Текст книги "Robert Ludlum's The Janson Command"

Автор книги: Robert Ludlum

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THIRTEEN

I’m afraid I was a bit short the other day with your Ms. Upchurch,” Doug Case apologized on the sat phone.

“She understood you were under pressure,” Janson said.

From the windows of the front room of Ferdinand Poe’s hospital suite he could see the Presidential Palace across the Porto Clarence harbor and a broad gray-blue swath of the Atlantic Ocean to the east and north. Isle de Foree’s flag—a gold, green, and black horizontal tricolor slashed by a diagonal band of red—had been raised in place of Iboga’s yellow banner. It stirred spasmodically in the intermittent breeze.

That same breeze had cleared the usual equatorial sea haze.

Janson could see for miles. An enormous vessel was growing slowly larger on the northern horizon. He had been watching her for the past hour, while waiting for Doug Case to return his call. She was too slow to be a cruise ship or an oil tanker.

Doug Case said, “I’ve had time to cool down. It’s not your fault the doctor lit out. Your check’s been cut. We’ll overnight it.”

“Don’t.”

“What?”

“Hang on to it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Send the check when we send the doctor.”

“We’re talking about five million bucks, Paul.”

“But not ours, yet. Don’t worry; we’ll run him down.”

He had nailed his first lead within minutes of landing at the airport. Poe’s audacious spy, Patrice da Costa—joking that he was now “temporary security chief” of “temporary president Poe’s temporary presidential guard”—took Janson to interview the madam of the brothel to which he had steered Flannigan the night before. The frightened woman acknowledged that the doctor had been there, although she did not know when he had left or where he had gone. In retrospect, Janson realized that Flannigan had not trusted him and had meant to run at the first opportunity.

“And when I do,” Janson promised Doug Case, “I’ll march him directly into your office.”

Case said, “Don’t worry about it. ASC did everything we could to help and you got him back to civilization safe and sound. If the man ran, that’s his problem; he’s on his own. I mean, we both did the right thing.”

“Why did he run?”

Doug Case answered with a chuckle, “Turns out the doctor is something of a swordsman. It’s very likely he was running from a pissed-off husband.”

“In Porto Clarence or Houston?”

“Either or both, from what I’ve heard– Look, a medical beach bum like Flannigan is not the biggest loss. His type kicks around from job to job.”

“From what I saw, he was thoroughly professional and totally committed to his patient.”

“I’m not accusing him of being a drug addict or alcoholic banned from practicing in the civilized world. I’m just saying we’ll get along without him. Let him go, Paul. We’ll send a check. Fax an invoice when you get a chance.”

“You’ll get my invoice along with Dr. Flannigan,” Janson retorted. His word, his credibility, and his professionalism were at stake. But he had another reason to keep the door open at ASC.

“If you insist,” Case said dubiously. “But we’re willing to call it a day.”

“I insist. Though I could use a little help on your end.”

“Shoot.”

“Fill me in on everything you know about any clandestine service aiding the Free Foree Movement.”

FOURTEEN

That’s not something I’m up to speed on,” Doug Case answered.

“You were in communication with their gunrunners.”

“Well, people who knew their gunrunners.”

“You were keeping tabs,” Paul Janson persisted. “You must have heard something.”

“You want hearsay?”

“I’m just getting started. I’ll take anything.”

“Why are you asking?”

Janson said, “Five million dollars is a lot of money. I intend to earn it.”

“Mind me asking what does a clandestine outfit aiding the Free Foree Movement have to do with finding the doctor?”

“You’re stalling me, Doug. What have you heard?”

Viscerally suspicious of his former government masters, Janson would not be surprised that an arm of one of the many U.S. clandestine services had secretly aided the rebels in hopes of securing a potential stable oil supply. Maybe they’d caught wind of new unannounced discoveries. So it was not hard to imagine a covert U.S. outfit stepping out of the shadows to throw a little help FFM’s way just to keep friendly relationships with potential winners.

But who arranged Iboga’s escape was a larger question. Which was why Paul Janson was pulling every string he knew to pinpoint where the Harrier jump jet had come from. There weren’t that many in existence. Less than a hundred. They were complicated machines all supposedly in the service of sovereign nations whose air forces could provide the advanced tech support and maintenance to keep them flying.

Of the players competing in the West African oil patch, China could have fielded a Harrier, perhaps launching and retrieving from a cargo ship. So could Nigeria. So, perhaps, Angola. And so, of course, could the U.S.

