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Wednesday April 21 2004
La Jolla
A gentle tapping on the door of Lynch's basement office brought his eyes up from his laptop screen. The door opened just wide enough for Anna to stick her head in. "Call, sir. Mrs. MacArthur, on my phone."
"Your phone?"
"Apparently it's the only one of our numbers she has." The little cyber's eyes weren't quite accusing.
"Is she all right?"
"We didn't speak past some short pleasantries before she asked for you. There are mild stress indicators in her voice, but she seems cheerful. She exhibited similar ones on the call before last."
"Pain," he said. "She's always in pain. The meds work better some days than others. Any of the kids here?"
"All but Caitlin. Though I'm certain the girls are making plans to go somewhere." She said slowly, "Is that an issue?"
"Not really. I don't know why I asked."
"Do you want me to transfer the call?"
"No. Bring yours here, will you?"
While his housekeeper fetched her phone, Lynch closed his laptop and set his work aside, clearing his thoughts as well as his desk. Caroline Macarthur was a person who deserved his whole attention.
John Lynch had known the woman waiting on the phone for thirty years. It was her foundation that had launched and still largely sustained the university that bore her husband's name; as the University's matriarch, she had convinced the Board to accept Lynch's five charges into its classrooms, no questions asked, just a month before the end of spring classes. She shared many of his secrets, and he considered her part of his small circle of true friends, someone he trusted with his life. And, like many people he knew and cared about, she was a burden on his conscience.
He took the phone from Anna's fingers. When she moved toward the door, he gestured her to stay; she sat in the chair opposite his desk, watching him.
"Caroline," he said into the phone. "How are you? I meant to call before now, but…"
"But you were busy."
"It's a thin excuse, I know. You're busy too, but you always find time for me."
"I'm only as busy as I want to be, Jack. You're as busy as you're compelled to be. Knowing you, I doubt you'll ever allow yourself much time for socializing." Her voice was hoarse and scratchy, an old woman's voice. No one hearing it would guess that she was two years younger than Lynch. Hearing it freshened his guilt.
He said, "Thank you for helping me get the kids into school." He hadn't told her who the five teenagers suddenly in his keeping were, or why he needed to find them a school years past their customary level of education. Caroline knew only that he felt bound to help them, and that was enough.
"It wasn't a hard sell. Their scores on the entrance exam made it easy to pretend that the endowment that came with them had nothing to do with it. Who are they, Jack, can you say?"
"Most of them are children of former coworkers. The work we did together is classified." Over their years as friends, Lynch had told Caroline as little as possible about his employers and what he did, but she knew what sort of work he was good at, and that his employer was the sort of organization that men like him seldom retired from. "I'm trying to give them a normal life, one that isn't tainted by what their fathers and I do – have done. But the outfit we belonged to will try to recruit them, if I don't keep them below the radar and out of sight."
"I won't pry. But don't think I won't check in on them, the Board will expect it. And that's actually the reason I called. I can't call their records up on the school database, at least not from home. Is that your doing somehow?"
"Yes." His brows gathered. "You have access to school records?"
"I'm honorary faculty. Still have my teaching credentials even, though I haven't set foot in a classroom in years. It's not a privilege I exercise often, but I wanted to see how they're doing."
"They're settling in really well," he said. "Breezing through their classes – no offense to your curriculum-"
"None taken. I know the school is good. But your kids are exceptional students."
"They're special," he agreed. "They're making friends and developing healthy interests outside of classes. In all, I'd say they're doing very well."
"A normal life." Her voice warmed and softened. "I'm sure having a family again will do you good too."
"What's young James doing these days?" Caroline knew that he had been married and had a child, and knew how he had lost them both. But she didn't know that he had recovered his son. Time to change the subject, he thought. And besides, he really did want news of Caroline's boy.
"Still trying to save the rainforest. Brazil again, compiling a survey of clearcutting operations and their effect on the ecosystem. It seems some of the operators are underreporting the number of hectares they're clearing."
"Imagine that," he said. "Sounds like a big job."
"It's an impossible job. He couldn't do it with ten times the crew he hired. And it's a pointless job besides. We have satellites that survey land far more cheaply and accurately. It isn't as if they can hide what they're doing. But no one who matters is reading the reports. People have been sounding the alarm about deforestation in the Amazon basin for decades, and it just keeps accelerating. There are no laws against it in most countries – it's practically a part of Brazil's economic policy these days. There's just too much export income to be had by turning all that fertile soil into grazing and farmland." She said, "We both know the real reason he's out there."
"Caroline, he's not going to find out what happened to his father. To be tactless, there wasn't much chance back when we went there together thirty years ago."
"You found what you were looking for though, didn't you? That was the reason you joined our expedition in Manaus."
His grip tightened on the phone. "I'm sorry," he said. "For what happened to you, and for not being able to even tell you why."
"Dear man, stop torturing yourself. We would still have run into those people up the Solimões if you hadn't been with us. But we wouldn't have come back, would we? You saved us, Jack."
"Not entirely," he said softly.
"You could only rescue one of us at a time," she said. "You took James first because you knew I'd insist on it. I have never doubted for one second that you came back for me as quickly as you possibly could." She went on, "You saved our lives. And my son is whole and sound. All because of you. That boy adores you, you know. He'd do anything for you. And so would I."
