Rising Storm

crawling out of the drain, he'd lain quiet on the moist soil beneath the bougainvillea and frangipani and assorted tropical bushes, looking for booby traps or cameras. He'd found neither.

A crook who isn't paranoid, he thought in wonder. He didn't think he'd ever met one before.

He shrugged into his shirt and looked around, listening for any sound of human activity. John was amazed that Garmendia allowed so much cover so close to such an undeniable weak spot in his perimeter. Unless it was a trap of some kind.

There was a comforting thought.

The garden was weed-free and tidy, but the plants were all old ones, indicating that this was no one's special care. So he could look forward to remaining unobserved by gardeners, at least. He still couldn't get over the absence of any electronic surveillance. That meant the smuggler was relying on his muscle to watch over him.

Given that even working together, they didn't seem bright enough to change a lightbulb. this must mean they're unbelievably vicious. He groaned internally, cursing Dieter's hubris; goons like these might be dumb as a box of rocks but they could be incredibly inventive within their own limited sphere of interest.

Deliberately he pushed his attention to finding a way across the open ground between the green belt around the wall and the green belt around the house. He set off to explore.

After about fifteen minutes he found a peninsula of shrubbery that reached toward the house, cutting the empty space between him and it to about twenty feet.

John pulled out the ocular he'd brought with him and studied the house. He caught no hint of movement through the broad windows that overlooked his hiding place. Not that that meant anything. If someone was sitting or standing still ten feet from the windows, he'd be unable to see them.

He waited five minutes, wishing it could be more, but knowing he had to get into place or Dieter might be on his way to the river before he ever left cover. John stood and moved quickly to the protection of the shrubs around the house. He didn't run; that would have attracted attention, even if only from the corner of someone's eye. Once he'd burrowed into the thick growth of the bushes, he moved toward the tunnel entrance.

It wasn't really a tunnel; it was more of a ventilation shaft running from the crawl space beneath the building. This area was still on the alluvial plain of the river, and the builders had wanted insurance against floods as well as some air.

At least that's what his mother had thought. Apparently it had become a highway

for rats and other vermin, as a former owner of the place had sealed the shafts at their point of origin on the foundation of the house. The workmen hadn't done a very good job and Mom had cleared the bricks from one place, replacing them with a disguised false door.

Nothing lethal bit him as he crawled along in utter darkness; which wasn't something you could count on, especially on the borders of Amazonia. A bit of dirt had built up along the bottom edge; he pulled out his pocketknife and cleared it away, then stuck the blade into the crack between the false mortar and the real and pried on the door. At first the blade bent perilously and he didn't think it was going to open: he was about to pull it out when the door began to move. He got his fingernails around the edge and pried until he could get a hand in and drag the little door open.

John bent and looked into the dark hole. There was a faint light in the distance and the shaft was draped with spiderwebs. He shuddered. It wasn't just that he disliked spiders; hereabouts a lot of them were poisonous, and he didn't look forward to the prospect of being bitten again.

Biting his lips, he pushed himself forward. At least he would fit. After about twenty feet, though, he began to doubt that.

Maybe it's time I put aside childish things, like avoiding dogs and crawling through air ducts. He did fit, but it was a damned tight fit. Getting out of here is gonna be a bitch!

Garmendia had taken the time to shave and dress before coming down to see his uninvited, and most unwelcome, guest. The grooming was not to honor the man

but to allow time for his outrage to subside from murderous to merely insulted.

Which most of the smuggler's acquaintances, whether rivals or employees, would recognize as more than dangerous enough.

He'd soothed his anger not in fear of the Sector or its agent but because he wanted to know just how much von Rossbach knew about his secret and who, if anyone, he had told. Once he had his answers, well, the Sector agent might just become fatally accident-prone. He might fall into a river, for example, at a place where caimans gathered.

Garmendia smiled at the image of the crocodilelike reptiles tearing into the foreigner's flesh. It almost put him in a good mood.

He found von Rossbach in the morning room, sipping coffee and smoking a huge cigar. Irritation rose in him to find that his servants had provided refreshment without his permission. He'd deal with that later.

Dieter looked up to find Garmendia standing in the doorway, his eyes still puffy from sleep but bright with rage and hatred. Deep inside him a sense of warning woke and he admitted to himself that, just perhaps, John might have had a point.

The smuggler moved into the room and took a stance before him. 'Are you comfortable, Senhor von Rossbach?'

'Very comfortable, thank you,' Dieter said, then took a sip from his cup. 'Your cook makes excellent cafe com leite.'

'I am so glad that you approve,' Garmendia growled. He moved closer and clasped his hands behind him, glaring down at the former Sector agent.

'It was also good of you to see me on such short notice,' von Rossbach added, smiling falsely.

'Oh,' said Lazaro in mock surprise, 'I actually had a choice, then?'

Dieter took another sip and smiled. 'Not really.'

The smuggler looked around. 'And where is your young friend? I would have expected him to be with you.'

Shaking his head, Dieter said, 'Not this time.' He put the cup and saucer down on the table beside him. 'I find that, once again, I must call upon you for assistance.'

'What kind of assistance?'

Dieter began to feel annoyed at the smuggler's persistence in looming over him.

'Travel assistance. Why don't you sit down and we can discuss it?'

'Because,' Garmendia said quietly, stepping forward until their legs almost touched, 'I do not want to sit down, any more than I want to give you assistance, or wanted to see you in the first place.' Suddenly he grinned and there was pure evil in his eyes. 'But since you have come, I shall do my very best to entertain you.'

Uh-oh, von Rossbach thought.

John had checked the room where he and Dieter had forced Garmendia's

cooperation the last time they were here and had found it empty. He didn't check the kitchen, easily found by the scent of coffee and cooking, since he was certain von Rossbach wouldn't be there. He wished he had a floor plan of the place.

They're probably in a parlor or maybe some sort of breakfast room, he thought.

The place, a former rubber baron's mansion, was big enough to have both—'red rubber' had been very profitable back around the turn of the last century, what with thousands of Indio debt slaves who could be worked to death collecting latex in the jungle. He headed back toward the kitchen, figuring that if he had a breakfast room he'd put it where the coffee and toast wouldn't get cold on the way to the table.

As he moved slowly and carefully along he thought he caught the rumble of Dieter's voice. Good call, Connor!

He pulled himself through the duct until he was under the room from which von Rossbach's voice had come. John found himself at a bad angle for observation and had to content himself with listening. The conversation was