The Codex

39

Hauser halted his men at the river. Beyond he could see the blue flanks of the Sierra Azul rising into the clouds, like the lost world of Arthur Conan Doyle. He crossed the clearing himself and examined the muddy trail on the far side. The constant rain had washed away most marks, but it had the advantage of telling him that the bare footprints he saw must be very fresh — no more than a few hours old. It looked like a group of six men, a hunting party perhaps.

These, then, were the Indians that Broadbent had allied himself with. No one else lived in these godforsaken jungle mountains.

Hauser rose from his kneeling position and reflected for a moment. He would lose any cat-and-mouse chase in this jungle. He would get nothing from them by negotiation, either. That left only one sensible course of action.

He signaled the soldiers forward, taking the lead himself. They moved swiftly down the trail in the direction the men had gone. He had left Philip in the rear, well manacled, and guarded by a soldier. The Broadbent son was by now too weak to keep up and in no condition to escape, especially with manacles. It was a shame to lose the services of a soldier when he had so few competent ones, but when the time came Philip could be a useful bargaining chip. One should never underestimate the value of a hostage.

He ordered his men into double-time.

It unfolded exactly as he suspected. The Indians had heard them coming just in time and had melted into the forest — but not before Hauser had marked where they’d gone. He was an expert jungle tracker, and he pursued them at full press, a blitzkreig strategy that never failed to terrify even the most prepared enemy — let alone a group of unsuspecting hunters. His men split, and Hauser took himself and two others on a roundabout route, cutting off the Indians.

It was fast, furious, and earsplitting. The jungle shook. It brought back with such vividness his many firefights in Vietnam. In less than a minute it was over; trees were shattered and stripped, bushes smoking, the ground pulverized, an acrid haze drifting upward. One small tree had its branches hung with orchids and entrails.

It was amazing, really, what a couple of simple grenade launchers could do.

Hauser added up the body parts and determined that four men had been killed. Two others had escaped. For once his soldiers had acted competently. This is what they were good at: straight-ahead, uncomplicated killing. He would have to remember that.

There wasn’t much time. He needed to reach the village shortly after the two survivors in order to strike at the moment of greatest confusion and terror, but before they could organize.

He turned and shouted to his men. “Arriba! Vamonos!”

The men cheered, heartened by his enthusiasm, finally in their element. “To the village!”