The Heaven Trilogy (130 page)

“Yes, she's told me the story.”

“I was there,” the father said. “Nadia was my friend.”

“I'm sorry.” Helen had asked her to read the book her husband had written about the episode, but she never had. “So the Indians told you Shannon was killed?” she asked. “They saw his body?”

“Most of what I have heard is hearsay. But, as far as I know, yes.” He smiled apologetically. “But I'm sure I don't need to tell you that. Again, I'm terribly sorry.”

“It's all right, Father. I've come to terms with my parents' death.”

Father Teuwen eyed her carefully. “So if you don't mind me asking, Sherry. Why
have
you come to the jungle after all these years?”

Sherry lowered her eyes to the floor. The sound of a barking dog filtered through the thin walls. And then the dog was yelping as if it had been hit by a hurled stone or the flat of a hand maybe.

“It may sound strange, but actually Helen convinced me that I should come. Because God called me.” She nodded, thinking about that. “Yes, because God called me.”

She lifted her eyes to his and saw that he had both eyebrows raised—whether in eagerness or in doubt she could not tell. “Do you believe God speaks, Father?”

“Of course God speaks.” He lifted a finger and cocked his ear. “Listen.” She listened and she knew he meant the jungle sounds. “You hear that? That's God speaking now.”

She smiled and nodded. “But do you believe he speaks specifically to people today?”

“Yes. I do. I've seen too much of the supernatural out here”—he motioned outside—“to doubt that it flies about us every day. I'm sure he speaks to the willing ear now and then.”

She nodded approvingly. He was a wise man, she decided.

“Well, it feels very strange to me, I can assure you. Not only am I being peppered with memories that frankly scare me to death, but I'm supposed to find answers in the midst of them all.” She shook her head. “I don't feel very spiritual, Father.”

“And if you felt very spiritual, my dear, I might worry for you. It's not your duty to feel predisposed to any clear message. Think of yourself as a vessel. A cup. Don't try to guess what the Master will pour into you before he pours. Only pray it is the Master who pours. Then be willing to accept whatever message he wishes to fill you with. It's his to fill, Sherry. You only receive.”

The words came like honey and she found herself wanting more. She uncrossed her legs and shifted back in her seat. “You're right.” She looked away. “That makes so much sense. God knows I need things to make sense now.”

“Yes. Well that's both good and bad. If your life made too much sense to you, you might forget about God altogether. It is man's most prolific sin—to be full of himself. But your tormenting has left you soft, like a sponge for his words. It's your greatest blessing.”

“Suffering a blessing? I've suffered a lot.”

“Yes, I can see that. Christ was once asked why a blind man had been born blind. Do you know how he answered? He said the man had been born blind so that God would one day be glorified through it. We see only the terrible tragedy; he sees more. He sees the ultimate glory.” He let that sink in for a bit, but she wasn't sure how far it was sinking.

“When you're finished, Sherry, you will see that many were affected for the good because of your suffering. And because of your parents' death. I'm sure of that.”

Now the words washed through her chest with warmth and she felt her heart rise. Somehow she knew that a volume of truth had just entered her mind.

She dropped her eyes, hoping he would not see the moisture there. “Sherry,” he said. “Sherry Blake. I thought your last name was Vandervan.”

“It used to be.”

“And you changed it?”

She nodded.

He waited for a moment, regarding her with those kind eyes. “I think that when this is through, Sherry, you will embrace your past. Every part of it. You have done the right thing in coming here. A part of history rests on your shoulders.”

For a few long moments neither spoke. It sounded absurd. What could this lost corner of the jungle have to do with history? Sherry sipped her lemonade without looking directly at him, and the father studied her. Then he smiled and clapped his hands, startling her.

“Now, young lady, it's growing late and I'm sure you have a lot to think about. I have some supper to fix. Feel free to rest or wander about the station— whatever suits your fancy. We will eat in an hour.”

He turned to the kitchen and pulled up his sleeves.

Yes, she liked the father very much, she thought.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Monday

THE JUNGLE came back to Casius like thick honey—slow at first but then with sudden volume.

