Silent Enemies

By William Newman

Cordosa, a small village in Brazil's most southern state of Rio Grande do Sul, is experiencing traumatic illness and loss of life from unknown causes. The population of landless farmers is slowly deteriorating. Jake Parker, ex U.S. Army Intelligence Officer, is assigned as a photojournalist to investigate the possible causes. What he soon discovers is that he will be watched, manipulated and harassed by high ranking United States government officials who will stop at nothing to gain revenge within their own ranks.

With lives hanging in the balance, Jake finds himself in the middle of an undetected world of spiritual warfare and a congressional war filled with greed and corruption. As a beautiful young Deaf woman stumbles into the scandal, the hunt begins, and Jake Parker must figure out how to save her life as well as his own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Newman
• Release date: Jan 14, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458018427

William Newman

William Newman writes both adult fiction and children's literature. He is a teacher of literature for Deaf children in Ohio, graduating from The Ohio State University in Journalism and also Special Education. He lives in Dublin with his wife and children.

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SILENT ENEMIES

By William Newman

Copyright 2013 William Newman

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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To William Newman, Sr.– for your love of literature

For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. - Romans 8:38-39

CHAPTER ONE

THE GROUND FELT COLD and his body ached. The soreness spanned from his neck down his back and into his tailbone. He wasn’t accustomed to sleeping on dirt and the tingling sensations crawled down his arm as he rolled over, the circulation being cut off from sleeping on his elbow instead of a pillow. He sat up shivering, rubbing his eyes as they adjusted to the flickering light.

The tiny, black, rusted out kerosene heater, slanting downward from a broken leg, was placed in the middle of the room to offer some relief. It was adequate for the three-room mud hut. He couldn’t complain. After all, it was December. Back in D.C. there was nine inches of snow. At least in the south of Brazil, evenings in December were quite tolerable. If there was one thing he hated about D.C. it was the snow. Marcos, the village coffin-maker, had taken pity and covered him during the night. It was just after dawn, and he could hear his hammer already at work.

That one seems small, Jake said, approaching him wrapped in the tattered wool blanket Marcos had given up the night before. The pine box was a simple structure and would serve its purpose well. It had no watertight seal, no metal exterior to prevent nature from invading, and no vault would be required as the family lowered it into the awaiting earth for a final goodbye. Only a simple wooden resting place for the little girl.

For Ana Marie, he mumbled. Vladimar’s daughter. She was eleven.

Did you know her?

Yes. She was very sweet. A hard worker, he replied, his eyes becoming watery with no eye contact.

Marcos was a man of very few words. Jake had only known him twelve hours, seven of which Jake had slept. He was quiet and reserved. Certainly a personality conducive to his line of work. He was one of the dark-skinned Mulattos, attaining his heritage from the marriages of early Europeans and Africans during Portuguese rule of Brazil. He wore dark brown pants, weathered sandals, a faded, stained, white short-sleeved shirt with a worn and dirty beige canvas hat. When asked, he would say he was thirty-six, although he could easily be mistaken for a man in his fifties. His bulging forearms seemed oddly disproportionate to his frail-looking body, obviously from years of pounding out the final resting places for so many of his people. The man’s skin appeared to be leather, undoubtedly from so many years of the ultraviolet damage happily soaking into his system.

How did she die?

Don’t know.

What do you mean you don’t know? She was eleven years old.

The hammering stopped, broken English began. Cordosa is not like your Washington D.C., Mr. Parker. Vladimar did his best. He had taken her to the clinic west of here many times. He would wait many hours just to get in. It’s run by the church for free. The doctors could not help her. They gave her medicine. It didn’t work. Our people are not rich, please understand. The man’s eyes penetrated Jake’s with beads of sweat already forming from his face, slowing dripping into the awaiting soil with tiny splashes. The morning Brazilian sun had already started its brutal punishment.

Still…if she was in that much trouble of …

It took two and a half hours for Vladimar to get Ana Marie there. Do you think someone called for an ambulance? Do you think she was picked up by helicopter and rushed to a hospital for treatment?

Jake’s gaze dropped to the ground. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you Marcos. Please forgive my ignorance. The man had just spoken more words in one minute than the entire previous day.

Jake was only scheduled to be in Cordosa for a week to collect photos and any documentation he could get on the village. He certainly didn’t want to enrage the only contact he had thus far. It appeared to be a simple task. Arrive, collect data and images and report back to Donaldson, and in the meantime, absorb the beauty of his surroundings, eat some food, drink some wine and relax in the serenity of a beautiful countryside in the middle of nowhere. He could leave his haunting past behind. This was a new adventure, a new job, a new everything. He took a deep breath, glanced at the pine box and the young but old man, and continued prying. One week was all he had. Donaldson wanted as much information as he could extract in that amount of time.

