Ted Bell - Spy

And then the river. Although dark in color, the waters of the Rio Negro and its tributaries, like the Igapo, were pure, in fact, very nearly distilled. Because of its extremely low salt content, the river had the softest waters of any large river in the world. But that’s not why he chose this exact location. His sensibilities were too refined for that. No, it was just here, at this precise location, where the waters ran deep and cold, here, that the low nutrient content and the high acidity so greatly decreased the number of biting flies and mosquitoes.

Papa Top was a passionate man, but he was also a supremely pragmatic being who happened to loathe bugs.

The Black Water was spanned by a steel bridge strong enough to support the small, unmanned tanks which patrolled continuously. This bridge, a vital link, connected the two halves of his world. One side was about sustaining life and worship, the other death and destruction. This bridge that connected the two sides of his equation he had named La Qantara in honor of a mythical bridge connecting his beloved homeland of Syria with its neighbors Lebanon, Jordan, and Palestine. Qantara was the fantastical bridge of unity that one day, God willing, he himself would build between these nations.

This mission of Qantara, the bridge of the holy, was his life’s work. But Papa Top had sworn he would only complete it at the end of his life. He would turn to this effort only after he and his armies had rained death and destruction upon his enemies to the north and brought them begging God’s mercy to their knees.

Now the wide, flowing river was quiet beneath the nearly invisible leafy camouflage netting strung above it for miles in either direction. Here in Centro, the primitive existed side by side with the latest technology. Dugout war canoes, rafted together, were moored at the eastern ends of the docks. Later in the day, Indian war parties who served Papa Top would board them to begin patrolling the vast network of tributaries that fed into the Igapo. Intruders were discouraged or killed if they got too close.

Farther along were wider canoes, riding deep in the water and loaded with vegetables and other supplies. They had arrived some time during the night and were still waiting to be unloaded.

SLOWLY, the sleepy village below came to life. Shaded windows glowed faintly with light from within. The proud House Guards, in their uniforms of forest green, streamed across wide bridges and descended by trams to the jungle floor below. There waiting generals and lesser commanders ordered them massed in formation for the drills.

In a nearby clearing could be seen the headlights of a convoy of armored ATVs forming up. This motorized group would be traveling to the airstrip to receive an important visitor when he arrived at mid-morning. His first business of the day was to prepare to receive his honored guest.

Papa Top took great satisfaction that this supremely powerful being, Mullah Khan, was coming to him. Khan, the brilliant Iranian physician and scientist, was making his way on a long journey from Tehran. He would enter the country with counterfeit passports he himself had issued. He would arrive at Buenos Aires and then be ferried to a small air-field on the outskirts of the city. From there he would be flown at treetop level to the concealed landing strip that served La Selva Negra.

“The mountain is coming to Muhammad,” Top laughed aloud to himself, his rumbling voice deep and soft. History in the making. He took one last look at the wheels of his teeming clockwork empire and stepped back inside to dress himself. There was still a great deal of personal preparation to be done before the official reception for the visitor in the Great Room of the Blue Mosque.

Surely today, he thought, gazing at his powerful naked body in a full-length mirror flanked by flaming torches, was the beginning of the most important period of his life. As such, it was a kind of birth. And a man must dress accordingly for such triumphant moments.

Top was a man of oversize features. There was the great head from which gazed his deep-set dark eyes, steady and penetrating. His eyes radiated power and intellect and when they rested upon something or someone, it was as if they could possess all of it, devour it. His skin was dark and yellowish, taut and shiny, like something that had just popped to the surface after some weeks in the river. His head was entirely hairless. There were neither eyebrows nor eyelashes. The lips below the long wide nose were mottled and thick.

His lips opened only when he spoke and then they flared wide, revealing strong, feral white teeth and baby-pink gums. When he spoke in anger, his eyes bulged, more animal than human, and they seemed to blaze with some kind of otherworldly fire.

His great head rested upon a wide and thickly cordoned neck supported by heavy shoulders of epic proportions, the shoulders of a giant. He had no idea how much he weighed and he didn’t care. He knew there was not an ounce of fat to be found. He took care of himself. He drank his cup of bull’s blood every night before retiring. This had been his habit for the years he’d spent in the jungle. He was soon going into battle after all.

He chose a black burka woven with golden thread. He had seen a drawing of such a one in a dog-eared book on the life of Genghis Khan. He’d had his seamstresses copy it exactly. He saw that it draped perfectly over his bulging shoulders. Yes. It was perfection. Now. He would need a covering for his head. A turban of gold? No. Not today. Something far less obvious. Nothing in his wardrobe would do, he feared, until something caught his eye.

Under one window of Papa Top’s spartan room stood a large black wooden cross. A death’s head was painted in white near the base of the thing and over the crossbar were pulled the sleeves of a ragged and torn morning coat, its black tails trailing on the simple wooden floor. Adorning the cross was a battered bowler hat, the top of the cross projecting through a tear in the crown. Around the base the cross, a ring of white and black candles had been burning all night.

This totem, seldom found in the homes of the sons of Islam, was Papa Top’s secret weapon. He had carried it with him all his life. The bizarre effigy had been passed down from his all-powerful mother, a powerful Haitian Voodoo priestess named Mama Top. This totem represented the God of the Cemeteries, the Chief of the Legion of the Dead, embodied on earth in the human figure of Papa Top. In this part of the Amazon, Top was a figure paramount in all matters related to the grave. He was the dark Voodoo god who had long ago conquered the indigenous inhabitants of the jungle, and he still held them in his sway.

Muhammad Top was, of course, a true believer in the all-powerful rule of Allah. He depended on Allah’s guidance in all things. But, being prudent and practical, Top had always thought a man should have a backup religion. The fear inspired by Voodoo served his purposes well. After all, he lived surrounded by noble savages who bowed only to Papa Top.

He placed Papa Top’s perforated black bowler atop his head and gazed into his mirror. Unsatisfied, he cocked it to a more flattering angle, and saw that it was good. He showed his teeth. Flashed his eyes.

Let kingdom come, he thought, and be damned.

Soon, together with powerful brethren from abroad who would be arriving shortly, Papa Top would set in motion the irrevocable doomsday clock of the future.

He would set the clock for January 20 at noon.

High noon, he thought, chuckling to himself, a joke the cowboy in the White House might appreciate.

The Day of Reckoning.

24

MADRE DE DIOS, BRAZIL

H arry Brock woke up in a bed he did not recognize with a girl whose name he could not recall. She had a gun in his mouth. She was starkly naked, sitting astride his chest, her pendulous breasts glistening with sweat in the hot buggy light of morning. He found that none of these things made it any easier to think straight. She was very pretty this girl, and somehow during the night she’d managed to handcuff his wrists to the painted iron bedposts he was now banging against the plaster wall in a valiant effort to free himself.