"Amanda Verdugo," read the small sign that Mitch held. He scanned the disembarking passengers, looking for someone who looked like a missionary. Fidgeting, he checked the sign again, making sure it was right-side-up. He wished he had trimmed his mustache and gotten a haircut. He supposed he looked like the thirty-nine-year old bachelor that he was. At least he had on decent Levis and a good, clean Hawaiian shirt.

He had done the right thing, contacting the FAA with the registration number of that downed plane he had found four weeks ago. Someone had indeed been searching. Agencies had managed to cooperate across borders and now here he was again, in the Simón Bolívar International Airport.

Again, he carried his grandfather's journal with him. Where they were headed, the information in it could be useful, for this time he'd be seeing that jungle close-up, first-hand, instead of just from the air. The idea filled him with excitement, and just a bit of trepidation.

"Hi. I'm Amanda Verdugo. You must be Mitch Cassidy?"

Whatever he might have been expecting, she wasn't it. This woman wasn't frumpy or anything like what he'd pictured a missionary to be. She was actually quite pretty, in a plain and simple sort of way. Dark blond hair falling to just past her shoulders, grey eyes and no makeup, at least none that Mitch could see. She wore khaki shorts and a comfortable-looking mint green blouse. On her feet were hiking boots that looked well-traveled. She looked like someone who might fit into the Amazonas backcountry, after all. She reminded Mitch of a young Jane Goodall, from those old National Geographics of Grandpa Russ's that Mitch had pored over as a kid. In a way, it was those National Geographics that had kicked off this adventure, two generations ago.

"Yeah, I'm Mitch. How do you do?" he asked, shaking her hand. She wore no ring, no jewelry at all, save for a small gold cross on a chain around her neck. "Have a good flight?"

"It was fine. Long, but fine."

For a moment they sized each other up. Then Amanda said, "So, you located my father's plane. Could you see . . . was there any . . . how do I want to ask this? Do you think we're going in for a rescue or a recovery?"

Right to the point, Mitch thought. But a question with no easy answer. They began walking toward the arrivals hall while Mitch filled her in on what he had seen.

"Hard to tell. I only saw it from the air, with the weather closing in fast. I zoomed the camera in as we flew over and got a couple of good pictures. That's how I could identify the registration number. From what I could tell, the plane looked intact. But from the air, over a jungle, it's hard to pick out much detail. Then the storm hit and we had to high-tail it out of there. When I got back to the States, I reported it. Everything must have worked out, because here we are."

"Dad's plane went missing a few months ago," Amanda said. "He's a doctor, serving the backcountry. He'd made a stop at La Esmeralda, and that was the last place he was seen. The Venezuelan authorities kept the search going for almost a week. With all that goes on around here, it was lucky that they gave it that much. Out here, the jungle just swallows you up, or so they say."

"Passports and tourist visas, please," said the girl behind the counter.

They had reached the front of the line at the arrivals desk. Mitch was glad his visa from his previous visit was still valid. He and Amanda handed over the documents.

The arrivals agent checked and stamped their papers, then handing them back, asked, "And your purpose for visiting Venezuela?"

Mitch was about to say, "Just tourists," and was expecting the standard cautions about travel in the country and then, "Enjoy your stay," but Amanda piped up. "We're on a search and rescue mission. My father's plane went down a while back. Mr. Cassidy here is my guide. Hopefully, we'll be able to bring my father home, one way or the other."

Inwardly Mitch winced. He knew the can of worms that could open.

The agent turned her attention to Mitch. "And where is this plane you're going to recover? Do you know exactly, or at least have a good idea where to look?"

That's what Mitch was afraid of. "In the hills southeast of La Esmeralda, in Amazonas," he admitted. "Her father is a doctor, serving the backcountry, and across borders."

"You have your permits, I assume?"

Best to counter and go on the offensive, Mitch thought. "There was no time. That process can take months." At home he had indeed looked into it. "Besides, it's not all the way into Parima Tapirapeco. It's in the Sierra Unturan, I believe, before you get that far."

"Still, you would need a permit to go into an Indigenous Protected Zone. Unless you're on a registered scientific expedition, the best way to see those areas, really the only way, is with a licensed, sanctioned tour outfitter."

Both she and Mitch were becoming very aware of those waiting behind in line.

"We really need to get in, do what we can, and get back out as quickly as possible. There's a good chance that the good doctor is still alive. Time is . . . of the essence."

The arrivals agent glanced again at those in line, sighed, and checked her computer terminal. "You will be passing through Puerto Ayacucho, of course." She wrote down some information on a slip of paper and handed it to Mitch. "You can try at the Tourist Office or the Guardia Nacional. Maybe they can write you an emergency exemption. Here are their addresses in Puerto Ayacucho."

