“Nothing happened between your mom and me, so how could there be any rebound, Aya?”
She’d answered with a teenager’s irritating mix of innocence and objectivity. “When nothing happens between two people who like each other, they imagine the best. You only see bad stuff after you get to know someone.”
“You’re too young to be a cynic.”
“Why? You’re a cynic so it must be right. You should have tried with Mom. She gave up on love after you.”
“There wasn’t any after, Aya.”
Eddie didn’t trust Ray. I just felt sorry for him. It’s tough to be the one in a relationship who loves the other person more. It wears you down. That wasn’t my problem, though. It was Ray’s.
But in Stuart’s office Ray had remained professional, on the surface at least, as he unrolled a map of Brazil, the diamond-shaped fifth-largest nation on earth, after China. Most of the country was solid-green Amazon, with the megalopolis cities Rio and São Paulo far to the east. Ray’s finger had poked down near the border with Bolivia… on the thin Madiera River in the west.
“We don’t care about the malaria,” he said.
“What do you care about, Ray?”
“Al Qaeda, ISIS. New fringe groups active there. We’ve heard rumors that they’re planning something, possibly a run on a U.S. embassy in South America.”
“Rumors? From who?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Then we can’t do it, Ray.”
“Brazilian Federal Police,” Ray said smoothly, as if he’d not refused to answer seconds before, “recovered a laptop in a raid in Rio, while arresting gold smugglers. Hezbollah and Al Qaeda are not listed as terrorist organizations in Brazil, and they’re active in smuggling there. In the laptop was a file referring to a project in the Amazon, probably a training camp. Problem is, we can’t send people officially because Brazil is touchy about interference. They claim they’ll take care of it. But their Federal Police are riddled with corruption. Their own people in Brasília don’t trust the ones out west.”
It made sense to me. The Amazon was far from the Mideast, but the whole modus of terrorist organizations is that they pop up where you don’t expect them. Hunt them in Syria and they show up in Yemen. Send agents to Yemen and next thing you know, they’re in Brazil.
“The world is crisscrossed by invisible highways,” Ray continued, sensing a more receptive audience. “Don’t think of them as routes for specific items but as toll roads. The road for illegal migrants will be used one day by arms merchants. Then cocaine mules. Cargo is interchangeable. Once a road exists, anyone can use it. If you’re looking on Highway 90, they’ll be moving on Route 66, and 66 goes through the Amazon. You’ve got new airports there. New cities going up. A population of millions. Think Wild West. Gold rush. Arms. Loose law enforcement.”
What Ray wanted, he explained, Stuart having been asked to leave, was for us to pay attention in case anything looked off, ask casually about the presence of Muslim groups, steer talks with officials, look for any thread that might lead to a terrorist training camp in the jungle.
“You know how to do it, boys,” Ray said.
“You’ve got a million other people to ask,” Eddie said.
“But you two are the best,” Ray said, concentrating on me. “You’ll have my phone number, and I’ll be available twenty-four hours a day. Ask a few questions. I trust your instinct. Just sign the nondisclosure agreement and…”
“No signatures,” I interrupted.
“But, Joe…”
“Last time we signed something you guys almost locked me away in Leavenworth,” I said, aware, with a sinking feeling, that I’d started negotiating. “You want a favor? Then if I want to pick up the phone and call the Times right now and tell them about the rumor, I’ll do it. No lawyers. No signatures. We’re civilians now. So our rules.”
Eddie looked up at me, and you had to know him to see that his straight-on stare meant he was feeling betrayed. One, you said we were finished with this stuff. It’s not even an emergency, just a rumor. I don’t trust Ray.
My own look back meant, I know. But what are we supposed to do if there’s really a training camp there?
Ray saw the looks. “Good. So you’ll sign?”
“What did I just tell you?”
Ray stood and announced that would not do. We had to sign. If we wouldn’t, his hands were tied. He shrugged and shook hands with Stuart, who had come back in, nervous, and with Eddie, who relaxed, and me. Ray and I experienced one of those who-has-the-stronger-grip moments, which guys do even if they are presidents. Vladimir Putin shakes Trump’s hand. He squeezes. So does Trump. They both smile. Babies“ R”Us.
Ray walked to the door. He turned back around, grinning. I had a feeling he’d just won some private bet.
“I told them you’d never sign. It’s a deal,” he said.
I snapped back to the present. Our outboard boat was closing the last ten feet toward the next draga, last chance to learn on the water about Eddie. The gunwale rode inches from the water. The temperature had to be 105. Sweat soaked my shirt, cargo shorts, armpits. I’ll never be finished with secrets, I thought. In the water floated debris: soiled paper plates, floating orange peels, a splintery log, but as we drew abreast the log had eyes. The eyes blinked. The log dived, showing a nine-foot tail. Caiman.
“People come here with big ideas. They never last,” Anasasio said, nodding as if he’d just imparted great and historic wisdom. His bottom front tooth gleamed, gold.
As we pulled up, Anasasio waved to the raggedy crew of six glaring down at us. They were a tough-looking bunch in cutoffs, sweat-stained black-and-white logo Botafogo team soccer shirts, and grimy tractor caps. Their bellies were swollen from beer or amoebas. The captain was an Asian Indian, with thick gray-flecked hair, goatee, and massive forearms. They all radiated antagonism, Stay away.
Anasasio called up to the crew, and I recognized Portuguese words for doctor, important, and missing. The captain shook his head. I heard ouro, which means gold, and mercúrio, which means mercury. Anasasio snapped a threat back. The argument raged as the crew stared. The captain fell silent, and Anasasio turned to me with a broad smile.
“He says we are very welcome aboard.”
“That’s not what it sounded like.”
“Oh, that is because they are about to make the gold. But I said you would not interrupt. I said you are not here about the use of illegal mercury. In fact you will find this very fascinating. You will see the gold made.”
“I’m not interested in gold.”
“Everyone is interested in gold,” Anasasio said, paying our driver in real, reaching for the rope ladder. “Watch your step. I would not want you to fall into the river. Piranhas have an undeserved reputation. Usually they do not bother people. But here they have had a taste of men.”
THREE
“Every day, we get gold,” the captain bragged.
I tried to hold in my impatience. I was in an agony of waiting and couldn’t care less about stupid gold. It was almost impossible to hear him and Anasasio talking over the roaring of the pump. We stood on the vibrating aft deck, the captain pointing with pride to a python-thick rubber air hose snaking over the side and into the brown water. Thirty feet down, he explained while I pretended to pay attention, Miguel, the diver, wore a dry suit and helmet and stood on the bottom and held a vacuum attachment that sucked up mud.