The vessel he had been watching draw near on a course that would take her past the island now clearly appeared to be a petroleum drill ship. Comparing her to an oil tanker crossing her wake—an ultralarge crude carrier—he guessed that the drill ship was close to a thousand feet long. The draw-works tower that thrust up from the middle of the ship looked fifty stories high. Was her arrival in Isle de Foree’s waters a coincidence? Janson thought not. If his suspicion proved true, he would do whatever it took to undo ASC’s treacherous schemes even as he pretended to still serve them. But he held hard to the hope that Doug Case was not lying to him.

“You told me,” he said into his sat phone, “that this was not about petroleum.”

Case laughed softly. “Well, let’s say management made it clear that I was not permitted to be entirely forthcoming. Which I gather you guessed yourself.”

“ASC being an oil company, the thought crossed my mind.” Feigning dry humor, Janson listened for Case’s voice to betray a lie.

“Paul, you’re a man of many worlds, including the corporate world. You know damned well the chief of security is not in the policy loop. As I told your young lady, security chiefs are servants. We protect; we don’t command.”

“What’s going on, Doug?”

“Can I presume that your phone is as secure as mine?”

“It’s my own. What’s going on?”

“I would really prefer to discuss this face-to-face in a swept room.”

“I don’t have time to come to Texas,” said Janson.

“Okay. Here’s the deal. Now and then, for many years—decades—American Synergy has helped small nations and their oil companies expand their reserves. I know what you’re thinking: That’s how oil companies seize control of foreign oil. Well, it doesn’t work that way anymore. The producing nations are in the driver’s seat, have been for years. What I’m talking about is essentially pro bono oil exploration that we do on occasion. It burnishes our image and makes friends in places where we might not be loved. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“It sounds reasonable and it sounds like you’re trying to do the right thing.”

“We aredoing the right thing.”

“I’m surprised ASC’s PR department doesn’t flood the Internet with pop-ups advertising how nice and kind you are.”

“Cynicism does not become you.”

“Why keep it secret?”

“We explore quietly so our competitors don’t take advantage and steam in with fleets of oil hunters. We hire subcontractors for the actual exploration that specialize in that sort of thing. Little guys you never heard of. Small independent outfits like Tullow—or like Tullow used to be, Tullow now being the poster child for independents that strike it rich.”

Janson interrupted the digression. “What outfit is exploring for you?”

“I can’t tell you. It’s proprietary. In fact, I don’t even know. In ASC’s chain of command no one below Kingsman Helms knows who. There is a major ‘Chinese Wall’ between them and us, so we don’t get accused of riding roughshod over the poor, downtrodden recipient of our largess.”

“What happens if they find something good?”

“ASC is first in line to help the small nation harvest its discovery. It’s only fair—don’t forget these days the locals have the power to demand enormous royalties. We’re working on tighter margins than we did in the bad old days.”

“Does ‘first in line’ mean ASC gets exclusive development rights?”

“By doing good, we do good—but not just ASC. I mean, look, Paul. We’re an American corporation with a responsibility to supply our country with stable sources of energy. In my book that’s nothing to be ashamed of. Whatever the long-term future of energy, our country can’t make good decisions if we’re scrambling to keep the lights on.”

“Were you doing good at Isle de Foree?” Janson asked, wondering, Good enough to persuade some clandestine echelon of the United States government to launch Reapers in service of an oil company?

“Let me put it this way: ASC just chartered the Vulcan Queen, a seventh-generation exploration drill ship that can sink two forty-thousand-foot wells in water three miles deep and keep her station while the wind is blowing sixty knots and seas are running forty feet. She’s the first billion-dollar drill ship and we’ve dispatched her to Isle de Foree.”

“Good answer, Doug.”

“What do you mean?”

“You had me worried you were jerking me around.”

“I’m not following you, Paul.”

“I see her on the horizon.”

“The ship? Already? Are you sure it’s her?”

Janson said, “She looks like a floating Death Star.”

“That’s the Vulcan Queen.”

“I wondered who sent her the day after the revolution.”

“Now you know.”

“But I still don’t know which clandestine service supported the Free Foree Movement.”

“Why just one?”

“What did you say?”

“It could be anyone. Ours, Chinese, Nigerian, South African. Anyone who wants oil.”

“But no one knew about Isle de Foree’s oil. Except ASC and your ‘pro bono’ subcontractors.”

