The Cain File (23 page)

“Step on it, Marcelo,” he said, powering down his tablet. “With any luck, we’ll get to Coca before they do. Abraham’s wife said they’re taking a truck. We can move faster, even in this relic. And we have Ecuadorian passports. We’ll get through border control without a problem.”

The pickup bobbed down the hill. By his thigh, the gun smelled faintly of nitroglycerin, from shooting through the door to the child’s room. If there was ever a time to be grateful for not hitting a target.

But he would see the American woman freed.

Shoot a baby? The
terrucos
could do that. Maybe that was the price of revolution.

The International Harvester truck ground to a halt at the top of the ascent outside the last major town before the Ecuadorian border, where they were to meet Comrade Cain and Beltran. The ancient chassis resounded with the recoils and thumps of a timeworn engine and decades of rough roads. Several hundred miles of Pan American Highway had shaken Maggie’s teeth loose, while she sat in the back along with the members of Grim Harvest. She remembered riding in trucks like these with her mother as a child, bouncing through the Andes. This vehicle was older than she was, most likely twice as old. Maybe she’d even ridden in this one as a girl.

Dust swirled through the side gates as Maggie stood up, gazing out over the canyon that the twisting road had followed for the last hour. The valley was lush, deeply gouged by a river cascading down its twisted chasm. A delicate-looking gothic-style cathedral nestled between the folds of the gorge, spanning the ravine, caught her eye. It sat on tall stone piers, reaching across the rift with a footbridge that led to its entrance. Early-evening mist climbed the emerald canyon walls, rising up to reflect against the church.

“The city of green clouds,” Beatriz said, getting to her feet and straightening her
pollera
skirt. The boy with the shaved head—Gabby—and Comrade Abraham got up from the truck bed as well, dusting themselves off. There had been a heated argument when Abraham told Yalu she wouldn’t be coming along—an argument that turned into a shouting match, with Maggie suspecting Yalu of being just a little too enamored with Comrade Cain.

Soon they were all on the dusty ground, Beatriz with Maggie’s knapsack slung over her shoulder.

Maggie sensed something was up. “Where’s Cain?”

“
Comrade
Cain,” Abraham reminded her. “He’s over the border.”

Maggie let out an angry gasp. “He was supposed to meet us here. With Beltran.”

“Comrade Cain has every right to take precautions. Too many things have changed.”

“Do I need to remind you that
I’m
the one with access to the funds?”

“If Commerce Oil wants its precious Minister Beltran back, it’s going to have to meet Comrade Cain where he demands.”

Maggie gave it some thought, ire roiling inside of her. She still didn’t know the situation with John Rae. And then there was Tica and her comrades, even now under arrest as far as she knew. If they were entering Ecuador to meet Cain, Maggie was just that much closer to seeing them freed. On the other hand, she was a hunted woman in Ecuador, with her photo on the bulletin boards of police stations from the Oriente to the costa. Still, when she got right down to it, what choice did she have? “So where are we meeting Cain now?” she asked Abraham.

“Not far.”

“Name of the town. Location. Specifics.”

“Coca,” Abraham said. “We’re meeting Comrade Cain at a safe house there.”

“Beltran is there?”

Abraham nodded.

Coca was the last main town on the Napo River before the Amazon proper. John Rae had told her that Cain and other members of Grim Harvest were hiding out in the jungle, wreaking havoc on the oil companies. “I need to clear this with my boss,” she said.

“Very well,” Abraham said, snapping his fingers at Beatriz.

Beatriz came over, handed Maggie her backpack.

Maggie pulled her laptop from the pack, squatted, rested the computer on her thighs. She flipped the top open. The screen was blank. The machine was cold. She’d left it up and running with the GPS on so that some ally might track her. A long shot.

“The battery’s dead,” she said, standing back up, closing the computer, putting it away. She suspected there wasn’t much Sinclair Michaels could do anyway, not at this very moment. She’d continue on with Grim Harvest through to Coca and see what transpired. She’d come this far.

She could always make a run for it, if need be. Even Gabby, a teenager, posed no problem; he didn’t clock five miles a day and look forward to it, miss it when it didn’t happen. And they wouldn’t shoot two million dollars. Not just like that. “I hope you didn’t know about this all along,” Maggie said to Abraham. “I don’t like being jerked around.”

