The Codex Page 9

  “Can’t say that I am.” Gruesome stories of the jungle, it seemed, were Derek Dunn’s stock in trade.

  “The most poisonous snake known to man. Brown and yellow bugger; the locals call it a barba amarilla. When young they live in trees and branches. Drop down on you when disturbed. The bite stops your heart in thirty seconds. Then there’s the bushmaster, the largest poisonous snake in the world. Twelve feet long and as thick as your thigh. Not nearly as deadly as the fer-de-lance—with a bushmaster bite, you might live, say, twenty minutes.”

  Dunn chuckled and took another gulp.

  Sally murmured something about how dreadful it sounded.

  “Naturally you’ve heard of toothpick fish? This isn’t a story for the ladies.” Dunn glanced over at Tom, winked.

  “Do tell,” said Tom. “Sally’s no stranger to crudity.”

  Sally flashed him a look.

  “Lives in the rivers around here. Let’s say you go for a nice morning dip. The toothpick fish swims right up your Johnson, then flares out a set of spines and anchors itself in your urethra.”

  Tom’s drink paused halfway to his mouth.

  “Blocks the urethra. If you don’t find a surgeon damn quick, your bladder bursts.”

  “Surgeon?” Tom said weakly.

  Dunn leaned back. “That’s right.”

  Tom’s throat had gone dry. “What kind of surgery?”

  “Amputation.”

  The drink finally made it to Tom’s mouth, where he took a slug, and then another.

  Dunn laughed loudly. “I’m sure you’ve heard all about the piranhas, leishmaniasis, electric eels, anacondas, and that sort of thing.” Dunn waved his hand disparagingly. “The dangers of those are greatly exaggerated. The piranhas only go after you if you’re bleeding, and anacondas are rare this far north and don’t eat people. There is one advantage to the Honduran swamps: no leeches. Watch out for the monkey spiders, though—”

  “So sorry, but we’ll have to leave the monkey spiders for another day,” said Tom, looking at his watch. He realized that Mr. Derek Dunn had his hand under the table, resting on Sally’s knee.

  “Not having second thoughts are you, old chap? This is not a country for pantywaists.”

  “Not at all,” said Tom. “It’s just that I’d rather hear about your encounter with the toothpick fish.”

  Derek Dunn stared at Tom unsmiling. “That’s a rather stale joke, my friend.”

  “Well!” said Sally brightly. “Did you make the trip alone? We’ve been looking for a guide and wondered if you could recommend someone.”

  “Where are you chaps headed?”

  “Brus Laguna.”

  “You are getting off the tourist trail.” Suddenly his eyes narrowed. “You’re not a writer, are you?”

  Sally laughed. “Oh no, I’m an archaeologist, and he’s a horse vet. But we’re just here as tourists. We like to have adventures.”

  “An archaeologist? There aren’t many ruins around here. You can’t build in a swamp. And no civilized people would ever live in those interior mountains. Up there in the Sierra Azul there’s no denser rainforest on earth, and the hills are so steep you can hardly crawl up and down them. There isn’t a flat place to pitch a tent for a hundred miles. You’ve got to cut your way through, and in a hard day of travel you’re lucky to make a mile. A trail macheted through there will knit itself up so tight in a week you’d never know it existed. If it’s ruins you’re after, Sally, why don’t you head over to Copán? Perhaps I could tell you more about it over dinner.”

  The hand was still on her knee, squeezing and rubbing.

  “Right,” said Sally. “Maybe. Getting back to the guide. Do you have any recommendations?”

  “Guide? Oh yes. The man for you is Don Orlando Ocotal. A Tawahka Indian. Absolutely reliable. Won’t cheat you like the others. Knows the country like the back of his hand. He was with me on my last trip.”

  “How do we find him?”

  “He lives up the Patuca River, a place called Pito Solo, the last real settlement on the river before the big interior swamps begin. That’s forty, maybe fifty miles upriver from Brus. Stay in the main channel of the river or you’ll never get out alive. This time of year the forests are flooded, and there’re a zillion side channels going every which way. That country is virtually unexplored, from the swamps all the way past the Sierra Azul down to the Guayambré River. Forty thousand square kilometers of terra incognita.”

