VII
First Sergeant Kelvin Tasker called for another beer in Spanish and adjusted his sweaty flannel shirt to ensure the sidearm in the hostler beneath his left armpit remained invisible. There was only one other patron in the dark cantina, a downtrodden local who guarded his bottle of Pisco Soldeica Huaco with both arms and never once looked away from it, as though the clear fluid held the secrets of life itself. An uneven scatter of scuffed tables and unmatched chairs covered the sticky wood-plank floors, upon which only a few rays of sunlight shined through the twin windows covered with faded promotional posters. Tasker sat in the rear corner with the doors to the kitchen and the rear exit to his left, the main entrance diagonally across the room to his right. The shadows surrounding him momentarily peeled back at the snap of his lighter, then swallowed him again, save the glowing cherry of his Ducal cigarette. Whatever had crept closer along the wall under the cover of darkness scurried back toward the ceiling with a series of clacking sounds.
The bartender set Tasker's Malta Polar on the table in front of him with a slosh of fluid. Tasker dismissed him with a fifty nuevo sol note that not only covered the beer, but his continued privacy as well. Thus far, there hadn't even been a sideways glance from behind the warped maple bar. That was one thing about the people down here. They knew how to mind their own business.
Tasker allowed the world around him to vanish while he focused on the chatter from the wireless receiver in his right ear and watched the entrance carefully. They had placed the audio surveillance microphones and transmitters inside the walls of the hacienda, in the deepest reaches of the finch nests. The voices were somewhat muffled, but the words were clear enough. He eavesdropped while they detailed their plans and made pointless conversation about things that didn't concern him. The different types of birds they would encounter; the social hierarchy of the Chachapoya people pre- and post-Inca conquest; the various kinds of structures they should expect to find; the species of plants and animals to avoid; and myriad ways to repel insects. It wasn't until a female voice, that of Dr. Samantha Carson, began detailing the types of artifacts they might stumble upon that he paid close attention. Apparently, the headdress was a cultural anomaly, but that didn't change the fact that it existed. And where there was one, surely there were a dozen more just like it. He had been able to secure a buyer for the first in a matter of hours, a Korean businessman who had offered seven figures for it and asked if he could ascertain any more artifacts of similar quality. Through his newfound international channels, he expected this venture to bring in somewhere between ten and twenty million dollars, and he fully intended to keep half for himself. After all, he had come up with the plan and was responsible for its implementation. He was the one out here risking his neck. Monahan should consider himself fortunate that he had even been offered a cut, but when it came right down to it, Tasker needed him. For the time being anyway. The office of the Consul-general provided a measure of legitimacy, and would help facilitate a speedy exodus from Peru when the job was complete.
Monahan also gave him a scapegoat should anything go wrong. He was certain that nothing would---he had planned this too meticulously---but one must be prepared for every eventuality.
Tasker committed the eavesdropped details to memory, and simultaneously plotted his course. He had already reserved the boats that would take him and his men upriver under an alias, and a little extra cash had ensured that no one would witness their departure. It was amazing how much more the dollar was worth here than back home.
He drew a long swill from his beer, feigned wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and whispered into the microphone in his watch. Four voices acknowledged through the earpiece.
The two men who had been monitoring the hotel from hidden locations on the street would now fall back to their rendezvous point, where the others would already be waiting with their supplies packed and ready. These were four of his best and most trustworthy men. Four
He imagined the expression on his commanding officer's face when he heard the news and had to stifle a laugh. Captain Patterson was simply going to explode, and if they were unable to track down and extradite Tasker, the responsibility would fall squarely on the old blowhard's shoulders.
There was just one more thing he needed to do before he vacated his post in the cantina and met up with his team.
He removed the prepaid cell phone from his pocket and dialed the only number programmed into memory. The calls could never be traced back to him, but unknown to the recipient, when the shit hit the fan, they would point like an accusatory finger at the man on the other end.
'Now isn't a good time,' Monahan answered. He had proved a hesitant accomplice at first, but any man could be swayed with the right number of dollar signs. Too bad he would never get a chance to spend his share.
'Just wanted to let you know that everything is right on schedule.'
'You're responsible for the details,' Monahan snapped. Man, he whined like a little girl. 'Meanwhile, I'm the one back here trying to conduct business as usual with half of my regular security contingent on 'vacation.''
'You'll live. Just keep thinking about what you're going to do with all that money.'
This statement was met with silence, beneath which Tasker imagined he heard the gears in the Consul- general's brain grinding.
'I'll be in touch again soon,' Tasker said, and terminated the connection.
His only regret was that he wouldn't be around to watch Monahan as he was cuffed and led out of the Consulate in tears.
Chapter Three
I
Galen was thankful it was still dark. He didn't want to see the size of the cloud of mosquitoes that swarmed around the long, slender aluminum boat. The humming was so loud it nearly drowned out the putter of the outboard motor as they chugged slowly upriver from the weathered shack where they had procured their transportation. The guide assigned to Galen's boat, a native named Naldo who spoke Quechua and a seemingly random smattering of Spanish and English words, stood at the bow with a long pole to help navigate the unseen rocks and snarls of debris, while one of their party, a man he knew only as Sorenson and with whom he had never shared more than a nod in passing, manned the Evinrude. Naldo wore a dirty white Henley missing several buttons and a pair of brown corduroys so old they lacked nearly all texture. He balanced on the prow with filthy, bare feet, humming tunelessly.
Frogs and insects raised a ruckus from the forest around them, while the drowsy cries of birds and monkeys echoed hauntingly. Something splashed near the bank to his right, but with the fading moon and stars eclipsed by the canopy overhanging the river, all he could see were shadows. He could barely discern the silhouette of the lead boat ahead. It's grumbling motor left a thin trail of diesel smoke that settled over the river like a fog in the stagnant air. His generous benefactor and his henchman, as Galen had come to think of Colton---though he would never
