The Amazon Job Read online

  THE AMAZON JOB:

  A CASE LEE NOVEL

  Book 4

  By Vince Milam

  Published internationally by Vince Milam Books

  © 2019 Vince Milam Books

  Terms and Conditions: The purchaser of this book is subject to the condition that he/she shall in no way resell it, nor any part of it, nor make copies of it to distribute freely.

  All Persons Fictitious Disclaimer: This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental.

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  Other books by Vince Milam:

  The Suriname Job: A Case Lee Novel Book 1

  The New Guinea Job: A Case Lee Novel Book 2

  The Caribbean Job: A Case Lee Novel Book 3

  Acknowledgments:

  Editor—David Antrobus at BeWriteThere - bewritethere.com

  Cover Design by Rick Holland at Vision Press – myvisionpress.com.

  As always, Vicki for her love and patience. Mimi, Linda, and Bob for their unceasing support and encouragement.

  Chapter 1

  An intense figure stared my way, eyes dark and menacing as he spoke Farsi into his cell phone. Sitting two tables away, his presence painted this find-the-lost-scientist contract with ugly possibilities. I lowered my sunglasses and locked eyes. He paused the conversation, turned his head, and ended it with his voice considerably lowered. Game on.

  We sat in a three-sided makeshift bar, dirt floor, the galvanized tin walls shared between a long row of adjoining establishments. The shop on the right sold high-end electronics. Computers, cell phones, flat-screen TVs. An old Procol Harum song echoed from a sound system for sale. The shop to the left offered vibrant-colored macaws and chattering monkeys and exotic snakes. The macaws announced loud displeasure at the nearby music selection. Somewhere a stall prepared grilled meat—type and origin unknown. The aroma and smoke wafted across the sloped bank and mixed with the inescapable funk of river, sweat, and jungle. We sat above the shore of the mighty Amazon River. In Manaus, Brazil.

  High odds the guy speaking Farsi, an Iranian, was a spy. A spook. A member of MOIS, the Iranian Ministry of Information and Security. The ever-present paranoia over the million-dollar bounty on my head didn’t figure into my high-alert state. Not this time. Because I’d received word regarding this performance of spook whack-a-mole prior to my Manaus arrival. Which didn’t change the fact they were as welcome as an outhouse breeze.

  Jules warned me two days earlier. Jules of the Clubhouse. She’d warned about a strange flocking of espionage players. Her spiderweb’s tendrils picked up tingles, rumors, innuendo. But the drivers and details that had prompted spookville to pitch a tent in Manaus lacked clarity. Clarity even Jules couldn’t provide.

  “There is an array of interest relevant to your Amazon engagement,” she’d said. “A small slice of the interest is quite keen. A slice derived from the deadlier shadows. Your walkabout scientist, rumor has it, made a remarkable discovery.”

  Bad news. I’d taken the job because it had presented itself as a simple search-and-rescue: find the missing scientist, a bio-prospector, and haul her back to Switzerland. This sprinkling of espionage across the engagement canvas hadn’t entered my strategy.

  “Let’s set remarkable discoveries aside for the moment. Tell me about the deadlier shadows thing.”

  A request driven by my keen slice of interest—any information buttressing the vertical and healthy alignment for Case Lee Inc.’s lone employee. Jules adjusted her eyepatch, an affectation signaling her informational flow had been interrupted.

  “Fine. I’ll accept your prioritization. The gleaning of self-interest tidbits before capturing the larger picture. Not your best quality, dear. But one I have become accustomed to.”

  I smiled. She continued.

  “Deadlier shadows. The players most prone to show are a more violent ilk. Unlike the larger clandestine cadres.”

  The larger cadres included the CIA, Russia’s FSB, China’s MSS, and MI6.

  “More violent? I haven’t found the Russians exactly hail-fellow-well-met.”

  She cracked a smile. “True enough. You have managed placement of quite the bee in their bonnet. To be sure.” The smile faded. “But even they tend to hold a larger picture. Perhaps not awash with nuance and subtlety, but a strategic perspective nonetheless.”

  “Okay.”

