Chase Baker and the Golden Condor: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series No. 2) (6 page)

Having made our way flawlessly through safety inspection, we
then move on to one of the Delta gates. Gate 35 to be precise. There to greet
us is an attractive flight attendant. Tall, shapely, with long straight blond
hair, the blue-miniskirted attendant unlocks the metal door and leads the way
along the enclosed gangway. When we come to the end of the ramp, we don’t enter
into an airplane, but instead are instructed to exit through a narrow door,
then climb down the metal stepladder onto the tarmac.

As we descend the ladder I can’t believe the vision that
appears before my eyes. It’s a relic of a World War II–era bomber. A B-52
Stratofortress to be precise, preserved in perfect condition. Its metal siding
glistens in the afternoon sun as two of its four massive propellers come to a
stop. While ground crew place chalks under the old plane’s big black rubber
tires, Carlos and I begin making our way toward it.

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Carlos,” I say. “How did PCK
the Third get his hands on one of these babies?”

“It’s his office, actually,” the bald man informs, as we
enter the area directly beneath the fuselage. “Mr. Keogh is a bit of a World
War II aviation buff, as you can plainly see. He also owns a Spitfire and an
Me109. Like his father before him, Mr. Keogh was an aviator before becoming an
entrepreneur. He flew fighters in Vietnam.”

“No shit,” I whisper under my breath. “I’m beginning to like
Keogh more and more.”

Suddenly, a big square panel opens up on the belly of the
fuselage. A young black man sticks his head out. He’s clean shaven and wearing
only a crimson T-shirt that fits so tightly to his massive biceps and chest
that it might as well be a second skin.

“Carlos,” he barks. “Turn that bald bulb of yours off. It’s
hurting my eyes, bro.”

“Very funny, Rodney,” Carlos responds. “This is Mr. Baker.
He’s arrived for the meeting.”

The upside down Rodney glances at his wristwatch.

“Little early isn’t it, Baker?” he comments.

“Blame the bald guy,” I say, raising up my left arm, cocking
my thumb at Carlos.

“Figures,” Rodney says. “Let me get the ladder.”

Rodney disappears back up into the belly of the beast. But a
few seconds later, he lowers a metal ladder.

“Let’s go, gentlemen,” he says. “Mr. Keogh needs his rest so
let’s get this show on the road.”

As I climb the ladder, I can’t help but think,
PCK the
Third likes to sleep a lot
. But as we climb into the old bomber and enter
into the main cabin, I can see why. At the aft end of a cabin that’s been
renovated to resemble a rich man’s smoking room complete with cherry wood
paneling and a black and white tile floor, a tall, thin man sits in a leather
easy chair. There’s a black, plastic and metal mechanical device that resembles
a vital functions monitor planted beside him. A series of clear plastic tubes
extend from it. The tubes look as though they are inserted into the veins on
his inverted left arm via numerous needles.

The man is pale and sickly, but somehow sharp looking in his
neatly pressed khaki trousers, blue blazer, and brown-, yellow-, blue-, and
red-striped rep tie. The tie is also ornamented with the silhouette of a red,
naked, haloed woman who stands before a bright yellow star while joyfully
waving her left hand.

“Mr. Baker,” PCK the Third says with a deep voice. A voice
that is surprisingly strong considering his physical condition. “Glad you could
make it.”

“The Flying Tigers,” I say, nodding at his neck tie.

“I see you’re schooled in your World War Two aviation
history,” he says with a smile while holding out his right hand. “That’s
certainly a plus in my book.”

Leaning down, I take hold of his right hand with my own. His
grip is cold and tight for a man who isn’t well. We shake once and release our
hold on one another.

“You’ll have to excuse the cryptic nature of my operation,”
he says. “It’s, how shall we say, cloak and daggerness.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“I trust you’ve become acquainted with my associate,
Carlos.”

“Very well acquainted indeed,” I smile, shooting the little
bald man a look.

“Carlos is a tad tenacious in his work,” Keogh explains, his
stunningly blue eyes also locked on Carlos. “He likes to pretend he’s playing
the role in a detective novel. Perhaps one written by Chase Baker himself.”

“You a fan, Mr. Keogh?”

He nods.

“Most certainly,” he says. “Since the onset of my cancer
almost two years ago, I spend a lot of time sitting at this infernal machine. I
try and spend that time wisely by catching up on my reading.”

“I’m honored.”

“I also understand you are in the possession of many
talents, Mr. Baker. A true Renaissance man if ever there was one.”