“ASC didn’t know. We hoped. So why wouldn’t others? I mean, what the hell does it cost to fund a ragtag rebel army? Compared to the value of making friends. If you dug deep enough you’d find that Ferdinand Poe was taking money from a half-dozen sources. Most of whom were also giving Iboga money. It’s chump change compared to what it could yield. Where ASC was smart was spending the big bucks to explore. Now that he’s won, who will Interim President Poe love more, the guys who paid him in machine guns—valuable as they were when the lead was flying—or the guys who set his new nation on the road to riches?”

“I’ll ask him,” said Paul Janson.

“Beg pardon?”

“We have a meeting scheduled.”

“About what?”

Janson decided to answer Doug Case honestly. Give American Synergy Corporation’s chief of global security something to ponder. “A job.”

* * *

“YOU LOOK BETTER, Mr. President,” said Janson.

“Acting President,” Ferdinand Poe corrected him. The old man appeared frail but actually had some color in his cheeks. They’d given him a haircut and a shave and blue cotton pajamas and hooked him up to an intravenous feed. His eyes were a little dull—an effect of painkillers, Janson presumed, as was the slurring of Poe’s words, though his voice was strong. He added, with a small smile, “After years in the bush, the healing effects of two nights’ sleep in a real bed are not to be overestimated.”

“I imagine that winning a revolution doesn’t hurt, either,” Janson replied.

Poe bridled. “We fought our revolution thirty-five years ago against Portugal,” he said curtly. “Our war against Iboga was not a revolution; it was a defense of a democracy against a coup.”

“I stand corrected,” said Janson. The prickly response probably reflected Poe’s realization that the nation he had wrested back from Iboga faced severe consequences from their long war.

Poe pointed out the window at the palace across the water. “It is an important distinction. You see that open square beside the Presidential Palace? Isle de Foree’s revolution ignited on that patch of ground fifty years ago when the Portuguese landowners persuaded the army to attack demonstrators protesting working conditions on the plantations. You probably never heard of the massacre. Your Vietnam War was capturing the headlines and Portugal had already committed similar atrocities in Mozambique. Ours was ‘old news.’ But here on our island, the Porto Clarence Massacre initiated our sense of nationhood.”

His gaze darkened with the memory. “The soldiers made the men, women, and children stand in separate lines. I was a teacher. The little boys were fascinated by the jets sweeping overhead, and the helicopters, how freely they maneuvered. Then they started firing their machine guns.

“People fled. The soldiers chased them in Jeeps and armored cars and drove them to jump from the seawall. I will never forget what my father said as he lay dying: ‘Those who will benefit from this are the wealthy that already have plenty in their hand.’ ” Poe shook his head in disgust. “They slaughtered five hundred of us. The harbor filled with sharks feeding on the bodies. What did you want to see me about?”

“One who already has plenty in his hand.”

“What does that mean?”

“Your chief of staff informed me that Iboga looted the treasury.”

“Yes. It appears that over the past two years he moved millions and millions out of the country. Money we need desperately.”

Janson said, “As I understand it, Isle de Foree will soon take in money from deepwater oil.”

“Only if there are truly great reserves. And even then only after years of preparation, drilling, building infrastructure. Until and if the oil company pays royalties, we will have to eke by on signing bonuses.”

Janson shook his head. Even if deepwater oil was discovered in economically recoverable quantities, it would be years before Poe’s impoverished island nation received royalties. “ ‘Eking by’ will hardly help you rebuild.”

“I am aware of that,” Poe said grimly. “The bankers are offering loans against future oil rents.”

“But to borrow when you need to borrow,” Janson said, “is to hold the beggar’s bowl.”

“We are aware of that, too. Nor are we unmindful of the ‘resource curse.’ A rising tide of oil money will drown a democracy unless we strictly manage it. We can’t do that if we form the habit of borrowing against it. Yet how else do we replace the money Iboga took?”

“Would you like me to get it back?”

Paul Janson’s noncommittal expression concealed enormous excitement. Any hunt for Iboga would be by its nature an investigation of who had sent the Harrier jump jet to rescue the dictator. It might even lead Janson to whoever had sent Reapers to the battle. Ferdinand Poe turned angry eyes on him. “You know I asked your help before to capture Iboga and you refused. This all could have been averted if only you had helped.”

“Under those same circumstances I would refuse again,” Janson replied. “Circumstances have changed. Now I have time to plan, time to go about it meticulously.”