It had been one of his first jobs for the CIA after he had been cashiered from the Army. The Agency had learned that a group of people – mostly middle-aged whites who spoke Portugese with French and German accents, according to its source – with no known connections to any government or institution, was conducting medical research of some sort in the Brazilian jungle.
Such a datum would scarcely have seemed worth filing, to an organization that assassinated national leaders, fielded its own armies for secret invasions in foreign lands, designed its own aircraft and raised sunken submarines off the ocean floor. The Amazon was the Earth's treasure house of biodiversity, and the source of a great many discoveries in the fields of medicine and biology. There were always government agencies, pure research groups, and medical industry representatives doing work there. A privately-funded group looking for a lucrative breakthrough or support for some rich man's pet theory didn't seem entirely out of place.
But another informant in Germany had passed on rumors that left-wing terrorist groups in Europe, from Baader-Meinhof to the Red Brigade, had been approached by a weapons broker claiming to represent a 'vendor' developing new and unique bioweapons. That had raised the Company's interest level enough to send someone to look over the Brazil operation.
That 'someone' had been John Lynch, until recently a lieutenant in the US Army's Fifth Special Operations Group in Vietnam. He had been chosen, he was told, for his 'prior experience with the terrain and environment.' Apparently to the Ivy League types who ran the Agency at the time, one jungle was the same as another. He did have a smattering of Spanish, which might or might not come in useful in a country that mainly spoke Portugese. He had also been chosen, he was sure, because he had a record of aptitude for independent action, and had shown a readiness to get his hands dirty.
And, not least, because it was a shit assignment, the sort almost always dropped on the new fish while the older hands pursued work more likely to produce results – and rungs on the career ladder. He had gone to South America with little preparation and the sketchiest of covers to have a look around and report back – if he could.
In Manaus, a city at the confluence of the Amazon and Rio Negro rivers, he had had a large stroke of luck. A private expedition was staging there, headed in the direction he wanted to go. Such outfits were usually less tight about credentials and references than officially-sponsored ones, and this group was still hiring, looking for a few 'two-handed' men to augment the unusually large band of mercs and rough customers providing security. It seemed that the expedition's leader had heard stories of trouble upriver, and was minimizing his risks.
The expedition was essentially a rescue mission, sponsored by a young heiress searching for her husband, who had gone missing in the jungle months before. Lynch had figured that, if the man's trail led in the direction of the people the Agency was looking for, it would likely end when it reached them.
Common sense had dictated that Lynch stay under the radar and be as inconspicuous as possible, in case this was more than a wild goose chase and his targets were smart enough to have eyes and ears here. He had intended to sign on to the expedition as a hired hand and extra muscle, and then lose himself among the veteran operators and tough guys being brought along along for 'protective services.' Such 'just in case' hirelings would likely have plenty of free time, at least until the shooting started; when they reached the reported vicinity of the mad scientists, he'd ease quietly out of camp for a look, and hopefully return before anyone knew he was gone.
That plan had gone south the first day, before they even boarded the barge that would take them upriver.
"When we met at the dock, I could feel the disapproval coming off you in waves." Caroline's voice was warm with amusement.
"I knew you were sponsoring the expedition," he said. "I wasn't expecting you to be leading it. And I really wasn't expecting to see a ten-year-old at your elbow. It made sense of all the extra muscle, but…"
"But it seemed a foolish risk, and you were sure we'd be complete dead weight. A pampered heiress coming to play in the jungle in her Rodeo Drive safari outfit, with her spoiled brat getting in trouble the whole trip."
"For a minute," he admitted. "Before I found out that all the extra gear you were packing was research equipment, not creature comforts. I was more than a little surprised to learn that you had a doctorate in plant biology. And then I spoke with Jimmy. He was the most responsible ten-year-old I've ever met."
"His father's doing, as I've told you before. I wish you could have met him."
He was probably crocodile food before you went looking for him, he thought but didn't say. Professor James MacArthur, a well-known ecologist and environmental investigator, had gone up the Solimões with a small research party and abruptly disappeared, with all of his companions. Caroline's hopes of finding her husband alive had ended with her expedition, but she and her son still clung to the possibility that they might someday find his remains, or at least a clue to what had become of him. To Lynch, the fate of Professor MacArthur seemed obvious: they had followed his trail practically to the terrorists' doorstep, after all. Her own treatment at their hands should have made it brutally clear what had happened to her husband.
"You upset a few assumptions for me too, you know. The last thing I expected from one of my hired guns was an intelligent discussion about pollination or the chlorophyll cycle. The help you gave me answering that boy's questions was a godsend."
"You were good for me too," he said quietly. "Both of you. You…" He paused. "Being around you two made me think … I'd like to have a family of my own someday." And I ended up serving my real family as shabbily as I did my surrogate one.
Monday December 16 1974
Brazil, Javary River 100km east of the Colombian border
Lynch pressed the boy down almost to the ground and touched a finger to his lips, urging quiet. From inside the small cavity at the center of the piled-up crates, they could hear voices – orders, protests, shouts, screams – against a background of engine noises and an occasional shot. Lynch carefully wrestled a small case into their entrance, closing it off and taking most of the light, reducing the little space to twilight.
"What's happening?" Jimmy whispered, eyes huge. "Where's Mom?"
"I don't know," he whispered back. "This was already happening when I got back into camp."
