Ramsey's Gold

Chapter Twenty-One

Jack was quiet at dinner, wolfing down heaping mouthfuls of a delicious stew Paolo’s wife had cooked up. When he finished with his bowl, he sat back and took a long sip of water before speaking.

“We’ll be leaving tomorrow. Flying to Lima. My contact arranged for an introduction to someone who’s familiar with the area and can get us whatever we need.”

“What time do we leave?” Allie asked.

“Someone will pick us up at six. So, early. Back to Rio, then to Peru, which will take most of the day. I meet his guy tomorrow evening in Lima.”

“How do you know you can trust him?” Drake asked.

“How can I be sure I can trust anyone here? He’s being recommended by a friend. An expat who’s been in country for a long time and has his fingers in a lot of pies. So he rubs shoulders with plenty of people who are, shall we say, helpful when it comes to niggling issues like crossing borders without paperwork, getting weapons…”

“Great. Who is this recommendation, exactly? What does he do?”

“The way my friend described it, he’s a facilitator who does a lot of business in the tri-border area — Brazil, Bolivia, and Peru. Knows the customs, the locals.”

Drake nodded. “He’s a smuggler?”

“An ugly word.”

“For an ugly occupation.”

“The world here’s different. It requires a certain…ethical flexibility. Corruption is endemic, and there are a lot of people who exist in a gray area that would be illegal in the States. Here, they make the machine work. They get things done. They arrange things.”

“What else does the guy have on his résumé?” Allie asked.

“He’s been in the region for over ten years. The jungles are his backyard. Speaks some of the local dialects. Most importantly, he likes money. And he’s always hungry. My friend contacted his associates in Peru, and this was the only name that came back. So he’s our only choice.”

Allie and Drake shared after-dinner beers once Jack had retired for the night. They sat outside, stargazing, the clouds having blown west earlier. The trees around them buzzed and clicked and rustled with nocturnal creatures, and with all the lights off except for the one in the kitchen, the darkened compound could have been uninhabited.

“You think we’ll actually be able to pull this off?” Allie asked, swinging one leg lazily as she reclined in an outdoor chair crafted from wood and hide.

“If anyone can, we can. Don’t ask me why I feel that way, but I do. Maybe it’s having read the journal, I appreciate the logic that went into my father’s reasoning. Or maybe it’s because I’m stubborn, and I always finish what I set out to do.”

“Have you always been that way?” she asked, taking a pull on the bottle of beer.

“As long as I can remember. My mom said that’s how my dad was, too. She said it probably ran in the genes. When she first told me that, I was about six. I ran around for a week wondering where in my jeans stubbornness was running — what it looked like and how she could see it.”

Allie laughed. Drake took a swig from his brew and set it down by the side of his chair. “What about you? What does the trained archeologist among us think?”

Allie beetled her brow. “I don’t have an opinion yet, because I don’t fully know what we’re up against. In a way, it’s like a needle in a haystack. Worse, really. We need something that will narrow the odds. Hopefully the journal will help us do that. It would really help if I knew what you did. I guess that’s what I’m saying.”

Drake nodded. “The journal’s really a set of deductions based on a careful examination of the oral and written histories that exist. Much of it’s speculation, but it seems well founded. Remember that my father made at least four prior trips here, so he felt like he was onto something to make the final one. And your dad says that my father believed he was only a day or two from locating the treasure when he was killed. Really, all we need to do is get back to that last camp area and see if we can find any of the landmarks he mentions — waterfalls, a stone jaguar, an arch. Waterfalls near Paititi are consistently mentioned.”

“Then it’s really going to be more about thoroughness than any aha moment.”

“That’s how it sounds. Good old-fashioned grunt work,” Drake agreed.

“If that’s all it would take, I wonder why the Russians never found it.”

“Because they’re criminals, not critical thinkers or archeologists. That’s my guess. If we see them, we can ask,” Drake said.

“I wonder why they killed him. Your dad?” Allie said softly.

