Текст книги "The Silent Sea (2010)"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

The Silent Sea

Chapter NINETEEN

THE HORSE WAS A BIG ARABIAN STALLION WITH SUCH taut muscles that veins showed in relief under its glossy skin. It was streaked in sweat and blew heavily, and yet was game to keep charging across the Argentine landscape, its hoofs pounding the ground in a thundering drumbeat. Its rider barely moved in her saddle, her slouch hat hanging off her throat by a strap.

Maxine Espinoza was a superb horsewoman, and raced for the stream five miles from the mansion as though she was gunning for the Triple Crown. She wore tan riding breeches and a man's white oxford unbuttoned enough so that wind caressed her skin. Her boots had a worn look that bespoke of countless hours riding and an almost equal amount of time being lovingly polished.

It was that perfect moment of late afternoon, when the sun dappled the ground under the occasional tree and slanted so the grass looked like burnished gold.

Movement to her left caught her eye, and she turned quick enough to see a hawk lift off from the ground with its dinner clutched in its razor-sharp talons.

Ha, Concorde, she cried, and firmed her grip on the reins.

The horse seemed to love these wild rides as much as his mistress, and he lengthened his stride. They were of one mind, and existed almost as a Centaur rather than two separate beings.

Only when they neared the band of forest that lined both sides of a stream did they slow. Maxine entered the glen at an easy walk, the big stallion beneath her heaving great lungfuls of air through his flared nostrils.

She could hear the stream gurgling over rocks and songbirds in the limbs of trees. She ducked under a branch and weaved Concorde deeper into the woods. This was her sanctuary, her special place, on the sprawling estate. The clear waters of the stream would sate her horse's thirst, and along the bank was a bed of grass where she'd slept during countless siestas.

She legged over Concorde's back and lowered herself to the ground. She needn't worry about him wandering off or drinking too much. He was better mannered than that. From her saddlebag she pulled a blanket of the finest Egyptian cotton. She was just moving to spread it on the grass when a figure emerged from behind a tree.

Excuse me, se+|ora.

Maxine whirled, her eyes narrowing in anger at the intrusion. She recognized the man. It was Raul Jimenez, her stepson's second-in-command. How dare you come here? You should be on the base with the rest of the soldiers.

I prefer the company of women.

She took two steps forward and slapped him. I should tell the General of your impudence.

And what would you tell him about this? He grabbed her smoothly and drew her body to his. He kissed her, and for a few seconds she resisted, but it was too much, and soon she had her hand on the back of his head as her hunger grew.

Jimenez finally pulled back. God, I've missed you.

Maxine's reply was to kiss him again, even more passionately. Now that they were alone, all pretense of his shyness around her was gone. They gave in to their desires.

It was much later that they were lying side by side on the hastily spread blanket. She gingerly touched the burn scars on his face. They were still red and looked painful.

You are no longer so beautiful. I think I should find myself another lover.

I don't think there is another in the regiment who would dare do what we just did.

Are you saying I am not worth a court-martial?

To me, you are worth death itself, but you forget I am the bravest man in the Army, he joked. And then a shadow passed behind his eyes.

What is it, darling?

'yBravest,' I said. His voice filled with bitterness. It takes little bravery to gun down villagers or kidnap American women.

Kidnap Americans? I don't understand.

That is where your husband sent us, to America, where we grabbed a woman who's an expert on Chinese ships or something. I have no idea why. I tell you, though, it's not what I joined the Army to do.

I know my husband, Maxine said. Everything he does is planned, from eating breakfast to commanding your regiment. He has his reasons. This must be why he took off for Buenos Aires just as you and Jorge returned.

We met him at your apartment in the city. He had some men with him Chinese, I think.

They're from the embassy. Philippe has been meeting with them quite a bit recently.

I'm sorry, but I still don't like it. Don't get me wrong. I love the Army and I love Jorge, but these past few months . . . His voice trailed off.

You may not believe this, Maxine said, her voice crisp and firm, but I love my husband very much, and I love this country. Philippe may be many things, but he is not reckless. Whatever he is doing is for the greater good of Argentina and its people.

You wouldn't say that if you'd seen some of the things he's ordered us to do.

I don't want to hear about it, she said stubbornly, the romantic cocoon they had built for themselves dissolving.

He placed a hand on her bare shoulder. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you.

