Текст книги "The Jungle"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Jack Du Brul
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

A hotel guard finally arrived. He’d been on the far side of the platform and hadn’t seen a thing. He noticed the one man down on the ground in a pool of his own blood, paid no attention to the guy with blood on his face, and instead trained his attention on Cabrillo, an obviously armed target.

He started to raise his pistol and nearly had it centered on Cabrillo when Max threw himself across the intervening ten yards and hit him like a linebacker. They crashed to the ground in a tangle of limbs, bowling over another man in the process.

Juan took a chance and fired again. He hit the bomber in the chest, but the man merely staggered back from the impact. The bullet had hit one of the bags of nails, which stopped it like body armor. The Kel-Tec’s slide was locked back over an empty chamber.

Cabrillo flipped himself around so that his foot was pointing toward the gunman. The barrel of the .44 caliber pistol hidden inside his prosthetic leg made up its central support strut to give it as much length, and thus accuracy, as possible. There was only one round, so essentially the weapon was just a tube with a dual-trigger firing mechanism that ensured it couldn’t accidentally discharge.

When he hit the second trigger, it felt like someone had slammed the bottom of his stump with a sledgehammer. The round punched through the sole of his shoe, and the recoil almost knocked him off his perch. The heavy 300-grain bullet entered the bomber’s body in the abdomen, its kinetic energy lifting him off his feet like he’d been jerked from behind.

He hit the pool, his body parting the water, and sank from sight when the vest detonated. Water geysered in a solid white column that rose forty feet over the deck before crashing back like a torrential rain. The blast had been big enough and close enough to blow out part of the pool’s steel side. Water gushed through the opening, dancing and twisting as it fell over the side of the building on its long journey to the ground. The once-bucolic swimming pool had become one of the tallest waterfalls in the world.

There was nothing left of the bomber, and with the pool absorbing so much of the explosive force and the shrapnel, it didn’t appear that anyone had been injured, at least seriously.

Cabrillo’s hearing was just returning after the sonic assault of the blast. More people were screaming now, running, panicked and unsure of where to go or what to do. Over all this, he detected a high-keening wail, a sound of true mortal danger that cut above the fearful bleating of hotel guests.

There was a little boy still in the pool, his arms supported by plastic water wings. He’d been in the shallow end, playing by himself, when all the adults had scrambled from the water at the opening salvos of the attacks, and apparently his parents hadn’t had the time to rescue him.

As the water drained through the twisted opening, sucked through it like it was a high-speed pump, the floating child was being drawn inexorably toward the shattered metal.

Juan leapt off the eight-foot retaining wall and sprinted across the deck. He threw himself into a perfect dive that would have gotten applause from Olympic judges and struck out for the boy. He could feel the current pulling on his body. It was like trying to fight a riptide. He had been a strong swimmer his entire life and had been able to stroke his way out of some pretty dangerous situations, but nothing had prepared him for the raw power of the pool draining through its blown-out side. The hole was at least four feet in diameter.

He reached the child when they still had about ten feet to go before he would be sucked through. The kid flailed his arms, crying beyond all reason. Juan grabbed him by the hair to get out of the reach of his thrashing arms and tried to tow him clear, but the surge was simply too much to fight one-handed. He looked around in desperation. No one had seen what he was doing.

The hole was a bright spot near the bottom of the pool where sunlight illuminated the eddies and whirlpools that formed and dissolved as the water poured into infinity.

Cabrillo put on a burst of speed, his legs pistoning and his free arm hauling back with everything he had. For every foot he gained, the pool took back two. The vortex was just too strong. He had seconds before he was pulled through the rent in the side of the pool. He did the only thing open to him.

He stopped swimming.

And then twisted around so that he was facing the gaping tear. As they were drawn closer he held the child up in his arms. He would have one shot, one instant, when he could make this happen and save them both. If not, he and the boy would be sucked out of the pool and sent plummeting a thousand feet to their deaths.

They were less than two feet away. The water was still too deep to stand, so Cabrillo kicked hard, raising his upper body out of the water. He threw the boy at the ledge surrounding the swimming pool, sank down to the bottom, and sprang up again. He launched himself partially out of the water and hit the side of the pool directly over the tear in its side. The relentless pull sucked at his dangling legs and nearly drew him back in again before he managed to get a better grip on the cement and haul himself completely free. He looked to his side. The boy was just pulling himself upright, tears cutting through the water on his face, his right elbow bent as he examined the scrape he’d gotten when he hit the deck. Only when he saw that it was beginning to bleed a little did he began to wail like a fire engine.

