Ambrose. They don’t exactly admit to it, but I think they’re both with some Brazilian Spec Ops unit called Falcon Five. A man and a seriously good-looking woman.”
“You trust them?”
“Down here? I don’t trust anybody.”
Hawke nodded, thinking through the next steps. Time was dwindling rapidly and he had to use every hour as best he could. “Let’s go aboard and attack the maps while they fuel this beast. Where’s the world’s most ingenious detective?”
“See that light burning in the upstairs corner window? That’s him. Working away.”
“God love him,” Hawke said, “I just hope he can crack this bloody thing. We’re running out of time.”
63
H awke and Stokely faced each other across a map-strewn table in the small cabin that would serve as Stiletto’s war room. Stoke told Hawke all about the visit he and Ambrose had paid to the St. James Infirmary the night before. He recounted Congreve’s conversation with the imprisoned elderly widow and explained Congreve’s reaction upon discovering the Portuguese version of the novel.
“Giddy?” Hawke said, smiling.
“Your word, not mine. But, yeah, I’d say he was giddy over getting that book.”
“Damn good work, you and Ambrose finding that woman. That book may yet help us stop this bastard.”
“Well, all I can tell you, the man has been in his room ever since we got back just before dawn last night. Been holed up in there all day. Working on his code. Won’t answer the phone, won’t even come to the door. I sent him some room service and it sat outside the damn door so long they finally took it away.”
“Got the bone in his teeth, all right. That’s good. Let him keep beavering away right up until it’s time to shove off.”
“What’s so special about this book we got last night? It’s a novel, isn’t it? Fiction. We don’t have a whole lot of time for fairy tales right now.”
“The book was encoded. This woman’s husband, Ambassador Zimmermann, was dirty. Mixed up with al- Qaeda here in Brazil. And possibly the Mexican, Cuban, and Venezuelan governments as well. Remember what your friend from Caracas told us?”
“The Mambo King? Yeah, Colonel Monteras told us what we already knew. That el Presidente Chavez of Venezuela was determined to bring down the American government. And he was using his oil money, buying those Russian anti-ship missiles from Cuba to help make that happen. Sink tankers in the Gulf of Mexico. Start the war that way.”
“Chavez has his own plans for dealing with America. I’ll let the Yanks worry about those missiles for now. Top is the more imminent threat. We’ve got enough on our plate.”
“But you think Top is in cahoots with Chavez?”
“Chavez may be bankrolling Top, Stoke. Based on what Harry Brock told me, Top’s weapons development alone requires massive amounts of cash. And Chavez is rolling in the stuff right now. Chavez, Fidel, and Top all have the same objective. They’re just coming at it from differing perspectives.”
Half an hour later, Hawke straightened up and stretched his back muscles. He’d been bent over the bloody maps with Stokely for too long, and he hadn’t had any exercise in forty-eight hours. He was tempted to go for a night swim in the river but there wasn’t time.
“Now you know why they built their stronghold in this part of the jungle,” Hawke said, looking at Stokely across the table. “No satellite imagery, no aerial recon photos, no thermals, nothing. Just a bloody map with a ton of green on it.”
“It’s a bitch all right. How do you find something that isn’t on a map?”
“I think Harry Brock has at least gotten us within spitting distance. We’ll see for ourselves shortly.”
“So, when we do go in, this will be Brock’s LZ here,” Stokely said, “The strip where he saw the drones and the little remote control tanks.”
Stoke was pointing to the small red grease mark Brock had placed on the laminated map of the target area. An inch away was a long yellow mark indicating the deep ravine that was believed to be the western perimeter of Top’s compound.
“Yeah. Brock’s land force goes in there, moves toward the river. We move west from the river and join them roughly here.”
“Where exactly do we go in?”
“Good question. Captain Brownlow is plugging river waypoints into the GPS guidance and weapons systems now. Brock believes we’ll find Top’s central command approximately here. Somewhere along this stretch of water is a camouflaged bridge. Find that bridge and we’ve found Top.”
Hawke used his index finger to trace his intended route on the map.
“The Black River?” Stoke said, looking through the large magnifying glass.
“Right. To get there, we execute a rapid backtrack east on the Amazon to the mouth of the Madeira River here. Then head due south along this large tributary. At this point, right here, the junction of the Aripuana and the Roosevelt, we—”
“Whoa. Roosevelt? That’s the river’s name? Down here?”
“Teddy Roosevelt. Back in 1908, he led an expedition looking for something called the River of Doubt. T.R. found it, everybody thinks anyway, and the Brazilians named it after him. Rio Roosevelt.”
“You don’t think he found it? The river?”
“There’s still some doubt, pardon the pun, in London’s geographic circles. There’s another river. It’s called the Igapo, or Black River. You can only see it with the glass. It’s this tiny hairline tributary that disappears into the forest here. No one’s ever found the source. Or, even where it ends. My friends back at the Geographical Society think it actually goes underground and resurfaces in a distant location still uncharted. I think this river might have been the one the great Bull Moose was actually looking for.”
“So this river, the Igapo, is not really on any map. Even now, in the age of electronic miracles.”
“Right.”
“So, we’re winging it.”
“To some extent, yes, we are.”
“Excuse me, Skipper?”
Brownlow was at the door.
“Yes, Cap’n?” Hawke said.
“Wanted to make sure everyone was aboard. We’re topped off and ready to get underway.”
“Is Chief Inspector Congreve aboard yet?”
“No, sir,” Brownlow said. “Haven’t seen him yet, sir.”
Hawke looked at his black-faced wristwatch. It was almost one o’clock in the morning. Everyone was supposed to be aboard and prepared to shove off at midnight. “Well, we’ll just have to go fetch him. Give us ten minutes, will you? We’ll be back with him. He’s the only one missing. Everyone else has gone ahead to the next rendezvous by air.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
HAWKE AND STOKELY walked quickly through the deserted lobby, climbed three flights of stairs, and walked along the hallway until they came to Congreve’s room. The hotel had gone to sleep, by and large, and the only room showing a light under the door was the one on the left, Room 307, belonging to Ambrose Congreve.
Hawke paused a moment, listening, then put his hand on the knob. The door swung inward.
“Holy Jesus,” was all Stoke could say.
The room had been tossed. Not just tossed, heaved upside down and turned inside out. Every drawer had been pulled from desk and dresser, upended on the floor. The bed had been stripped of its bedclothes, the mattress had been pulled from the bed, sliced open and gutted, wads of stuffing everywhere.
“What the hell were they looking for?” Stoke asked.
