The Source - Michael Cordy [61]
As Ross put away the phone, he knew his father was right. Zeb and Sister Chantal came out on deck. 'How's Lauren?' asked Zeb. 'If you need to go back,' she checked her watch, 'we can be home by this time tomorrow.'
Sister Chantal said nothing.
'Is there a problem?' said Hackett, strolling out to join them. 'Bad news from home?'
'My wife's not been well.'
'So what the hell are you doing in the Amazon hunting treasure?'
'It's a long story, Nigel.'
Hackett hesitated, clearly balancing the desire to know more with his natural courtesy. 'I hope she'll be okay. Juarez and I are going ashore for supplies. We'll set off again in about six hours.' He looked meaningfully at Ross. 'You okay with that?'
Mendoza appeared suddenly, still rubbing his temples. He walked over to Hackett. 'You got some strong painkillers?'
'A few in my medical bag. Why?'
'Bad migraine.'
'I'll write a prescription. You can pick up some pills in town.' Hackett turned back to Ross. 'Are you in?'
Both Zeb and Sister Chantal were watching him closely. If Lauren died while he was away he'd feel terrible guilt. But if he went back and she died anyway, which she almost certainly would, he'd feel guilty for not having done everything in his power to save her. He had come this far and had to go on. Even if the garden was a myth, it offered the only chance to save his wife and he had to take it. Unlike Hackett, Mendoza and Juarez, he wasn't seeking mere treasure. He was seeking something far more precious and elusive. Hope. 'I'm in, Nigel,' he said. 'All the way.'
Six hours later
Yesterday's flight from Lima to Iquitos had been uneventful, and Torino had spent a comfortable night at the Hotel Eldorado Plaza in the centre of the city. After dismissing his private secretary and the rest of his entourage in Lima, he was travelling alone – except, of course, for his guards. The fewer people who knew of his mission the better. His only concern related to Bazin. He had sent him a number of texts on his satellite phone, but had not yet received a response. He had also heard rumours in town: fishermen had found a half-eaten body in the river south of Iquitos, with a bullet through its head. There was also talk of gunfire and an abandoned dinghy.
However, as Torino stood on the deck of his requisitioned boat, he refused to worry unduly about his half-brother. If Bazin was dead, he had died performing a service for the Church. And his death had not been in vain: he had put contingencies in place. Torino blinked in the dying sun and raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes. He watched the Discovery leave Puerto Masusa and cruise downriver until it disappeared round the bend of the vast waterway. Then he looked at the palmtop computer Bazin had given him in Lima. The onscreen map showed a dot moving north-east down the Amazon.
Now four soldiers in jungle fatigues were loading his boat. Three were fair-haired, which, with their height, made them stand out among the smaller, darker locals. Historically, the Swiss Guard were recruited from the German-speaking Swiss cantons. Two passed him with an open case of rifles and ammunition. 'Why are those coming with us?' Torino demanded.
Fleischer, the sergeant – the Feldwebel – frowned. 'Please, Father General, we're going into the jungle. My orders are to defend you. Guns may not sit well with your sacred office but we need them.'
'You misunderstand me, Feldwebel. I don't mind you bringing weapons. I'm only concerned to know – is that all you're taking?'
'I don't understand, Father General.'
Torino thought of the story in the Voynich, and Father Orlando Falcon's testimony in the Inquisition Archives. He considered the treacherous route to the garden's source, the radix, in the forbidden caves, and reflected on how the last conquistadors had been butchered, their blood colouring the stream a deep red. 'Assume you'll be confronted by forces far stronger and