I'm not upset, she replied, but had to wipe at her eyes. Philippe tells me very little, but I have always trusted him. You should, too.

Okay, Jimenez said, and reached for her.

Maxine slithered out of his grip. I must be getting back now. Even with Philippe in BA, the servants talk. You understand?

Of course. My servants are always gossiping. They both laughed because he had come from a poor family.

Maxine moved off to dress. She climbed aboard Concorde, who had stayed near them the entire time.

Will I see you tomorrow? he asked, stuffing the blanket back into the saddlebag.

So long as you promise not to discuss my husband or his work.

I will be the good soldier and do as you order.

THE CHOPPER PILOT WAS RELIEVED that his passengers had paid cash because when he saw their destination he knew any check they wrote would have bounced. As it stood, he considered radioing his business partner and having him make sure the money wasn't counterfeit.

He was taking the two men from Rio's Gale+uo International Airport to a cargo ship a hundred miles offshore. From a distance, it looked like any of the dozens of vessels that approached Brazil every week, but as they neared and details came into focus he could see she was a floating heap of rust barely held together by duct tape and baling wire. The smoke from her stack was so black, he suspected she burned bunker fuel and lubricating oil in equal ratios. Her cranes looked like they could barely hold themselves up, let alone lift any cargo. He glanced over his shoulder at the younger passenger as if to say: Are you sure?

The man had the sallow look of someone who hadn't slept for days, and whatever burden he carried was just ounces away from crushing him. And yet, when he realized the pilot was looking at him, the passenger winked one of his bright blue eyes, and the mask of consternation melted away.

She's not much to look at, the passenger said over his mike, but she gets the job done.

I don't think I can land on the deck, the pilot said, his English tinted with a hint of Portuguese. He didn't add that he thought the weight of his Bell JetRanger would probably collapse a hatch cover.

No problem. Just hover over the fantail, and we'll jump.

The second passenger, a man in his late fifties or early sixties with a bandage on his head, groaned at the prospect of leaping from the helicopter.

You got it. The pilot turned his attention back to flying while the passengers gathered up their luggage, which consisted of a laptop case and a battered canvas shoulder bag. Everything else had been dumped in Mississippi.

Juan Cabrillo never tired of looking at the Oregon. To him, she was as fine a piece of art as any of the paintings hanging on the walls of her secret passageways. He had to admit that homecomings were sweeter when a mission was complete, not like now, with Tamara Wright in the hands of an Argentine death squad and her exact whereabouts unknown. The cocky wink he had thrown at the pilot was just that cockiness. Her fate lay like a stone in his stomach.

To the Brazilian pilot's credit, he held the skids of the helicopter a foot off the deck when first Max and then Juan jumped to the ship. The two men ducked low in the pounding rotor wash until the JetRanger peeled away and clawed skyward. When it was a glittering speck on the western horizon, the helmsman Juan assumed it was Eric Stone killed the smudge generator that gave the illusion the ship was powered by traditional, albeit poorly maintained, marine diesels.

He gave the Iranian flag hanging from the jack staff his traditional one-finger salute and followed Max toward the superstructure.

They were met at a watertight door by Dr. Huxley and Linda Ross. Hux immediately started escorting Max down to Medical, muttering about the butcher job they had done on him in the hospital.

Welcome back, Linda greeted. That sure wasn't the relaxing couple of days you'd expected.

What's that line: 'yNo good deed goes unpunished'? That was a great job you did in Antarctica.

Thanks. There was an edge of bitterness in her voice. We got the intel to Overholt less than twenty-four hours before the Argentines took over, so it didn't do much good.

What's the latest?

There's been no contact with any of the other stations on the peninsula. We believe that the Argentines grabbed up the remaining interntional scientists and are going to use them as human shields at the oil terminal.

Juan frowned. Borrowing Saddam's playbook.

The Generalissimo plays dirty, that's for sure.

I asked Overholt if they have any assets in Argentina who could find out where they took Tamara Wright. Has he gotten back to you?

Not yet. Sorry.

Cabrillo's scowl deepened. This never would have happened if . . . There was nothing to be gained by venting his feelings so he didn't continue. He motioned for Linda to enter the ship. The Oregon was picking up speed, and the wind was starting to howl across her deck.

We'll be off the coast of Buenos Aires in thirty hours. With luck, Overholt will have something for us.

