he returned to his room and slept solidly all night. The next morning he rose early and went for a run on the beach before the sun’s heat hit, and he found himself one of numerous joggers slogging along the sand.

The two-mile stretch of beach took more out of him than he’d expected — when he got back to the hotel he was soaked through with sweat and dehydrated. A long shower and two liters of water rejuvenated him, and after shaving and running a brush through his hair, he slipped into a light shirt and shorts and was ready to face the day.

He spent the morning rereading the notes he’d taken while studying the journal to ensure he hadn’t missed any nuance, but for the life of him he wasn’t sure how to interpret many of the obscure references that would hopefully lead them to the treasure — his ability to spot patterns unfortunately hadn’t kicked in, based on the data his father had left in the journal. That Jack was going into the jungle with him was a lifesaver. If Jack could remember where he and Ford had made their camp, it would eliminate a lot of the time they’d spent on false trails twenty years ago.

Their biggest problem was that there were no step-by-step directions, only anecdotes and hearsay from unreliable sources, and rumors whispered by the natives, none of which had ever been verified. The rainforest they would be in was vast, unexplored and teeming with lethal hazards of all kinds — the area had become a major drug-trafficking area in the last two decades, rivaling the infamous Golden Triangle in Asia for danger. The army left the region alone, preferring to focus where they stood a remote chance of policing effectively, as did their Brazilian counterparts across the border, who viewed the rainforest east of the Andes as a lawless no-man’s land best left to the hapless tribes that inhabited it.

Jack had told him that in the last few days of his life, his father had been convinced that they were on the brink of locating the fabled city. He’d been secretive about why, which wasn’t unusual — Ford Ramsey always played his cards close to his chest. But he’d let slip that he’d gotten new information from the indigenous tribes in the area: information that he believed held the answer he’d been looking for.

Jack had gone back to civilization for more supplies, so he never knew what the elder Ramsey had been thinking or had discovered — he’d alluded to having a meeting planned during Jack’s absence, but that had been it. Jack had registered a difference in Ford’s tone, though, and believed that his attitude had become more optimistic, and that they were only days away from their journey concluding successfully.

The satellite footage on Google Earth was of no help. The canopy of the Amazon was far too dense to make out anything other than a sea of green with rivers snaking through it. He tried looking for the waterfalls rumored to be near the lost city, but it was no good.

Frustrated, he realized his stomach was growling and that it was well past lunchtime. He tore himself away from his iPad with a resigned sigh and went to a seafood restaurant a block away that he’d seen on his run, where he ate incredibly fresh fish prepared in a spicy sauce that had his eyes watering by the time he was halfway through his meal.

The sidewalks were clogged with beachgoers, and he found himself carried along by the crowd as he walked south. Glittering skyscrapers lined the waterfront, yet only footsteps away, shantytowns clung to the sides of the mountains, their alleys narrow and treacherous, graffiti covering the buildings. Bootleg electricity cables crisscrossed the alleys like black spaghetti, the wiring’s tentacles snaking along streets the police didn’t dare go into, day or night. The hotel had warned him against leaving the premises after dark, and cautioned him against going anywhere near the favelas — the local slums that housed the armed drug gangs at perpetual war with the law and military: hotbeds of trafficking, both of narcotics and humans.

He’d seen enough photos on the web of machine-gun-toting thugs on motorcycles firing indiscriminately at each other to understand that the slums were beyond dangerous, but that world seemed a million miles away as he meandered down the beachfront. Beautiful women and fit men were the flavor of the day, all golden-brown skin and white smiles and endless summer expressions of carefree ease.

The Mar Ipanema Hotel wasn’t on the beach, but rather two blocks from the Atlantic, surrounded by other towers with apparently no thought to city planning. Drake entered and was scrutinized by two burly security men, whose no-nonsense expressions signaled zero tolerance for mischief, and approached the reception desk. A young woman with a thousand-watt smile and passable English checked for Jack and pointed to a house phone. Allie answered after three rings, her voice musical.

“Hello?”

“You made it,” Drake said.

“Yeah. We just got in a few hours ago. How’s Rio?”

“I haven’t been out much. Mostly hibernating. The trip wiped me out, and I’ve been online most of today.”

“I hear you about it being a bear of a flight. I’m pretty beat as well.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t have to escape gunmen to get here. That takes a little more out of you.”

“So I’m told. Where are you?”

“Downstairs.”

“Okay. I’ll be right down.”

“What about Jack?”

“He went out after checking in. Said to stick around until he got back.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“To look up some friends. That’s all he would let on.”

