Текст книги "Piranha"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

After stopping to recover the Discovery without incident, and now well out of radar range and in international waters, the Oregon shifted course northwest.

By the next day, a rested Juan sat at his desk and read each team’s reports. Despite some hiccups in the execution of the plans, the outcomes were what they’d been expecting. Juan was consistently proud of the hard work his people put into their jobs, as well as their ability to think on their feet.

With a rap on the door and a curt “Enter,” Eric and Murph joined Juan in his cabin. Stoney wore what seemed to be the same outfit he’d had on the previous night, but Juan knew he had multiple versions of white shirt and khaki slacks. Murph, on the other hand, had changed into a T-shirt that bore the image of a burning figure and the line “I tried it at home.” After getting a few hours’ rest last night, the two of them had dedicated themselves to cracking the laptop and memory card. They gleamed with triumph.

“I’m guessing you guys had no luck with your hacking,” Juan said drily.

“Au contraire, mon Chairman,” Murph said. “They didn’t stand a chance.”

“Pretty simple military-grade encryption algorithms,” Stoney added. There wasn’t a computer system Eric and Murph couldn’t break into, as far as Juan knew.

“What did you find on the laptop?” he asked.

“That was the mother lode for the arms smuggling operation,” Murph said. “Shipment manifests, payment schedules, the works. The guys at Langley will have a field day.”

“What about the phone?”

“It took a bit longer to access those files because of the water damage,” Eric said. “We found the usual text messages and phone logs, again related to the smuggling op. We also found a few files. One of them was particularly intriguing.”

“Why?”

“Because it had dates. Four of them. Three dates occurred over the last three months. The fourth date is two days from now.”

“We’re still working on what they refer to,” Murph said. “Below each date is some kind of code.” He read off the list. “Alpha seventeen, Beta nineteen, Gamma twenty-two, Delta twenty-three.”

“Obviously, the Greek letters are in order,” Eric said, “but we haven’t been able to decipher the numerical progression’s pattern.”

“Assuming there is one,” Murph said. “They could also have been assigned randomly, although the continual increase suggests that’s not the case.”

“And you don’t have any theories about what they mean?” Juan asked.

Murph shook his head. “We’ve scoured the laptop for anything that refers to these codes and dates, but there’s nothing. Without more data, we’re at a dead end.”

“We’ll hand the information over to Langston Overholt. Maybe his people can find a pattern for the dates in their intel. After that, as far as we’re concerned, our job is done and we can collect payment, just in time for everyone’s quarterly shares.” Because all of the crew were partners in the Corporation, profits were shared after expenses based on position and length of service. Although the hours were long and the missions risky, everyone aboard could expect to retire to a life of luxury after their years aboard the Oregon.

That evening, the Corporation enjoyed a five-star dinner. As coffee was being poured, Juan said, “We’ve got a long trip to Malaysia coming up to bust that piracy ring in the Strait of Malacca, so I hope everyone has plans to make the most of their shore leave in Jamaica.”

“I talked Linda into a girls’ day at the Sunset Cliff Spa and Resort,” Julia said. “I’ve read it’s Montego Bay’s finest new resort.”

“In exchange for putting up with massages and manicures,” Linda chimed in, “I talked her into taking windsurfing lessons with me.”

“We’ll see how you feel about doing that after you have a few glasses of good Sauvignon Blanc and a foot rub,” Julia retorted. “What about you, Linc? A massage for you, too?”

“Are you kidding?” he said. “With all those great coastal roads? It’s time to get my motorcycle out of the hold. And since there’s a new Harley dealer in Mobay that rents bikes, Eddie’s gonna come along with me.”

“How about you, Hali?” Juan asked. “Any adventures for you?”

“I have a feeling I might find one. MacD and Trono are taking me to a bar on the Hip Strip called the Waterfront. They claim it’s got the best mojitos on the north coast.”

“Be careful with those two. I don’t want you waking up wondering what happened to all your clothes.” Juan looked at Murph. “Let me guess what you’re going to be up to . . .”

“Oh yeah! Time to set up the skateboard park. Eric’s going to help me construct a new half-pipe. I’m trying to invent a new trick called the Murph 720.” Juan grudgingly let Murph transform the deck into his own playground, when the opportunity arose. It was a small price to pay for having such a technical wizard on the team.

“Don’t worry,” Eric said. “I’ll be there to film it for everyone’s viewing pleasure later when he wipes out.”

“What about you, Juan?” Julia asked. “Is there a beach with your name on it?”