God, I hope so. Juan raked his fingers through his hair. I need to burn off some of this restless energy. If anyone needs me, I'll be in the pool.

One of the two enormous ballast tanks the Corporation used to raise or lower the ship depending on her disguise was tiled in buttery Carrara marble and lit with a combination of fixtures that approximated sunlight. It had taken a pounding when the Oregon went toe to toe with a Libyan frigate, but the artisans who'd made the repairs had done a masterful job.

Cabrillo shrugged off his robe and strapped four-pound weights to his wrists. The water wasn't kept that deep because the ship was racing for Argentina, so he shallow-dove, barely submerging his entire body, and came up in a breaststroke that he knew from experience he could maintain for hours.

The water had always been his refuge, and it was from here he could free his mind and let himself relax. The repetition of his thrusting limbs and the slow burn building in his muscles was like meditation.

The following morning, after a sumptuous breakfast in the dining hall, Juan stood his watch in the op center. He arrived early and relieved Eddie Seng, who'd had the dog shift. Eddie gratefully relinquished the command chair once he'd briefed Juan on shipping around the Oregon and the weather, which was about to turn nasty. The main view screen, all eight feet of it, showed the seas as if they were on the actual bridge several decks above them. The sky was a sunless gray, full of ugly, roiling clouds, while the sea was as black as slag from a foundry except where the wind tore at the tops of the waves and threw up custard-thick spume.

Water regularly burst over the bows in sheets that raced for the scuppers. A crewman was up on the forecastle, securing a hatchway. He looked as small as a child and nearly powerless in the face of the elements. Juan breathed a little easier when the man returned inside the ship.

Hali Kasim, the ship's communications expert, was at his station along the wall to Cabrillo's right near the now-dim waterfall display for the Oregon's sonar system. In these seas, and at the ship's speed, it was impossible to hear acoustical signals, so the sonar was off-line.

Call for you, Chairman, Hali said. His hair stuck up at odd angles because of the old-fashioned headset he preferred. It's Overholt at the CIA.

About damned time, Juan muttered, and hooked a Bluetooth over his ear. Langston, what have you got for me?

Morning, Overholt grunted. In that one word, Cabrillo knew the news was going to be bad. The President's National Security Council meeting just broke up. The DCI called me no more than five minutes ago.

What's happening?

The Joint Chiefs reported that a Chinese fast-attack submarine was detected off the coast of Chile. Course and speed will put her in the waters around the Antarctic Peninsula in a day or two.

They're playing for keeps, Juan remarked. The move didn't come as a surprise.

Sure are. The Argies confirmed they have our scientists from Palmer Station as well as more than a dozen others from Russia, Norway, Chile, and Australia. The numbers are thankfully low because these are the small winter-over crews.

What's our official response to this? What's the President going to do?

China's announced that any attempt to censure Argentina at the UN will be vetoed immediately. There will be no resolutions or sanctions.

Gee, Juan said sarcastically, that's a major setback. How will we ever stop them without the UN throwing harsh words their way?

Overholt chuckled through his exhaustion. He shared Cabrillo's low opinion of the international body. Here's the really bad news. The President will not authorize the use of force. England and Russia are rattling their sabers, but the political will in Parliament and the Duma just isn't there. The leadership in the House and Senate have also indicated they aren't willing to defend the Antarctic Treaty with American lives.

So that's it? Juan said with disgust. We call ourselves a moral nation, but when it comes to fighting for an ideal the politicians ram their heads in the sand.

I would say they've rammed their heads in a far less hospitable place, but, yes, that's it.

We are backing down from our moral and legal obligation. I'm sorry, Lang, but this decision is wrong.

You're preaching to the choir, my boy, Overholt said affably. However, I serve at the discretion of the President, so there's not much I can do. For the record, my boss thinks we should kick the Argentines out of Antarctica, as does the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. They also see the dangerous precedent this sets.

What happens now?

Why, nothing. We'll craft some UN resolution that the Chinese will shoot down and that's about it, I'm afraid.

Now that he had Antarctica, Paraguay and Uruguay would be next on Generalissimo Ernesto Coraz+|n's list. Cabrillo thought that the only thing sparing Chile was the difficulty of moving an army across the Andes. In Venezuela, Ch+ivez had built up his military with oil-for-weapons deals with Russia, and he had been looking for an excuse to unleash it on Colombia. Iraq's teetering democracy would fall like a house of cards if an emboldened Iran started throwing its weight around.

