Unacceptable Risk

Chapter 6

Michael Bowden and Marita zigzagged through the deep jungle, looking for the trail of the six men. Marita thought their quarry might be wary enough to stay off the trail. This meant a laborious and slow tracking process that had yet to turn up any sign of the group.

That night they built a tiny fire and ate roasted piranha. They were easy to catch and reasonable to eat, although they had a bit of an oily taste. Another appetite suppressor was the macabre appearance of the piranha's teeth. Although he cut off the heads before roasting them, Michael could never quite get the picture of those little razors out of his head.

Sitting by the fire, Michael began looking at Marita with a new sort of gaze. No longer tentative, he deliberately sought eye contact. To his delight she looked back and they sat unabashedly studying each other. It was so novel for them that he burst out laughing.

She lowered her eyes, and Michael could see that he had embarrassed her.

"Why are you laughing?"

"Because I am happy to be with you and I guess I questioned whether I would be happy to be with anyone again."

"You are not laughing because you think I am what… weird?"

"I am laughing for the reasons that men the world over laugh with women they like."

"You are handsome," she said after a time. "And you are a man with many ideas. A smart man."

"And you are beautiful," he said. He found himself won dering if perhaps his amazement was reflected in his gaze. "I am continually surprised at your English. And at my uncer tainty."

"You are uncertain?"

"Some loquacious poet of the eighteenth century said that uncertainty is the steed on which romance rides into the heart."

"I am proud of my English, but I do not understand

The steed is?"

"A horse… In those days English people rode horses."

"And romance comes to us on this horse of uncertainty… I think I understand. Then I like this uncertainty."

"I know that the Jesuits are amazing educators, but I am stunned that out here in the jungle I have a girl who is so… I don't know… Western."

"We had toastmasters night at the priests' school. I have read Moby Dick, The Great Gatsby, Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn, Gone With the Wind — the priests didn't know about that-and all of Jane Austen. She is my favorite. And I have read many others."

"I can tell. You're practically a hometown girl."

"What is a 'hometown girl'?"

"I don't know anymore. It used to be a girl like you, I think. I came from a college town in America. It was far from the big city. I was twelve when I left and things are a bit hazy. I remember the big things, but it seems like the jungle has swallowed many of the details."

"I want to go to New York City. Would you take me?"

"Just like that." Michael chuckled. "I have not been to New York since I was a little boy and I don't remember it."

"Your books are published there, no?"

"Yes, but my father had an agent and an editor and I have the same people. I talk on the phone and write them letters. That is all."

"Still, you could go."

"I could."

She paused awhile and they listened to the night sounds. The howler monkeys had bedded down, finished warning off other bands with their calling. But the other night creatures were anything but silent.

"The priests said you cannot be with a man until you are married."

"Yes. That's what they say." He studied her.

"That is not the custom here."

It was under 70 degrees Fahrenheit and there was a little nip in the air. They had already set up their hammocks. The firelight played off her face and she smiled at him, then looked away. Michael stood up, went to his pack, pulled out mosquito netting, removed a blanket, and draped it over her shoulders. She sat on a chunk of a downed tree and there was space next to her. She took his hand and pulled him down beside her and they draped themselves with the netting, only inches between them. He wanted to touch her face. His eye followed the contours of her body. It was so lithe… maybe ninety pounds. Her arms were toned and beautiful and her waist small enough that it seemed he could encircle it with his hands. Her face was smooth and only slightly round. She had full lips and gorgeously shaped eyes. Her hair was thick and curly. It had a natural sheen, black as a raven's feather. He touched it. Between his fingers it felt soft. No doubt the Catholics had taught her to bathe daily.

"Do you have shampoo?" he asked.

"Of course."

"The priests?"

"Everything is from the priests. Books, magazines, wine, newspapers, cheese. Even my boy was from the priests. Nobody knows and he is a nice man. So don't tell."

"The boy is the one who was killed?"

"Yes." She sighed. "I cannot talk about it. I am sorry."

"It's understandable. None of the other Matses read much about the outside world?"

"It is true. Except for the Protestant missionaries at Buenas Lomas Antigua. They bring in things on the planes, but it is very limited compared to what we have in Tabatinga. I miss the Western things, the magazines."

"How old are you?" Michael was intrigued.

