Lost Empire (34 page)

 

 

“DO YOU REALLY THINK THEY WILL?” REMI ASKED WHEN SAM climbed back into the car and recounted the conversation.

“I don’t know, but if he thinks so, he’ll be more likely to keep his mouth shut. I hope.”

Remi leaned over and kissed Sam on the cheek. “That was a good thing you did, Fargo.”

Sam smiled. “Somebody probably offered him a month’s salary to just follow a pair of tourists. Can’t blame him for that. If we’re going to get intercepted, the car will probably come from one of three blacktop roads he mentioned.”

“Agreed.” Remi unfolded the map and studied it a moment. “Tsiafahy is south of Antananarivo on Route 7. If we can get there . . .”

“How far to the Tsiafahy turnoff?”

“Sixty kilometers—about thirty-seven miles. Another twenty west to Tsiafahy.”

Sam nodded and checked his watch. “We might make it before nightfall.”

ALMOST IMMEDIATELY they realized their optimism was probably unwarranted. Past the bridge, the road continued to wind through the jungle, a mix of gentle bends and switchbacks that slowed their pace dramatically. They passed the first blacktop road intersection without incident and soon found themselves driving along a boulder-strewn river—the same one, they assumed, they’d crossed thirty minutes earlier.

“Next intersection coming up,” Remi announced. “Two miles.”

Five minutes later Sam saw the intersection. Remi pointed through the windshield. “I saw something . . . a flash of sunlight.”

“It’s a bumper,” Sam said between his teeth. “Duck. If we’re not a couple, maybe . . .”

Remi scrunched down in her seat. As they drew even with the blacktop, Sam pressed himself back into the headrest and cast a glance out Remi’s window. The vehicle, a dark blue Nissan SUV, was parked on the shoulder a few feet back from the intersection.

“What’s happening?” Remi asked.

Sam glanced in the rearview mirror. “He’s pulling out . . . He’s behind us.”

Remi sat up, grabbed the binoculars from the floor between her feet, and focused them through the back window. “A driver and a passenger. The silhouettes look male. I see a Europcar rental sticker on the bumper.”

“All bad signs. Are they speeding up?”

“No, just keeping pace. You know what they say, Sam: For every rat you see . . .”

He nodded. If, in fact, this Nissan was pursuing them, the chances were good there would be a second and perhaps a third car up ahead.

“How far to the next blacktop road?”

Remi checked the map. “Four miles.”

IT TOOK NEARLY ten minutes to cover the distance. A few hundred yards behind them, the Nissan was still matching their speed. Remi alternated between checking the map and studying their possible pursuers through the binoculars.

“What are you expecting them to do?” Sam asked with a smile.

“Either go away or raise the skull and crossbones.”

“Intersection’s coming up. Should be around this next bend.”

Remi turned to face forward.

Sam took his foot off the gas, eased the Rover into the turn, then accelerated again.

“Sam!”

Fifty yards away, sitting broadside across the road, was a red Nissan SUV.

“There’s your skull and crossbones!” Sam called.

He eased the Rover slightly left, taking the center of the road, and aimed the hood directly at the Nissan’s passenger door. He stepped on the accelerator, and the Rover’s engine roared.

“I don’t think they’re going to move,” Remi said, hands braced on the dashboard.

“We’ll see.”

Remi glanced over her shoulder. “Our tail has closed the gap.”

“How close?”

“A hundred feet and coming fast.”

“Hold on, Remi.”

With his thumb depressing the button, Sam lifted the emergency brake handle. In the space of two seconds the Rover’s speed dropped by half. The Nissan’s driver, seeing no brake lights to alert him, was slow to react. The Nissan loomed in Sam’s rearview mirror. He jerked the wheel right, tapped the brakes, and the Nissan swerved left to avoid the collision. Sam glanced in his side mirror and saw the Nissan coming up alongside. He yanked the wheel left and was rewarded with a crunch of metal on metal. The red Nissan filled the Rover’s windshield. Sam torqued the wheel hard right, swerved around the Nissan’s bumper onto the shoulder, then drove back up onto the road.

“Cut it a little close there, Fargo,” Remi said.

“Sorry about that. Do you see the blue one?”

Remi checked. “He’s still there, about two hundred yards back. The red one’s getting turned around.”

Within two minutes both Nissans were back on their tail and trying to close the gap. While the Rover’s engine probably had more horsepower, the Nissan’s lower center of gravity gave them the advantage on the corners. Slowly but steadily, the Nissans ate up the distance.

“Ideas?” Remi asked.

“I’m open-minded.”

Remi opened the map and began tracing her finger along their course while murmuring to herself. She pulled one of their guidebooks from the glove compartment, flipped pages, and continued murmuring.

She looked up suddenly. “Is there a left turn coming up?”

“We’re on it now.”

“Take it!”

Sam did as instructed, braking hard, then slewing the Rover onto the intersecting dirt road. A sign flashed past: LAC DE MANTASOA.

“Lake Mantasoa?” Sam asked. “Are we going fishing?”

“They’ve got ferries,” Remi replied. She consulted her watch. “Next one leaves in four minutes.”

Sam checked the rearview mirror. The two Nissans were skidding into the turn. “Something tells me we’re not going to have time to purchase tickets.”

