Commando

Chapter Two

Manaus was the Dodge City of Brazil, Jake decided as he left the seedy-looking gun shop. Less than an hour ago, he’d stepped off the plane into the sweltering noontime heat that hung over the city. Now, standing on a cracked and poorly kept sidewalk outside the shop, Jake looked around. Disheveled houses, mostly shacks, lined both sides of the busy street. Odors in the air ranged from automobile pollution to ripe garbage to the muddy scent of the two mighty rivers that met near the city.

Sweat was rolling off Jake, but that wasn’t anything new to him. Manaus sat at the edge of the Amazon Basin, home to one of the largest rain-forest jungles in the world. Rubber trees had been the cause of Manaus’s rise to fame—and its downfall. Once chemical companies had learned to make synthetic rubber better than what the trees of the Amazon Basin provided, the city’s boom had ground to a halt, leaving Manaus destitute.

Jake flagged down a blue-and-white taxi and climbed in.

“Take me to the docks. I need to hire a boat to take me down the Amazon,” he said in Portuguese to the old man who drove the cab.

Nodding, the driver grinned and turned around.

Jake sagged back against the lumpy rear seat as the cab sped off. The asphalt highway leading to the docks was bumpy at best. Not much had changed in Manaus, Jake decided. Skinny brown children with black hair and brown eyes played along the edge of the road. Dilapidated houses lined the avenue. Although Manaus was struggling to come out of the mire of depression that had hit it so long ago, it had remained intrinsically a river town, filled with a colorful assortment of characters, greedy money-seekers willing to turn a quick dime and the now-impoverished “wealthy” who had depended upon their income from the rubber trees to keep them that way.

The docks came into view after about half an hour. Up ahead, Jake could see the wide, muddy ribbons of the Solimoes and the Rio Negro coming together to create the enormous Amazon. A number of boats—some small, some fairly large—dipped and bobbed, their prows either resting on the muddy river bank or tied off with frayed pieces of rope to some rotting wooden post on one of the many run-down wharves. As the taxi screeched to a halt, Jake paid the driver in cruzeiros, Brazil’s currency, and climbed out. His only piece of luggage was a canvas duffel bag that was filled, though only partially, with clothes and other essential survival items.

Standing off to one side where the asphalt crumbled to an end and the muddy slope began, Jake reached into the duffel bag and pulled out a large knife encased in a black leather sheath. He put the scabbard through his belt loop and made sure it rode comfortably behind his left elbow. Tying a red-and-white handkerchief around his throat to use to wipe the sweat from his face, Jake rummaged in the duffel bag again and came up with a few badly crumpled American dollars that he’d stuffed away in a side pocket.

Recession had hit Brazil big-time, and over the past few years inflation had risen from three hundred to six hundred percent. One American dollar was worth hundreds of cruzeiros, and Jake knew he’d have no trouble finding a willing skipper to take him where he wanted to go if he showed he had American money.

Jake also had a huge wad of cruzeiros stashed in a hidden leg pouch. Americans weren’t common in Brazil, and those who did come were seen by the local populace as being very rich. Jake wasn’t about to become one of the robbery or murder statistics on a local police roster. Manaus was a wide-open city, and it paid for any foreigner to be watchful and take nothing for granted. All of Brazil’s large cities held areas of homes surrounded by huge wrought-iron fences, sometimes ten feet tall, to protect them from thievery, which was rampant in Brazil.

Pulling the leather holster that contained a nine-millimeter Beretta out of his bag, Jake strapped it around his waist. He wanted the holster low, so that he could easily reach the pistol. Because of the constant high humidity, Jake wore khaki pants and a short-sleeved white shirt, already marked with sweat.

Looking around from his position just above the muddy bank of the river, Jake smiled faintly. The cottony white clouds, heavy with moisture, barely moved above the jungle that surrounded Manaus. The noontime sun was rising high in the pale blue sky, shafting through the fragments of clouds. As Jake zipped up the duffel and slung it across his shoulder, he knew that for the next couple of days he’d be adjusting to the brutal combination of ninety-degree temperatures and ninety-percent humidity.

He heard cawing and looked up. A flight of red-and-yellow macaws flew across the river, barely fifty feet above the surface. They looked like a squadron of fighter jets, their long tails and colorful feathers in sharp contrast with the sluggish brown headwaters. Watching his step, Jake gingerly made his way down to what appeared to be the most seaworthy craft available, a small tug. The captain was dressed in ragged cutoffs. His legs were skinny and brown. His feet were large in comparison to his slight build, and he wore no shirt, pronounced ribs showing on his sunken chest. He was balding, and his brown eyes turned flinty as Jake approached.

