The flight to Peru took five hours, and when they arrived they quickly passed through customs and caught a taxi to their hotel. They agreed to rendezvous for dinner after Jack’s meeting with his contact, which was arranged for seven that evening at a nearby watering hole.
Now that they were nearing putting boots on the ground and heading into the rainforest, Drake was feeling a mixture of excitement and trepidation. The theoretical was about to become real, and the prospect of walking the same trails as his father was invigorating and terrifying. He tried to rest after eating a late lunch, but his mind raced, and after an hour tossing and turning he flicked on the light and reread his notes for the fiftieth time, hoping for some new kernel that had escaped him thus far.
He was disappointed. There were no revelations, no breakthroughs, and the task on which he was about to embark seemed as impossible as ever. He locked the notes in the room safe and returned to the bed, and spent the next hour trying to sleep. When he did finally drift off, his dreams filled with visions of fleeing through the jungle chased by invisible pursuers.
Jack stood outside the bar for several minutes waiting for seven o’clock to roll around, leaning against the red mortar façade with a casual ease as practiced as a streetwalker’s, studying the neighborhood and calculating escape routes in case he had to bolt. The habit was unconscious, like so many of his survival instincts, honed over the years and now as indelible a part of his makeup as his crow’s feet or the aches in his bones.
A beggar in tattered rags shuffled toward him with a grimy hand extended, and Jack fingered a couple of coins and dropped them into his palm, more for the sake of the skinny dog trailing him than out of compassion for the man. The beggar offered a muttered gracias and their eyes met for an instant. Jack immediately regretted his generosity — the vagrant’s pupils were dilated with the telltale look of the drug-addled, and he was much younger than Jack had originally thought.
The man continued on his way and Jack checked the time again. It was still shy of seven, but he was impatient and decided to push his way through the double doors in the hopes his rendezvous was already there.
The interior was dark. A pall of cigarette smoke hung near the ceiling, where an inadequate ventilation duct battled to clear it. He walked to the long bar and took one of many empty barstools. A few desultory drunks were seated down the scarred wooden slab, their arms protecting their drinks as though they’d be snatched away if they let their vigilance slip. Several groups of locals stood quaffing beer in groups of two or three, occasionally laughing at a joke. An ancient television flickered a soccer match, and a bored bartender with the face of a basset hound watched the screen as though it was about to announce the winning lottery numbers.
Jack waved and waited for the bartender to approach, and ordered a mineral water with a twist of lime. The bartender’s expression didn’t change, but a subtle eye roll told Jack what he thought of his choice.
A tall man in his mid-thirties took the seat one down on the right, and Jack was about to move farther away for privacy when a dark-complexioned man, his hair an oil slick combed to the side, in a red dress shirt, as agreed on the phone, slid onto the stool next to his. The newcomer ordered a beer, and when the bartender deposited it in front of him along with Jack’s water, he took a long pull before setting it down and leaning into Jack.
“You found the place okay, I see,” the man said in heavily accented English. But not with a Spanish inflection — more Indian or Pakistani, which fit with the voice on the phone.
“Yeah. No problem.”
“You were cryptic about what it is you need. Hopefully you can clarify for me. You mentioned weapons?”
“Correct. I’ll want three fully automatic assault rifles, with flash and sound suppressors if possible. Four extra magazines and two hundred rounds of ammo for each. And three pistols. SIG Sauer P226s would be preferred. With holsters. Fifty rounds apiece, with at least one spare magazine per.”
“Any particular caliber?”
“On the rifles, AKs will work. On the pistols, 40 caliber S&W would be preferred. But they all need to be in new condition. I know weapons, and I won’t accept crap.”
“Of course. How soon do you need them?”
“Yesterday.”
“You have cash?”
“Some. Dollars. How much?”
The man took another sip of his beer and thought. “Twelve thousand. Half in advance.”
Jack shook his head and tried his water. Flat. Tasted like metal. He set the glass down and turned slightly.
“I’m not a fool. I know the going rate. Six.”
“If you know the rate, then you know for that you get a few thirty-year-old AKs in spotty shape, and maybe some Berettas that have seen better days. What you’re requesting are top-shelf guns. Those command a premium. Eleven.”
They settled on nine, and the little man finished his beer and motioned to the bartender for another. Jack waited for the next round to arrive, and with it the inevitable questions.
The man’s voice struggled to make it over the din of the nearby conversation as a trio of workers entered and called to the bartender for drinks.
“You also mentioned a need for a guide. Someone discreet.”
“That’s right. A guide who knows the jungle and who can keep his mouth shut.”
“Why do you want to go into the jungle? I don’t involve myself in anything drug-related.”
“It’s not drug-related.”
“Then what is it?”
“An archeological expedition.”
“I see. What are you looking for?”
This was where the art would come in, Jack knew. Too much information and he’d compromise the operation before it started. Too little and the man would balk once he understood their real intentions. Jack cleared his throat and edged nearer his companion.
“Inca ruins.”
The smuggler stared stonily at his beer as though it contained the answer to questions he’d long pondered in vain.
“Inca ruins. Any particular ones?”
“I have one site in mind. But that’s not important. I need someone who knows the area and can assure us safe passage.”
The little man nodded. “It’s very dangerous, you know. A lot of trafficking activity. Primitive tribes who have no hesitation about killing intruders. It’s not something to be taken lightly.”
“I understand.”
“Let me think about how much I’d need to help you with that. It won’t be inexpensive.”
“Nothing in life worth doing usually is. How long on the weapons?”
“One day. Maybe two. Go count out the money in the bathroom and then slip it to me when you return. I’ll save your spot.”
Jack rose and made his way to the back of the bar. The men’s room was as vile as he’d expected, and he breathed through his mouth as he stood in a filthy stall and thumbed through a wad of hundreds. He slipped money into an envelope he’d brought for that purpose and slid it into the pocket of his light windbreaker before leaving the empty bathroom, a whiff of stale taint following him out as he returned to the bar. Another group of rowdies had arrived, and suddenly the room was moderately full, making Jack uncomfortable. He laid his jacket next to his new friend and lifted his glass to his lips. After another small mouthful of the bitter water, he set it down.