She turned to Amanda. "I really do wish you luck in finding your father. And please do enjoy your stay in Venezuela."

"Well, that went well, I guess," said Amanda. "At least she didn't put us right back on the next plane home."

Striding purposefully through the airport, Mitch could feel eyes upon them. He felt conspicuously American. Venezuela is a dangerous country and especially in Caracas. Murders, kidnappings, and violent crimes of all sorts are a daily occurrence. The airport was the first place an unsuspecting victim might get robbed or mugged. Mitch was careful to watch their backs.

They made their way to the baggage claim. Though Mitch was flying in from Miami, and Amanda from Los Angeles, they had managed to coordinate their flight times to arrive close to the same time. Mitch picked up his well-worn backpack. As Amanda's luggage came around, Mitch was pleased to see that it also consisted of a single backpack. In contrast to her well-used hiking boots, though, the backpack looked brand new. After the security attendant had checked them and their packs out, they made their way to the car rental counter and picked up the car Mitch had reserved.

They were only staying in Caracas overnight; they'd be back in the morning for a commuter flight to Puerto Ayacucho, so they could easily have taken public transportation rather than renting a car. But again, in a city like Caracas, Mitch felt more comfortable furnishing his own wheels.

"I got us a couple of rooms at the Marriot," Mitch said as they drove off.

The drive from the Simón Bolívar airport in Maquietia into Caracas itself took about thirty minutes. The autopista wound its way past Cerro El Ávila, the coastal mountain that separated Caracas from the Caribbean Sea. Exiting the third tunnel, Mitch kept to the left, bearing onto Highway 9, past the botanical garden to the Las Mercedes exit, then worked his way along Avenida Rio de Janeiro. Negotiating a maze of one-way streets, he reached the hotel, in the business district of El Rosal. With the altitude taking the edge off of the tropical climate, it wasn't long before the heat of the day gave way to the cool of evening.

After checking in, Mitch and Amanda retired to their respective rooms, next to each other on the twelfth floor, for a rest of an hour or so before meeting for dinner. The rooms were tastefully furnished in dark wood in a contemporary style. Large windows framed a fine view of the city with its modern high-rises close at hand and the crowded barrios climbing the coastal mountains behind. Mitch's usual taste in accommodations ran more to the rustic, and he suspected Amanda's did as well, but he appreciated an occasional stay in a finer hotel. Besides, this might be the last they'd see of "real" civilization for some time.

The hotel had its own restaurant, with an accent on Mediterranean fare, but Mitch and Amanda, deciding on seafood, had taken the recommendation for Rua's, a short distance away. Now dressed in sweaters and light jackets, they drove the half-mile over. It was safer to drive after dark than walk anyway, considering the city's reputation for crime. Never mind the jungles of Amazonas that might swallow you up. You could disappear just as easily on the streets of Caracas, never to be seen again. Just to be safe, Mitch unpacked his pocket knife and returned it to its usual place in his left front pocket. The partially serrated blade was only three inches, but as protection, it was better than nothing.

Over dinner, swordfish for him, mahi-mahi for her, they got to know each other and discussed the logistics of searching for her father's plane. Hopefully, they would find out what had happened to him.

"Tomorrow we've got a commuter flight to Puerto Ayacucho," said Mitch, taking a long draught on his mango iced tea. "Once we get there, I've got a bush pilot lined up to fly us into La Esmeralda. Roberto, the same guy I flew with before. Did you have any luck getting us a boat out of La Esmeralda?"

"I called the mission at Isla Raton, where I work," said Amanda, "and they said they'd call the mission at La Esmeralda and have a boat for us, but I'm still waiting on a call back from the far end. Hopefully by tomorrow morning." She took another bite of mahi-mahi.

"It's good that the missions are coordinating that end of it," said Mitch. "I guess being a missionary helps to open doors."

"Oh, I'm not a missionary," said Amanda. "Just a lay teacher who works part time for the mission. The rest of the year I teach fifth grade English in Santa Monica, California. For the moment, anyway. In September, I'll be starting something new in Corpus Christi, Texas. Summers, I'm down at Isla Raton. I teach language, to the Piaroa children mainly, to get them to make the transition from Piaroa to Spanish, and then from there to English. So, what brought you to Venezuela in the first place? How did you happen to be there to spot my father's plane?"

"Chasing legends," answered Mitch after a moment's thought. "I was following an adventure started by my grandfather two generations ago. He'd come to South America hoping to solve one mystery, only to get wrapped up in another. Here, I'll let him tell you himself. I've got his journal right here in my jacket pocket." Mitch pulled out a small, leather-bound volume. He flipped through a few pages, then handed it to Amanda.

