The Armada Legacy

Chapter Forty-Three

The Toyota Hilux they rented from the place around the corner from the hotel was more rust than metal and would have been declared unroadworthy anywhere in Europe, but Ben didn’t care as long as it carried them as far as they needed. ‘Now we have some shopping to do,’ he told Nico.

For the next two hours they drove from store to store, from one end of Chachapoyas to the other gathering together the supplies they needed for jungle travel: bottled water, basic food, thick-soled boots and bush hats, heavy-duty torches and batteries, fire-making equipment, insect repellent, malaria tablets, water purifier tablets, a parang machete for chopping vegetation, and finally a pair of compact but powerful binoculars. Everything was stowed into Ben’s bag and a second lightweight rucksack, and cans of spare fuel were thrown into the back of the Toyota.

An hour after that, Chachapoyas was already far behind them as they headed rapidly northeastwards along the highway, passing by landscapes that would have blown anyone’s mind but Ben’s, totally focused as he was on his goal.

Nico seemed to have remembered the route well. After a long stretch of highway that became progressively less busy the further they got from Chachapoyas, Ben turned off onto a series of unsealed roads so potholed that it was like they had suffered artillery bombardment. On one narrow mountain pass, where nothing but the crumbling edge stood between them and a thousand-foot drop to the forest below, the road had been half swept away by an avalanche. Some way further on, as the road dropped in altitude into a verdant valley, they had to thread their way past a broken-down bus. More people than it seemed possible to cram into the dilapidated vehicle were crowding the roadside, many of them barefoot, some in rags, others in brightly-coloured and heavily embroidered tunics and ponchos. They were surrounded by luggage, children, dogs and a pair of noisily braying goats. A horde of excited nut-brown youngsters chased the Toyota as it passed by, looking as though they’d happily clamber on board and cling to the roof.

Ben drove on. The road continued to drop downwards, the mountain scenery long gone behind a screen of thick jungle. Even with the air conditioning on full blast the humidity was all-pervasive. The occasional glimpse through the endless green canopy overhead showed that the sky was darkening; clouds were gathering ominously. ‘Should be getting near the river station,’ Nico said, studying the map.

By the time they reached the boat station on the Potro River, the storm that Ben had been expecting for some time had finally been unleashed. The rain was more than torrential. It churned the ground into cascades of mud and lashed the surface of the river and the few sorry-looking craft moored up to the boat station. As they ran along the flimsy boardwalk for the shelter of a row of warped wooden huts, Nico pointed out the red-and-white single-engined floatplane bobbing unsteadily on the water by one of the jetties. ‘That’s our baby,’ he yelled over the downpour, but his words were drowned out by the rolling crash of thunder that made the water-filled air tremble.

They stood under the streaming canvas awning of the boat station and watched as the storm quickly gathered power. A violent lightning display filled the sky. The rain lashed down with ever more incredible force. The brown river water seemed to be rising before their eyes.

‘This can’t go on,’ Nico said.

Ben wasn’t so sure. Neither was the flying boat pilot they talked to half an hour later, who shook his head emphatically at the notion of taking his plane out in this weather and told them in rapid-fire Spanish that he’d lived and worked on this river man and boy and seen these storms go on for days at a stretch.

For a wild moment, Ben seriously considered offering to buy the plane so that he could fly the damn thing himself. There had to be some way to get the funds transferred, even out here, and he’d flown all types of light aircraft in the past. But even as the idea was churning over in his mind, another violent streak of lightning knifed through the clouds and struck the tall trees on the opposite bank just a quarter of a mile downriver with terrible force. He gritted his teeth. It seemed there was little choice but to sit it out.

The storm kept on. Ben was pacing the boardwalk when a young guy in worn Levi’s and a ZZ Top T-shirt appeared by the huts, apparently unaware of the torrential rain, and came over with a broad grin and an easy swagger to introduce himself in English as Pepe. Despite his youth, Pepe happened to be the proud owner-operator of what he claimed was the fastest boat in the region – and for the right price was only too happy to take them upriver to San Tomás, storm or no storm. This was nothing, he boasted with a dismissive wave at the lashing downpour. If they didn’t get hit by lightning they’d be in San Tomás in four or five hours, give or take.

Ben agreed. The deal quickly settled, Pepe ran off to bring his boat round to the boarding point.

‘Are you sure about this?’ Nico asked. ‘I’ve seen some of these river boats.’

‘It’s better than wasting time around here,’ Ben replied. But when Pepe’s vessel came into view a few moments later, he almost opted to wait for the aeroplane instead. The fifty-foot wooden river boat might have been ferrying passengers up and down the Amazonas waterways since the time of the Conquistadors. Its long, flat-bottomed hull was so patched with repairs that little of the original planking remained, and sat so low in the water that the rain streaming through the holes in the makeshift canvas roof seemed quite capable of sinking it entirely before they’d gone a mile. But Pepe’s flashing grin as he stood at the helm in the tiny wheelhouse radiated nothing but supreme confidence and he gesticulated at them to board. Ben cursed to himself, grabbed his bag and rucksack and walked out into the deluge.

