A grin spread across Russo’s face, and he moved next to the large window. He watched the soldiers outside with a sense of nostalgia. Something Otero didn’t share.
Unlike his boss, Russo had himself started in the army. At that very base. It was in Belem that he had completed his training to become an infantry officer and subsequently led his first platoon during the last year of the Araguaia Guerrilla War.
But Otero had no such fondness for the base or its soldiers. He had never been in the military. To Russo, he was little more than a rich politician. Or perhaps a businessman with extremely deep pockets. Pockets, of course, that also paid Russo’s rather generous salary, especially given Brazil’s current economic climate.
“This is not what I wanted,” Otero murmured from the chair.
Russo nodded. “It’s going to make things messy.”
“Messy is an understatement.”
Both men heard the click of the door opening behind them, followed moments later by a louder clunk when it was closed.
Wearing his perfectly pressed uniform, a stout and balding Captain Salazar continued into the expansive meeting room, rounding the arm of a chair with a wry grin.
“Mr. Otero. So good to see you,” he said in a sullen voice. He reached out and offered his hand.
Otero shook it from his position but remained seated. It was a clear gesture to the Army Captain.
The truth was that neither man liked the other. Not a surprise given both their roles within a deeply corrupted government. Just as it was in neighboring countries, the military complex was quickly eroding into an “every man for himself” mentality, and Salazar was the very personification of it. Thankfully some government structure still remained, but given Otero’s urgency, Salazar and his company were the only available option.
“When will we be ready?”
“About four hours,” Salazar answered, between tight lips. “But it will take at least two days to arrive. Hundreds of kilometers on that road will not be fast. And once we’re past Sipaliwini, we don’t know the full condition of the road.”
Otero nodded but said nothing. He wondered if he’d made a mistake not taking Alves’ approach and flying up in a helicopter. It would have cut the trip down to a few hours, but it also would have meant taking only a very small group of men. Most likely not enough to find what they were looking for. No, Alves had held a huge advantage, which was having the monkey in his possession already. Now, finding the thing in the wild was going to require every man he could get.
Otero turned back and continued watching the soldiers loading their trucks in the sweltering heat. He had no choice but to make do. If they could leave today, they might still arrive before anyone else knew what they were up to. Then secure the area to keep everyone else out.
And if things got messy, he had a plan to clean it all up once he had what he was after. A plan that would also make this the last mission for Salazar and most of his men.
Putting his distaste for the man aside, Salazar and his men were little more than resources to Otero now. Resources that would help him seize the ultimate prize. And one which, thanks to a dead Alves and Blanco, no one else appeared to know about.
Otero took a deep breath and leaned his head back against the chair’s headrest.
Standing at the glass, Salazar continued watching his men in silence with his hands clasped behind his back. It was imperative to maintain a relaxed appearance in front of Otero. For what the billionaire didn’t know was that Salazar had a plan of his own: direct orders on what to do when he had Otero alone on the mountain. The old man was about to find out that his money and influence only went so far.
22
It took six hours before the convoy of trucks was finally moving. In tight formation, they headed due south past Tucurui, crossing its half-mile-wide river. From there, their route turned northwest over highway BR-230, also known as Brazil’s infamous Trans-Amazonian Highway.
Extending more than 4,000 kilometers through the heart of northern Brazil, the highway was conceived in the 1970s as a means of integrating the northern states with the rest of the country. However, the project came to an abrupt halt when later in the same decade the Brazilian Financial Crisis left behind a devastated economy and vast stretches of the new highway completely unpaved.
Salazar’s lead car, a deep-green painted Humvee, was followed by Otero and Russo in a white Land Rover, driven by one of Russo’s men and another ex-military type named Dutra.
One by one, the stream of powerful belching trucks bounced over the rough dirt road, attracting little attention as they passed through increasingly smaller towns. Trains of military vehicles had become almost commonplace with yet another deteriorating economy. And like many floundering governments desperate to retain control of their populations, various aspects of martial law were already common throughout much of Brazilian life.