When The Jaguar Sleeps: A jungle adventure (17 page)

Suddenly the shrill sound of the phone broke the silence of the room. It startled him so much that he nearly jumped. Instinctively he looked first at the display to check the caller’s number. Maybe it was the Embassy or someone from his family.

It was a local number he did not recognise.

A journalist from a local newspaper came on the line. He’d managed to learn that Didier had survived the plane crash in the rainforest. Until now it had been thought everyone had died. There was great national interest in the story, especially as the one survivor had managed to get out of the jungle all on his own. Could an interview be arranged? Caught by surprise Didier agreed to meet that evening. The journalist would come to his hotel.

However, as soon as he hung up he regretted his hasty decision. He should have refused. He didn’t want to talk about the plane crash, or answer any inquisitive questions about his journey through the jungle. It was just the opposite
–
he wanted now to forget everything.

He’d been having nightmares and would wake up in the middle of the night screaming, sweat-soaked bedlinen clinging uncomfortably to his damp skin. He dreamed that he was still in the jungle surrounded by plants that kept growing in front of his eyes, becoming even denser. He wasn’t alone. There was an inert body lying nearby, imprisoned in a tight tangle of creepers. It had Florent’s face. He tried to get closer to him, but couldn’t move an inch.

The twisted branches and vines trapped his own body, as well and kept coiling themselves around it tighter and tighter like a constricting snake or the tentacles of some monster until he was unable to move or breathe . . .

Didier thought about what he should say to the journalist and decided that he would follow the police officer’s request and would not reveal what really happened. Maybe because he didn’t want to obstruct a police investigation or maybe because he had a vague feeling that he would end up in trouble. But he wanted everybody to hear all about the plane crash and how the other passengers had died. When he got to France he planned to contact Florent’s family in Belgium and tell them all about their journey through the jungle and Florent’s unfortunate death. He owed him that.

T
wo days later, Brian was in Cuenca getting ready for a meeting with Emilio.

As soon as he’d returned from the jungle he’d told him all about the treasures in the cave, and about the two men who’d been hiding there: he’d no idea who they were and unfortunately they had evaded capture, but it looked as if one of them was badly injured. He hoped they would die in the jungle. Otherwise he could be in real trouble, especially if they got the police involved. They had seen him plunder the Inca tombs and kill one of his workhands. They knew his name and the location of the ancient ruins. Both were on the map they had stolen from him. Perhaps they had even taken away with them a few of the precious ancient handicrafts, had the nerve to steal gold that belonged to him. Yes, it was his. He had found it. His people had already carried much of the gold away but they had to go back and search for more. The place was huge. He really needed more time, needed his jungle discovery to stay secret for at least a few months yet. More digging was necessary. Who knows what else they might find there.

This time, for a change, Brian and his wealthy partner were going to meet in a café in the city centre. Brian parked his car and continued on foot, crossing first a tiny square bordered on one side by a park and on the other by one of the nicest of the city’s baroque churches; he then entered into a labyrinth of narrow, winding, cobbled streets.

At that hour of the day Cuenca was bustling with life, its streets full of strollers. He passed colourfully dressed Indians, both men and women, groups of students in school uniforms, a couple of nuns. Sometimes he had to push his way through crowds of meandering tourists gawping at the old colonial buildings with their shadowy arcades and geranium-filled balconies made of dark wood or wrought iron. Every now and then they paused to immortalise them on their cameras.

Emilio was sitting on the cobbled terrace of a dark-painted café located on the south side of a small, shady square, sipping coffee and enjoying the view. On the east side was a row of arcaded houses. In the distance the majestic dome of an old cathedral loomed over a sea of red-tiled roofs. It was a pleasant day. Mild gusts of warm wind rustled gently in the tall slender palm trees shading the west and north sides of the square. Interspersed between them were jacaranda trees, their bell-shaped purple-blue flowers hanging loosely down like a luxuriant floral cascade. Fallen petals carpeted the ground beneath and the adjacent pavements.

A flock of pigeons, startled and flew away. The flapping sound of their wings momentarily drowned out the soft trickling of water coming from the fountain in the middle of the square.

