The Heaven Trilogy (129 page)

A Hispanic man with an eye patch entered and closed the door. “Excuse me, sir.”

“Yes?”

“The shipment is under way successfully. Three logs bound for Miami.”

Abdullah turned his head slowly and looked at the man. He'd put the man's eye out for insubordination—questioning his orders about how long the men should work harvesting down in the fields. Jamal had called earlier that morning—it had been a bad day.

Abdullah turned back to the window without responding.

“We will ship again in two days,” Ramón said.

“Keep an eye out, Ramón,” Abdullah said.

The man hesitated. “Sir?”

Abdullah faced him quickly. “I said keep an eye out, Ramón. The spiders may try to eat us soon.”

From the corner of his eyes Abdullah saw Ramón glance at the wall. After a moment of silence the man spoke again. “Jamal made contact?”

Was it so obvious? “We will send them soon. Many people will die. Let us pray that Jamal is among them.”

“Yes, sir.”

Abdullah resumed his stare out the window. For several long minutes they remained silent, looking down at the idle cocaine plant. It was like that out here in the cursed jungle, Abdullah thought. The world was an empty place. Damp and hot and crawling with spiders, but as empty as a deep hole. Like this prison of his.

At times he even forgot about Yuri's little toys far beneath their feet. “You may go, Ramón.”

“Yes, sir.”

The man left, and Abdullah sat still.

FIVE HOURS later and one hundred miles to the east, a cool wind whipped around the bow of a seven-thousand-ton lumber carrier pushing through choppy waters with powerful twin Doxford diesels. As far as the eye could see, whitecaps covered the sea.

Moses Catura, captain of the
Lumber Lord
, strained his eyes through the misty windows that surrounded the pilothouse. They should have been in sight by now. The evening pickups were always the worst. And in choppy waters they were nearly impossible.

“Andrew. Where the heck are the buggers?” Moses yelled through an ancient-looking intercom mounted on the wall beside him.

For three years they had guided the massive Highland Lumber transporter across the Caribbean Sea to the southern ports of the United States—over a hundred trips in all. Andrew burst through the door of the pilothouse. “One mile to port, sir. It's going to be a tough one. Wind's picking up and the tide is heading back in. I'd say if we don't get to her within half an hour, she'll be pulled back.”

“Right. Twenty degrees to port.” Moses barked the command into the ear of the pilot beside him, then turned and yelled down the tube, “Full steam ahead.” He turned to Andrew. “Get the crane ready. How many are there?”

“Three, all grouped together so they look like one blip on the receiver.” Andrew smiled. “Nothin' like a little lumber on the side, eh, sir?”

“Get going, Andrew, or you won't see a dime.” Andrew slammed the door and dropped to the deck below.

The captain turned on the fog lights and gazed ahead as the huge ship slowly turned. The frequencies for the transmitters on each log had been received eight hours earlier and programmed into the homing screen that Andrew kept in his cabin. Only he and Andrew knew the stray logs contained shipments of cocaine. To the rest, the logs were just valuable lumber that they were paid handsomely to keep their mouths shut about. Most of the crew were old-timers who figured the captain deserved a few extra dollars from the smuggled lumber. Of course they didn't mind taking their share either.

Moses spoke into the intercom. “How close?”

“Two hundred meters, sir. Five degrees should do it.”

“Five degrees port,” Moses yelled into the pipe.

“Seventy-five yards. Just a hair starboard,” Andrew barked.

“Full stop. Two degrees starboard.”

The large cargo vessel shuddered as its massive twin screws thrashed in reverse. Andrew plucked each log from the ocean with the large crane and swung them carefully to the aft hold where uncut logs were transported.

Fourteen minutes later the
Lumber Lord
steamed at full power north, leaving the gray coastline of South America in its wake. Moses smiled and turned toward the comfort of his cabin. Just a few more trips and he would retire.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CASIUS HAD left New York under the alias Jason Mckormic and arrived twenty-nine hours later in Georgetown, Guyana.