"I am twenty. I have had one child, but I plan to have more. I would have more, but the priests taught me birth control. Isn't that funny?"

Only her age surprised him.

"It matters?" she asked.

"You have a man?"

She turned toward him and engaged his eyes.

"I did. I had more than one. I do not now. I am too edu cated."

"And unruly." Michael laughed.

"My family agrees and my mother would not give me to a man unless she warns him. But I do not seek a native man."

Michael nodded again.

"I am going to manage the workers for the house and gar den for the priests in Tabatinga," she explained.

"You are leaving the Matses?"

"I am in love with books. We do not have any. The an thropologist is just now getting our language in written form."

Michael was getting a whole new picture of this young woman. "If you have children, they will not be Matses."

"I know. Maybe there will be a new Matses."

Michael thought about that and the wreck that the civilized world was making of their culture. But who could say that the young woman should not have her books? Or that she should not explore Western culture?

"I want to kiss you," she said. "Like in America," she added, and leaned toward him. He met her lips halfway and kissed her gently. "Is that how you do it?" she asked.

"That's one way."

"Show me another way."

This time he used his tongue and she giggled.

"I like this more. This is how I do it too."

With the next kiss, his hand moved to her waist of its own accord, as if detached from his will.

"You are sure?" he said.

Her answer was to kiss him long and deep.

Under her shirt her skin was moist and hot and it was a magnet to his fingers. She kissed him again, thrusting her tongue against his, while she flattened herself against him. His hand finally found her breast full and firm and his fingers began playing at her nipples. They hardened and he moved one hand to her leg, letting his fingers drift. When they reached her inner thigh, she began to quiver and to cling to him. For a second he paused, trying to fight his desire, to think about their mission and her relative innocence and the myth of the pink dolphin, but he couldn't. He knew that his willpower had fled. In the morning he would have to sort out what it all meant-assuming they survived.

Outside the holding area Baptiste told the guard that he needed the keys to Benoit Moreau's shackles.

"That would be highly irregular."

"I know. But we are under something of an urgent time constraint. You can call the colonel or even the admiral if that makes you feel better."

The man withdrew the key. He had been tipped off or was smart enough to know that this was no ordinary situation.

Once again Benoit waited in the office, only this time he had instructed the guards to put her in the chair facing the desk, reserving the chair behind the desk for himself. It was not a subtle message.

When he entered, she looked at him pleasantly, showing no sign of fear, relief, or the false adoration of a sycophant. The woman could give lessons to Machiavelli.

"I thought I would take a few minutes to see if you are ready to discuss our conditions before I have you thrown in the hole."

"How would you justify throwing me in the hole?"

"I don't need justification."

"Well, then I am ready to go in the hole."

"You know what it is like in the hole?"

"Don't waste your valuable time telling me. You need to spend your time learning about Chaperone for the glory of France. I am sure I will be there until your admiral pulls me out, makes love to me on a soft bed somewhere, and hears all my secrets."

"He can't take you to a soft bed."

"With the glory of France at stake, of course he can. The guards will be just outside and I will make a great furor dur ing my orgasm to let them know that the admiral has the power of a bull and the finesse of Michelangelo. Then he will quietly brag that I just needed a man to get headed on the straight and narrow, a real man, and he will have the se crets to prove it. And no one will reprove him, absolutely no one, because this is France and, after all, her glory is fading, and to reclaim it, well, it is a small price to pay. They will nearly give him a medal for being the greatest cocksman in all of Paris. And you, of course, will appear… Well, actu ally you won't appear… You'll just be shuffled off to an other job."

Baptiste rose from behind the desk, walked over to her, took out the key to the cuffs, handed them to her, and told her to unlock them.

She did so, but for the first time looked slightly uncertain.

He drew out his Manurin 9mm service revolver, got down on one knee, and pointed it at her throat, the muzzle only a foot from her chin.

"Here is what I am going to do. I am going to call the ad miral and tell him that you have tried repeatedly to seduce me. That you've claimed you could seduce him as well. You have also claimed to me that members of le Senat are under your control, that you are blackmailing them because they had illicit sex with you. Although I regret it, I will have to file a report on all of these matters. The report will reach the parliament, and I will ensure that it is copied to the media. True, my mission will have been a failure. But what do I re ally lose? I will get my pension and maybe an early discharge. You, though… will be a pariah. They will never leave you alone with any man, especially the admiral. You will never get a deal. You will lose all your contacts and your leverage in le Senat. I will do this. I swear it."

