Artifact: A Daredevils Club Adventure Part 7

Frik held his breath.

There was silence while the others thought everything through. "Sounds more than reasonable to me. I'll dive for the piece that was left behind," Brousseau said, not mentioning what Frik already knew-that hisdoctor had warned him that his heart condition made deep-sea dives not just dangerous, but potentially suicidal.

Frik said nothing about it. Simon's reaction was perfect, imperative to his plan. The only risk was that Simon could mess things up by dying underwater before retrieving the piece, but that was a chance he was willing to take. "You can fly back with me," he said.

Simon shook his head. "I have to take care of some things in Miami first. Tell you what. Bring the a.s.segai to Grenada. I'll fly in there in a couple of weeks and you can sail me to Trinidad. I could use a good sail, a little time on top of the ocean."

Keene and McKendry volunteered to track Selene Trujold and her gang of ecoterrorists. From her father's notes and earlier comments, Frik knew that she had tended to focus her Green Impact activities in the main Venezuelan oil fields, near Maracaibo. If he was right, that was about to change. Now Oilstar's large new Valhalla rig, just beginning production in the Orinoco Delta, would become her prime target.

"There is something else you can do," Frik said to Ray. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I seem to remember that you told me you were building a state-of-the-art laboratory adjacent to your penthouse."

"Yeah. In my guilty moments I tell myself that I built it to develop a new means of detecting and neutralizing land mines and live sh.e.l.ls in war zones. Really, though, I'm just a kid with a four-million-dollar chemistry set," Ray said, grinning.

"A useful one. If you don't mind, I'll have Trujold's computer models and results transmitted from our mainframe in Trinidad to your computer in Las Vegas. I need you to study them and determine if his findings were correct."

"Okay with me," Ray said. "Now if you'll all excuse me, I have to check on preparations my people are making for an important guest at the Daredevil."

He left the room to use the phone in Arthur's kitchenette. By the time he returned, Peta had reentered the room. Frik could see her closed suitcase standing upright on the floor near the open doorway.

"Fly back with me in the Oilstar jet," he said to her. "I'll divert and take you to Grenada before going on to Trinidad. Sure you won't come with us, Simon?"

Simon shook his head. "Aside from anything else, there's some diving gear I want to pick up in Miami."

"Diving gear?" Peta sounded shocked. "Are you trying to kill yourself?"

"What are you talking about?" Ray asked. "He's been diving forever."

"I'm a doctor, remember," Peta said. "I don't need to do an EKG to see that he has a heart problem."

"Is that true?" Ray looked at Simon as if he hadn't really seen him before.

"Leave him alone, both of you," Frik said, more brusquely than he had intended. "He's over twenty-one."

"Yes. Stop fussing over me. I'm going to do this." Simon crossed his fingers, put his hand behind his back, and grinned like a little boy. "Tell you what, though. I promise you, this will be my last dive."

11

"We're hanging out in the wrong places, Terris. Let's go get dirty."

McKendry grunted in agreement. He didn't need to comment further; he and Keene had been working together long enough that they often seemed to read each other's mind. For that reason, they had hardly spoken about Arthur's death. Each knew how much the other would miss him, but since no amount of talk would bring their friend back, they mourned him in silence. Having lost friends before, McKendry understood his own process. For him, acceptance would come slowly, but come it would, ultimately turning the open wound of loss into one more scar on the body of his life.

"The sooner we get out of Caracas, the better." Keene slurped the last of his michelada, a concoction of lime juice, beer, ice cubes, and salt. He had taken a great liking to the drink, which he compared to a cerveza margarita. "We need to start sniffing around the oil operations. I'm betting Selene's moved from Maracaibo and is headed east to focus on Frikkie's operations near the Orinoco Delta."

McKendry knew that at any other time, Joshua Keene would have enjoyed hanging out in nightclub after nightclub, where the dancers were topless and the salsa music too loud. Not now. "You just want to get into the jungle," McKendry said.

"And you don't?"

McKendry gave a small, unintelligible response which seemed to satisfy his partner. In any event, Keene was right about Caracas. Someone like Selene was unlikely to be here by choice. Besides, at this moment in their lives, the city was far too civilized a place for the two of them. Yes, it was magnificent, the jewel of Venezuela, but a postcard would have sufficed. Shining buildings and upscale restaurants, sidewalk cafes with bright yellow awnings, lavish marble-and-bra.s.s hotels and wild nightlife never had been his idea of a good time.

