Lab Notes: a novel (21 page)

“I understand you are also in banking, Mr. Lee.”

Hu Lee knew of Frank Chen’s financial empire. Everyone did. Now it pleased him that Mr. Chen spoke to him as a peer. “Yes, I am. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Do you know of an American scientist, Dr. Diane Rose?” Chen asked.

Hu Lee was taken back. He nodded tentatively.

Frank Chen sat forward with a twinkle in his eye. “I initiated this meeting at the request of my eldest son, Tung. Dr. Diane Rose was his biology professor in the States; he had a secret crush on her for several years. But she also kindled in him a passion for science, which is responsible for the success he enjoys today. She is an honorable woman.” Mr. Chen held his hand over his heart. “You would be doing my son a great favor if you could find the time to talk with Dr. Rose.”

Hu Lee relaxed. “Of course,” he said. He would be glad to do such a favor for Mr. Chen and son.

μ CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE μ

Diane awoke to the rhythm of her head bouncing on Olimpia’s shoulder during a rumbling twenty kilometer taxi ride from the airport into Santa Marta. She sat up, worked her neck and jaw into place and looked over at Olimpia who seemed to be dozing. She squinted at her watch; her nap hadn’t lasted long enough. But it was amazing that she’d slept at all.

Glancing outside, she couldn’t make out any land or building features. Everything was obscured by a dense morning fog. Not that she had any interest in sight-seeing. At that moment, her overriding concern was:
What the hell are we doing here?
Olimpia’s pilot friend could have taken them to Curacao or Bonaire or Venezuela, all nearby. But Olimpia had brought her to the place where the Carreras wielded the most power: Colombia.

Diane let her head collapse against the smoke-infused upholstery behind her and prayed for sleep to return; wakefulness was far too painful. But her mind kept replaying the past several hours.

Olimpia had picked her up at the harbor in Oranjestad and had driven like a mad woman to a private airstrip. Throughout the harried trip, Olimpia assured Diane that leaving on short notice was not a problem. “We will just go to the Kogi a few days earlier than planned,” she said.

The bumpy flight to Santa Marta in the single-engine plane, with its many rattles and vibrations, was not conducive to whispered questions like: “Who or what is the Kogi?”

After landing in Santa Marta, Diane’s attempts at questioning Olimpia had been shushed in a parental tone that strongly indicated Diane should be seen but not heard. She barely remembered climbing into the taxi and falling into an exhausted sleep.

Now, she realized her short nap had revived her just enough to awaken her anguish and anxiety. If she was going to survive this ordeal, she knew she had to confront her demons—immediately.

Diane sat up, breathed deeply and rolled her shoulders. She’d take a rational scientific approach, analyzing her pain down to its enzymes as if it were a soul-eating plant.
I can do this
.

First she addressed her anguish: It began with the realization that the man she had just made love with and his charming father were involved in her husband’s murder.

A searing pain shot across her chest. Diane sat back, forced her mind to go blank and focused on her respirations. In a minute or so, she had relaxed enough to confront the demon again.

This time she interrogated it: Had she encouraged Gabriel’s interest in her, beginning with their first meeting and that dance aboard the
Enterprise
? If so, had Gabriel murdered Vincent to free her for himself…? What about Carlos and all that gentlemanly fawning over her? She was a clone of his wife. Did he want her as a replacement? Or was that fuzzy female thinking?

Okay, how about the business aspect? Gabriel owned control of BRI. Had Raymond reported Vincent’s constant probing and multiple grievances to him? Or, if Vincent knew of Gabriel’s majority ownership, had he aired his complaints directly to Gabriel?

Gabriel’s email address was Vincent’s only mention of the Carreras in his notes. Could Vincent have written to him threatening to expose some dirty secrets that would destroy Bayside Research?

Of course! That had to be it! Men with Gabriel’s wealth and power didn’t need to kill in order to get women; they only murdered when their money was at risk. That’s probably why they had invited her to the island—to assess just how much she knew. Her fleeing the scene before they had a chance to interrogate her probably confirmed their suspicions. They had murdered her husband, and now they’d be after her.