He stepped back to the phone and began dialing.

"Perhaps my boss will tell me to shoot you and claim that we fought over the gun. On the other hand, that would probably be too easy."

He put the receiver to his ear.

"Wait," she said.

Yes, he definitely saw a crack in her affected noncha lance.

"Look," she said. "I will trust you where I could not trust others. I will not use my lawyer and I will tell you all my se crets. I shall be at the laboratory at your suffrage. I will put myself in your hands. But I must have one thing from a man such as yourself. I must have you. I want to feel you inside me."

Baptiste was within microns of complete victory. Or was he? She could flit like a bird and be off, call his bluff. Would sleeping with her to make her happy be unpardonable? Many agents would do it and brag about it. What was stopping him?

He set the phone down. "All right. We have a deal. You re port to the lab in the morning. I will find a soft bed. But I want to know-why do they call it Chaperone?"

"After the soft bed that you promised."

Devan Gaudet did not like the jungle, but he understood it. Here the strong ate the weak, the large ate the small, and no one paid attention. There were no eulogies, no tears, not even remembrances-only birth, death, and more death. For Gaudet, there was something warm and familiar about death. He had killed many and knew he would kill more, so it wasn't the dying that offended his sensibilities. Other than death, the jungle offered torture, his own, and he didn't care for pain unless the suffering was someone else's.

There were six of them seated around the fire. Except for Gaudet, who at all times retained the appearance and air of civility, they were a ragged group with dirtied shirts, mud-caked blue jeans, and partial beards. They stank. And now that they were through dining, they belched and farted with abandon.

The five members of his group spoke French, English, and Arabic. The local guide spoke Spanish, English after a fashion, and a smattering of Portuguese, which did none of them any good. The local was Carlos, the other hires found by Trotsky and imported from France. Gaudet had no regu lars and never worked repeatedly with anyone. Whenever possible, he worked alone, and if he needed men, he directed things from a distance. This group scene was not his cup of tea. All of this crowd, but the guide, were unused to the humidity, the bugs, and the heat.

"It's hotter than a whore's cunt," Cy said, not for the first time.

"Wetter too," John said, giving the obligatory response.

"Right now I'd like more of what we had back at the huts."

This was becoming tiresome. "That was a distraction. We'll waste no more time," said Gaudet.

"She was a tight little spinner," John said.

"This trip we pay attention to business. Last time we failed." That closed the discussion.

Gaudet did not believe himself a sociopath, but rather a man of business. At the moment his one business goal de pended on finding Michael Bowden and obtaining all the information on one kind of plant or animal tissue that Bowden had collected and first located in 1998, most particularly its identity and where it might be found. He knew that it would be a powerful immunosuppressant but that it also would do far more than merely suppress the immune system on a tem porary basis. From this organic molecule had come Chaperone and he desperately needed it. It was distressing that Bowden himself probably wouldn't know which material it was, or why it might be useful. Bowden discovered hundreds of new plants and other organisms, large and small, each year.

Gaudet estimated they were about twenty miles from Michael Bowden's place. Of the six in the party, only Cy had gone with the group sent for the initial visit. They hadn't gotten what he needed and so this time he had come himself. It would be important that Bowden did not make a connection between the two visits.

They had managed to disguise the last intrusion as moti vated by looting and rape and had left the authorities with the impression that it was the work of ordinary criminals. Unfortunately, Michael Bowden had left his wife at home but had hidden all his journals, including the one for 1998. Gaudet walked to the edge of the jungle and ignored the men at the fire while he listened to the night sounds. He had a feeling and he always paid attention to his hunches. And maybe it wasn't just a hunch. The American, Sam, was hunt ing him and was getting close. People had shown up recently at his old home site in Polynesia, his beloved island, and they had conducted a thorough search. Was it Sam's people? The pursuit had grown wearisome.

Gaudet stepped into the darkness away from the fire and watched the men as they joked about women and sex, the same topic as always. After a time he heard a symphony of bird cries in the jungle.

"Carlos, what is with the birds?"

"Could be anything. But there are no warring tribes around here."

"I'm the nervous type. Go check."