Juan got to his feet and snatched up the kid so he wouldn’t fall in again. He hooked up with Max, dumped the sniveling boy next to a potted palm, and joined the frenzied exodus off the SkyPark.

Ten minutes later, just as police were starting to arrive at the resort en masse, they hit the lobby. Any attempt at a security cordon at this point was never going to happen, and the cops seemed to realize it. People streamed out of the building like a herd of frightened animals. Cabrillo and Hanley allowed themselves to be borne along with the tide of humanity. Once out of the building, they made their way down to the far end of a line of taxis and hopped into the last cab in the string.

The driver was about to protest that he couldn’t take fares until it was his turn but stopped himself when he saw the three hundred Singapore dollar bills in Cabrillo’s hand.

He didn’t even care that they were wet.

7

MAX BROKE THE MINUTES-LONG SILENCE. IT HAD TAKEN him that long to get his breathing under control and for his normally florid complexion to return from the far end of the crimson color palette. “Mind telling me what just happened back there?”

Juan didn’t respond right away. Instead, he reached into his pocket for his phone, saw that it had been ruined by his time in the pool, and shoved it back in his pocket. Hanley handed over his undamaged cell. Cabrillo punched in a memorized number. On these disposable phones they never preprogrammed the extensions of other team members in case they were ever confiscated.

The line rang once and was picked up. “How you doing, Tiny?” Juan asked. Chuck Gunderson, aka Tiny, was the Corporation’s chief pilot. Though he spent little time aboard the Oregon, he was an integral part of the team.

“As one of my flight instructors told me, if you don’t have patience, you’ll never make it as a pilot.” Chuck had that peculiar Minnesota drawl made famous in the movie Fargo.

Had the pilot inserted the word “fine” into his answer, it would have indicated that he wasn’t alone and was most likely under duress.

“We’re on our way back right now. Contact ATC and get us a slot out of here.”

Gunderson must have heard something in the Chairman’s voice. “Trouble?”

“All kinds and then some. We should be there in twenty minutes.” Juan cut the connection and handed back Max’s phone. A pair of ambulances screamed past in the opposite lane, their lights flashing and their sirens going full bore.

“Are you going to answer my question?” Hanley asked.

Cabrillo closed his eyes, picturing the scene when they’d first spotted the suicide bombers. He concentrated on the people around them, not on the gunmen. The picture firmed up in his mind, and he studied the faces of the hotel guests and staff who had been in the lobby at that instant. It wasn’t an innate skill but rather something drilled into him during his CIA training so that when all hell broke loose he could distinguish additional threats or identify accomplices. Oftentimes in assassinations or bombings there was an observer nearby to report back on the operation.

“I think,” he finally said, “that we happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Hanley was incredulous. “You honestly think that was a coincidence?” he demanded.

“Yes,” Cabrillo replied, hastily raising a hand to stave off Max’s next remark. “Hear me out. As I mentioned earlier, if Croissard wanted to set us up, he could have had his goon, Smith—nice name, that, by the way—shoot us as soon as we were in the suite. Stuff our bodies into some big trunks, and no one would ever be the wiser. With me so far?”

Max nodded.

“That puts him in the clear, which means it’s unlikely he told anyone about the meeting since he really does want us to find his daughter. Right?”

“Okay,” Hanley said, drawing out the word.

“Now, who was around us when the bombers made their move?”

“Hell, I don’t even recall what they were wearing,” the Corporation’s number two admitted.

“Overcoats, which in this heat should have tipped me off that they weren’t Singapore security forces. Anyway, you and I were the only two Caucasians in the lobby when they started after us. Everyone else was Asian. I think this attack has been in the works for a while, but it was seeing our white faces that triggered them into executing their plan.”

“Seriously?” Max asked, his voice dripping with doubt.

“Just because there has never been a terrorist attack in Singapore doesn’t mean it isn’t a target. The casino’s brand-new, a shining example of Western decadence. Any jihadi worth his salt would be drooling to blow up the place. We just happened to be there when it happened.”

Hanley still didn’t look convinced.

“How about this,” Juan offered. “If by tonight some group hasn’t laid claim to the attack, we’ll assume we were the targets and we’ll back out of our deal with Croissard, since he was the only person who knew we were going to be at the hotel. Would that satisfy you?”