“You eaten?”

“Plane food.”

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“You’re on. Be down in five.”

When Allie stepped out of the elevator she looked like every bit of a million dollars. Her mane of dark hair shimmered in the light, and her blue eyes flashed like sapphires. Drake took a moment to appreciate the way her shorts showcased her sculpted, tan legs as he moved toward her. He almost hugged her, but something about her body language warned him off, and instead they stood awkwardly facing each other, waiting for the other to make the first move. Drake grinned and waved at the en-suite bar.

“You want to stay here, or go down to the beach?”

“I promised him I wouldn’t leave.”

“Ah. Right. Well, then, I’d say happy hour at the Mar Ipanema just got underway.”

The beer was cold, the music soft, the booth comfortable, and they laughed easily as they discussed the adventure to come.

“So what made you interested enough in archeology to want to major in it?” Drake asked, savoring his icy Brahma beer, studying her face.

“I think it was the stories my dad told me as a child. About his trip here. His time with your father. It sounded so…exotic, and important. No, that’s not the right word. More like the kind of thing most people never get to do — discovering the secrets of the past. I think I was hooked by the time I was ten years old.”

“What does your mom think about it?”

Allie grew quiet and took a sip of her beer. “She died when I was very young. When I was twelve. A traffic accident.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It was a while ago, but I still think about how proud she would have been. She always encouraged me to pursue academics in a big way. Not that my dad wasn’t supportive. But she was over the top…”

They finished their drinks, and Drake held two fingers aloft to the bartender, who nodded. Allie picked at the bar snacks in a bowl between them, and then sat up, eyeing the hotel entrance. “He’s back.”

She rose and moved into the lobby. Jack saw her and nodded, then spotted Drake and followed Allie into the bar.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Drake asked. Jack gave him a sour look, and he kicked himself mentally, having forgotten that Jack didn’t imbibe.

“Sure. How about a Coke?” Jack said.

“Coming right up.” Drake slid out of the booth and walked over to the bartender to relay the order. Jack sat next to Allie and plowed into the bowl of treats like a starving man. Drake returned, followed by the bartender with their beverages. When they were alone, Jack leaned forward.

“I’ve been out making calls. I met with a friend who comes to the U.S. every four or five years — owns a vitamin manufacturing company. Anyway, to make a long story short, he gave me some leads.”

“Leads? For what?” Drake asked.

“Someone who knows the area we’re going into and can arrange for anything we need.”

“Sounds promising. And he has somebody?”

“Brazil is the kind of place where everybody knows somebody. That’s why I hit the ground running and went to work.”

“Speaking of which, when do we go to your buddy’s ranch?” Allie asked.

“Tomorrow. I’ve already hired a car and driver to take us there,” Jack said. “I want to get our preparation over with as quickly as possible so we can stay ahead of the Russians. They’ll figure out soon enough what we’re up to, and I want to be long gone by the time they do.”

“Won’t we need our own car?”

“We can’t rent anything or we’ll show up on a computer. So we’re going to pay a little more and have a local ferry us around. Which isn’t the worst thing that can happen. I remember from last time I was here…if you’re not used to driving in Brazil, you’re better off leaving it to the natives. Take my word for that.”

After a few more minutes of discussion, Drake finished his beer and rose. “I’m going to get some fresh air and check out the beach, since we’re leaving tomorrow. You two want to come along for a walk?”

Jack shook his head. “Not for me. That’s a young man’s game. I’m headed upstairs for a siesta.”

Allie smiled and nodded. “I’d love to see the beach. Being cooped up in a plane and a hotel room has me going a little stir-crazy.”

Jack looked concerned, but seeing Allie’s face, his expression softened. “Just be careful. Rio’s a dangerous city, even in the tourist areas. Watch yourselves.”

Drake waved the bartender over and handed him money. “We will. It’s way safer here than in Texas or Menlo Park, apparently.”

They pushed their way through the double steel and glass doors and the humid swelter settled over them like a blanket. The sidewalks were jammed, the afternoon a popular time for those out of school or taking a late lunch. Rio boasted two world-class expanses of sand, Ipanema and Copacabana, both two miles long, sun-drenched and justifiably famous. In the distance, the iconic statue of Christ the Redeemer’s open arms watched over the city. Opposite, Sugar Loaf Mountain jutted into the sky at the northern end of Copacabana.

“You can really hear the Portuguese influence. It’s so strange that the other countries in South America speak Spanish and Brazil doesn’t,” Drake said.

