"In the Talons of the Condor", by/par/door: Gustavo Florentin (USA)

                                          FALKLAND ISLANDS
April 1, l982
 
The fishing trawler dropped its commandos eight kilometers from the targetpoint and the three Zodiac rafts proceeded landward. Lieutenant Roland Sabatini had trained eight years for this mission, but the denials of sleep and food, the gnashing elements, were small rigors now that the day had come.
When the rafts came to within a thousand meters of the shoreline, the engines were cut. Sabatini and Comandante Enrique Cisneros would now swim to shore alone, maintaining radio silence. Automatically Roland's hands moved over his body, checking his equipment in the near-total blackness. Knife, wrist compass, flashlight, wristwatch, whistle, depth gauge, weight belt, flare, shark repellent, Beretta nine-millimeter automatic sealed in plastic. After another check of his scuba gear he was ready to enter the water.
Comandante Cisneros pressed the buddy line against Sabatini's chest. After fastening it to his wrist Roland gave it one tug. It tugged back then Cisneros slipped into the frigid water as silently as a sea lion. Sabatini shivered briefly as the forty-five degree water penetrated his wet suit where it would be warmed by body heat and provide an insulating layer. He ignored the cold and began checking the comandante's scuba gear. He ensured all check valves were working and all hose connections were secure. Cisneros took a few breaths under water and gave the thumbs-up. Now the procedure was repeated for Sabatini. This was as familiar as the two men ever got.
Cisneros was a professional, aloof and quick to lash out at error. At thirty-five, he was no longer as agile as his junior officers but he had something which could not be taught—the sense which tells one of impending danger. He had acquired tremendous peripheral vision while playing soccer as a child in the Buenos Aires slums. He knew who was behind him at all times, where their hands were. But Sabatini had learned well. He had been chosen by Cisneros to swim with him as his pacer on this historic mission.
The men submerged and swam toward land. Once on shore they would take bearings and guide in the reconnaissance team. They, in turn, would take depth soundings, record the beach gradient and check for mines, charting safe passage for the amphibious assault group that was now waiting on the mainland of Argentina for the invasion of Las Malvinas in twenty-four hours. With only a few dozen Royal Marines defending the islands, little resistance was expected, but every contingency had to be accounted for.
When they reached the shore, Cisneros immediately detached his tether and let it drop. Sabatini reeled it in without taking his eyes off the rocky land. His night vision was excellent and he could see the outlines of seals stirring some yards away. Cisneros removed his flippers and walked twenty meters along the shore to compensate for current drift. He pointed his unlit flashlight down the length of the beach and read the baseline bearing off the compass mounted on top of the flashlight. He then calculated the right angle bearing, the angle perpendicular to the length of the beach. After setting his compass on the right angle bearing he signaled Sabatini to do the same and made sure the flashlights were aligned. Sabatini then proceeded to the water's edge at the landing point and shined the orange light out to sea on the RAB. Because the reconnaissance team was to proceed on his left flank he strobed the light, careful to keep it pointed seaward at all times. Cisneros walked several meters landward and flashed his light on the RAB, then walked laterally, still signaling, until his beam was aligned with Sabatini’s.
When the eighteen-man recon team sighted the range lights they swam in at twenty-five meter intervals along a marked tether. Each swimmer was equipped with a leadline and hand-held sonar. Readings of surf zone, depth, beach gradient, obstacles, sandbars and height of breakers were recorded on each man's Plexiglas slate.
Lieutenant Sabatini scanned the hinterland. It was desolate. Six hundred thousand sheep and two thousand humans. It had not changed much since 1833 when the British seized it and called it the Falkland Islands. The wind whipped unencumbered over the treeless landscape while the cry of skuas and penguins provided the few signs of life. This solitude was exalting, he thought. But in the solitude of the mind there was no surf or simple animals. He wanted to stay in this sparse place, in eternal night. Here there was tranquility.
When the team arrived at the water's edge they shifted twelve-and-a-half meters and turned back, again twenty-five meters between each man. In this way the entire landing zone could be mapped.
When the two men reentered the water, the tether again connected them.
Sabatini would have to pick his moment carefully. If he killed Cisneros while close to the other swimmers they would be alerted. If he fell back trying to widen the gap, then Cisneros would become suspicious. Sabatini removed the tether from his wrist but retained it in his left hand. With his right hand he pulled on the Velcro strap that secured the handle of his knife to the sheath. If he pulled it all at once the sound would travel. A little at a time with every exhalation, as he had practiced so many times. Finally the knife was free. Sabatini swam closer to Cisneros. As soon as he could discern the luminous dial of the comandante's wrist compass he knew he was within range. He thrust his knife towards the other man's diaphragm. It missed its mark, inflicting only a flesh wound. Instantly, a knife slashed across the chest of the younger man, slicing his wet suit. Sabatini gripped Cisneros' wrist, halting the arc of his blade. Cisneros reached for his pistol. Sabatini took his time cutting the airhose—Cisneros would not be able to cock the gun and pull the trigger through the plastic bag with one hand. Sabatini stabbed the commander in the kidney and jacked the serrated blade up and down until the other man released his gun. The lieutenant clamped his hand over Cisneros' mouth and surfaced. In the dim light Roland Sabatini could see Cisneros' eyes searching, asking. Sabatini plunged the point of his blade into the base of the commander's skull then twisted the knife, scrambling the brains as Cisneros had taught him. He disemboweled the body to produce maximum bloodletting, then removed his weight belt and strapped it around Cisneros' chest. Sharks would take care of the rest within twenty minutes. He removed his commander's mask and looked into his face for the last time, then the living man and the dead sank beneath the blackness of the waves.
 