Juan wanted to say all of this to Overholt, but he knew it was wasted breath. The President's advisers, he was sure, had already laid out the same scenarios and had been unable to sway the man's opinion.

Tell me some good news, Juan said wearily.

Ah, that I have as well. Overholt's voice perked up. We have an asset in Argentina who says that your missing professor is being held in Buenos Aires.

That narrows it down to a city of twelve million.

Ye of little faith, Overholt chided. She's in a fifth-floor penthouse apartment in the Recoleta District just off Avenue Las Heras.

If I remember correctly, the Recoleta District is the swanky part of town.

The apartment belongs to General Philippe Espinoza, the commander of the Ninth Brigade.

Ninth Brigade, huh? That wasn't welcome news.

I'm afraid so. The General is interrogating her personally. I would guess with the help of whatever spooks the Chinese have in Buenos Aires.

The image of Tamara Wright strapped to a chair flashed through Cabrillo's mind, and he winced. Download whatever intel you have on the building. We should be off the coast by sunset.

How are you going to get her out?

As soon as I come up with a plan, you'll be the second to know. Juan cut the connection and leaned back, absently rubbing his chin. He hadn't been joking. He had no idea how to save the professor.

The Silent Sea

Chapter TWENTY

FOUL WEATHER DOGGED THE OREGON AS SHE POUNDED her way southward. Ship and crew took the abuse stoically, as if it were penance for Tamara's capture. At least that's how Cabrillo felt about it. Some of the waves reached almost the height of the bridge, and, when her stern rose high, water exploded from the pump jets in twin lances that shot nearly a hundred feet.

Juan had assembled the senior staff in the Corporation's board-room. The space had been destroyed by a direct hit from the Libyan frigate, and in the reconstruction Juan had gone for a modern glass-and-stainless-steel look. The table was embedded with a microscopic mesh of electrical wires that, when activated, created a static charge that kept papers in place no matter the sea's state. With winds blowing force seven outside, the table was cranked up to keep the dozens of notes and photographs from being dumped on the floor. On the head and foot walls hung large flat-screen displays running a slide show of photographs of the target house and its environs.

The beautiful apartment building looked like it had been taken apart stone by stone in France and erected on a broad avenue in South America. In fact, much of BA's older architecture was in the French Empire style with mansard roofs, ornate stonework, and innumerable columns. Because of the wealth in the Recoleta District, there were countless parks dominated by statues of past leaders. Many of the main streets had been built to accommodate the turning radius of eight-horse teams when wagons were the dominant mode of transportation.

Because he admittedly lacked any tactical ability, Max Hanley wasn't part of the meeting and stood watch in the op center. With Cabrillo were Mark Murphy, Eric Stone, Linda Ross, Eddie Seng, and Franklin Lincoln, their lead gundog. While civilian attire was the preferred mode of dress aboard ship, Eddie, Linda, and Linc wore black tactical uniforms. Mark had thrown a grunge-era flannel shirt over his St. Pauli Girl Beer T-shirt.

Juan took a sip of coffee and set the cup back into a recessed swivel holder. To recap, we're not going to bring the ship within Argentine waters, so that leaves us with a submersible infiltration, yes? Heads nodded. I recommend we use the bigger ten-person Nomad 1000. We probably don't need the room, but better too much than too little.

Who's tail-ended Charlie and gets stuck babysitting it? Linc asked.

Don't know until we firm up our plans. We have to assume a building like this will have a doorman. He might be our key. Not sure yet.

Eddie raised his hand despite Juan's repeated admonishments that he could interrupt whenever he liked. If she's held on the top floor, wouldn't going through the roof make more sense?

It's slate, for one thing, Eric said. And you can best believe that the substructure is going to be substantial. The cribbing and decking to support such a shallow pitch is going to be thick and sturdy.

It's gotta be some god-awful exotic timber that's harder than steel, Murph added. The building predates the use of metal girders as a support structure, so there are fundamental flaws in its design and construction. Explosives in the right place would topple an exterior wall.