Except for a single black bag, he carried nothing. He'd deposited $400,000 in a safe-deposit box at the Mail Boxes Etc. on the corner of Washington and Elwood—three miles from the airport in New York. Another $300,000 rested in the watertight money belts that clung to his waist under a suffocating coat. Thirty-seven hours had droned by since he'd abandoned his car to the lake, most of it crammed into window seats aboard four separate jetliners.

The yellow taxi he'd hailed at the airport slid to a stop on the gravel road by the pier. His mind hummed as if it remained at thirty thousand feet.

Casius tossed two hundred pesos over the seat and climbed out. Two cargo boats hugged the dock a hundred meters off, each loading for departure to the northern port of Tobago. From Tobago, their fruit cargo would be sold throughout the Lesser Antilles within the week. Passage would take either boat within two miles of Venezuela's coastline just north of the Guyana—on the Venezuela border.

An old man with crooked black teeth squinted at him lazily. Casius nodded and smiled gently. “Señor.”

The man grunted and looked on.

Casius's deeply tanned skin favored him in this environment, as did his khakis. But the crowd serving these boats was a rough one. He spent an hour roaming the pier, mixing in and passing by the ships as if he belonged.

He boarded the larger of the cargo boats on his third pass, during an especially boisterous argument over a spilled load of bananas, found a deserted cabin belowdecks that looked by the mess as though it had been used for the drying out of frequent drunks, locked the door, and slid under the bunk.

Midafternoon, the boat left the harbor under full power. Twice in the night men tried to open the door to the cabin. Twice they retreated mumbling angrily. By midnight, the boat ran just off the borders of Venezuela.

Casius peered from the window into a dark, pouring rain. He focused his eyes through the rain but couldn't see the coastline. The thought of swimming in the dark now made his stomach turn.

He flipped the latch that secured the porthole window and pushed out. Layers of hardened varnish gave way with a snap. The window swung out to sea, immediately inviting gusts of wet sea air through the opening. He checked the gear he'd strapped to his bare body one last time—the money belts were cinched around his waist and one change of clothes was sealed in the black bag. The coat, the khakis, the shirt, and the shoes he'd worn on the flight would go out the window before him. Didn't need them.

He stepped up onto a chair, tossed the bundled clothes out into the wind, and eased his body through the opening, headfirst, facing the stars. He pushed himself out until he hung only by the backs of his calves. With one last look into the sea, he kicked his legs free of the porthole and flipped backward into the cold, dark water.

The water crashed about his ears and then he heard only the churning screws from the ship. Blackness hung in the depths below him like deep space and visions of sharks whipped through his mind. He clawed for the surface and shook his head against a sudden panic. The ship ran into the night, leaving him in the white foam of its wake. Casius struck out westward.

He swam for two hours. Three different times, when the rain thinned, he found himself swimming parallel to the distant shore instead of toward it. The waves were high and the rain annoying but the land steadily approached and Casius swam steadily toward it. When the beach finally came, it was a welcome relief.

Casius slogged from the water and sank to the sand twenty meters from the jungle wall. Trees with long vines towered along the perimeter, their menacing arms stretching out in the predawn light. He stood to his feet, adjusted the wet money belts, and walked to the edge of the black forest. He took a deep breath through his nostrils, spit to his right, and stepped once again into the jungle.

If he was right, the CIA would be waiting for him already.

SHERRY BLAKE watched the helicopter twirl toward the sky, shoving gusts of wind in wide dusty circles. Her hair whipped about her face and she lowered her head until the air settled. To her left a jungle airstrip ran along the barren valley floor, carved by a freak of nature itself, not by human hands. The location was a natural choice for the station. Had it not been for the Richtersons' plantation twenty miles north, her father might have chosen this spot fifteen years earlier.

When she looked up, Father Petrus Teuwen was smiling broadly and looking at her with raised eyebrows. She liked him immediately. Bright white teeth filled his mouth like piano keys. His black hair rested long on his cleric's collar. Sherry doubted he'd been to a barber in four months.

“Welcome back to the jungle,” he said. “I'm sure you must be tired.”

Sherry let her eyes wander over the jungle line a hundred meters off. “Yes,” she replied absently.