 
Chapter 1
 
Twenty five thousand feet above the Amazon River, John Muir was vomiting. He had never had a strong stomach but the combination of third-world breakfast and small-plane aerobatics now made him heave his guts.
When he returned from the restroom, he contemplated the Amazon River below him.
Four thousand miles long, two hundred eighty miles wide, two hundred fifty feet deep, it was the greatest river on earth, draining an area larger than continental United States. Muir wished he could be more impressed with these facts, but the most compelling reality was that for the next two years he would be living among snakes, mosquitoes, yellow fever and malaria. That it was in the name of God didn’t impress him either. Muir felt that he had been forced here as the river below him swept so much detritus.
At nineteen, it was time for Muir to answer the Call. Like nearly all males in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, it was time for him to go on a mission. This mission.
Once in Belem, he and his companion would travel to the upper Amazon to bring the Word to the Guraite, a primitive tribe discovered twenty years earlier by the anthropologist, Dr. Regis Kettle. From what little Muir knew of these people, they had scant need of his righteousness. In their language there was no word for “murder” or “hatred”. According to Kettle, they were the most benign and forgiving people he had ever encountered, offering help even to members of invading tribes. Then again, to remain a respectable member of his community, to have his choice of wife, to prosper in Salt Lake City and work at Dad’s law firm, he had to answer the Call. That came straight from the heart.
From reading the books of Tristan Jones he knew a few things about his destination, Belem. It was a port city, a favorite among sailors for its friendly people. And it had the largest whorehouse in the world, with over five hundred girls.
He savored his last moments of privacy as the plane approached the runway.
One Edson da Silva would be waiting to take him to the mission branch where he would meet Dr. Richard Tallis, president of the mission branch and the man to whom Muir would answer for the next two years.
When the plane's door opened, the tropical air, thick with palms and slow limbs, hit him in the chest. The midday sun had made the tarmac gummy and the land gave up his footsteps reluctantly.
He was the last one left at the luggage carrousel when the conveyor stopped. A little inquiring revealed there were no more bags on the airplane. Furthermore, his bags were still in Caracas.
“When will I have my bags?” asked the American.
“In a little while only senhor,” said the ticket agent. “The next flight from Caracas is in six hours.” As he walked up the arrivals ramp he saw a man holding a placard that said MUIR. Not yet. He hid under his hat and walk past da Silva with the crowd. Muir called the office of Richard Tallis and explained that he had been delayed in Caracas and would be arriving on the next plane at eight thirty p.m. He then watched while Edson da Silva was paged and sent home. For the next six hours the city and solitude were still his.
He took a cab to the center of town. The city had been an old Indian slave settlement and later, a rubber town. The Belem-Brasilia highway had brought prosperity and high rises and turned Belem into a center of commerce.
As he exited the cab small children besieged him, immediately pegging him for an American. He had not had a chance to exchange money and he appeased the crowd by giving out a dollar. Now the others redoubled their pleas. He dismissed them and set off to find lunch.
His textbook Portuguese would be of little use here. Using sign language he ordered two hotdogs and bottled water at an outdoor café called O Cristobal.
While he waited for his food he observed a band of eleven-year-old boys stealing motorists’ wristwatches at the intersection. All windows were rolled down on this hot day and elbows were foolishly sticking out of windows while waiting for the light to turn. A boy would simply run up to the car and rip the watch off the owner's arm. Some crafty drivers wore their watches on the right wrist. The thieves countered this ploy by burning the driver's left hand with a cigarette, waiting for the other hand to reflexively reach over, then snatching the watch.
The hotdogs were excellent. They resembled large, split kielbasas with very spicy mustard on the side. Before long, an urchin materialized before him. Perhaps ten, the boy simply stared. When the child showed no signs of leaving, Muir began reaching for his wallet. The waiter then appeared and yelled ‛Embora!’ and the vagrant ran away. The man then seemed to apologize for the incident and Muir summoned his favorite phrase in any tongue.
“Nao ha problema.”
Muir was not comfortable with poverty. He was not callused to it, merely realistic. He would be making no major contributions to humanity and he considered himself lucky to know this early on. Just as important as deciding what you are going to do with your life, is knowing what you will not do. No Nobel Peace Prize. No library extension at Harvard. Perhaps not even a wife or kids.
He took another cab to the wharf. Open-air markets sold Japanese radios, puma hides, French perfumes and endangered parrots. Mongers discarded putrid fish that was immediately recovered by beggars and amputees. Urubas, vultures that nested atop condominiums, battled for whatever remained. Nothing was wasted here but lives, thought John.
Young girls of fourteen and fifteen in lipstick and shorts were soliciting sailors. Bars promised nude dancers, beer and good times. He walked past these establishments feeling the closeness of their corruption, inhaling the beer and warm sweat exuding through the doorways. There was no denying it: he was fascinated by the underside of humanity.
He continued past the oily ships, and stood looking at them for a long time, their black monolithic prows rising from the water like newborn islands.
Once again, he was doing something he did not want to do. At eighteen he had wanted to join the Marine Corps. His father had forbidden it because this would have precluded John's going on a mission at nineteen, the usual age. Father and son collided. In the end the young man yielded and enrolled in college to study law, another of his father's strong recommendations.
He didn't know what he wanted to do with his life, only that he didn't want to live in his father's house anymore. He didn't want to be a lawyer. He didn't want to be a missionary.
At nine O’clock Muir and his bags walked into the office of Richard Tallis. A grim man of fifty-two, Tallis’ Saxon features were ill-adapted to lifelong missionary work in the tropics. He was bald with the sides closely cropped. He wore a white short-sleeved shirt and a red and blue striped tie, flawlessly knotted and dimpled, a carryover from his twenty years as operations manager for Levy’s Meat Company.
The office was Spartan, furnished to accommodate brief sitting and intense listening. One side of a bookshelf contained the Book of Mormon, Doctrines and Covenants, A Pearl of Great Price; on the other were generalities—an anthology of poetry, a history of the world—within which were hidden the complexities of a man.
John adjusted his smile to show an extra pair of teeth and extended his hand.
“John Muir—I'm very glad to be here at last, sir.”
Tallis gave him a mild handshake and pointed to a chair.
“This is no ordinary mission you've been called to,” said the older man, without banalities. “It is difficult to get permission to visit Indian lands these days. Authorization from FUNAI, the national Indian foundation, was obtained through the offices of your companion's father, no small feat in itself.
“You'll be on your own almost the entire time. That is, you and your partner. Discipline is of the utmost importance and it is what I demand. You are here to bring the Word of God to those who have not heard the Word. That is all. If you do that with your heart, then whatever else you don't accomplish won't matter. Except for going to the bathroom you are not to leave your companion's side for two years. There are several reasons for this, all of them obvious. Where you are going it will be dangerous. There are unenforceable laws in the jungle, which means no law. Romantic involvement with anyone, however innocent, is expressly forbidden. This compromises the integrity of the entire Church. We are dealing here with faith. And faith in God sometimes begins with faith in men. You must be worthy of the faith of the people who will hear you. If you ever lose that you might as well go home, and go home you will, to disgrace.”
“I understand all this, sir, and have since I was ten years old.”
“Your shots are in order, I presume.”
“Yes sir.”
“You will report to me every month by letter. Yes, that means you'll have to hike all the way to civilization to mail it. It's the only practical way we can maintain contact and be assured that you're still alive. Sending in missionaries to relieve you would put more people at risk, not the least of whom are the Indians who are highly susceptible to colds and influenza. It would also be unacceptable to FUNAI. How is your Portuguese?”
“Nao ha problema.”
“Good. Your companion speaks fluent Portuguese as well as English and Spanish.”
“I look forward to meeting him, sir.”
“That will be right now.” Tallis walked around his desk and opened the door to his study. He motioned in a young man in his early twenties. Even through his loose-fitting white shirt and tie Muir could discern the powerful muscles. The young man's face, which he noticed last, was serene but purposeful.
“John Muir, this is Roland Sabatini.”
 



 







Chapter 2
 
By the second day on the river, most of the passengers had diarrhea. There was one bathroom on board which John had visited eight times before noon and the methane gas in that chamber could have powered a small generator.
Sabatini was unaffected. Not only was the ferry food unrecognizable, the people smelly, the mosquitoes vicious, the sun and humidity merciless, but Roland Sabatini was as humorless, sullen and enigmatic as they come. This was John's worst-case scenario come true. Two years of this, thought John—two years before the mast.
“I noticed you're immune to the latest plague to befall us,” said John.
Roland looked up from Doctrines and Covenants. “It doesn't bother me.”
“What do you think of the food?”
“It’s enough to sustain a man.”
“How did you prepare for this—lot's of backpacking?”
“I did nothing in particular.”
John leaned an elbow on the gunwale of the ship.
“You're past the usual age. How did you avoid answering the call at nineteen?”
Roland was holding the book tighter now and his brows descended a notch.
“Some personal matters arose that prevented me.”
“Military service?” asked John.
“Don't interrogate me.” Their eyes met like those of vindictive drivers. Muir walked away.
There was no way he could take this for two years, thought Muir. Anyone with a temperament like that will cave in under the stress of the elements. When that happened, Muir could go home. In the mean time he was going to enjoy himself.
He whipped out his telescoping fishing rod and extended it from his hip toward the sky as though drawing a rapier. A small boy saw this and was immensely impressed. John followed this by bringing the rod up to his face and saluting the river with it in the sweeping manner of a duelist. This delighted the boy. John quickly put a red devil on the line and cast it twenty yards out.
There was a tug on his line from deep below. It was no snag, but a muscular, mouthy yank. He decreased the drag on his reel so as not to snap the ten-pound test line. Whatever it was, it was big. A small crowd had gathered. John played him out masterfully, giving him line then taking it in, tiring him. The fish finally broke the surface. It looked like a thirty-pound catfish but John had no means of landing him without a net or gaff. Another man, sensing a decent meal for a change, hung from the stern and hooked his big toe through the fish's gill.
The big fish glistened and its whiskers were the lengths of garden snakes. Someone clubbed it and it quickly became communal property. It was cut into great fillets and was soon frying. Before long John had caught eight formidable surubies and a stingray.
As he was putting his tackle away he heard Roland say,
“Feeding the flock?”
“Is that an attempt at humor?”
“It's an attempt to apologize.”
“Forget it.”
“I want to explain—”
“No need.”
“Please, let me. I—I'm sometimes brusque with people.”
Muir sat down on his pack and opened his hands as though to catch rain.
“I have recently rejoined the Church after being inactive for many years,” said Sabatini. “My parents were divorced several years ago and I went to live with my mother in Argentina. My father remained in Brazil. I took a leave from my teaching job in Buenos Aires to come here. To do some good.”
Muir looked at Roland’s hands, which were very large, but beautiful. His forearms and biceps were brutal.
“What did you teach?”
“Piano.”
“I played saxophone for a while. My father said jazz is the music of strip joints, and that was that. He didn’t like engineering either so I’m studying law.”
“And this mission also—he decided for you?”
“That obvious? And your motives, Brother Sabatini?”
“As I’ve told you.”
A woman came over and invited them to eat some of the fried catch.
They said grace then dug into thick slabs of surubi flavored with lemon and washed it down with mineral water.
Muir noticed that Sabatini glanced at their packs lying under the hammocks every few moments. No movement seemed to escape his eye—a hand, a shadow, a bird.
Behind them, the sound of a knife leaving its scabbard caused Sabatini to spin around on one knee, throwing a man to the ground and disarming him in one motion. Everyone stopped eating. An old man with one leg had taken out his knife to get some of the food. Sabatini helped him up, formally apologized and left the scene.
Dinner conversation was somewhat stilted after that. Elder Sabatini was no ordinary pianist, thought Muir.
In the evening the ferry moved away from the shore to get away from the vicious carapana mosquitoes. As they settled into their hammocks the density of the occupants was such that one man's buttocks hung inches from another's cheek.
Sabatini lay awake listening to the beating of millions of bat wings as they left their roosts. He snapped his finger against the mosquito netting, dispersing a layer of insects waiting for their victim to come within reach.
If only there were netting to keep out memory, he thought. He would stay within that shroud for the rest of his life. For this was the time when his thoughts, like the bats of the jungle, left their deep caverns and foraged on his mind.
He remembered his early childhood in Buenos Aires when he played soccer at school and would come home sweaty to practice piano. He had been the youngest ever to be admitted to El Conservatorio and under the tutelage of Dr. Maxime he had dedicated his life to becoming a concert pianist. Those were happy days, playing Brahms sonatas with his sister, Marissa.
His father had been a prominent businessman, owner of four shoe factories that produced the fabled “Porteño” shoes of luxurious Argentine leather. They lived in a beautiful seven-bedroom Italian-style villa with an in-ground swimming pool. In the countryside they had Cien Fuegos, a modest twenty-thousand-acre estancia where they raised cattle and his father pursued his passion for bull breeding. In the summer the family vacationed in Mar del Plata; in the winter there was skiing at San Carlos de Bariloche.
Theirs was a life in El Dorado and here Roland Sabatini's mind would strain against the precipice of remembrance, here he would close his eyes and wait for the death of sleep.
 