“No huge surprise. The Portuguese pretty much ran the place for five hundred years, one way or another. Even after independence the two countries were locked at the hip. But the polarization between the rich and poor is a lot more obvious than you typically see elsewhere. It’s the kind of social situation that can’t last.”

“They’ve been saying that for decades, yet it just keeps on keeping on,” Drake observed. A group of rowdy teens approached down the sidewalk, their girlfriends laughing drunkenly, flashing endless expanses of flawless bronze skin, and Allie moved closer to Drake. As they pushed by, he took her hand, and while he thought she tried to pull away at first, soon they were strolling along like a couple, an important connection made and maintained. Neither wanted to interrupt the simple pleasure of the moment, so they walked in silence until they came to a volleyball net near the northern end of Ipanema, where young men and women were competing athletically in spite of the afternoon heat.

They paused, looking out across the sand at the crashing waves of the Atlantic clawing at the beach, the young Brazilians vigorously swatting the ball back and forth across the net. Drake squinted at Allie looking untamed as the breeze tugged at her hair, an eagerness in her eyes, as though she was considering joining the good-natured contest. He returned to his study of the players, noting that they were all in exceptional physical shape, and then Allie gave a cry. Two street urchins, maybe eleven or twelve, were running across the wide Avenida Vieira Souto, one of them with Allie’s purse clutched in his grasp.

Allie held up her hand, red with blood.

“Damn. They slashed the strap with a razor, and it got me.”

“How bad? Let me see.”

She turned and he could see a small red stain on her shirt, spreading slowly, but not alarmingly.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his eyes tracking the boys. “Do you have anything in your purse that can’t be replaced?”

“Oh, God. My passport. I only had a few dollars, but my passport and wallet…”

“I’m going after them. Get back to the hotel and have them call a doctor. Or find a cop. You probably need stitches,” Drake said.

Without waiting for a response, he tore off after the thieves across the wide boulevard, dodging honking cars as he made for the far sidewalk. The boys had a good head start, but his longer legs equalized much of it, and in three blocks he was only thirty feet behind them. They raced up the street toward one of Rio’s infamous hillside slums, where red brick hovels sprawled up the steep face of the mountain, narrow alleys running in front of them, garbage littering much of the unclaimed open areas, which stank of sewage and rot.

The pair darted to the right of the massive elevator that had been built as a concession to the residents during one of the city’s modernization drives, and disappeared up a steep concrete staircase that would have challenged a mountain goat. Drake took a deep breath and took the steps two at a time, intent on not allowing them out of his sight. He knew that all it would take was a few seconds and they’d be gone for good, and with them, Allie’s passport, creating unknown hardship and placing them squarely on the radar with the Embassy — a situation to be avoided at all costs.

The stairs twisted to the right, and he caught a flash of cut-off jeans as one of the two twisted up an even narrower path carved straight into the dark brown dirt, flanked by a wooden handrail improvised out of cast-off lumber from broken pallets and shipping crates. His calves were burning like he’d run a marathon, and he wondered as he pushed himself how much longer the kids could keep up the pace. He was rewarded when the one with Allie’s purse lost his footing and slid down the hill toward him, only ten feet from Drake. His companion grabbed him and pulled him to his feet, a straight razor clutched in his other hand as hundred-year-old eyes stared at Drake from an adolescent face.

The pair bolted laterally along the dirt walkway scarcely three feet wide, and Drake drove himself harder. The boys were almost in his grasp. He sprinted with all his remaining energy and dove at the one with the purse and got his hand on it. Drake ripped it free as the boy kept going, neither of them quite up to tackling a full-grown man, even if the one with the razor had clearly been considering it before he’d locked eyes with Drake and seen something that had made him think twice.

Drake sat panting for several seconds, winded. A rustle behind him came from one of the shanties of crumbling red brick with a blue tarp for a roof, and a young man stepped from its entrance. His clothes were filthy, but the nickel-plated revolver in his hand looked clean enough.

The gunman pointed the pistol’s barrel at Drake and said something in rapid-fire Portuguese. Drake shook his head, and the man drew closer, his intent clear — he was robbing Drake and wanted the purse.

When he was only a few yards away, Drake twisted and simultaneously threw a baseball-sized chunk of brick he’d palmed at the would-be thief. It connected solidly with the thug’s forehead and nose, making a sound like a melon being hit with a bat, and then blood gushed down his shirt.

But he didn’t drop the pistol.

