“No…no need. I was just checking in. Nothing more. I hope things go okay for you.” Betty had serious health issues and limped along from paycheck to paycheck, so Harry’s death would affect her more profoundly than most. She was highly competent but too long in the tooth for most to hire, and it would be rough finding another job that paid a living wage for her receptionist skills.
“Thanks, Drake. Please stay in touch.”
“Will do,” he said, knowing he wouldn’t. Everyone he came near seemed to be in mortal danger. No point adding poor Betty to the list.
The taxi arrived shortly after he hung up, and he asked the driver to take him to the San Jose airport. He jettisoned the phone outside the terminal and paid for his one-way ticket to San Diego in cash, relieved that he’d be there by nine o’clock at night. It had been years since he’d been in Tijuana on a hazy spring break during his college days, but he suspected it hadn’t changed much and that there would be plenty of foot traffic crossing over from the U.S. for the evening’s festivities.
Once across the border, a beat-up taxi took him to the airport, but there were no more flights to Mexico City until the next day. He booked one departing at ten o’clock in the morning, and after getting a recommendation from the ticket agent, took another cab to a nearby moderately priced hotel. He finished his evening with dinner and two Pacifico beers in the restaurant next door, and fell asleep by midnight, the low hum of the air-conditioning masking the traffic noise below his fifth-story window.
The flight to Mexico City was bumpy but tolerable, and he was able to buy a ticket on Avianca to Rio, with a layover in Bogotá. He just made the flight before the doors were closing, and as he took his seat, he felt a palpable sense of relief.
Almost fourteen hours later the plane’s wheels smoked on the tarmac in Brazil. Drake rubbed his dry eyes as it taxied to the terminal, body sore from so many hours in a narrow seat. The turbulence over South America had been too severe to sleep on the night flight across the continent.
Drake’s knowledge of Brazil wasn’t encyclopedic, but he knew that Rio de Janeiro was on the opposite side of the country from the Peruvian border. When he’d questioned Jack’s decision to use Rio as a rendezvous point, he’d told Drake that he had an old acquaintance with a ranch an hour north of the city, and who he was sure would let them use it as a base camp while they prepared to go into the jungle.
“I’ve still got a thing or two to show you before we head into the wilds. My buddy’s place is perfect for you to practice survival skills. It’s huge, remote, and nobody’s going to mess with us. Best of all, it’s off the radar. I’ll call him later and clear it, but it shouldn’t be a problem. He’s only there in the winter months. Has a full-time staff operating it year-round,” Jack had explained.
“How many buddies with ranches do you have?” Drake had asked skeptically.
“Enough.”
Drake sped through customs and took a taxi to the Orla Copacabana Hotel at the southern end of the famous beach of the same name. The day was just beginning, and as the car rolled along the strand, every imaginable shade of skin was on display, most of the sun worshippers wearing little more than string for their morning on the sand. A trio of spectacular young beauties in thongs that would have been illegal back home scampered across the street in front of the car. The driver caught Drake’s eye in the rearview mirror and grinned, words unnecessary for the universal moment.
The staff at the hotel was courteous and efficient. Five minutes after arrival he was in his room, stuffing wads of rubber-band-wrapped hundreds into the room safe. Once he was done, fatigue hit hard in a wave of dizzy disorientation, and he opted for a nap before going out and exploring Rio’s attractions. He pulled the curtains closed against the bright glow of the morning light and lay on the bed, and within two minutes of his head hitting the pillow, he was out cold.
Vadim simmered, his anger barely contained as he drew heavily on his cigarette. Sasha knew his moods and stayed silent, preferring to allow him to brood in peace.
“What did I tell him? What were my instructions? That he was not to shoot unless it was a last resort. Where do they find these idiots?” Vadim spat.
“It looks like it is even harder to find good help in America than back home.”
“As things stand, we have lost him, and now he will be on full alert. Any element of surprise we could have hoped for is gone, assuming we ever pick him back up.”
Sasha didn’t have a reassuring rejoinder. Vadim was right. It was a disaster. First the Texas nightmare, and now this. “I think we can expect them to be forewarned. There is no way around it now.”
Vadim stood and crushed his cigarette underfoot. “I refuse to pay for this.”
“Nobody in their right mind would expect you to.” Sasha sighed. “But what now?”
“We seem to be running out of options. I had been hoping to avoid doing this the hard way, but it appears we have no choice.”
“Then off to Peru.”
“Exactly. It will only be a matter of time. We can use that knowledge to stay one step ahead of this boy, instead of trailing him, as we have been doing. And it will be much easier to deal with all of them in the jungle than in civilization.”
Sasha eyed him. “It sounds like you have something in mind.”
“Always.”
Chapter Eighteen
Drake’s nap turned into sleeping most of the day. After a lazy dinner at the hotel he was still wiped out, so he returned to his room and slept solidly all night. The next morning he rose early and went for a run on the beach before the sun’s heat hit, and he found himself one of numerous joggers slogging along the sand.
The two-mile stretch of beach took more out of him than he’d expected — when he got back to the hotel he was soaked through with sweat and dehydrated. A long shower and two liters of water rejuvenated him, and after shaving and running a brush through his hair, he slipped into a light shirt and shorts and was ready to face the day.
He spent the morning rereading the notes he’d taken while studying the journal to ensure he hadn’t missed any nuance, but for the life of him he wasn’t sure how to interpret many of the obscure references that would hopefully lead them to the treasure — his ability to spot patterns unfortunately hadn’t kicked in, based on the data his father had left in the journal. That Jack was going into the jungle with him was a lifesaver. If Jack could remember where he and Ford had made their camp, it would eliminate a lot of the time they’d spent on false trails twenty years ago.
Their biggest problem was that there were no step-by-step directions, only anecdotes and hearsay from unreliable sources, and rumors whispered by the natives, none of which had ever been verified. The rainforest they would be in was vast, unexplored and teeming with lethal hazards of all kinds — the area had become a major drug-trafficking area in the last two decades, rivaling the infamous Golden Triangle in Asia for danger. The army left the region alone, preferring to focus where they stood a remote chance of policing effectively, as did their Brazilian counterparts across the border, who viewed the rainforest east of the Andes as a lawless no-man’s land best left to the hapless tribes that inhabited it.
Jack had told him that in the last few days of his life, his father had been convinced that they were on the brink of locating the fabled city. He’d been secretive about why, which wasn’t unusual — Ford Ramsey always played his cards close to his chest. But he’d let slip that he’d gotten new information from the indigenous tribes in the area: information that he believed held the answer he’d been looking for.