Chapter 3
 
When they arrived at Coleiras the first thing that struck them was the sheer number of defective children.
John recoiled at the missing limbs, the harelips, the retardation.
“This is Hiroshima, ten years after,” he said.
“It is the mercury used to mine gold upstream,” said Sabatini. “It is dumped into the river and gets into the food chain. Children over nine tend to be normal. They were born before gold was found.”
“Wasn't our guide supposed to meet us?” said Muir, annoyed at the misery.
Roland approached a fisherman.
“Where can we find Roberto Ayala?” he asked. Two little urchins, each missing an arm, scampered behind their father to watch the novelty of the strangers' clean, white shirts and ties. The man was probably in his late twenties yet looked over forty. His small, hairy hands continued to repair the net with the primordial dexterity of spiders traversing a web. He motioned with his face toward an inn then went back to his work.
Inside the Bar Bom Sorte they discovered a strip joint-whorehouse. Muir stood stunned, staring at the naked girl dancing on the stage. When he turned to look at Sabatini he saw him already talking to the bartender, handing him a bill. The man behind the bar pointed toward a thin man in his thirties with a thick head of hair.
“Roberto Ayala?” said Sabatini, towering over the man's table.
The man stood up, swallowing a mouthful of liquor.
“You are the missionaries,” he said in Portuguese.
“Yes, we are the missionaries,” echoed Muir.
“May we speak with you outside?” said Sabatini.
One of the topless cocktail waitresses squeezed John's butt on the way out.
“You had an agreement with Dr. Tallis from the Church to guide us to the Guraite,” said Sabatini.
“No.”
“You didn't have an agreement?”
“Yes, I agreed. No, I cannot take you.”
“Why not?”
“No one will take you.”
“WHY NOT?”
“I did not think you were coming. I thought you would have heard by now. The Guraite are headhunters.”
“The Guraite are harmless,” said Sabatini.
“I have seen.”
“Why not?” said Muir, a little behind in the discussion.
“Come with me, senhores,” said the guide.
They walked down to the river's edge, past the wharf. There, on stakes driven into the dirt, rested the heads of three men with elaborately painted arrows protruding from their temples. Maggots had eaten their eyes and black flies by the hundreds orbited the remains.
The guide crossed himself while holding his nose. Muir turned his back and nearly vomited. Roland did not react at all.
“I cannot take you. I cannot take you,” Ayala said while walking backwards as though excusing himself from royalty.
The missionaries walked back to the wharf in silence.
John watched his companion remove his backpack and spread out a map of the jungle. The sun was high, too high to be making futile calculations.
“What are you doing?” asked Muir.
“The river might be low enough for us to wade across some streams that we would have to avoid in the wet season. This will save time.”
“Are you forgetting about our three friends getting sunburn over there. The Guraite are headhunters—the mission's off. I'm no martyr.”
“They are not headhunters,” said Sabatini, calmly continuing his calculations.
“How do you know?” Sabatini held up his hand to silence him.
“It will take us only a day and a half at the most.”
“I'm going to get a nice tall bottled water then I'm getting on the next boat to Belem. This business was out of my league from the first.”
“Headhunters would have kept the heads,” said Sabatini.
“So they're murderers.”
“We are bound to hear all kinds of rumors and folklore during our stay here. I have to trust the scientific evidence. The only thing we know about those men is that they are dead. We can conjecture that their deaths were not suicide. It is a scientific fact that Dr. Kettle made contact with the Guraite and lived to return to the Alps to write about them. If the Indians do kill, they don't kill indiscriminately. If you want to go back, I can't stop you. I'm going on.”
The American looked at this music teacher from the big city and could hardly contain himself.
“Kettle's data is twenty years old. Alot has changed since then. Who knows what resentment these Indians have now. Maybe some of it is justified but that's it—we don't know and I say let's err on the side of safety. We're not required to do this.”
“We are not required to do anything, my friend,” said Sabatini.
“You're naive, self-destructive or brave. I'll stay on till I find out which.”
They picked up supplies at the local market—beef jerky, nuts, canned food and bottled water—then Sabatini plotted a course toward the Indians.
Three hours into the hike John was amazed at his companion's endurance. Again, not a word of complaint—about the heat, which was over a hundred degrees, the insects which would multiply a dozen-fold by evening nor about the stifling stench of the rotting forest floor. Walking at the same precise pace at which he had started out, Sabatini consumed half as much water as John and his breathing was not audible. Muir now questioned whether he could make it through one more day of this. They had had one rest so far at the two-hour mark and John did not want to be the one to propose another.
Though fatigued, John couldn't help admiring the exaggerated vegetation—leaves the size of a man's back; grasses so dense and tall they slowed one's pace like an undertow; gripping, conspiratorial vines that surrounded and pulled at soaring rosewoods as if possessed of envy.
The shy birds of the understory were brown and flecked to blend with their surroundings. But high above them dwelled spectacular toucans, tarragus, manikins, trogons, motmots and birds of paradise which, beyond the reach of predators, displayed their beauty with the impunity of kings.
Roland chopped some bark off a tree and scraped white shavings from the inside. He put some in his mouth and offered the rest to John.
“Chew on this, it will give you energy,” he said.
“Some bark are poisonous.”
“Not this. In any case, the inner bark of every tree is edible as it carries nutrients. The outer bark is sometimes toxic to deter insects.”
John took the shavings and chewed. It had the immediate effect of caffeine.
Roland cut down a sapling with a wire saw. He then looked at the annular rings, which would be thicker on the north side than on the south.
“What's the point of that—we have a compass,” said John.
“Double-checking. There may be large deposits of magnetic iron ore in the area. That would throw the needle off. We might as well take a rest here. Tighten your straps, it will balance the load better.”
“My straps are fine,” said Muir, throwing down his burden. He opened a can of ham spread with which he covered a loaf of bread. He was ravenous but did his best to conceal it. After the loaf was gone he took out two candy bars and wolfed them down. Roland just chewed slowly on some beef jerky. When they resumed their hike Muir was more fatigued than ever. He began to fall farther behind, the one thing he had not wanted to do. Roland glanced back a couple of times and slowed down. When Muir caught up Roland said,
“It's a myth that candy bars give you quick energy. In the absence of other food, they'll do, otherwise they wreak havoc on your blood sugar. Your body secretes insulin to counter the higher sucrose level and tends to overcompensate, leaving you with low blood sugar. That weakens you. Also your pack is too big, at least ninety liters. Fifty liters is all you need for most purposes, including ours. The tendency is to fill a large pack and the result is excess weight.”
Muir was doing all he could to contain his temper. The last thing he needed now was a lecture on survival tactics from a piano player. There was something disturbingly incongruous here. Before, Roland wouldn't open his mouth; now he was a veritable river of information.
Sabatini stopped abruptly and set his pack down. He approached a tree, embraced its trunk and walked up its length with the ease of a primate. He threw down a half dozen papayas then returned.
John welcomed the break and sat down. Roland drew a knife and sliced open the oblong, yellow fruit. They drank the delicious juice then dug into the meat.
“Do any scuba diving?” John asked.
Roland looked at him.
“I notice that's a diver's knife.”
“I bought it in a pawn shop,” said Roland.
“May I?” Roland handed him the knife. The blade could shave hair off the back of your arm. It was hefty, with a serrated spine and the whole thing was flat black. It looked like something from the deep.
“Is that a flat edge or hollow ground?” asked John, giving it back.
Roland was about to tell him, then stopped himself.
“Hollow ground?” he asked.
“That's when they grind it on a wheel—it gives the edge curvature. Very sharp but doesn't hold an edge.”
“Then I suppose it is flat edge. You are knowledgeable about knives.”
“Not as knowledgeable as you, Brother Sabatini.”
“I felt it was important to research.”
“You've done a remarkable job.”
When they resumed their journey Roland walked slower. The advice tapered off as did the running commentary on fauna and flora. At one point he even slapped his neck and said the mosquitoes were vicious.
“Does that qualify as a complaint?” asked John. Roland returned a puzzled look.
Just kidding, Brother Sabatini. Tell me something, what makes you laugh?”
“I suppose a good joke will do it.”
“Most people back home think I'm pretty funny. Maybe it doesn't work in the Southern Hemisphere.”
“You'll see once you make a joke.”
As evening fell they had to slather themselves with repellent.
It's time to take shelter,” said Roland. “We may have to make a bridge or a raft in the morning to cross a stream if it’s too high.” He wanted to refrain from sounding like a commanding officer so he said,
“Do you want to set up the shelter or make a perimeter wire?”
“Wait. It just occurred to me—Ayala was supposed to supply the tent.”
“I'll take care of that,” said Roland. “Why don't you set up the perimeter then. Just run the fishing line around the entire circumference of this ravine, around trees is good and about twenty inches off the ground. Tie some of the empty ham cans to it and put some pebbles in them. If anything disturbs it we should have several seconds to react.”
Much as he didn't like it, Muir found himself taking orders, advice, direction and even encouragement from his companion. Roland seemed to have no weaknesses, nothing fazed him. It was as if he had done all this before.
Roland made a thatch shelter by covering an A-frame made of sticks with palm leaves. He was finished in less time than it would have taken to put up a tent.
“The canopy was much denser a half hour back. We could have made camp there and gotten more protection from rain,” said Muir.
“That was the vine forest, the habitat of jaguar and panther. We're also at a greater elevation here and so cooler. The prevailing winds are less obstructed here and they run south-west, the orientation of the shelter.”
Muir decided that he was just going to shut up.
They set out again at dawn. By late morning Muir was close to collapsing from the heat which was far more intense than the day before. He quickly finished off all his water while Sabatini had plenty left.
Roland approached a davilla vine, cut it at both ends and told John to open his mouth. Warm, but drinkable water poured down his throat. John cut a few more vines for himself and bathed his pounding head when he was quenched.
“Make sure you don't drink from the ones that are red and yellow—the strychnine will kill you,” said Roland.
John disdained the advice and said, “By my reckoning we should have arrived by now.”
“Correct. They've been tracking us for the last two hours.”
“They?”
“The Guraite.”
Muir straightened up at the thought of the three heads by the wharf.
“Do we make contact?” asked Muir.
“Laugh.”
“What?”
“Just laugh.” They began laughing half-heartedly, then a genuine humor descended on them and they laughed with renewed vigor, with their bellies, hysterically they laughed at themselves for laughing. For three minutes they were buckled over in spasms until four naked Indians covered in paint and bearing war clubs stood before them.
They stopped laughing.
“Very slowly give them the gifts,” said Roland.
The missionaries spread out the knives, trinkets and mirrors before the Guraite. The Indians took the knives and smashed the mirrors and trinkets.
“At least we know they're not vain,” said John.
“They want us to follow them.”
As soon as they started walking, three more Guraite appeared and walked behind the missionaries.
“Don't turn around,” said Sabatini. “That would show fear.”
They walked into a camp of thatched huts that had been put to the torch only days before. They were brought before a man of middle age to whom everyone deferred. He wore a penis sheath as did all the men who were beyond puberty, and he stood on wooden blocks strapped to his feet. These were the descendants of the ancient Peruvian Yaros, driven from the altiplano by the Incas, and height still meant much to them. There was deep scarification on his shoulders, arms and chest which resembled a cowl of feathers and on his head was tied a beak of carved wood from which hung five enormous feathers.
Roland took out a stag handled hunting knife with a shiny blade and offered it to the chief. The chief tasted the metal then stuck it in his armband.
Roland knew to never ask an Indian his name directly. He turned to the man next to him and pointed to the chief.
“Xameis Tan,” said the Guraite.
Roland introduced his companion. “Now tell them my name,” said Sabatini. John did so, then an old man wearing the teeth of a jaguar on his forehead approached them.
The shaman breathed his breath on them. He then uttered a prayer and signaled for food to be brought. An adolescent boy responded with a roasted armadillo, cooked in its own shell and the whole camp stood around as the young white men ate the delicacy with their fingers. After the meal the shaman came to them again, this time with a bowl of dye made of genipap juice. He then proceeded to apply it to Muir's face using spit as a solvent. When the old man ran a little short of saliva one of the others would come over and spit in Muir's face with a gusto that the warriors seemed to appreciate. Then it was Sabatini's turn.
“If someone wants to crap in my face—I draw the line,” said Muir, smiling at the old man.
After this was over, children and women began to appear. Muir was annoyed by his thoughts as he glanced at sixteen-year-old naked nymphs with short, bowl haircuts. As a young boy watching National Geographic specials on the Masai, he had no problem fending off arousal at the sight of bare-chested black women slathering dung on thatched roofs. These Guraite women were sensuous and pointing at his crotch.
 “How much of their language did you say you knew?” asked Muir.
“Twenty-two words. This camp was burned recently. The women and children were hiding from us. A third of the people have fresh wounds. I think we can conclude that someone attacked them.”
A woman offered them a beverage in clay bowls.
“You should finish it,” said Roland, ignoring John's contorted face. It was bitter and warm as sweat. John drank the swill and returned the bowl with a sheepish grin.
What gentle, trusting people, thought Roland as a boy led him and Muir by the hand to a hut. The tribe had been through a recent battle, yet they welcomed strangers. Rancor seemed truly foreign to them. The isolation of the forest alone could not account for the preservation of innate goodness, if indeed that was the case here, for there were true savages in these woods—headhunters and tribes that raided and killed for slaves.
What, thought Sabatini, was the source of their magnanimity?
“I doubt it was white men who did this,” said John in the hut.
“You and I wouldn't welcome Indians if we had been attacked by their kind only days before. Perhaps they have the capacity.”
“Why would whites waste time cutting their way through the thickest jungle on earth to kill people who have nothing of value. I hear some of these tribes have firearms, like the Txukahameis. It had to be them. They're known to be brutal.”
“They have no pictographs or totem poles that would yield some record of their history. Like most of the Amazonian tribes their heritage is preserved through the oral tradition. They will have to tell us what happened.”