More emergency vehicles went barreling by, followed by a pair of SUVs painted in jungle camouflage colors.

When Max didn’t say anything, Juan caved. “Fine, I’ll call Croissard and tell him we’re out and that he needs to find someone else to save his daughter.”

Hanley shot him a look. “That is the feeblest attempt at manipulation I’ve ever heard.”

“Is it going to work?”

“Yes, damnit,” Max spat, angry at himself for being so predictable. “If some group claims responsibility, our mission’s still on.” He crossed his arms and stared out the window like a petulant child.

Cabrillo felt no qualms about using his friend’s emotions like this. Hanley had done it to him a million times before. And it wasn’t that either needed to be nudged to do the right thing. It was that they needed to be in total agreement. Their relationship was the foundation on which the Corporation was built, and if they didn’t see eye to eye on nearly everything, the entire team would lose its edge.

Juan had the driver drop them about a quarter mile short of the General Aviation area. Just because Tiny had said everything aboard the plane was all right didn’t mean that the area was secure. The pair approached cautiously, using cars parked along the access road as cover. The cement building, with its row of green-tinted glass windows, looked normal. There was an armed guard out front with a valet, but he’d been there when they had first arrived.

Planes were taking off and landing normally, meaning the airport was still operational. That, coupled with the fact that the uniformed rent-a-cop didn’t look particularly wary, told Cabrillo that the authorities had yet to issue any sort of alert.

They were eyed as they entered the building. Juan’s suit had stopped dripping but was still soaked, and Max’s was scuffed-up from the attack.

“Our taxi hit a fire hydrant,” Juan explained as they passed.

Moments later they were escorted by a pretty Malaysian hostess to their Gulfstream and were entreated to return to Singapore soon.

“What happened to you two?” Tiny asked as they mounted the stairs. Despite the cabin’s ample headroom, Gunderson had to stoop over to keep his flight cap atop his blond head. His shoulders seemed to brush both sides of the fuselage.

“Later,” Cabrillo said. “Get us the hell out of here.”

Tiny ducked back into the cockpit and set about following the Chairman’s order with his copilot. Juan got on the aircraft’s satellite phone and dialed Roland Croissard’s cell. It rang eight times, and he was sure it would go to voice mail when the Swiss financier picked up.

“Mr. Croissard, it’s Juan Cabrillo.” The background din was a symphony of sirens. “What’s happening there?”

“A bombing on the roof of the hotel.” Croissard’s voice was edgy, near panic. “They have evacuated all the guests. It is a good thing, because ten minutes after the first explosion another ripped through part of the casino.”

Juan covered the handset’s microphone and relayed that last bit of information to Max, adding, “See, we were nowhere near the gaming floor. It was a coincidence.”

Max’s perpetual scowl deepened, but he knew the Chairman was right.

“Are you and Smith okay?”

“ Oui, oui, we are unharmed. Just a little shaken up, perhaps. Well, at least I am. Nothing seems to bother John.”

“That’s good. I think we are all victims of being at the wrong place at the wrong time.” Juan had to raise his voice when the Gulfstream’s twin engines began spooling up. “I want to assure you that this will not affect our transaction. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I do. And I am most relieved.”

“Let Mr. Smith know that I will be in touch with instructions for how we will pick him up. As I said earlier it will most likely take place in Chittagong, Bangladesh.”

“ D’accord. I will tell him.”

Juan cut the connection. He rummaged through a storage locker and found a pair of mechanic’s overalls. They were sized for Tiny Gunderson, but a dry tent was preferable to a well-tailored but wet suit.

They took off a few minutes later, and no sooner had the undercarriage clicked into the fuselage than Tiny’s voice came over the intercom. “Singapore control just shut down all departing aircraft. They’re requesting we return to the airport, but I figure we’ll be beyond their twelve-mile limit before they can do anything about it. Whatever you and Max got into back there, Chairman, it sure has their dander up.”

Hanley and Cabrillo exchanged a look. Max leaned forward to a small refrigerator and pulled out two beers, a Peroni for Juan and a Bud Light for himself. The “Light” was an admission that his personal battle with the bulge was ongoing. “I’d say,” he said, “that we just barely kept our butts out of a Singapore Sling.”

Cabrillo groaned.

