CHAPTER 49
In the valleys of the Andes, La Paz, Bolivia, was a city built upside down. The most desirable real estate was nestled at a more breathable nine thousand feet in the lowlands southwest of the tree-lined central thoroughfare known as the Prado. Much of the city sprawled along a deep trench with middle-class residents occupying condos near the Choqueyapu River. The less well to do clung to the steep mountains surrounding the city in makeshift brick houses. The poorest lived in the thin air of nearly fourteen thousand feet above sea level.
Quinn felt his ears pop for the third time as the rattling Ford radio-taxi turned back southeast on the Autopista and headed down into the city.
The cabdriver, a short Aymara Indian man with a colorful wool hat and tattered homespun coat, pointed to the south with an open hand. “If not for the clouds, you could see the three peaks of Illimani there. The guardian of La Paz.”
The man, who said his name was Lupe, never engaged in real conversation, piping up only when they passed a particular landmark or milepost. Quinn suspected he didn’t actually speak much English, but had memorized a few lines in order to ingratiate himself to tourists for bigger tips.
Quinn had the taxi drop them off a block above the Hotel Condeza at the bustling intersection of Santa Cruz and Linares. Lupe smiled broadly as Thibodaux paid him fifteen American dollars, twice the agreed-upon fare.
Low clouds sulked in the air, drifting between the red brick buildings. Barrel-chested men and stocky women wearing colorful, handwoven alpaca shawls against the drizzling rain sauntered along the crowded streets. Most wore bowler hats, tied to their heads with pieces of string. The smell of frying meat and roasted corn drifted with the mist and whiff of open sewers.
“I tell you one thing, cher,” Thibodaux panted as they jostled their way through the crowds of tourists and stall keepers. He clenched his eyes shut. “I am not a mountain man, that’s for sure.”
Bo, who seemed less affected by the altitude, pointed down the street, less than a hundred meters away. “There’s the hotel,” he said. “Should we go see if he’s there?”
Aleksandra tapped the small duffel slung over her shoulder where she carried her pistol. “Good idea,” she said.
“Now hold on a second,” Quinn said, pulling up short in the drizzling rain next to a stall selling what looked like dried baby dinosaurs. “Our goal is to follow him to the bomb. Not confront him yet.” Passersby spilled around him.
Aleksandra nodded. “That is true,” she said, but it was obvious she was trying to convince herself.
A wizened old woman, sitting behind what turned out to be a large pile of desiccated llama fetuses, piped up. “You need good luck.” Thinning gray braids hung from a weathered brown derby hat that sat sideways over her broad face, which was wrinkled and dark as a prune. A coca leaf was pressed to her sagging cheek like a piece of jewelry. She chewed on a wad of leaves as she spoke, sweeping a bony hand across the stacks of figurines, amulets, and dried animals that made up her wares. Like traders worldwide, her command of English was remarkable. “Everyone could use some help. I have the llamas to bless new buildings, Ekeko to bring you fortune, Pachamama for protection… ” Her rheumy eyes narrowed to look straight at Aleksandra. “You are on a quest, no?”
Thibodaux, who put a little more stock than he should in such notions, raised a surprised brow at the woman’s divination.
“Relax, Jacques,” Quinn whispered. “A bunch of turistas marching along, intent on something down the street. It’s not too much of a stretch to guess we’re on a quest.”
Thibodaux bit his bottom lip. “Take a look up there, beb.” He nodded toward a sign on the open front brick building where the old woman’s stall was tucked in among others selling similar wares. “Mercado de las Brujas,” he said as if proving a point. “The witches’ market.”
“I have the ingredients to capture the heart of a man.” The old women grinned at Aleksandra, showing the wad of coca against stained teeth. “But I see you have already captured one.” She cackled at Bo, who shot a startled glance at Quinn.
“That’s crazy,” he said, looking a little too guilty for Jericho’s taste.
“How about one of these?” Aleksandra picked up a clay figurine of a little man, apparently anxious to change the subject. The statue wore a traditional wool hat and his arms were laden with packages. It was no more than three inches tall, and a hole in its mouth held a full-size cigarette. “How much?” She shuffled through her pockets for her money.
“Ekeko,” the old woman said. “He will bring you good fortune.”
Aleksandra pulled her cell phone from her pocket along with her wallet. Quinn, who stood directly beside her, heard a nearly inaudible ping. She handed the woman her money and turned quickly toward the street, staring down at the phone.
“What was that?” Quinn moved closer.
The face of the phone showed a map where a blue dot pulsed on a road leading northeast out of the city.
“Zamora?” Thibodaux said as he and Bo crowded in to look at the phone as well.
“No.” Aleksandra shook her head. “Monagas. This signal is from the tracker I placed with Umarov at Zamora’s party. It was in a gold money clip. It was Monagas who killed the Chechen back in Miami and must have taken the clip as a trophy.” Aleksandra gave the half grin of a hunter. “His foolish habit will be his undoing.”
“We’ve been around Monagas for over a week. Why is the tracker only showing up now?” Thibodaux asked.
“The device is activated by body heat.” Aleksandra shrugged. “Perhaps he had it buried in his luggage and did not have it in his pocket until now.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Quinn held out his hand for the phone. “May I see it?”
Aleksandra gave the phone to him and he showed it to the woman in the bowler hat, who sat smiling behind her stack of dried baby llamas. “Do you know what is in this part of the city?” he asked.
The old woman pulled a pair of cat’s-eye reading glasses from behind her table and slipped them on to study the phone.
“Ahhhh,” she said under her breath. “Very bad. This is very, very bad.”
“What?” Thibodaux’s mouth fell open. “Just go on ahead and tell us, will you?”
“This blue spot?” The old woman peered over the top of her bright red glasses. “This is what you seek?”
“It is.” Quinn gave her a twenty-dollar bill.
The woman took off her glasses and held them in a clenched fist. “The miners are marching on the new road, making it impassable today. The one you seek goes to El Camino de la Muerte.” She pointed to the northeast. “The Road of Death.”
CHAPTER 50
Quinn flagged down the first green and white radio cab he found that would hold them all. The driver was a ponytailed Aymara Indian named Leonardo who looked to be in his late teens. He confirmed that the easiest way to get across the Andes to Coroico and on to Rurrenabaque was shut down by a parade of striking indigenous silver miners trying to get the Bolivian government’s attention. Until the skies cleared, El Camino de la Muerte, he said, was the only other way. He agreed to take them to Cumbre Pass, beyond the eastern edge of the city, where his cousin Adelmo had a four-wheel-drive van that could make the journey down the Bolivian Road of Death. Quinn wondered if everyone in South America had a cousin who ran a hotel, flew planes, or rented out cars.
Crammed in the middle between Jericho and Bo, Aleksandra kept watch on the pulsing blue dot on her phone. “We have to hurry,” she said, her voice breathless from tension and altitude. The heavy mist and lack of oxygen made everyone feel as though they were slowly drowning. “He’s still moving away.”