Carlos groaned but made his way into the jungle and did not return.

Gaudet went to his pack and removed a Beretta 9mm model 92 automatic pistol with a fifteen-round magazine that was a twin to the gun in his shoulder holster; then he re treated farther from the fire and squatted, watching and wait ing. The birds continued with the noise and a nearby troupe of howler monkeys started their breathy calls.

It had begun to rain, but in the heat they didn't bother with rain gear. Wet or dry didn't really matter because even when it wasn't raining, it felt wet. However, the rain did affect what they could hear. Little droplets popped like tiny bullets as they bounced down through the leaves blending to form a sort of pimpled and dimpled wall of sound. Whispers or movement through the brush were much harder to detect. It was good for sneaking, but not so good for finding. Marita was a wizard in the forest and Michael followed her closely, knowing that some inner sense guided her in a way he'd never understand.

"We will need to stop for the night," she said. "I cannot feel the river."

"How do you mean?"

"Whether it is there or there," she said, pointing in two di rections that were ninety degrees apart. "I am not used to the flashlight and it confuses me."

"Which river?"

"Galvez."

"Ah." He now realized that she knew the location of the Galvez from her position in the jungle and that sense served as the basis for her navigation. Interesting, though it ex plained nothing about the source of this strange instinct.

Michael pulled out the GPS. He could only get one satel lite signal strong and one weak. Three were needed to get a firm location. He showed her the electronic map.

"We are probably here. And the river is probably this way." He pointed. "But the signal is not good here because of all the trees overhead." They had gone a little farther, looking for a spot to make a clearing and hang their ham mocks, when she stopped and sniffed.

"There is a fire. I can smell it."

Michael sniffed but could detect nothing. He took hold of the pistol grip on the gun and continued following her. He seldom shot at animals, even with his bow, and had never shot at a human being. Even now, despite his anger and fear, he could not imagine shooting to kill. He felt only the certain knowledge that he must try to capture the man who had killed his wife.

They walked farther and the rain abated, although some of the dripping continued. Then he detected the charcoal smell and soon after they saw a faint glow lighting the forest canopy. At some time past, the birds had seemed to increase their night calls and the howler monkeys began. It was eerie.

"They will know we are coming," she whispered.

"Probably."

"What do you want to do?"

"I will go to the edge of their camp. You stay back with your gun, Marita. I will tell them to raise their hands, and if anybody tries to shoot you, shoot them. Hopefully, we can take the bad one and scare the rest out of the Matses territory."

"That sounds difficult. I intend to shoot."

"But only if they go for their guns. Otherwise we talk. We need to make sure we have the right men. We cannot shoot men we don't know."

"I will tell you when I see him," she said.

Michael wondered how close they would have to get before she would be able to identify the man.

They moved ahead quietly, inches at a time. He found his knee shaking and his hands unsteady.

Perhaps fifteen yards from the fire they stopped. It was a yellow dancing flicker through the trees. They could see no faces despite their efforts to find a clear line of sight. After each deliberate step they paused for seconds. The men were speaking in French, joking and not particularly wary.

They were screened by some small trees and brush, but no large trunks. A giant kapok grew to Michael's right and a Brazil nut to his left.

Suddenly one of the men rose and said something in French.

He came right toward Michael, who held his breath and studied the man, trying to guess his intent. He could see the man's reddish whiskers growing far down his neck, heavy brows and a face molded in a cold stare. Dried blood caked the man's pants; Michael supposed it was from the native girls. The man bent over and reached in a pack and pulled out a small bottle of liquor. Whiskey, by the look of it. Then something rustled the bushes behind Michael. The man leaned forward, staring. It seemed a certainty that the man was look ing right at him. Michael waited, knowing he couldn't start a war until Marita confirmed the man's identity.

Turning, the man shrugged and sat back down.

The others quieted. They were nervous. Then one of them joked and the others, still looking a little uneasy, began to converse. After several minutes Michael and Marita were a mere twenty feet and all the faces were visible. She tugged on his sleeve and pointed at the man who had been staring in the brush. Michael motioned for her to move behind the broad trunk of the Brazil nut. For one crazy moment he wanted to ask her if she was sure about the identity.

She motioned for him to step back. Fear flashed through him. They couldn't stand around where they might be seen. She motioned again. Carefully he stepped back behind the tree; in response to her beckoning he put his ear to her lips.