“But it would take forever. Liberia is still hunting Taylor’s loot. Nearly ten years, now, they’ve found nothing in his name.”

“Liberia’s Taylor was in power for a long time. He systematically stole and took bribes and kickbacks over many years. Your Iboga was in power for a little over two years. And there was no great influx of foreign investment money to steal. My company has access to accountants who specialize in this sort of recovery.”

Ferdinard Poe was suddenly impatient. “I propose paying you five percent of whatever you recover of Iboga’s loot.”

Janson’s pulse quickened further. The original job of rescuing the doctor had bloomed into an astonishing opportunity. Five percent of even a poor nation’s treasury would swell the Phoenix Foundation’s coffers and vastly increase its reach. And that kind of money would allow him to pick and choose CatsPaw jobs for years to come. He hesitated only long enough to make Poe wonder whether he would demand more. Then he moved to close the deal. “Plus expenses. Understand that they could be considerable. We will require reimbursement on a weekly basis.”

“Done.”

“Not so fast. There is one other proviso.”

Ferdinand Poe registered Paul Janson’s profound change of expression. The amiable negotiator suddenly wore the face of an unyielding warrior. “What proviso?” Poe asked warily.

“I went to Black Sand Prison this morning,” Janson said.

“To what purpose?”

“Mario Margarido made the arrangements so I could interview the wives Iboga left behind to learn how he arranged his escape.”

“Were you anticipating that I would ask you to hunt him?”

“Professional interest,” Janson answered. “It behooves me to keep up with the methods of people like Iboga.”

“Were his wives helpful?”

“Marginally,” was all Janson would reveal.

“What is this ‘proviso’?”

“I don’t do renditions.” Never again.

“I do not understand you, Mr. Janson.”

“I will not return the dictator to Isle de Foree to be tortured.”

Ferdinand Poe sat up straighter in his bed. “There is no torture anymore on Isle de Foree,” he said staunchly. “At Black Sand you must have seen my edict banning torture—my first edict since democracy’s victory. No doubt Iboga’s officer corps are chortling in their cells at my ‘weakness’—even as they plot schemes to return him to power. But notslaughtering dangerous men as a precaution is the price a free country must pay to remain free.”

“Your edict was duct-taped to the front gate,” said Janson. “And those of Iboga’s inner circle I saw were being treated humanely.”

“Then why won’t you return Iboga for trial? A fair trial, I assure you.”

“Unfortunately, copies of your edict did not make their way to every dungeon in the prison.”

“What do you mean?”

“I found Iboga’s head wife spread-eagled naked on a stone floor. She was manacled hand and foot.”

“That is what she did to our women.”

“When I reminded the jailor about your edict, he told me, ‘Acting President Poe ordered no more beating. But she doesn’t know that and she remembers what she did to our women. Let her skin crawl in anticipation.’ Then he pointed at the whips hanging on the wall and he asked me, ‘Where do you think those whips came from? The Red Cross?’ ”

“One can’t control everything,” said Poe. “By the time you capture Iboga, I will have put the prison in proper order.”

Janson said, “My forensic accountants will run down the money. But I will hand Iboga himself over to the International Criminal Court in The Hague.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“I believe your intent,” Janson replied with a warm smile that would have done the wiliest diplomat proud. “But you have an entire nation to put in order and it will be a while before you can ‘control’ everything.”

“No,” said Poe. “Iboga will string the court along for years.”

Janson said, “In researching the original job of rescuing Dr. Flannigan I happened to learn quite a bit about you, sir. I admire you. You’re a practical man. You attended the London School of Economics to master English because mastery of English would help you promote the cause of Isle de Foree in a world where English speakers wielded power. And you’re a brave man. You are the kind of man that people need to serve and protect them. But there are limits to what practicality and courage can achieve in the midst of chaos. You’ll have enough on your plate without having to resist your own people’s desire to take vengeance on Iboga. And before you say it is none of my business, capturing him will make him my business.”

“All right!” said Ferdinand Poe. “Clearly you will not budge. Give him to the World Court, if you must.”

“I must.”

“Now Iset a condition: If Iboga ever manages to trick his jailors and escape from The Hague, you promise to find him again before he comes back to retake Isle de Foree.”

“Count on it,” said Janson.

FIFTEEN

37°35′20.66″ N, 0°58′59.79″ W

Cartagena, Spain

Put her on the ground, guys,��� Janson told his pilots. “Jesse’s gotta beat the doctor into Cartagena.”