  “We haven’t really decided where we’re going.”

  “Don Orlando. He’s your man.” Then Derek Dunn revolved in his seat and faced Tom with his big sweaty face. “Say, I’m a bit short of funds—royalty check in the mail and all that. Perhaps you could spot us another round, what say?”

  15

  On the computer screen nestled discreetly among the cherrywood paneling in his office, Lewis Skiba watched the progress of Lampe-Denison Pharmaceuticals on the New York Stock Exchange. Investors had been hammering the stock all day, and it was now trading at close to ten. Even as he watched, the stock ticked down another eighth of a point to trade at ten even.

  Skiba did not want to see his company go into single digits. He flicked off the screen. His eyes flickered to the wood panel that hid the Macallan, but it was too soon for that. Too soon. He needed a clear head for the call.

  Rumors were circulating that Phloxatane was in trouble at the FDA. The short sellers were all over the stock, like maggots on a corpse. Two hundred million dollars of R&D had gone into that drug. Lampe had worked with the best medical researchers and scientists at three Ivy League universities. The double-blind tests had been well conceived, the data massaged and patted into the best possible shape. Their friends at the FDA had been wined and dined. But nothing in the end would save Phloxatane. No matter which way you cut the data, Phloxatane was a failure. And here he was sitting on six million shares of Lampe stock he couldn’t unload—no one had forgotten what happened to Martha Stewart—as well as two million paper options so far out of the money that they would be more useful as toilet tissue in his Carrara marble bathroom.

  More than anything else in this world, Skiba loathed short sellers. They were the vultures, the maggots, the carrion flies of the market. He would give anything to see Lampe’s stock turn against them and start rising; he would love to see their panic as they were forced to cover their positions. He would love to think of all the margin calls they would be receiving. It would be a beautiful thing. And when he got his hands on the Codex and made the announcement, this beautiful thing would happen. It would burn the short sellers so badly that it would be months, maybe years, before they came back.

  A soft trill came from the phone on his desk. He glanced at his watch. The satellite call was right on time. He really hated talking to Hauser; he loathed the man and his principles. But he had to deal with him. Hauser had insisted on “keeping him in the loop”; even though Skiba was usually a hands-on CEO, he had hesitated. Some things were better left in the dark. But in the end he agreed, if only to keep Hauser from doing something stupid or illegal. When he got the Codex, he wanted it clean.

  He picked up the receiver.

  “Skiba here.”

  The voice of Hauser, made Donald-Duckish by the scrambler, came over the line. As usual, the PI wasted no time on pleasantries.

  “Maxwell Broadbent went up the Patuca River with a bunch of highland Indians. We’re on his track. We don’t know yet where he was headed, but my guess is somewhere in the interior mountains.”

  “Any problems?”

  “One of the sons, Vernon, jumped the gun and got ahead of us upriver. It seems the jungle might take care of that problem for us, though.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He hired two drunken guides from Puerto Lempira, and they’ve gotten themselves lost in Meambar Swamp. It seems unlikely they will, ah, ever see sunshine again.”

  Skiba swallowed. This was a lot more information than he needed to know. “Look, Mr. Haus
er, just stick to the facts and leave the opining to others.”

  “We had a minor setback with the other one, Tom. He’s got a woman with him, a graduate student in ethnopharmacology from Yale.”

  “Ethnopharmacology? She knows about the Codex?”

  “You bet your ass she does.”

  Skiba winced. “That’s rather inconvenient.”

  “Yeah, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

  “Look, Mr. Hauser,” he said briskly, “I’ll leave it all in your capable hands. I’ve got a meeting to go to.”

  “Those people will have to be taken care of.”

  Skiba didn’t like the way the conversation kept doglegging back to that subject. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about, and I don’t want to know. I’m content to let you handle the details.”

  There was a small chuckle at the far end. “Skiba, how many people are dying in Africa right now because you insist on charging twenty-three thousand dollars a year for that new TB drug that costs you a hundred and ten dollars to make? That’s all I’m talking about. When I say ‘take care of them,’ all I mean is adding a few more numbers to your total.”