"Why did you leave the camp?"
"I was looking for something." He crawled on his elbows, gently bumping the crates above him, to a narrow crack between the boxed pallets that offered a glimpse of the camp. Keeping his chin almost on the ground, he peered through the slit, which gave him a view of one of the six-wheeled, canvas-topped trucks in which the raiders had arrived. The vehicle's drop gate was down, and armed men in a mix of military garb were herding camp folk into the back, none too gently. His jaw clenched when he recognized the gargantuan man standing by the truck, rifle in hand: Helmut, one of Caroline's mercs. Guess he got a better offer. Or else he was on their payroll all along. That explains how the bastards took the camp almost without a fight.
The turncoat standing by the truck grinned as two men dragged Caroline into view, gripping her wrists and stretching her arms wide as they pulled her toward the back of the vehicle. She struggled, teeth bared, trying to jerk free of one of her captors as she kicked at him. Helmut laughed. He came up behind her and dropped a slip-knotted rope around her neck, pulling it up so tight she nearly came off her feet. Lynch's fist clenched and softly beat the ground as he watched her struggles weaken. After a few moments, she sagged in her captors' grip, unconscious or nearly so, and the big merc removed the rope around her neck and used it to tie her wrists and ankles together behind her. Helmut lifted her off the ground by the rope as if she was a suitcase and loaded her into the truck, and she disappeared from Lynch's view. The other guards raised the gate and latched it, then beat on the side of the truck. The vehicle pulled away.
"Do you see her?" Jimmy said, crowding up behind him in an attempt to see.
"No," Lynch said, shifting to keep him away from the slit. "Keep quiet. We'll wait for them to clear out before we move. If they haven't holed the boats, we'll head back downriver to that trading post."
"Jack. We gotta find my mom!"
"If she got away, that's where we'll find her," he said, trying to sound patient and reasonable. "If not, I'll come back for her."
"If we don't follow them, how will you ever find them again?"
"I already know where they're going."
The boy thought for a second. "Let's make sure they don't have her then, before we go all the way back."
Lynch looked back into James's anxious face. "Jimmy, do you trust me?" At the boy's nod, he went on, "I'm sure I can get into their camp undetected. Once. But only if I'm by myself. I can't take you with me." When the boy started to protest he said, "I know you're not a little boy. But you've got no experience and no fieldcraft. If I have to split my attention trying to keep you safe, we'll both be caught."
"Then leave me here. I'll stay out of sight right here. There's plenty of food and water. I-"
"No. Just because they didn't take all these supplies with them doesn't mean they won't come back for them. The stuff in these crates is useful. And if they think they've captured everyone, they probably want to make this camp disappear anyway. But their trucks were all full of captives. If I were them, I'd offload, secure the prisoners, and come straight back here."
The kid mulled it over, his face getting grimmer as he thought it through. "How soon can we go then?"
"Give it a few more minutes. I want to be sure they've all left, and I can't see much from in here."
They waited considerably more than a few minutes, ears straining for any hint of someone nearby. Finally Lynch removed the box blocking their exit and eased his head out. The only person in sight lay motionless on the ground: from the clothing, one of Caroline's guards. "All right," he said in a low voice. "Let's go, straight to the river. Walk, don't run, stay quiet and keep your eyes moving."
They stepped cautiously through the trees, which at their landing spot extended nearly to the water. Behind Lynch, the boy asked in a low voice, "How long will it take?"
"If one of the launches is okay, we'll make it to the trading post by sundown – they can go a lot faster without the barge, and we'll be going downriver besides. I turn around right away, I'll be back here by sundown tomorrow."
"What if they're gone? Can we take the barge?"
"The two of us could probably handle it, but it'll be slower. Maybe an extra day." They were approaching the treeline; Lynch slowed and crouched low. Carefully he parted the brush, as little as he could and still see. He surveyed the beach and huffed softly in exasperation.
"What is it?" The boy said, pushing past.
Lynch caught Jimmy's arm just before he burst into the trees. "Easy. Me first."
The big flatbed barge that had carried most of their people and equipment upriver was no longer anchored in the middle of the waterway. Someone had run it full throttle onto the beach, and it now lay with its forward half resting on the sand at a ten-degree angle. Lynch was sure it would take twenty men to push and lever it back into the water. The two twenty-foot open outboards they had used to shuttle gear and personnel to shore lay in the water nearby, sunken to their gunwales.
James came up behind. "How long?"
"To walk to the trading post?"
"We can't do anything with the boats?"
"We'll never get the barge off the beach. And I'm sure the launches sank for a reason. There'll be holes in the bottoms bigger than we can fix, guaranteed."
"We've got rope. Maybe we can rig a block and tackle-"
"Jimmy," he said, "we don't have that kind of time. They're coming back, and they'll want to offload the rest of the supplies – it's why they beached it instead of sinking it in the river. When they do, we have to be gone."
"Maybe they left a radio aboard."
"There's only one with the range to reach anyone but our attackers. It's built into the control panel in the pilot house. Do you think they missed it?" He put a palm between the boy's shoulder blades, urging him toward the barge. "Let's grab whatever we can use and get out of here. Don't take anything that will tell them we've been here."
"How long?" The boy asked again, as they rummaged through lockers.
"Three days, at a guess." Lynch's true estimate was closer to five, but he was afraid the boy would balk at such a delay. "The trip back will be quicker, because I'll be traveling alone."