Seen from six thousand feet, cutting a long V wake through a placid Mediterranean Sea, the Varna Fantasygleamed pristinely white in the morning sun.

They were standing behind the pilots, looking out the windshields over Ed’s and Mike’s shoulders as CatsPaw Associates’ Embraer 650 banked in a wide turn around the Varna Fantasyand headed for the coast. At the rocky edge of the blue-green sea they crossed over Cartagena, Spain, the Bulgarian cruise liner’s next port of call.

Janson grew uncharacteristically talkative, which indicated to Kincaid that he was about to hide something from her. Cartagena, he told her, cut an uncommonly deep and sheltered indentation in a difficult stretch of Mediterranean coast that had made it a welcome harbor for three thousand years. Phoenician navigators and merchants had anchored in its blue-green waters, as had colonists from Carthage, Roman conquerors, and Spanish warships.

“The Romans left behind stone roads, theaters, and played-out silver mines. The Spanish erected fortresses on the headlands and breakwaters below and surrounded the waterfront with freight piers, shipyards, and factories. In our more peaceful, prosperous times they built that long mole to dock cruise ships.”

“Care to tell me where you’re going?” she asked.

“Not sure, yet,” was all he would answer. He pulled disappearing acts now and then, though not as often as he used to.

As they descended toward the nearest airport, a sleepy general aviation field outside the town of Murcia, Jessica Kincaid asked Mike if she could sit in the first officer’s seat for the landing.

“Negative. Sorry, Jesse, but it’s a short runway and a nasty crosswind. I might need Ed’s reflexes.”

Kincaid elbowed Ed and said, “I have faster reflexes than this old guy.”

“Yeah, but Ed’s been practicing for thirty years. Next time. Don’t worry; you’ll get more landings.”

Her red rental Audi was waiting on the private aviation apron.

“Good luck with the doc,” Janson told her. “If he gives you any trouble, you’ve got Freddy Ramirez standing by in Madrid.”

Freddy Ramirez was a former CSID Spanish intelligence operator. He had learned his trade battling Cuba’s aggressive Directorate of Intelligence, which trafficked in cocaine and repeatedly attempted to penetrate CSID. Like Janson, Freddy had gone private. His Protocolo de Seguridad was well connected wherever Freddy Ramirez had followed the trail of Cuban coke, and Janson counted on him in Central America and Miami, Spain itself, France, and Italy.

Kincaid said, “I think I can handle one doctor. If he’s aboard.” Varna Fantasyhad sailed the night the doctor disappeared from Porto Clarence, but he was not listed on either the passenger or crew manifest filed with Isle de Foree Customs and Immigration.

* * *

THE EMBRAER WAS thundering back into the sky before Kincaid cleared the airport gate. It took off into the westerly wind and quickly swooped north and possibly east, she thought, but by then it was climbing out of sight.

Foot to the firewall brought her into Cartagena as the tugboats were easing the Varna Fantasypast the outer breakwater. Kincaid battled tourist traffic through the narrow streets of the old walled city and pulled onto the cruise ship pier after the ship had crossed the harbor and tied up. Shuttle buses were waiting and sightseers queued eagerly at the gangway, anxious to get ashore after back-to-back three-day passages from Porto Clarence to Dakar, Senegal, and from Dakar to Cartagena.

Jessica Kincaid drove around the buses and found a parking space by the yacht marina that was sheltered by the pier. She had made it just in time. The bus drivers were stubbing out cigarettes and starting their engines. The ship loomed above the dock. Passengers were leaning over the rail gawking at the city that faced the harbor with a wall of cream-colored eight– and ten-story apartment buildings. Green plazas and palm trees stood between the buildings and the water.

Kincaid heard a sharp whistle and spotted the source through her open sunroof. She had noticed the boat rigger standing at the very top of a tall sailboat mast as she drove in—an athletic race-yacht gorilla in white T-shirt and shorts, his face shaded from the fierce sun by a visor and blue-iridium polarized sunglasses. He was working alone without a belaying line, which meant that instead of another crewman winching him up, he had climbed a halyard using étriersattached to rope ascenders. Standing in the stirrup-like étriers, he was at eye level with the passengers waiting to disembark from the Varna Fantasy. He flashed teeth in a hello-blond-foreign-tourist-ladies grin. The ladies snapped his picture with their cell phones.