"The others are not there."

"But that is the man?"

"Yes. The big one. I watched him rape my sister. He killed my child."

Michael willed himself forward.

"Help, help me!" Michael shouted.

The men jumped for their guns. Faster, though, Marita began shooting. Michael ducked back behind Marita's tree and began firing himself. The gunfire from Marita's Ml6 automatic nearly severed the redheaded man's arm at the shoul der. It hung by a thread, and the man stared open-mouthed as the next bullet knocked him over backward.

Michael shot a second man, square in the chest, then con tinued firing at flying bodies. The others quickly disappeared into the forest-how many wounded, he did not know. Michael turned to Marita and saw her facing a man who held a gun at her head.

"Put down the gun," the man said to Michael.

"No," Marita said.

He knew she was right. There would only be death if he put down his gun. He calculated which part of Marita could best suffer a gunshot that might get to the man. Maybe a shoulder.

"I came peacefully," the man said. "I saw what you did. You shot at these people first."

"The big man over there killed my wife, raped Marita's sister, and killed her child."

"I know nothing about this man or these men. I'm looking for a scientist. Michael Bowden."

Out of the corner of his eye Michael saw the big man, covered in blood, struggling to point a handgun with his good arm. A boom sounded. Michael felt the bullet explode through the meaty part of his thigh. It was like being hit with a maul and he nearly fell over. Wavering, he shot at the man's head but missed. Before he could fire again, the redheaded man fired, catching him in the shoulder and knocking him to the ground. As he became numb to the world, he saw the man holding Marita shoot the redheaded man.

Marita whirled and swung her gun up at the stranger. He slapped it out of her hand. Quicker than thought, she grabbed for the man's gun; he pulled away, but she hung on like a demon. The gun fired, its blast muffled by her torso. Slowly Marita slid down the man's body.

Michael did not understand why she would fight a man who was killing her own quarry. He would probably not live to consider the question.

"Goddamn it," the man said. "I didn't want to hurt her." The accent was French.

The howler monkeys increased their already raucous calls. Michael was losing consciousness.

"I wonder what's coming now," someone said. "Let's get back."

Minutes passed, he had no idea how many.

"Those monkeys will do that over a jaguar, or all the shooting, or just because they feel like it." A new man had arrived and spoke in Spanish. "We're a little late," a big, dark- haired man spoke in English, with an American accent. He came to Bowden. Quickly he put a tourniquet on the thigh and put Bowden's fingers on the shoulder wound. "Press," he said before moving out of sight. "We'll be back. You'll make it."

The other man followed him. The pain began to mount; Michael wanted to scream. He could barely think.

More time passed and then he heard cursing and swearing and crashing in the bushes. The big man with black hair had hold of a dirty, frightened man. He shoved him into the fire light, where the man stumbled to the ground, his face pour ing blood. Michael saw shackles on the man's wrists and legs.

"Don't mess with a Tilok or a cat man," the big man said, stepping back into the jungle.

A shot came from the forest and the captive man's head exploded.

A flurry of shooting followed. It sounded like a war. Then a long silence. The next Michael knew, the dark-haired man was bending over him.

"It's morphine. It'll help," he said. "We're going to get you to a hospital."

Next to the dark-haired man Michael saw a beautiful young blond woman in the soft light. She looked terribly concerned. He knew he must look worse than dead.

"Marita," he said, hoping someone would help her. He saw pain on the blond woman's face and knew it wasn't good.

Cat-man seemed to have departed. Sam pumped his only living captive, John, full of morphine, but not so much that he went off to la-la land.

"Your leader shot you."

"Fuck you. And him." He coughed deep and ugly. Things were breaking loose inside.

"He killed another of your men, right in front of me. Why protect him? Girard-is that what he's called?" No response. "You're gonna die. You're bleeding inside. You have a few seconds to do something right, but maybe it isn't in you. I hope it is."

He retched and coughed "Yes, we called him Girard. He's from France."

"He was here tonight?"

The man nodded.

"Beard?"

He nodded again, choking.

"Uses a knife?"

He nodded hard and fluid rattled in his lungs when he tried to speak. Turning nearly purple, he rolled his eyes back and his bowels let go.

