Free Amazonia by James Rollins Page A

a hill overlooking the capital city of French Guiana.

    A moment ago, in the hotel's dark bar, the miscreant at his feet had been hassling a fellow regular, a man in his eighties, a survivor of the dreaded penal colony of Devil's Island. Louis had never spoken to the old man, but he had heard his tale from the barkeep. As with many of the prisoners shipped here from France, he had been doubly sentenced: for every year spent in the island hellhole ten miles off the coast, the fellow was forced to spend an equal number of years in French Guiana afterward. It was a way to ensure a French presence in the colony. And as the government had hoped, most of these pitiable souls ended up staying here. What life did they have back in France after so long?

    Louis had often studied this fellow, a kindred soul, another exile. He would watch the man sip his neat bourbons,reading the lines in his aged and despairing face. He valued these quiet moments.

    So when the half-drunk Englishman had tripped and bumped into the old man's elbow, knocking over his drink, and then simply tottered on past without the courtesy of apology or acknowledgment, Louis Favre had gained his feet and confronted the man.

    "Piss off, Frenchie," the young man had slurred in his face.

    Louis continued to block the man's exit from the bar. "You'll buy my dear friend another drink, or we'll have it out, monsieur."

    "Bugger off already, you drunk wanker." The man attempted to shove past.

    Louis had sighed, then struck out with a fist, bashing the man's nose bloody, and grabbed him by the lapels of his poor suit. Other patrons turned their attention to their own drinks. Louis hauled the rude young man, still dazed from the blow and a night of heavy drinking, through a back door into the alley.

    He set to work on earning an apology from the man, not that he could really talk with a mouthful of bloody teeth. By the time Louis was done kicking and beating the man, he lay in a ruin of piss and blood in the alley's filth. He gave the man one final savage kick, hearing a satisfying crack of ribs. With a nod, Louis retrieved his white Panama hat from atop a rubbish bin and straightened his linen suit. He stared at his shoes, ivory patent leather. Frowning, he plucked out a pristine handkerchief and wiped the blood from the tip of his shoes. He scowled at the Englishman, thought about kicking him one last time, but then studied his newly polished shoes and decided better.

    Positioning his hat in place, he reentered the smoky bar and signaled the barman. He pointed to the old gent. "Please refresh my friend's drink."

    The Spanish barkeep nodded and reached for a bottle of bourbon.

    Louis met his gaze and wagged a finger at him.

    The barman bit his lip at the faux pas. Louis always went for the best, even when buying drinks for friends. Duly admonished, the man reached for a bottle of properly aged Glenlivet, the best in the house.

    "Merci." With matters rectified, Louis headed for the entrance to the hotel's lobby, almost running into the concierge.

    The small-framed man bowed and apologized profusely. "Dr. Favre! I was just coming to find you," he said breathlessly. "I have an overseas call holding for your attention." He passed Louis a folded note. "They refused to leave a message and stressed the call was urgent."

    Louis unfolded the slip and read the name, printed neatly: St. Savin Biochimique Compagnie . A French drug company. He refolded the paper and tucked it into his breast pocket. "I'll take the call."

    "There is a private salon--"

    "I know where it is," Louis said. He had taken many of his business calls down here.

    With the concierge in tow, Louis strode to the small cubicle beside the hotel's front desk. He left the man at the door and sat in the small upholstered chair that smelled of mold and a melange of old cologne and sweat. Louis settled to the seat and picked up the phone's receiver. "Dr. Louis Favre," he said crisply.

    " Bonjour, Dr. Favre," a