James MacArthur studied Lynch's face. "I'll go to the trading post by myself. You go after Mom."
"Your mother would kill me," Lynch said. "Seriously, she would. Especially if she's waiting there when you come in."
"You really think she got away?"
"They scuttled those boats instead of beaching them. That means that they think someone might have gotten away. That's a hopeful sign."
They reached the trading post six days later, traveling twenty hours a day. The last half day, Lynch had carried the exhausted child on his back. No one from the expedition had arrived there before them, and Lynch doubted anyone would arrive after. He told the story to the man running the place, who reported it on his radio. "They'll send someone to investigate," said the proprietor. "Probably no more than a day. They'll want to question you before they decide what to do."
"They can talk to you." Lynch refilled his pack with food and medical supplies from the shelves. "I'll pay you for all this when I'm back."
"You're going back? Now?" The shopkeeper said, incredulous. "You've been walking through the jungle for nearly a week, man. You've only been here half an hour."
"I may already be too late." He glanced at the door to the back storeroom, where Caroline's child lay sleeping. "Take care of him." He slung his rifle on his shoulder and headed out the front door.
Three days later, he was at the mad scientists' camp. Slipping in was easier than he had expected: most of the camp's population, including its 'security' people, were away, leaving the place sparsely guarded. Were they tidying up the expedition's landing site? No, he thought. Helmut might not have provided an exact tally of camp personnel, but he would certainly have told his new masters about the boy. There would be no point in erasing the expedition's camp if they weren't certain no one had escaped. More likely, they were preparing to dismantle their own camp and move it, probably even farther upriver, over the border into Colombia. In which case Caroline, even if she was still alive, might already be gone.
He cautiously explored the buildings. Most were rude structures made from green lumber milled from the surrounding forest, but a few were prefabs, much more solidly built. One windowless, block-walled building looked like it might be airtight. That would be the lab, he surmised. God, let her not be in there. Let me find her in a cell in one of the outbuildings. But a search of the prefabs turned up only one building containing cells, and they were all empty, though they looked recently occupied.
He wiped the blade of his knife on the shirt of the guard who had come upon him while he was looking the place over, and dragged the body into one of the cells. Too bad it wasn't Helmut. He took a deep breath and steeled himself to enter the lab, and face whatever he found.
What he found was mostly bare walls and empty space; as he had suspected, the group was in the middle of a move. The place had a well-remembered field-hospital smell: chemicals, sickness, blood and death. His gut tightened. The terrorists had taken captive at least twenty people from the search party, including Caroline. What would they do with so many captives when they moved? Take them along, or dispose of them? Why hadn't they simply killed everyone in the first place, instead of transporting them? Had they even brought them here, or had their journey ended somewhere in the jungle?
A door in front of Lynch opened, and a man in a one-piece garment like painters' disposable coveralls stepped out. The man didn't recognize the person in the corridor as an intruder before Lynch's left forearm was against his throat, pinning him to the wall.
"Anyone else here?" Lynch said in a voice as low as a whisper.
His captive made a tiny sideways motion with his head, his eyes large as golf balls and locked on his assailant's face.
"The woman. Where is she?"
The man made a choking sound, rolling his eyes toward the door he had just come through.
"There?"
The man nodded.
"Alive?"
After a moment's hesitation, another nod.
Lynch dropped his arm and immediately drove his right fist into the man's throat – inelegant but effective, and very satisfying. He left his victim on his knees, making gagging sounds and clutching his throat with both hands.
Beyond the door was a lab, cluttered with equipment and cabinets. Its central furnishing was something resembling a dentist's chair – if a dentist's chair were fitted with restraints and poseable locking extensions for the subject's legs and arms. No one was in the room, but at the back of the lab, Lynch found a steel door with a square window at head height. With a hand on the knob, he peeked through the window.
The room on the other side of the door wasn't a cell, but a large storeroom, which contained a double row of cages, not quite tall enough to stand up in, flanking a central aisle. Only one, the farthest from the door, was occupied. Lynch wrenched the knob and hurried in.
The other cages were empty, but not all of them were clean. The room stank of vomit and blood. In the farthest cell, on a rough-looking blanket, Caroline lay on her side facing him, her eyes cloudy and unseeing. She wore only bra and panties, the garments stained and abraded. Her neck, waist, wrists and ankles were chafed and bruised. She moved only when he opened the cage door, looking up and blinking as awareness came into her eyes. "What-"
"Time to go." He reached down for her.
"No!" She scrambled back to the cage's back wall. "Don't!"
He saw her other injuries then, and a skewer pierced his heart. "Caroline, it's Jack. I'm not going to hurt you."
"Course you're not, you idiot," she said. "But whatever they gave me… it might be contagious."
His mouth went dry. "Gave you?"
"They strapped me to the table and put a mask over my face till I breathed it in. It smelled like cat pee," she added.
"Have they been feeding you?"
"They tried," she said. "They got tired of dodging the plates after a while."
"What were they wearing?"
"Scrubs. Sometimes white coveralls."
"They weren't worried about catching anything from you then." He beckoned. "Let's get out of here."
She crawled to the opening. "Where's Jimmy? You got him, didn't you?"
"He's safe," he said. "I'm sorry, I-"
"Oh thank God." She stood and wound her arms around him, holding him tightly.
