The Bergamese Sect (53 page)

The aircraft was nose-down like a diving dolphin, grasping for more grip in the thin mountain air, forcing a little more speed from the aging machine. Ripping the air apart with impressive strength, the rotors thumped loudly, the foreign sound washing over the vast expanse of trees.

Inside, Castro was finding the high-pitched whine of the helicopter oddly pleasing. The groans and thudding as they’d taken off had been painfully juddering. But now the rotors straining to keep them aloft produced nothing more than a soothing hum, like the contented purr of a cat.

Castro looked around. Walsh was sitting opposite, scanning the treetops, playing with his ear. The passenger cabin was large, having enough space for twenty seats, each one by a circular window. Lewis was up front with the pilot, leaning over his shoulder, shouting instructions.

They’d chartered the helicopter from an out-of-business tour company on the outskirts of Cusco. The man in charge had been very cagy about its air-worthiness. And the pilot, who Castro thought probably hadn’t flown the helicopter for a year or more, had been reluctant to fly in the torrential rain. The short, dark-haired man had kept pointing to the skies, crying ‘Señor, demasiada lluvia’, until the wad of US banknotes in Walsh’s hand had weighed more than the phoney caution on his mind. They’d settled on a thousand bucks an hour with three hours’ worth up front. Lifting off in a maelstrom of dust and mist, they’d swooped low over the city and headed out across the Andean foothills.

Castro turned to his window. Below, the trees raced past. There was hardly any variation – just a solid, undulating ocean of monotonous peacock green.

The clouds were low and obscured the horizon in a dark mush. But through the rain, the forest seemed never-ending. Something about the wilderness was disconcerting. Being lost in the jungle, you’d feel as insignificant as you would in the darkest depths of space.

Castro wondered if this journey was his final one. Was the aging helicopter taking him toward a fate he could accept? Throughout the months of searching, he’d never once questioned whether he was ready to face the revelation. He’d seen its necessity. But he’d ignored the possibility that it could be so dreadful he’d be driven into a deeper psychosis. One from which he couldn’t escape. When he stepped off this helicopter, he could be making a huge mistake. Facing up to his nightmares could mean making them far worse.

Suddenly, Castro realised this wasn’t a journey he wanted to be taking. He should be winging his way through leafy New England. Returning home, returning to Holly and the kids. He wasn’t ready for this. He no longer wanted it.

A wave of claustrophobia span through him. He grabbed the seat in front, started to rise, but the helicopter suddenly banked sharply to the left. Castro felt a nauseating flutter in his stomach as the wind buffeted the aircraft, dropped it fifty feet in a single step. He was slammed back into his seat.

His window now looked directly down onto the canopy, which was becoming sparser. Then the trees disappeared and the ground was orange fields.

The pilot levelled the aircraft and throttled down on the power. Immediately, the deafening thumping noise of the rotors returned to shake through the cabin, the chairs and overhead lockers shuddering violently. As they descended, Castro saw a few white buildings nestling in the clearing, and trails leading away toward the hills.

Lewis appeared at the cockpit door. He was staring at a small handheld device in his palm. Shimmying along the cabin, he steadied himself against the rocking motion using the backs of the seats. He fell into a chair next to Walsh.

They hovered for a moment over an area of mud and coarse grass.

‘
I’ll be back in two minutes,’ Lewis screamed through the din. He stood, went back toward the cockpit and stood by the hatch.

The pilot dropped the aircraft effortlessly onto the soft ground. Castro peered out. The rotors were lashing the rain over a group of people under the eaves of a shack, water streaming off their fedoras and wide-brimmed hats.

Lewis sprang open the helicopter door and hopped out. He grabbed the collar of his jacket and hiked it over his head, ran across the sodden ground toward the group of people. They watched as he walked among them, peering into his palm. For a moment, he disappeared behind the building and then returned to talk to them. Through the wind-washed droplets, Castro saw Lewis pointing to the helicopter. Then one of the figures pointed to the hills beyond the village.

Lewis bounded back toward the waiting aircraft. He leapt through the door, shut out the noise and wet. He still held the electronic device in his palm, but his other hand held something else.

He turned into the cockpit door. ‘North-north-west,’ he shouted.