Chapter 27
 
Cortazar examined the carnage from a distance and counted seven dead.
He entered the battle site and began turning over the corpses. None belonged to the man he sought. That being the case, he picked what he needed off the dead men—watches, money—and began examining the area for any indication of Sabatini's trail. He found a forearm with a Rolex on it. He put the severed arm to his ear to see if the timepiece still worked, then slid the watch off and tossed the arm back to its owner.
He examined the spent cartridges—7.62mm. Now that explosives were in the picture, Cortazar had to worry about booby traps. It made pursuit even more tedious and slow-going. Those goddamn fishing lines to watch out for.
As he was analyzing the angle of trampled twigs, Cortazar was hit in the face with a pile of monkey shit. It was a cacaraya, the only creature under the sun known to throw its own excrement in self-defense. Another aerial attack came and Cortazar went for cover. He ripped out his pistol crossbow and took aim at the insolent primate.
The monkey tumbled from the branches like a tragic acrobat. While it was still alive Cortazar grabbed it by the tail and swung it against a tree a couple of times. Then he kicked it in the face.
He found a trail of foliage delicately dotted with blood and two other trails. Suarez' men had split into two groups. It was much better when they were all in one big clumsy pack. Now they were bloody and wary. He looked back at the dead men and knew he had forgotten something.
He forced open each man's mouth with a stick and probed with his knife like a Paleolithic oral surgeon. After prying out nine gold teeth with his wirecutters he weighed the booty in his hand. That was the beginning of his vacation in Tahiti.
Cortazar picked up Sabatini's trail near the spent casings. No sign of blood. He had killed seven men at close range and wasn't even wounded. Now the hitman became jealous. He stood motionless and pondered the quality of the men Sabatini had just killed versus that of his own victims. Sabatini killed seven highly trained and armed commandos; he, Cortazar, had also killed some quality subversives but also a lot of newsstand owners, some priests and that goddamn dogcatcher. He was momentarily racked with doubt about his own killing abilities.
He saw from the tracks that Sabatini was now alone. So there were three groups out there besides himself.
He began to pick up the pace now, fearful that someone else might kill him first. He didn't even want Sabatini to get injured; it had to be perfectly even so that later on, at night, he wouldn't lay awake thinking he couldn't have done it alone.
Within an hour Cortazar was closing in. The trail was very fresh; some of the trampled grasses had not yet had time to uncrowd. His eye caught the glint of a fishing line stretched across two trees. Tracing the wire to its terminals, he found it was simply tied to the trees without explosives, a ploy used to slow down pursuers and make them paranoid. Cortazar made sure to look up at the trees as much as the ground, for the effect of the false trip wires was to make a man look constantly at his feet, forgetting that attack could also come from above.
The trail ended. He clenched his weapon like a threatened peasant his hoe. Sabatini could now be behind any bush or tree. The vine forest had become extremely dense, allowing only a few meters of visibility.
In the crotch of a tree he found a note.
GO HOME, BROWN PANTS, LIKE A GOOD LITTLE BOY.
He crushed the note and shouldered his weapon.
“CORTAZAR!” He swiveled his head, unable to locate the source. Three bullets struck the tree next to him and he dropped to the ground, spraying rounds in all directions. There, up in a jacaranda tree he spotted Sabatini's leg. Cortazar opened his pack and scrambled for a grenade. Roland let loose three more shots, missing. The other man stayed close to the ground, among the weeds. He pulled the pin on the grenade and let the spoon fly off, then he waited three seconds. Without exposing himself he hurled the explosive toward Sabatini's position, hoping the shock and shrapnel would be enough to knock him out of his perch.  The explosion sent nests and dead branches tumbling down. It blew a hole in the canopy of the forest, letting in sunshine as though a spotlight had been turned on to illuminate the spectacle.
Roland saw some brush move where he had last seen the enemy. He took careful aim and shot twice. He heard a squeal, then a peccary stumbled out and fell dead. It would be a waiting game now but he couldn't wait long. He knew that grenade would bring Suarez. But it might also bring Obregon.
During this time Roland had been focussing on the ground, oblivious to the enemy that was now poised over his head about to strike. A fifteen-foot boa constrictor now hung motionless two feet away from Roland. Sabatini scanned the region below for some motion of the grass that opposed the wind. The reptile waited patiently for him to turn his head. At this most vulnerable moment it struck, delivering a blow to Sabatini's head as powerful as any boxer's, then entwined itself around his buckled body.
***
Muir froze when he heard the grenade. “I'm going back,” said the missionary.
“I think we should stay together and look for him. It's our best chance. And his,” said Lourdes.
“Woman, where he is, the trouble's at. He's trained for years to deal with that. He can cope. We can't cope,” said Red.
“You can stay,” she said.
“I'll be dipped in shit before I stay here alone.”
“At least she should make it back,” said Muir, speaking of the little girl. “I'll go.”
“You outta your mind. Whatchu know about killing? He said himself he would take care of that end. We'll take care of ours.”
“You’ll manage. You were in the Fresh Air Fund, right?” John stuck the compass into Eastside's breast pocket. “I am going.” He took a box of Pop Tarts out of his pack and gave it to Lourdes.
“Man, you was holdin out all this time.”
“John, I know the jungle better than you think—” said Lourdes.
“That's why I want you to take Litu back. That's what we came here for. Please.” He gave them the map and the course.
“Homeboy, look at my face. I am serious—look at my face.”
“I see your face. I'm going.”
Eastside lit a cigarette. “What if Cowboy finds us and you don't? Then we gotta go lookin for you.”
“If I don't find Roland, Suarez will find me. Don't bother looking.”
Eastside Red put on his glasses and was an accountant. Lourdes and Litu had gone off to urinate.
It was two in the afternoon. Goddamn hot. Fucking mosquitoes. Man, when I get outta this shit hole it's back to Montreal for me. Nude dancing. Canadian ballet. Can't take this hot weather.
He opened his knapsack full of gold nuggets and ran his fingers through them. Don't mean much here, does it, he thought.  I guess before long I'll be willing to give this much—he scooped up a handful—for a glass of cold water. And after that, maybe this much for a pack of Reeses Pieces. Then it'll be, fuck it, take the whole bag, just gimme that White Castle hamburger. But I promise you, Lord, that if I make it back with this small fortune I will not forget my fellow man. Now, Lord, I know I'm usually full of shit, but I mean it. There'll be plenty to go around for both our causes.
After he had given God His cut, Eastside wearily rose to stretch. His muscles, not used to anything heavier than a cue stick were quickly failing. The legs, good enough to carry him from one bar to another, had grown leaden. Eastside had to come face to face with one fact: he would have to leave the gold behind, possibly to retrieve it later, but probably not. No. He had come this far. He would not give up so easily.
Lourdes and Litu came running back. As soon as Eastside saw that Lourdes needed to get close to talk, he tensed. She said to him in a whisper, “There are men over there. Indians.”
One look at Litu's face revealed that they were not her people.
Litu pulled Lourdes by the hand. Eastside grabbed his gold and followed them into a swamp. The thick water was up to their thighs and they squatted lower and lower into it as the voices neared.
God, don't let them be the Kreeakarores, Eastside said to himself. He imagined his head, shrunken and dangling from some savage's neck, the object of boasts and childish tugs.
Lourdes looked down at what was swarming towards her legs beneath the opaque water. She was covered with leeches. Her diaphragm rose like a piston but she held the scream in. The men had found them; they were just peering through the bushes now.
Lourdes' hand entered her submerged bag. She always wondered if guns worked after getting wet. Her left arm was coiled around Litu's chest and she could feel the girl's pounding heart. When Lourdes leveled the weapon in front of her she saw a leech resting on her wrist, sucking her blood.
The Kreeakarores stood before them.
***
His Uzi fell and discharged on impact.
Sabatini recovered his senses but the serpent had already encircled his torso twice and with its five-inch diameter body was applying terrific constricting power to his rib cage. The boa does not kill by crushing, but by tightening its hold every time its victim exhales, asphyxiating it. The kill is then swallowed whole.
He lifted his foot and grasped his boot knife but could not use it. He was completely immobilized. Cortazar would undoubtedly home in on that last shot and soon be standing under the tree. He had pictured his own demise in a hundred ways but this was not one of them. He was beginning to weaken from oxygen starvation. His pistol was buried beneath the coils.
He would have to take a chance on exposing himself to Cortazar. He flung himself off the tree and dangled like a mountaineer, suspended by the living rope. His hundred-eighty-pound weight now augmented his own strength as it depleted the reptile's. The snake was taut, strung between the thick branch of the jacaranda and its prey. It was Sabatini who now waited for that threshold of weakness that would permit his hand to use the razor-sharp diver's knife.
The serpent would not relinquish its food. Sabatini twisted in mid-air, twenty feet above the forest floor. The snake's head rested serenely next to his shoulder, its face as devoid of expression as its body of limbs.
Roland now felt his hot blood streaming through his hair and running down his neck, the pain finally piercing his clearing brain. If the snake let go of the tree he was a dead man. If the fall didn't kill him the beast surely would, on the ground where it could use it's full length and power to subdue him. He summoned all his strength and focussed it in his right arm. He tried not to push against the pressure of the serpent's grip but to slip past it. He contracted his trapezius, the most powerful muscle in the upper body. His copious perspiration had formed a slight lubricant between his arm and the snake's hide.