He released a soft breath and spread a hand over the small of her back. "Where are the others?" He said into her ear.
"Dead," she said. She shivered. "I watched it. The other cages. They'd start shivering, then twitching, harder and harder till they were full-blown convulsions. So hard you could almost hear bones cracking. Throwing up till nothing but blood came out. It took half a day, start to end, hours of crying and misery… I've been waiting for my turn..."
"Sh." He stroked her matted hair. "Were you all dosed at the same time?"
"One right after the other. Then they put us in here, to watch one another die." She added, "The bastards would come in and stand at the cage door comparing notes before they dragged the body out. I hope they all die in a fire."
"You didn't all succumb at once then."
"No. Edward started almost as soon as we went into the cages. Severo was the last, he got the shivers yesterday. He was gone when I woke this morning."
"That sounds like graduated doses," he said. "Maybe yours was small enough not to have any effect."
"That would be nice," she said. "But I think it's still too soon for optimism, Jack. These people are monsters."
"Where are your clothes?"
She shrugged in his arms. "If they're still around, they're not fit to wear. I… didn't make it easy for them when they took them off."
He caught himself about to ask her why they had removed her clothing, and closed his mouth; she didn't need to relive any more of what she had been through just yet. "We'll find you something." He disentangled himself finally and led her by the hand to the door. Her hand tightened on his when they entered the lab and she saw the exam chair.
In a cabinet, he found shelves holding coveralls in various sizes. He picked out the smallest and presented it to her. "Protection and disguise both," he said.
"Better than tramping through the jungle in my unmentionables," she said, reaching for them. "There aren't any shoes, are there? Seven and a half, if you've got."
"Don't think so. What size is that in men's?"
"I don't know. Smaller, certainly."
"Maybe we can stuff a pair with paper." He contemplated the coming trek. The authorities might send someone upriver in time to meet them on the way back, but he couldn't count on it. How long would it take them to reach the trading post, with Caroline in ill-fitting footwear and weak from her captivity and days without food? What if the crap they had dosed her with had some adverse affect on her health or stamina? Would the raiders pursue them?
Hell, they might not even make it out of the camp. It was hard to believe that the enemy had left so few people to watch over their remaining goods and their experiments, but even if they had, surely a party would be returning from their new camp to move them out. He and Caroline needed to be gone, and soon.
Caroline was looking at him. "You shouldn't have come back."
"Not an option," he said. He tugged at her upper arm. "There are some shoes just outside the door."
The man Lynch had left in the corridor was now still, lying curled up on his side, a small pool of blood from his mouth staining the concrete under his chin; the girl hesitated only a moment before bending down to remove his shoes. "Does he have anything else we might need, do you think?"
"I don't know," he said, watching her pull the oversize footwear on and pull the laces tight before tying them. "I didn't search him."
Caroline went through the man's pockets, producing cigarettes and a lighter, a pocketknife, and a key. She held the last item up. "This looks like a vehicle key."
"The only road out of here isn't one we dare travel in a vehicle."
She dropped it. "What else do we need? Food, water?"
"I've got some, in a pack outside the fence," he said, dragging the body into the lab and shutting the door. There was a smear of red on the hallway floor, but not as likely to raise an alarm as a body in the hall. He beckoned Caroline down the corridor and drew his pistol. "We'll pick up more on the way if we come across it, but we're not going to waste time looking."
Outside the building, they spied another man, this one in hunting garb and carrying a slung rifle, walking a desultory patrol through the grounds; rather than take him out and risk raising an alarm, Lynch and Caroline hid and let him pass by and move out of sight before proceeding. They made it through the gate without encountering anyone else. The place must be running on a real skeleton crew, Lynch thought. But if guards were wandering the entire grounds and buildings, then before long someone would come across one of the bodies.
As soon as he reached his pack, Lynch dug out a jerky strip and his canteen and offered them to Caroline. "Eat. Hydrate. I need you strong. This is no easy trip we're starting."
She reached for them eagerly, savoring her first bite of the tough dried meat as if it were filet mignon. Still chewing, she poured the canteen into her mouth, letting a dribble run down her chin to wet her collar. "God."
"Easy," he said. "Go slow at first, you'll get sick."
"Right." She capped the water and put the remaining jerky in the breast pocket of the coveralls. "What's next?"
"To the river. We'll take the road for a bit, but be ready to jump into the brush if you hear anything that sounds like people."
She nodded, and they set off. Walking close behind him, the girl said in a low voice, "Did anyone else get away?"
"Just me and Jimmy, so far as I know."
"There are four or five men unaccounted for then," she said. "All security people."
"At least one is still at the camp, dead," Lynch said. "I don't know which one. Who suggested we land at this spot?" The terrorists' very own beachhead, with a road connecting it to their camp.
"Helmut," she said. "I saw him later, with the raiders. Maybe the others are too. I didn't hear a shot until the bastardos were already in the camp rounding people up." After a few more steps she said, "Where were you?"
"Out of the camp, looking around," he said. "I should have been there."
"If you had, you might have woken up with a gun in your face," she said. "I think they … prioritized the men they thought might put up a fight. I'm sure I didn't see any of them in the lab."
On Lynch's return from his early-morning scouting expedition, he had heard the sound of shots, deliberate and spaced, from inside the perimeter, prompting caution and stealth as he slipped back into camp to find Jimmy and Caroline. "I think you're right."