The roots tore at his feet until he found his rhythm, jogging with a certainty that allowed him to place his feet where he wanted. Vines slapped at his face until his eyes adjusted to the shadows of the night. The creatures screamed about him, pricking at his nerves until he managed to shove them to the bottom of his mind. When daylight streamed through the canopy, he picked his pace up considerably, and he lost his thoughts to memories of the past.

He had lived a lifetime in the years since leaving this land, and in truth he hadn't escaped it. He had lived for this day. A hundred missions had led to this one. He would live or he would die, but in the end, those responsible for his father's death would die with him.

The thoughts pounded through his mind with the cadence of his footfalls. He knew more than anyone at the CIA, including Friberg, could possibly suspect. In fact, he knew more than Friberg himself knew. And knowing what he knew, he would be surprised if they didn't hunt him down with Special Forces. The stakes were too high to rely on agents. They would take no chances, and David would tell them that meant sending in jungle-trained forces.

It was midmorning before Casius emerged from the jungle on a rise that fell slowly to the Orinoco Delta. A village below housed a small population of fishermen who also ran cargo and passenger boats up and down the river for extra income. Casius carefully wiped the calf-high mud from his legs with wet leaves and unstrapped the bag still lashed to his back. He donned a pair of shorts, and over them, slacks. Then he slipped into a pair of light brown loafers, put on a large loose-fitting, wrinkle-free shirt, and covered his head with a baseball cap. He shoved a pair of sunglasses into his shirt pocket, buried the plastic bag that had kept the clothes dry, and headed for the small village in the distance.

Casius approached a pontoon boat tended by a fisherman who sat scrubbing its hull. “Excuse me. Can you tell me how I might find a fare to Soledad?” he asked.

The man stood from the boat and regarded him. “You are a tourist, no? You like feeshing? I catch a very large feesh for you.”

“No fish, my friend. I need a ride up the river.”

“Si, señor. Two hundred pesos. I tek good care of you.”

“You've got a deal,” Casius said.

The fisherman ordered two quickly appearing sons around as if he had just been appointed the general of an army, and readied the boat in five minutes flat. Ten minutes later he piloted the screaming forty-horse Evinrude upriver toward the small but relatively modern town of Soledad. Casius sat near the rear, studying the passing jungle, arms crossed, his gaze fixed, a thousand thoughts spinning circles through his mind.

ABDULLAH WALKED into the concrete shipping room and saw Ramón bent over one of the logs prepared for the night's delivery. The Hispanic man caught his look and nodded, still speaking to the worker who stuffed the hollowed log with cocaine bags. Across the room, conveyor chains ran into the mountain toward the large pipe that would deliver the log into the river far below. Abdullah walked up behind the two men and peered at their work.

The shipping method had been Jamal's idea and thus far they had lost fewer than ten logs to stray currents. The logistics were simple: Fill the buoy- ant Yevaro logs with sealed cocaine, shoot the lumber through a long, three-foot pipe that ran through the mountain to the Orinoco River, and collect the logs when they spewed into the ocean, two hundred miles east. The river delivered with unwavering consistency, spewing its littered waters into the ocean unceasingly. Homing beacons attached to each log assisted the pickup. The logs had passed into American lumberyards without incident for five years now. The tree's thick bark hid the panel cuts exceptionally well, rendering detection virtually impossible.

“How many tonight?” Abdullah asked, and the worker started at the sound of his voice.

“Three, sir.”

Abdullah nodded in approval. “Follow me, Ramón.” He walked for the elevator, inserted a key for the lower floor, and stepped back. The car ground down to the restricted basement.

“You know our world will change now?”

“Yes.”

“And you are prepared for whatever changes this might bring?”

“What changes do you anticipate?” the soldier asked carefully.

“Well, for one I suspect this place will soon cease to exist. We can't expect them to sit by idly. The world will come apart, I think.”

Ramón nodded. His one good eye blinked. “Yes, I think you are right.”