  “Now back to business. If you run into players during your little jungle foray—and you may not—be aware they could belong to tribes known for extreme violence and immediate rewards.”

  “Thanks, Jules.” I meant it. Her insights have saved my butt more than once. “Thanks, and I’ll keep an eye open.”

  “Wholly inadequate, dear.” She fired a kitchen match along her chair’s arm, relit the cigar, and cast an eagle look my way. “Eyes in the back of your head, brave Ulysses. Eyes in the back of your head.”

  So I’d arrived in Manaus with situational awareness. Spooks of unknown origin likely present. Fellow travelers with their own focused interest in the lost Swiss bio-prospector, Dr. Ana Amsler. Strange doings on the surface, but potential blockbuster drug discoveries keyed the mike among Big Pharma listening posts. Big Pharma meant big money. And big money, in my experience, drew spooks. Bees to nectar. Fine and understood and soon-to-be white noise because I was headed into the bush. The rain forest. Where spies seldom ventured. If they did, espionage tradecraft skills were limited in value compared to former Delta Force skill sets.

  I ordered a beer and bottled water, in Portuguese, from the river bar’s barefoot proprietor. He wore an unbuttoned shirt as sweat sheened across his Buddha belly. When the proprietor approached, the Iranian pointed toward my small table as indicator he’d have the same. The macaws next door fired off a string of squawks. On the electronic side of things, the music changed to a French pop tune. Go figure.

  It wasn’t surprising that recently arrived spooks would canvas this section of Manaus. A transportation hub, it presented as run-down, derelict. It carried a movie-set air of quick scores and sudden violence. Very unlike the more modern downtown Manaus a half-mile away. Riverboats large and small nudged onto the shore, mixing with small skiffs and dugout canoes. The hue and cry of barter and sales and one-time deals carried through thick air. Floatplanes collected around nearby aviation docks. The entire scene reflected the only two viable options for this area’s travel: water and air. Road passage to and from Manaus approached borderline impossible. Bridges washed out, roads collapsed.

  The Iranian—clearly tasked with keeping an eye on this area—followed me into the tin-walled bar because I’d screwed up. It happens.

  I’d checked the airfreight delivered to my floatplane pilot’s ramshackle office. The pilot was downtown and wouldn’t return for an hour, but his assistant offered storage space in a corner of the office until tomorrow’s flight. I unlocked the large case and checked the contents. The morning arrival flight from the States left me naked, vulnerable. I was entering an operational area without weaponry. But my despachante—a professional skid-greaser—had performed his job. Underneath the tarps and hammock and mosquito netting, the Colt M4A1 semiautomatic rifle lay unmolested. As did two .40 Glock pistols.

  The despachante also procured a variety of items on my behalf, now also collected at the pilot’s office. After inspecting the crated Zodiac inflatable boat and the 25 hp Honda outboard, I paid the despachante. In Benjamins. He bowed and assured me 24-7 availability for any of my needs.

  The small office door stood open, and the aircraft docks—where a dozen floatplanes were ti
ed—held a fair amount of foot traffic. I didn’t close the office door, didn’t try and hide the loaded Glock slid into the waistband of my jeans. The office manager watched it happen. As did the Iranian standing on a nearby dock, as evidenced when I straightened up and turned. He turned as well, an attempt at hiding the fact he’d watched my activities through the small door. He wore dark sunglasses, and dollars to donuts he kept his eyes on me while shifting his body elsewhere.

  Too cavalier about donning the .40 caliber comfort blanket. A mistake. So be it. The loaded Glock’s cool, reassuring texture perched against the small of my back overcame any residual angst about the misstep.

  I planned on waiting an hour for the pilot’s return so we could discuss the next morning’s flight. Have a cold beer or two then ensure the pilot was okay with the load of equipment. My cargo also included multiple five-gallon gas containers, full. But I adjusted my immediate plans with the goal of ascertaining why this spook appeared so interested in me.