Brian walked over to Emilio’s table and nodded his head in greeting. He clumsily pulled out the chair facing Emilio and ignoring the screech it produced sank heavily down, saying nothing, just gazing blankly ahead. He didn’t seem to be in a good mood for a conversation. He didn’t look his best that day, either. Rather tired and irritable as if something was bothering him. The pale colour of his face, unshaven stubble of several nights and the dark circles under his eyes made him look older than he really was. This was quite unusual for him. He was a man who had always taken a great care about his appearance. Emilio nodded back and looked at him for a moment scrutinising but not asking any questions.

He waited patiently till Brian settled comfortably down before he pushed the newspaper he’d been reading towards him.

‘Your fugitive,’ he said shortly, pointing at a small picture of a young man and a write-up on the front page. ‘Reading local press can prove very useful sometimes.’

Brian leaned forward and studied the paper intently.

In the meantime a waiter appeared at his side. ‘Coffee with milk,’ he said, without lifting his eyes from the article.

‘Didier Poussier,’ he said at last and put the newspaper aside. At the same time his eyes lit up and a shadow of a smile showed at the corners of his lips.

‘Didier Poussier, a Frenchman,’ he repeated, as if trying to imprint the name in his memory. ‘Well, now I know how he happened to be in the jungle. He wasn’t looking for treasure, he had simply survived a plane crash and was trying to get out of there. How unfortunate,’ he chuckled. ‘But it looks as if his companion did not make it. Fortunately, there’s no mention of the treasures in the cavern, or that they saw us. Hopefully he hasn’t dared tell anyone.’

Emilio was watching him intently, a blank expression on his face, not saying a word, just leisurely sipping his coffee. Brian stopped speaking and sat for a while silently, lost in his own thoughts. Then Emilio handed him a piece of paper on which something was written in blue ink.

‘Here, I have this for you. The address of the hotel where he is staying in Quito. He has booked a room for a few nights. He is probably waiting for a passport, because the front desk clerk informed me that he has been calling the French Embassy. You need to act as quickly as possible. He may start talking soon. Some other people may visit your treasure cave.’

‘He will not escape me one more time. No chance of that,’ Brian said firmly, clutching the piece of paper tightly in his hand, and then tucking it into his trouser pocket.

He finished his coffee and spoke about the great discovery in the rainforest. Throughout Emilio sat stiffly in his chair, hardly speaking; he seemed to be in a strange pensive mood, his thoughts wandering elsewhere.

Before parting, they arranged to meet the following afternoon. Brian would come to Emilio’s house with all the golden artefacts he had collected from the cave. Emilio was eager to see them. Then they would decide what to do with them next.

‘When you come tomorrow Gabriela will be there, as well,’ Emilio said out of nowhere. He gazed fixedly at Brian, on his face a strange inscrutable expression and in his eyes an uncanny glow. ‘You know, I really love her. I do not know what I’d do to her and her lover if I found out that she was cheating on me.’ His voice was icy cold, tinged with something dark and bitter.

Slightly alarmed, Brian scrutinised him for a moment, his eyes narrowed to slits. Did he know about the affair with Gabriela? The thought flitted through his mind. But he quickly pushed it away. No, it was impossible. How could he? They had both always been so cautious. He’d noticed that Emilio didn’t seem himself and was behaving a bit oddly. He’d tried to read his face, but failed. Today it was simply an impenetrable, cold, expressionless mask. Only his eyes betrayed him slightly when for a split second a malevolent glint appeared in them.

Some family or financial concerns? Quite possible. Definitely nothing for him to worry about.

Brian took some money out of his pocket, counted out the appropriate amount and put it on the table, paying for his cup of coffee along with a generous tip. Not wanting to linger any longer, he got up, said goodbye and headed briskly towards the arcaded walkway.

‘Well, Emilio you should not worry so much about your wife. I am sure Gabriela is faithful to you. She would never cheat on you, would she?’ he said as an afterthought while he was already halfway across the square and then walked quickly away without even turning around.

Emilio waited a moment longer before he too got up and striding stealthily headed in the same direction.

