State of Emergency

CHAPTER 39


January 7





It was nothing short of a miracle that Pollard had gotten as far as he had with the austere environment and simple tools Zamora provided. He’d told Yesenia that it would have been easier for the professor on Gilligan’s Island to build a bomb from scratch than it was for him to try and repair one, but she didn’t understand the joke.

On the stifling afternoon of his tenth day in the jungle, he reassembled a section of the PAL and heard a faint click. He grimaced, waiting for whatever came after death, because he knew if the bomb blew, he’d not be conscious to experience the moments in between. There was no detonation, but along with the now living circuitry, Baba Yaga’s design clicked in Pollard’s brain. As if a veil had been lifted, everything became clear. He understood her.

Peering with a flashlight at the top of the metal tube, deep into the guts of the thing, he took a look at the row of capacitors from a fresh perspective. Dizzy with the new information, he fell back on his cot and rubbed a hand over his face. There was something about her that had bothered him from the beginning—and now he knew what it was.

More dangerous than even Zamora imagined, Baba Yaga was not what she seemed.

Revitalized, Pollard jumped up as quickly as he’d sat down, pacing back and forth, shaking the hut on its piers. Finally, he threw open the flimsy door. Technically, he wasn’t even supposed to use the latrine without an escort, but boredom and oppressive heat had made the guards lax over time.

Angelo, the camp’s second in command, sat in a folding chair flipping through a magazine about fishing. His rifle leaned against the woodpile beside him. He nearly fell over at Pollard’s shrill whistle. Angelo spoke no English and looked terrified whenever Pollard spoke to him.

He held up his hand as if he wanted Pollard to stay in place. “Yesenia,” he mumbled, shoving the fishing magazine in his hip pocket and scooping up his weapon. Two other guards, also Guarani Indians, glanced up from the cook fire for a moment, then resumed whatever it was they were doing.

“Yes.” Pollard nodded to Angelo. “Yesenia.”

The Indian girl came trotting up a moment later, breathless and smiling. Pollard realized he’d never called for her before.

“I need to talk to Zamora immediately,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm.

Yesenia sighed, nodding softly before walking away. She seemed to realize that things were about to change.



“I need assurances,” Pollard said, “before I go any further.”

Zamora gave a slow sigh on the other end of the phone and was quiet for a long time. Finally, Pollard heard his lips smacking.

“Very well then,” the Venezuelan said. “You may be assured that if you play games with me, I will chop your wife and son into fish bait.”

“I’m serious, Valentine.”

“And I am suddenly playing games? You know what I am capable of, my friend. Do us both a favor and complete your mission.”

“So,” Pollard said, biting his lip as he spoke. “How does this work when I do figure it out? How can I know that my family will be safe?”

“I do not know,” Zamora said. “I have been focused on other endeavors. Present a plan to me and I will consider it. But know this, my customers need your expertise, so you will stay with the device until she is delivered. This is a package deal.”

“If one hair on my son’s head—”

“I know, you will kill me,” Zamora chuckled, cutting him off. “You’re making yourself look foolish, Matthew. Call me when you have good news.”

Zamora ended the call.

Pollard took a deep breath, clutching the satellite phone in his fist. He looked down at Yesenia.

“Things are about to change,” he said.

She smiled, blinking her eyes like a schoolgirl with a crush. “I know.”