Unacceptable Risk Page 9

  Sam could tell that this jungle cacophony wasn't Grady's favorite night music. He stepped away to take a leak and reached into the zippered pocket of his jungle pants, where he found a pack of cigarettes. He didn't smoke, he reminded himself. And it could be dangerous if they were being stalked. He squatted down facing a large tree and cupped it in his hands. Just a few puffs. He took three deep drags, put out the smoke, and returned to camp.

  "There is a certain primitive flavor to this place. So much life and so much death all jammed together," Grady said.

  "You know you wouldn't have said that when I first met you."

  "Do I make you proud?" She laughed. "All that college?"

  "Sometimes."

  "Funny thing," Grady said. "With all these damn smells something reminds me of cigarettes."

  "Probably something like a tobacco leaf" Sam said.

  Grady turned to Javier.

  "Do you smoke?"

  "No. Maybe there's been a fire nearby."

  "Let's get some sleep," Sam said.

  After a few minutes Javier stepped over to Sam.

  "The exact truth is not always important?"

  "The truth is always important," Sam muttered. "Full disclosure is another matter...."

  It was something of a puzzle to get four hammocks hung in their small hole in the foliage. Ultimately they ended up with Sam's hanging over the top of Yodo's. Finally they all managed to slither onto their hammocks, pulled on their mosquito netting, and doused the lights. Sam was falling off to sleep when he felt Grady reach for his hand. He patted it in what he deemed a fatherly touch and whispered that everything would be fine. He could sense that the slaughtered natives and the image of Gaudet were haunting her. But she still seemed to cope. That was up until the jaguar screamed and shortly thereafter a rather large snake came down one of the trees. First they heard it and then Grady's flashlight lit the beautiful mottled skin.

  "Sam?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "I'm sleeping with you in your hammock."

  "It's not big enough."

  "Oh yes it is."

  She brought her slicker and slipped rather neatly beside him, even getting under his mosquito netting. It took a little doing to get both slickers over the top of them. Anna, being Grady's aunt, would probably understand about the single hammock. In fact, if anything happened to Grady, Anna would have his ass.

  With Anna had come Grady, a wild and beautiful young woman whom Sam had salvaged from drugs and a booming occupation as a stripper. It had been one of those family interventions, where Sam had swooped in, paid Grady to leave the club, and delivered her to a Tilok Native American spiritual leader who happened also to be a psychologist—and Sam's mother. Grady graduated from his mother's drug counseling with honors.

  Using her formidable powers of persuasion, Grady had talked her way onto the staff of Sam's business, and lately her smiles and the way she flashed her eyes were stirring his soul. There was a freshness to her youth and an exuberance about her that dug deep in a man. When at work in his offices in LA he noticed that he looked forward to chatting with her in the morning on his way through the office complex. But the side of him that he inherited from Grandfather made sure that he never crossed the line.

  He didn't really know if his feelings were limited to the sort of affection that a man has for a niece or a daughter, or if maybe it was something more unsettling. On most days, when he and Anna weren't arguing, he realized that he had something special with Anna and that helped him with Grady. Just as significant, he knew that a forty-two-year-old man would take something from a twenty-year-old woman the minute she committed herself to him, and it was something that he could not give back. The way he figured, to love Grady would be to let her go, and if he didn't love her, he had no business taking her. Mentors do not have sex with the mentees, he advised himself as he put a fatherly arm around her shoulders and clenched her hand.

  "Thank you," she whispered. Then after a minute or so: "Sam?"

  "What?"

  "Do you believe Gaudet's in this jungle?"

  "I guess my gut is starting to tell me that he is. If he is, he won't touch you. I promise."

  She moved closer.

  The sleeping arrangement made him uncomfortable. And it got worse. The hammock was too narrow and he spent the night rearranging her so as to maintain decorum. None of it seemed to bother her; she just kept on sleeping and moving.

  Chapter 6

  When a man loses a woman, the year loses the spring.

  —Tilok proverb

  Michael Bowden and Marita zigzagged through the deep jungle, looking for the trail of the six men. Marita thought their quarry might be wary enough to stay off the trail. This meant a laborious and slow tracking process that had yet to turn up any sign of the group.

  That night they built a tiny fire and ate roasted piranha. They were easy to catch and reasonable to eat, although they had a bit of an oily taste. Another appetite suppressor was the macabre appearance of the piranha's teeth. Although he cut off the heads before roasting them, Michael could never quite get the picture of those little razors out of his head.

  Sitting by the fire, Michael began looking at Marita with a new sort of gaze. No longer tentative, he deliberately sought eye contact. To his delight she looked back and they sat unabashedly studying each other. It was so novel for them that he burst out laughing.

  She lowered her eyes, and Michael could see that he had embarrassed her.

  "Why are you laughing?"

  "Because I am happy to be with you and I guess I questioned whether I would be happy to be with anyone again."

  "You are not laughing because you think I am what... weird?"

  "I am laughing for the reasons that men the world over laugh with women they like."