Still, McKendry thought, the search for Paul Trujold's daughter needed to start somewhere. This had seemed to be as good a place as any. He hadn't actually expected to find her here-Frikkie's information said that Green Impact worked primarily in the western oil fields of the Maracaibo Basin-but this was where he had contacts in Venezuela. He knew people who could potentially lead them to Green Impact, or lead them to someone who could lead them to someone....

People like Rodolfo. The Spanish action-film star, one of McKendry's former employers, was very popular in South and Central America, though his career had gone nowhere in the United States. He had hired McKendry as a bodyguard and tough guy, a brawny piece of furniture to hover behind him every time he went out, even when they went where n.o.body knew who Rodolfo was.

The work had been a profitable and not unpleasant contract job. The star was less obnoxious than several full-of-themselves celebrities McKendry had guarded in the past. But when the six-month contract came up for renewal, he politely declined further service and moved on to another freelance a.s.signment. He preferred to provide real protection rather than testosterone-filled eye candy.

When the two Daredevils were arranging to fly down to Venezuela and begin their search for Selene, McKendry had called the action star and asked what connections he might have, what help he could offer.

Rodolfo seemed delighted to hear from him and offered to do what he could. At Simon Bolivar International Airport, in glistening tropical sunshine, the star had welcomed them both with all the enthusiasm of a long-lost Italian uncle. During their first few nights in Caracas, the grinning and too-tanned film star showered them with free champagne and front-row tickets to all the hottest nightclub shows. He took them to dinner at Tambo, Il Cielo, and other jet-set favorites, and provided them with a s.p.a.cious suite in the Eurobuilding Hotel, far from the outlying shanties and slums and the lush jungle-coveredmountains that rode high on the horizon; they were further yet from the political, economic, and natural disasters that inevitably piled one upon the other in various parts of the South American continent.

McKendry played along for five days, asking questions and enduring the pampered treatment. Five long days; five noisy nights in nightclubs. They had been seen by all the local celebrities, by important political people in Caracas, by hotel managers and casino owners. Rodolfo was doing his best and glorying in the doing of it.

For a different a.s.signment, perhaps, McKendry might have been able to use these new connections he had made, to pull strings and apply leverage. But not this time. No self-respecting member of Green Impact would ever hobn.o.b with such people.

"We're getting nowhere," Keene shouted across at McKendry. He pounded on the table, signaling the nearest waitress for another michelada; so far, they had experienced no difficulty meeting the nightclub's expensive minimum-consumption requirement.

The music picked up tempo. Several topless showgirls jiggled coffee brown b.r.e.a.s.t.s as they danced past the table en route to the small central area cleared for occasional performances. "Nice," McKendry said.

"Very nice."

Keene ran his fingers through his curly hair. He smiled appreciatively but said nothing. When his fresh michelada arrived, he slurped salt from the edge, tasted it with an extravagant flourish, and handed the waitress a large tip.

The dance number finished with a bra.s.sy finale followed by a shower of applause from well-dressed Venezuelan businessmen and their various foreign guests.

"If Selene Trujold is an ecoterrorist, self-proclaimed or otherwise, she wouldn't be caught dead in Caracas," Keene said. "She wouldn't let any of these bozos so much as buy her a drink."

McKendry drained his too-sweet drink and stood up. "Get a good night's sleep. We'll check out tomorrow."

"Not quite yet." Keene made a motion with his hand and forearm, parrying with it as if it were a sword.

"Zorro the Gay Blade approaches."

McKendry turned toward the door. He really does look like George Hamilton playing Zorro, he thought, watching Rodolfo weave his way through the crowd.

"So soon you leave me?" The star arrived with his latest accessory. "But I have just found a wonderful man for you to meet. Quite a coincidence. I have brought him over here to you."

A stranger accompanied Rodolfo, a small, wiry man with quick eyes and a feral smile. His mode of dress, not glamorous but prosperous, made it clear that he was in the Venezuelan government, and well placed at that. More important, as far as McKendry was concerned, the man's furtive glances and calculating stare showed him to be in a security field-police, military, or something even more useful.

"Don't think of it as leaving you, Rodolfo." Keene rolled the r and lengthened the vowels. "Think of us as lost sheep and know we'll find our way home."

McKendry stifled a laugh and thought, not for the first time, that his partner should have been in movies.

Keene went on, "But who is your friend here? We haven't had the pleasure." He thrust his hand toward the official.Rodolfo responded as the perfect host. "Ah, my manners. Terris, Joshua, this is Juan Ortega de la Vega Bruzual, ministro de la seguridad. Juan, these are my friends whom I told you about."

Senor Bruzual's lips twisted up on one side of his face. "My pleasure," he said, shaking first Keene's hand, then McKendry's.

Music blared from the sound system as more scantily clad dancers rushed onto the stage behind them.

