Текст книги "Piranha"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

“Good. But she’s free to go anytime she wants.”

“I think she’s okay for a few days. A friend told her that her apartment was ransacked, so she thinks laying low for a while is a good idea. So was your talk with Mr. Perlmutter useful?”

“More than we hoped,” Juan said, and told Max about their discoveries concerning the Roraima and the connection between Kensit and the dead translator in New York.

“I think I see where this is going,” Max said when Juan was finished.

“Get the Oregon under way for Martinique. You should be able to be there in twelve hours. When Eric and I are done in Manhattan, we’ll fly directly there to meet you. But don’t wait for us. Start diving as soon as you arrive. Eric will send you the deck plans for the search pattern.”

“Already got them.”

“Good. And don’t tell Overholt where you’re going if he calls. We don’t know how Kensit’s surveillance system works or how deep its reach is.” Eric, Murph, and Hali had completely scrubbed their communications systems, so Juan was confident that no one was listening to this conversation.

“You think he might have penetrated CIA?” Max asked.

“Probably not, but it isn’t a risk I want to take. Those photos in the Roraima could be our only clue to tracking down Kensit. If he learns about them and retrieves them first or destroys them, we may never find him.”

Manhattan

It wasn’t difficult to follow the white delivery van through the bustling New York traffic. The green-and-gray logo of tropical vines wrapping around skyscrapers on the back door served as a target that could be seen from several blocks away. Hector Bazin had been on its tail since the Urban Jungle courier service van had left its company’s loading dock.

“Don’t miss this light,” he told his driver. “We don’t have time to go back and follow another van if we lose this one.”

“Yes, sir.” The driver nosed the car around a stopped bus and goosed the accelerator. With the congested streets, there was no chance the van driver would suspect he was being followed.

After putting Brian Washburn and Lawrence Kensit on a helicopter to go visit the Sentinel facility, Bazin had taken one of their two private jets and headed straight for New York City on intelligence that Juan Cabrillo and his companion would be going there next. Bazin’s mission was to intercept him and stop his investigation before it could go any further.

The van took a right on a quiet street in Greenwich Village and double-parked outside a brownstone with a shingle for an accountant’s office. The driver, a white man an inch shorter than Bazin, dressed in the company’s uniform of black trousers and green shirt, jacket, and cap, all emblazoned with the company logo, hopped out of the van with a package. He ducked his head against the chilly wind and rushed inside.

Bazin got out, hauling his own package, a box the size of a bread loaf. He casually walked up to the passenger side of the van and assured himself that no one on the street was watching. Like the deliveryman, the few people who were on the street had their eyes to the sidewalk out of the wind.

The driver had locked the van on exiting, but Bazin shoved a metal shim down the window frame and snagged the lock in seconds. He yanked up, then pulled the door open and slipped inside.

He relocked the door, took up position behind the driver’s seat, drew a Glock semiautomatic, and waited. A minute later, he heard quick footsteps shuffling toward him. The driver’s door opened, letting in a blast of air. The deliveryman settled into his seat with a squeak of springs and tossed his electronic signature pad on the passenger seat.

Bazin stuck the Glock into the driver’s side.

“Hey!” the deliveryman yelled. When he looked down and saw the gun, he added, “Oh, God!”

“Go,” Bazin said.

“Yeah, yeah. Okay, man. Just don’t shoot.” He put the van into drive and eased forward.

“What’s your name?” Bazin asked.

“Leonard O’Shea. Where are we going?”

“I’ll tell you where to turn, Leonard.”

“Don’t kill me, man.”

“I won’t hurt you as long as you do what I say,” Bazin said in a soothing voice. “Do you understand?”

O’Shea nodded so violently that his skull banged against the headrest.

“Good. Keep going.”

They drove for ten minutes until Bazin had O’Shea thread his way into a deserted alley in Hell’s Kitchen. O’Shea parked and put his hands on the wheel. He eyed Bazin in the mirror with a pleading look.

“Listen, man, take anything you want. It’s all insured anyway. It’s mostly rich bankers sending each other stuff. They won’t miss it.”

“Unfortunately, Leonard, that’s not why I’m here.”

A confused expression was all O’Shea could muster before Bazin pistol-whipped his temple. The blow knocked him cold, but Bazin had to make sure he wouldn’t come to and attract attention. He pulled O’Shea out of the driver’s seat and snapped his neck before laying him on the floor among the packages.