  "You are handsome," she said after a time. "And you are a man with many ideas. A smart man."

  "And you are beautiful," he said. He found himself wondering if perhaps his amazement was reflected in his gaze. "I am continually surprised at your English. And at my uncertainty."

  "You are uncertain?"

  "Some loquacious poet of the eighteenth century said that uncertainty is the steed on which romance rides into the heart."

  "I am proud of my English, but I do not understand

  The steed is?"

  "A horse.... In those days English people rode horses."

  "And romance comes to us on this horse of uncertainty.... I think I understand. Then I like this uncertainty."

  "I know that the Jesuits are amazing educators, but I am stunned that out here in the jungle I have a girl who is so ... I don't know... Western."

  "We had toastmasters night at the priests' school. I have read Moby Dick, The Great Gatsby, Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn, Gone With the Wind—the priests didn't know about that—and all of Jane Austen. She is my favorite. And I have read many others."

  "I can tell. You're practically a hometown girl."

  "What is a 'hometown girl'?"

  "I don't know anymore. It used to be a girl like you, I think. I came from a college town in America. It was far from the big city. I was twelve when I left and things are a bit hazy. I remember the big things, but it seems like the jungle has swallowed many of the details."

  "I want to go to New York City. Would you take me?"

  "Just like that." Michael chuckled. "I have not been to New York since I was a little boy and I don't remember it."

  "Your books are published there, no?"

  "Yes, but my father had an agent and an editor and I have the same people. I talk on the phone and write them letters. That is all."

  "Still, you could go."

  "I could."

  She paused awhile and they listened to the night sounds. The howler monkeys had bedded down, finished warning off other bands with their calling. But the other night creatures were anything but silent.

  "The priests said you cannot be with a man until you are married."

  "Yes. That's what they s
ay." He studied her.

  "That is not the custom here."

  It was under 70 degrees Fahrenheit and there was a little nip in the air. They had already set up their hammocks. The firelight played off her face and she smiled at him, then looked away. Michael stood up, went to his pack, pulled out mosquito netting, removed a blanket, and draped it over her shoulders. She sat on a chunk of a downed tree and there was space next to her. She took his hand and pulled him down beside her and they draped themselves with the netting, only inches between them. He wanted to touch her face. His eye followed the contours of her body. It was so lithe... maybe ninety pounds. Her arms were toned and beautiful and her waist small enough that it seemed he could encircle it with his hands. Her face was smooth and only slightly round. She had full lips and gorgeously shaped eyes. Her hair was thick and curly. It had a natural sheen, black as a raven's feather. He touched it. Between his fingers it felt soft. No doubt the Catholics had taught her to bathe daily.

  "Do you have shampoo?" he asked.

  "Of course."

  "The priests?"

  "Everything is from the priests. Books, magazines, wine, newspapers, cheese. Even my boy was from the priests. Nobody knows and he is a nice man. So don't tell."

  "The boy is the one who was killed?"

  "Yes." She sighed. "I cannot talk about it. I am sorry."

  "It's understandable. None of the other Matses read much about the outside world?"

  "It is true. Except for the Protestant missionaries at Buenas Lomas Antigua. They bring in things on the planes, but it is very limited compared to what we have in Tabatinga. I miss the Western things, the magazines."

  "How old are you?" Michael was intrigued.

  "I am twenty. I have had one child, but I plan to have more. I would have more, but the priests taught me birth control. Isn't that funny?"

  Only her age surprised him.

  "It matters?" she asked.

  "You have a man?"

  She turned toward him and engaged his eyes.

  "I did. I had more than one. I do not now. I am too educated."

  "And unruly." Michael laughed.

  "My family agrees and my mother would not give me to a man unless she warns him. But I do not seek a native man."

  Michael nodded again.

  "I am going to manage the workers for the house and garden for the priests in Tabatinga," she explained.

  "You are leaving the Matses?"

  "I am in love with books. We do not have any. The anthropologist is just now getting our language in written form."

  Michael was getting a whole new picture of this young woman. "If you have children, they will not be Matses."

  "I know. Maybe there will be a new Matses."

  Michael thought about that and the wreck that the civilized world was making of their culture. But who could say that the young woman should not have her books? Or that she should not explore Western culture?

  "I want to kiss you," she said. "Like in America," she added, and leaned toward him. He met her lips halfway and kissed her gently. "Is that how you do it?" she asked.

  "That's one way."

  "Show me another way."

  This time he used his tongue and she giggled.

  "I like this more. This is how I do it too."

  With the next kiss, his hand moved to her waist of its own accord, as if detached from his will.

  "You are sure?" he said.

  Her answer was to kiss him long and deep.

  Under her shirt her skin was moist and hot and it was a magnet to his fingers. She kissed him again, thrusting her tongue against his, while she flattened herself against him. His hand finally found her breast full and firm and his fingers began playing at her nipples. They hardened and he moved one hand to her leg, letting his fingers drift. When they reached her inner thigh, she began to quiver and to cling to him. For a second he paused, trying to fight his desire, to think about their mission and her relative innocence and the myth of the pink dolphin, but he couldn't. He knew that his willpower had fled. In the morning he would have to sort out what it all meant—assuming they survived.