She struggled to control a rising anger. She had to focus—the interrogation was not over. Her chest tightened as she forced herself to ask the next question: Why did she make love to Gabriel Carrera, her husband’s murderer? She looked down at her baggy T-shirt and shorts; she was still wearing his clothes. Her eyes watered. She dabbed at the moisture with a knuckle and asked herself: Why the tears? Was it anger? Humiliation? Fear?

She probed and prodded the corners of her brain, but the answer remained hidden. Sensing she would be haunted by that question for years to come, she moved on.

As she faced her next demon—anxiety—the questions came at her like clenched fists. Why had Olimpia insisted that she go out to Carrera Island? She turned a heavy-hearted gaze on the woman sleeping next to her.
Can I trust you, Olimpia Garza? Or are you leading me into the jaws of the beast?

The taxi stopped in front of the Hotel Ojeda. Olimpia awoke. The next leg in their odyssey began.

Gratefully, Diane turned her face up to the spray and tried to remember when she last bathed. Olimpia was already in her night shirt, and by the sound of it, she had been on the telephone since Diane turned on the shower.

At first, Diane had strained to hear Olimpia’s machinations through the splashing water. Failing that, she resigned herself to whatever lay ahead—at least for the short term. Olimpia had promised a tell-all concerning their destination at their next meal, which would come at about 1 p.m. after a few hours sleep.

In all fairness, Diane admitted to herself that she had not yet disclosed the nature of her distress. She simply told Olimpia she couldn’t talk about it yet, and Olimpia had backed off.

In bringing her here, Olimpia was apparently acting out of trust: In the middle of the night, she had thrown Diane’s things in a backpack and rushed to rescue her from an unnamed assailant. Diane wished she could offer Olimpia that same trust. But, in fact, she couldn’t even trust herself. She feared that Vincent was right when he wrote in his notes:
Diane blocks any suggestion of sub rosa activities at BRI. Her zeal for her new job seems to have obliterated her innate people sense.

She lay on her back staring at the ceiling light fixture and listening to the even breathing from the other bed. She sensed that she and Olimpia were not alone there. Was she just delusional from the fatigue?

She rolled on her side and fell asleep.

The towering Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta looked down upon Diane as she stepped from the cab in front of a small hillside restaurant. And for the first time since her arrival in Colombia, she turned and looked up.

She was stunned to see a spectacular mountain range standing at the edge of the Caribbean. Taking in its enormity, she heard a deep-throated wind—a mantra-like sound that poured forth from its lofty heights. She stood there, mesmerized, listening.

From behind her came Olimpia’s voice. “The Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta is the tallest coastal mountain in the world. It is the realm of the Kogi. Tribe members say the mountain speaks to the worthy among them. They say it confers strength of mind and body upon the pure of heart. We are heading up there this afternoon.” She tapped Diane’s arm, breaking her trance. “Come; we must nourish ourselves. The Mountain abhors weakness.”

Over a grilled grouper sandwich, Olimpia told Diane about the ethereal Kogi, the only remaining Colombian tribe that was not conquered by the Spanish in the sixteenth century. The Kogi simply climbed so far up the mountain, the Conquistadors could not reach them. Today, some of their aerial farmlands were still inaccessible except to those with special knowledge of the way up.

Olimpia patted Diane’s arm across the table. “You will be safe there for a while. Then we will make other arrangements.”

She told Diane that to reach the Kogi, they would climb the first three thousand feet of near-vertical jungle in a helicopter. She had made reservations while Diane was showering.

They would land amidst the ancient ruins of Ciudad Perdida, the “Lost City.” The twenty-minute flight would trim three days off a six-day trek and help them avoid some major marijuana and coca growing areas and the armed guerillas that patrolled them.

But first some errands in town.

Juan, the cab driver who picked them up at the restaurant, wore a backwards Mets cap and had an Empire State Building charm dangling from his mirror. As they climbed into the backseat, he greeted Olimpia like a longtime friend: “
Como estan, Dr. Leona
.”

“Buenas tardes, Juan.”

Dr. Leona?
Diane made eye contact with Olimpia and raised her eyebrows. Olimpia responded with a wink.

Juan assessed Diane approvingly over the seat back.
“Soy Juan. Como se llama?”

Olimpia intercepted the question: “
Esta Dr. Florencia.”

