Trojan Odyssey Read online

  The handshake was firm but sweaty. "Pleased to meet you. Sit down, sit down."

  Pitt was amused that Rathbone had a habit of repeating his words. "You have the look of a man who knows and enjoys the jungle."

  "It shows, it shows, does it?" said Rathbone, with a short laugh. "Lived along the river in Nicaragua and Costa Rica most all my life. My family came here during World War Two. My father was an agent for the British, keeping an eye on Germans who tried to operate hidden facilities in the lagoons to service and refuel their U-boats."

  "If I may ask, how does someone earn a living on a river in the middle of nowhere?"

  Rathbone looked at Pitt slyly. "Would you, would you believe I rely on tourism?"

  Pitt wasn't sure he believed him, but played along. "Then you own a local business."

  "Right on, right on. I make a tidy income off fishermen and nature lovers who come to visit the refuge. I have a small chain of resorts between Managua and San Juan del Norte. You gentlemen should look me up on my website when you get home."

  "But this refuge is owned and run by the wildlife refuge."

  Rathbone seemed to stiffen slightly at Pitt's perception. "True, true. I'm on holiday. I like to get away from my own ventures and relax here where I'm not bothered by guests. How about you fellows? Come for the fishing?"

  "That, and the wildlife. We began our cruise at Barra Colorado and intend to reach Managua eventually."

  "A marvelous tour, a marvelous tour," said Rathbone. "You'll enjoy every minute of it. There's nothing like it in the hemisphere."

  A round of drinks came and Giordino signed for them on his room. "Tell me, Mr. Rathbone, why is a river that runs almost from the Pacific to the Atlantic known to so few outsiders?"

  "The river was world-famous until the Panama Canal was built. Then the Rio San Juan fell into the dustbin of history. A Spanish conquistador named Hernandez de Cordoba sailed up the San Juan in 1524. He made it all the way into Lake Nicaragua and established the colonial city of Granada on the opposite end. The Spanish who followed Cordoba built forts bristling with guns throughout Central America to keep the French and English out. One was El Castillo a few miles up the river from here."

  "Were the Spanish successful?" asked Pitt.

  "Indeed yes, indeed yes," Rathbone said, waving his hands. "But not entirely. Henry Morgan and Sir Francis Drake sailed up the river, but never made it past El Castillo into the lake. A hundred or more years later, they were followed by Horatio Nelson when he was a mere captain. He sailed a small fleet of ships up the San Juan and attacked El Castillo, which still stands. His assault failed. The only time in his career he lost a battle. He was reminded of the embarrassment the rest of his life."

  "Why is that?" asked Giordino.

  "Because he lost an eye during the attack."

  "Right or left?"

  Rathbone thought a moment, not getting the joke, then shrugged. "I don't remember."

  Pitt savored a sip of the tequila. "How long did the Spanish control the river?"

  "Until the early eighteen fifties and the California gold rush. Commodore Vanderbilt, the railroad and shipping tycoon, saw a golden opportunity. He made a deal with the Spanish for his ships to provide ferry service for eager prospectors who had booked his steamers in New York and Boston for the long voyage to California. His passengers changed from oceangoing ships to river steamers at San Juan del Norte. Then they steamed up the San Juan and across the lake to La Virgen. From there, it was only a short twelve-mile wagon ride to the little Pacific port of San Juan del Sur, actually only a couple of docks, where they reboarded Vanderbilt steamers that carried the gold-hungry miners onto San Francisco. Not only did they cut off hundreds of miles by not sailing around Cape Horn, but they saved another thousand miles bypassing the isthmus at Panama to the south."

  "When did river traffic die?" asked Pitt.

  "The Accessory Transit Company, as Vanderbilt called it, faded away with the construction of the Panama Canal. The Commodore built a huge mansion in San Juan del Norte, which still stands, although it is abandoned and overgrown with weeds. For eighty years the river lay forgotten, until the nineteen nineties when it emerged as a tourist attraction."

  "Seems like it was a more logical route for a canal than Panama."

  Rathbone shook his head sadly. "By far, by far, but a complicated game of politics played by your President Teddy Roosevelt put it in hundreds of miles out of the way to the south."

  "They could still dig a canal through here," said Giordino thoughtfully.

  "Too late. Big business interests in the Panama Canal, environmentalists and ecologists would all fight the project tooth and nail. Even if the Nicaraguan government gave its blessing, no one would put up the money."

  "I heard there were plans afoot to build a railroad tunnel through Nicaragua between the oceans."

  Rathbone stared out over the river. "There were rumors circulating up and down the river for months, but nothing ever came of it. Surveyors came with transits and tramped through the jungles. Helicopters were buzzing all over the place. Geologists and engineers filled my lodges and drank my whiskey, but after nearly a year they packed up their equipment, went home and that was the end of that."

  Giordino finished off his scotch and ordered another. "None ever came back?"

  Rathbone shook his head. "Not that I'm aware of."