“I need a ride,” he called to the captain, “to a Tucanos village about three hours down the Amazon. Think that tub will make it that far?”

The captain grinned, showing sharp and decayed teeth. “This boat of mine isn’t called the Dolphin for nothin’. She floats even when we have the floods!”

Jake stood onshore, haggling with the captain over the price of such a trip. In Brazil, everyone bargained. Not to engage in such efforts was considered rude. Finally, when Jake flashed a five-dollar American bill in the captain’s face, negotiations stopped. The captain grabbed the money and held out his hand to Jake, a big, welcoming grin splitting his small face.

“Come aboard.”

With an answering grin, Jake hefted himself onto the small tug. It had once been red and white, but lack of care—or more probably lack of money—had prevented upkeep on the paint. With a practiced eye, Jake slowly walked the forty-foot tug, checking for leaks.

“You know the name of this village?” the captain called as he slid up onto a tall chair that was bolted to the deck in front of the wooden wheel.

“Yeah, they call it the village of the pink dolphins.”

Nodding sagely, the skipper waved to the children onshore, who, for a few coins, would untie the tug and push it away from the wharf. “I know the village. There’s a Catholic hospital and mission there.”

Jake dropped his duffel bag on the deck and moved up front as the tug chugged in reverse. The hollow sound of the engine, and the blue smoke pouring from it, permeated the humid air. Narrow strips of wooden planking served as benches along the tug’s port and starboard sides. Jake sat down near the captain and looked out across the bow.

“What else do you know about the village?” Jake asked.

The captain laughed and maneuvered the tug around so that the bow was now pointed toward the huge expanse of the headwaters, which were nearly a mile in width. “We hardly ever see an American who speaks fluent Portuguese.” The man eyed the gun at Jake’s side. “You go for a reason, eh?”

“Yeah.” Jake decided the skipper wasn’t going to answer his question—at least not on the first try.

The crystal-clear tea-colored water of the Solimoes was beautiful in its clarity. Its color was caused by the tannin contained in the tree roots along its banks, which seeped out and tinted the water a raw umber. The Solimoes’s temperature was far lower than the Rio Negro’s. As a result, the river’s depths were clear, icy and pretty in comparison to the milky brown waters of the warmer Rio Negro, which Jake could see beginning to intersect it up ahead. Soon, the water surface around the tug mingled patches of tea-colored water with lighter, muddied water, reminding Jake of a black-and-white marble cake Bess used to bake.

“They say there’s trouble at that village,” the captain said as he maneuvered his tug against the powerful currents of the two rivers mixing beneath them.

So the skipper was going to answer him, if obliquely. Jake was pleased. “What kind of trouble?”

The captain shrugged his thin shoulders, his hands busy on the wheel as he kept the tug on a straight course for the Amazon River. “Pai Jose—Father Jose—who runs the Catholic mission there at the village, is said to have trouble. That’s all I know.”

Rubbing his jaw, which needed a shave, Jake nodded. He knew that the Catholic missionaries had had a powerful influence all over South America. The Indians had been converted to Catholicism, but the numerous missions along the rivers of the Amazon Basin were places not only of worship, but also of medical help—often the only places such help was available.

“You know this priest?” Jake asked.

“Pai Jose is balding,” the skipper said, gesturing to his own shining head, “like me. He’s greatly loved by the Indians and the traders alike. If not for his doctoring, many would have died over the years.” The skipper wrinkled his nose. “He is a fine man. I don’t like what I hear is happening at the Tucanos village where he has his mission.”

Jake ruminated over the information. Communications in this corner of the world were basically nonexistent outside of Manaus, except by word-of-mouth messages passed from one boat skipper to another. Few radios were used, because the humidity rusted them quickly in the tropical environment. Was Shah involved with Pai Jose? Was she even at the village? Jake didn’t know—the information Travers had provided was sparse.

“They doing a lot of tree-cutting in this area?” Jake wanted to know.

“Yes!” The man gestured toward the thick jungle crowding the banks of the Amazon. “It brings us money. My tug is used to help bring the trees out of the channels along the Amazon to the Japanese ships anchored near Manaus.”

It was a booming business, Jake conceded—and the money it supplied could mean the difference between survival and death to someone like the skipper.

“Besides,” the man continued energetically as he brought the tug about thirty feet away from the Amazon’s bank, where the current was less fierce, “the poor are streaming out of the cities to find land. They must clear the trees so that they can grow their own vegetables. No,” he said sadly, “the cities are no place for the peasants. They are coming back, and we need the open land. Manaus no longer needs the rubber trees, and the farmers need the land. So, it is a good trade-off, eh?”