The engine noise droned louder, becoming shriller, and within seconds, the machine lifted shakily from the mud. The pilot raised it only thirty feet before dropping the nose and accelerating toward the edge of the clearing.

Lewis groped his way down the aisle and sat in the chair by Walsh. The thing Castro had seen in his hand was an empty black bag with rope handles. He threw it at Walsh.

‘
She left the bag behind. This is no use to us now.’ He tossed the handheld device on the chair behind him.

‘
Are they heading for the rendezvous site?’ Walsh screamed over the din.

‘
Yes. Some rangers offered to go with them,’ Lewis answered. ‘But they refused. Guy back there said they were mad heading into the Vilcabamba in this weather. Said he thought they wouldn’t be coming back.’

‘
What about the target?’

‘
Yes. He passed through here about five hours before them.’

‘
And Linsky?’

‘
Yeah, Linsky too. Guy said another hiker got off the bus from Cusco. He headed off toward the Apurimac crossing a little after the other group.’

‘
Okay. Can we find the place?’

Lewis looked up toward the cockpit and shrugged. ‘We’ll have to,’ he shouted. He smiled at Walsh, then at Castro. Standing, he stepped down the seat backs toward the front of the aircraft.

Twenty minutes later, they were deep into the cloud forest, speeding across a towering wilderness, green like moss. The pilot had increased height to prevent them from slamming into the waves of solid earth that periodically rose up toward them. They skimmed along the underside of the vast storm cloud, rushing through sheets of rain that dangled like dark curtains below. Castro watched a deep gulley zip past them, the steep sides dropping almost vertically toward a ribbon of churning white water.

Suddenly, a fork of lightning shocked the air, the searing light filling the cabin, the deafening boom shaking the aircraft violently. In that instant of blinding light, Castro had a vision. He was back on that Arizona road, watching the tumultuous storm bringing his terror. Then, in a single gut-wrenching rush, he lived the months of ceaseless torment as one.

Castro gulped for a breath of air, felt a soundless scream in his throat.

The helicopter was pitching aggressively, shuddering as if an earthquake below were moving the air in furious waves around them. Castro grabbed the seat in front of him. He closed his eyes, half-expecting to meet his fate among the trees. Among the sharp, unforgiving wreckage that burned only briefly before the deluge extinguished it.

His eyes snapped open. Castro swallowed hard. An overpowering craving for truth flooded his mind.

He
was
ready for the truth. Whatever confession lay in the jungle below, he’d grab onto it and squeeze the very life from it.

―
§ ―

A chink of light formed beneath Matt’s eyelids. He forced them open gradually, expecting to see the daylight spilling from under his blue, flowery bedroom curtains. Instead, he saw an old woman sitting on a bamboo floor. She had her eyes closed, her hands resting on her calves, palms up, as if meditating. For a moment, he didn’t recall. His brain seemed unable to locate his memory. Even the last few days seemed a drunken daze.

But slowly it returned. An escape into the night. A painful journey through a wet jungle. And a woman who promised to justify it all.

His head was pounding. A dull ache thumped almost in rhythm to the drumming rain above. He felt drained and drowsy, totally washed out. The blurred feeling told him he’d been sleeping deeply, but his numbed brain couldn’t tell him for how long.

Gently, Matt dropped his head onto the solid wall behind him. He saw the glass-less window frame to his left. It was still light outside, still daylight, but the square section of forest seemed darker than it had. Or perhaps it was just the storm clouds, amassing ever thicker in their relentless cleansing of the land. Either way, he’d been asleep where he sat for some time.

The woman was breathing loudly. Matt watched the regular rise and fall of her chest. She was thin, had the appearance of a woman who’d been active all her life; who was quite capable of scaling the high Andes. But the wrinkles on her face were more than just wrinkles. It looked like someone had taken a scalpel and gouged deep, angular lines from the corners of her mouth to her chin.

This woman had spoken words Matt had found uncomfortable. It wasn’t enough for her to delve into his most secret thoughts, but she’d chosen to admonish him for them too. It was his business if he couldn’t face up to things. His business if he failed in relationships. He didn’t need some stranger advising him on how to run his life. She was right though; there
was
a pain in his heart. But Matt now realised it wouldn’t be healed in this jungle. Her secret meant nothing to him. However insane, fantastic, frightening it was, it wasn’t going to change anything. Not for him, and probably not for the world. The planet would continue to spin, timelessly, unaltered by human imperfections.