  The Iranian pocketed his phone, gulped beer, and poured the rest onto the dirt floor. Then hand-signaled the proprietor for a coffee. A sure sign the boss would soon appear. A boss who frowned on drinking. The guy waited, legs crossed, fingertips tapping the table, pretending I didn’t exist. A rainstorm passed overhead and pounded the tin roof with dime-sized drops. The deluge cooled and cleared the air as the overhead staccato drowned the music next door. Puddles formed in seconds along the wide dirt walkway in front of the shops. And I’d arrived during the Amazon dry season.

  I slid the sunglasses back up my nose and waited. It didn’t take long. The first two strode in. Saturated from the downpour, they pulled handkerchiefs and dried their faces and beards, sidearms evident under soaked and untucked shirts. They shifted toward their companion’s table, eyeballing me as they passed.

  I’d rubbed elbows with spooks by the dozens and recognized low-grade operatives. Operatives better termed “experienced goon.” But the appearance of Moe, Larry, and Curly playing badass rang discordant. Bio-prospectors, pharmaceutical companies, potential drug discoveries derived from nature; espionage in that realm required high-end skills, attributes not evident with this clown collection. The downpour passed as suddenly as it arrived, low clouds crossing over the river. A brief respite before the sun and steam bath and sweat returned.

  The boss arrived. He’d ducked into a neighboring shop and waited out the rain. Tall and slender and fit and dry, he straightened already slicked-back dark hair, lit a smoke, and stared my way with hooded eyes. Midforties, with a mustache-goatee combination and a cruel lip-curl as permanent fixture. His assessment of me was clinical, concerted, and without artifice. He approached his seated men, leaned over, and spoke a few short sentences. The proprietor shuffled toward them, anticipating a drink order. He was waved away. The head guy didn’t deign to look his way. I attempted to catch a few words. Words close enough to Arabic for a semblance of understanding. No such luck.

  This could get interesting. MOIS—an outfit renowned for savage exploits. It just didn’t fit under the mantle of scientific bio-exploration endeavors. And it raised the possibility these cats would go all Wild West on me. Fine. A slight shift in my seating position provided quick access if needed. I’d produce the Glock in a quarter-second and deliver four snap shots. To their heads. They were close enough to pull it off. Then drag their sorry asses downhill and into the river. Let the gators and piranhas do their thing while locals looked the other way and whistled at the sky. The head MOIS agent would make the decision. Either way worked for me.

  Chapter 2

  The head honcho straightened, again smoothed back his hair, and approached my small table.

  “May I join you?” he asked in Persian-accented English. Not a surprise. His agent who’d made the cell phone call had sussed me as either European or American, higher odds on the latter. My physical posture, attitude, overall vibe—hard to say. And harder to hide. I raised a hand and offered the chair across the table. It kept him and his three men within the same view. He provided a snaggled brown-tooth display behind the curled-lip smile.

  “American?” he asked, sitting.

  “Iranian?”

  I removed my sunglasses. His wolfish smile broadened, then faded. He lifted a hand and snapped his fingers, followed by a “Come here” signal directed at the proprietor. He ordered bottled water. In Portuguese. So this guy got around. An experienced operative. He used his cigarette hand’s thumb and forefinger to stroke his goatee, staring as smoke curled around his face. I took a sip of beer, eyes still locked with his.

  “You search for the scientist,” he said.

  A statement direct and definitive and unwanted.

  “I’m a salesman.”

  He took a drag and exhaled through his nostrils.

  “What do you sell?”

  “Anvils. Not a lot of repeat business, but everyone needs a good anvil.”

  He chewed on anvil for a bit and said, “I do not believe you sell such things. I believe you work for a Swiss pharmaceutical company.”

  He grinned again. Most spooks, particularly those leading a mission, exhibited a strong element of subtlety. This guy had none, zip, zero. Bold as brass and playing against a perceived clock. Somewhere way up his food chain an Iranian minister wanted Dr. Amsler found, and found right now. Weird. Damn weird.

  Well, my client was Swiss, but he wouldn’t know that. The involvement of Global Resolutions was contracting me. They’d provided the dossier on Dr. Amsler. And paid for my services. Zurich-based, they acted as an intermediary for their clients. But this guy eyeballing me across the table figured I was a pharma company employee. Fine.