His connection with the reptile was now intimate. Each could feel the ebbing and resurgence of the other's strength.
The moment came. For less than a second its grip eased and Sabatini freed his right arm. Grasping the weapon, he hacked at the snake's body. The first stroke pierced skin and muscle. The snake extended itself, putting the wound out of reach of a second blow. Sabatini swung again, sinking his blade deeply and ripping up tissue with the serrated edge as he withdrew it. Six more blows split the spine and left only a thin piece of flesh to support them both. He looked at the ground below and swung again, cutting the snake in two.
The still-living coils cushioned the fall. Though half its former length, the animal's tenacity was undiminished. But now Sabatini rose to his knees and hacked ferociously.
Footsteps.
He reached for his pistol and freed it from the holster, then, at point blank, blew the boa's head off. As he shook off the last of the snake, Cortazar appeared from behind a tree shouldering his weapon. Roland dove to the side, evading a volley of automatic fire. Sabatini’s Uzi was ten feet away, out in the open, the M-60 was stashed forty feet to his left.
Something dropped behind him. Grenade. He sprang away, moving every weed in his vicinity. Cortazar had thrown a rock to elicit just such a response. Branches and stalks flattened from the onslaught of lead.
Suddenly from behind there was a terrific volley of M-16s—ten or twelve opening up simultaneously. Suarez was behind; Cortazar in front. Roland had four more clips of ammo for the pistol but he had to get to the M-60.
Now this was important: was Cortazar with them or not? Roland held his fire to avoid giving away his position. Cortazar opened up again. He hadn't fled from the heavy firepower. This did not bode well.
The shots from behind were getting closer. In quick succession two grenades exploded nearby, half burying Sabatini beneath the stinking humus. Those were Cortazar's.
If Roland stayed put, Suarez' men would almost certainly find him. If he made a dash for the M-60, Cortazar, if he was still there, would have a clear field of fire.
He sprang toward the heavy gun, blasting at Cortazar's position, grasped the machinegun on the run and rolled with it down a gully. Mercenaries filled the trees with lead. Roland circled around to approach from Cortazar's rear. Cortazar was gone. Sabatini instantly set up the machinegun and, using the gully as a natural trench, opened fire on Suarez then vanished into the growth.
“Ten more men are on the way, senhor Suarez,” said Olivares.
“When?” asked Suarez.
“Within half an hour. They have our position. I suggest we remain here until they arrive.”
Suarez lit a cigar and scanned the three men Sabatini had just killed.
“This Sabatini has killed ten of my expensive troops, he said to Obregon. He's got some bolas.”
“He has help. If we get him alive I'll find out who that help is.”
“That's your affair. But if he does get away, I'd be shitting anchors backwards if I were you. Maybe with ten more of your crack troops we can overpower this man. Is the temperature too high for these boys? Too much humidity? How about the barometric pressure? Bring me something to eat,” he ordered someone.
Obregon contained his fury.
Suarez munched on some beef jerky and lemonade, pretending to be displeased.
Suddenly there was a shot, a scream and silence. The men scrambled through the dense brush to find one of their number dead and ripped apart. Suarez surveyed the disaster.
The soldier was lying on the ground with his pants down and his throat missing.
“Jaguar,” said Suarez, adjusting his scrotum. “Obregon, your men have a talent for dying while taking a shit. I suggest the rest of you hold it in until we get back.” He turned again to Obregon. “You know why I can't take these men seriously? BECAUSE THEY'RE DEAD! Send two men after the cat. If you don't find him in half an hour come back. If you find him, bring me the hide.”
***
John was lost. Turning back to find Sabatini without a compass had been a display of macho stupidity. He had spent so much time with Roland that he had begun to think he was his equal. He couldn't shout without attracting the enemy. And though there was still plenty of daylight left, darkness quickly descended in the dense canopy of the jungle.
In a rosewood tree a beautiful bird of paradise observed Muir’s utter confusion. He set down the weapon and dropped the pack.
How had he gotten to this point? He had asked for it. What sort of report will he send Tallis this month describing the progress they were making among the primitive peoples? How many souls had they saved? How had a religious mission become a manhunt? What was he going to eat in ten minutes when his appetite started drawing a rasp across his stomach? He was tired and too lazy to hunt. He had been walking now non-stop for three hours through rough terrain and was torn between sleep and food.
He took a drink from his near-empty canteen then an impulse told him to grab his gun. He saw a color that did not belong with the rest of the foliage. It was behind a stand of bamboo and it had moved. His scrotum tightened around his testicles as he flipped the safety off. He averted his eyes for this and when he turned again toward the figure it was gone.
Several minutes later he stopped short. Something stopped short behind him. Hunger was taking its toll now and his imagination was running. In him there were unsuppressed uprisings of fear, fatigue, hunger and frustration.
The young man continued on his course, staying away from overhanging trees and running his eyes over anything that could conceal something bigger than a beagle.
There was a presence with him, he knew. A wild pig would not be stalking him. A man would have shot him.
The jaguar bounded at him from a patch of grass only two feet high. In one motion John shouldered the weapon and led the target a crucial few inches. The gun exploded and the beast fell, still moving, six feet away. It was shot through the neck, its blood already forming a lagoon in the rain-soaked earth. He shot it again at point blank through the lungs.
Adrenaline flooded his arteries. He couldn't take his eyes off the animal, more horrifying dead than alive. All that fang and fury and beauty reduced to meat and tongue. Already flies had found it. It would soon swell, explode, rot and sink into the ground to become footing for another stalk. In this forest one walked on the backs of ancient jaguars.
He spotted an armadillo peering out from behind a sapling. Having already fired two shots that could attract the enemy, he had little to lose with one more blast.
He gutted the armadillo. This part of duck hunting had so revolted him that he had given up the sport. Now disgust was nowhere in sight. He impaled a stick through the meat and strung it over a fire, allowing it to roast in its own shell. Now all his concentration was on the blackening flesh in front of him. His hunger and its immanent satisfaction blunted all other thoughts.
He cut a sliver off with his knife. The taste immediately reorganized his thoughts and he began carving and eating as quickly as he could. He was soon scraping the inside of the shell. After eating about two pounds of armadillo he tossed the empty carapace aside like an Etruscan warrior discarding his helmet after bloody, victorious battle.
He drank the last of his water and thought, where was Roland? How are they going to get out of here alive?
Voices. Suarez’ men had found the jaguar. He grabbed the gun and pack and creeped into the dense thicket. He lay down, using the pack as fortification. There were two of them and they were armed. He could see them clearly jabbing the carcass. One took out a knife and handed it to the other who refused it. They began to argue. Finally they chose for it and the loser took the knife and began skinning the cat. Not far away from John his fire was still smoldering, the black smoke climbing up, as straight as a eucalyptus in the still air.
The adrenaline shot through him even more quickly now, as through familiar routes. They would see the smoke soon. He could turn and make a run for it only to be hunted down or he could shoot them now, while he had the advantage.
Without deciding anything yet, he shouldered the rifle and took aim. At about sixty yards he had a good chance of hitting at least one of them. He made the bead wander from one torso to the other. Logic dictated that he shoot them. Their backs were more or less turned. He could try wounding them but a leg shot at this range was remote. A miss would give them time to dive for cover and he would get only one chance like this.
He chose one of the backs. His finger curled around the trigger then withdrew from it to wipe the sweat from his brow. As he grasped the gun once more a wave of fear traveled from his face, through his wet hands and down his spine. He scratched himself and regripped the weapon. There was nothing left to distract him from this murder. If he didn't kill them they would surely kill him, but this alone could not make him pull the trigger. He had come back to help Roland, possibly to kill for him, but not like this.
One turned and spotted him. The mercenary swung his weapon upwards. Muir pulled the trigger, blasting a hole in his chest. The other man had already flattened himself in the high grass and was reaching for his weapon. In desperation, John put out five rounds. He had played the one advantage he had had—surprise—but was now up against a professional killer.
No fire was returned. John waited for the assault, the grenade, but there was nothing. With one hand he scrambled through his pack for the field glasses. He could easily see the dead man and a few feet away he discerned the sole of a third boot. Was it possible he had killed them both so easily?
He circled and came up to the men lying on the ground. The first man had a small hole high in his torso. John prodded him with his foot. The eyes were wide open and there was no movement at all. He finally extended his hand and touched the rigid shoulder, then withdrew it. With his foot, John flipped the dead man over onto his stomach. The exit wound was a hole three inches in diameter. He could not pull his eyes away from the devastation inflicted by one round.
The other man was alive. He was barely breathing with eyes not yet glazed over. John looked on the wounds he had given him, three shots to various limbs. He was bleeding to death. John lifted the man's head up and raked the ground underneath with his fingers. He removed the man's bootlaces and tied off the blood flow from the arm and leg, tightening the tourniquets with a stick. Even as he stanched the blood he knew this man was going to soon die. He took one M-16, all the ammunition and left.
 