Abraham said nothing.

Beatriz was watching her with what Maggie suspected was muted admiration. “Come on,
princesa
,” she said, gazing up at the sun slipping below the summit. “It’s getting late. We still have to hike over the top of the mountain—around border control.”

An hour later at the top of the mountain, the four of them stopped, puffing. Humidity saturated the air, even with the rainforest a good hundred miles away. No one was talking.

Despite the anxiety of the situation, the view of Ecuador sent powerful emotions through Maggie. Mountainous and verdant, with grand araucaria trees swaying amongst ferns and exotic plants, she felt the bond yet again. She’d been born here and she was as much Quechua as she was gringa
.
The Andes never let go.

The four of them trekked down, leaving Colombia, staying well away from the main highway that connected the two countries. At a narrow mountain road forking off the main highway, its potholed surface a reminder that it had once been paved, a white panel van mottled with rust sat under the trees. Its doors were open, obviously to let some air through. The driver was sitting back, arms crossed, a straw cowboy hat pulled down over his eyes.

“That must be our ride to Coca,” Beatriz said to Gabby in Quechua.

“I hope this one has seats,” Gabby said, hitching up his baggy jeans with one hand. His pistol swung in his right hand as he walked. “My
culo
is raw from riding in the back of that dang truck all morning.”

“You kids have it easy. You just don’t know it.”

“Just because you’ve got a padded arse that can handle it.”

“Show some respect!” She tried to cuff his head, but Gabby quickly dodged her and spun, waving the gun, pretending to take aim.

Beatriz laughed, a loud roar. “Better not shoot me, boy! I’m the one looking out for you.”

“If that’s the case, then I’m in real trouble, aren’t I?”

Beatriz rubbed the back of Gabby’s stubbled head as they got into the work van. It had bench seats.

Abraham gave Maggie a squint as they climbed in and set off for the Amazon town of Coca.

Coca flanked the Napo River, the last main town before the jungle. With the oil boom, the once-sleepy backwater had burgeoned to over forty thousand people and even late in the evening, the streets were full, mostly young men looking for excitement. Harshly lit bars were going full tilt, shouting and music creating a din that spilled out into Chimborazo Street along the riverfront. Hastily built structures took up all available space. Stores were just closing, many displaying household appliances and televisions, all the conveniences and creature comforts people moving from the city wanted. Cars and motorbikes jammed the road. Out on the water, a huge barge loaded down with two gasoline tanker trucks headed upriver.

Progress, Maggie thought.

Their van crawled down Chimborazo and took a dim side street that quickly turned into unlit dirt road, passing rundown houses, many in a permanent state of incompletion, rebar sticking out from rooftops like wild whiskers.

They passed a house with red lights, thumping with noise that seeped through heavily curtained windows. A couple of
vatos
in dungarees and yellow hardhats were just leaving, one lighting a cigarette, both keeping their eyes down. A woman in a short revealing robe shut the front door. A whorehouse.

A couple blocks beyond, near the end of the dirt road, they stopped at a one-story stucco house, silent and dark. The few houses down this way were interspersed with vacant lots, and all of them were dark. Maggie took a good look at the empty house in front of her. Someone had dumped an old car seat under the window. There were no vehicles parked anywhere.

“Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” she said drily to Abraham.

Abraham frowned, heaved the side door of the van back with a bang, climbed out, marched off, pulling his cell phone from the pocket of his shorts. Maggie watched him make a call, gesturing excitedly. Gabby turned to Beatriz, sitting in the bench seat in front of Maggie, and the two exchanged looks.

“What do you make if it?” Gabby said in Quechua.

“I think Cain isn’t coming.”

“
Comrade
Cain,” Gabby said, grinning.

Beatriz smiled back.

Abraham returned to the van, looking more stoic than before. He stood by the open door for a moment, then placed both hands on the top of the doorframe.

“So where are Cain and Beltran?” Maggie said.

“We’re going to meet them. Tomorrow.”

“Where to now?” Maggie said, although she had a pretty good idea.

“The Yasuni,” Abraham mumbled.