  "Did they give a reason for not pursuing the project?" Pitt queried.

  Again, a shake of the head. "None seemed to know more than I did. Their contracts were finished and they were paid off. It all seemed very cloak-and-dagger. I got one of the engineers drunk the night before he was to depart, but all I got out of him was that he and his fellow engineers were all sworn to secrecy."

  "Was the general contractor called Odyssey?"

  Rathbone stiffened slightly. "Yes, that was it, that was it, Odyssey. The head man even came and stayed at my lodge in El Castillo. A huge fellow. Must have weighed four hundred pounds. Called himself Specter. Very strange. Never did get a good look at his face. He was always surrounded by an entourage, mostly women."

  "Women?" Giordino perked up.

  "Most attractive, but business executive types. Very aloof, very efficient. Never talked or offered to be friendly with any of the local people."

  "How did they arrive?" Pitt put to Rathbone.

  "Landed and took off on the river in a big amphibian airplane painted like an orchid."

  "Lavender?"

  "I guess you could call it that."

  Giordino swirled his scotch around the ice cubes. "Did you ever get a hint about why the project never got off the ground?"

  "Rumor, gossip and hearsay came up with at least fifty reasons, but none made any sense. My friends in the government at Managua acted as amazed as everyone along the river. They claimed the fault was not theirs. They offered Odyssey every benefit, every advantage, since the project would have greatly enhanced Nicaragua's economy. My own opinion is that Specter found other more profitable projects for the Odyssey Corporation and simply moved on."

  At that moment, it felt as if the earth was twitching and the ice in their glasses tinkled, and the contents quivered as if invisible raindrops were falling on it. The tops of the trees in the jungle swayed in unison with the birds squawking and the moan of unseen animals.

  "Earthquake," Giordino said indifferently.

  "More like a slight earth tremor," Pitt agreed, taking another sip from his drink.

  "You fellows don't seem upset at our local ground movement," said Rathbone in mild surprise.

  "We grew up in California," Giordino explained.

  Pitt exchanged glances with Giordino. Then he said, "I wonder if we'll experience any tremors on the rest of our voyage up the river."

  Rathbone looked uneasy. "I doubt it. They come and go like thunder, but very infrequently and have yet to cause any damage. The natives are a superstitious lot. They believe the ancient gods of their ancestors have returned and are living in
the jungle."

  He slowly, with some effort, rose from his chair and stood unsteadily. "Gentlemen, thank you for the drinks. It was indeed, indeed, most delightful talking with you. But with age comes an urge to go to bed early. Will I see you again tomorrow?"

  Pitt came to his feet and shook Rathbone's hand. "Perhaps. We'll probably take a nature hike in the morning and continue our journey later in the afternoon."

  "We'd like to spend a day in El Castillo and see the ruins of the fortress before we head upriver into Lake Nicaragua," added Giordino.

  "I'm afraid you can only see the fortress from a distance," said Rathbone. "Government police have put it off-limits to all locals and visiting tourists. They claimed it was deteriorating under the crowds wandering the ruins. So much humbug in my book. The rain does far more damage than the feet of a few tourists."

  "Are Nicaraguan police guarding the walls?"

  "More security than a nuclear bomb factory. Security cameras, guard dogs and a ten-foot fence around the fort, with barbwire running along the top. One resident of El Castillo, a fellow by the name of Jesus Diego, became curious and tried to penetrate the security. Poor fellow was found hanging in a tree on the riverbank."

  "Dead?"

  "Very dead." Rathbone quickly changed the subject. "If I were you, I wouldn't go near the place."

  "We shall take your advice," said Pitt.

  "Well, gentlemen, it was a pleasure. Good evening."

  As they watched the old man shuffle away, Giordino said to Pitt, "What do you think?"

  "Not what he appeared," Pitt said briefly. "He made no mention of the container port."

  "You caught the dainty hands too."

  "The skin was too smooth and free of blemishes for a man over seventy."

  Giordino motioned to a waiter. "Did you pick up on the voice? It sounded unnatural, as if it was a recording."

  "Apparently, Mr. Rathbone was handing us a bill of goods."

  "It would be nice to know what game he's playing."

  When the waiter brought over another round of drinks and asked them if they were ready to be seated for dinner, they both nodded and followed him into the dining room. As they were seated, Pitt asked the waiter, "What is your name?"

  "Marcus."

  "Marcus, do you often experience earth tremors here in the jungle?"

  "Oh, si, senor. But not until three, maybe four, years ago when they began moving up the river."

  "The tremors move?" asked Giordino, puzzled.

  "Si, very slowly.

  "In what direction?"

  "They started at the mouth of the river at San Juan del Norte. Now they shake the earth in the jungle above El Castillo."

  "Definitely not an eerie phenomenon caused by Mother Nature."

  Giordino sighed. "Where is Sheena the Jungle Queen when you need her?"

  "The gods will never let man find their secret, not in the jungle," said Marcus, looking around him as if expecting an assassin to creep up on him. "No man who goes in, comes out alive."