"God," she said heavily. "I should never have hired them."
How like her, he thought, to be worried about others when her own situation was still so dire. "If you hadn't, I wouldn't be here."
She gave him no answer. A minute later, he gestured for a halt and beckoned her into the brush. Once enclosed by the foliage he leaned close and said, "Quiet now. We're almost there. I want a good look before we're out of cover." She nodded and followed him through the thick greenery.
While they walked, Lynch continually stole backward glances at his companion. Caroline was game as any person he had ever known, but her ordeals of the past week were showing: two hours on the road, and she was already stumbling over undergrowth, head drooping. In half a day, her feet would be bleeding in her too-large shoes, slowing her further.
And there might be another reason for her to find walking painful.
When she had scrambled away from him in the cage, Lynch had seen the deep heavy bruises above and below her navel, bruises that looked to be the work of a large fist. They might have been part of the rough handling she had received as an uncooperative guinea pig. But in the Army in Vietnam, Lynch had seen bruises like those before, and always on young women. They were the trademark of soldiers with a taste for rape, a means of quieting the victim prior to the act: it was hard to struggle or cry for help when you couldn't draw breath and your lower body was half paralyzed from sudden sciatic trauma.
The thought made him grind his teeth, but there was nothing he could do for her right now but urge her on. Caroline was not a large woman, but she wasn't a ten-year-old child either. Carrying her through the jungle wasn't an option, especially not if they were being pursued. His heart sank as he contemplated their chances. Then he shrugged and put the thoughts aside. He was committed. The job would be done or he would die trying.
They approached the expedition's campsite, and Lynch motioned her to stay down and still: she was far more likely to be spotted in her white jumpsuit than he was in his stained khakis. He crept through the jungle and looked out to see half a dozen men going through the crates and the tents, piling up items on a small trailer hooked up to a jeep. But when the little flatbed was full, they didn't head back to their base; instead, they took them in the opposite direction, down toward the river. Apparently they were evacuating by water. A spark of hope kindled.
He returned to his hidden companion. He crouched to bring their faces close. "They have a boat," he told her, voice low. "A big one, by the load they're taking to it. Maybe they got the barge off the beach. If it's guarded lightly enough-"
"Jack. Don't throw yourself away on something foolhardy on my account."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
"I've been watching you watching me, Jack Lynch. Would you even be considering this move if you didn't know I can hardly walk?"
"Absolutely," he said. "I know they scuttled our other boats. The barge may be all they've got that floats. If we have just a little head start, they'll never catch us on foot through the jungle."
She studied him a moment. "All right. What do we do next?"
"Head for the river." He settled the pack more securely on his shoulders. "Right now, our 'plan' is no more than an idea. We need information."
"And if we can't take the barge?"
He sighed softly. "Now I see where Jimmy gets it from." When she smiled, he went on, "Then it's back to Plan A. We head downriver on foot, staying as elusive as we can, and hope we meet a government party headed upriver before the bad guys catch us." He stood, waiting.
Caroline rose and turned toward the unseen river. "If I were with anyone else right now, I'd say, 'Shoot me before you let them take me.' But I want to hold my boy again. And if there's anyone who can figure a way to escape if we're caught, it's you."
He turned away, feeling simultaneously uneasy yet strangely buoyed by the woman's faith. He led off through the trees, stepping carefully, until men's voices ahead and the sounds of other activity told them they were near their target. Again, Lynch motioned his companion down and crept forward until he could see through the brush.
They were loading the barge. The big flat-bottomed vessel no longer lay beached with its nose resting on the bank. It rested almost entirely in the water, comfortably side-on to the water's edge, pointing upstream, lines fore and aft secured to trees holding it fast. The jeep and flatbed stood at the base of a ramp fashioned from scavenged lumber leading up to the stern. Men, burdened with crates and other items, made their way up the makeshift ramp to deposit their goods in the open area aft, then went down for more. A man, rifle in hand, stood sentry atop the wheelhouse. Another stood at the bow smoking, as far from the manual labor at the ramp as he could get: Helmut.
Lynch watched for a bit longer, looking for more people crewing the barge, but saw no one. He returned to his companion and described the scene. "I'll go aboard right after the salvage team leaves for another load. With luck, we'll be gone before they're back. otherwise, I'll hold them off with rifle fire while you pilot the boat downriver."
"How will you deal with the men running the boat?"
"By surprise. I'll board from the water and take them one at a time." He laid down his rifle, shrugged out of his pack, slipped the pistol's holster from his belt, and sat to remove his shoes.. "I'll signal when it's safe to come aboard. Bring my stuff with you."
"You're going to swim to the other side?" Her brow creased. "Jack, what about the crocodiles?"
When they had first reached this odd little beach and its mysterious road, Jack and Caroline had been standing on the beach, watching the launches shuttle back and forth from the barge at anchor. Caroline had put a hand on his forearm and pointed: a long pebbled shape just above the surface of the water, gliding along the bank.
"I didn't think there were any crocs on the Amazon," he had said.
"There aren't." She had studied the creatures as the slid up on the opposite bank. "Big. By the size and color, and the shape of the head, they're Orinocos. Native to Colombia."
"Well, we're nearly there."
She had shaken her head. "Native to the Orinoco watershed, not here."