Chapter 28
 
The struggle with the boa had sapped him. He had enlarged the wound in order to facilitate drainage but the blood loss was extensive and debilitating. Stupid, stupid lapse. To prevail unscathed against the most evil skills that men could level at him, only to be wounded by the most primitive creature. He ripped a piece of cloth from his pants and wrapped it around his head then picked up Cortazar's trail in the guinea bushes.
He found a stand of banana leaves with rainwater trapped in the trunks. Cortazar had passed this way too; it wouldn't take much to poison the water. He drank what was left in his canteen then went off the trail to find some water of his own. He found a puddle several inches deep and teeming with larvae and mosquitoes. This meant the water was good. He filtered it into his canteen through his shirt then dropped Halizone in it.
He bounded quickly and confidently now that he was away from Cortazar's trail. Ahead was a stream, about four meters wide, muddy and slow moving. Roland looked closely at the muddy water. Piranha. Good. He hacked at two branches and improvised a pair of stilts, then he tied a nylon cord to the pack, and let it pay out as he entered the stream.
The ends of the stilts sunk four or five inches into the silt bottom before stopping and at these moments Roland had to shift his weight to the rear stilt to avoid a fall that, even if not immediately fatal, would inflict mortal wounds. The water varied in depth from two feet to three and a half. It was getting deeper now so that his boots were totally submerged. Several piranhas surrounded his immersed foot and attacked. The leather was, after all, flesh. Sabatini maintained his composure, it would take them a while to eat through and he didn't have much longer to go. Ordinarily they wouldn't attack such an unappetizing target but the water was low and they were starving.
One stilt slid off a slippery rock and Sabatini lost his balance. He was being pulled down. He threw all his strength into his right arm, fighting the deadly fall. If the weapon plunged into the infested water, he would never recover it. He flung it towards the shore then the water clapped its hands over him.
He reared his head above the surface and keeping every limb moving violently, tried to scramble to shore. The piranhas were instantly aroused by the blood-soaked headband and shirt. In the three seconds it took Sabatini to get to solid ground, they inflicted six horrific bites on his lower extremities.
There was no time to waste. He reeled in his pack then loaded a belt of ammo into the weapon and waited.
***
The pursuers stopped stopped at the stream.
Roland scanned the figures for Obregon, but was disappointed. He squeezed the trigger, dropping two mercs before they returned fire with six guns.
Three men entered the stream giving chase. Within seconds their legs dissolved under them, the brown water reddened and took them in. One soldier made it back to the bank and was pulled to safety. Fourteen piranhas clung to him, still chewing. He would not have been out of place hanging from a meat hook. The rib cage had been eaten away, exposing the beating heart.
The others screamed until their throats were eaten, then, mutely, they flailed in a mime of death. In five minutes they were skeletons.
Rodriguez, the communications officer, radioed back. “Senhor Suarez, we have four dead and one dying.”
“I take it you made contact with Sabatini.”
“Yes, senhor. One man needs to be extracted by helicopter at once.”
“No he doesn’t. You need to bring me Sabatini before dark. Out.”
Rodriguez tossed two grenades into the stream and made the river regurgitate its meal. Piranhas were blown into the air and hundreds floated to the surface inverted, with bits of Rodriguez' men still in their mouths.
“Obregon, your men are so far fertilizing the jungle. They can't even catch that thieving shit who stole my gold.”
An hour later Suarez seasoned every bite of his pork separately with pepper, Tabasco and lots of salt. Obregon watched annoyed.
“Good, eh,” muttered Suarez. “Your man killed a good sow. We'll hold the medal ceremony in the morning. You are a humorless man, Obregon. Does a career of probing assholes do that? I know a proctologist and he's the same way. That job would make me laugh every day, especially if it paid shit. Ha. If it paid shit—ha, ha, ha. You, bring me more wine. Well, they're good waiters, anyway.”
Obregon considered killing him but there were several of Suarez' personal bodyguards to contend with. He imagined the fat man lying naked on a rack, his dick flayed and soaked in turpentine.
He let his anger run free with the notion of cutting Sabatini's fingers off, one by one. One per unanswered question. What he endured eight years ago was nothing to what he was going to get this time. It had been a long time since Obregon had worked on someone with whom he had a personal grievance. Sabatini would be his magnum opus on the exploration of agony.
He spread out the map and plotted several possible courses the prey might take. He tried to engage Suarez.
“I don't think he'll head for the river—too much exposure…” began Obregon.
“I'm not here just for the sport of killing Sabatini, or recovering a fucking bag of gold,” responded Suarez. “I'm certainly not here to solve your problem. If we don't catch Sabatini in a few hours these men will have a different mission. To wipe out the savages who squat on my land. We're getting close to their ‘ancestral burial grounds’. I thought I'd let you know so the helicopter can fly you out before the real fighting starts.”
“I'm not leaving this jungle until I see Sabatini dead. I'll go after him by myself if I have to.”
***
Lourdes pulled the trigger. The five Kreeakarore warriors scattered but regrouped several dozen yards away. They had never heard gunfire before.
“This is called a window of opportunity,” said Eastside, urging the other two out of the water.
“Shit!” Eastside was covered with leeches, as were the women.
They swatted at the black parasites like they were live coals. Eastside kept brushing himself off even after they were all gone.
“I hate this place, I hate it. The things a man has to do to make a dollar.” He opened his pack and took out a .38 snub nose.
“Why didn't you take that out before?” asked Lourdes.
“Because I hate violence, especially when I'm in it. But looks like I got no choice. If Saucer Lips comes back I may have to depart from the teachings of Gandhi. Let me see that map Home Boy left you.” Eastside peered through the sighting wire of the compass like a fence at a hot diamond.
***
Sabatini removed the red-hot blade from the fire and pressed it against a half-inch wound in his calf. The flesh seared as the metal cauterized the ends of the severed blood vessels. Roland dropped the knife and keeled over, his face in the dirt. He had five more wounds to go. If he didn't do it he would bleed to death in a few hours. Already he had left an easy trail of blood for his pursuers. Again and again the knife went from fire to flesh. When he was finished there was no time to rest. The Halizone had to have taken effect by now so he drank everything in the canteen, a full quart.
Roland detected a nylon trip wire. Tracing it, he found a grenade lodged in a tin can, the pin extracted. The poor fool who tripped the line would pull the grenade out of the can, releasing the spoon, blowing himself up.
Cortazar opened fire from atop a tall rubber tree. The light was getting poor but Roland caught the muzzle flashes. As Roland returned fire, Cortazar leapt ten feet to the ground then vanished. Sabatini was about to give chase then thought about a high speed run through trip wires. He would have to take the chance; he had to dispose of Cortazar now, then attend to his main business. Sabatini charged from his cover putting out rounds. Behind the shield of a giant rosewood, he waited for the enemy to make the next move.
He was patient, now, this Cortazar. No firing on full automatic. Surgical shots. Quiet escapes. Roland had to grudgingly concede that Cortazar had come a long way from the mere braggart and tattletale he'd been in the service. He was now a formidable and determined agent.
Behind him.
Roland pivoted and stopped the bead of the gun on a green parrot. Up ahead something didn't look right. A young tree was severely bowed. The grass around the base had been disturbed. Even from six meters Roland could see it was a mantrap. As he slowly circled around it he clearly saw the black braided mountaineering rope, little thicker than a clothesline, that would hoist a man up to dangle upside down and helpless above the forest floor.
His foot crashed through a grass-covered hole and the sharpened stakes had bored into his leg. The mantrap was just a distraction. Now he had five, half-inch punctures in his right calf just above the boot-line. The pain made him drop the gun as his full weight pushed the spikes deeper into his muscle. He regrasped the gun just as Cortazar materialized only ten meters away. Sabatini got off three rounds while lying on his back, his foot still in the hole. In the instant that Cortazar ducked, Roland tried to get his hand into the hole to loosen the sharpened sticks. It was no use. He threw a grenade at Cortazar's last position then ripped his leg out of the trap tearing muscle and sinew. Blood poured out of his wounds. Fleeing was futile. He went towards Cortazar.