  "When did men start disappearing in the jungle?" asked Pitt.

  "About a year ago, a university expedition went in to study the wildlife, and vanished. No trace of them was ever found. The jungle guards its secrets well."

  For the second time that evening, Pitt looked at Giordino and they both cracked tight smiles. "Oh, I don't know," Pitt said slowly. "Secrets have an intriguing habit of becoming revealed."

  28

  The fortress commanded the top of an isolated hill that looked more like a huge grassy mound surrounded by several different varieties of trees. El Castillo de la Inmaculada Concepcion, castle of the immaculate conception, was designed along the lines of a Vauban fortification, with bastions on each of its four corners. It was in amazingly good shape after withstanding the onslaught of torrential rains for four hundred years.

  "I guess you know," said Giordino as he lay on his back and stared up at the carpet of stars, "that breaking and entering are not in our line of work."

  Pitt was stretched out beside him, peering through a nightscope at the fence surrounding the fortress of El Castillo. "Not only that, but NUMA doesn't give us hazard pay."

  "We had better call the admiral and Rudi Gunn and give them an update on our adventures. Once we go underground, the phone will be useless."

  Pitt took the satellite phone from his knapsack and began dialing a number. "Sandecker is an early riser, so he hits the bed early. Rudi should be handy, since we're only an hour behind Washington."

  Five minutes later, Pitt closed the connection. "Rudi is going to have a helicopter standing by at San Carlos if we have to beat a hasty exit."

  Giordino returned his attention to the fortress. "I don't see any stairways, only ramps."

  "Stone slopes were more efficient for hauling cannons up and down from the ramparts," said Pitt. "Builders in those days knew as much about building strongholds as contractors today know about constructing skyscrapers."

  "See anything that resembles an air vent to a tunnel?"

  "It must come up through the central battlement."

  Giordino was glad there was no moon. "So how do we get over the fence, past the security cameras, security alarms, security guards and the dogs?"

  "First things first. We can't deal with the security until we penetrate the fence," Pitt replied, quietly absorbed in studying the fortress grounds.

  "And how do we do that? It must be ten feet high."

  "We could try pole-vaulting over it."

  Giordino looked at Pitt queerly. "You must be kidding."

  "I am." Pitt pulled a coil of rope from his knapsack. "Can you still climb a tree or does your arthritis limit any physical activity?"

  "My aging joints aren't half as stiff as yours."

  Pitt slapped his old friend on the shoulder. "Then let's see if two old fogeys can still perform daring feats of agility."

  After breakfast at the lodge, and true to their word with Rathbone, Pitt and Giordino had latched on to a tour guide who was leading a dozen tourists through the wildlife reserve, and took a nature hike. They hung in the back of the group, talking between themselves as the tour progressed, hardly noticing the abundance of wildly colored birds and strange animals.

  When they returned to the lodge, Pitt made some discreet inquiries about the old man and, as he suspected, the employees of the lodge said that as far as they knew, Rathbone was simply a guest who had showed a Panamanian passport when he registered. If he owned a chain of lodges up and down the river, it was news to them.

  At noon, they loaded up the Greek Angel with their gear and a few sandwiches from the kitchen and shoved off into the river. The engine caught on the first flick of the starter and they headed out of the lagoon into the main current of the San Juan. The virgin jungle gave way to more open land enhanced by green rolling hills, with trees neatly spaced as if planted by a landscaper in a vast park.

  El Castillo was only six kilometers upriver and they had crawled along at a pace just slightly above idle, rounding the final bend an hour later before passing under the colonial fortress that loomed above the town. Moss spread over the ancient lava rock ruins, giving it the appearance of an ugly blot on an otherwise gorgeous landscape, while the picturesque little town below, with its roofs of red tin and colorfully painted pangas littering the riverbank, seemed an inviting oasis.

  Except for river traffic, the village of El Castillo was completely detached from the rest of the world. There were no roads in or out, no cars and no airport. The residents subsisted by farming the encircling hills, fishing and working in the sawmill or palm oil factory twenty kilometers up the river.

  Pitt and Giordino wanted to be seen coming and departing from the little fishing community as they continued their cruise up the river toward Lake Nicaragua, so they tied up the panga at a small dock and walked about fifty yards up a dirt road toward a little hotel with a bar and restaurant. They passed several gaily painted wooden houses and waved to three freshly scrub
bed little girls in yellow dresses who were playing barefoot on a porch.

  They saved their sandwiches from the kitchen of the Refugio Bartola for the coming night excursion and ordered a lunch of fresh fish from the river, downed by the local beer.

  The owner, whose name was Aragon, waited on their table. "May I recommend the gaspar. It's not often caught, and when prepared with my special sauce, it is a great delicacy."

  "Gaspar," repeated Giordino. "Never heard of that one."

  "A living relic millions of years old with armored scales, a snout and fangs. I promise you'll never be able to enjoy it anyplace but here."