I only meant what does her family think could have killed her?

Not all children that are conceived are meant to live, Mr. Parker. The hammering began again. Marcos’s voice rose above the rhythmic pounding. It could have been Chagas disease, which makes your heart swell up and collapse. Her aunt died of that last summer. It’s from a beetle that lives in the walls of our mud houses. It could have been bilharzia from the river snails. Ana worked in the infested rivers digging up sand for construction workers. The pounding intensified. It could have been malaria from the mosquitoes, or gasto, the diarrhea that has no cure. Vladimar said she was complaining of many stomach aches too.

Jake could sense Marcos’s anger mounting. Sweat drenched his back. His canvas hat fell to the dirt as he hammered away at the same nail again and again. Jake backed off, slowly walking to the hut. I get the point, Marcos. Again, I’m sorry. He imagined Marcos flipping out completely and coming after him through the small house made of woven branches and plastered with mud. No deadbolts here. And certainly no one nearby. Retreating to the entrance of the mud structure, Jake took two deep breaths, quickly scanned his own mud hut for any beetles that may or may not be carrying Chagas disease, and started to collect his thoughts. In no way did he want to be taken from this world with the help of a tiny beetle. A slight breeze from the west surrounded his feet as he squatted to assemble a new lens onto the camera. He thought of the girl in D.C. What she might be doing, where she was, who she was or wasn’t with. He tried to block it from his conscious but the images of her kept creeping back into his head. He imagined her beautiful tan skin and the tiny freckles that sprinkled her nose, her hard body with sculpted shoulders and her long brown hair. Snapping back into realty, he placed his backpack on the dirt floor and started to approach Marcos once again.

Maybe dysentery! Or influenza! Marcos continued. Maybe she just gave up, Mr. Parker. She’d been working in the vineyards since she was seven. Why don’t you go take a picture of that for your magazine? Maybe she just gave up, he cried, dropping his hammer and putting his face in his hands. Maybe she just gave up.

Jake retreated again to the pseudo-safety of the hut, attempting to give Marcos time to cool off and trying to figure out how he could get what he needed in only a week. He listened for the hammering to begin. It didn’t.

After a few minutes, Marcos entered. At first he didn’t make eye contact. It was tense, similar to when you’re telling your boss you’re about to quit. Jake hoped that wasn’t the case. Marcos was to be his guide this week. He had been paid well for his services. Five thousand American dollars, which was eleven thousand one- hundred and fifty Brazilian real. Not bad for seven days work – anywhere.

Soon we will go, said the little man, still avoiding Jake with his eyes. First, we eat.

Marcos lingered in the small hut for a few moments, then left to collect items they’d need for the busy day ahead. Not the best conversation to start a relationship with, Jake thought.

Marcos returned with a dark green backpack. We’ll need to bring some food.

He was half afraid to ask what it was.

Dried, salted beef, Marcos added. And rice. I prepared it this morning while you slept.

Okay, he could handle that. Marcos handed over two large oranges and a good-sized piece of bread.

Where’s Cordosa? Jake asked.

A mile north. Marcos started packing. Down in the valley. You can see it from over there, he said, pointing to the top edge of the pine-covered hill. A well-packed narrow path of earth cut through the vegetation.

Jake grabbed his camera and an assortment of lenses and walked through the densely covered forest of pines, ducking under the multitude of branches protruding from the trunks, constantly still scanning for the Chagas beetle. Surprisingly, footsteps followed behind him. The end of the woods opened into a vast, breathtaking area filled with Brazilian wine grapes as far as he could see. It was an amazing view. The rolling hills of the vineyard were to his left, meticulously planted in distinct rows, one after another, flowing with the land as it curved and dipped. Slicing through was a winding, narrow dirt road. To the right was Cordosa. About two hundred and fifty houses scattered the village. They looked to be of the same type as Marcos’s. He wondered how many villagers might fall victim to Chagas disease in the years to come. How many children may have their hearts swell up, circumstances beyond their control. It’s a difficult position to be in, when one knows of the probable outcome and yet is utterly defenseless in preventing such tragedy. Jake had seen it so many times in his life it was finally gnawing at his ability to function. His focus was off, his mind prone to tiny little attacks of what he called insanity moments. He was still young now, but he often wondered where these insanity moments would take him someday, when he may no longer be able to control them and talk himself back into reality. Was it insanity creeping into his mind, or simply overload of information and the erosion of tolerance for such acts. He may never know the answer.

How many people live in your village, he asked.

About nine hundred now, replied Marcos. Used to be a lot more. I’ve been busy these past few years…Can’t explain it. Nobody can, his voice softening to almost a whisper. I’ve lost a lot of good friends. A brother too. And my younger sister last year, his gaze lifting to the bright Brazilian sky.