  “Let me tell you what I believe. I believe it’s strange running into a bundle of MOIS operatives a thousand miles up the Amazon River. That’s what I believe.”

  My rules. When you danced with spooks, plow direct. Straight lines. Keep the conversational string away from their smoke-and-shadows world. But this guy had no issue with such an approach. He avoided conversation and fired direct statements and questions. He clearly carried beaucoup upstream pressure. Find the scientist. Or else.

  “You are traveling to the Swiss base camp.”

  The earlier phone conversation from his guy had painted a picture. The supplies in the pilot’s office. And, no doubt, the jeans-tucked Glock.

  “I may go fishing. Peacock bass.” I lifted the sweating beer bottle, left hand. “So why is Iran so interested in pharmaceuticals all of a sudden? I thought secret nuke-building kept you folks pretty busy.”

  He cocked his head and assessed me with hooded eyes. The proprietor arrived and situated a water bottle, plastic cup, and tin ashtray. A floatplane fired up below us, and I glanced as it taxied across the water, waiting. Waiting for the passage of a riverboat with sufficient size to create a large wake. Floatplanes in fetid tropical heat have an issue breaking the suction of their long pontoons. Surface chop—or a boat’s wake—helped break the bond.

  “Are you a Jew?” he asked.

  “Nope. Rastafarian. You know—lots of weed, Bob Marley music.”

  His question flung the window of uncertainty wider. Were the Israelis here as well? And what the hell were these guys after?

  He shook his head. The lip curl grew as he ignored my stated religious affiliation. The music next door changed to a Brazilian samba.

  “The Islamic Republic of Iran is always interested in expanding its commercial interests.” He ground the cigarette butt into the ashtray. “What is your name?” He pulled out and lit another cig.

  “I’ll keep that private. How about your name?”

  We locked eyes again, silent. He stroked his goatee. I hadn’t traveled under an alias for this job. Hadn’t seen the need. The mission: arrive Manaus, travel to the base camp, go find Ana Amsler.

  The floatplane pilot sighted a nearby riverboat with a sufficient wake and goosed it. The Amazon River was over five miles wide at this point, but—according to my pilot’s office manager—plan
es avoided surface stretches distant from the shoreline. Out there, twenty percent of the world’s fresh water flowed past. Along with massive Amazonian trees washed downstream. Out there be floatplane dragons.

  Mr. Congeniality ignored my question and slid toward the issue at hand. “In the interest of business, allow me to be direct.”

  You haven’t skimped on that facet so far, dude. I nodded as reply. Then his cell phone rang. The ring tone was the William Tell Overture. Why not? Everything else in this little vignette occupied weird space. I took in the table of MOIS agents. Three sets of eyeballs provided intense stares under dark bushy eyebrows. Pissant goons. My table companion pulled the phone from his pocket, checked the call, and sent it to voice mail. He refocused on me.

  “This vast area,” he continued, waving a hand toward the river and rain forest. “It is enormous and open for exploration. It is open to new discoveries. Discoveries that would help the world. We are a merciful people, and part of the civilized world. And yes, we have interest in development of our own drug industry. Is this a bad thing, my friend?”

  His line reeked of BS but also presented an opening. A light-the-fuse opening that might display his clearer intentions. Excited folks reveal.

  “No,” I said, raising my empty beer bottle toward the proprietor, who smiled and nodded and pulled another cold one from the cooler. I played the pharma employee line. “No, it is not a bad thing. But these endeavors require an investment. The Swiss and Americans and others have invested millions in their bio-prospecting work.”

  The cig tapped against the flimsy ashtray. A thin sweat bead rolled down his cheek as he waited for me to continue.

  “So I know where this is headed. You suggest taking a shortcut. Stealing.”

  The hooded eyes lit up, thin nostrils flared. “What do you know of stealing? Of theft? We have had our history stolen. Our glorious past corrupted. Ancient pride and power discredited. I speak about a simple business transaction. Do not portray my actions as a form of theft. You know nothing of such things.”