Díaz nodded. He was aware of the methyl mercury toxins being released from his underwater blasting but was indifferent to its consequences. “Perhaps the mercury is problematic, but it will dissipate over time.”
“Irreparable harm has already been done to marine life. And your mining here, in the Florida Straits, could have serious effects throughout the entire Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic Coast.”
“Harmful to the U.S., in other words? That is no concern of mine.” Díaz laughed. “I’m afraid you are too late for that.”
He stepped to the Aztec stone and admired it a moment before tapping it with the obsidian knife. “Yes, too late for that. But maybe…” He tapped the stone once more. “Maybe you will be here with me when I recover the second stone and complete the message of the Aztecs.”
48
The pilot killed the smoky outboard motor, allowing the skiff to drift with the current. A man on the bow tossed a purse seine net over the side, allowing the movement of the boat to spread its floats. Taking a seat on the forward bench, he made a show of regulating the net’s lines. Hesitating a moment, he waved a hand across his nose while gazing at the catch in the bottom. “Man, these fish have gone bad.”
Seated by the outboard motor, James Maguire laughed. “Hopefully, they’ll deter anyone from searching the boat.”
In ragged T-shirts and dirty baseball caps, the pair looked like local Cayman Island fishermen. They certainly didn’t resemble hired mercenaries. Maguire was in fact a former Marine Corps sniper and CIA field operative. Marty Gomez was an ex — Navy SEAL. Only a keen observer would notice the paltry catch they had hauled in over the past six hours, due in part to Maguire intentionally slicing a hole in the center of the net.
While Gomez made a show of yanking on a snagged net, Maguire slouched in the stern and raised a compact pair of binoculars to his eyes. He focused on a small white yacht moored to a buoy a hundred yards away. There was nothing remarkable about the boat, except for a crisp Cuban flag that flapped above its flybridge.
Maguire shifted his gaze to two Revolutionary Armed Forces patrol boats just beyond, which circled the yacht in a slow, continuous loop.
“We’re losing daylight,” Gomez said. “Are you going in?”
They had spent the better part of the day inching close to the yacht. A few hours earlier, one of the guard boats had whisked by for a look but took no interest in the derelict craft.
Maguire looked from one patrol boat to the other, then lowered his binoculars. “Those boys look half asleep. My grandma could probably pull off the job in a pink rowboat. Anchor us down and I’ll be on my way.”
Gomez lowered an anchor beneath the net lines and tied it off.
Reaching beneath the pile of rotting fish, Maguire retrieved a plastic box containing a small dive computer. Activating a digital compass, he took a sighting of the yacht and programmed a path to its estimated position, then strapped the mechanism to his arm.
“Ready to roll.” He removed his hat and sandals. “Give me some cover.”
“Roger.” Gomez stood with an armful of netting, blocking Maguire from view of the patrol boats. “I’ll keep the lights on.”
Maguire took a last look at the yacht and slipped over the transom. He swam beneath the boat, its underside not looking anything like its shabby topside appearance. He pulled himself past twin impellers and a set of extending hydrofoils, which had propelled the Surprise at over forty knots during its offshore voyage from the workboat the night before.
The boat’s slick hull now resembled a rack from a sporting goods store. Maguire grabbed a tank and buoyancy compensator that hung from a hook and popped the regulator into his mouth. A mask and fins came next, then a weight belt. Once outfitted, he swam over to two other concealed items. The first was a hardened plastic box affixed to the hull with a large suction device. He twisted a grip handle, pulled it clear of the boat, and attached it to his BC. Then he grabbed a small diver propulsion unit dangling from a rope. Taking a bearing from his dive computer, he held the water scooter in front of him and powered it on.
He whisked through the water, angling the scooter until he was thirty feet deep and beyond clear view of the surface. The visibility was good, allowing him to see well ahead as schools of fish darted out of his path. Tracking his progress on the computer, he hesitated at reaching his designated end point. The seafloor was empty, so he continued another fifty feet before spotting his target, a large concrete mooring block. His line was true, he had just underestimated the distance.
Powering off the scooter, he set it on the mooring block and ascended a chain that ran to a metal float overhead. Looking up, he could see the outline of the yacht floating above him. He checked its orientation, then moved amidships just aside of the keel line and brushed some marine growth from a small area on the hull. He secured the suction device, along with the plastic box containing five pounds of high explosives and an electric detonator.
He unwound a thin spool of wire attached to the detonator and stretched the wire down to the mooring float. With some plastic ties, he secured it to the float chain and carefully ascended. Just beneath the surface, he affixed a small receiver to the base of the float and extended a flat wire antenna out of the water, plastering it to the side of the float with a wad of putty. With a reassuring tug on the wire, he swam back down the chain and retrieved his underwater scooter.
Ten minutes later, he was alongside Gomez, guiding his skiff down the coast under a setting sun, just another tired Cayman fisherman bringing home his meager catch.
49
A thousand thoughts raced through Pitt’s mind, but foremost was concern for his daughter’s safety. Pitt’s children had been raised by their now deceased mother, so he had missed their childhood upbringing. When Dirk and Summer entered his life as young adults, he had instantly bonded with them. Working together at NUMA had instilled a trusting relationship, allowing their shared love of the sea to draw them even closer. Although Pitt knew his daughter was a tough and savvy young woman, her safety still tugged at his heart.
He focused on the more immediate problem. He had been thrown into an empty storage closet near Díaz’s office, secured with a thick door and a sliding-bolt lock. Save for an overhead light fixture attached to the plaster ceiling, the tiny room was bare.
His wrists were still bound behind his back with the cable tie. But that was no barrier, as the Cubans had never searched him. Stretching out on the floor, he lay on his side and twisted his arms until he worked a hand into his front pocket. The penknife from the Starfish was buried deep, but he grasped it and pulled it out. Working by touch behind his back, he opened the blade and sawed through the tie.
Once free, he rose to his feet and massaged his wrists while studying the closet door. Again his luck held. Though it was locked on the outside, the door opened inward, held in place by three tubular hinges. Pitt again went to work with the penknife, prying two pins from their hinges while loosening the third. Then it became a waiting game.
Pitt could still hear voices in the office and he sat and waited for silence. Once he heard the slide of the bolt latch, he jumped back from the door, pocketing the loose pins and hiding his wrists behind his back. A guard stuck his head in and tossed a bottle of water and an empty bucket toward Pitt, then departed.
When an hour of silence had passed, Pitt pried the last pin from its hinge. Working the knife blade into the doorframe, he wedged open the back side and peered through the crack. He could see no one. Grasping the door, he yanked it into the closet and pulled the bolt free of its latch. He slid the bolt over and replaced the door on its hinges, securing it with one of the pins. Finally, he stepped out of the closet and locked the door behind him.