A fragment of sound caught his attention. It was almost lost in the hiss and patter of rain. But then it came again. From the direction of the doorway. A faint but conspicuous snap of wet wood. And another.

The woman opened her eyes but didn’t look round. She stared at the wall above Matt’s head.

Matt looked at her for a moment but then his eyes darted back to the doorway. A cylinder of grey steel had appeared at the doorjamb. An inch into the shack, it stopped and angled toward the woman.

‘
No!’ Matt shouted, jolting to attention, but the woman didn’t flinch.

She turned her head slowly to the door, watched for a few moments and smiled. ‘Hello, my dear,’ she said. ‘Please, come in.’

The hand that held the gun appeared, then the arm and head.

Clara. The girl stepped quickly into the shack, followed by Henric. Both of them looked dishevelled, soaked to the bones. Clara’s hair was flat against her scalp, her clothes dark with water, her cheeks flushed with blood. Tiny shreds of foliage and wood splattered her smooth skin.

Quickly, Clara’s eyes scanned around the shack, confused. Her mouth opened but no words came out. She skirted around the woman, inspecting her suspiciously, and came toward Matt.

‘
What’s happening?’ she asked him.

‘
We were having tea,’ the woman said.

Clara ignored the woman’s words. ‘What the hell were you doing running out on us?’ she said.

Matt just shrugged.

Clara pointed the barrel of her gun at the woman. ‘Who’s this?’ she asked.

The woman didn’t react. She continued to sit cross-legged, turning to Henric briefly and inviting him further into the shack.

The realisation dawned on Clara’s face. ‘This is her?’ she said in a high-pitched squawk.

Matt nodded.

Clara’s eyes narrowed. ‘Has she told you yet?’

Matt didn’t answer.

‘
Are you the person we’re looking for?’ Clara asked the woman.

‘
I’m sure I must be, dear. Would you like tea?’

Clara backed away and stood up against the wall. She should have been in awe, uncontrollable in her eagerness to hear the revelation. She should have been excited, overwhelmed. But Matt saw only a flash of aggression in her blue eyes. Was she becoming unstable again?

Matt moved his gaze toward Henric. The bearded man looked nervous, unsure of himself. His eyes darted from the woman, to Clara, and to the door behind him. The distrust surfaced in Matt’s stomach again. He drew his legs up to his chest, leant forward onto his knees, poised.

‘
Has she said anything at all?’ Clara asked Matt.

Again, Matt ignored her.

Out of the hiss of the forest, another, deeper sound materialised. At first, it sounded like a swarm of insects hovering above the roof. But the sound began to pulse, to change in pitch from a deep rumble to a sharp slapping noise, and back again.

The old woman looked to the door. ‘Sounds like we have more visitors,’ she said. ‘That’s a pity.’

Henric’s eyes watched the ceiling as he strained to decipher the noise. Within a few seconds, the unmistakable roar of rotor blades churning the forest air burst through the endless downpour. ‘It’s the government men. Must be,’ Henric said.

Matt looked at the woman. She was unperturbed. ‘Quick, tell them now,’ he said but she didn’t respond.

The helicopter came low over the trees, as if going to touch down on the shack itself. It shook the flimsy structure violently, the noise deafening.

Henric drew his gun, stepped back and peered outside. There was no panic on his face. He turned back into the room, stared at the woman. ‘Seems you won’t be telling the world after all,’ he said.

With those words, a sudden panic erupted in Matt’s chest. The traitor had chosen his moment. In a flash, Matt was on his feet. He leapt past the woman, reaching toward Henric’s weapon, pushing the conspirator’s hand away. ‘No,’ he shouted.

Henric stumbled with the force of the attack, his gun slipping from his grasp and bouncing over the uneven floor. ‘What the…?’ he exclaimed.

Suddenly, the air jolted, concussed by a deafening bang. Matt stared at Henric’s gun, but it hadn’t gone off. He swung round to see Clara’s arm outstretched. A tiny wisp of smoke was spiralling out of the barrel of her weapon.