Cajamarca, the next day Ross, Zeb and Sister Chantal spent the night in the Hotel El Ingenio, the best in Cajamarca. Since they would soon be roughing it in the jungle Ross had decided they should enjoy the comforts of civilization while they could. After a surprisingly good night's sleep, he showered and dressed in jeans, T-shirt and a light fleece: the morning temperature was cool but forecast to hit the low seventies, with humidity in the eighties. After breakfast, he and the others walked into the town centre in search of a guide.
They didn't have to look far. Outside the hotel they were approached by a man sharpening a huge knife on a leather belt. 'You want guide? My name is Chico,' he informed them proudly, grinning and exposing toothless gums. Before Ross or the others could reply, Chico was tapping his razor-sharp knife on Ross's shoulder and reassuring him he could take them anywhere so long as they put down a deposit of ten thousand US dollars and signed a blood chit absolving him of responsibility should they be murdered, raped, kidnapped, imprisoned or go missing. He closed his compelling sales pitch by boasting that he had only lost two gringos in the last few years.
Ross and the others declined four times, but had to walk a whole two blocks before the man got the message and went in search of other prey.
Despite being steeped in history, set in the spectacular Andean cloud forests, and surrounded by the magnificent ruins of ancient pre-Incan cities, Cajamarca didn't boast many tourists. It was too far north of the popular trail and its world-famous sites: Machu Picchu, Cuzco and Lake Titicaca. Nevertheless Cajamarca still had its fair share of tour companies. After a frustrating day spent in most of them, they ended up in Amazonas Tours.
'Are you haqueros?' The man with the bad suit and worse teeth spoke loud enough for everyone in Amazonas Tours to hear.
Ross gestured to his companions sitting alongside him: the frail Sister Chantal in her olive fleece and pressed khakis, the red-haired, fresh-faced Zeb in jeans and a baggy sweatshirt. 'Do we look like grave robbers?'
'Are you gold hunters?'
'No.'
'Are you oil prospectors?'
Ross shook his head.
The man from Amazonas Tours scratched his head. 'Then why do you want to explore outside the usual tourist areas and national parks? The Amazon is a dangerous place. People who leave the known trails get lost and are never seen again.'
'That's why we need an escort.'
The man frowned. 'It's not just the danger to you. This area is full of ruins and graves, and in the past people plundered our treasures. The government has made laws to protect our culture. If you want to go outside the designated tourist areas you will need a permit. Amazonas Tours can arrange one within four to six weeks.'
Ross glanced up at the ceiling fan, exasperated. He was sitting before one of three desks in the open-plan office. The others were busy with tourists and a queue of four people was waiting by the large window, which overlooked the gardens of Cajamarca's scruffily elegant Plaza de Armas, the town square where Pizarro's men had slaughtered the Incas and captured the Emperor Atahualpa all those centuries ago. 'I don't see the problem. We just want to hire some equipment, transportation and a guide to help us navigate the cloud forest, the river and the rainforest.'
'But, senor, you don't know where you want to go. How can a guide help you?' He lowered his voice marginally. 'Unless you are haqueros and you have an illegal map.'
'We're not haqueros.'
'Then why do you need to go outside-'
Ross didn't let him finish. He stood up and shook the man's hand. 'Thank you, Senor Hidalgo, you've been a great help.'
As he led the other two out of the office, he brushed past a dapper man in a safari suit.
'God, this place is so bureaucratic,' said Zeb, as they emerged into the late-afternoon sun bathing the square. 'Perhaps we should use an unofficial guide.'
Ross groaned.
'That's the fourth tour company who've told us we can't go off the beaten track without permits,' Zeb said. 'They want to know what we're looking for.'
'Which we can't tell them,' said Ross, 'so we need to agree on a cover story. It seems they don't like grave robbers or treasure hunters, so I suggest we're oil prospectors.'
'I'd much rather be a treasure hunter,' said Zeb. 'Sounds way more romantic.' She turned to Sister Chantal. 'You said you'd been here before. What did you do?'
'It was a long, long time ago. I was younger and things were very different.'
I bet, thought Ross. He reached into his rucksack and took out a small palmtop computer, complete with geological maps and a global-positioning satellite system. 'We could follow the directions ourselves,' he said. 'Stock up on provisions and equipment, hire a car to the river, then a boat from there.'
'Do you even know what provisions and equipment to take? Or how much? What about when we're in the middle of the jungle?' said Zeb. 'Do you have any experience of surviving out there?'
'Some,' said Ross, miserably aware that a few weeks ago he and Lauren had planned to be caving in the jungles of Borneo – before she'd learnt she was pregnant and before… 'I know the basics – how to hang a hammock and net to protect us from insects, and I know most of the dangers, like the fer-de-lance.'
'The what?' said Zeb.
'Snakes,' said Sister Chantal, calmly. 'Very poisonous small ones you can easily step on if you're not careful.'
'I rest my case,' said Zeb, crossing her arms. 'I'm not going anywhere without an expert jungle guide.'
It seemed that their desperate quest was about to fizzle out before it had even begun. Perhaps this was a sign that he should go home to Lauren and accept whatever was going to happen. He glanced back at Amazonas Tours. A couple stood outside, holding hands. A little girl sat on the man's shoulders, twirling his hair in her fingers. Ross remembered the numerous occasions when Lauren had pointed out similar family units. 'That'll be us one day, Ross,' she'd said. Not any more, he thought. Not if she doesn't recover. Not if the baby dies.
He was about to launch into a speech about how he was going on whether the women joined him or not, when the man in the safari suit stepped into view. He was shorter and stockier than Ross with a clean-shaven ruddy face and immaculately combed hair. He exuded the subtle smell of soap. 'I apologize if I'm intruding,' he said, in a very English accent, 'but I couldn't help overhearing your predicament in Amazonas Tours. I believe I may be able to help.' He extended his hand to Ross. 'The name's Nigel Hackett, and I have a proposal. May I suggest we retire to that bar over there and discuss it?'
27
Nigel Hackett couldn't help himself.
'Please don't do that. Your towel's sucio,' he said to the waiter in the Heladeria Holanda Bar as the waiter placed a bottle of Inca Kola on the table and wiped his glass. Hackett noticed his three potential clients watching him and smiled apologetically. 'I do hate it when they wipe a freshly washed glass with a filthy towel.'
All his life, Nigel Hackett had done everything that was expected of him. As a sickly child, beset by allergies, he had gone out of his way to please his ambitious parents. When they had invested in a first-class education for their precious only child – Holmewood House in Kent, then Charterhouse and a medical degree at Cambridge – he had passed all his exams and met their expectations. He had qualified as a doctor, completed a short service commission in the British Army Medical Corps, then settled down as a GP near Guildford. He married a girl his parents approved of, then did everything to please her: earning enough money and status to give her a comfortable life as the wife of a Home Counties doctor.
