Trojan Odyssey

muck with water and pump it a couple of miles offshore into the sea.'

Giordino opened a Costa Rican beer and wiped the humidity-induced sweat with a towel across his face under the mosquito net. He rolled the cold can across his forehead. 'Okay, mister smart guy, why the secrecy? Why would Specter go to such great lengths to cover up the project? Where is the gain if it was created and built to transport goods and materials from sea to shining sea and no one knows it's there?'

Pitt took a beer thrown by Giordino and pulled the tab. 'If I knew that, we wouldn't be swimming in our own sweat cruising up the river admiring the wildlife.'

'What do we hope to find?'

'An entrance, for one thing. They can't completely hide men and equipment going in and out of the tunnels.'

'You think we'll find it on the jungle ride through hell on the African Queen?'

Pitt laughed. 'Not on, but under. According to Micky's site plan, the excavation would have run under a town called El Castillo halfway up the river.'

'So what's the attraction in El Castillo?'

'Tunnels of extreme length require ventilation shafts to supply air to the workers, cool or heat the air as required and bleed off exhaust fumes from the excavation equipment and smoke in the event of a fire.'

Giordino stared uneasily at a huge crocodile swiveling off the bank into the water. Then his gaze turned to the impenetrable jungle along the north bank. 'I hope you don't have any plans to hike in there. Mama Giordino's sonny boy would never be seen again.'

'El Castillo is an isolated community on the river with no roads in or out. The main attraction is an old Spanish fortress.'

'And you think a ventilation shaft pops up where everybody in town can see it,' Giordino said dubiously. 'Seems to me the jungle is a more ideal hiding place for ventilator shafts. It's so thick no aircraft or satellite photo could spot a shaft from above.'

'No doubt most are hidden in the jungle, but I'm counting on them constructing one that comes up near civilization in case they have to use it for an emergency evacuation.'

The scenery along the river was so spectacular, the two men drifted off into silence as they absorbed the beauty of the vegetation and the varied species of wildlife. It was like a boating wildlife safari through untouched tropical splendor. They spotted white-faced spider monkeys jabbering at jaguars which lurked under the trees. Anteaters as large as blue-ribbon state fair sows ambled through the brush, keeping a safe distance inshore from the caimans and crocodiles. Colorfully beaked toucans and multihued feathered parrots flew amid rainbows of butterflies and orchids. The jungles around the Rio San Juan had been described by Mark Twain when he journeyed down the river as an earthly paradise, the most enchanted land to be experienced anywhere.

Pitt kept the Greek Angel at a steady and smooth five knots. This was not water to speed through and cause waves from your wake to wash over the environmentally perfect shoreline. The fabulous three thousand acres of virgin rain forest was preserved as the Indio Maiz Biological Reserve. Three hundred species of reptiles, two hundred species of mammals and over six hundred species of birds called it home.

It was four o'clock in the afternoon when they turned off the Rio San Juan onto the Rio Bartola and cruised a short distance before docking at the Refugio Bartola Lodge and Research Center. Nestled in the rain forest, the compound had eleven rooms with private baths and mosquito nets. Pitt and Giordino each registered for a room.

After cleaning up, they headed for the bar and restaurant. Pitt had a tequila on the rocks whose brand was unknown to him. Giordino, claiming he had seen over a dozen Tarzan movies crawling with Englishmen on safari, opted for gin. Pitt noticed a fat man in a white suit sitting by himself at a table near the bar. There was an air about the man that suggested he was a respected local resident of the river, someone who might be a wealth of information.

Pitt approached the man. 'Pardon me, sir, but I wondered if you might like to join my friend and me.'

The man looked up and Pitt could see he was quite elderly, approaching his eighties. His face was flushed and he sweated freely, but miraculously managed not to stain his white suit. He wiped a handkerchief over his bald head and nodded. 'Of course, of course, I'm Percy Rathbone. Please, it might be easier if you joined me,' he said, pointing at his girth that amply filled his wicker chair.

'My name is Dirk Pitt and my friend here is Al Giordino.'

The handshake was firm but sweaty. 'Pleased to meet you. Sit down, sit down.'

Pitt was amused that Rathbone had a habit of repeating his words. 'You have the look of a man who knows and enjoys the jungle.'

'It shows, it shows, does it?' said Rathbone, with a short laugh. 'Lived along the river in Nicaragua and Costa Rica most all my life. My family came here during World War Two. My father was an agent for the British, keeping an eye on Germans who tried to operate hidden facilities in the lagoons to service and refuel their U- boats.'

'If I may ask, how does someone earn a living on a river in the middle of nowhere?'

Rathbone looked at Pitt slyly. 'Would you, would you believe I rely on tourism?'

Pitt wasn't sure he believed him, but played along. 'Then you own a local business.'

'Right on, right on. I make a tidy income off fishermen and nature lovers who come to visit the refuge. I have a small chain of resorts between Managua and San Juan del Norte. You gentlemen should look me up on my website when you get home.'

'But this refuge is owned and run by the wildlife refuge.'

Rathbone seemed to stiffen slightly at Pitt's perception. 'True, true. I'm on holiday. I like to get away from my own ventures and relax here where I'm not bothered by guests. How about you fellows? Come for the fishing?'

'That, and the wildlife. We began our cruise at Barra Colorado and intend to reach Managua eventually.'

'A marvelous tour, a marvelous tour,' said Rathbone. 'You'll enjoy every minute of it. There's nothing like it in the hemisphere.'

A round of drinks came and Giordino signed for them on his room. 'Tell me, Mr. Rathbone, why is a river that runs almost from the Pacific to the Atlantic known to so few outsiders?'

'The river was world-famous until the Panama Canal was built. Then the Rio San Juan fell into the dustbin of history. A Spanish conquistador named Hernandez de Cordoba sailed up the San Juan in 1524. He made it all the way into Lake Nicaragua and established the colonial city of Granada on the opposite end. The Spanish who followed Cordoba built forts bristling with guns throughout Central America to keep the French and English out. One was El Castillo a few miles up the river from here.'

'Were the Spanish successful?' asked Pitt.

'Indeed yes, indeed yes,' Rathbone said, waving his hands. 'But not entirely. Henry Morgan and Sir Francis Drake sailed up the river, but never made it past El Castillo into the lake. A hundred or more years later, they were followed by Horatio Nelson when he was a mere captain. He sailed a small fleet of ships up the San Juan and attacked El Castillo, which still stands. His assault failed. The only time in his career he lost a battle. He was reminded of the embarrassment the rest of his life.'

'Why is that?' asked Giordino.

'Because he lost an eye during the attack.'

'Right or left?'

Rathbone thought a moment, not getting the joke, then shrugged. 'I don't remember.'

Pitt savored a sip of the tequila. 'How long did the Spanish control the river?'

'Until the early eighteen fifties and the California gold rush. Commodore Vanderbilt, the railroad and shipping tycoon, saw a golden opportunity. He made a deal with the Spanish for his ships to provide ferry service for eager prospectors who had booked his steamers in New York and Boston for the long voyage to California. His passengers changed from oceangoing ships to river steamers at San Juan del Norte. Then they steamed up the San Juan and across the lake to La Virgen. From there, it was only a short twelve-mile wagon ride to the little Pacific port of San Juan del Sur, actually only a couple of docks, where they reboarded Vanderbilt steamers that carried the gold-hungry miners onto San Francisco. Not only did they cut off hundreds of miles by not sailing