He was bringing it up to fire even as he bellowed in pain, and Drake launched from the ground and tackled him as he pulled the trigger. The shot missed by a hair, and then he was on top of the gunman, slamming his wrist against the ground with all his might in order to break his grip on the pistol. He felt it loosen and caught the man on the jaw with his elbow while he smashed his wrist again. The pistol fell harmlessly a few feet away and Drake lunged for it, making it a split second before the mugger.

Drake slammed the gun butt into the man’s cheek and his eyes rolled into his head, his face ruined as he blacked out. Drake lay panting by him and then caught movement up the hill. More youths — at least three, and all carrying weapons.

Drake leapt to his feet and sprinted down the alley, the gun gripped in his hand as he ran, his heart hammering in his chest as he fought to get some distance between himself and the thief’s friends. He was just turning to take the dirt path back down the hill when an explosion sounded from behind him and part of the wooden rail shattered. Drake didn’t like his odds, trying to make it down the hill with the punks shooting at him from higher ground, so he spun and dropped, simultaneously slowing his breathing. With Jack’s words reverberating in his head, he cocked the hammer back, drew a bead on the first gunman, and squeezed the trigger. The little revolver bucked like a panicked animal, and he fired again. The second pursuer grabbed his abdomen and dropped his gun, and Drake used the opportunity to throw himself down the hill, sliding down the path.

He began rolling and tumbling, and his downward trajectory was only stopped by a brick wall — another shanty. The collision knocked the wind out of him, but he quickly recovered when he saw the remaining two attackers at the top of the alley, pointing their weapons down at him. Four shots rang out. The rounds hit the wall behind him as he brought the barrel up and emptied the revolver at them, remembering Jack’s warning about how hard it was to hit someone in a combat situation with a handgun. None of his shots found a home, but they did seem to take the enthusiasm out of the thieves. In any case, they didn’t follow him as he rolled and lunged for the stairs, bolting down them three at a time, figuring the tradeoff of risking a shattered ankle was more than warranted by the circumstance.

Thirty seconds later Drake was crossing the garbage-strewn field at the base of the hill. He tossed the useless revolver into the heaping bags of refuse as a shambling vagrant dug through a nearby pile, oblivious or unmoved by the sound of nearby gunfire — likely an hourly occurrence in his life. Drake’s ribs were throbbing from the encounter with the brick building and his ears were ringing from the gunfire, but he had Allie’s purse, and he was alive.

Drake glanced back up at the hillside, but he didn’t see anyone chasing him. The predators had returned to their familiar haunts to prey on easier victims, or perhaps to help their downed friend. He jogged to the street and continued at that pace until he reached the beach — a world, with its G-strings and heady aroma of coconut suntan oil, as distant from that of the nearby hillside as night and day. Several passersby looked at him with alarm, and he realized he was filthy, his clothes torn from his fall down the hillside, dirt smeared on his sweating face and arms. Something about the situation made him grin and then laugh out loud as he moved along the famous strand toward the hotel. His fellow pedestrians gave him a wide berth, his lunatic smile and unaccountable mirth as disturbing as the gun would have been if he’d been brandishing it and screaming.

The security men barred him from entering the hotel until he was able to convey to them what had happened. Even once Jack emerged from the elevators and approached, they hovered close by, as though he might attack the other guests at the slightest provocation. Jack took one look at him and shook his head. Drake held the purse aloft in triumph.

“You weren’t kidding about this being a rough place,” Drake said.

Jack eyed him expressionlessly and then steered him to the elevator. “Come on. You’ve got a cut over your eye. I’ll patch you up after you return Allie’s purse.”

“Is she okay?”

“He sliced her pretty good, but it’s not critical. We’ll get a couple of stitches later. The hotel already called a doctor. Should be here in a few minutes.” Jack turned to look at Drake as he stepped into the elevator. “Maybe we can get a two-for-one deal. Looks like you could use a stitch or two, too.”

“I won’t even tell you about the gun battle.”

Jack’s eyebrow rose as the door slid closed. “Tell me you’re kidding,” he said, then saw the look in Drake’s eye. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

“At the rate things are going, you’re right.”

“Kid, you only have one life. No more stupid risks, okay?”

“Says the man who’s about to go into the jungle with me.”

Jack chuckled in spite of himself. “Touché. But seriously. Ease up. This will be dangerous enough as it is.”

“The lady needed her purse back. Tell me you would have done anything different.”

They rode up in silence, and when the floor indicator pinged, Jack sighed and shook his head. “Just like your father.”

“Maybe. Only I’m going to walk out of that jungle. That’s a promise.”

Jack eyed him. “You know what? I believe you.”

Drake nodded.

“Bank on it.”