Bazin was already dressed in black pants, but he needed the rest of O’Shea’s uniform. He swapped clothes and was disappointed to find that the sleeves were a couple inches too short. Although they were close to the same height, which is the reason Bazin had selected the unfortunate man in the first place, O’Shea’s arms were unusually short.

Bazin shrugged and donned the Urban Jungle cap. It was too late now to do anything about it. He had a package to deliver.

He rechecked the encrypted radio detonator in his pocket and secured the box on the passenger seat. The bogus packing slip on top, printed out with the Urban Jungle logo and a United Nations return address, read “Global Translation Services, Attn: Greg Horne.”

–

Juan reached the offices of Global Translation Services fifteen minutes before they closed. He had Eric drop him off and circle the block so they wouldn’t have to deal with Manhattan parking. The firm was a much smaller operation than the name implied. The front lobby overlooked Fortieth Street five floors below, and Juan spotted a dozen desks with translators listening to headsets busily typing away, three private offices, and a conference room.

A pretty, young receptionist informed Greg Horne of his visitor. Juan watched the traffic as he waited.

A short, dark-haired man, crisply dressed in a charcoal pin-striped suit, opened a door at the far end of the workspace. It was the largest office and had a plate-glass window with a view of the entire operation. The man quick-stepped toward Juan, a tight smile set beneath an upturned nose.

“Mr. Cochran, I’m Greg Horne, president and owner of GTS,” he said with an outstretched hand. Juan had thought it prudent to use one of his aliases for this meeting.

“Thanks for meeting with me on such short notice, Mr. Horne,” Juan said with a friendly grin, and adjusted the glasses he was wearing. “This is quite an operation you have here.”

“We run a pretty lean business,” Horne said as he walked Juan back to his office. “Most of the work is farmed out to independent contractors except for the most high-profile and sensitive jobs, which are kept in-house.”

Horne ushered Juan into his office and closed the door. Juan took the proffered seat.

“Was the job for Lawrence Kensit in-house?”

Horne tented his fingers and peered at Juan. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cochran. What is your relation to Mr. Kensit?”

“So you remember him and Dr. Lutzen’s diary?”

“Certainly. But the diary made no mention of him being a doctor. Although it was more than two years ago, it was a fascinating case. It’s not often we translate a document that old. How do you know about it?”

“I represent a collector who is interested in buying it. I can’t say who it is, but he’s a wealthy tech entrepreneur who collects rare scientific journals. Mr. Kensit is thinking of selling it, so we wanted to verify its authenticity.”

The glasses Juan was wearing contained a microcamera. If he could get Horne to let him flip through the original German or the English translation, he would have it all recorded so he could take it back to the Oregon for examination later.

“You do have a copy of the document,” Juan said helpfully.

Horne’s eyes briefly flicked to a file cabinet. “As I said, it was a special case. My translator, Bob Gillman, was not allowed to record his translation into the computer. Those were Mr. Kensit’s instructions.”

“But you have a physical copy in that cabinet.”

“Of course not!” Horne exclaimed with feigned offense. “We were under strict orders to destroy even the handwritten copy.”

Juan nodded and looked toward the lobby as if he were considering other options. A deliveryman in a green jacket and cap was dropping off a package with the receptionist. Urban Jungle, the back of his uniform read. Not a well-fitting outfit, either. The sleeves were comically short.

Juan turned back to Horne as if he’d gotten a sudden idea. “May I speak to Mr. Gillman? Perhaps he can provide me with the information I need.”

“I’m sad to say that Bob was struck by a car outside of our offices just a few months ago. Hit-and-run. The driver got away. Bob was killed instantly.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yes, very tragic.”

“It sounds like you were privy to the contents of the document.”

Another eye flick to the cabinet. “I review the work of many of my employees.”

“Mr. Kensit claims the journal outlines a radical new scientific development unknown at that time. Can you confirm that?”

Horne shifted in his chair. “Mr. Cochran, perhaps you should have Mr. Kensit contact me. I can’t share confidential information without a release form.”

Juan put up his hands. “I understand. I don’t want you to divulge anything you shouldn’t.”

“Besides, although I can translate German scientific language, it doesn’t mean I can understand the science behind it.”

“That certainly makes sense. But if I could have a brief look—”

Horne suddenly stood. “Mr. Cochran, we don’t have a copy of the document, and I resent the implication that we would violate a trust like that.”

