Brotherhood and Others (14 page)

“Be careful what you imagine, brother,” Claudio said as they came within sight of the ramshackle building that served as an informal home for the Brotherhood. “Just thinking something can make it so.”

*   *   *

The helicopter banked, shaking Monarch from his memories. They flew across a lake in the middle of the rain forest and saw nothing except birds in the trees and cranes standing in the shallows.

“No fishermen?” Sing said, surprised.

The boy soldier shrugged. “Sometimes. But it is far to bring in a boat. We fish more on the next lake north.”

They reached the far shoreline of that first lake, and then flew on over the jungle canopy. Monarch swiveled his head, trying to identify landmarks, places he could use to navigate. The line of volcanoes loomed to his east, and there were highlands to the west. Seven or eight miles on, he spotted the second lake.

“I like that first one as a possible pickup,” Barnett whispered in his ear.

Twice Monarch clucked softly with his tongue to let her know he agreed.

As they got close to the second lake, Monarch saw boys fishing from dugout canoes, encampments along the shoreline where cook fires burned, and a bizarre fortress. It dominated a peninsula that jutted into the lake off its western shore, some one hundred acres in size.

Dried weeds hung from a barbed-wire fence that jutted above the water twenty yards out from shore, surrounding the entire peninsula. Hundreds of tree trunks, hatchet-sharpened at the tips, had been set and lashed upright, forming the picket walls of a primitive stockade that enclosed the entire point. Armed sentries stood along an elevated walkway on the interior wall of the stockade, a cadre of boy soldiers who watched with open menace as the helicopter passed.

Monarch did his best to film it with the camera pen by aiming his left chest so Barnett and the others could see the interior, which featured an old colonial-era plantation house gone to seed. Vines and moss grew up the exterior of the decrepit mansion. The rotting shutters were flung open, overlooking a shantytown of huts, tarp shelters, and makeshift tents.

Barnett whistled softly and, duly impressed, said, “Way different than looking at it on sat photos. Up close and personal, it's like something out of
Mad Max
.”

When they had almost reached the spot where the peninsula met the base of a range of hills, Monarch saw the canal. Hand-dug and flooded, it featured a retractable bridge that connected the mainland to the peninsula and the front gate of the stockade.

But as they circled in for a landing, Monarch was no longer looking at the jungle fortress. He was staring far up the hillside where the vegetation had been stripped and the earth turned, as black and livid as a scabbed-over wound.

They slowed and landed. From the sound the rotors made winding down, it was a miracle they were on the ground. Thank God Monarch wasn't planning on leaving the same way he had come in.

“Is this the only way in here?” Chatterjee asked anxiously as he unbuckled his harness and made to get out.

“Or walking through more than one hundred kilometers of bush,” Gahji said.

“Why do I get the feeling that
you
came in the second way?” Monarch asked.

“Because I did,” Gahji said in a boastful tone. “We all did. Even Lieutenant Zed. If you want to be one of us, you must learn to walk before you can learn to fight. The helicopter is for supplies only. And rare visitors.”

Monarch climbed out, smelling wood smoke. He could hear the jungle now: the cries of birds, the hoots of monkeys, and the thud of something heavy running through the trees. The heat was brutal, with near one hundred percent humidity, and Monarch understood he was going to have to stay hydrated, well fed, and alert if he was to complete his mission and come out of this in one piece.

More boy soldiers appeared on the ramparts to either side of the gate. Others arrived at ground level and began hauling on a rope-and-pulley system to bring the bridge across the canal.

“The bridge is kind of overkill, don't you think?” Monarch said.

Sing agreed. “That canal isn't that wide. Someone could get across fairly easy if they wanted.”

“If they could get past the crocs,” Gahji said as the bridge reached their side.

Whether it was the mention of crocodiles or the infernal heat, Bergenheim looked ready to faint. Chatterjee was now looking keenly at the murky canal water.

Monarch followed Gahji onto the bridge, looked down into the stinking ditch, and saw sharp prehistoric heads lying partially submerged, seven or eight of them, maybe more. The wind shifted and he smelled death. In the reeds, he caught sight of something more chilling: a shredded white shirt that looked more bloodstained than muddy.