Diane took the cue. She was supposed to be Hispanic.
No problemmo.
She had always been told she had no “Yankee” accent when she spoke Spanish. She smiled and nodded at Juan.
“Encantado.”

Juan pulled away from the curb.
“La playa?”
he asked after checking out their shorts and sandals. They had dressed to blend in with the tourists.

Olimpia assured Juan they had come there to work this time.

‘Si. Ciudad Perdida?”
he asked

“Si.”

Arqueologia?”

“Si.”

Diane’s eyebrows jumped again. Olimpia had apparently been masquerading as a Dr. Leona, archeologist, for some time. But why? Another question that would have to wait.

Diane’s only view of Santa Marta came from the backseat of the cab. As they crisscrossed town preparing for their trek, she marveled at ancient edifices standing in elegant contrast with modern buildings.

Discovering this was Diane’s first visit, Juan became the tour guide. He told her Santa Marta was founded in 1525, and it was the oldest surviving colonial city in Colombia.

On the way to the government office to procure a permit for Diane to go up into the Sierra Nevada, a National Park, Juan slowed the cab to point out the beautiful
Museo Arqueologico Tayona
, a former Spanish Colonial mansion. Three suntanned people emerged from the museum chattering excitedly. Diane watched them wistfully. How she envied their lives.

Permit obtained, they moved on to the market to pick up some light provisions. “The Mountain will provide the rest,” Olimpia said.

Driving away from the market—at Olimpia’s suggestion—Juan took a side trip past the
Quinta de San Pedro Alejandrino
, where Simon Bolivar spent his last days. He had died in Santa Marta.

Diane mused that she would rather not share that fate with the Great Liberator.

A stop at the
Municipal de Police
provided Diane, posing as Dr. Florencia, with a permit to visit the Ciudad Perdida, the “Lost City.”

At every stop, “Dr. Leona” was greeted with respect as well as affection. And being a colleague of Dr. Leona, Dr. Florencia—also a renowned archeologist—was accorded like treatment.

The only in-depth questioning regarded the bruise (by now quite purple) on her right jaw. After Diane explained it resulted from a fall on a boat, they bemoaned the fact that an accident had marred such a beautiful face. She wasn’t even required to produce identification for the permits issued in Dr. Florencia’s name.

As for “Dr. Leona”, who remained cool and composed throughout, she already had yearly passes.

Diane was surprised at her own calm demeanor while playing the imposter. Later, analyzing her attitude, she determined that since two of the most powerful men in the country were probably trying to track her down to kill her, being busted by local authorities for using an alias seemed almost laughable.

“One last stop,” Olimpia announced as they pulled up to a restaurant named Bellini’s. Olimpia and Juan jumped out, Diane looked on from the cab. Juan turned and spoke to Olimpia who threw her head back in laughter. Diane turned away; how could Olimpia be enjoying herself?

Ten minutes later Olimpia and Juan emerged from the restaurant. Juan carried two large Styrofoam containers to the taxi’s trunk. Olimpia slid into the backseat, looked over at Diane and said, “Pizza.”

“Pizza?”

“Yes, thirty frozen pizzas. I ordered them this morning.”

“What kind?”

“Does it matter?”

“If I’m going to eat fifteen pizzas, I’d better like them.”

“Chunky pepper and herb sauce topped with crumbled fried plantains.” Olimpia grinned. “When in South America…” But the grin faded quickly. “We may not get to eat them though.”

Diane scanned Olimpia’s features looking for an explanation, but none came.

Diane was tiring of this game. As she stared out the cab window, she saw her past unfold before her. Olimpia had played a prominent role in most aspects of it, from the selection of her schools all the way up to her job at BRI—and now, dealing with the fallout from it.

How she wished she could have seen into the future that day at the conservatory in Pittsburgh. She would have shoved Olimpia into the “adder’s mouth” orchid, crushing the thing that so maliciously arranged their introduction, and fled.

Olimpia leaned forward and instructed Juan to head back to the hotel. They needed to change into jungle attire and pick up their belongings. Then off to the airport and the wilderness.

Diane and Olimpia stowed their backpacks under two of the six seats in the passenger section of the helicopter. The engine whirred to a start.