“No, I’m going to stay on board to catch up on paperwork and oversee the resupply.”

“The hell you are,” Max said.

“No, really. I’ll be fine.”

Max threw a look at Julia. “You were right. We’re the only ones who know what’s best for him.”

Juan trained his eyes on the two of them, recognizing co-conspirators when he saw them. “What are you scoundrels up to?”

“We thought you might be reluctant to take a little R and R,” Max said, “so I took the liberty of chartering a fishing boat for tomorrow. Throwing back a few Red Stripes and wrestling tuna will do you some good.”

Juan glanced at each of them in turn and realized arguing was useless. He put up his hands in surrender and laughed. “All right. I’ll go. But then it’s back to work.”

“That’s what we wanted to hear. You won’t regret it.”

Montelíbano, Colombia

As the helicopter descended toward the landing pad, Hector Bazin took in the sprawling estate hugging the forested hillside next to the village of Montelíbano. With its terraced gardens, tennis courts, and three swimming pools fit for a Hawaiian resort, the mansion and grounds seemed an ostentatious way to show that cocaine trafficking had been exceedingly good for its owner, Alonzo Tallon. But the lavish villa also indicated that Tallon could afford Bazin’s business proposal.

The helicopter flight from Cartagena’s international airport had taken less than an hour, nearly the same time it had taken for his private jet to get to Colombia from his home in Haiti. Due to Tallon’s mistrust, Bazin and the three men accompanying him were forced to ride in Tallon’s helicopter instead of chartering their own. Guards with RPGs made sure no other chopper would be allowed anywhere near the mansion.

When the helicopter settled onto the pad, Bazin and his men exited into the sweltering tropical air to find a dozen guards aiming Heckler & Koch G36 assault rifles at them. Bazin stepped forward and stopped in front of the only man not holding a rifle, Tallon’s second-in-command, Sergio Portilla. Bazin recognized the beefy subordinate by his thin mustache and the tattoo of a flaming skull on his neck. Portilla did his own visual appraisal of Bazin, verifying that he was the same man as the one in the photo that had been sent.

Like most Haitians’ skin, Bazin’s complexion was a smooth ebony, and his hair was cut tight to his scalp. An inch over six feet tall and as lithe as a panther, he concealed a well-muscled physique beneath the contours of his tailored Armani suit.

“I must check you for weapons,” Portilla said with a growl. Bazin noticed a bulge under Portilla’s jacket, which meant that either his suit was too tight or the pistol underneath was too big.

Bazin’s men grumbled, but he quieted them with a stern look. He knew it was all part of the ritual. New visitors normally weren’t allowed inside the house, let alone those who hadn’t been searched. He held his arms up high as Portilla patted him down thoroughly.

Assured that Bazin was unarmed, Portilla jerked his head for him to follow, leaving Bazin’s men at the helicopter. A solo meeting was one of the requirements to get an audience with Tallon.

They took a serpentine path through the marbled halls and lushly carpeted rooms of the air-conditioned mansion. Bazin stifled a sneer at the lavishly gilded decorations. Tallon’s taste went toward the gaudy and grandiose, a far cry from Bazin’s own restrained inclinations.

When they reached Tallon’s palatial office, it was more of the same. Gold leaf on every surface that wasn’t teak or granite, the better to display his wealth. Against one wall was a well-stocked wet bar, replete with expensive scotches and ports. On the other wall hung an original Picasso from his Cubist period. A gigantic cherrywood desk squatted at the far end of the room.

Behind it sat a stoic Alonzo Tallon warily eyeing Bazin as he walked toward him. Tallon’s silk shirt strained to cover a gut expanded by too much gourmet food and fine wine. His wavy black hair shined from the sunlight streaming in from the window behind him.

Tallon didn’t stand, didn’t offer a handshake. He simply motioned for Bazin to take a seat in one of the leather chairs opposite the desk and Bazin took him up on the offer.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Mr. Tallon,” Bazin said in English. Though French Creole was his first language, he’d been taught English at an early age by American missionaries in Port-au-Prince. He did not speak Spanish, and he knew Tallon’s command of English was quite good.

“Your demonstration was convincing, Mr. Bazin. Your intel about the raid by the DNE saved my organization a lot of money. We were also able to rid ourselves of five agents.”

The Dirección Nacional de Estupefacientes, Colombia’s antidrug agency, had targeted one of Tallon’s factories for destruction. Bazin’s tip about the raid allowed Tallon to shut the factory down before the operation and set up an ambush in its place.