Juan got to his feet as well. Pushing further would accomplish nothing. But his assessment of the building’s security made it clear that breaking in this evening and photographing the copy of the journal that obviously was in the file cabinet would be a simple task.

“I’m sorry I can’t help more,” Horne said as he ushered Juan out to the lobby. All of the translators had gone home, leaving the receptionist as the lone employee. “Please have Mr. Kensit send me a notarized request to consult on the translation authentication and I will be glad to assist you.”

The receptionist handed him the package sitting on the counter. “This came urgent from the UN, Mr. Horne.”

“Thanks, Jill,” he said, and put the box under his arm. “Good-bye, Mr. Cochran.”

Juan shook his hand, and Horne walked back to his office. Juan called Eric to find out where he was and looked down to the street below to see if he could spot him.

He didn’t see Eric, but the deliveryman from Urban Jungle was still out there, looking up at the building. Now that Juan could see his face, he recognized the man immediately.

It was the assassin who’d been sent to kill Juan in Jamaica. For a moment, Juan thought the killer was waiting for him to exit the building.

Then he remembered the package.

Juan heard Horne shut the office door behind him. The assassin saw Juan staring down at him and waved with a wicked grin on his face. He held a small black object in his hand for Juan to see, his thumb poised over a red button. With a deliberate finality, his thumb stabbed down.

Juan dived over the lobby desk and tackled Jill before she could register what was happening, covering her body with his. The instant they hit the floor, a deafening blast blew apart Greg Horne’s office, showering the cubicles with glass shards and chunks of the thick wooden door.

Juan shook off the stars circling his head and jumped to his feet to go to Horne’s aid, but there was nothing he could do. Smoke billowed across the room as an inferno raged in Horne’s office. The explosion was so powerful that it had damaged the sprinkler system, which sprayed haphazardly around the space.

Jill was cowering in the fetal position and screaming uncontrollably. Juan picked her up in his arms and carried her to the stairs, which was now crammed with the building’s other tenants escaping the fire. She was able to walk down the stairs, so he put his arm around her shoulder and kept his head on a swivel, looking for signs of the assassin.

By the time he got outside, emergency vehicles were already arriving. He handed Jill off to a paramedic and jogged across the street.

The Urban Jungle van was gone.

Eric ran through the crowd of onlookers.

“Chairman! Are you all right?”

Juan nodded. “It was the Haitians again. They knew we were coming.”

“How? We disabled our trackers.”

“I don’t know. Their surveillance system must be even more powerful than we thought. They must have cracked our communication encryption.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

Juan looked up at the flames licking from the fifth floor above him. “I think your evidence is on fire.”

“You weren’t able to get a copy of the diary?”

“It existed, but he wouldn’t show it to me. Now it’s up in smoke, and so is the only remaining person to read it besides Kensit.”

Police were now screeching to a stop in packs.

“Come on,” Eric said, “I’ve got the car stopped on the next block.”

“I did get one piece of information,” Juan said as they walked and rubbed the smoke from his eyes.

“What’s that?”

“Lutzen’s journal never mentioned that he was a doctor.”

Eric thought for a second, then his eyes went wide. “Mr. Perlmutter’s book said his postdoctoral research was continuing the work he did at Berlin University.”

Juan nodded. “His doctoral thesis might still be in the library. We need to know what he was working on.”

“And because his doctorate wasn’t mentioned in the diary, Kensit might not know the thesis exists. I can do an online search to make sure it’s still in the library.”

“No. We don’t know how far Kensit has penetrated our network or how his system works. If he knows we’re looking for the thesis, his men might get there before we do and destroy it like he did Horne’s copy of the journal.”

“So we can’t even tell the guys on the Oregon that it exists?”

Juan shook his head. “We’ll tell them what happened here and that they might have company in Martinique, but our destination is between the two of us. I’m not even going to call Tiny. He isn’t going to know until we get to La Guardia that we’re flying to Berlin.”

Saint-Pierre, Martinique

At the turn of the twentieth century, a dozen or more cargo ships would have been anchored where the Oregon now sat motionless, the only large vessel in sight. Although Saint-Pierre’s harbor teemed with pleasure craft and sailboats, her days as a commercial and cultural jewel of the Caribbean ended the day Mt. Pelée erupted. The bustling city of thirty thousand had been rebuilt over the following decades with charming red-roofed cottages and stone churches, but its population had never topped five thousand since that fateful day.