  “Damn you, Hauser, that’s outrageous—” Skiba broke off and swallowed. He was just letting Hauser bait him. This was talk, nothing more.

  “This is beautiful, Skiba. You want your Codex nice and clean and legal, you don’t want anyone popping up to claim ownership, and you don’t want anyone hurt. Don’t worry, no white people will be killed without your permission.”

  “You listen to me. I will not countenance the killing of anyone, white or nonwhite. This reckless talk has got to stop.” Skiba could feel the sweat trickling down his neck. How had he allowed Hauser to take control of the situation like this? His hand fumbled with the key. The drawer slid open.

  “I understand,” said Hauser. “Like I said—”

  “I’ve got a meeting.” Skiba ended the connection, his heart pounding. Hauser was down there, out of control, with no supervision, liable to do anything. The man was a psychopath. He bit down, chewed, washed the bitterness down with a slug of Macallan, and sat back, breathing deeply. The fire was burning merrily in the fireplace. The talk of killing made him feel agitated, sick to his stomach. He gazed into the flames, seeking their soothing influence. Hauser had promised to ask his permission, and Skiba would never give it. Neither the company nor even his own personal fortune was worth taking that step. His gaze wandered over to the row of silver photographs on his desk: his three children, gazing back at him with towheaded grins. He regulated his breathing. Hauser was full of tough talk, but it was just that: talk. Nobody was going to get killed. Hauser would retrieve the Codex, Lampe would recover, and in two or three years he would be the toast of Wall Street for pulling his company back from the brink.

  Skiba glanced at his watch: The markets had closed. With a feeling of anxiety and reluctance he flicked on the computer screen. Late bargain hunting had pushed the stock up in the last twenty minutes. It had closed at ten and a half.

  Skiba felt a wisp of relief. It hadn’t been such a bad day after all.

  16

  Sally looked skeptically at the junk heap of a plane being rolled out of the shabby hangar by two workers.

  “Maybe we should have checked out the plane before we bought tickets,” Tom said to her.

  “I’m sure it’s fine,” said Sally, as if trying to convince herself.

  The pilot, a lean expatriate American with a torn T-shirt, cutoffs, two long braids, and a beard, came sauntering over and introduced himself as John. Tom eyed him and then cast a sour look toward the plane.

  “I know, I know. Looks like shit,” John said with a grin, giving the plane’s fuselage a rap with his knuckles, which made it rattle. “What matters is what’s under the hood. I do all my own maintenance.”

  “You don’t know how that reassures me,” said Tom.

  “So you’re headed for Brus?”

  “That’s right.”

  John squinted at the luggage. “Going tarpon fishing?”

  “No.”

  “Best tarpon fishing in the world. Not much else, though.” John opened a compartment in the side of the plane and began shoving in their luggage with his skinny arms. “So what are you doing there?”

  “We’re not sure,” Sally said quickly. The less said about what they were doing, the better. No sense in starting a treasure stampede upriver.

  The pilot shoved the last bag in, gave it a few blows to make it fit, and slammed the hatch with a great noise of cheap tin. It took three tries before it latched. “Where you staying in Brus?”

  “Haven’t decided that either.”

  “Nothing like planning ahead,” said John. “Anyway, there’s only one place and that’s La Perla.”

  “How many stars does Michelin give it?”

  John gave a little laugh. He opened the passenger hatch and swung down the steps, and they climbed aboard. John followed, and as he entered Tom detected what he thought was a faint whiff of marijuana. Great.

  “How long have you been flying?” Tom asked.

  “Twenty years.”

  “Ever had an accident?”

  “Once. Hit a pig in Paradise. Jokers hadn’t mowed the strip, and the damn thing was sleeping in the tall grass. And he was a big pig.”

  “Are you instrument rated?”

  “Let’s just say I know how to use my instruments. There isn’t much call for official ratings down here, not for bush flights.”

  “Have you filed a flight plan?”

  John shook his head. “All I have to do is follow the coast.”