“Call it a goodwill gesture on my part,” Bazin said. He smiled. “No charge, of course.”

“You said you had a business proposition that would continue to provide me the same kind of intelligence.”

“I do. It can be very lucrative for both of us.”

“You’ve worked in this line of business for a while?”

“Although I was born and raised in Haiti, I moved to France with my parents. I went to school there and joined the French Special Forces. I was asked to leave under unfortunate circumstances, so I’ve spent the last three years paving a new road for myself. This opportunity I’m presenting to you is my latest venture.”

“You are not even a citizen of Colombia, let alone inside the government. How are you coming by your information?”

Bazin paused for effect. “Mr. Tallon, do you believe in magic?”

Tallon’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Magic.”

“Of course not. It’s nonsense.”

“Too bad you feel that way. Because magic is what I’m selling.”

Tallon did not look amused. “Is this a joke? Is this what you came all the way from Haiti to propose to me? Magic?”

“It is. Magic is what will keep your product flowing from Colombia and into Mexico, where the cartels there handle the difficult task of smuggling it into the U.S. Magic will alert you to drug interdiction operations before they occur. It will tell you when the Army is planning to torch your crops. It will inform you when your enemies are planning to take over your business. The intel about the DNE raid was just a taste.”

Tallon chewed on his lip. “Suppose I believe you can get me this information, magic or not. What would it cost me?”

Bazin rose and walked over to the bar. He nonchalantly picked up a bottle of 1939 Macallan scotch and sensed Portilla tense behind him. He had to be concerned that Bazin was so casually handling a bottle worth over ten thousand dollars.

“I’ve never tasted this vintage,” Bazin said. “I’ve heard it’s very good.”

“Pour yourself a snifter,” Tallon said. “Consider it my thanks to you.”

Bazin did so and swirled the peat-rich liquor in the glass before taking a sip. It coated his tongue like honey and went down smoothly.

“Its reputation is justified,” he pronounced.

“I’m sure you want to charge me more than that bottle of scotch would cover.”

“I do,” Bazin said, draining the rest of the glass. “Ten percent of your gross earnings.”

Tallon’s eyes went wide and flicked to Portilla. Then they both started to laugh.

“To call that absurd would be an understatement,” Tallon said. “I will decline your generous offer.”

Bazin frowned. “That’s too bad. Unfortunately, not contracting with me could leave you open to all kinds of business risk. Suddenly, raids could happen without your knowledge. Shipments could be disrupted. Bank assets frozen. Your whole operation could come to a standstill. Is ten percent such a high price to pay to ensure that these kinds of events don’t befall you?”

For the first time, Tallon stood, bristling at Bazin’s words. “Are you stupid enough to come into my office and threaten me?”

“‘Threaten’? No, of course not. I’m offering a valuable service to you. Surely I can expect to be paid a reasonable wage for this service. You see, I make more money when you make more money. It’s a very equitable arrangement, and we both have a vested interest in making as much money as we can.”

“I make plenty of money as it is.”

Bazin made a show of looking around the room. “I see that. But I can provide you with information that will make your life easier. And make no mistake, my intelligence-gathering capabilities know no limit.” He nodded at the Picasso. “For instance, there is a safe behind that painting. You access it by sliding a lever under the bottom right corner and swinging the painting out to the left. The combination is thirty-six, eight, seventy-two. Inside are one hundred thousand American dollars, two kilos of cocaine, a bag of twenty diamonds, and a matching pair of ivory-handled Colt revolvers. I can tell you their serial numbers, if you’d like.”

Bazin had been looking directly at Tallon as he recited the safe’s contents and the drug lord’s mouth gaped wider with the listing of each item. “I’m the only one with the combination to that safe. How do you know what’s in there?”

“I told you. Magic. Or maybe I have X-ray satellites watching this house. Or perhaps drones circling around day and night. I could have sent workmen in here to bug every room and plant cameras where you’ll never find them. Or . . .” Bazin paused for effect. “Or there’s always the possibility of a traitor in your midst.”

Bazin avoided looking at Portilla, but Tallon got the hint.

“You?” he screamed at Portilla. “You sold me out?”

Portilla had his hands up in supplication. “No, boss. I’m loyal to you, I swear. This guy is lying.”

“He’s not lying. He described every last thing in that safe. You betrayed me!”

“I swear I didn’t!”

Bazin edged closer to the bar, putting his hand by the drawer beneath it. To Tallon he said, “At least when I want to share in profits from your business, I’m upfront about it. I don’t want to skim it behind your back.”