Sam kept his eyes locked on the dying man's, and for just a second they flickered.

"You want to go after him, don't you?" Grady asked.

"Just a minute," Sam said, still watching the man. He leaned over to the man's ear. "In the end you did good." Once again the man's eyes rolled and Sam knew he was gone.

Sam nodded. "The three of you can haul Michael back to Galvez." Bowden had wavered on the edge of consciousness since being shot. "It's close. Michael, you've got a fast boat?"

"Very fast. But others, my friends, might have used it to take my journals. Doubt they've returned it."

"Let's hope Gaudet doesn't know about your boat-as suming it's even there."

"He wouldn't find it. Can't start it anyway. Needs an elec tronic chip." Michael was breathing deeply from the pain and trauma. "Ramos my friend has one and the other's in my pack."

"Good. I doubt he wants to try to drift a speedboat all the way to the Amazon even if he does find it."

"He'll go to the Tapiche."

"He could go down the Galvez," Javier said. "But once again he'd have no boat and I can't see him paddling a stolen dugout through Matses country. They don't kill people anymore, but a thief, a murderer, and a white man might be dif ferent."

Although Sam could tell Grady hated the idea, she wasn't going to stop him. It wasn't her way to wimp out in the clutch. And she trusted Yodo as much as Sam did.

Sam took out his GPS before starting off into the dark. He had to take a chance that Gaudet would head for the Tapiche. He struck off through the jungle, trying to walk something of a straight line. Looking ahead was surreal. It felt like passing through an underwater kelp bed. Aerial roots came down from branches like taut rope and small sacropia grew up with stems twice as thick as a man's thumb. It was hard to find a foot-wide space anywhere in the first few hundred feet of the trek. Interspersed among the growing saplings and aerial roots were the giants such as ficus, saeba, ironwood, kapok, and the feathery-leafed aca cia whose branches gave an appearance similar to an ever green softwood tree. At their bases some of the large trees had a splayed root system that had formed triangular-shaped wedges in the vertical plane so that the lower trunk of the tree looked something like the foot of a coat rack.

Traveling in a straight line turned out to be impossible and dangerous, so he risked using his flashlight, hoping he wouldn't walk into an ambush. On the forest floor wet leaves made for quiet steps, but the brush rubbing on his body and pack was noisy. On any incline the clay mud beneath the leaves made the footing tenuous and every slime-covered log was a hazard. Ants and other insects were crawling over him; attempts to brush them off seemed futile. He went after the little tickles on his skin, squishing anything that got under his clothing. Anytime he paused, the raucous sound of mosquitoes filled his ears with their mind-scalding wing- beat. He had spread repellent liberally over the exposed skin and wore typical UV-screening jungle clothes designed to cover most of his body.

The heat burned into him with the exertion of traveling fast through the tangles of vegetable matter that clung and slowed him. He couldn't spend a lot of time attempting to cir cumvent thickets. Every couple of minutes he glanced at the GPS and observed the gnarled track that he was leaving on the incandescent screen. Sweat dripped down onto the screen like rain as the heat squeezed everything but blood from his pores. On his feet he could feel the start of blisters as he con tinuously worked to keep his footing on the jungle floor.

After traveling a couple of miles he came to a sizable black-water stream that barely moved. It was a tributary of the Tapiche and it meant he might be slightly to the north of where he imagined. Or the map was wrong, which was very possible because it was made before GPS was available. He ran his light along the banks, illuminating pairs of eyes of a number of black caiman. Swimming at night was not ap pealing. There were more gruesome parasites and diseases in this part of the world than he cared to think about. And, having eaten piranha the prior day, it occurred to him that in some sort of cosmic justice the fish might want to return the favor.

He sighed. Without waiting any longer he stepped down into the muddy water and began walking. He removed his pack, threw the strap of his rifle across his back, then re placed the pack. It was a poor choice if he wanted to shoot from the river, but it freed both hands for swimming without fear of losing the rifle. Soon it was deep and he began the breaststroke. A caiman flung his tail and splashed, surprising him and causing him to pick up the pace. He tried not to think about the stickleback fish that had a bad habit of crawl ing up assholes and urethras, or the leeches that in some parts of the Amazon grew to eighteen inches. He told him self the sticklebacks were probably farther north.