“Maybe he wouldn’t tell them what they wanted to know. Or maybe he did, but it wasn’t the truth — or simply wasn’t enough to go on. I’ve come to grips with the idea that I’ll never know. Whatever happened, only a few people were there. My dad. The two Russians. Maybe helpers, if they had any.” Drake paused. “Or here’s an idea that came to me a while ago: we’ve been assuming the Russians killed him. What if they didn’t? I mean, we know they were in the jungle, but so were the local tribes, and probably smugglers, and who knows whom else. It’s possible he was killed for reasons that have nothing to do with Paititi.”

Allie shook her head, disagreeing. “I’ll go with ‘the murderous psychos chasing us killed your dad’ as the most likely, though.”

Drake finished his beer with a nod. “Seems the most obvious. But I’m also willing to entertain the possibility that he was killed and the Russians either didn’t do it, or didn’t learn anything, and that’s why any information they got didn’t help them. It doesn’t change much from our end, but one of the things that comes through loud and clear in the journal is my father’s philosophy of keeping an open mind. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

“It’s never a bad thing,” Allie agreed.

Drake went inside, retrieved two more beers and popped the tops off using his new knife. He handed one to Allie and returned to his seat.

“What about you, Allie? Seeing as we’re going to be going into the deepest darkest reaches of the rainforest together. What are you all about?” he asked, his tone light but the question serious.

“What is there to tell? I’m just a girl. Grew up without a mother, for the most part. Spent most of my time working my ass off in school. And then trying to find a job. There’s not a lot more. It’s not like I have some fascinating hobby or anything. Just a girl out in the world trying to get by.”

“That’s it? There’s always more. Come on. Give.”

“Okay. I’m also a serial killer. Been abducting hot young male hitchhikers for the last five years, keeping them locked in the basement to pleasure me, and then offing them when I grow bored. Oh, and I cook ’em and eat ’em like that Hannibal dude.”

“Sounds like you’re not getting enough fiber in your diet.”

“Or greens. It’s really hard to prepare a balanced hitchhiker meal.”

They sat comfortably, bantering easily for another fifteen minutes, but when they mounted the stairs to the bedrooms, Drake knew little more about Allie than he had that morning. A part of him wondered what she was hiding or defending against, but another cautioned against being too interested. He needed to work with Jack, and that would be almost impossible if Allie and he became a thing.

Morning came too soon, and he was still groggy when he descended with his bag. Allie and Jack were at the dining room table, drinking coffee and nibbling at their plates.

“Hey. Good morning. There are some more eggs on the stove. Just heat them up for thirty seconds and you should be golden,” she said as he dropped his backpack near the door.

“Thanks.” He helped himself, preferring to wolf his breakfast down lukewarm from the pan. Two minutes later he sat down across from them with a mug of steaming coffee and checked the time. “At least I’m not late.”

“You’ll find that once we’re in the jungle, you’ll be rising at dawn,” Jack said. No greeting. Just a terse warning. Drake had already grown accustomed to his abrupt style, so he merely nodded.

A car approached the front of the house, its exhaust burbling from a deteriorated muffler, and they quickly finished their coffee and rose.

“I’ve got to take care of Paolo. Go ahead and load the stuff into the car. I’ll be right back,” Jack said as he moved to the door. Drake and Allie hefted the bags and followed him out into the bright sunlight. The heat was already rising and the atmosphere humid, as it had been since their arrival in the tropics. The driver, a tall black man with a shaved head, helped them load the luggage into the battered sedan, and when Jack returned they all piled in, Jack in the front seat, Drake and Allie in the rear.

The flight to Peru took five hours, and when they arrived they quickly passed through customs and caught a taxi to their hotel. They agreed to rendezvous for dinner after Jack’s meeting with his contact, which was arranged for seven that evening at a nearby watering hole.

Now that they were nearing putting boots on the ground and heading into the rainforest, Drake was feeling a mixture of excitement and trepidation. The theoretical was about to become real, and the prospect of walking the same trails as his father was invigorating and terrifying. He tried to rest after eating a late lunch, but his mind raced, and after an hour tossing and turning he flicked on the light and reread his notes for the fiftieth time, hoping for some new kernel that had escaped him thus far.