“Thank you for saying so. Which talent are you interested in
today, Mr. Keogh?”

“I would like you to find something for me.”

Behind my left shoulder stands Rodney, his arms crossed over
his massive iron-pumped chest. Standing behind my right shoulder is Carlos, who
exists as Rodney’s polar opposite on planet earth. Apparently the only thing
they have in common is their employer.

“I’m listening, Mr. Keogh,” I say, glancing at the clear
fluid that runs through the tubes into and out of his veins.

“Have you ever been to Machu Picchu, Mr. Baker?”

“Please call me Chase.”

“Indeed, and please call me Pete.”

“Sure, Pete.” Then, “Machu Picchu? Never. Although I have
worked in Peru a couple of times as a sandhog.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that,” he says. “You helped uncover some
of the famous mummies of the Andes which are now stored in the Cuzco Museum.”

I nod.

“What I’ll be looking for you to uncover might be a tad more
difficult than that expedition.”

“I’m still listening.”

He raises up his free hand.

“Rodney, if you don’t mind.”

“Right away, Chief,” Rodney says, hitting a switch on the
wall which causes a flat-screen HDTV to lower itself from the cabin ceiling.
Flashing onto the screen is a full-color 3D representation of Machu Picchu and
the surrounding Urubamba River Valley which is a part of the Amazon basin, or
what’s sometimes referred to as Amazonia.

“As you can see, the excavated portion which was discovered
by the explorer Professor Hiram Bingham in 1911 is the area typically visited
by thousands of visitors each day, seven days a week, three hundred sixty-three
days a year.” Pointing to the green area beside the mountain peak. “But it’s
this area I’m interested in. The other seventy percent or so of the mountain
and its neighboring Huayna Picchu to the right. This part of the mountain and
its associated valley are still unexplored.”

“Certainly indigenous Incans live there,” I say.

“To be sure, and there are said to be many trails that cut
through the thick vegetation. But no one dares access them for fear of these
same tribal peoples.”

I laugh. “Is that your nice way of saying people are still
afraid of head hunters in the Amazon jungle?”

He cocks his head.

“Perhaps,” he says. “But if I were a betting man, I wouldn’t
wager against their existence. Indeed, my own father may have met his own fate
at the hands of these head hunters.”

“Your father,” I say like a question.

“Yes,” he says. “My father.”

Now on the television monitor is the figure of a handsome,
if not dashing man dressed in long leather coat, leather flier’s cap, tall boots,
and khaki pants. He’s smiling for the camera with the same blue eyes and mouth
that his son now possesses, while he stands to the right of the propeller that
belongs to his 1930s-era biplane.

“That’s a de Havilland,” I say. “Probably 1935, Tiger Moth
model.”

“Right you are again, Chase,” Keogh says. “Back in 1939, my
father was hired by Standard Oil to explore this uncharted territory for
existing trails that might provide an accessible ground route into the Amazon
basin. He was convinced that he could find it by engaging in low-level flights
that began at the uncharted side of Machu Picchu and continued all the way into
the basin. He would record these paths on film and then bring the proof with
him back to Texas.”

“I’m sensing a big ‘But’ coming up.”

“But, he encountered a problem. He flew too low and crashed
into the trees. I never saw him again. In fact, no westerner would ever see him
again.”

“Did he perish in the crash?”

He shakes his head.

“Not at all. In fact, he survived and lived long enough to
produce this.” He shoots Rodney a look. In turn, the beefy employee makes his
way toward the plane’s cockpit, but stops short of it at a bulkhead wall.
Removing a small mirror from the wall, he reveals a safe. Typing in a code, the
safe door opens. He reaches in and grabs hold of something, which he carries
back out to us. What he’s carrying is entirely familiar to me and most of the
world.

It’s a Coca-Cola bottle.

Rodney hands me the 1930s-era vintage Coke bottle. Back then
the bottle was not only made of real glass but the words Coca-Cola were
embossed into the thick glass itself. There’s something stuffed inside the
bottle. A large piece of paper that’s been rolled up to fit through the bottle
neck and that’s browned over time.

I lock eyes with Peter Keogh III.

“What’s this?” I laugh. “An honest to goodness message in a
bottle?”

“I’ll do you one better, Chase.”

“How’s that?”

“What you are holding in your hand is a genuine treasure
map.”

“Treasure map,” I say, feeling my pulse speed up. “No shit.”

“No shit, indeed,” Keogh says with a laugh. “You, Mr. Baker,
have entered into the no shit zone.”

“Be careful of that,” Keogh goes on. “It’s very old.”