Max Hanley couldn’t blame residents for being reluctant to return. Not only did the now dormant volcano still loom over the town but Saint-Pierre had suffered catastrophe before the eruption. During the high-speed cruise from the Dominican Republic, Max found out that Saint-Pierre had been destroyed more than a century earlier by the twenty-five-foot storm surge of the Great Hurricane of 1780, the deadliest in Atlantic history. Over nine thousand citizens died in that disaster.

Nothing seemed to threaten the town today except the squall that was churning up waves in the harbor and pelting the town with rain. Mt. Pelée’s silent peak, its slopes lush with the vegetation that had rushed back from its fertile soil, was veiled in gray clouds, but blue skies were forecast for the afternoon.

As dawn lightened the leaden sky, Max watched the local harbormaster return to shore in his tiny launch. Normally, Juan handled the local constabulary, but this time it had been up to Max and he thought he’d done a pretty decent job convincing the harbormaster that the Oregon’s crew was going to enjoy the scenery while they waited for their cargo to arrive at their berth in Fort-de-France.

In actuality, the Oregon’s crew had already been hard at work for two hours exploring the wreckage of the Roraima, acting as fast as they could while they had the dive site to themselves. Once the squall ceased, they’d have to suspend operations so they wouldn’t arouse suspicion from the recreational scuba tours that would begin diving on the wreck in the afternoon.

Max took the stairs down to the moon pool, which was buzzing with activity. The latest group of divers was just surfacing through the keel doors. Mike Trono removed his mask and climbed out.

“Any luck?” Max said.

Mike shook his head and began to peel off his wetsuit. “The decks on the Roraima were all wooden. They rotted away years ago and collapsed. A lot of it was either destroyed by the volcano blast or crushed when the superstructure caved in. All that’s left now is the steel frame and that’s full of holes. Portions of the hull could collapse on us, if we’re not careful. We’re still looking through the section of the ship where Perlmutter told us the cabins would have been, but there’s been a ton of coral growth over the last century so it’s a slow search. The box could be buried in ten feet of debris.”

Max smiled. “On the bright side, that means it might be intact. No hits on the Geiger counter?”

When Juan had mentioned that Lutzen’s work had been about radioactivity, Max checked his history books and found out that radiation had been discovered only seven years before the eruption on Martinique, so it would have been a relatively new science at the time. If Lutzen had brought something radioactive with him and it was still with his belongings, detecting it might lead them to the photos. The Oregon was equipped with two Geiger counters, so Max sent one of them down with the divers, who were scouring the sturdier parts of the ship.

“Not a blip,” Mike said. “If anything radioactive is buried down there, the radiation might not be able to penetrate the debris.”

“Normally, that would be a good thing, but not in our case. Get something to eat before your next dive.” Mike looked like he could use some shut-eye, too, since they’d been planning the op on the sprint here so they’d be ready to dive as soon as they arrived. “And maybe a nap.”

“In that order,” Mike agreed, and lurched toward the mess hall.

Max went to the op center, where Hali flagged him down.

“We got a hit on the Chairman’s assassin,” he said. “The CIA was very helpful.”

“Finally some good news,” Max replied.

Before the explosion went off in New York, Juan’s glasses had been recording while he was looking down at the bomber. He sent the video to Max, who recognized the man immediately as the same person who’d attacked Reed’s fishing charter. The guy definitely got around. Identifying him had been Hali’s top priority ever since.

“Who is that unmasked man?” Max asked.

Hali handed him a printout with the key info. “He’s a mercenary named Hector Bazin, a Haitian like all the others who tried to kill us in Jamaica. Former French Foreign Legion commando. Trains his own private security force now from a base somewhere outside Port-au-Prince. That’s why they had both the skills and resources for an assassination attempt.”

“Would he be the one tapping our communications?”

Hali pursed his lips in frustration. “I still don’t even know how they’re doing it, let alone who is doing it. We’ve got the most secure comm system possible. The NSA would have trouble breaking our encryption.”

“Bazin is just the muscle” came a comment from across the room. Murph didn’t even look up from his screen or take his hands off the joysticks he was manipulating. “Kensit has got to be the brains behind this.”

“Email the info about Hector Bazin to Juan.”

“Even if it could be intercepted?”