Jake didn’t answer. He knew that the terrible poverty of Brazil, both inside and outside the cities, was genuine. Here and there along the muddy banks he could see small thatched huts made of grasses and palm leaves. Curious children, dressed in ragged shorts or thin, faded dresses, ran out to stare at them. He looked out across the enormous expanse of the Amazon. It made the Mississippi River look like a trickle.

“Look!” the skipper shouted with glee. “Dolphins!”

Sure enough, Jake saw three gray river dolphins arc into the air then disappear. They were playful, and soon they saw many more.

“This is a good sign,” the skipper said, beaming. “Dolphins always bring luck. Hey! If you are truly lucky, you may get to see a pink dolphin near that village! They are very rare.”

“What do the Indians say about pink dolphins?” Jake was enjoying the antics of the sleek, graceful gray animals that were now following the tug, playing tag.

“There is an old legend that if a pink dolphin falls in love with a beautiful young village girl, he will, at the time of the full moon, turn into a handsome youth. Once he has legs and lungs, he leaves the river to court this beautiful girl. He will lie with the girl, get her with child, then walk back into the water to become a pink dolphin again. A girl who has such an experience is said to be blessed.”

Jake wondered about that legend, but said nothing. The legend could have been created to explain a young girl’s sudden and unexpected pregnancy. Heaving a sigh, he allowed himself to relax. There was nothing to do for the next two and a half hours, until they reached the village. Stretching out on the narrow wooden seat, Jake decided to see if he could catch some badly needed sleep.

“Hey!” the skipper called. “We’re here!”

Groggily Jake sat up. He was damp with sweat. He untied his neckerchief and mopped his face and neck. The tug was slowing, the engine’s forward speed checked as they aimed at a dilapidated wooden dock where several Tucanos children waited.

Wiping sleep from his eyes, Jake stood up and rapidly sized up the small village huts thatched with palm fronds. The tall trees of the Amazon still lined the riverbanks, but just inside them the land had been cleared for homes for the Tucanos. He counted roughly fifty huts, and saw a number of Indian women near fires tending black iron cooking kettles. The women were dressed in colorful cotton dresses, their black hair long and their feet bare. The children raced around, barely clad. The short, barrel-chested, black-haired men held blowguns. Machetes hung on belts around many of their waists.

The odor of wood smoke combined with the muddy stench of the river. As the tug gently bumped the dock, Jake could also smell fish frying. About a dozen Tucanos children gathered, wide-eyed as Jake leaped from the tug to the dock. He set his duffel bag down on the gray, weathered surface of the poorly made dock.

“How can I get a ride back up the river to Manaus?” he asked the skipper.

Grinning toothily, the skipper pointed to the village. “Pai Jose has a radio. He knows the name of my tug. He can call the wharf at Manaus, and someone will find me.”

That would have to be good enough, Jake thought. He lifted his hand to the skipper and turned to find the Indian children looking solemnly up at him, curiosity shining in their dark brown eyes. They were beautiful children, their brown skin healthy-looking, their bodies straight and proud. He wondered if Shah, because of her native ancestry, felt at home in the village.

“Pai Jose?” he asked them.

“Sim! Sim!” Yes! Yes! The oldest, a boy of about ten, gestured for Jake to follow him.

Slinging his bag over his shoulder, Jake followed the boy through the village. The ground consisted of a whitish, powdery clay base that rose in puffs around his boots. Most of the village was in the shade of the trees overhead, and the smoke purled and made shapes as it drifted through the leafy barrier. Shafts of sunlight filtered through the trees here and there, and Jake’s skin burned. Tropical sunlight was fierce.

A well-worn path through the vegetation wound away from the village and up a small incline onto a rounded hill that overlooked the river, and Jake could see a rectangular adobe brick structure near the top of it. Palm trees, both short and tall, bracketed the path. The calling of birds was nonstop, and sometimes, Jake would catch sight of one flitting colorfully through the brown limbs and green leaves of the thousands of trees.

The path opened into a small, grassy clearing. At the other end was the mission. It wasn’t much, in Jake’s opinion—just a grouping of three or four structures with a white cross on the roof of the largest building. That had to be the church. The place was well kept, and the path obviously had been swept, probably with a palm-leaf broom. Pink, white and red hibiscus bloomed around the buildings in profusion. Orchids hung down from the trees, turning the air heady with their cloying perfume.

Just as the Indian boy stopped and pointed at the church, Jake heard angry, heated voices. One was a woman’s. He turned, keying his hearing to the sound. Giving the boy a few coins in thanks, Jake set his duffel bag on the ground and followed the sound. Turning the corner, he spotted a small wooden wharf down by the river, with several canoes pulled up onshore nearby. Five people stood on the wharf.