Rodney hands me a pair of white gloves which I slip on
before sliding the paper out of the bottle. Gently I unroll it and discover a
hand-drawn map.

“I’m allowing you the pleasure of viewing and touching the
real thing,” Keogh explains. “I’m well aware of your love of antiquities,
Chase. But my team has assembled a comprehensive computer-generated map for
your smartphone and/or iPad for your real-time use in the field.”

“iPads, real-time, smartphones…Sounds rather unromantic,
doesn’t it?” I point out while peering up from the old map.

“Perhaps one hundred years from now, it will be a different
story.”

“That is, if the earth
lasts
another one hundred
years.”

I take a moment to examine Keogh the Second’s crude map.
It’s not very detailed. Fact is, it’s altogether sparse in detail. Depicted on
the upper left-hand side of the paper is Machu Picchu, its very vertical,
exposed granite, needle-like summit clearly recognizable. Taking up the middle
portion of the map is a narrow trail that snakes itself through what is clearly
Keogh II’s translation of thick growth, since the open space surrounding the
trail has been shaded to near black with pencil. Taking up the entire right
edge of the paper is a river. The words “Amazon River” have been penciled
vertically into the center of the river in Keogh’s rather fanciful handwriting.

But what interests me is what’s depicted about
three-quarters of the way across the map, looking from left to right. It’s
another mountain, the tall, needle-shaped summit of which is not altogether
different from Machu Picchu’s. What’s mind-blowing is that there’s a man-made
staircase that corkscrews itself all around the mountain and that leads to a
large opening, which Keogh describes simply as “Cave.”

At the very bottom of the map, in the lower right-hand
corner, is an area that’s been boxed off. A heading appears at the top of the
box. It says CAVE in large capital letters. There’s no doubt in my mind that
this is Keogh’s way of offering a sort of crude, 3D blowup of the cave’s
interior. While the artistry is a far cry from 3D, there’s no disputing the identity
of the object that takes up the very center of the cave.

It’s a huge bird.

“If that’s a real condor nesting inside that cave, it would
have to be as big as a dinosaur.”

Keogh smiles as though in full agreement.

“Rodney, if you please,” he says.

“If you wouldn’t mind placing the map back inside the
bottle, Mr. Baker,” the big man asks, while holding out his bear-like hands.

I roll the map up, gently place it back through the bottle
neck, and hand it on to Rodney. I also peel off the gloves and hand those to
him too. As he makes his way back across the cabin to place the bottle back
inside its safe, another image appears on the HDTV. It’s a precise copy of
Keogh’s father’s map. But unlike the original, this map has been digitally
enhanced, making it go from crude drawing to detailed chart complete with GPS
coordinates, 3D geographical imaging, and color-coded enhancement in order to
separate those areas with heaviest vegetation from the more sparsely covered
areas, including existing walkways and paths.

“As you can see from this new map,” Keogh III explains, “the
very trails my father was hired to uncover did indeed exist. Problem is, he had
to crash in order to find them.”

“Did anyone ever try to find your father after he went
missing?”

“After the map was discovered washed up on the shores of the
Urubamba River, a rescue party was sent out after him, but not a single man
returned. A few months later, a native emerged from the forest. He was wearing
a ceremonial necklace that was said to contain the six shrunken heads of all
the expedition members. A second expedition was not attempted.”

“I can see why,” I say, trying to conjure up an image of a
half dozen shrunken heads hanging from a man’s neck by a leather necklace. “But
your father’s head was never discovered, shrunken or otherwise?”

“Strange, isn’t it?” he says. “But perhaps not so strange. I
can only assume he was injured in the crash, survived for a time long enough to
draw this map, and then perished. More than likely, some of his flesh was
consumed by the cannibals as part of a ritual that would have included the
burning of his body as an offering to a very special God.”

“What God?”

“The God of the sky. The same God who makes lightning. His
name is Apocatequil.”

I nod. “Which, I’m guessing, is where the big bird comes in.
The condor.”

“Not just any condor, Chase. That’s not a real bird my
father discovered.”

“If it’s not a real bird, then what the hell is it?”

“Let’s put it this way. When was the last time you saw a
bird with an elevation rudder?”

I glance at the drawing of the bird as depicted on Keogh
II’s map once more. For certain the “bird” contains a rudder, much like a
modern airplane.

“The condor is not a real bird then?” A question for which
I’m already discerning the answer. Or Keogh III’s version of an answer anyway.

“It’s an aircraft, Chase. A one-thousand-year-old flying
machine.”