The storm was still raging violently as the boat station vanished from view round the first bend in the river, and continued unabated for nearly two hours afterwards. By the time the clouds eventually parted and sunlight dappled the choppy waters, it was far too late to turn back.

For most of those long, hot hours they saw little but unbroken jungle. The air was stifling and thick with insects, a situation that was relieved only when the heavens opened for another downpour. At some points the winding river broadened to a vast lake; elsewhere the looming greenery either side of them blotted out the sky and the mud banks constricted their passage so tightly that the boat’s hull scraped its sides to get through.

Over the constant chatter and screech of birds and monkeys, the hypnotic burble of the engine, the soft rush of water along the hull, came the sound of Pepe’s voice. He talked incessantly in the same cheerful tone as he steered the boat, apparently delighting in regaling his clients with tales of the dangers of the river. He didn’t much seem to care whether anyone was listening to him or not. He was a quarter Quechua Indian from his mother’s side and had been navigating these waters since the age of eleven. This had been his grandfather’s boat, then his father’s, until the mean old bastard had fallen overboard eight years ago and been eaten up by a caiman.

The caiman story had Nico glancing nervously at the river banks, where clusters of the reptiles eyed them lazily from the mud, occasionally slipping into the water at their approach and disappearing into the murky depths, or floating like logs with just their eyes and scaly backs above the surface.

Encouraged, Pepe laughed and pressed on with an obviously favourite anecdote of a Dutch missionary he’d once ferried down this stretch of river, who heedless of all warnings had fallen prey to the dreaded willy fish while taking a piss in waist-deep water.

‘The willy fish?’ Nico asked with a frown. Pepe explained how the tiny fish, a kind of eel called a candirú that was invisible underwater, liked to take advantage of careless urinators by swimming counter-current up their urethra and hooking itself inside with its sharp spines so that it could feast, vampire-like, on their blood.

When this fate had befallen the Dutchman they’d been so far upriver from civilization, let alone a doctor, that the only way to prevent fatal infection, shock or a burst bladder was for three fellow passengers to hold the screaming victim down on the deck with his trousers and underpants round his ankles while Pepe himself hacked off the blocked organ with a machete. Pepe chuckled at the memory, and pointed at the deep score-mark the machete’s blade had left on the deck planking.

‘Holy Mother,’ Nico muttered, gazing aghast at the river and all the unseen horrors lurking under its surface.

In the middle of the unlikely tale, Ben had settled into a hammock at the stern and closed his eyes, trying to let the gentle motion of the boat relax his aching, tense muscles. He drifted for a while. When he opened his eyes some time later, Pepe had finally gone silent at the wheel. The river had narrowed again. Foliage was hanging low over the water and almost brushing the wheelhouse as it passed underneath. Suddenly feeling he was being watched, Ben looked up from under the canvas and saw a long-tailed monkey with startlingly thoughtful amber eyes and the face of an old man studying him from a branch.

Recovered now from Pepe’s stories, Nico found a battered old guitar in the back of the boat and sat down with it, creaked its tuning pegs for a few moments and began singing quietly to himself in Spanish as he picked out some chords. It was a sad song about lost love. Ben listened to him for a while, surprised by the softness of Nico’s voice and the sensitivity of his playing; then his mind began to wander again, lulled by the monotone of the engine and the whisper of the river.

His thoughts lapsed back to a time in France – it seemed like so long ago now – when he and Brooke had been alone in his room on a stormy spring evening at Le Val, just them and a crackling fire and a plate of homemade chocolate cake. It had been just before their relationship had begun; a time when he’d been falling in love with her without even realising it.

‘You must eat some of this,’ she’d said, holding a forkful of cake to his lips. ‘It’s a secret family recipe. People round here have gone to war for it. To have it offered to you and not eat it is a sacrilege. An insult to the gods.’

‘Okay, you persuaded me,’ he’d said. ‘It wouldn’t do to offend the gods.’

‘Definitely not,’ she’d murmured, feeding the piece of cake into his open mouth.

‘You’re right,’ he’d said with his mouth full. ‘It is pretty damn good.’

‘Have another bit,’ she’d said. ‘It’s the ultimate in comfort eating.’

‘In that case, maybe just another bit.’

‘Let’s just chocolate ourselves to death,’ she’d said. ‘Right here, right now.’

He’d thrown up his hands in a gesture of resignation. ‘Fuck it. Why not?’

After eating the rest of the cake they’d sat watching the fire, sharing that comfortable silence that only people who are very close can. Noticing a little fleck of cream at the corner of her mouth, he’d tenderly wiped it away with his fingertip, then carried it back to his own mouth and licked his finger.

He could still taste it, both the cream and the moment. And he could still feel her presence, smell her subtle perfume and the fresh apple scent of shampoo when her hair brushed near his face. It had always made him think of sunshine and summer meadows; pleasant things that seemed to belong in some inaccessible parallel world …

Ben’s daydream ended abruptly as another rolling peal of thunder crashed above the trees. Pepe grinned back at them from the wheelhouse, as if nothing could make his day more than a violent storm and the imminent prospect of the boat taking a direct lightning hit or being crushed and driven to the bottom of the river by a stricken tree. ‘Be in San Tomás in ’bout another thirty minutes, gentlemen,’ he called out.