The unsuspecting Brian moved at a brisk pace through the narrow, picturesque streets of the old town. He was in a good mood. Now he knew the fugitive’s name and the hotel where he was staying, he was confident that this time the Frenchman’s fate was sealed. Brian’s men would catch him and kill. Hidden in the crowd of passers-by, Emilio followed Brian discreetly, not letting him out of his sight while maintaining enough distance between them not to be detected. Brian halted in front of the façade of a small hotel and stood there for a moment looking impatiently at his watch, apparently waiting for someone. Eventually he took out his cell phone and made a call. About five more minutes elapsed then from the street crowd emerged the slender, elegant silhouette of Gabriela. She ran up to Brian and kissed him on the cheek. Then they entered the hotel, holding each other tightly.

Emilio, hidden behind one of the pillars of the arcade flanking the other side of the street, watched the lovers until they had disappeared into the entrance. He felt so powerless; anger simmered inside him, his eyes narrowed, his jaws clenched, his teeth grinded involuntarily, and his breathing quickened. His suspicions were confirmed. He now no longer had any doubt left in his mind
–
his beloved Gabriela was cheating on him with Brian Steinwall.

T
he day started off cloudy with patches of mist and a light drizzle. The thin mountain air was moisture-laden but fresh and slightly chilly. A soft breeze carried a faint damp, earthy scent. It mingled with smells of car exhaust fumes, baked bread, roasted meat and peanuts, permeating the air of the big city. By ten o’clock the weather had begun to brighten up and Didier made his way through a colourful throng of shoppers and curious onlookers at the market. He paused occasionally in front of the stalls, not intending to buy anything but simply enjoying the sight of the exotic goods the local merchants offered for sale. Apart from a rich assortment of fruits and vegetables, some unknown to him, there was cheap jewellery made from beads, stones and metals, ceramics, wood carvings and figurines, and an array of hats. However, products made of hand-woven alpaca wool dominated: clothes, bags, scarves, table cloths, rugs, blankets. The display of shapes, textures, patterns and colours was a feast for the eyes. Some of the figurines and jewellery were meant to be copies of Pre-Columbian artefacts, but they were nothing more than crude imitations
–
nothing like the magnificent golden objects he and Florent had seen in the Inca cave.

Tucked between the stalls selling textiles was a food-stand where guinea pigs were being roasted over an open fire, a local delicacy called cuy. At first, Didier took the small, skinned bodies cooked with head and feet still attached to be rats. Then a few feet away he saw another stall with wire-mesh cages filled to the brim with the small rodents, still alive and packed in so tightly that they could hardly move. The guinea pigs looked much like the ones he had kept as pets when he was a child. The little creatures were clinging to each other helplessly, their tiny dark eyes looking pleadingly at the passers-by, as if they asked to be rescued from the cruel end awaiting them. People were already queuing in front of the food-stand, waiting for the meat to cook. As soon as the spit-roasted delicacy was ready they would eat it directly off the stick.

At length Didier reached the poor end of the market where the stalls disappeared and were replaced by simple plastic boxes stacked one on the other or by tablecloths thrown directly on the ground. The merchandise here was inferior. He decided to turn back and look at the more tempting goods again. Perhaps he would buy a few souvenirs for his family.

He’d received some money from his mother. After paying his debt to the Embassy he would have enough to buy his ticket home and stay in the city for a couple of weeks. While waiting for his passport he had decided to put his time to good use by exploring some of the city’s tourist attractions. That afternoon he planned to go to a museum of colonial art, and in the next few days he would visit churches and monasteries. He would start the next day by looking at the interior of the Church of St Francis and the nearby monastery of the same name, the oldest colonial building in Quito. In a guidebook he had bought the other day he read that the St Francis church was built on the remains of the palace of the last Inca emperor, Atahualpa.

Few years ago, when a couple of excavations were made under the church floor, plenty of bones and even entire skeletons were being dug out. The guidebook did not mention whether any Inca artefacts were unearthed, as well. But if so they should be exposed at the St Francis Convent Museum. Since Didier had heard the story of the capture and death of Atahualpa, his interest in the Inca culture grew considerably. He wanted to see as much as possible of what remained of it up to present day.

After his visit to the marketplace Didier took a taxi back to the hotel. The young man at the reception desk, smart in his black suit and spotless white shirt, greeted him politely, though the smile on his lips seemed a little forced. Didier noticed that when he handed him the key he avoided his gaze.