“So the rumors might have merit,” Barnett whispered.

Monarch caught Gahji watching him without expression from the other end of the bridge. The gate began to open.

It all reminded Monarch of a door opening deep in his past.

*   *   *

No sooner had Claudio warned Robin about imagining things than he saw the door to the Brotherhood's building swing wide.

Julio stumbled out onto the ramshackle porch at the edge of the Villa Miserie, laughing, bare-chested, one arm around Inez, a street prostitute he favored. At six foot four, Robin was now three inches taller than the twenty-something leader of La Fraternidad, but Julio still had him on raw strength, bulk, and fighting experience.

Julio's upper-body muscles were pumped and gleaming, as if he'd just done a hundred pull-ups or push-ups. With the tattoos of stalking tigers on each massive shoulder, the shaved head, and the black wraparound sunglasses, to Robin, Julio looked like a creature that was half ape and half rhino.

But Julio was no dumb animal. He'd founded the Brotherhood, and he'd crafted the eighteen rules that the members lived by.

“My brothers!” Julio cried. Robin instantly heard the slur in his voice.

My God, it wasn't even noon yet, and he'd already taken his eye off business.

Robin's late mother had always preached to him about drinking alcohol before the sun went down. “Someone who drinks during the day has no ambition,” she'd say. “No real ambition.”

Julio had ambitions, but he didn't like to work too hard to achieve them. He preferred other people work hard to achieve his ambitions. It made Robin's blood boil at some level, but he smiled. “Julio.”

“My brother,” Claudio added.

“You know this one?” Julio said to Inez, who looked as buzzed as he was in a tight dress that she threatened to spill from. “The great Robin? My thieving genius?”

Inez's eyes came lazily toward Robin. She giggled, clapped Julio's great chest, and said, “I know him, silly. All the girls in the Villa Miserie know him.”

“This is true?”

“Well, they want to know him. But he no wanna know them.”

Julio seemed to take great delight in that. “What do they think? The girls?”

“Maricón,”
Inez sniffed. “He must like boys like Claudio.”

“He just don't like skanks,” Claudio shot back. “Neither do I.”

The whore erupted from her haze. “Inez is no skank!” She looked at Julio. “Do something.”

“Why?” Julio said, taking his arm from around her neck, and turning indifferent, even scornful. “He tells the truth. Now go away. We have business.”

Inez glared at Julio, spit at Claudio's feet. Robin ignored her completely, focused on Julio, who laughed softly as she walked away. “You have such a way with the
chicas,
Claudio.”

“I try,” Claudio said.

“You score last night?” Julio asked, taking a seat on the sagging front porch, and setting the rum bottle beside him.

Claudio started to answer, but Robin said, “I got inside, found the cash—U.S. dollars, more than you said, eight hundred—but only three of those gold coins.”

“Three?” That surprised Julio, who lifted his sunglasses, revealing bloodshot eyes that were sharply focused. “There were supposed to be like ten, fifteen.”

Robin met Julio's eyes. “Eight hundred dollars, three coins.”

He reached inside his shirt, handed over an envelope containing sixteen U.S. fifty-dollar bills. Claudio hesitated, but then dug in his pocket and came up with three gold Argentine five-peso coins dated 1893.

Julio stuffed the envelope in his back pocket, and inspected the coins. “They only made these for like fifteen years.”

Julio put his sunglasses back on and looked at Robin. “Too bad there were only three.”

Robin shrugged, said, “Our cut?”

After a pause, Julio said, “Tonight. With the others.”

“Give us an advance so we can go eat like kings,” Claudio said.

Julio paused, then reached into his pocket and counted out peso bills, which Robin took. “That comes off your take,” Julio warned.

“Wouldn't have it any other way,” Robin said, trying not to sound harsh.

If Julio noticed he did not react, said, “I've got to get some sleep. That Inez wore me out.”

“We'll see you later,
jefe,
” Claudio said.

“Count on it,” Julio said, taking his rum bottle and going back inside.

When they were several hundred yards away, Claudio said, “I think we are crazy. You especially are crazy.”

“Just looking out for our interests,” Robin said. “Where
are
the other seven?”