There was a sustained silence. Jake’s head hung low, watching the dew trickle down the edges of his boots as the sun filled the horizon with its morning heat. I’m sorry, Marcos.

Some things are meant to be, Mr. Parker. I stopped trying to figure it out long ago, his voice was weaker, trembling. Pausing to look at the scattered houses, he turned to start on the path downward toward the village. You’ll see what I mean, Mr. Parker. No one seems to know what’s happening to our village. And no one else seems to care.

CHAPTER TWO

NICHOLAS DONALDSON SAT quietly in his second floor Capitol Hill office studying the seemingly endless barrage of figures, graphs and percentages staring him in the face. The data had been difficult to acquire and at a very high risk. Congressman Donaldson, Saint Nick, as everyone called him on the Hill, had served the public for over twenty-eight years and was a well-respected, dedicated and extremely diligent servant.

Tonight would be like many others. He’d grabbed dinner at Olsten’s with the usual workaholic companions that frequented the popular D.C. bar & grill. He’d made the routine call to his wife, Rebecca, to inform her about what she’d come to expect almost on a nightly basis; he would be home late and if she wished, could wait up for a nightcap and discussion until he almost fell asleep on the sofa. Their marriage had been a strong relationship. Their dedication to one another went well past most others’ thresholds. High school sweethearts, their love had never ended.

Nick had the perseverance of no other congressman on the Hill, yet also shared a gentile, romantic side of himself with his wife of thirty-three years. Their two sons had both graduated from prominent universities. The oldest was on the fast track to becoming just like his father. The youngest had graduated from Johns Hopkins and was now looking at a future in vaccinating three year olds as their siblings raced around the exam room driving their mothers crazy.

To Nick, Washington D.C. was a town of irony. An altruistic, powerful city that led the world in advanced weaponry, medicine, research & development and a myriad of other technologies that were far above the comprehension of most individuals. Yet, this same city also carried with it bribery, lies, sex scandals and whatever your drug of choice might be. He’d never crossed into the latter. Not to say there weren’t temptations early in his career. But, with age also comes wisdom, and he loved his family more than all twenty-eight years of work combined.

Nick’s eyes darted over the numbers, jumping from graph to graph, percentage to percentage. He was scared, an atypical trait he rarely displayed. His hands trembled slightly as the figures jumped back and forth. He was becoming uncomfortably hot.

The village of Cordosa was twenty-two kilometers west of Viamao. The small community in southern Brazil showed high incidents of almost every category of study. Something was causing birth defects, skeletal deformities, neurological complications, brain tumors, blindness, massive reductions in immune systems, anemia, jaundice and sterility. A village of nineteen hundred and forty-four people was deteriorating. It was one of a few villages associated with Abby’s international study involving high incidents of infant mortality. The numbers in Cordosa far exceeded the other six cities of that state.

The implications were clear and the severity of the problem caused him great alarm. He wasn’t a man prone to nervousness or that overwhelming feeling one has when confronted with obstacles too large to tackle. Yet, the implications sent a feeling of paralysis to his limbs. It couldn’t be true. He didn’t want it to be. Why would they be involved in something of this magnitude? In all his twenty-eight years of service, he’d never been blindsided like this. He had to make the call. Call her and let her know she was in danger.

The knock at the door came as a startle. And after the initial jolt, he realized it was an old familiar knock. He’d heard it a thousand times before. The visitor was not only a colleague, but also a childhood friend. It was the same knock Nick had heard since he was a boy of thirteen playing in his backyard tree house in Vermont. He too would be frightened.

The door opened and the two long-time friends exchanged handshakes and a hug. As Nick turned to welcome his fellow congressman into the office, a sudden sharp twinge of pain struck through his chest. It was indescribably excruciating. He stumbled, clinging to the wing-backed Victorian chair his wife had given him soon after marriage. He attempted to make it to the sofa, but the prolonged pain moved through his chest to his left shoulder and began to paralyze his left arm.

He knew the warning signs. He knew what was happening. A sudden chill went through his body as the realization hit him. Heart attack. The doctors had warned him three years ago to take it easy, to slow down his life. Heart attack, he thought. The words repeated in his mind.

Memories were blazing through as if experiencing them for the first time. Carrying Rebecca over the threshold, bringing home his sons, their fifth anniversary, Christmas under the tree in their first home. All those things in life that make it what it is. Those things now slipping away.

His clothing and face were soaked, dripping with sweat. His breathing short and rapid. The pain overpowered him as he curled into a fetal position on the floor. A matter of seconds had reduced him to nothingness. Nick twisted his neck and torso upward and attempted to vocalize what he had just learned. He was unable to form the words. Drifting into unconsciousness, the last experience congressman Nicholas Alexander Donaldson felt in this world was the embrace of his closest friend and ally.

Reece panicked. He looked at the window,