"Maybe they found a connection."
Or maybe, He now thought, they had been brought here to perform cleanup duty. He drew his knife, testing the draw, and sheathed it again. "If they don't bother me, I promise I won't hurt them."
He made his way through the trees, travelling upriver until a bend took the boat out of sight. Then he cautiously waded out into the muddy water. When it was neck-high, he began paddling slowly out into the center of the stream, where he judged the chance of meeting a hungry croc to be the least, and let the gentle current carry him slowly back to the boat.
When the vessel came into sight around the bend, he saw that his timing had been good: the jeep was gone, though he could still hear the fading sound of its motor. The top sentry was still in place, but watching the shore. Helmut was nowhere in sight. Still letting the current do most of the work, he angled toward the side of the boat farthest from shore. Soon he was so close that the man atop the wheelhouse was out of sight, and Lynch knew he was safe from notice unless the guard should walk to this side of the roof and look down. Helmut was still out of sight, which was worrisome, and he still had seen no sign of the men running the boat. But the side of the barge was nearly within reach, and Lynch had other things to worry about.
Getting aboard was easy enough. The sides of the flat-bottomed boat came no more than a yard out of the water, and the modest superstructure provided plenty of cover. He hung from the railing for a minute, feet pulled up out of the water, letting his clothing drain silently into the river; if he needed to ambush someone, it would be a bad idea to let him see a puddle on the deck first. He slithered over the rail, eyes everywhere, ears straining. Beneath him, a few drops fell to the wooden deck and immediately began to evaporate in the equatorial heat.
Top sentry first. He found the ladder at the back of the wheelhouse leading to the roof, ascended it cautiously, and peeked over. The sentry, facing half away, was sitting with his feet hanging over the side of the wheelhouse, smoking as he watched the road. Lynch hung from the side of the wheelhouse on the river side and traveled hand-over-hand until he was behind his target. Then he hauled himself silently up onto the roof.
The man sensed Lynch's approach somehow when he was two steps away. He turned, and Lynch rushed forward and drove his knife under the man's jaw. He dragged the body to the center of the roof, out of sight from below, and peered cautiously over its rim on all sides, looking for the others.
"Georg," came a good-natured voice from the bottom of the ladder. "Est's Rolf. Mahen Sie noch?"
Lynch grunted, not daring to speak. Green Beret training had included proficiency in several languages – not enough to reliably follow a conversation between two native speakers, but enough to make himself understood. But he didn't know what the dead sentry's voice was like.
"Grow up," The man below continued in German; Lynch could hear him slowly making his way up the ladder. "You lost the toss. You didn't miss out on all the loot. I brought you a plate. You wouldn't believe some of the treats these eggheads brought with them. We're going to be eating like kings for a while. I-" His head cleared the upper deck; he had just enough time to see that the man at the top of the ladder wasn't Georg before Lynch seized him by the collar of his shirt and hauled him up, throwing him to the roof. The plate skittered across the deck, scattering its contents.
Lynch knelt on the man's chest and brought his knife point an inch from his eye. "Quiet now," he said in German.
Rolf's eyes rolled toward Georg's still body, blood puddling under him. Lynch said, "He didn't want to be quiet. Where are the others?"
"They left to load the trailer," he said, eyes fixed on the knife. "It's just the three of us."
"Where is Helmut?"
"I don't know. Just walking around the boat, acting important."
He touched the point to the man's cheek, just below the eye. "Where is the woman?"
"Woman? The one with the strangers? Not here. I think they took her up to the camp with the others."
He pressed the point a little deeper into the captive's flesh. "You haven't seen her since she was taken?" If he had been the one, or one of them…
"I haven't been to the camp. I've been gone setting up the new place. Listen to me, I-"
"Shut up." He considered, then got off the man and pointed toward the offshore side of the boat with the knife. "Run and jump into the water. Swim for the far bank. Don't come back."
The man's eyes widened. "The noise will draw the crocodiles. I'll never make it to shore."
Lynch picked up the dead sentry's rifle and looked at the other man meaningfully. Rolf turned, sprinted for the riverside edge of the wheelhouse, and leaped. A second later, there was a loud splash. Lynch crouched and peered over the edge of the roof; surely the noise would bring Helmut to the rail. But as the man in the river churned his way toward the opposite shore, the barge remained as quiet and still as if Lynch was alone on the boat.
Rolf nearly made it; he actually reached the far bank. But as he stood out of the water and began to slog toward dry land, a long pebbled shape emerged from the water, closed its jaws around the man's leg, and dragged him back into the river. His shriek cut off as the water closed over his head. The surface churned and was still. And Helmut still didn't appear.
Lynch laid down the rifle; if he had to search for Helmut inside the boat, it wouldn't be much use. Silently, he eased down the ladder, drew his knife, and began his hunt, moving from cover to cover, eyes never still and ears straining, working his way toward the stern along the river side of the boat. He reached the piled crates looted from the campsite without finding anyone, and began to work his way to the front along the other side, giving occasional glances to the beachhead and listening for the return of the scavenging party. He was a third of the way back when he heard a heavy thump forward.
Had the sentry's body rolled off the roof somehow? Surely that noise would draw the turncoat, if he was actually on board. Moving as quickly as caution allowed, Lynch moved forward to the wheelhouse.