“Is that true?” Tallon asked Portilla. “Are you taking money from me after all I’ve given you?”

“No! Please, Alonzo!” But Portilla’s eyes revealed the lie. With a look of pure rage, he pivoted and drew a nickel-plated Smith & Wesson from his shoulder holster.

Bazin didn’t know who Portilla planned to shoot—maybe both of them—but it didn’t matter. The instant Portilla had made the move for his holster, Bazin had yanked open the drawer and snatched up the Glock pistol that Tallon had placed there as an emergency backup weapon. With a motion honed from years of training, Bazin raised the semiautomatic and put one bullet through Portilla’s forehead before Portilla had even finished aiming at Tallon, who was still dumbfounded by what was happening.

“You’ve suspected him for some time,” Bazin said. “I just did you a favor.”

Tallon stared at Bazin holding his hidden gun. “How did you—”

“I told you. Magic. Do we have an arrangement?”

Tallon nodded dumbly, then waved off the guards who had rushed through the door and now stood gaping at Portilla’s corpse.

Bazin walked over to the desk and dropped the Glock on it. He withdrew a slip of paper from his pocket and laid it on top of the gun. “The first number is the Cayman account where Portilla was stashing the skim. The second number is my bank account. I expect to see monthly deposits. And I will know if you’re holding back. By the way, he was also sleeping with your wife.”

Bazin left the office and made his way back to the helicopter. While his men got back on, his phone rang. It was the Doctor, likely calling to check on his progress.

“Where are you?” the Doctor said without preamble.

“I’ve just finished the business in Colombia. Another success.”

“Good. I’ve got another job for you.”

“I’m planning to go to Mexico tomorrow to meet with one of the cartel members.”

“It can wait. There’s a bigger problem. An unusual ship. It’s called the Oregon. They’ve got some information that could damage our whole operation, and they don’t even know it.”

“If they don’t know it, why is that a problem?”

“Because it’s only a matter of time before they do know. Can you have an assassination squad in Jamaica by tomorrow?”

Montego Bay, Jamaica

A light breeze ruffled the palm fronds above the outdoor section of the Sunset Cliff Spa. The idyllic setting had been carefully chosen by the resort to take advantage of the spectacular view of the Caribbean Sea. Tourists frolicked along the picturesque beach that stretched from the twenty-foot-high cliffs that gave the resort its name. During the day, white canvas tents were erected atop the grassy cliff so that guests could receive an open-air massage free from the prying eyes of passersby. Before dusk, the tents were removed, giving guests and sightseers an unobstructed view of the sun’s red and orange hues as it dipped below the horizon.

Linda relaxed on a chaise longue and sipped from a champagne flute as a pedicurist attended to her toes. Julia sat next to her with her own dedicated attendant. The two of them had been the first ones off the Oregon when it docked in Montego Bay that morning. They were both swaddled in plush white robes.

“It has been forever since I’ve had one of these,” Linda said, gesturing at the pedicurist’s work.

Julia grinned at her. “Aren’t you glad I talked you into it?”

“I could get used to this.” Although the Oregon was equipped with a Jacuzzi hot tub and a sauna, it just wasn’t the same as a full-service spa.

“We should ask Juan to hire a dedicated nail technician for the shipboard mani-pedis,” Julia said. “As the resident doctor, I know personally that some of the guys could sure use one. Their nails are disgusting.”

“Can you imagine Maurice giving a mani-pedi?”

They both laughed until they cried at the thought of the distinguished steward buffing Franklin Lincoln’s nails. The fit of giggles continued until the pedicurists had finished their work and took away their kits.

“I’ll admit you were right for us to go windsurfing first,” Linda said, rotating her sore shoulder. “I’m looking forward to a good massage.”

“And I’ll admit I had fun. But this is better.”

An attendant returned to escort them to the tents. Linda and Julia followed her to the two bays where they would get their massages. Light classical music drifted from hidden speakers, easily heard now that they were far from the tourists at the beach. Each was open to the ocean, and Linda could hear the waves crashing against the rocks below them. Privacy between the bays was provided by a white canvas drape. None of the tents were currently occupied.

The attendant said that their masseuses would be along in a few minutes and asked them to lay facedown on the tables. She told them there was a coatrack in each bay for their robes and left.

“You know,” Julia said, “if they’re going to be a few minutes, I might go for a bit more champagne to tide me over.”

