He called Grimes to his office and played back the call. Grimes smiled as he listened to the conversation in the limousine, but said nothing.
When it was done the general just puffed on his cigar and waited for Grimes to comment. Finally Hayes said, “Come on, Kai, there’s no reason to keep a tight lip. What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing much, sir. I was just thinking that our hero is starting to get an education. I was hoping he’d nab the guy somehow — without getting himself killed, preferably.”
“You’re over my head there, Kai. But I won’t ask for an explanation. I’m not sure I want to hear it anyway, although I do wonder sometimes what the hell’s going on in that mercenary head of yours.”
Grimes sat down and took out a pack of cigarettes. “I wouldn’t trouble myself about that, sir. Nothing up there but a smile of frustration and a lot of suspicions.”
“Suspicions?”
“Oh, not about Gibbs. About our man Suarez being closer than we think.”
“I’ve been checking the records at the local institutions with regards to the Suarez fortune,” said Hayes. “You know, to see if we could target any transactions that might have links to terrorism, atomic materials, or even drilling equipment. On the last one we found plenty, but it could all be explained innocently. The man’s family is knee-deep in wine and in oil development. Nothing overtly suspicious about finding purchases of equipment for drilling.”
Hayes sucked on his cigar thoughtful y before continuing.
“We’ve been looking into the loss of a helicopter off Tierra Del Fuego, but it seems like a typical accident — nothing to pin it to Antarctica.”
“At least we know Suarez could be involved. That’s something.”
“Not much of a something,” replied Hayes. “I did some checking with the help of the Chilean intelligence community to see if Suarez could be located and if he’d done any business in Santiago within the last few days.”
“And?”
“Nothing. We think he’s in Chile, but that’s all we’ve got.”
Rudolfo Suarez had enough power and money to assume several identities. Except among his men he was in Santiago as Daoud Fasad, a wealthy investment broker from Cairo. At the airport and to customs officials he was Giantonio Frazetti, a manufacturer of mining and drilling equipment.
Today, Fasad and Frazetti were both doing business at the Moneda, setting into motion his convoluted plan to begin the dissemination of five billion US dollars in ransom. He’d arranged for the money to be rolled over into stock, sold again as commodities, and ultimately turned into interest in Kimberly gold shares. When the money came, it would be diluted into the fabric of world finance so quickly that only Suarez and his personal computer could ever find it again.
The money was to be given by the government first to private corporations, and then shunted to institutions instructed to rol the wealth over. Each piece of the million-pieced puzzle would then be scattergunned on to yet other institutions. There it would become cash or bearer bonds or even diamonds or gold bullion. A series of three further exchanges with the same physical- mathematical shifts would finally have the effect of dissolving the money into thin air.
Suarez and his men would be the ultimate benefactors, of course, and the world would still be given a new coastline. After all, no use leaving heaps of plutonium sitting around with fingerprints all over it. Suarez knew that materials experts these days could trace anything to anyone.
Much as he hated to think that some of his favourite haunts in coastal cities would be flooded, things wouldn’t be all that bad. After all, the human herd would be cul ed a bit. Everyone agreed that would be a good thing — the world was, after all, grossly overpopulated.
Most important of all, while people were feeling sorry for themselves, Suarez could quietly become the richest real-estate investor in human history.
Eight
Despite their surveillance efforts near the Modena, they failed to spot Rudolfo Suarez. No one under that name had done any recent business in Chile, let along Santiago. Hayes had alerted the troops, and they had combed the area for the suspect. He felt satisfied that, even if they had nothing to show for the exercise, it had been a good exercise nonetheless.
The fact that the Naval Intelligence operatives had been looking in the wrong direction when Gibbs and French had left the hotel bothered him, but it wouldn’t happen again. He’d reamed each of them a new asshole — at least as well as he could from a desk over 150 miles away. It didn’t matter. Even if there was a danger, in a few days he’d have the lovebirds back aboard the Big E, safe and sound. Gibbs could identify Suarez just as well from a digital surveillance photo taken by professionals. Best to keep him out of harm’s way, so he’d be sure to be on hand and ready to do his single task — finger Suarez.
The general’s ear hurt. He’d been on the phone the whole day. His stomach grumbled ominously. He looked at his watch.
It was seven in the evening, and he had agreed to have a bite with Captain Halsey in the latter’s office. As a favour to the captain, one of the cooks had mastered the art of Thai cooking. They were going to have some pork satay, done the way Halsey loved it — extra spicy.
Hayes closed the book of documents on his desk, picked up the phone again and called Grimes. If they were going to talk logistics, he’d better have someone on hand who could think like a terrorist, even though dining with Grimes often cost him his appetite. The SEAL had some gruesome tales he enjoyed telling after a few too many beers.
The weather had turned sour and the sea was proving to be a test for even the Enterprise. She was an all-weather animal, capable of launching her aircraft under most conditions, but this storm was churning up forty-foot waves; too risky for the most hardened duty.
No need to go beyond acceptable risk when you’re just practising. There are times when even the toughest fighters have to keep their heads down.
The Enterprise was holding anchor and facing into the wind. Hayes could feel the waves rolling under the ship as he walked the corridors. A group of sailors, soaked to the skin, came bouncing down a circular stairway. As they brushed past him one of them said “Sorry sir” even as his wet gear wiped against the general’s shirt.
Hayes could feel the chill of the outside swirl around him.
“Cold topside, sailor?”
“It’s a bitch, sir,” said the man. “Grab your slicker if you’re headed up there.”
“Not kicking and screaming,” muttered the general as he tried to picture what it must be like on a flat top in a gale. With nothing to stop the wind and nothing to stop a body from flying off the deck, it must be suicide up there. But he remembered Halsey saying they operated in all weather. Obviously those men hadn’t been on deck playing vol eyball.
“Jesus,” he said. “Glad I’m Army.”
He could smell the Thai food even before he opened the captain’s stateroom door, and as he stepped into the cabin the waft of shrimp and spices nearly floored him. Frank Chi, the Big E’s master chef, was standing at the captain’s desk, stirring shrimp in a wok with one hand while tending to skewered pieces of pork on an electric hibachi with the other. Halsey was standing next to him, inspecting every move Chi made.
As Hayes shut the door, Halsey looked up and waved a hand. “Check this out, General. I love this shit. Go ahead. Smell that pot of sauce — peanut butter, ginger. Ahhhh!”
“I’ve been smelling the stuff all the way from my office.” Hayes removed his cap and hung it on a rack.