Lynch saw a large pair of booted feet toe-down on the deck just outside the door to the wheelhouse. Keeping his knife handy, he advanced cautiously until he could see inside.
It was Helmut. Caroline stood unsteadily with her butt against the control panel, looking down at her treasonous former employee. She held Lynch's rifle by the barrel, its blood-smeared stock resting on the deck. "I had to make the first one count," she said, as if to herself. "I would never have gotten another."
Lynch observed the deep crease in the side of the man's skull. "You made it count," he said. "He probably never knew what hit him. More's the pity."
"He's dead?" She said, unbelieving. "I, I never-"
"Of course you didn't," he said. "You want me to make sure?"
"Please."
"Point that rifle right at his head then." He sheathed his blade, bent over the traitor, and touched two fingers to his neck: nothing. "There's a pulse," he lied, and seized the body's collar. He dragged the big man out of the wheelhouse.
"Jack, what are you-"
He lifted, got Helmut's torso over the railing, and flipped the body into the water.
Behind him, she said, "Why did you do that?"
"Because he needed to die, Caroline. Both for what he did, and because we don't dare keep him aboard. But you didn't do it. I did."
She eyed him, clearly trying to decide whether to believe him. "'For what he did.'"
"I recognize those belly bruises," he said. "And it seemed to me that there was more than simple desperation in the strength of that buttstroke."
She looked out over the rail. Helmut's body was a dark bit of flotsam already a hundred yards downstream. Hopefully, Lynch thought, it would be sunk or eaten before they could pass it on their journey. "It happened the first day," she said, still looking out over the water. "He dragged me out of the cage and did it right in the storeroom, with all the other prisoners watching – the ones who weren't already too sick to notice. It was the wrong time of the month, at least, I don't have that to worry about." Finally, she turned to him and said, "What next?"
"Next, let's get this thing pointed downriver and get the hell out of here." Lynch turned back into the wheelhouse, Caroline following. He examined the control panel, and was surprised to find the radio lit and apparently functional. The fuel tank was a third full, which was ample for the trip back. "You fire up the diesel while I get the lines. Once we're safely away, we'll start making calls."
Once they were underway, he joined Caroline in the wheelhouse. He spelled her at the wheel so that she could clean up and change into her own clothes from the baggage at the stern. Half an hour later, she joined him, looking fresh and presentable, and his heart lifted somewhat.
"Jack," she said. What's the date? I've lost track."
He thought about it. Three days to the trading post, three more back... "My God. It's Christmas."
"Best one ever." She hugged his arm.
By late afternoon, things were looking pretty good, Lynch thought – as good as could be hoped for, given the situation. The beach was miles behind them, with no sign of pursuit; if the terrorists at the camp had been listening to his radio traffic, they would know that a platoon of Brazilian police was headed upriver – why didn't someone in the Brazilian government have a float chopper? - and they should be running for the Bolivian border. Lynch had even reached the trading post's shortwave, and Caroline and Jimmy had included him in a tearful exchange that had embarrassed Lynch and warmed him at the same time. The two groups would meet on the river just after dawn, he estimated, for a short debrief before continuing their separate ways. And by suppertime, mother and child would be on their way home, and he could report back to Langley. Perhaps they would arrange a little housewarming gift for the criminals setting up a new shop of horrors in the Columbian jungle, delivered by F4s out of Panama.
Lynch always felt uneasy when things started looking too good.
Caroline began shivering at sunset.
…
Wednesday April 21 2004
La Jolla
Lynch spent another ten minutes on the phone with Caroline MacArthur, speaking of inconsequential things with a person long accustomed to secrets and incomplete answers from him. He ended the conversation with a promise to visit soon, and they said warm goodbyes. He disconnected, and the feeling of warmth he always experienced from talking with her lingered for a moment before beginning to fade, smothered by the weight of his work. He held the phone in his hand for a moment, then placed it on the desk and slid it toward his seated housekeeper.
She picked it up and said, "It wouldn't have taken half a minute to come for it if you'd called."
"I'm sure. But since you were going to listen in anyway, I figured I'd keep you here and save the trouble."
Anna said carefully, "Sir, I believe that gathering as much data as possible helps me do my job better. But if you feel a need to withhold information, you only need to tell me."
"You can just decide not to hear? Just tune me out?"
"No, but I can auto-erase the file as soon as it saves. I'd remember that a conversation occurred, but not the content. It would be nearly the same thing."
"I think," he said slowly, "that your brain has suffered through enough tinkering. Just don't repeat what you hear."
The little gynoid nodded and stood. "Thank you, sir."
"Anna, one more thing. The man from Historic Preservation. Has he been back?"
"Just once, sir. It's taken care of."
"So he won't be coming around again?"
"Only if I call him. I have his number."
"I guess you do," he said. "How did you handle him?"
"I threatened to report him to his employers. And mine."
His eyebrows rose. "That's it?" To Lynch, it had seemed that the 'inspector' had been the sort who wouldn't take 'no' for an answer, unless it was delivered with considerable emphasis – a broken arm, possibly, or letting him watch his Corvette go up in flames.
"Pretty much."
"If he makes any more trouble for you-"
"I'll let you know, sir. But I'm not expecting it."
He nodded and raised his laptop screen. But his eyes followed her out the door until it closed.
AN: Yes, I know there are no crocodiles in the Amazon. I just couldn't help myself.