He was halfway across when he sensed that something was wrong. He studied the far bank and saw a six-foot shadow by a big tree. And there was movement. He went limp and quiet, then turned and began swimming back to near where he started.

There was a shocking boom and a bullet hit the water an inch from his nose. Then the night filled with reverberating booms. Somebody was going to kill him with a semiauto matic high-powered rifle. Quickly he dropped the rifle to the bottom and got rid of the pack and all its flotation. One gulp of a breath and he went under. Bullets jetted through the water and he went the several feet to the bottom, knowing it would be a long time before he could come up. Had it been daylight he would already be dead. He felt for the rifle and slung it over his head, then began pulling himself along the bottom with his hands. He felt prongs everywhere and realized they must be branches of a submerged tree.

The bullets seemed to have stopped.

Sam could stay under for more than four minutes, which seemed phenomenal to his friends until he told them of deep divers who could stay down seven minutes. Reaching out, he felt for the branches and allowed himself to rise slowly over them. It used up precious time and air. Pulling himself across the tops, he found open water when he felt nearly out of air. He did a smooth breaststroke with a frog kick. A slow burn had developed in his chest and he could feel the weakness beginning in his body. He began to count strokes as a means of forcing himself onward. He would do ten strokes, and when he got to ten, he was determined to do five more. The burning was now strong and the desire for a breath was all- consuming. Five strokes extra had pain in his mind and body. Three more strokes. With his fingers he felt the bottom rising. His consciousness blurred. He was near the river's edge. He turned downstream. Just three more strokes. His mind seemed to be floating and he knew he was about to go lights out. Gently he rose.

He suspected the shooter would have lowered his gun after about three minutes and that he would then stare into the darkness. Ripples and sound betrayed a swimmer at night. Sam rolled and came up gently on his back. He denied himself a massive inhalation, forcing himself to be quiet. Few things took so much will.

The cacophony of an awakened jungle greeted his ears and he was grateful for something to cover the sound of his breaths.

When his lungs had stopped burning and his body had partially recovered he went under again. This time he swam downriver, figuring to put distance between himself and Gaudet before he crossed and began stalking the man. Somebody was going to die if Sam had his way. It would ei ther be him or Gaudet, except he knew that Gaudet did not think that way. The moment Gaudet felt a shift in the odds he would flee. Gaudet preferred to kill from a distance, then disappear. Reading about it in the paper was good enough.

Above, the sky was black. There was almost no light. Trees overshadowing the river were barely visible where the tops framed the sky. There was no sound but the night time symphony of a startled rain forest. No shots. He was back on the far side of the river and downstream. After several breaths he was able to slow the gasping. Quietly he moved into the shallows so that his feet rested on the bottom. If he stood, there might be enough of him to see or hear. With an automatic rifle Gaudet wouldn't need to be very accurate.

Fortunately, combat wasn't Gaudet's forte. If it were, Sam knew that while he had been swimming, his pursuer, Gaudet, would have been charging him, getting as close as possible. Three more kicks downriver were uneventful; at the end of the third, Sam surfaced. It was even blacker than before. The cauliflower border of the trees against the sky was no longer visible. The forest had quieted slightly but was still like a concert hall compared to the night sounds of northern California wilderness where Sam had first learned from Grandfather the art of listening.

Trying to scan the opposite bank, he used peripheral vi sion, but the shadows were so deep, there was no form- only void. He was barely around one bend and it would not be safe to cross. The shooter could have moved downriver. Instead of crossing, Sam eased toward the bank and crawled on his belly into deep brush, hoping he wouldn't run into a fer-de-lance, the most poisonous snake in the Amazon. Once in the jungle, he went away from the river a hundred yards or so, turned on his flashlight, and walked downriver for twenty minutes, where he made a quiet, uneventful crossing.

Going as fast as he could, he went back into the jungle, then turned upstream until he figured he was near the point of the ambush. Without a GPS or access to Big Eye, he couldn't be sure that he was even traveling in the right direction. He attempted a ninety-degree turn in his general course of travel and immediately noticed a flash from a man-made light. It was only for an instant. He crept toward the river with his light turned off. Nearly an hour had passed. Feeling for every step, he could see nothing. As he walked, he made some slight noise and wondered if it would be enough to draw fire. The constant risk of instant death taxed him. Sweat poured down him as if he were running a race. His body was constantly trying to ready itself for a fight, but there was no fight. There was only the black, the jungle, and the next step. Near the river the bank would be steep; he began to feel for the drop. Overhead, monkeys were making chirps that sounded almost birdlike.