Roland plowed a right into the assassin's face. Cortazar kneed Roland in the groin flipping him over and clamped his hand over the carotid artery. Roland tensed the striations of muscles along the walls of his neck, countering the pressure. His own knife was under him. He went for Cortazar's but it was out of reach, hanging from a sheath behind his back. Cortazar worked steadily on the artery, trying to cut off blood flow to the brain. Sabatini reinforced his thumb between his middle and index fingers and jammed it between Cortazar's fourth and fifth ribs. Cortazar had tensed his intercostal muscles to defend against this attack. Sabatini made himself vomit and blew the stomach acid into Cortazar's eyes then slammed the middle knuckle of his free hand into Cortazar's temple. That broke the assassin's grip and Roland rolled out from under him. They were both on their feet now, knives drawn. Cortazar's eyes momentarily fell on his opponent's mangled leg, sizing up the damage. He lunged. Roland countered with a spinning wheel kick that knocked the knife out of Cortazar's grip. Now Sabatini flailed his blade at the enemy's mid-section. Cortazar backed up. Sabatini followed.
A lasso suddenly yoked his foot. He'd been led into another trap. This time Roland severed the line with one slash of the knife but Cortazar was upon him. Roland's fist crashed into Cortazar's mouth sending him into a tree. The hit man came back with a snap kick followed by a backhand to the cheek. Sabatini staggered and thrust the knife up, slicing air. Cortazar grasped it and threw a blow at Roland's wrist, collapsing it. The knife fell and Roland's foot clamped down on it before Cortazar's hand could reach it. An uppercut sent Cortazar to the ground. He spotted Roland's M-60 lying twelve meters away and made for it. Roland tackled him. The blood loss was weakening him; he couldn't keep this up.
He had to kill Cortazar now.
Again and again his fist slammed into Cortazar's face. The mantrap was ten feet away. He grabbed Cortazar by his flack jacket and started dragging him toward the unsprung trap. The hitman swung his legs up, locking Sabatini's neck in a scissors, pulling him down then whipped a thin, tungsten-carbide wire saw around Roland's throat before releasing his legs. Immediately it began cutting into flesh with the slightest pressure. Roland was forced to move along in the direction of the force, towards the mantrap. The wire was slicing into his upheld hands.
When they were within five feet of the trap he arced a fist deep into Cortazar's kidney but the assassin knew victory was near and the pain hardly registered. Now Roland's head was inches away from the trap. Cortazar could trip it easily with his hand once Roland's head was inside the looped rope. Sabatini had a clear shot at Cortazar's face but had no leverage. The enemy's eyes were just out of reach. There was only one thing to do. Sabatini tensed his index finger. He then took aim and shot it into Cortazar's left nostril, to the hilt, breaking delicate bone and tissue. The hit man reared in pain.
Sabatini sprang to his knees and plowed a fist into the man's solar plexus, folding him in two. He pulled him by the hair down into the dirt, into the loop. With his mangled foot he tripped the line and got his hands out of the way.
The assassin was pulled up by the neck like a fish in an eagle's claws. His feet dangled chest-high off the ground. Instantly his hands clasped the rope, pulling himself up, relieving the pressure. Sabatini retrieved his knife, then, as Cortazar looked on, he butchered him.

Chapter 31

Suarez and his men entered the first Guraite village after blasting it with rocket propelled grenades. The mercenaries then sprayed the huts with gunfire.
“Stop shooting! STOP SHOOTING!” yelled Suarez. “There's no one here, you idiots.” The entire encampment of sixty huts had been hastily abandoned with half-ground grain still in the mortars.
“We have to kill the gringos before they warn the next village,” said Olivares.
“Do it then, kill them. There are hundreds of these fucking savages—to have to track them all down would take forever.”

Eastside and John froze when they heard the explosions.
The Guardians of the Dead broke into a run, taking Litu and leaving Eastside Red and John looking at each other.
“I know this place, we're only about a half-mile from the main village,” said John. Moments later, grenades exploded around them accompanied by a sleet of machinegun fire. They hit the dirt but only Eastside got up.
Muir had taken shrapnel in the forearm. “No way, man, you gotta get up—they're right behind us.”
Eastside grabbed him by the arms and began dragging him toward the cover of a bamboo stand.
Suarez' forces had now united and numbered over a hundred thirty. They were closing in on the Guraite's main village.
Sabatini unscrewed the protective transit cap from the base of the detonator, then secured the device in the stick of dynamite. He attached one end of the trip wire to an anchor stake and the other to the pull ring. After lowering the explosive into a small hole just below the surface of the ground, he removed the safety pin and covered everything with leaves. A force on the pull ring draws the friction igniter through the flash compound of the detonator, producing a flame that ignites the eight-second time-delay fuse. The fuse sets off the blasting cap which then detonates the dynamite.
This was the last of the booby traps; he had to get back to cover.
He crawled seventy-five meters to one of the positions the Guraite had fortified for him with large stones. Sabatini had set five traps with the high explosives and four others with grenades. The moment one was triggered, the attack would begin.
Cuevas was still leading the tracking expedition. He was cool and diligent, with extraordinary eyes. He endlessly scanned the trees and the ground. Using a long, delicate stick as an extension of his hand, he dexterously raked leaves and splayed weeds.
He spotted it easily; it had been hastily set. His hand went up to stop the others and he bent down to verify that what he saw was a trip wire, not an electrical wire. The latter would mean they could be blown up by remote control at any moment.
“Step over this,” he said calmly, as if referring to dog droppings.
Sabatini looked at his watch as if the enemy were late for an appointment. Why hasn't anything happened? They must have reached the mined area by now. Damn it. He should have spent more time camouflaging. They had no doubt found one or more of the traps. He had prepared for this contingency but now dreaded the walking. The life in his leg was gone up to the knee and death was ascending rapidly, like a vine, up his limb.
The mercenaries were moving slowly now, with exaggerated caution, and Sabatini was able to parallel them. He got behind them and located one of the booby traps. It was intact. He traced the long second cord he had attached to the pull ring of the detonator which would enable him to trigger the explosive manually from a distance. This would be very risky but he had no choice.
He made visual contact with the enemy and opened fire on their backs.
“Fan out.” ordered Olivares.
Sabatini lay on the jungle floor invisible, waiting for the mercenaries to enter the killing zone. His hand tightened around the detonator cord. He was only fifty meters from the explosive epicenter—he would have to rely on the intervening trees for cover.
Soldiers passed the mined area in twos and threes. Their dispersal would mitigate the effectiveness of the trap. He had to signal the Guraite soon by triggering the mine. Six men were now passing through the zone. Sabatini pulled the cord.
The blast drilled a hole in the canopy of the forest. Pieces of mercenaries were hanging from trees along side the remains of Guraite kings.
He opened fire with the M-60, expending a full belt of ammo into the faces of the advancing troops.
The Guraite warriors attacked with a hail of arrows and war clubs.
Surprise and superior numbers were the Indians' only advantage and the first had already been expended. The Indians were massacred as the mercenaries returned Sabatini's fire a hundred fold.
Roland took down the machinegun and began plodding towards his next position. The plan was to lure them into another minefield, thinning them to where the Indians could overpower them.
The Guraite fought suicidally, incurring over two hundred casualties in the first few minutes. Warriors dropped from the trees like fruit. Waves of charging young braves met with death before their crude weapons left their hands.
Cuevas was hunting Sabatini. He had gotten a fix on the M-60's position as soon as the ambush began. Now his eyes serpentined around the trees and grass. A Guraite materialized and flung a spear. Cuevas flipped his body sideways avoiding it then took his time killing the Indian.
Sabatini’s hand clenched the fiberglass grip of his weapon. He couldn't shoot from this angle without exposing himself. Roland had seen John and Eastside pass this point without Lourdes but could say nothing without endangering the ambush. Now he had to get to them. Where was she?
When it was clear, he rose on one leg then pressed hard on his walking stick until he was erect.
The gunfire was getting louder and Lourdes’ steps began to get shorter. She paused.
Then she stopped.
Roland might not be here at all. She might be walking right into Suarez' hands. What to do? She cocked the hammer of her pistol. There was no turning back now.