Frowning, Jake lengthened his stride down the sloping path. As he drew closer, he recognized Shah Travers in the center of the group. His heart started to pound, and it wasn’t because of the suffocating humidity or because of fear. Shah was tall—much taller than he’d expected. Her hair hung in two black, shining braids that stood out against the short-sleeved khaki shirt she wore. Mud had splattered her khaki trousers, and she wore calf-high rubber boots that were also covered with the thick, gooey substance.

What was going down? Jake saw the Catholic priest, an older man with wire-rimmed glasses, dressed in white pants and a shirt, plus his clerical collar, standing tensely. The other three made Jake uneasy. Two of them looked like goons hired by the well-dressed third man. Shah’s husky voice was low with fury, and he couldn’t catch what she said, but she was squaring off with the man in the light suit and white panama hat.

“I will not stay off that land!” Shah told Hernandez heatedly. “You can’t make me!”

Hernandez’s thin-lipped smile slipped. He touched the lapel of his cream-colored linen suit, where a small purple-and-white orchid boutonniere had been placed. “You have no choice, Miss Travers! That is my land, and I can do whatever I please with it—and that includes cutting down the trees!”

Shah tried to control her anger over the confrontation. She saw both of Hernandez’s bodyguards come forward, trying to intimidate her. Well, it wouldn’t work! She was aware that Pai Jose was wringing his hands, wanting to make peace. Her own heart was pounding with fear. She dreaded this kind of conflict. She’d been raised in a family of screaming and shouting, and she hated it.

“Look,” she said between gritted teeth, “you can’t stop me from going onto that land! I know my rights, and I know Brazil’s laws!”

Hernandez glowered down at her. “You are impertinent, Miss Travers. You Americans think you can come down here and cause trouble. Well, you can’t! I forbid you to come into the area where we are going to log.” He turned and looked at his men. “And if you so much as set foot on my land, I can assure you, my men will take care of you!”

Permanently, Shah thought. Before she could respond, the larger of the two men, a blond, German-looking hulk, moved forward. He gripped her by the collar of her shirt. Gasping, Shah froze momentarily. She heard Pai Jose give a cry of protest.

“Please,” Pai Jose begged, “this isn’t—”

Suddenly a hand appeared on the hulk’s shoulder. “Now, where I come from, you treat a lady like a lady,” the new man growled, pinching the man’s thick muscles enough to let the lout know he meant business.

Shah’s eyes widened considerably. Who was this man? Confusion clashed with her shock. He was tall. Taller than any of them, and bigger, too, if that was possible. Momentary fear sent a frisson of warning through her. He looked like an American, yet he’d spoken in fluent Portuguese. Her heart pounding hard in her chest, Shah gulped. His face was rugged and lined. When her gaze flew to his, something happened. Her heart snagged, a rush of wild feelings tunneling through her. His gray eyes were narrowed and nearly colorless, and for a brief second, Shah saw them thaw and felt an incredible sense of safety.

Instantly her heart and head denied those feelings. Men didn’t protect, they abused. “Get your hand off me!” she snapped at the blond man, and started to take a step back.

Jake jerked the hulk’s shoulder just enough to force him to release Shah. The other bodyguard, a leaner, meaner-looking man, whirled toward him, his hand on the butt of the machete he carried in a long leather sheath at his side.

“Now,” Jake drawled in Portuguese, “I don’t think any of us should behave like ruffians, do you? This is a lady, and we have a priest here. I know you boys have manners. How about showing them to me?” Jake stepped away, his hand moving to the butt of his Beretta in a not-so-subtle warning that didn’t go unnoticed.

Hernandez hissed a curse and spun around. “Who are you?” he demanded.

Jake smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. Both goons were statues, waiting for orders from their thin Brazilian boss. “I’m Ms. Travers’ bodyguard,” he said levelly.

Shah’s mouth fell open. “You’re what?” The word came out like a croak.

“Darlin’, you stay out of this for now. This is male business.”

Shah’s mouth snapped shut. Fury shot through her. “Why—”

Jake barely turned his head. “Pai Jose, why don’t you take Miss Travers back to the mission? I’ll finish the conversation with these boys alone.”

Hernandez jerked a look toward Shah. “A bodyguard?”

“Well, you’ve got a couple, from the looks of it,” Jake pointed out mildly, giving Hernandez a lazy smile. “Why shouldn’t she have one?”

“Well—” Hernandez sputtered, then glared at Shah. “It won’t do you any good! You hire this, this American pig, and—”

“Hernandez, I didn’t hire him!” Shah protested, straightening her shirt and collar. Who was he? Too much was at stake, and she wasn’t about to get away from the point of Hernandez’s unexpected visit. “And even if I did, I would still go onto that parcel of land where you’re going to cut down the rain forest trees. It’s my right to film anything I want. You can’t stop me.”