A donkey bird awoke and let the world know its displea sure. After walking many more minutes than Sam would have thought necessary, he was able to discern what he thought was an opening. Maybe the river. Feeling ahead with his foot, he at last perceived a drop-off. He had no idea how close he was to the ambush point. No doubt the shooter had moved, and Sam had glimpsed his light. Perhaps he was there, perhaps he was hundreds of yards off. He needed some bait. If he didn't find the man soon, he would attempt to continue on toward the Tapiche.

Sam hoped that the man was not within easy earshot. Working quickly, he stacked a row of palm fronds near the river. The row was a little over six feet in length. Then he leaped into the water, splashed, called for help in an ago nized voice, jumped back onto the bank, and covered his face and hands in mud. Next he lay under the leaves, not quite able to bury himself but getting himself largely cov ered. Then he waited.

For several minutes there was nothing. Lying quietly his wet clothes and the mud cooled him. The temperature had fallen to perhaps 70 degrees Fahrenheit. There was a breeze and he could sense the weather changing. An extravagant display of lightning lit the river and made the trees stark against the sky. It would rain, and when it did, all sound would wash away with it. The rules of the hunt were chang ing with the weather.

He began turning his head and even his body, trying to watch 360 degrees in the occasional flashes of lightning. It was as if a mad photographer were running about the jungle with a flashbulb, disrupting the simple passion to kill. The lightning was a complication. With rain, noise would be almost a nonfactor. Eyes would become everything.

Something moved-a branch. It was maybe ten feet dis tant. Perhaps a monkey, a bird, or a snake. Perhaps a man. It moved again very slightly. Sam waited, content with his camouflage. When next the jungle lit the river, it became a luminescent trough into which the sky poured the light. He saw a man. The splash and the desperate calling had drawn the hunter to the hunted.

Sam was in his element. Some part of him, a major part, was a hunter. If possible, he would use his hands to subdue Gaudet, but not for any noble reason. He simply was more valuable alive than dead.

His quarry was moving very slowly and held a gun as if ready to use it. Huge bolts of lightning etched the black in all directions, even the canopy was lit by the power of the massive electrical strokes across the sky.

Sam watched the man take a step and then search the night. After what seemed like minutes, the man was within ten feet, his light playing through the myriad vertical roots. But his hunter was thinking of a standing man and not a muddy clump of sodden leaves. Sam considered trying to jump him. Too far. Too much noise. Sam pointed his. 45 at his target's midriff, tempted to pull the trigger and end it all. There were pros and cons, but the biggest con was that he couldn't be sure it was Gaudet. Living with a cold-blooded killing was not acceptable when an alternative existed. So he waited.

The man took another step. With the next step the man would pass him by. Sam pointed carefully at the now-invisible shadow and waited for the next flash of lightning.

"Drop the gun," he screamed as lightning surged in a series of pulses that lit the jungle.

The man started firing above Sam, bullets chopping the foliage and spewing indifferent death. Sam put a single bul let in the shooter's shoulder, dropping him, then rolled and charged, knocking the automatic away. Sitting on the man with one knee on the good shoulder and one knee on the mangled side, he caused the man excruciating pain to the point he was screaming with near incoherence. He released the pressure.

"Tell me about your leader. Girard? Gaudet?" This was not Gaudet. Gaudet would have fled by now, and this man seemed taller than their best descriptions indicated.

"Girard. No Gaudet," he said in broken English.

'Tell me about him."

"Six eyes. Nervous like a cat."

"Did he watch you do the women in the little village?"

"He watched. But the others did the women. Not me."

"Is he in this jungle?"

"Yes."

Suddenly something gripped Sam's chest.

"Where did he go?"

"I don't know."

Sam prayed that Yodo was with Grady.

"GPS? Map? Electronic?" Sam said.

The man nodded and Sam pulled the man's packsack out from underneath him. Inside was a handheld GPS.

"Girard?" Sam asked, sticking the small electronic map in front of the man's face.

The man didn't answer.

Sam pointed his pistol at his nose. "Girard?"

The man shrugged. "I don't know."