“If you got the info from the CIA, then Bazin might already know he’s been compromised. I don’t want Juan doing whatever he’s doing completely blind. At least he’ll know what he’s up against.” Max walked over to Murph. “Did you ever meet Kensit while you were working for the DoD?”

“No, but I heard about him. Everybody in weapons research did. Off-the-charts smart, but a real oddball.” Murph looked away for the first time. “I wonder if they say the same about me now.”

“Would it make you feel better if they did?”

“Probably.”

“Then I’m sure they do. Now, do you have any theories about what this Moriarty’s secret surveillance weapon is, Sherlock? Bazin’s appearance in Manhattan just when Juan was paying that translator a visit couldn’t be a coincidence.”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“No.”

“He knows everything we’re doing.”

Max rolled his eyes. “Well, that part’s obvious.”

“Which means he is able to hear what we’re saying.”

“You mean when we’re on the phone?”

“Possibly. But that doesn’t explain how he knew where we’d be in Jamaica. The only time we discussed that was on board the Oregon.”

“Oh, come on! You mean Kensit has the Oregon bugged?”

“When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”

“We’ve swept the ship three times. No listening devices.”

“Talk to Arthur Conan Doyle, not me,” Murph said.

“In any case, I’m glad Juan didn’t tell us where he’s going. It’s time for us to get a leg up on Lawrence Kensit.”

“We’re still not done searching here.”

“Have you seen anything?”

Murph rubbed his eyes. He’d been going for three hours straight without a break. “Except for a few broken teacups and a pair of eyeglasses, nothing.”

He was piloting the smallest remotely operated vehicle they had on the Oregon, the ROV called Little Geek. Murph was using it to explore the parts of the ship that were too dangerous for the divers to search.

An umbilical fed the video signal back to the Oregon. Even at a depth of one hundred and fifty feet, the vibrant colors illuminated by the ROV’s lights were astonishing. Sea whips, urchins, sponges, butterfly fish, triggerfish, and a host of other sea creatures had taken up residence on the artificial reef. More than a hundred years of exposure to the warm seawater had rusted holes in the steel where it hadn’t been covered by coral. The only traces of humanity that remained untarnished were the occasional ceramic or glass object, both materials that were impervious to the corrosive effects of saline.

Max thought Perlmutter’s assertion that a photo container could still be intact was dubious at best. Their only hope was that the glass photo plates had been stored in tins with a zinc layer sufficiently oxidized to prevent the underlying metal from disintegrating.

Max watched as Murph steered the ROV through a tight cavity with little expectation of finding anything useful. He hoped Juan’s end of the search would yield actionable data. He just wished he had a clue what Juan was looking for.

“Huh,” Murph said, which got Max’s attention.

“Did you see something?”

“A dull reflection. Let me back up.”

He edged the ROV backward and turned it to the left. The camera panned across a zigzag crisscross of thin metal that was covered with green algae. Below it was the glint of glass in the shine of the LEDs.

“Something about that looks familiar,” Murph said.

“I know what you mean. See if you can clear away some of the debris.”

Murph used the ROV’s small manipulator arm to pull away an encrusted piece of steel.

The needle on the Geiger counter jumped.

“Winner, winner, chicken dinner,” Max said, and laughed. “Perlmutter came through for us.”

They waited for the swirling debris to settle and saw that more of the glass had been uncovered, enough to identify it.

“That’s a lens,” Murph said.

“Perfectly circular and convex. Like one you might find in, say, a turn-of-the-century camera?”

Murph traced the zigzag outline of the metal next to it with his finger on the screen. “That’s the collapsible articulation frame for a high-end camera of the time. You know, the thing they would use to move the lens in and out of the box? The canvas accordion material must have rotted away decades ago.”

“There couldn’t have been too many passengers with a camera like that one in 1902.”

Murph rotated the ROV around the cavity. Three shattered glass jars lay in one corner. The needle on the Geiger counter moved again. Not enough radioactivity to be harmful but more than would be expected from natural background radiation.

“You said Gunther Lutzen developed his own photos in his cabin. Those look like chemical jars that would hold developing fluids.”

The rest of the room was buried under debris. If they were going to see what else was there, they’d have to go through it by hand.

“I think we’ve found our spot,” Max said. “Now we have to dig it out.”

–

As soon as David Pasquet stopped the truck next to the isolated dock on the south end of Saint-Pierre, men poured from the back and began unloading the plastic shipping barrels stacked inside. The scuba equipment would come last.

