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“Next time you hold a knife to my neck—” The rest of Monkey’s threat was drowned by the sound of the Mercuries. He spun the wheel, slammed the throttle back into forward gear, and the boat tore a circular hole in the water, accelerating downriver. Within half a minute, the boat was gone, the engine noise lost in the thunder of the waterfall.
Gideon turned and looked at the village. He’d need to hire somebody to guide him to Kampung Naga. Just how he was going to manage that with no money, he wasn’t quite sure. But he’d figure out a way. He had no choice.
He walked through the tiny village, which was strangely empty. “Hello!” he called. “Is anybody here?”
But there was no answer. In fact there was no sound at all. The place was deserted. The roofs of the houses sagged. Several had been burned to the ground.
Gideon realized that he was very hungry. Almost a day had passed since he’d eaten. He searched the houses and finally found a tin of fruit sitting on a rotting shelf. He tore the tin open and gobbled the peaches hungrily. But instead of satisfying his appetite, it only made him hungrier.
He looked for more food but didn’t find any. He reflected wryly that he could think of better ways than this of taking off the ten pounds he’d gained in Colombia.
When he reached the far end of the village, he saw a small trail heading toward the cliffs, overgrown with vines and fast-growing tropical plants. He pushed his way through vegetation, then began to climb. As he walked, he looked at the map General Prang had gig há€ven him. Staring up at him was the red circle. Kampung Naga, the city that doesn’t exist.
From a distance, the cliffs looked white. Closer, and Gideon found they were composed of a grayish limestone. Foliage seemed to have a hard time growing on the winding trail. There were only a few gnarled trees and occasional clumps of grass sprouting from the rock. At first the cliffs were not really cliffs at all, just very steep hills, eroded into sharp gulleys and ravines.
But the higher he climbed, the steeper the trail became. The limestone was loose and crumbly, and the path narrowed as the face of the limestone grew steeper. Eventually the path was no more than a foot wide, sometimes dropping off for hundreds of feet on either side.
Halfway up, Gideon paused to rest his burning thighs. He ran thirty miles a week—but ru
In the distance he saw a tiny V-shaped wake rippling on the surface of the river. A boat was approaching. Gideon felt a stab of fear. Coincidence? Or was someone following him?
He stood and started up the trail again.
The going was slower now. The higher he went, the more it became like mountain climbing rather than hiking. He could see the lip of the jungle above him. But there were still probably five hundred sheer vertical feet to go. Gideon had drastically underestimated the height of the cliffs. And the steepest part of the climb was yet to come.
Soon he found that he had to keep both hands on the rock face at all times. The rock slid away below him. The only good news was that the temperature had dropped. It was still warm—but it wasn’t the oppressive tropical furnace that it had been.
Occasionally a toehold or handhold crumbled beneath him, the loose rock falling and bouncing and tumbling down the slope. Each time it happened, he momentarily lost his balance and had to claw for purchase to keep himself from following the dislodged rocks down the rubble-strewn face of the cliff.
Gideon tried pushing away the persistent doubts and fears that flitted through his mind—that this mission was foolish and pointless and that he should turn around and go back. If he wanted to find Tillman, he would have to face whatever lay ahead in the place that Monkey feared so much.
He paused again to massage his trembling thighs. The sun was lowering on the horizon and he still had a few hundred feet to go. He looked down. The boat he’d seen earlier was pulling up to the pier. A man leapt out and secured the boat, then several more men followed him ashore. They swept through the abandoned village. Even at this distance, unable to see faces or expressions, Gideon could tell they were moving with purpose, searching for something or someone. He wondered if the surviving jihadis from downriver had followed him all the way up here. But why would they bother going to all that trouble over some muddy, bedraggled foreigner? It seemed odd. Except for the fact that he’d been responsible for the death of several of them. Maybe they just wanted to make an example of him. Or maybe they were looking for someone else entirely.
As he en á€was mulling over the questions and massaging his legs, one of the men pointed up toward the cliff. Gideon heard a distant, barely audible shout. Then the men began ru
Gideon gave his aching calf a last hard squeeze, then headed upward. Speculating about why they were chasing him wouldn’t help him escape.
Gideon’s pursuers quickly closed the gap between them. He estimated that when he first spotted them, they had been more than a thousand yards away. But because they were on the flatter part of the trail, they were moving much faster than he was. Soon they would be within three or four hundred yards. And when they were—
The first bullet pinged off the rock and ricocheted with a noise that sounded like something out of an old cowboy movie. But the shot was nowhere close. Gideon guessed that his pursuers were carrying AK-47s with iron sights. Unless they were serious marksmen, he was in little danger at this distance. But once they were within two hundred yards, he’d be in trouble.
Gideon waited for the second shot. It didn’t come. He figured they were being smart, conserving their ammo until they’d closed the gap a little more. Once they got close enough, they didn’t have to be great marksmen to hit him. Gideon started climbing faster, in rhythm with his own quickening heartbeat. He realized that his legs no longer hurt. The fight-or-flight endorphins were powerful painkillers, better than aspirin any day.
He glanced back over his shoulder. The lower portion of the trail wound back and forth across the face of the cliff, passing directly beneath him. When his pursuers reached that point, he would be inside their kill zone. He had to think of something. Fast.
He sca
Be the lichen.
He heard the words in his head. Literally: be the lichen. He almost had to laugh. It was as if his own personal Yoda was whispering to him from some unseen perch. But it made sense. Lichen had no hands or feet, rooting itself to the rock with its entire structure. Gideon relaxed, allowing his own body to mold to the irregular contours of the rock face. When he felt his center of gravity balanced, he began snaking his left hand upward, then his knees, his feet, and even his chest—trying to find another hold so he could relieve the strain on his right hand.