Blue Gold (NUMA Files 2)

“Once we leave the boat it might be tough getting back to it,” she said. “Let’s wait a few more minutes and see what happens.”

Paul nodded. “Maybe they’re taking a siesta. Let’s wake them up.” He cupped his hands to his mouth and came out with a loud “Hallooo!” The only reply was the echo of his voice. He tried again. Nothing stirred.

Gamay laughed. “They would have to be sound sleepers not to hear a bellow like that.”

“Spooky,” Paul said with a shake of his head. “It’s too damned hot sitting out here. I’m going to look around. Can you watch my back?”

“I’ll keep one hand on the cannon Dr. Ramirez gave us and the other on the ignition. Don’t be a hero.”

“You know me better than that. Any problem and I’ll come running.”

Trout eased his lanky form out of the seat in front of the propeller screen and onto the deck. He had every confidence in his wife’s ability to cover him. As a girl in Racine, she had been taught to shoot skeet by her father and was an excellent marksman with any kind of firearm. Paul contended she could shoot the eye out of a sand flea in mid-hop. He scanned the village and stepped onto the banking, only to freeze. He had seen movement in the dark doorway of the largest hut. A face had peered around the corner and disappeared. There it was again. Seconds later a man stepped out and waved. He shouted what sounded like a greeting and started down the slope toward them.

He arrived at the river’s edge and mopped his damp face with a sweat-stained silk handkerchief. He was a big man, and the high flat crown of a wide-brimmed straw hat added to his height. His baggy white cotton slacks were held in place around his corpulent belly by a length of nylon rope, and his long-sleeved white shirt was buttoned up to his Adam’s apple. The sun reflected off a monocle in his left eye.

“Greetings,” he said with a slight accent. “Welcome to the Paris of the rain forest.”

Paul looked past the man’s shoulder at the sorry collection of hovels. “Where’s the Eiffel Tower?” he asked casually.

“Hah-hah. Eiffel Tower. Marvelous! Look there, it’s not far from the Arc de Triomphe.”

After the long river journey in the damp heat Paul had little appetite for witty repartee. “We’re looking for someone called the Dutchman,” he said.

The man removed his hat, revealing a tonsured mop of unruly white hair. “At your service. But I’m not Dutch.” He laughed. “When I first came to this blighted place seven years ago I said I was ‘Deutsch.’ I’m German. My name is Dieter von Hoffman.”

“I’m Paul Trout, and this is my wife, Gamay.”

Hoffman focused his monocle on Gamay. “A beautiful name for a lovely woman,” he said gallantly. “We don’t get many white women out here, beautiful or otherwise.”

Gamay asked why the village was so quiet. Dieter’s fleshy red lips drooped. “I suggested that the villagers go into hiding. It never hurts to be cautious with strangers. They will come out when they see that you are friendly.” The empty smile again. “So, what brings you to our poor village?”

“Dr. Ramirez asked us to come. We’re with NUMA, the National Underwater and Marine Agency,” Gamay said. “We were doing some research on river dolphins and staying with Dr. Ramirez. He asked if we couldn’t come in his place.”

“I heard through the jungle telegraph that a couple of scientists from the United States were in the neighborhood. I never dreamed you would honor us with a visit. How is the esteemed Dr. Ramirez these days?”

“He would have liked to come, but he hurt his ankle and couldn’t travel.”

“Too bad. It would be nice to see him. Well, it’s been a long time since I had company, but that’s no excuse for being a poor host. Please come ashore. You must be very hot and thirsty.”

Paul and Gamay exchanged glances that said, Okay, but be careful, and stepped off the boat. Gamay slung the bag with the gun in it over her shoulder, and they started toward the cluster of huts arranged in a semicircle at the top of a rise. Dieter yelled in another language, and each hut disgorged a load of Indian men, women, and children. They came out timidly and stood at silent attention. Dieter gave another command, and they began to go about their tasks. Paul and Gamay glanced at each other again. Dieter did not suggest in this village; he commanded.

An Indian woman in her twenties came out of the largest hut, her head bowed. Unlike the other women, who were dressed only in loincloths, she had a red sarong of machine-loomed fabric wrapped around her shapely body. Dieter growled an order, and she disappeared into the hut.

A thatched roof stood in front of the hut on four poles. The roof shaded a rough-cut wooden table and stools carved from stumps. Dieter gestured toward the stools, sat in one himself, and removed his straw hat. He mopped his sweating head with his handkerchief and snapped an order at the open door of the hut.

The woman came out carrying a tray with three mugs made from sections of hollowed tree limbs. She set the mugs down and stood respectfully a few paces away with her head still lowered.

Dieter raised his mug. “Here’s to meeting new friends.” There was a distinct clinking as he swished the contents of his mug. “That’s right,” he said. “You are hearing the beautiful sound of ice cubes. You can thank the wonders of modern science for allowing me to have a portable gas-powered ice maker. There is no need to live like these brown-skinned Adams and Eves.” He slurped half his glass down in a single gulp.

Paul and Gamay took tentative sips and found the drinks cool, refreshing, and strong. Gamay looked around the settlement. “Dr. Ramirez said that you’re a trader. What sort of goods do you trade?”

“I realize that to an outsider this must look like a poor place, but these simple people are capable of artistic work that is quite sophisticated. I give them my services as a middleman in marketing their crafts to gift shops and the like.”

From the impoverished appearance of the village the middleman must take the lion’s share of the money, Gamay guessed. She made a show of looking around. “We also understand that you are married. Is your wife away?”

Paul hid his smile behind the mug. Gamay was very much aware that the native woman was Dieter’s wife and she didn’t like the way the Dutchman treated her.

Dieter flushed, then called the woman over. “This is Tessa,” he grunted.