I'm looking for the velvet touch here, Juan said, not a sledgehammer. We have to remember that Argentina is a police state, and, as such, there will be cops on every corner with the authority to arrest anyone at any time. And every third pedestrian's a snitch. I don't want to have any reason for anybody to give us the hairy eyeball. We need to be subtle.

There's always the sewers, Linda suggested. And if that's how we do this, let me go on record and volunteer to stay with the minisub.

That's taking one for the team, Eddie teased.

It'll be a sacrifice, Linda said with as straight a face as she could muster. But you know me. I'll do anything to help.

Ideas were floated, analyzed, and dissected for the next two hours. The five of them had planned countless missions together, and in the end they could come up with nothing better than a slight variation on Mark Murphy's sledgehammerish suggestion. There were too many variables like the number of men guarding Tamara to try anything with more finesse.

THE SPACE WHERE THEY could launch either of the two mini-subs they carried buzzed with activity when Juan entered through a watertight hatch. The massive keel doors, as large as those on a barn, were still closed, and the moon pool was empty, but the air was heavy with the smell of the ocean.

Technicians swarmed over the sleek Nomad 1000. The mini looked like a scaled-down version of a nuclear submarine, only its nose was a convex piece of transparent acrylic capable of withstanding depths of more than a thousand feet, and robotic arms hung under its chin like the claws of some enormous sea monster. The conning tower was only two feet tall, and lashed behind it was a large black rubber boat. They wouldn't be going very deep on their run to shore, so the Zodiac had been filled with air already. All their gear was stored internally and would be transferred to the inflatable when they were closer to shore.

The extraction team consisted of Cabrillo, Linc, Linda, and Mark Murphy. Juan wouldn't have minded another gunner along, but he wanted to keep the group as small as he could. Mike Trono would drive the sub and stay with her when the others motored to the coast.

Kevin Nixon waved him over. The former Hollywood special-effects guru ran what the crew called the Magic Shop. He was responsible for creating any disguises the shore operators would need, as well as providing documentation. Though he himself wasn't a master forger, he had two in his division.

These should pass, no problem, the tall, bearded Nixon said. He handed Cabrillo a folder.

Juan thumbed through the papers. There were Argentine IDs for the four of them, plus travel and work permits. All the documents looked authentic and properly aged. The thick sheaf of cash was real.

First-rate, as usual, Cabrillo said. Let's just hope we never need to use any of this stuff.

Batteries are fully charged, nav and sonar check out, and life support is set, Trono reported when Juan approached. Wish I was coming all the way with you.

We don't know what condition Dr. Wright's going to be in, so I need Linc in case we have to carry her back to the Zodiac.

I know, but, well . . . You know what I mean.

Juan laid a hand on Mike's shoulder. I understand.

Max Hanley arrived. Seas aren't going to get any calmer, so you might as well launch.

Cabrillo raised an eyebrow. Here to see us off?

No, just to make sure you bring her back. I wasn't kidding about wanting to take Tamara out on a date. She's dynamite.

The future of your love life is in capable hands. Were you serious about the weather?

'Fraid so. Rain's coming down in buckets and won't let up until tomorrow night. Do you want to delay?

Launching and recovering one of the submersibles was tricky enough in calm weather, but Juan wasn't tempted. Every second counted. No. Not this time.

Good luck, Max said, and turned to head back to the op center.

Cabrillo was neither superstitious nor a fatalist, yet somehow Hanley's wish made him uneasy. Wishing luck to someone going into danger was just bad luck. He roused himself. Okay, people, let's saddle up.

He was the last one through the Nomad's hatch and he spun it closed, tightening the seal until an indicator light in the cramped conning tower flicked to green. Mike would see the same indicator in the high-tech cockpit. A second later the technician on launch control used the heavy machinery to lift the submersible off its rack while at the same time opening the controls that flooded the moon pool.

The lighting in the space switched from fluorescent tubes to red bulbs to help the crew adjust to the coming darkness. When the artificial basin was full, hydraulic rams opened the keel doors. Water in the moon pool sloshed dangerously, washing across the deck and dousing one technician with spray. The submersible held steady in its cradle.

It was slowly lowered into the water, waves splashing against the acrylic dome. It was too rough to risk divers in the moon pool, so a worker leapt across to the top of the sub and detached the cables while she was still floating inside the ship. Mike immediately dumped air, and the minisub dropped clear of the ship.

