THE AMAZON RIVER, 45 KILOMETERS EAST OF THE BLACK WATER TRIBUTARY
The helicopter had rendezvoused with Mendez, Farbeaux, and the crew of the charter boat Rio Madonna. Her captain had maneuvered the large tencabin river tug with precision, to receive the chopper’s passengers. The first had been Captain Juan Rosolo, a man that Henri Farbeaux despised as an ambush killer of the lowest order, and the men that followed him onto the deck were probably no better. This development was most unsettling, but it was also one that Farbeaux had made allowances for.
Rosolo reported immediately to Mendez and the two had conversed in loud tones, enough so that Farbeaux knew Rosolo had failed his master in some capacity or other. Mendez, with all the delicateness of a wrecking ball, had spewed forth a list of his favorite profanities. Farbeaux was content to stay at the bow of the boat and keep out of it. He still heard the approach of Rosolo as the captain came forward after his browbeating by Mendez.
“What is it, watchdog?” Farbeaux said without turning to face the man.
“Do not call me that name, señor. My employer would like to see you at the stern,” Rosolo said with a sneer.
Farbeaux watched the deep waters of the flowing Amazon for a moment longer before he turned and brushed past Rosolo.
The river pilot, Captain Ernesto Santos, gave a quick two-fingered salute to the Frenchman as he walked past the bridge. This captain seemed to know his business. His reputation and self-proclamation of knowing every inch of the Amazon were known to all onboard. He said he and his family had plied the river for generations.
But when their destination was finally revealed to him after they had set off, the scraggly bearded captain had grown quiet and sullen. He had protested in vain that the Rio Negro had no such inlet at that point of the river, that the only way in was several hundred kilometers to the east, and even that was only navigatable during the wet season. The argument didn’t last long when he was presented with his overly large charter fee in cash.
Farbeaux maneuvered to the small fantail, where Mendez was waiting. Rosolo came up from behind and lightly brushed by him, obviously returning the gesture for Henri’s brushing him a moment before. Farbeaux ignored Rosolo and sat at the small table where Mendez was examining some photographs.
“Ah, Henri, our friend here has brought with him from the States some rather disturbing news. As you know, we had Professor Zachary’s office monitored. And we had some fish wander into our net.” He slid a picture of Danielle toward Farbeaux. The Frenchman merely glanced at the picture, and then he looked at Mendez, who slid another eight-by-ten glossy toward him. “She was accompanied by this man,” he said, watching him for a reaction. He wasn’t disappointed; Farbeaux reached immediately for the second photo.
“The man in the tunnels,” he said under his breath.
“Excuse me?” Mendez said, leaning forward.
Farbeaux stared at the picture for a moment longer and then let it fall to the table. “Last year I ran into this gentleman in an unusual situation in the American desert; I believe his name is Everett.”
“Lieutenant Commander Carl Everett, of the U.S. Navy, to be more precise,” Rosolo insisted. “I was unable to uncover his current duties or station, but it is a matter of closed naval records that he was once a SEAL, and a highly decorated one,” he said, watching the tall Frenchman closely.
“I believe he is on detached service from the military. He works for what is best described as a think tank. The military is where the organization gets all of its security people, and they only surround themselves with the best.” He turned his eyes toward Rosolo. “And you, watchdog, if you truly knew anything about the special operations units of the American navy, you would know that a man is never a former SEAL, he is a SEAL.”
“Regardless of semantics, this is upsetting at the very least, is it not, Henri?” Mendez asked as he brought out more pictures and shoved them toward Farbeaux.
“These were taken at a national park in Montana. Do you recognize any of these people?” Rosolo probed.
Farbeaux looked the four photos over. They were grainy and taken from a distance with a telephoto lens through the glass windows of a vehicle.
“I have never seen these two before,” he said. His eyes lingered on the close-up of Mendenhall. “But this one here,” he slid a photo of the black sergeant back toward Mendez, “may work with the SEAL, Everett.”
“Then the puzzle fits together. Our friend Señor Rosolo overheard a conversation Everett had with a second party on a secured and scrambled phone, that these people would be in Montana searching for the map of Padilla. To make a long story short, Rosolo attempted to stop them from recovering something that would lead them here and, I am sorry to say, he failed miserably, only managing to kill two federal park employees. And he was still unable to recover or destroy the map.” Mendez’s eyes looked directly at his assassin.
“They found the map?”
“We must assume they have, and they will undoubtedly act upon it,” Mendez said, slapping his hand on the tabletop angrily.
“The organization in question is rather tenacious when it comes to getting at the heart of any matter. I have learned through experience that their resources are astounding and their pockets very deep, even deeper than yours.”
“Well, they seem to be everything you admire about them. I came very close to ordering a hit on your ex-wife and their big man in New Orleans. But what sense would there be in closing the gate after your dog has already run away?”
Farbeaux closed his eyes and forced himself to relax. He slowly pulled out a chair from the table and sat down.
“I will state this very clearly to both of you. No one is to ever lay a hand on Danielle. Do I make myself clearly understood?” His blue eyes never flinched. His gaze froze Rosolo, after the killer had quickly rose from his seat to stare at Farbeaux after his not-so-veiled threat to his boss.
“Is that so?” Mendez asked.
Farbeaux leaned back in his chair. “It is I who will end her life, not you, and most certainly not him,” he said, nodding toward Rosolo.
“Let us hope it is after this excursion, so you may be allowed to take your time with this troublesome woman, which is a husband’s right, yes?” Mendez said, trying to break the tension he had created.
“If I know these people, they may already be on their way here. Of course, your security chief here would know that, if he would have stayed and done the job you pay him for, instead of showing up here in the one place on this planet where he is clearly not needed.”
“It will take those people weeks to gather the means to follow us here. They will not be coming anytime soon!” Rosolo argued. “And I go where I am told to go, and I was told to come here.”
Farbeaux lightly shook his head. Then he felt the gentle vibration under his feet first, as it traveled all the way up to his arms long before the sound reached his ears. He saw the concerned looks on the faces of the two Colombians. It would have been comical if he himself didn’t have so much riding on the line.
“You’d better tell the captain to throttle this boat into a faster speed and get this expedition to our destination, because we are about to have company. A lot of company,” Farbeaux said, standing. “And if I were you,” he added, looking at Mendez, “I would fire this fool for incompetence, because the people he pronounced so proudly weren’t coming anytime soon have just arrived.” The Frenchman looked skyward and then easily backed under the bridge decking and out of sight.
Captain Santos, to his credit (or the instincts needed by a smuggler and gunrunner), quickly maneuvered the large boat under the overhanging canopy and expertly sliced the bow into the mud, effectively bringing the boat to a harsh stop and hiding her at the same time from any eyes that could spy them from above.
The quiet river was rocked by the sound of helicopters as they flew high overhead. Through the thick trees that crowded the riverbank, Farbeaux could see cargo of some kind hanging from cables attached to the gray-colored choppers. As he watched, he could see the words united states marine corps stenciled in darker gray paint on their rotor booms. The eleven helicopters were followed by two strange-looking craft that screeched over the flowing Amazon. The MV-22 Ospreys shook the jungle as they roared past with their famed tilt rotors in the three-quarter position that supplied them with speed greater than that of any helicopter in the world. The Frenchman noticed the fact that they were traveling low to the ground, possibly meaning they had to stay below radar. Indicating the intruders might not have official clearance to be in Brazil.
But nonetheless, the Event Group was indeed here, and Henri Farbeaux helplessly watched their arrival from the shadows.