* * *

EIGHT HOURS LATER, and half an ocean away, Gomez Adams held the Corporation’s MD 520N over the rearmost of the Oregon’s five cargo hatches. The ship was pitching mildly, but there was a freshening breeze off the port quarter. He massaged the controls, matching pitch, yaw, and speed, and set the big chopper onto the deck. As soon as the skids kissed steel, he cut the turbine and announced, “We’re home. And, believe it or not, there might just be a little vapor left in the gas tanks.”

A technician immediately rushed forward to secure the chopper.

The eleven-thousand-ton tramp freighter was at the helicopter’s maximum range off the eastern coast of the Indian subcontinent as she drove through the gentle rollers for her rendezvous in Bangladesh. Far to the west the setting sun painted the undersides of the clouds in hues of orange, red, and purple and cast a wavering gilded beam atop the waves.

Nowhere on earth was a sunset as beautiful as those found at sea, Cabrillo thought as he ducked under the chopper’s still-spinning blades. The downdraft made his oversized jumpsuit snap and whip like it was attacking him.

Max grinned at him when the collar slapped Juan across the face.

“Welcome back, boys,” Linda Ross said as she stepped forward to greet them. She wore a pair of cutoff shorts and a tank top. “You have a knack for finding trouble, don’t you?”

Hanley pointed a thumb at Juan. “Blame him. The guy attracts nothing but suicide bombers, terrorists, and madmen.”

“Don’t forget loose women. What’s the latest on the bombings?”

“Some new group called al-Qaeda of the East has claimed responsibility for the attack. No dead and only five slight injuries. The two blasts on the roof were standard vests packed with Semtex and scrap metal. You know, couture for killers. The explosion in the casino was much smaller. No word yet on what it was, or at least it’s not being reported. Mark and Eric think they can hack into the Singapore police mainframe, but they didn’t sound too certain.”

“Tell them not to bother,” Cabrillo said. “My guess is the primary bombers’ handler tossed a grenade in a trash can to cause more chaos. I’d hate to think of the death toll had Max and I not been there.”

“Amen,” Hanley said, and ambled off to give Adams and his mechanics their orders.

Off along the starboard rail, a crewman had opened the lid of what had started out as a regular fifty-five-gallon steel barrel. It was as dented and neglected as everything else aboard the Oregon. Rather than just some bit of nautical junk left to litter the deck, the barrel was a carefully positioned redoubt for a remotely operated M60 machine gun. The technician from the armory had the lid open, and the gun raised and pivoted to the horizontal position while he cleaned it and checked for any signs of salt-air corrosion. This was one of several identical weapons placed around the main deck’s perimeter that were used primarily to repel boarders.

“Why there?” Linda wondered aloud as she and the Chairman walked to the towering amidships superstructure. Its white paint was faded to the color of curdled cream and was flaking off the ship like she was some prehistoric reptile shedding her skin.

Because there were no other vessels within visual range, they hadn’t bothered pumping ersatz smoke though the ship’s single funnel. Unlike any other watercraft plying the oceans today, the Oregonrelied on magnetohydrodynamics. The high-tech system used supercooled magnets to strip free electrons from the briny water. This free electricity was then used to force water through two pump jets. Eventually such propulsion would become standard on all shipping since it was environmentally sound, but the staggering cost and still-experimental state of development made the Oregonthe only vessel afloat to use it.

“The casino’s owned by an American company, and, according to the tenets of Islam, gambling, or maisir, is forbidden,” Cabrillo replied. “That place is the church of all things unholy. Anything on the bombers themselves?”

“Just what was captured on the hotel’s surveillance cameras when they were in the lobby and elevator. They were either Malay or Indonesian. No IDs were found. And it’ll take days to do a DNA search, and most likely these guys aren’t on any databases. Their pictures might match with something, but nada for now.”

“It’s early,” Juan remarked.

They stepped over the coaming of a watertight door and into the superstructure. The lighting was fluorescents bolted to the ceiling, and the hallways were painted steel. When there was no prospect of outsiders entering the ship, the air was kept comfortable, but it could be changed at a moment’s notice. In cold climes, if an inspector or customs agent was aboard, they cranked up the big Trane air conditioners, or in the tropics they would pump in additional heat just to make the interlopers want off the ship as fast as possible. Also, the lighting could be set to flickering at microburst frequencies designed to interfere with neural activity. For some it brought a mild headache and a little nausea. It could send an epileptic into a seizure.

