Chase Baker and the Golden Condor: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series No. 2) by Vincent Zandri
Authors: Vincent Zandri
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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
“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
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