The trees stood tall with moss-covered vines stringing below the canopy. Green. So much dark, rich green. As the chopper's beating dwindled, the jungle noises came to her. A background of cicadas screeching nonstop, parrots calling against songs of a dozen louder hooters. The branches of a towering tree shook. She watched a furry, brown howler monkey poke its head out and study the mission.

The scene streamed through her mind, pulling her heart to her throat, and for a brief instant she wondered if she was in one of her nightmares, only in three dimensions.

“Boy, this brings back memories,” she said, bending for her bag.

“I'm sure it does. Here, let me take that.”

Sherry followed him toward a long structure she assumed was the station house, although it reminded her more of a dormitory. A simple tin roof covered the creosote-darkened building. The father turned to her. “I don't get much farther north, actually. Most of my work is with the southern Indians. Your parents worked among the Yanamamo up north, Helen tells me. I heard what happened. I'm so sorry.”

She glanced at him and saw that he was indeed sorry. She smiled. The noises about her still rapped at her memories, and for the hundredth time since leaving the Denver airport, she wondered if this whole idea had been misguided. What could she possibly do in the jungle? Oh, yes, the vision. She had come because of the vision.

But the vision seemed a thousand miles away. It struck her as an absurd whisper barely remembered. Flying over the endless forest in the helicopter, she had decided she would leave when the chopper returned to the station again in three days. She would give this whole dream thing three days. And only because she had no choice in the matter. She could not very well step from the cockpit, glance about the mission, and climb back in, could she? That would look ridiculous. No, she would have to wait until the next trip.

She swallowed and willed her heart to lower from her throat. “And what did you hear, Father?”

“I heard that drug bandits attacked your mission. And if what the Indians say is correct, the valley is still occupied.”

She looked up, surprised. “Now? You mean these people have never been brought to justice? I was told that they were!”

“It's not necessarily occupied by the same people who destroyed the mission compound, but drug merchants work in the area. The law isn't exactly swift in the jungle. Neither is the government. Half of them are partners with the drug lords. It's a sizable portion of the economy. I imagine the church raised some noise in the beginning, but memories pass quickly. Some battles are hardly worth fighting.”

They came to the house and the father veered to the door on the far right. “Here we are.” He went in ahead of her and set the bag in the room. “This is where you'll stay. It's not much, but it's all we have, I'm afraid.”

Sherry glanced through the door and saw that it contained a single cot and a bathroom. “This will be fine. You wouldn't happen to have a drink, would you? I'd forgotten how hot this place gets.” She waved her hand against her throat like a fan.

“Of course. Follow me.” He led her to the middle door, which opened to a sizable living room and a kitchen beyond. The smell of kerosene filled her nostrils. Like her home eight years earlier.
God, what are you doing to me?
She plopped in a chair and waited for the father to bring her the glass of lemonade. Like the glass that had crumbled in her own hand eight years earlier.
Dear God
.

Afternoon cicadas were singing outside. It sounded like a death mass. She smiled at the priest and drew the cool drink past her lips.

“Thank you.”

He sat across from her and said, “My pleasure.”

She crossed her legs. “So, who told you about the attack on our mission?”

He shrugged. “The mission board, I suppose—five years ago when I first arrived.”

“Did they mention the plantation next to the mission?”

He nodded, his smile now softening so she could barely see his white teeth. “They said the bandits were most likely after the fields there. The way I understood it, the mission was simply in the way.” He looked out the window with a faraway stare. “From what the Indians have told me, I think that must be right. They wanted the plantation for their drugs and took the mission with it. That's what happened from man's perspective anyway. It's hard to know what God had in mind.”

“And what have you heard about the plantation owners?” she asked, feeling sweat run down her blouse. “The Richtersons.”

“They were killed.” He looked at her. “As far as I was told, no one survived. In fact, I only learned of your survival from Helen, several years ago. I knew Helen's husband. He was with some soldiers who came to our village in World War II. His leader killed a girl I knew very well. Nadia. Perhaps Helen told you about Nadia.”