That had happened only once, fortunately, and Doc Huxley was there in moments.

Since an incident involving Somali pirates a few months back hadn’t gone as planned, Max had installed injectors that could flood the entire superstructure, or individual rooms, with carbon monoxide, again under the watchful eye of Julia Huxley. The odorless and colorless gas induced drowsiness and lethargy at first, but prolonged exposure would bring brain damage and death. Because individuals react differently depending on their size and physical condition, Cabrillo considered this to be a last-ditch option.

They stepped into a little-used janitor’s closet, and Linda twisted the taps of a slop sink like she was working the dials of a safe. The water that splashed from the faucet was rusty brown and somehow lumpy.

No detail was too minor.

A secret door clicked open to reveal the opulent core of the Oregon, the spaces where the men and women who manned her spent most of their time.

They went one deck lower to where most of the crew’s cabins were located, and Juan paused outside the door of his own suite. Linda made to follow him in and continue the briefing.

“Sorry,” he said, “but I need a shower and to get out of these clothes. I look like a Star Warsaction figure dressed in an old G.I. Joe doll’s outfit.”

“I wasn’t going to mention your need for a new tailor,” she grinned saucily. “You look like I did wearing one of my dad’s shirts as an art-class smock when I was a little girl.”

“We hired Tiny for his flying ability, not his uniformity of size.” He turned away, then stopped. “One more thing. Go down to the boat garage and tell them we need to strip one of the RHIBs of every ounce of weight they can think of. That includes pulling one of her outboards and centering the other. Max has Gomez Adams and his team doing the same thing to the whirlybird.”

An RHIB was one of the two Rigid Hulled Inflatable Boats the Oregoncarried, one in a starboard-mounted chamber where it could be launched into the sea and another in storage in a forward hold as a backup.

Linda didn’t point out the obviousness of Cabrillo’s plan. Once they choppered into Myanmar, the only real way around the interior was by boat. “Aye, Chairman. Enjoy your shower.” Linda sauntered off.

The Chairman’s cabin was decorated like it had been the stage for the film Casablanca, with all sorts of archways, finely carved wooden screens, and enough potted palms to seed an oasis. The tile floor was laid over a rubber membrane so the ship’s vibration wouldn’t crack it.

Before he saw to his own needs, and inspired by the gun crew up on deck, he retrieved the Kel-Tec pistol from his overalls’ pocket and set it on the blotter on his desk next to what looked like an old Bakelite phone but was actually part of the Oregon’s sophisticated communications array. Behind his desk was a gun safe. He opened the heavy door, ignoring the assortment of arms and the bundles of currency and gold coins stored within. Instead, he retrieved a gun-cleaning kit. He knew the little automatic’s chamber was clear, but he jacked the slide several times, once he’d pulled out the empty magazine. After carefully scouring the barrel and chamber, he wiped all the parts with gun oil. He loaded fresh .380 ammunition into the magazine. He would have chambered a final round, but he wanted the armorers and Kevin Nixon down in the Magic Shop to give his artificial leg a going-over after its dunking, so he just put the pistol into his desk drawer.

An unchambered bullet wasn’t a danger until someone touched the gun.

He fought his way out of the XXL-sized jumpsuit, pulled off the prosthetic leg, and hopped easily into his luxurious bathroom. It had a copper tub big enough for elephants to laze away an afternoon in, but it was rarely used. Instead, he got into the shower, adjusting the heat and the multiple heads until his body was being pummeled by tsunamis of water just a few degrees cooler than scalding.

He dressed casually in lightweight khakis and a rich purple polo shirt, his feet shod in soft leather moccasins without socks. Unlike his combat leg, the prosthesis he had on now was a virtual twin of his flesh-and-bone limb.

His cabin was the closest to the Op Center, the electronic nerve center of the freighter. It was from this room, as high-tech as the bridge of a science-fiction starship, that all the Oregon’s weapons, defensive systems, damage control, helm, and propulsion were controlled. The semicircular room, dominated by a massive flat-panel display and kept dimly lit, had a helmsman and fire-control officer sitting toward the front, with duty stations for communications, radar and sonar, and a dozen others ringing it. The watchkeeper sat at the middle of the space in a single chair with its own monitor and controls that could supersede all others. Mark and Eric had dubbed it the “Kirk Chair” the first time they had seen it, which secretly pleased Cabrillo since that had been his inspiration when he’d designed the space.