He was disappointed. There were no revelations, no breakthroughs, and the task on which he was about to embark seemed as impossible as ever. He locked the notes in the room safe and returned to the bed, and spent the next hour trying to sleep. When he did finally drift off, his dreams filled with visions of fleeing through the jungle chased by invisible pursuers.

Jack stood outside the bar for several minutes waiting for seven o’clock to roll around, leaning against the red mortar façade with a casual ease as practiced as a streetwalker’s, studying the neighborhood and calculating escape routes in case he had to bolt. The habit was unconscious, like so many of his survival instincts, honed over the years and now as indelible a part of his makeup as his crow’s feet or the aches in his bones.

A beggar in tattered rags shuffled toward him with a grimy hand extended, and Jack fingered a couple of coins and dropped them into his palm, more for the sake of the skinny dog trailing him than out of compassion for the man. The beggar offered a muttered gracias and their eyes met for an instant. Jack immediately regretted his generosity — the vagrant’s pupils were dilated with the telltale look of the drug-addled, and he was much younger than Jack had originally thought.

The man continued on his way and Jack checked the time again. It was still shy of seven, but he was impatient and decided to push his way through the double doors in the hopes his rendezvous was already there.

The interior was dark. A pall of cigarette smoke hung near the ceiling, where an inadequate ventilation duct battled to clear it. He walked to the long bar and took one of many empty barstools. A few desultory drunks were seated down the scarred wooden slab, their arms protecting their drinks as though they’d be snatched away if they let their vigilance slip. Several groups of locals stood quaffing beer in groups of two or three, occasionally laughing at a joke. An ancient television flickered a soccer match, and a bored bartender with the face of a basset hound watched the screen as though it was about to announce the winning lottery numbers.

Jack waved and waited for the bartender to approach, and ordered a mineral water with a twist of lime. The bartender’s expression didn’t change, but a subtle eye roll told Jack what he thought of his choice.

A tall man in his mid-thirties took the seat one down on the right, and Jack was about to move farther away for privacy when a dark-complexioned man, his hair an oil slick combed to the side, in a red dress shirt, as agreed on the phone, slid onto the stool next to his. The newcomer ordered a beer, and when the bartender deposited it in front of him along with Jack’s water, he took a long pull before setting it down and leaning into Jack.

“You found the place okay, I see,” the man said in heavily accented English. But not with a Spanish inflection — more Indian or Pakistani, which fit with the voice on the phone.

“Yeah. No problem.”

“You were cryptic about what it is you need. Hopefully you can clarify for me. You mentioned weapons?”

“Correct. I’ll want three fully automatic assault rifles, with flash and sound suppressors if possible. Four extra magazines and two hundred rounds of ammo for each. And three pistols. SIG Sauer P226s would be preferred. With holsters. Fifty rounds apiece, with at least one spare magazine per.”

“Any particular caliber?”

“On the rifles, AKs will work. On the pistols, 40 caliber S&W would be preferred. But they all need to be in new condition. I know weapons, and I won’t accept crap.”

“Of course. How soon do you need them?”

“Yesterday.”

“You have cash?”

“Some. Dollars. How much?”

The man took another sip of his beer and thought. “Twelve thousand. Half in advance.”

Jack shook his head and tried his water. Flat. Tasted like metal. He set the glass down and turned slightly.

“I’m not a fool. I know the going rate. Six.”

“If you know the rate, then you know for that you get a few thirty-year-old AKs in spotty shape, and maybe some Berettas that have seen better days. What you’re requesting are top-shelf guns. Those command a premium. Eleven.”

They settled on nine, and the little man finished his beer and motioned to the bartender for another. Jack waited for the next round to arrive, and with it the inevitable questions.

The man’s voice struggled to make it over the din of the nearby conversation as a trio of workers entered and called to the bartender for drinks.

“You also mentioned a need for a guide. Someone discreet.”

“That’s right. A guide who knows the jungle and who can keep his mouth shut.”

“Why do you want to go into the jungle? I don’t involve myself in anything drug-related.”

“It’s not drug-related.”

“Then what is it?”

“An archeological expedition.”