“Allow me,” Linda said, taking her glass. “I could use another, too.”

While Julia entered the tent on the end, Linda turned to leave. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the movement of shadows against the white canvas. Not one shadow but two.

Someone was already in the tent with Julia. A muffled whimper confirmed that it wasn’t the masseuse.

Linda’s senses went on full alert. She tossed the glasses to the grass and flung the canvas aside to see a man dressed in black holding his hand over Julia’s mouth and withdrawing a knife from his hip sheath.

Acting on instinct and relying on the weekly self-defense training everyone on the Oregon was required to take no matter their position, Linda grabbed the bamboo coatrack and swung it like a kendo stick. The assailant saw her at the last instant and released Julia to keep from being knocked out by the vicious blow, but even though he was able to get a hand up, the rack made solid contact with his shoulder.

“Get help!” Linda yelled. But before Julia could run, a second attacker rushed through from the adjoining bay, where he must have been waiting for Linda. He dived across the massage table and grasped Julia’s ponytail. Linda shoved the coatrack in his gut and he grunted, let go of the ponytail, and dropped his knife, a mean-looking weapon with a serrated edge.

Julia teetered backward and pulled the massage table’s headrest free in her attempt to keep from falling. She landed hard but still held on to the padded headrest, its long, thin steel mounting pins facing out.

The second assailant lunged for Julia, but he was still unbalanced from the blow to his stomach. Linda tripped him and he went down in Julia’s direction. He landed on her and immediately went limp. One of the mounting pins was poking out of his side, the other was lodged deeply in his chest.

Before Linda could help Julia up, she felt her arms pinned against her sides in a bear hug. The assailant wrestled her across the tent toward the cliff, intent on casting her onto the rocks below. She took a deep breath to fight the instinctual panic that threatened to consume her and her mind flashed back to her training.

The man was too tall for her, so she couldn’t slam her head back and crush his nose with her skull. Instead, she shifted her weight and stepped to the side, freeing her fist to strike down at his crotch. Just with the strength of her triceps, she was able to connect with a devastating blow.

The attacker let go, and Linda used the opportunity to smash her elbow into his chin. His head flew upward, spittle flying. Linda kicked him in the chest, and his momentum took him tumbling over the side. She ran to the edge and saw his dead body sprawled across the jagged volcanic rocks, the torso submerged in the water. A small boat bobbed in the cove below.

Linda returned to the tent to find Julia struggling to crawl out from under the other corpse. Linda pushed it aside and helped her up.

“Are you all right?” Linda asked.

Julia looked shaken but nodded. “How about you?”

“Nothing a massage wouldn’t fix.”

“I don’t think we should wait around for one.”

“Me neither. Let’s toss this guy over the cliff, too. We don’t want to be answering a lot of questions from the local police.”

Linda searched the man’s pockets and found only a small amount of cash and a cell phone. Julia pulled the massage table headrest from his torso and they hauled the body to the cliff, where they threw it over. It came to rest next to the other one. By the time the police made sense of the strange configuration, they’d be long gone.

“What just happened?” Julia asked, folding the bloody headrest in a towel and tucking it under her robe.

“This was no random attack,” Linda said. “We were targeted.”

“For what? All our belongings are in the lockers.”

“Exactly. This seems like an assassination attempt. They wanted to do it very quietly, so they anchored their boat down there and climbed up to wait for us.”

“What in the world . . . ?”

“I don’t know. Let me check the phone.”

It was a disposable, probably purchased this morning and meant to be thrown in the ocean after the assignment. Its user hadn’t even bothered to password-protect it. The contact list had only five numbers and no names.

“We were lucky to survive this,” Linda said. “Those guys were pros.” There was nothing to lead back to anyone. If the assassin had thought there was even a chance he wouldn’t succeed, he would have entered a password.

She checked the text messages. Only one was still in memory. It had been sent to all of the contact numbers and was written in French.

Tous ont été aperçus. Attaquer dès que vous voyez une opportunité.

“Do you know French?” she asked Julia.

“I took French literature in college, but it’s been awhile.” She peered at the message, whispering the words as she read. After a moment, her eyes became as big as saucers.

“What does it say?”

Julia swallowed hard. “‘All of them have been sighted. Attack as soon as you see an opportunity.’”

Not the two of them. All of them.

“We have to warn the others. Somebody’s going after the whole crew.”

She and Julia sprinted toward the locker room to get Linda’s phone, nearly knocking over their approaching masseuses in their scramble to save the entire Oregon crew from being murdered.