Claudio patted his pocket nervously, said, “‘Rule number eighteen: Make good on promises given to other thieves.' If Julio finds out we broke—”

“He won't.”

*   *   *

Monarch followed Gahji through the gate of the fortress in the jungle, felt the eyes of all the boy soldiers inside the stockade, looking at them from under tarps and lean-tos as they ate from bowls of rice and sauce or worked oil into their weapons.

“How many follow the Lieutenant?” Chatterjee asked.

“More than one thousand now,” Gahji replied proudly. “But they are not all here. Many are in camps back in the hills, training. Others are working.”

They neared the old plantation house. A big wiry man appeared on the dilapidated front porch. He was coal-colored with splotches of pink on his face, arms, and scalp, a piebald man in his late twenties or early thirties, wearing reflector sunglasses and camouflage fatigues. All around the encampment the boy soldiers sprang to their feet at the sight of him, and shuffled out in front of their shanties to stand at attention.

“Lieutenant Zed, I presume,” Monarch said, reaching out his hand.

Lieutenant Zed nodded tersely. “Your trip?”

“Uneventful,” Sing said.

“The stone?” Bergenheim asked.

“Soon enough,” he replied. “Set your cases down. Fasi will bring them out to the veranda, where we will have something to eat and drink before the inspection. Don't worry—we boil all our water. Before then Fasi will show you where you can wash your face and hands after your long, hot trip. Fasi!”

A small, wizened, tobacco-colored man wearing rags scurried out from somewhere, cowering as if he were a dog regularly beaten. Monarch was fascinated. He could not help himself; he'd never seen a pygmy in person before.

Fasi grabbed Bergenheim's case and reached out for Monarch's.

“I can handle it,” Monarch said. Pygmies were often taken as slaves in this part of the world and he refused to condone that sort of thing.

“Let him take it,” Lieutenant Zed insisted. “He won't feel right otherwise.”

Monarch considered arguing, but instead handed Fasi the case. The pygmy turned and started into the plantation house.

“I'll join you in fifteen minutes or so,” Lieutenant Zed said. “Gahji, we have several things to do first.”

The boy soldier nodded.

This wasn't the way Monarch wanted things to go at all, but he followed Bergenheim and Fasi inside the old plantation house. Plaster had fallen from many of the walls, revealing moldering wood. But the wide plank floors were surprisingly clean, and the staircase the pygmy led them past looked like it had recently been shored up.

They exited the relic of a building onto a long, low veranda where a table had been set with bowls, pitchers of ice water, and plates of bread. The sound of the generators was louder here, though Monarch could not place their location.

Fasi set the cases down, turned immediately.

“Thank you,” Monarch said, setting the knapsack beside his case.

Fasi did not react.

“Merci,”
Monarch said.

The pygmy slowed, glanced over at him as if confused, and then scurried out into the hall and down the stairs.

“Probably doesn't hear thanks very often,” Bergenheim said.

Monarch looked out behind the veranda. The vegetation had been cut and burned all the way to the rear of the stockade, perhaps fifty yards, and he could now see that the sharpened logs that made up the wall were not only buried upright in the ground, but lashed together with thick rope. Two armed boys stood on the catwalk, looking out. In the far right corner was a stack of brush. Along the left wall of the stockade he saw boys transferring wooden boxes into a hole in the ground.

Chatterjee was pouring water into glasses. Sing was already drinking. Bergenheim appeared highly suspicious of the water. But he was drenched with sweat and finally grabbed up a glass, draining it. By the time Monarch had done the same, Fasi had reappeared with the Indian's gear.

He looked at Monarch, made a show of washing his hands and scrubbing his face. Monarch nodded. The pygmy led him off the veranda, around the corner, and away from the house to the north at an angle to those boys loading boxes into the ground. Monarch could see markings on the boxes:
7.62 x .39.

AK-47 ammunition.

Monarch had no time to ponder the ammo dump before Fasi gestured that he should go around a bamboo screen. He did, and saw the door to an outhouse. Beside it a large metal bowl sat on a stump. Above the bowl, hanging from the branch of one of the few trees still standing inside the stockade, was a fifty-five-gallon drum. A hose snaked from it and dangled over the basin. A pinch clip held the hose shut.