The passengers began trooping down the gangway.

Kincaid watched every face. It was not difficult. There were more women than men, and most of the men were older than the doctor. She presumed the crew could disembark last. And when they had all boarded the buses, she had not seen him. There was a second gangway aft, a working route that touched the pier behind a chain-link fence and led into the terminal building. That would be for the crew.

The rigger gave her a whistle as she got out of the car, legs flashing from cool linen shorts. In her role as a carefree tourist she returned a thanks-for-the-compliment wave. She walked into the terminal building and approached the Fantasy Line’s booth and engaged the women working there in a mix of English, French, and Spanish.

* * *

HADRIAN VAN PELT had been standing for hours in his Petzl rope ascenders atop the one-hundred-foot mast of the racing sloop, pretending to lubricate the masthead sheaves and change a burned-out anchor light. From this high up he could see over the cruise ship to the headlands that embraced the Spanish port, and beyond the headlands the blue-green water of the Mediterranean. Directly beneath him, beside the Real Club Nautico de Regattas, was the cruise ship pier where the passengers had trooped off the Varna Fantasyand boarded shuttle buses to the Old City.

He reasoned that ship’s crew had to wait until the passengers disembarked, but he was taking no chances the doctor might disembark with them. Van Pelt still could not figure out how he had missed Flannigan when the ship docked in Dakar. This stop in the Mediterranean was his next opportunity, and he intended to finish the job here.

Then, seconds ago, movement under him had caught his eye. From the row of cars parked beside the boat slips a slim woman had stepped out of a red Audi. She was wearing retro cat’s-eye sunglasses. The open visor that shaded her face did not cover her spiky brown hair. When he had whistled, she returned a noncommittal wave, locked her car, and hurried into the terminal.

Van Pelt clamped his gloves around the wire forestay and kicked out of his rope ascenders. He launched himself into the air, plummeted in a controlled slide down the slanting forestay, and landed as lightly as a much smaller man would. Then he vaulted off the sailboat onto the concrete pier and headed for the woman’s car.

He had last seen her in Porto Clarence, Isle de Foree. American, he had figured, judging by the I-own-the-world thrust of her shoulders. She had been sitting in a café, in animated conversation with the old woman who owned Isle de Foree’s priciest whorehouse.

Hadrian Van Pelt could wonder if it was a big coincidence. Or he could wonder whether she, too, had tracked Dr. Terry Flannigan to Cartagena, Spain, the Varna Fantasy’s next port of call after Dakar. But why wonder when he could ask her?

He knelt beside the Audi as if to tighten a running-shoe lace, opened his tool pouch, activated an electronic scanner that read key codes—a Czech-built instrument that cost more than the car—and popped her door locks. He climbed in like he owned it, looked to ensure that no one was watching, and squeezed himself onto the floor of the backseat.

Van Pelt did not doubt that a professional with her wits about her would spot him in the back as she opened the door. But a professional would also recognize the snub nose of the bullpup-configured Micro TAR-21 assault rifle protruding from his tool pouch. She would see that she had no choice but to obey his order to get in and drive before he drilled a hole in her head with the silenced weapon.

* * *

AFTER ATTEMPTING TO answer Jessica Kincaid’s questions and accepting small bribes sufficient to treat themselves to a nice lunch—an amount that Janson had taught her could buy a lot of information—the women at the Fantasy Lines counter began glancing at the clock.

Kincaid thanked them for their time and stepped out into the sun again.

“Fuck!” she muttered under her breath.

There was no Dr. Terrence Flannigan aboard the ship, she had learned. The women had actually telephoned the ship for her and confirmed that. The ship’s doctor was a Senegalese, enjoying a free cruise vacation, which meant that somehow Terry Flannigan had given Kincaid the slip at Dakar. Or had never been on the damned boat in the first place.

Now what?

The pier was deserted. All the buses were gone. Midday, midweek, the sailboats crammed side by side in the marina were empty. Nothing moved but indicators tracking the wind on their mastheads and some generator turbines spinning lazily. The blue-green water was barely riffled by the weak remnants of the morning breeze. Across the harbor, smoke rose straight from a distant chimney. The fortresses on the rocky promontories that guarded the narrow mouth to the sea baked in the sun.

It appeared that the only people left working in the Spanish city were waiters serving lunch to the rest. Even the good-looking rigger had called it a morning and abandoned his perch on the mast.

Lunch. Then out of here.

She hurried to her car.