“I see. What are you looking for?”

This was where the art would come in, Jack knew. Too much information and he’d compromise the operation before it started. Too little and the man would balk once he understood their real intentions. Jack cleared his throat and edged nearer his companion.

“Inca ruins.”

The smuggler stared stonily at his beer as though it contained the answer to questions he’d long pondered in vain.

“Inca ruins. Any particular ones?”

“I have one site in mind. But that’s not important. I need someone who knows the area and can assure us safe passage.”

The little man nodded. “It’s very dangerous, you know. A lot of trafficking activity. Primitive tribes who have no hesitation about killing intruders. It’s not something to be taken lightly.”

“I understand.”

“Let me think about how much I’d need to help you with that. It won’t be inexpensive.”

“Nothing in life worth doing usually is. How long on the weapons?”

“One day. Maybe two. Go count out the money in the bathroom and then slip it to me when you return. I’ll save your spot.”

Jack rose and made his way to the back of the bar. The men’s room was as vile as he’d expected, and he breathed through his mouth as he stood in a filthy stall and thumbed through a wad of hundreds. He slipped money into an envelope he’d brought for that purpose and slid it into the pocket of his light windbreaker before leaving the empty bathroom, a whiff of stale taint following him out as he returned to the bar. Another group of rowdies had arrived, and suddenly the room was moderately full, making Jack uncomfortable. He laid his jacket next to his new friend and lifted his glass to his lips. After another small mouthful of the bitter water, he set it down.

“It’s in the pocket. Take the jacket. Have you thought through the other matter?”

“Not sufficiently to commit. But enough to guarantee that it will be at least triple what the guns will run. Is that a problem?”

“We can talk about it when I take delivery. I don’t know you well enough to discuss that kind of money yet.”

“Fine. Call me tomorrow and we’ll see if I’ve been successful,” the smuggler said as he stood. He took the windbreaker and left, sticking Jack with the bill.

The tall man on his right chuckled and shook his head. Jack appraised him surreptitiously. A Caucasian, dirty blond hair, his skin tanned to a leathery brown — the typical look of the traveler who’d arrived years past and stayed on for the plentiful cheap cocaine and inexpensive living. Peru, Brazil, and Bolivia were filled with down-on-their-luck expats, casualties of the drug trade or fugitives from the U.S. looking for a new start.

“Something funny?” Jack asked.

“Nah. None of my business,” the man said in English. American English, Jack noticed.

“Correct,” Jack said, wondering how much of the discussion the eavesdropper had overheard.

The man smirked and returned to his beer with a shrug. Jack pushed back from the bar, unwilling to engage, and then some instinct commanded him to turn to the man.

“You got a problem?” Jack asked, his voice soft, the menace obvious in spite of the volume.

“Hey, like I said, it’s none of my business. But I’d say you do.”

Jack considered possible responses as the man stood and faced him, taking Jack’s measure, his gaze steady and unblinking. Jack revised his earlier assessment. This wasn’t some casualty wasting away in an alcoholic fog.

The man dug in his pocket and extracted a business card. He handed it to Jack, who looked at it before palming it. A phone number. Nothing else.

“What’s this supposed to be?” Jack asked.

“A lifeline for when Asad there screws you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He went off the reservation about three months ago. On the pipe. You’re never going to hear from him again. He’s got enough money to go half a year now, thanks to you. And by the way, he was right. What you asked for will cost more like ten to twelve, unless you want junk.” The man finished his beer, threw a crumpled bill on the bar, and then edged past Jack and made for the door.

“We’ll see. What’s your name?” Jack asked, not moving.

The man turned and looked around before speaking softly.

“Everett Spencer. People just call me Spencer.”

Then he was gone, the doors swinging behind him. Jack tossed some money at the bartender and followed him out, but when he exited there was nobody in view, the sidewalks empty other than a few couples hurrying along. Jack scanned the surrounding buildings and saw nothing but shadows. Wherever he’d disappeared to, Spencer was good. He’d managed to evaporate in seconds, leaving nothing in his wake but his card and a feeling of dread that Jack hadn’t experienced in a long time.