The bell clanged and Abdullah stepped from the elevator. The laboratory door was closed at the end of the hall. He eyed it without approaching.

“We must clear the surrounding jungle of any possible threat,” he said absently. “There is only one base within a hundred-mile radius of the plantation. I want it occupied immediately.”

“The Catholic mission.”

“Yes. I want it under our control. Send a team to neutralize the compound. And I want it done cleanly. You will attack the station tomorrow night.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Leave me.”

Ramón retreated into the elevator and the door closed.

APART FROM Ramón and Abdullah, only Yuri Harsanyi even knew of the lower floor's existence. And Yuri knew it intimately, like a mouse would know its hole in the wall.

He wore a white lab coat, starkly contrasting with his jet-black hair that rested raggedly above his otherwise plump, pale face. “Stocky” was a word he'd decided appropriately described his build. Stocky and large. Six foot three, to be exact. It was why he tended to bend over the tables, and now his body seemed to have taken a liking to the posture.

The nature of his mission demanded he remain hidden in the basement at all times, wandering hunchbacked between the white laboratory and his adjoining living quarters. The floor housed several other rooms, but Yuri had been out to the perimeter rooms only twice. His own quarters provided all the comfort he could expect here. Besides, as far as he was concerned, the more time he spent in the laboratory, the sooner he would finish his task. And the sooner he finished his task, the sooner he would be off to begin his new life, wealthy this time.

The walls about him were white. Four workbenches holding two lathes and two molding devices lined the walls. To Yuri's right, a door led to his living quarters, and next to the door, Plexiglas sealed off a ten-by-ten room. A single chrome refrigerator-sized safe stood in the room's center, facing a single table loaded with computers.

But Yuri's focus rested on one of two steel tables dead center on the lab's concrete floor. Brackets on each table gripped oblong objects—one the size of a football, the other twice that size. Both sat with opened panels, staring dumbly at the ceiling. Bombs.

Nuclear bombs.

Yuri stood with his arms crossed as he gazed at the shiny steel objects. He felt a buzz of contentment ring through his chest. They would work. He knew without a doubt that the bombs would work. A simple collection of exotic materials fashioned in perfect harmony. He had transformed them into one of the most powerful forces on earth. To find a party who would pay a hundred million for the smaller device would not be so difficult. Yuri had thought of little else in the last six months, and with the completion of the project at hand, the pressure he felt to make a decision seemed unbearable.

The skimpy salary Russia had driveled his way for so many years would be tip money. Socialism had its price, he had decided. Not even the Politburo should expect to breed the world's most brilliant nuclear scientists without rewarding them adequately. And now it was time to pay up. He smiled at the thought.

A fly took flight from the overhead light and buzzed past Yuri's ear before settling on the larger sphere.

For him the phone call almost seven years ago had been the voice of an angel. Why the Russian Mafia had chosen him he hadn't cared to ask. All he knew was that they had offered one hundred thousand dollars up front, in cash, an additional ten thousand each month, with a million-dollar bonus upon the completion of the project. That and the small detail that the project was for the Brotherhood, a militant Islamic group. Others had talked of getting jobs in the free world, but no other nuclear scientist could hope to make even one-hundredth of the offer. He had accepted unreservedly.

Securing the basic elements had taken three years, years during which, in all honesty, Yuri felt more like a captive than a scientist. But filling his shopping list, as he referred to it, took time in the new world.

Although their timing was right; if the Brotherhood had waited until after Bush had gone after Al qaeda and clamped down on proliferation as his administration had, the task would have been much more difficult. The Clinton years had been the right time.

The list was simple enough: Krytron triggering devices, high-grade detonators, high-yield explosives, uranium, plutonium, beryllium, and polonium. Along with scores of hardware items, of course.

Clinton years or not, one didn't walk into a hardware store and pick up initiators filled with beryllium and polonium. Weapons inspectors' discovery of Iraq's extensive nuclear program had brought about the tightening of the reporting required by the Nuclear Nonproliferation Treaty. And it wasn't just the plutonium and uranium that were carefully guarded, it was any component required for a nuclear device.