Keene leaned in and shouted, "We can't hear ourselves think here. Why don't you join us in our suite for a nightcap?"

McKendry considered that a very good idea, now that Rodolfo had finally brought in someone who might have information for them, or at least suggestions on how to proceed. He noticed that Rodolfo seemed very pleased at Keene's offer and motioned his muscle man to clear them a path out of the nightclub, but Juan Ortega touched the star's arm and gestured back toward the table where he had been sitting. "But my own guests, Rodolfo. I can't simply desert them." The minister looked genuinely stricken, then brightened. "Perhaps...I hate to impose, my friend, but could you entertain them until I return?"

Well maneuvered, McKendry thought, nodding good night to his former employer, who bravely went to join Senor Bruzual's guests.

The ride up in the gla.s.s-enclosed elevator was fast and filled with chitchat between Keene and Senor Bruzual. McKendry, lacking their obvious gift for inane chatter, kept silent.

When they reached the suite, one floor below the top of the towering hotel, the minister got right down to business. While Joshua poured drinks, Bruzual said, "I can tell that you are not men of leisure, that you would prefer to be direct. I have heard of your interest in Green Impact. Why do you seek this terrorist group?"

"We're actually only interested in one of their members, Selene Trujold." McKendry took a scotch and water from Keene. No reason to beat around the bush. Bruzual had been apprised of their search.

"Well," the Venezuelan said, sipping his own drink, "Selene Trujold is not just a member of Green Impact, she is the leader."

McKendry didn't want to get sidetracked. "That complicates things a bit. I suppose now you're going to tell us that Green Impact is no longer operating from the Maracaibo Basin."

Bruzual's lip twitched up into his crooked smile, but instead of answering, he asked, "Why do you seek Senorita Trujold?" He sipped his own scotch, obviously savoring it. During the headiest days of the oil boom, Venezuelans had consumed the highest per-capita amount of fine scotch in the world, and their taste for it had not declined despite higher tariffs and import restrictions.

McKendry nodded to Keene, who said, "We're working with Oilstar. She may have information about a sensitive...item stolen from Oilstar's labs. We're here to recover it."

The security minister nodded. "I have had a task force keeping an eye on Green Impact's troublesome activities for many years. For the most part, their terrorism has amounted to nothing more than an annoyance. However, two months ago their former leader was found shot along with several security guards at the site of an attempted sabotage in Cabimas. None of the guards had fired their weapons.

"A week later, we received reports of sabotage campaigns in the east led by a woman. Our information shows that Green Impact has gone at least as far as Maturin, and it is said they have an encampment in the Delta Amacuro."Keene looked at McKendry. "Just like Frik thought. Not far from Oilstar's operations between Trinidad and the Venezuelan coast."

"That is all I can give you." Bruzual downed his scotch and stood up. "It's been a pleasure, gentlemen."

McKendry stood and extended his right hand. "Thank you, Senor Bruzual. We will return the favor."

"Just bring me Selene Trujold's head. One of those dead guards was my nephew."

As the door closed behind the Venezuelan, Keene grinned. "You pack," he said. "I'll see about getting us a ride. Should I bring an Enya CD for mood music? Orinoco Flow, maybe?"

"Very funny." McKendry grimaced at Keene, pulled out his suitcase, and started to pack. His friend was well aware that Terris had turned down a lucrative a.s.signment with the New Age star because he couldn't stand to listen to her music.

Keene chuckled. "I didn't think so," he said, and picked up the phone.

12.

Sitting directly behind the pilot of the Cessna they'd hired to fly them from Caracas to Maturin, McKendry had a clear view of the gray ribbons of pipe forming stripes through the woven tapestry of green and brown and tan that was the coastal range. The pipelines delivered crude from the rich Orinoco oil belt in the south over the mountains to refineries in Puerto La Cruz and other cities to the north, on the Caribbean coast.

From his seat, he couldn't see the vast central plains and forests of the Venezuelan interior, but from Keene's bored expression and constant attempts to find something to talk about over the growl of the engines, he knew there couldn't be much excitement down there.

McKendry instead used the time to review their plans. The pattern of Green Impact's movements made it clear that Selene was attacking targets of opportunity as the terrorists relocated for their campaign against Frikkie and Oilstar. The obvious place for them to hide was the maze of the Orinoco Delta, which lay due south of Trinidad on the east coast of Venezuela. The delta, a vast fan of swampy streams and dense jungles that covered nearly eight thousand square miles, emptied into the ocean across more than a hundred miles of coastline.