His room was on the second floor. He crossed the spacious lobby and headed briskly towards a dark wooden arched staircase winding upwards. The lobby itself was so full of plants that it looked rather like an inner garden. Terracotta pots in different sizes were planted with a variety of opulent green plants. Above, the upper-level landings had greenery hanging over their railings, giving the appearance of thick verdant curtains.

A few days had now passed since Didier’s ordeal in the jungle and he was beginning to recover. Each day he felt fitter and began to believe that soon he could regain all his former strength. Despite the nightmares that plagued him at times, he slept well. He’d lost a lot of weight, but his muscles were strong. In fact his legs felt firm and flexible, and he could easily walk now for long periods without feeling any pain or tiredness.

He climbed the steep stairs with ease and entered the brightly lit corridor leading to his room. Stopping at the door he was on the verge of reaching in his pocket to retrieve the key when he heard approaching footsteps. Two stocky, muscular men appeared at the far end of the landing. He gazed at them more carefully. Something in the way they looked and moved alerted him. Something clicked in his mind: they looked like two hitmen and were definitely heading his way. They came here to get him.

In an instant they were at his side. Didier stood as if petrified, staring aghast at the sudden appearance of a gun in the right hand of the taller of the men; the muzzle, with silencer attached, was aimed directly at his chest. The attacker then pushed him with the butt of the gun.

‘Open the door and go inside. Quick!’

At first Didier was completely thunderstruck and confused. Then he felt his muscles flexing, as if for action, though some other unidentified force seemed to paralyse his movements. He knew somehow that no matter what he should not enter the room, because he might not come out of it alive.

‘Don’t just stand there, do something,’ his inner voice urged. But what? His mind speeded up and thousands of thoughts flitted through it, but he was unable to focus on any of them. They were all useless. And so instead of reacting he just stood there motionless, undecided, as if trying to delay the inevitable for as long as possible.

‘Hurry up!’ pressed the man with the gun.

Didier searched his trouser pocket, fumbling nervously until his tense rigid fingers finally encountered the cold metal of the key. He pulled it out and tried to put it into the keyhole, but somehow couldn’t find the right angle. The man became impatient and poked him hard in the ribs with the gun. Didier wavered, his arms flailing in the air, nearly losing his balance, and the key dropped onto the soft carpet covering the corridor. He leaned down and retrieved it, but then as he straightened up he slammed his elbow into the belly of the gunman, punching him with full force. In his left hand Didier had been holding a bag containing a stone figurine he’d bought earlier at the market. He now hurled this at the second attacker who staggered, swayed and doubled over. Didier began to run down the corridor. But the assailants quickly recovered themselves. One of them aimed his gun at the fleeing figure and pulled the trigger. There was a very short popping sound followed by a dull whistling as the bullet passed through the air and hit the wooden balustrade of the landing. A small hole appeared and a few splinters of wood fell to the floor.

Didier quickened his pace and reached the end of the passage. Turning to the left, he could hear the muffled sounds of heavily running feet rhythmically striking the carpet behind him.

A staircase appeared and he charged down it wildly, taking a few steps at a time. Once, he almost lost his footing, but managed to steady himself. Then he jumped the last few remaining steps and landed hard on his feet.

The first-floor corridor loomed ahead of him and he scanned it for a possible way out. About halfway along he saw a housekeeping trolley filled with linens, toiletries and towels; just behind it was an open door through which he could see a maid busily cleaning. He grabbed the trolley and pushed it back the way he had come into the path of his pursuers, blocking their passage. It was enough to buy him a few seconds in which he rushed into the open room, slamming the door behind him and turning the bolt on the inside. He leaned back against the door, bowed his head on his chest and took a few deep breaths, trying to release some tension and calm down the mad thumping of his heart.

Completely astonished, the maid froze with fear and stood stiffly beside the bed, her eyes filled with incomprehension. Then her temporary paralysis passed, and a terrified scream escaped her mouth. Didier tried to calm her down, gesticulating with his hands and explaining in Spanish that she was safe and that he was the one who was in mortal danger. But her screams continued.