* * *

10 November 1953 - Puerto Ayacucho, Venezuela

Well, it didn't take long for our little expedition to Brazil to take a short detour into the wilds of Venezuela. Needless to say, the National Geographic wouldn't take the bait on our idea for a Fawcett expedition. Too risky, they say. Considering all the people who have died or disappeared over the last almost-thirty years since Fawcett vanished, I can't blame them.

But in Belém, we got involved in an archeological dig in the Old City and uncovered a couple of seventeenth century Spanish journals. Spanish, mind you, not Portuguese, from two Jesuit explorers on an Amazon expedition. We had to turn them over to the Brazilian government, of course. But not before Jerry had a chance to translate. We found some interesting, cryptic notes indicating that there might be an adventure and a story worth pursuing in nearby Venezuela.

With time still on our hands, we made our way to Caracas, to meet with Jimmie Angel, the discoverer of the world's highest waterfall, off a tepui in Venezuela's Gran Sabana. Who better to ask about local legends? Everywhere he goes, people get him talking of his adventures and how he accidentally came across the falls while trying to find his way back to a river where he'd made a gold strike.

But what sealed the deal for us was what the barkeep had to say. The guy was a Guajiba Indian and he told us a tale he had heard as a kid from his father, back when the tribe lived in the bush. It seems there's this local legend among some of the backcountry tribes. It's usually told second or third hand: The Guajiba heard it from the Piaroa who heard it from an old Yanomami elder. But supposedly there's a small band who live as far out as you can get, near the Venezuela/Brazil borderlands, even out beyond the other Fierce Ones, who are known as the People of the Emerald Arrows. It seems they fashion their arrowheads out of emerald crystal.

Where do they get the emerald? you might ask. They must get it in trade, probably passing through many hands, from some tribe across the Great River in Colombia. But no. According to the tale we were told, there is a mountain whose "belly glows like green fire." Ask the Fierce Ones, we are told. They will tell you. If they don't shoot you.

So here we are, in Puerto Ayacucho, stocking up on tobacco and machetes, to give as gifts for any stories they might be willing to share. We can fly into the little mission at La Esmeralda and see if we can borrow or rent or buy a boat to explore the Casiquiare River and its tributaries for a week or so. And hopefully meet these Fierce Ones. And maybe, just maybe, see if Venezuela has a mountain that contains emeralds to rival Colombia's.

* * *

"So, you were following in your grandfather's footsteps," said Amanda, handing the journal back to Mitch. "A fascinating story."

"I thought so too when I was twelve years old, though I always took it with a grain of salt. Now I'm not so sure that he wasn't on to something after all."

Back at the hotel, they bade each other good night in the hallway between their respective rooms. They would meet at eight the next morning for breakfast, then back to the airport and on to Puerto Ayacucho.

From his window, Mitch could see the offices of Petro Sudamérica, a subsidiary of Millennium Resources International. He knew that because he had recently received a job offer from MRI. They were looking for a pilot who could fly both small bush planes and corporate jets. Mitch's experience in the Air Force qualified him on that count.

For a while, Mitch stood at the big window, looking down at the city lights that filled the narrow mountain valley, and thinking of the journey to come and of Amanda Verdugo. Working on Isla Raton, an island in the Orinoco River on the Venezuela/Colombia border, she would no doubt know the ins and outs of being an American in such a country. Mitch thought of her well-worn hiking boots and her new backpack. She was obviously at home in the outdoors and knew the traveled parts of Venezuela, but he wondered if she truly understood the dangers and challenges of the Amazonas backcountry. Venezuela was no longer the adventurer's paradise it had once been in his grandfather's time, back in the days of Jimmie Angel.

Mitch took out that emerald arrowhead, which he now wore on a silver chain around his neck. He felt its smoothness as his fingers traced its outline. He wondered what primitive hands and tools had shaped it. He didn't think emerald just chipped to a sharp edge, the way obsidian did. He tried to imagine some ancient tribe, deep in the interior, sitting on some emerald mine known to others only in legend.

He wondered how close his grandfather might have come to making his own grand discovery. Monte de Fuego Verde, it was called. The Mountain of Green Fire. A fool's errand, Mitch's father had called the whole business. And it probably was. Especially nowadays, with the jungle's new dangers of drug lords, coca farmers, FARC revolutionary guerrillas, and indigenous peoples who might be friendly or deadly hostile depending on the situation and the moment, considering the ever-increasing influx of outsiders into their ancestral lands.

He studied that emerald thoughtfully and smiled. They would be heading right into the same region. With a little luck, maybe Mitch could solve that age-old mystery as well. For, like the explorers and conquistadors of old, who came in name of God or country or king, there was always the underlying quest for treasure.