Lost City of the Templars Read Online Free PDF Page A

and the rest of the still-groggy crew made their way to the Alpaba Restaurant, the hotel’s attempt at haute cuisine with a view out over the Rio Negro.
    “It’s kind of hard to concentrate on eggs Benedict when you’re looking out at a river full of things big enough to swallow you whole or rip the flesh off your bones,” Peggy said.
    “It’s not that bad,” said Holliday. “All that stuff about vampire fish swimming up your genital tract and sticking there is a lot of bunkum.”
    “You shouldn’t be eating hollandaise anyway.” Rafi grinned. “It’s not good for you.”
    “Is that another comment about my weight?” Peggy bristled.
    “I’m just teasing,” answered her husband. “You haven’t gained an ounce since Doc and I rescued you from those Tuareg bandits.”
    “Took you long enough,” said Peggy, grumbling. “And there are monster snakes out there. I saw it on the Discovery Channel.”
    “We’ve got more than monster fish to worry about,” Holliday said.
    “He’s right.” Rafi nodded. “If Rogov’s not here, he soon will be.”
    “This man, he is so dangerous?” Eddie asked.
    “He usually travels with a bunch of Turkish and Syrian thugs—tomb robbers most of them. Hard men.”
    “How would they get passports or visas to get into Brazil?” Peggy said.
    “Not hard with Grayle and his people behind him,” Holliday said.
    “Why would they come here?” Rafi asked. “I thought all the stories about Fawcett have him traveling down the Xingu River on his last expedition.”
    “Grayle’s no fool,” said Holliday. “The Xingu is famous for its rapids. Most of it’s too shallow for even the
Santo Ovidio de Braga
or the
Santo João de Deus
. If he’s following the ships, he’d follow the Amazon, and the Rio Negro is a ‘blackwater river’—deep and calm, more than deep enough for those shallow-draft ships. Not to mention the fact that Grayle’s people may already be on our trail. Rogov wasn’t trying to get that chest for no reason.”
    “So what is our next move, amigo?” Eddie asked.
    “We find a way to get up the Rio Negro to an ancient little place called Barcelos.”
    •   •   •
    They reached Barcelos aboard a Piper Comanche of indeterminate years, the pilot and copilot apparently flying using a photocopied map they had taped to the windshield. Below them was a solid carpet of dense rain forest broken only by the wide black line of the Rio Negro as it snaked its way northward. There wasn’t a road to be seen.
    Two hours later after a remarkably smooth ride, they landed at Barcelos Airport, which seemed to be quite busy. There were even a few executive jets parked on the hardstands outside several hangars. A minibus was pulled up beside a Hawker 4000 and taking on passengers, all of them carrying long tubes. The sign painted on the minibus said RIO NEGRO FISHING TOURS. The name on the side of the jet was White Horse Resources.
    “British,” said Holliday.
    “A long way to come for a fish,” grunted Eddie.
    “More money than brains,” agreed Peggy.
    “Y que lo digas,”

said Eddie.
    “What?”
    “You can say that again,” translated Holliday. “White Horse is one of Grayle’s companies.”
    Their taxi this time was a sagging Ford Taurus driven by a giant sausage of a man with a few tufts of gray hair over his ears and the gurgling wheeze of someone with end-stage emphysema. He managed to get them to their destination, a three-story hotel called Rio Negro that looked as though it had once been a nineteenth-century warehouse with a residence above it. The building was within a block or two of the Porto Velho, the Old Harbor.
    The manager of the hotel, who gave his name as Mr. Carlos, also seemed to be the maître d’ of the family-style dining room, and while an aging bellboy took their luggage to their rooms Mr. Carlos sat them at a table covered with a gingham tablecloth and a real candle in an empty bottle of port.
    They had a pleasant enough