“I figured you could pull off something tricky.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

The road devolved into a series of descending switchbacks bordered on both sides by steep embankments. The jungle canopy closed in above them, blotting out the sun. They passed a brown-painted sign with a yellow
P,
a car pictograph, and “50M.”

“Almost there,” Remi said. “Let’s hope for a busy lot.”

Sam brought the Rover through the last switchback, and the road widened into a small parking lot covered with diagonal white lines. To the right was a forested embankment; to the left, beyond a strip of well-manicured grass, was a river, this one flat and calm. There were eight cars in the parking lot. At the far end, sitting before a wall of trees, was a gazebo-like ticket hut. To the right of this was what appeared to be a service road blocked by a chain draped between two fence posts.

“I don’t see the ferry,” Sam said, accelerating across the lot.

“It just left.” Remi pointed.

To the left of the ticket hut Sam saw a fan of froth on the river’s surface. He rolled down his window and they could hear the distinct overlapping chop of paddle wheels.

“They’re here,” Remi said.

Sam glanced in the rearview mirror. The blue Nissan accelerated out of the last switchback, closely followed by the red one.

“I’ve got a tricky idea,” Sam said. “Or a really dumb one.”

“Either way, it’s better than sitting here.”

Sam slammed the gas pedal to the floor, swerved around the parked cars like a slalom racer, then bumped over the curb and onto the grass before the ticket hut. The tires slipped on the damp grass; the rear end fishtailed. Sam corrected, eased right, and aimed the hood at the entrance to the utility road.

“Cross your fingers those posts aren’t buried deep,” he said. “Here we go!”

Remi hunched down in her seat, braced her feet against the dashboard.

The Rover’s bumper crashed into the chain. Sam and Remi were thrown forward against their seat belts. Sam’s forehead bonked into the steering wheel. He looked up, half expecting them to be sitting still, but was instead greeted by the sight of tree branches whipping past the windshield. Remi checked the side mirror. Both entrance posts had been uprooted like rotten stumps.

“Are they following?” Sam asked.

“Not yet. They’re both still sitting in the parking lot.”

“Good. Let them debate it.”

What Sam had thought was a service road was in fact little more than a rutted trail barely wider than the Rover. As in the parking lot, the right side was bordered by an embankment; to the left, through a veil of trees, was the riverbank. He gripped the steering wheel tighter and tried to keep the Rover from lurching off the path.

“You’ve got a knot on your forehead,” Remi said, touching the spot. “What’s the plan?”

“Get ahead of the ferry and race to the next landing. That’s where you and your guidebook come in.”

She began flipping through it. “It’s less than thorough, I’m afraid.”

“There’s no stop listed?”

Remi shook her head, then checked the map. “And according to this, there’s no road.”

“Interesting. We’re on a road that doesn’t exist going nowhere. Are our friends nonexistent as well?”

Remi glanced back and ducked her head this way and that to see through the trees. “No, sorry, they’re coming.”

“The ferry?”

“No, I don’t . . . Wait! There it is! About two hundred yards behind us.” Her eyes brightened. “It’s a Mississippi-style stern-wheeler, Sam.”

The tract slanted upward and the ground grew more cratered until the Rover was bumping over exposed roots. At the top of the rise the ground flattened out. Sam slammed on the brakes. Twenty feet ahead stood a wall of trees; paralleling this, a hiking trail.

Sam said, “The trail to the left . . .”

“Goes down to the river.”

Sam shifted the Rover into Park and pushed the tailgate button; the tailgate popped open. “Take everything we’ve got.” They gathered their belongings, raced around to the back, and grabbed their backpacks.

Down the slope, the blue Nissan rounded a bend in the road and started climbing.

Sam handed Remi his pack. “Can you manage these?”

“Yes.”

“Run.”

Remi took off. Sam returned to the driver’s seat, switched the transmission into reverse, then jogged beside the Rover, steering, until the rear tires bumped over the lip of the slope. He slammed the door and jumped aside. The driver of the Nissan saw the Rover rolling toward him and slammed on the brakes. The transmission ticked as he switched into reverse. Behind him, the red Nissan came around the corner and skidded to a stop.

“Too late,” Sam said.

The Rover’s back tires bumped over a bundle of exposed roots. The tail vaulted, then crashed down onto the Nissan’s hood. The driver’s door opened. Sam drew the Webley, crouched down, fired a round into it. The door slammed shut. Sam adjusted his aim, put a bullet through the red Nissan’s hood for good measure, then turned and ran.

 

 

SAM CAUGHT UP to Remi a minute later. They’d been mistaken; the trail didn’t go down to the river but rather over it. Remi stood at the head of the footbridge. As Sam drew alongside her, she handed him his pack. Behind them, through the trees, voices called to one another in Spanish.

“Looks sturdier than the last bridge,” Remi said. The construction was remarkably similar—planks, crossbeams, ropes, and two suspension cables. To their left they could see the bow of the ferry coming around the bend, its funnel belching black smoke. Aside from a dozen or so people lining the rails and a few on the forecastle, the ship was empty.

“Come on,” Sam said, and took off in a sprint, Remi at his heels.

They stopped in the center of the span. The ferry was a hundred feet away. Sam looked back down the bridge. Through the trees he glimpsed movement, arms flailing. Someone was trying to climb the slope.

Remi was leaning over the handrail. “The drop’s too far.”

“To the forecastle, it is,” Sam agreed. “See the upper deck behind the wheelhouse? It’s fifteen feet, maybe less.”