The northwestern curve of the delta fan flowed into the Gulf of Paria-where Frikkie had most of his oil wells-and the nine-mile-wide channel known as the Boca de la Serpiente, or Serpent's Mouth, which separated the southern tip of Trinidad from the Venezuelan mainland. On the map, McKendry thought, the island's southern peninsula looked like the head of an adder set to strike the giant body of South America.

The snake a.n.a.logy was not appealing. For all of his daredeviltry, there were two things McKendry preferred not to face: snakes and sharks. There was little he could do about the latter except avoid them, to which end he confined his swimming to lakes and pools. As far as the former were concerned, he habitually wore heavy boots and always carried a fresh snakebite kit in his backpack.

Pausing in his review, he checked to make sure the kit was there.

Deciding that the scenery held no further interest to him, he leaned back, closed his eyes, and napped for the remainder of the trip.Upon landing, McKendry and Keene hired a truck and a driver to take them from Maturin across the Tonoro River to the Manamo, on the western edge of the delta.

They kept to the lowlands, to the less-inhabited villages, where they considered it most likely Selene Trujold had gone to ground. They paid with worn bolivar notes to take guided boats up and down some of the delta riverlets-called canos by the locals. In U.S. terms, the money they spent amounted to little, but McKendry was aware that their frequent hiring of the poor boat pilots helped the local economy a great deal.

Everywhere they went, Keene and McKendry asked about Green Impact, trying to uncover secret support for the environmental group. They moved in a "drunkard's walk" pattern across the coast, one day heading up a cano into the interior, the next doubling back down another, tending in an easterly direction, but occasionally circling around to see if their earlier questions had raised any alarms behind them.

They met with no success. Oilstar's work was the salvation of the local economy. The local Warao Indians did not seem to have much of a global perspective, and it was clear they would not have joined Green Impact's cause. The same was true of most of the villagers who lived in thatched huts atop stilts in the muddy marshes. They cared little or nothing about protecting the ecology. In fact, many of the taro and yucca farmers were in the process of hacking down rain forests and slashing and burning the land so they could plant crops.

Time trickled by like the water in the languid river, but just like the river, the current of days was deceptive. McKendry, perhaps because he understood the people less, was growing impatient. It annoyed him that his partner seemed perfectly content to go on sitting in dockside cantinas, looking out toward the ocean, or sometimes just under overhanging foliage beneath an awning on a dock beside the river, drinking micheladas and asking questions. While they both understood the language, McKendry freely admitted that his partner seemed far more comfortable with the culture.

Eventually, they began to pick up word of a group of radicals headquartered in some unnamed village farther south, a group led by a young woman. Unfortunately, no one seemed to know exactly how to find them.

More likely, n.o.body gave a d.a.m.n.

"d.a.m.n bugs," McKendry said as they sat in yet one more cantina eating yet one more plateful of black beans and spicy empanadas filled with an unknown meat from the jungle.

"To them, you're a necessary part of the food chain," Keene said, grinning.

Terris pushed the rest of his meal aside and reached for his beer. He was about to make some rude comment when two newcomers entered the cantina.

The owner sat in a chair behind the bar and paid no attention to the strangers, but instinct born of long experience told McKendry to take note of the young white man and his companion. The man marched into the restaurant as if he belonged there. He wore his hair in a long ponytail, a floppy leather hat, and a plaid shirt, and had a guitar in a case slung over his shoulder. His india girlfriend, a short dark-haired beauty, held a tambourine, and spoke not a word.

The young man slipped his guitar case off his shoulder, opened the case on the floor, and eyed McKendry and Keene the way a con man eyes his marks.

McKendry did not change his expression, but Keene sat forward and stared with intense interest. With apreliminary strum of the strings, the young man played and sang, though not particularly well, a Beatles song followed by an old Bob Dylan tune.

"Hey," Keene called out to him. "Why don't you play one of those old activist songs, like how the oil companies are wrecking the environment?"

He raised his eyebrows and looked over at his partner. McKendry cleared his throat and nodded.

"How 'bout 'The Wreck of the Exxon Valdez,' sung to that old Gordon Lightfoot tune?"

The young man laughed and strummed his guitar. "Well, I'd have to make up the words."

"That's all right," McKendry said.

Joshua Keene fidgeted, but could not contain his impatience. After the young man struggled through half a song, Keene clapped loudly. He tossed a handful of coins into the guitar box. "Say, you wouldn't know anything about Green Impact, would you?"

The young man stiffened. "That's a terrorist group, and they're not terribly welcome around here. Why would I know anything about them?"

"Not saying you do, amigo," Keene said carefully. "It's just that we're looking for Selene Trujold. She's supposedly one of their members, maybe even their leader."