Unacceptable Risk (12 page)

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 regulars 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 depended 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 temporary 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 motivated 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 hunting 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 retreated farther from the fire and squatted, watching and waiting. 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 directions 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 explained nothing about the source of this strange instinct.

Michael pulled out the GPS. He could only get one satellite 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 hammocks, 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 looking 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 shoulder. 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 continued 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 firelight, where the man stumbled to the ground, his face pouring 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."