“We can't outrun them. We have to kill them,” said John.
“You shittin me?”
“Look at my face.”
“I'll take the two to the left,” said the black man.
One soldier was tracing with his eye the track of flattened grass that led right to Eastside.
Eastside and John let their gun barrels explode. John struck his target in the shoulder, Eastside struck his in the leg but the third man was now flat against the ground belting out rounds.
“I don't want to go toe to toe with this dude,” said the con man,” let's have that dynamite. John lit the fuse and Eastside lobbed it. The soldier had time to scramble away. The explosion lifted up a lot of dirt and leaves but accomplished little else.
“Fuse too long,” said John. “Try again.”
“We gotta dust this fool before he gets back and brings his boys.” They began moving toward the enemy.
The soldier hurled a grenade that exploded over their heads.
“That's far enough,” said Eastside. “We do better getting chased.”
Suarez was now encountering intense resistance. Six more of his men had fallen into spike traps tipped with curare. A wired grenade blew up four others. Their progress had been nearly halted as the men checked every step of the way for tripwires and brush-covered pits.
A net came up from the ground, engulfing four men who were propelled into the air by the countering force of logs. Arrows then rained down on the intruders from all directions. This time the soldiers could not see their enemy. Three Indians materialized then vanished into the brush. Seven men sent to pursue were quickly crushed to death by falling logs.
Good work, thought Sabatini, as he watched from a distant tree. Suarez had made a grave error in consolidating all his troops. It would soon be time for Roland to spring another trap.
Even in this breeze he could smell the miasma of the gangrene wafting upward, following him. He would have to put this out of his mind.
He had planted four charges in an X pattern in a narrow passage with high rocks on one side and thorn bushes on the other. Immediately following this explosion, another contingent of Guraite were to attack with the remainder of their force.
Sabatini opened fire and the mercenaries pursued him into the mined area.
“AQUI! EXPLOSIVOS!” Someone yelled. The other men stepped back.
“AQUI TAMBIEN!” Another had been found. Roland looked at the scene through his field glasses. They were not yet in position for him to detonate the trap but if he waited longer they would get out of range. It had to be now. He moved toward the cord.
He came face to face with Cuevas.
Roland's weapon was empty. He swung the walking stick, deflecting the enemy's barrel that was arcing towards his torso. He then slammed the club into the soldier's mouth. Holding the barrel of the merc's gun away from him, Sabatini unsheathed his knife. The soldier delivered a snapkick to Sabatini's stomach, sending them both to the ground.
Suarez' men were beginning to pass beyond the mined area. He had to detonate now.
Sabatini's strength was now no match for the mercenary's. He clamped his jaws over the enemy's carotid artery, shutting off blood to the brain. Hanging on through a barrage of jaw-breaking punches, Roland imbedded his teeth farther until the mercenary lay back like a delicate antelope. He recovered his knife and imbedded it into the man's throat, finishing him.
When he got to the tripwire he spotted John and Eastside crouching on the far side of the mined passage. Even from there they would be blown to bits. If he warned them, both he and they would be given away. In a few more seconds the mercenaries would be beyond the effective range of the charges. Roland aimed at the tree next to John and fired two shots into it.
He pulled the cord. The dynamite exploded sequentially so as to drive the enemy toward the next charge. Tree trunks and men were hurled into the air while four hundred Guraite warriors made a self-immolating charge toward the invaders. The explosions had killed forty mercenaries but there were over eighty left, armed with weapons that gave them a twenty to one kill ratio.
Roland hit the dirt as gun barrels exploded on his position. He cut down four mercs who tried to overrun him. His barrel turned red-hot.
Roland began moving toward John. Lourdes had her face in the dirt, covering her ears from the blast. Fear bound her. Keep moving toward cover. Move or lay down and die.
Roland had never taken his body this far. The ten-kilo machinegun was like a heavy, cruel boot pressing on his back. His fever was setting off explosions of synapses in his brain. He could go no farther.
“SUAREZ! I'M HERE! I'M SABATINI!”
“My God,” said John. “It's him.”
Lourdes heard the voice and got up.
“Kill him,” said Suarez. “You two—KILL HIM!”
Sabatini was camouflaged in dense brush and virtually invisible, but at this proximity he could not afford to turn his head.
Bullets exploded near him. He let out two bursts then swung the gun toward the next target, silencing it too.
He felt something in his leg. It was shattered.
Sabatini slipped into unconsciousness momentarily then came back.
Suarez and Olivares were approaching him.
John and Eastside were circling around.
Suarez felt the trophy close at hand. Olivares swung around and fired, hitting Eastside on the edge of the right shoulder. At this, John and Roland fired simultaneously. They missed. The merc, quicker than Suarez, attacked in Roland's direction. Eastside was up again but still stunned. John went after Suarez.
Roland was on his feet. Olivares and another merc were bringing their weapons to bear on John. Sabatini fired, killing one man. Olivares put two rounds into Roland's chest before John reacted, cutting down Olivares.
Suarez was on the run now. Eastside intercepted him. They exchanged shots. Exhausted, Suarez crouched behind a tree and would depend on his deadly marksmanship.
A monkey leapt overhead. Suarez shot it. Before he brought his weapon down Lourdes stepped out from behind a tree with her pistol leveled at him. He pivoted his muzzle and Lourdes emptied her gun into his body.
John put his shirt under Roland's head. He quickly assessed his friend's shattered body. He was dying.
Lourdes called out and the voice made Roland move.
“Here!” screamed John.
When she arrived she knew her search was over. She held his bloody head.
He whispered something. ”I am not what I wanted to be—”
“Don't go.”
“I am not what I wanted to be—”
Eastside Red stemmed the flow of blood from the chest while John summoned the shaman.
When the old man arrived he put his hand over the warrior’s heart then said,
“I’ll send for the condor.”
***
The Guraite had taken ninety percent casualties before overpowering the invaders. The twisted cadavers, entwined in death, lay half buried in the day's mud like bas reliefs.
The mercenaries who had fled were being brought in now, bound in ropes. The Guraite were not merciful. These prisoners were presented to the tribe, bent over and beheaded. The Guraite had lost more than lives today, thought Muir as he witnessed the grisly proceedings.
Roland's body was ready. The shaman prayed over the fired clay tomb and the king opened his arm with the knife the missionaries had given him. To his many scars he added one great laceration that would heal to form a beautiful stream along his forearm.
They brought the platform and hoisted ropes over the thick branches of an ancient rosewood.
The people of the altiplano then turned their eyes skyward toward the ascending hero. The dirges of hide-drums and clay flutes would play into the night, announcing to the other world the arrival of a great soul. 
 













EPILOGUE
 
He would never know that five days later Argentina surrendered to Britain, ending the Falklands War and the military reign of terror. Three days after that the dictator General Leopoldo Galtieri resigned in disgrace and elections were announced for the first time in ten years. The Dirty War was over, though tens of thousands would remain unaccounted for.
I had spent the afternoon with his adoptive parents in Sao Paulo then returned to the hotel where I picked up Lourdes and headed for the Varig terminal. We were tired; several days had been spent in Belem getting shrapnel removed from my arm and giving depositions to the police. Elder Tallis also summoned me and I found myself once again in that office that now seemed decadent with its luxuries of paint, plaster and shelves. But the man himself grew more austere as his world tumbled into the chasm between us and I looked on unmoved.
I had used the last of my savings to cover Lourdes' passage to Miami where we would part—I to Salt Lake City; she to Atlanta and her distant and aged kin.
A plane came in low and large.
“It's bigger than I imagined,” she said. “All that flies?”
I patted her hand. Her wonder was like a child allowed to play freely amidst a woman's grief, and we gladly suffered her wonder.
As we boarded she gave no last look to her country and the closing hatch lent finality to what had been for us both a stay in a foreign land. Only Eastside demurred to return stateside, citing taxes, preferring the tributes levied by Rio.
The plane sped down the runway blurring the close ground, leaving the distant clear and we were delivered, all of us, by great birds.


                                THE END