Trojan Odyssey (29 page)

T
HE TWO MEN
casually lolling in what the native villagers called a
panga
looked like any of the local men who fished the Rio San Juan. They wore baggy white shorts and T-shirts with soft white baseball-style caps. Two outriggers hung over the
panga
's stern on an angle, their lines trolling for the fishermen's next dinner.

Except for a passing experienced fisherman who bothered to notice, no one on shore would have guessed the lines carried no hooks. In a waterway teeming with fish, no hook went without a bite more than a few seconds after it dropped under the surface.

The skiff was propelled by a thirty-horsepower Mariner outboard steered by cables running to a center console-column surmounted by an automobile steering wheel. The flat-bottomed, twenty-foot
panga
moved smartly up the calm river through the tropical rain forest under a light shower. They were traveling in the middle of the long rainy season that began in May and lasted through January. The jungle vegetation was so thick along the shore it seemed that every plant was in constant battle against its neighbor for a glimpse of the sun that beamed down infrequently through the never-ending mass of clouds.

Pitt and Giordino had purchased the
panga,
whose bow was painted with the name
Greek Angel,
along with fuel and supplies, within hours after the NUMA jet had taken off for Washington with Rudi Gunn, Patrick Dodge and Renee Ford's body. The repair crew that was flown into Barra Colorado had beached
Poco Bonito
at low tide and were working efficiently to make her seaworthy for the voyage north.

Jack McGee threw them a going-away party and insisted on stocking their boat with enough beer and wine to start a saloon. Inspector Ortega was on hand, graciously expressing his appreciation for their cooperation in his investigation, and his sorrow for Renee's senseless murder. He was also irritated and regretful that the woman they knew as Rita Anderson had eluded his dragnet. Once Ortega's team learned of Barbara Hacken's missing passport, and they interrogated the owner of the lodge and the security guard at the airport gate, they were certain Rita had fled Costa Rica to the United States. Pitt added a piece to the puzzle when he heard the aircraft was painted lavender. This fact placed Rita squarely in the Odyssey camp. Now Ortega vowed to pursue Renee's murder internationally and to seek the cooperation of American law enforcement.

Pitt sat relaxed, leaned back in a raised chair in front of the wheel column, and steered the boat with one foot as they passed quiet picturesque lagoons that opened onto the river. Giordino had borrowed a lounge chair and pad from McGee, and reclined with his feet hanging over the bow, warily eyeing the occasional eighteen-foot crocodile that he spotted sunning itself on the bank.

Wise to the ways of a rain forest, Giordino shrouded himself with mosquito netting. Not usually mentioned in the travel brochures, in this part of the world the little bloodsuckers were nearly as prolific as raindrops. Not wanting to hinder his movements, Pitt soaked his exposed skin with repellent.

The first twenty miles took them northwesterly along the Rio Colorado until it eventually met the muddy waters of the Rio San Juan that served as the meandering borderline between Nicaragua and Costa Rica. From here, it was another eighty kilometers up the river until they reached the town of San Carlos on Lake Cocibolca, better known simply as Lake Nicaragua.

“I've yet to see any signs of construction,” said Giordino, studying the shoreline through a pair of binoculars.

“You've already seen it,” said Pitt, watching the multicolored birds nesting in the trees whose branches reached over the flowing water.

Giordino twisted in his lounge chair, pulled down his sunglasses and stared at Pitt over the rims as if he were looking at a bookie giving hundred-to-one odds on a favorite to win the next race. “Run that by me again.”

“Your friend Micky Levy. Remember her?”

“The name rings a bell,” muttered Giordino, still trying to follow Pitt's tack.

“Over dinner she talked about plans to build an ‘underground bridge,' a railroad tunnel system that was designed to travel through Nicaragua between the oceans.”

“She also said the project was never launched because Specter pulled out.”

“A deception.”

“A deception,” Giordino parroted.

“After the engineers and geologists, like your friend, Micky, finished their survey, Odyssey officials insisted they sign confidentiality agreements never to reveal any information about the proposed project. Specter threatened to withhold any payment until they agreed. Then they announced that after studying the reports, they decided the project was not practical, and cost-prohibitive.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I called your friend Micky just before we left Washington and after she faxed me the site plans,” Pitt said casually.

“Go on.”

“I asked her a few more questions regarding Specter and the underground bridge. Didn't she tell you?”

“I guess she forgot,” said Giordino pensively.

“Anyway, as it turns out, Specter never had any intention of dumping the project. His Odyssey engineers have been digging furiously for more than two years. This is borne out by the port we passed, with containerships unloading what was probably mining equipment.”

“Wasn't it I who said, ‘A neat trick if he could hide millions of tons of excavated rock and muck'?”

“And you were right, it is a neat trick.”

A light suddenly flashed on in Giordino's head. “The brown crud?”

“The million-dollar answer,” Pitt acknowledged. “Satellite photos never showed construction activity because there was none to be seen. The only way to hide millions of tons of dirt and rock was to build a large tube, mix the 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.”