The next thirty or so minutes managed to pass without the boat being destroyed or sunk. Rounding a corner at a point where the river had broadened to its widest point since setting off from the Potro boat station, the wooden quays and jetties and buildings beyond them came into view. ‘Looks like this is our stop,’ Nico said, standing up.

Pepe expertly steered the boat up to the dock and bumped it gently against its mooring point. ‘How are you fixed for work the next few days?’ Ben asked him, and Pepe shrugged with a grin as he tethered up the boat. ‘You want me to stick around, chief? Anything’s possible. How long?’

‘I can’t say.’ Ben pressed an extra few notes into Pepe’s hand. ‘We good for a while?’

‘We good. You doing the tourist thing, huh?’

‘Something like that,’ Ben replied, grabbing his things and jumping up onto the fragile-looking jetty.

After so long on the boat it felt strange to be walking on solid ground again. Ben and Nico shouldered their heavy packs and walked from the quay into the village of San Tomás. In such heat and humidity even the slightest exertion brought on a full body sweat. Insects filled the air. The streets were made of hard-packed clay that was russety red, almost orange in colour. The thick greenery seemed to encroach on the edges of the village faster than it could be chopped back, as if the jungle had a mind of its own and wanted to claim the land back from the humans.

They walked on. Nearly every building stood off the ground on thick wooden stilts to protect it when the river was at full flood. Many of the houses looked dangerously makeshift, with walls that looked as though they could blow down in the next storm and roofs made of corrugated iron or reed thatch. There were only a few battered, dusty vehicles in the street. People here still used mules for transport and haulage, those who could afford them. Most inhabitants of San Tomás didn’t exactly seem affluent, judging by the number of them sitting around morosely on steps and porches as Ben and Nico walked by. Hardly anyone even glanced at them.

A little way further down the street, Nico pointed out a rusty-roofed building with a lopsided sign hanging over the door. ‘That’s the bar where I met Roberto, right there. You want to grab some food and a beer?’

Roberto wasn’t there, and nor was anyone else except for the barman, a big guy in a loose shirt damp with sweat. Nothing moved except for the clattering fans and the flies that buzzed and crawled everywhere. It was almost as unbearably hot in there as it was outside, but by some miracle the beer was ice-cold. They sat at a table by the window to share a large platter of fried beans and rice, gazing through the dusty glass at the still street as they ate. After three chilled beers apiece they could feel the sweat drying on them. They spoke in monosyllables. Ben could sense that the Colombian was thinking the same thing as him. They were close now, walking into extreme danger from which they both knew they might not return.

‘Is there anything more you can tell me about Serrato’s men?’ Ben asked Nico when they’d finished eating, casting a glance at the barman in case the guy might be inclined to listen in. He was more interested in stamping on some bug that was scuttling about behind the bar.

‘Like what?’

‘Like anything that can give us an edge. Where does he recruit them from, what’s their level of training, how loyal are they to him?’

Nico shrugged. ‘Back in the day he was always surrounded by the same gang of hardline motherfuckers that he kept real close. Jaime de Soto was one of them, until Laura Garcia put a twelve-gauge Brenneke slug in his ass. He wasn’t the worst, though. The worst were Piero Vertíz and Luis Bracca. Both Colombian ex-military. Vertíz is a trained sniper, thousand-yard-plus tack driver. Bracca loves knives, likes to cut people up with a bone-handled Bowie. You remember I told you about the poor bitch they sliced like a kebab? That was his work. He’s an animal.’

‘It was Bracca who chopped Forsyte’s hands off.’

‘He’d chop off his own left hand for Serrato. Fucking idolises him. You can bet Bracca’s right there with him now, watching over him like a goddamn pit bull. Oh, and the fucker’s a cannibal too. At least that’s what they said about him back in Bogotá; that he kept human heads in his freezer, ate their brains out with a spoon like ice-cream.’

‘You believed that?’

‘I’d believe most anything I heard about Luis Bracca. Let me tell you, you go up against either him or Vertíz on his own, you might stand a chance – if you’re good, and I mean very, very good. Go up against both at once, forget it. You’re a dead man. Which basically means we’re dead men.’ Nico swilled the dregs of his beer around inside the bottle. ‘At least we get a last drink, huh? More than some guys get. We going in there tonight?’ he asked after a beat.

Ben nodded.

‘So what’s the plan – you just gonna walk in there, kill everyone and get your girl back?’

‘Something like that.’

‘It’s what I figured.’

‘Does the idea make you nervous?’ Ben asked with a thin smile. ‘I told you, you don’t have to do this.’

‘Don’t insult me, man. You’re not the only one with a reason to be here.’

‘I haven’t forgotten,’ Ben said.

‘There’s one thing you are forgetting, amigo. We ain’t armed.’ Nico pointed at the handle of the parang that was sticking out of Ben’s rucksack. ‘Unless you were planning on taking a knife to a gunfight.’

‘That’s where the crazy old hunter who lives in the forest comes in,’ Ben said.