The Yasuni. The heart of the Amazon jungle. Where the oil exploration was going on. Where the heart of Grim Harvest were rumored to be holed up. Where the Yasuni 7 were from. Tica. Where that hideous video Maggie had watched was made.

It made sense Cain would be there. But it made her nervous. “I need to confirm this change of plan with my manager,” she said.

Abraham ran his fingers through his frizzy hair. “Yes. OK. Inside.”

“No,” Maggie said. “I’m not going into that funhouse without talking to my boss first. We’ll go somewhere. A café. A bar.”

“We don’t have time.”

“Make time.”

“I’m getting tired of your demands.”

“
My
demands?” She laughed out loud. “Who exactly is taking
who
on a scenic trip halfway across South America in the hopes of meeting the elusive Cain? Oh, I’m sorry—it’s
Comrade
Cain, isn’t it?”

“Comrade Cain has every right to take precautions.”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned that. Well, so do I. I’m calling my boss. Or it’s no deal.”

Abraham glared into the van. “I’ll have to clear it,” he said.

“Of course you do. God forbid you make a decision on your own.”

Abraham stormed off, making another fervent phone call. Beatriz and Gabby watched Maggie closely. Abraham returned, climbed into the van, yanked the door shut with an angry slam. He produced his cell phone, held it out to Maggie. “Call your boss.”

“I’m not calling him on that,” she said. “Do you really think my boss wants a verifiable connection to a terrorist group? Drive down to the main drag. Along the river. I’ll call from one of the bars or
cabinas
there.”

“This is getting ridiculous.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

“
¡Mierda!
” Abraham pulled the .38, waved it in the confines of the van. Maggie reared back. Beatriz and Gabby watched. The driver was noticeably quiet, staring straight ahead. “Enough!” Abraham shouted. “We’re staying here for a few hours, then heading off to meet Comrade Cain to complete the arrangement. That’s it!”

Maggie looked at the gun. “You know what? I’ve had enough of your bullshit. Let me out,
amigo
. The deal is off.”

Abraham laughed through his nose. “Wouldn’t you like to think so?”

“Get out of my way.”

Abraham shook his head, gave an ugly smile.

“You won’t get a single penny out of me,” Maggie said.

“More talk. Words.”

“Words that equal no money for you losers. Let me out. Now.”

Suddenly the gun blurred through the air and smacked Maggie in the side of the head, making her skull ring like a broken bell.

“Want to keep talking?” Abraham screamed. “Keep at it!”

Maggie held the side of her buzzing head. Her vision shook out of control.

“Comrade,” Beatriz said quietly to Abraham. “Please. She is just . . .”

“Shut up!” Abraham yelled at Beatriz, waving the pistol. “Who’s in charge here?”

“You are.”

“That’s correct. So just do as you’re told.” He glared at Gabby. “You too.”

“What did
I
say?”

The driver didn’t look back, didn’t say anything.

Quietly, Beatriz said: “Things are getting out of hand, Comrade.”

Maggie wished she had something made of metal, something she could smack Abraham’s head with. Something sharp. Something that cut flesh. Or something that fired bullets. She held her head, waiting for her senses to settle down. For the ringing to stop.

“We’re staying here until morning,” Abraham said. “Then we’re heading upriver. The deal will be completed there. That’s all there is to it.”

Maggie said nothing. What else could she do? She’d overplayed her hand.

“Gabby, where’s your gun?” Abraham said.

“Right here, Comrade.”

“Keep your eye on Alice Mendes here. Beatriz, you have your machete?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Keep up the rear. And now, if there are no objections, we’re going into the house. That fine with you, Alice? Or do you need to clear it with God?”

Maggie bit down on her tongue.

They got out of the van then, approached the darkened safe house. The driver took off in a hurry. Abraham was on Maggie’s left, Gabby on her right. Both men had their guns down by their sides. Beatriz brought up the rear and Maggie saw the big fish head of a machete swinging behind on the periphery of her vision. Her head was swimming.

At the front door Abraham reached up, got a key from a hole in the molding, unlocked the door. He pushed the door open, stood back. “Gabby, you know the procedure. Check the place out.”

“Yes, Comrade.” Gabby threw a who-cares shrug and entered with the big .45 in his hand. He reached for the light switch, flicked it up. No light.