In the meantime he could hear his pursuers violently yanking at the door handle, then banging on it as hard as they could. Looking around the room, Didier noticed some glass doors leading to a balcony. Without delay, he flung them open and went outside. Grasping the wrought-iron railing, he hauled himself over and nimbly slid down a column supporting the balcony, then jumped to the concrete pavement beneath. Passing tourists watched his daring acrobatics as if he was putting on a show for them. Then they lost interest and went on their way.

Didier scanned the street. At first he thought he was rid of his attackers, then two familiar dark-haired male figures emerged from around the corner and headed towards him at a determined, brisk pace.

He darted nimbly between passers-by, and raced past shop windows and restaurants. He felt an urge to look back but was afraid that to do so might lose him precious time. He was sure the men were close behind and a sickening terror started to take hold of him. His heart rate increased and his temples pounded as a throbbing in his head intensified. Every part of his body seemed to ache from the exertion and he wondered how long he could keep up this wild pace.

But there was nowhere to hide.

The sound of loud music filled the air. Coming up the street towards him was a colourful throng of people. What was it? A procession? Some local festival? The advancing mass filled the entire width of the road. Soon it would be impossible to get through.

What should he do? Blend in the crowd? No, definitely not. He wouldn’t manage to pass even through the first ranks. The crowd was too dense. The noisy throng of people moved persistently forward, cutting off his only way of escape. There were just a few free yards of the road left in front of him. Soon he would have to stop. Soon the crowd would start closing in on him. There was clearly nowhere to go.

Frantically thinking what to do, Didier saw from the corner of his eye his two assailants coming up fast behind him.

Unexpectedly a narrow alleyway appeared at the side of the street. He’d no sooner turned down it when the colourful crowd moved across its entrance, cutting off any retreat. He had no option now but to continue down it. He kept running straight ahead glancing nervously behind him from time to time, but there was no trace of his pursuers. Perhaps they hadn’t noticed that he’d slipped into a side street, and were looking for him in the marching crowd. He hoped so.

He quickened his pace and was nearing the end of the street. The assailants were still nowhere in sight.

Maybe he was going to make it after all.

Eventually the narrow side street intersected with another one, a much larger road filled with vehicles driving slowly along. Realising that he had finally lost his pursuers, Didier stopped running, turned right and then continued walking at a steady, normal pace, mingling with the pedestrians on the sidewalk.

He spotted the terrace of a café with some small wooden tables surrounded by wicker chairs. He needed to stop, at least for a short rest, so went inside and asked a waiter if he could use the phone to call a cab. While waiting for it to arrive he ordered an espresso at the bar counter. He needed a shot of caffeine to keep him alert. As soon as the bar tender served him a tiny cup filled with the strong, aromatic brew, he downed its contents in one gulp. Then he handed the man a one-dollar bill telling him to keep the change and retreated into the most shadowy and crowded corner of the café.

Didier had no doubt that the two assailants were acting on the orders of the grave robbers gang’s leader, Brian Steinwall. He had no other enemies.

But how had they managed to track him down here in Quito? That local journalist who phoned him at the hotel had managed to find him too. Now that the story had been in the paper his whereabouts were common knowledge. Well he definitely should not go back to the hotel. He’d have to forget about all his stuff and buy what he needed. He suspected that if he showed up at the hotel, the reception clerk would immediately notify his enemies. The grave robbers would have threatened the staff. Brian Steinwall was obviously a desperate individual ready to do anything to keep his illicit activities in the jungle a secret and stop Didier from telling anyone else about the Inca ruins and what he had seen him doing there; looting the site and killing another man in cold-blood. He was afraid Didier could testify against him if he was ever charged and brought to trial. That’s why he wanted him dead.

The taxi arrived and Didier quickly paid for his coffee, ran outside and slipped into the back seat. He told the driver to take him to the monastery where he’d stayed with Eduardo. They’d given him refuge before and he felt confident that they would help him again.

He sensed that his assailants were not going to stop looking for him. Eventually they would track him down wherever he went. They were going to catch him one day. It was only a matter of time. He felt vulnerable and exposed. Ecuador had definitely become too dangerous for him. If only he had his new passport.