Eddie Seng had the conn but leapt to his feet when Juan entered the Op Center.

“As you were, Mr. Seng.” On the split screen were feeds from multiple cameras mounted at strategic locations around the ship. “Anything to report?”

“We’re all alone out here, so I’ve got her humming along at forty knots.”

“Any word from young Mr. Lawless?”

“He’s still in Kabul but will make our pickup in Bangladesh.”

“Get word to him that he’ll be choppering out to the ship with another passenger, and that discretion is the better part of valor. A loose lip could sink this ship, and all that.”

“Who’s the other passenger?” Eddie asked.

“A corporate minder named John Smith,” Juan said. “Ex-Legionnaire. He’s Croissard’s muscle, and Croissard’s insisting that he come with us.”

“And I take it by your tone you’re none too happy about it.”

“Truer words have never been spoken, but we don’t have much choice in the matter.” Cabrillo didn’t like variables he couldn’t control, and Smith was definitely one of them.

MacD Lawless was another. He wasn’t sure if this would be the right first mission for him, not with Smith along and Lawless’s abilities still unevaluated. He’d have to think it over further. By now his research team of Mark Murphy and Eric Stone should have all the details of the man’s military career and the circumstances of his capture in Afghanistan. He’d read through it after dinner and then decide if Lawless would be on the mission with the Corporation rescuing Soleil Croissard.

The Oregon’s dining room had the hushed sophistication of an English gentlemen’s club from a bygone era. It was all polished brass and dark woods. The furniture was heavy with subtly patterned fabrics, and the carpet was muted and plush. All that was missing were some stuffed animal heads on the wall and a couple old men smoking cigars and regaling each other with tales of safaris and imperial wars.

Juan caught a break from having to read Lawless’s dossier because Murph and Stony were sitting at one of the tables.

Eric Stone was a Navy vet but hadn’t been a fighting sailor. Like Mark, who’d been with a Defense contractor before joining the Corporation, Stone was a technology guy. It was only after he’d come aboard that his innate sense of ship handling came to light. After Juan himself, Eric Stone was the best helmsman on the Oregon. Stone, a shy man by nature, retained a little of the deportment he’d learned in the Navy. He still tucked in his shirts, and his hair was always in place.

Mark, on the other hand, cultivated a nerd-chic vibe, though it seemed pretty heavy on the nerd and light on the chic. His dark hair looked like he dried it in a wind tunnel. He had tried, unsuccessfully, to grow a beard and had since given up, but his shaving schedule was erratic at best. Both men were of average height, though Eric was the slenderer of the two. Because he lived mostly on junk food and energy drinks, Mark had to spend time in the gym to keep from packing on the pounds.

Tonight he wore a T-shirt with a picture of a dachshund puppy lying asleep on a dinner plate with some potatoes and a serving of traditional German spätzle. Next to the plate was a half-full beer mug and eating utensils. Under the picture were the words “Wienerdog schnitzel.”

“That’s just wrong,” Juan said as he approached the table.

“I Photoshopped it myself,” Murph said proudly. “I made another for chimi-chihuahuas.”

Cabrillo took a chair opposite. “Are you eating canned ravioli?”

“You can’t beat Chef Boyardee,” Mark replied, taking a spoonful.

“I sometimes wonder if you’re twenty-eight or just eight.” Cabrillo plucked the crisp linen napkin from the table and draped it over his lap. A moment later a wedge salad with strawberry balsamic dressing was placed in front of him.

“I was actually thinking about a Caesar,” he said to the server without looking up.

“You’ll eat the wedge,” said Maurice, the ship’s impeccably dressed but irascible steward. He added as he walked away, “You’ll have the beef bourguignon too.”

He returned a moment later with a bottle of Dom Romane Conti, a rich French burgundy that would be the perfect accompaniment to the Chairman’s meal. He poured with a flourished twist so as not to spill a drop. “I had to drink two full glasses to be sure it hadn’t turned to vinegar.”

Juan chuckled. Maurice’s little tasting stunt cost the Corporation around eight hundred dollars. Times might be a little leaner than normal, but the retired Royal Navy valet wouldn’t be denied “a touch of the grape,” as he would put it.

Cabrillo turned to his dinner companions. “You guys could save me from staring at my computer for the night by giving me the condensed version of what you’ve found out about MacD Lawless.”