Pasquet might have missed his targets when he was sniping the Oregon in Montego Bay, but he vowed to make up for the embarrassment with this mission. Bazin had put faith in him to carry it out and Pasquet had no intention of letting his mentor down.

Like most of Bazin’s officers, Pasquet had received some of his training overseas before returning to Haiti. In his case, it was with the French Navy. The grunts were all locally recruited and trained in Haiti, with the understanding that they were to be completely loyal to Bazin. If there was any hint of betrayal, their entire families would be wiped out. Although most of the men didn’t need such incentives because the money was so good, examples had to be made from time to time.

This mission had been hastily planned the minute the Doctor had learned about the possibility that evidence of the Oz facility might still be inside the sunken Roraima. Pasquet could see the Oregon already anchored in the distance not far from where his map showed the Roraima to be.

On the ocean, they were no match for the weaponry aboard such a ship, which was why an improvised solution had to be conceived. With the Doctor’s unmatched surveillance skills, the plan had come together quite nicely.

After arriving in Martinique on the second private jet at the disposal of Bazin’s company, they proceeded to a warehouse in Fort-de-France, where they stole twenty empty shipping barrels, plastic ones used to transport coffee and sugar. Then they raided a warehouse used by a company that was about to start drilling a new road tunnel through the southern part of the island.

Their last stop was at the dock of Vue Sous Tours. Tied up alongside the dock was the company’s pride and joy, a white SC-30 diesel-electric passenger submarine. The unique design was perfect for Pasquet’s purposes.

On most days, the sub was used to carry thirty tourists around Saint-Pierre Harbor so they could look at the dozen or so wrecks without so much as getting their feet wet. The main, tube-shaped cabin where the sub’s passengers sat was perched atop twin flat-topped pontoons like a catamaran, with a large platform at the back that could host parties when the sub was on the surface. The pontoons were flared at the front and back, reminiscent of a Formula 1 race car down to the blue racing stripes that flowed along the fins.

Passengers sat facing the large windows on either side while the sub was piloted from the large glass bubble at the front. Unlike most pleasure subs that needed to be towed to their observation spots before being powered by batteries for the limited underwater portion, the SC-30’s diesel engines let it motor out to the wrecks under its own power before diving.

As he dismounted the truck and put up his slicker’s hood, Pasquet got a text that the jet had landed on the island of Dominica twenty miles to the north in preparation for their operation. Given how messy the operation was going to be, taking off from Martinique would be a problem once the mission was over. The safer solution was to steal a speedboat and take it to Dominica, where leaving the island by air would be considerably easier.

Two men were inside the submarine swabbing the deck in preparation for the day’s tourists, the earliest arriving in fifteen minutes. Both of them wore white uniforms with epaulettes, the better to impress upon visitors that this was a professional operation.

The older of the two, who Pasquet recognized from the website as the owner and captain of the sub, set aside his mop when he saw half a dozen men unloading a truck by his dock. He put on a rain jacket and ducked through the hatch. His crewman followed suit. Pasquet smiled as they approached.

“Bonjour, Capitaine Batiste,” he said, and continued in French. “We are interested in using your vessel.”

“I’m sorry,” Batiste replied, “but we are fully booked today. And with the seas this choppy, we will have to postpone our first trip.”

“What a shame. No matter. We will take it anyway.”

Pasquet drew a pistol and pointed it at the captain, who automatically raised his arms. He was alarmed, but the old seadog wasn’t terrified. His crewman, however, was shaking so badly that Pasquet thought he might throw up.

“What do you want?” Batiste said.

“I told you, we want your sub. And you’re going to pilot it for us.”

Batiste eyed the heavy plastic barrels that Pasquet’s men were rolling onto the rear deck and pontoons of the sub. “What if I don’t?”

“I will kill this quivering excuse of a man.”

Batiste’s implacable façade crumbled. “Please, don’t! He is my son.”

“Then do as I say and no one will be harmed.” He turned to one of his men. “Take them inside. Make Batiste tie up and blindfold his son.”

Pasquet supervised the placement of the barrels, distributing them evenly, before lashing them down. He had the last one taken inside the sub. He opened it and inspected some of the dynamite that had been destined for the tunnel project. The detonator on top was preset for sixty minutes, as were all the detonators in the other barrels. At the press of a button in his pocket, all would begin counting down.