Jungle Hunt. Don Pendleton

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      PROLOGUE

      Quito, Ecuador

      The air in the large office, located in a nondescript building on a side street of the capital city, was humid and still, barely stirred by a slow-moving ceiling fan. The daily rain had already come, leaving a damp scent of water ignored by the two men in the room.

       Jaime Cordero sat in the guest seat, a leather-upholstered wingback chair that squeaked with his every movement. A thin, stooped man, his shoulders were hunched from decades of civil service, service that had worn on him over the years, lined his face, eroded his stature, receded his hairline. His brown, off-the-rack suit hung on him like a scarecrow’s costume, a stained tie loosely knotted around his neck. His watery brown eyes, magnified behind thick-lensed glasses, roamed nervously around the room, but always came back to rest on the alligator briefcase resting on top of the large mahogany desk.

       The man sitting behind the desk was the exact opposite of Cordero in every way. Alfredo Roldos was the picture of health, his slightly protruding stomach hardly showing under the vest of his tailored navy three-piece Savile Row suit. His thick black hair, accented with just a touch of silver at his temples, was brushed back from a handsome widow’s peak. His manicured hands were swift and sure as they clipped the end off a Don Conti Robusto. “Are you sure you won’t join me?”

       “N-no, Mr. Roldos—I simply wish to take care of our business.”

       “Of course, but I hope you do not mind if I indulge.” Roldos applied an even blue flame from his butane lighter to the end of the cigar, drawing smoke slowly and letting it leak out the side of his mouth.

       “No, sir.”

       Roldos savored his Robusto for another minute, exhaling the smoke in lazy plumes that were barely stirred by the overhead fan. Across the desk, leather squeaked as the other man shifted uneasily.

       At length, Roldos set his cigar down in a mirror-bright silver ashtray. “Well, I suppose we should get down to business.”

      * * *

      GALO MOVED SILENTLY through the sweltering tropical jungle, his bare feet making no noise on the thick carpet of rotting vegetation and wood. His breechclout covered his private parts, but the rest of his body was naked, decorated with bright red paint and a handwoven braided necklace. His curious brown eyes looked out at the world from a round face topped by straight black hair cut bowl-style. His unblinking gaze was currently fixed on the prize he sought a few yards away. Although the forest around him teemed with noisy insects and small animals, Galo tried his hardest not to make a sound as he crept forward.

       The bird he was stalking, a toucan with primarily black feathers, save for an orange-and-red chest, with a red circle around its eye, shuffled along a branch, eyeing a cluster of guarana berries. Galo was only three yards away, then only two… .

       The rumble of a large engine in the distance silenced all of the nearby fauna and made Galo’s head whip around. The red-breasted toucan he’d been stalking spread its wings and launched into the air.

       A frown crossing his normally happy features, Galo took off through the jungle, leaping fallen tree trunks and avoiding dangling vines as he ran toward the source of the noise. It seemed to be coming closer to him, and he thought the vehicle must have been taking the single-lane road to his village.

       Galo’s heart quickened at the thought of visitors, who often brought strange and magical devices from the world outside their small jungle home. Small boxes that showed amazing pictures, devices that fit into a hand that allowed the holder to talk to someone they could not see, who might be a dozen, or even a hundred miles away. Perhaps he could even trade some of his wood carvings for a pair of the dark glasses that fit over his eyes and blocked the sun, or even, if he was lucky, a knife with a blade that folded into the handle like the one his father owned.

       The tenor of the engine changed and Galo sensed the truck had stopped somewhere nearby. He crept through the thick foliage, mindful of the brightly colored tree frogs whose skin exuded a deadly poison, until he could see the olive-drab truck. When he did, his brows knitted in a frown—these were not the usual missionaries or traders that came to their isolated village. This truck looked menacing, a large interloper in the verdant, peaceful jungle.

       And the men it carried—with their pale white skin and hair on their faces—were dressed in black clothes. But as he watched, they changed into long-sleeved shirts and pants that mimicked the greenery and shadows of his home. They didn’t carry the usual equipment of those coming to trade with his village, either—each man had either in his hands or slung over his shoulder a big, long, black piece of metal that resembled the rifle his father used for hunting, but much uglier and more dangerous-looking. The men talked in a strange language and smoked cigarettes, the acrid smell making Galo’s nose twitch and his mouth dry.

       Another man dressed in tan clothes and a safari hat got out of the front of the truck and talked to the men in back in their peculiar language. The smoking men all laughed as they checked their large black rifles, then the leader walked back to the front of the vehicle and got in, as the others climbed into the back. The truck started moving again, heading toward Galo’s village. He followed, paralleling the truck through the jungle.

      * * *

      ROLDOS EXAMINED THE sheaf of papers the other man had placed on his desk. He already knew what they contained, but skimmed the odd paragraph here and there to ensure nothing had been inserted at the last minute. “Everything seems to be in order…mineral and logging rights for an area in Ecuador’s interior rainforest…” He named the longitude and latitude coordinates. “And you’re sure this is on the edge of Yasuní?”

       Cordero nodded, his head bobbing on his neck like a stork. “I checked the numbers myself—the territory abuts the park, but does not encroach on it.”

       “Excellent. The ten-year term is listed here…” Although I’m sure we won’t need the space for nearly that long, Roldos thought. “There is nothing left to do but sign.” Taking a gold Mont Blanc pen from his shirt pocket, Roldos signed the copies where necessary with a bold flourish, then pushed the assignation of rights contract back to Cordero, who hesitated only slightly as he picked up the pen, his expression twisting on his strained face, as if suffering a late attack of conscience.

       Without saying a word, Roldos reached down for the handle of the aluminum briefcase sitting on the floor behind his desk, lifted it and set it on the table. Cordero’s eyes widened when they fell upon the case.

       “You—you promise that the indigenous peoples of the area will not be harmed, sim?” he asked, his gaze lingering on the case’s smooth surface.

       Roldos smiled, a warm, relaxed smile that lit up his face—and stopped a mile short of reaching his eyes. “Jaime—please. The natives are a huge part of our operation. We’ll need experienced guides who can show us the area and expedite access to the more remote regions. Making contact with them is crucial. We’ll be compensating them well for the trouble,” he lied.

       The other man’s head nodded almost unconsciously at Roldos’s smooth voice. He bent over the contracts and scribbled his name on the line, sealing the deal.

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