The water was pitch-black, and at this shallow depth they could feel the powerful South Atlantic surging above them. Until they were about fifty feet down, the Nomad dipped and swayed in a nauseating random ballet.

Everyone okay back there? Trono called over his shoulder after setting a westerly heading.

There should have been a sign back there that said I was too short for this ride, Linda said. She massaged her elbow where it had been slammed into the steel hull.

Juan climbed through the austere cabin and plopped himself in the copilot's seat to Mike's right. What's our ETA?

One second. Mike finished punching numbers into the navigation computer. It spit back the answer instantly. We've got five hours in this can, provided we don't stumble on any Coast Guard or Navy ships.

They'll never hear us in this slop. Juan leaned back so he could see the others. Five hours. Might as well catch a few z's.

Mark, you can share my bench, Linc said. We can spoon.

Forget it, Colossus. You never let me be the little spoon.

The ride in was uneventful. There was no shipping into or out of Buenos Aires and no military patrols. They surfaced a mile from shore. The proximity to land had calmed the waters somewhat, though rain fell steadily. Through the murk they could see the lights of the downtown high-rises as a spectral aura announcing the city. What was known as the Latin Paris looked ominous in the storm. A mile from them was a place of malice and fear, where the state controlled every aspect of its citizen's lives. To be captured would mean their death.

Juan organized the loading of their gear into waterproof bags. He lashed each one to the Zodiac as it was passed up to him from below. He suspected they were taking too much equipment, but there were variables within variables, and they needed to be ready for anything.

He fitted a headset over his ears. Comm check, comm check, how do you read?

Five by five, Mike answered from the submersible's cockpit.

Mind the shop while we're gone.

You got it, Chairman.

Juan waited until the other three had clamored out the hatch and settled into the inflatable before releasing the lines that had kept it secured. As they floated free, he eyed another bundle of equipment they had left lashed to the deck and hoped against hope they would not need to use it.

The Zodiac's electric motor made a whine that was lost to the storm, and with its low profile they were all but invisible. Juan had to steer a few degrees off point because of the current of the mighty Rio de la Plata, the river that first attracted Spanish settlers to build BA.

They made their way toward the heavily industrialized port area where big freighters lay idle since so few countries maintained trade ties with the rogue nation. Cabrillo noticed that the ships here were registered to nations such as Cuba, Libya, China, and Venezuela. He wasn't surprised.

Because of the weather, there was virtually no activity on the docks that they could see from their low vantage in the inflatable raft. The big gantry cranes were immobile and the tower lights were off. He motored them under an unused pier whose concrete pilings were covered with mussels and sea growth that stank of iodine. The water was remarkably free of trash, thanks to the river.

Linc tied off the Zodiac while Juan cut the motor.

Hi, honey, I'm home, Mark quipped. They all wore foul-weather gear, but Murph had a particular drowned-rat look to him.

Cabrillo ignored the joke. He had his game face on. Okay, we all know the plan. Stick to it. We'll call when we've cased the building.

We'll be ready, Linc replied.

Juan and Linda stripped out of their nylon rain pants and jackets. Under his, Cabrillo wore a thousand-dollar suit, which he quickly wrapped in a Burberry trench coat. His shoes looked like wingtips but were in fact combat shoes with nonskid rubber soles. Linda had on a red cocktail dress that was slit up high and cut down low. Her trench coat was black, and she wore boots that nearly reached her thighs. Like Juan's shoes, these were designed for ease of movement and traction. Only another woman would notice they weren't quite the apex of fashion. They had no heels.

Juan climbed the ladder built into the dock pylon first, and Linda shot her two crewmates a look that said, Peek up my dress and you'll regret it, before following him. She pulled a little feminine umbrella from her coat pocket and popped it over her head. Because he stood a solid ten inches taller, Juan couldn't fit under it with her, and as they started down the quay he had to duck several times to avoid having one of its thin metal ribs gouge out an eye.

It took them fifteen minutes to cross the sprawling port facility and reach the main gate. Flickering light from inside the guardhouse meant the security men were watching television. Juan and Linda strolled leisurely past, and a few minutes later found a taxi cruising the deserted streets. Cabrillo gave an address a few doors down from General Espinoza's building. One of the junta's laws mandated that the cabbie write down their names and addresses from their travel papers. It was one more way for the government to keep track of its people. The lack of freedom made Cabrillo's skin crawl.