  * * *

  Outside the holding area Baptiste told the guard that he needed the keys to Benoit Moreau's shackles.

  "That would be highly irregular."

  "I know. But we are under something of an urgent time constraint. You can call the colonel or even the admiral if that makes you feel better."

  The man withdrew the key. He had been tipped off or was smart enough to know that this was no ordinary situation.

  Once again Benoit waited in the office, only this time he had instructed the guards to put her in the chair facing the desk, reserving the chair behind the desk for himself. It was not a subtle message.

  When he entered, she looked at him pleasantly, showing no sign of fear, relief, or the false adoration of a sycophant. The woman could give lessons to Machiavelli.

  "I thought I would take a few minutes to see if you are ready to discuss our conditions before I have you thrown in the hole."

  "How would you justify throwing me in the hole?"

  "I don't need justification."

  "Well, then I am ready to go in the hole."

  "You know what it is like in the hole?"

  "Don't waste your valuable time telling me. You need to spend your time learning about Chaperone for the glory of France. I am sure I will be there until your admiral pulls me out, makes love to me on a soft bed somewhere, and hears all my secrets."

  "He can't take you to a soft bed."

  "With the glory of France at stake, of course he can. The guards will be just outside and I will make a great furor during my orgasm to let them know that the admiral has the power of a bull and the finesse of Michelangelo. Then he will quietly brag that I just needed a man to get headed on the straight and narrow, a real man, and he will have the secrets to prove it. And no one will reprove him, absolutely no one, because this is France and, after all, her glory is fading, and to reclaim it, well, it is a small price to pay. They will nearly give him a medal for being the greatest cocksman in all of Paris. And you, of course, will appear.... Well, actually you won't appear.... You'll just be shuffled off to another job."

  Baptiste rose from behind the desk, walked over to her, took out the key to the cuffs, handed them to her, and told her to unlock them.

  She did so, but for the first time looked slightly uncertain.

  He drew out his Manurin 9mm service revolver, got down on one knee, and pointed it at her throat, the muzzle only a foot from her chin.

  "Here is what I am going to do. I am going to call the admiral and tell him that you have tried repeatedly to seduce me. That you've claimed you could seduce him as well. You have also claimed to me that members of le Senat are under your control, that you are blackmailing them because they had illicit sex with you. Although I regret it, I will have to file a report on all of these matters. The report will reach the parliament, and I will ensure that it is copied to the media. True, my mission will have been a failure. But what do I really lose? I will get my pension and maybe an early discharge. You, though... will be a pariah. They will never leave you alone with any man, especially the admiral. You will never get a deal. You will lose all your contacts and your leverage in le Senat. I will do this. I swear it."

  He stepped back to the phone and began dialing.

  "Perhaps my boss will tell me to shoot you and claim that we fought over the gun. On the other hand, that would probably be too easy."

  He put the receiver to his ear.

  "Wait," she said.

  Yes, he definitely saw a crack in her affected nonchalance.

  "Look," she said. "I will trust you where I could not trust others. I will not use my lawyer and I will tell you all my secrets. I shall be at the laboratory at your suffrage. I will put myself in your hands. But I must have one thing from a man such as yourself. I must have you. I want to feel you inside me."

  Baptiste was within microns of
complete victory. Or was he? She could flit like a bird and be off, call his bluff. Would sleeping with her to make her happy be unpardonable? Many agents would do it and brag about it. What was stopping him?

  He set the phone down. "All right. We have a deal. You report to the lab in the morning. I will find a soft bed. But I want to know—why do they call it Chaperone?"

  "After the soft bed that you promised."

  Devan Gaudet did not like the jungle, but he understood it. Here the strong ate the weak, the large ate the small, and no one paid attention. There were no eulogies, no tears, not even remembrances—only birth, death, and more death. For Gaudet, there was something warm and familiar about death. He had killed many and knew he would kill more, so it wasn't the dying that offended his sensibilities. Other than death, the jungle offered torture, his own, and he didn't care for pain unless the suffering was someone else's.

  There were six of them seated around the fire. Except for Gaudet, who at all times retained the appearance and air of civility, they were a ragged group with dirtied shirts, mud-caked blue jeans, and partial beards. They stank. And now that they were through dining, they belched and farted with abandon.

  The five members of his group spoke French, English, and Arabic. The local guide spoke Spanish, English after a fashion, and a smattering of Portuguese, which did none of them any good. The local was Carlos, the other hires found by Trotsky and imported from France. Gaudet had no regulars and never worked repeatedly with anyone. Whenever possible, he worked alone, and if he needed men, he directed things from a distance. This group scene was not his cup of tea. All of this crowd, but the guide, were unused to the humidity, the bugs, and the heat.