  The plane took off. It was a splendid day. Sally felt a thrill as the plane banked and the sunlight shimmered off the Caribbean. They turned to follow the coastline, low and flat with many lagoons and offshore islands that looked like green pieces of jungle that had broken off the mainland and were drifting out to sea. Sally could see where roads ran up into the interior, bordered by irregular fields or ragged patches where the trees had recently been clear-cut. Deep in the interior, she could see a ragged line of blue mountains, their tops sprinkled in clouds.

  Sally glanced at Tom. The sun had bleached his light brown hair, streaking it with gold, and he had a lean, tall, wiry, cowboy sort of way of moving that she liked. She wondered how someone could just kiss a hundred million dollars good-bye. That had impressed her more than anything else. She had lived long enough to realize that people who had money cared a lot more about it than people who had never had it.

  Tom turned and glanced at her, and she quickly smiled and looked back out the window. As the coast ran farther eastward, the landscape below became wilder, the lagoons larger and more intricate. Finally the largest lagoon so far came into view, dotted with hundreds of tiny islands. A large river fed into the far end. As they banked to make their approach, Sally could see a town where the river joined the lagoon, a cluster of shining tin roofs surrounded by a hodgepodge of irregular fields lying on the landscape like torn bits of rags. The pilot circled once and aimed down toward a field, which as they approached resolved into a grass landing strip. He made his descent, but Sally thought it was awfully fast. Closer and closer they got to the ground, but the plane only seemed to accelerate. She gripped the armrests. The runway flashed underneath them, but still the plane did not drop. She watched the wall of jungle foliage at the far end approach at high speed.

  “Jesus Christ,” Sally yelled, “you’re overshooting the runway!”

  The plane made a quick easy rise, and the jungle came skimming past them, the treetops no more than fifteen feet below the plane. As they climbed, Sally heard John’s dry laugh in her earphones. “Relax, Sal, just buzzing to clear the airstrip. I learned my lesson.”

  As the plane banked and came around again to land, Sally sat back, mopping her brow. “Nice of you to warn us.”

  “I told you about the pig, man.”

  They left their luggage at La Perla, a cinderblock barracks
that called itself a hotel, and then went down to the river to see about renting a boat. They wandered down through the muddy lanes of Brus. It was afternoon, and the heat had rendered the air dead and listless. All was quiet, and steaming puddles of water lay on the ground. The sweat was dripping out of her sleeves, running down her back, and between her breasts. All sensible people were having a siesta, it seemed to Sally.

  They found the river at the far end of town. It lay between steep earthen banks, about two hundred yards across and the color of mahogany. The river curved away between two thick walls of jungle, and it smelled of mud. The thick water moved sluggishly, the surface dimpled with whorls and eddies. Here and there a green leaf or a twig slowly made its way downstream. A trail made of logs descended the steep embankment, ending at a platform of bamboo sticks constructed over the water, forming a rickety dock. Four dugout canoes were tied up. They were each about thirty feet long and about four feet across, hewn from a single gigantic tree, tapering to a spearlike prow in front. The stern had been cut off flat and had a mounted board designed to accommodate a small outboard engine. Boards were laid athwartship fore and aft for seats.

  They scrambled down the embankment to take a closer look. She noticed that three of the dugouts had six-horsepower Evinrude engines bolted to the sterns. The fourth, longer and heavier, sported an eighteen-horse.

  “There’s the local hotrod,” said Sally, pointing. “That’s the one for us.”

  Tom looked around. The place seemed deserted.

  “There’s somebody.” Sally pointed to an open-sided bamboo shed fifty yards down the riverbank. A small fire smoked next to a pile of empty tin cans. A hammock had been strung between two trees in a spot of shade and inside the hammock a man slept.

  Sally advanced. “Hola,” she said.

  After a moment the man opened one eye. “Si?”

  “We want to talk to someone about renting a boat.” She spoke in Spanish.

  With a flurry of grunts and mutterings of displeasure he sat up in the hammock, scratched his head, and grinned. “I speak good American. We talk American. Someday I go to America.”