Judith had no idea what happened next other than the fact she was running as fast as she could.
Jason’s immediate problem was avoiding being targeted by the seemingly random sweep of flashlights. There were three of them now, painting the roof with erratic movement. There was also enough light both from the flashes and from the emergency vehicles on the street to see that the lights were held by firemen.
So far, the men in the fire-retardant suits and unique rear-billed fireman’s helmets hadn’t noticed they were not alone up there. Because each house’s roof was separated by razor wire, they had been forced to use the ladder to ascend to the top of each of the three smoking homes.
Jason had an idea as he watched the three firemen remove the still-smoking pot from the air-conditioning housing. Perhaps not the best idea, but the only one he had at the moment.
Still on his stomach, he crawled commando-style to a position that put him on the side of the air-conditioning unit opposite from the firefighters. He was close enough to hear a conversation in Spanish even if he could not understand it. The man holding the remnants of the smoke bomb carried it to the edge of the roof, holding it aloft so those on the street below could see. A second man gave the roof a cursory sweep with the beam of his flashlight before he, too, headed for his turn to descend the ladder. Somehow the men who had come up the stairs remained unseen, although Jason knew they were around somewhere.
Now came the tricky part.
As the third man turned to leave, Jason reached out and grabbed his foot, sending him sprawling. Before the guy had a clue what had happened, Jason was holding his head in one hand, the Glock pressed against it with the other.
Jason had always thought the old description of eyes big as saucers was an exaggeration. Even in the dim reflected light, he had living proof it wasn’t.
“Nobody’s gonna get hurt,” Jason told him with little effect. “I just want your hat there and maybe that jacket.”
He would have liked to have the big turn-down-top boots, too, but he hadn’t the time required to pull them off the fireman and put them on. Sooner or later, the men on this roof and the one next door were going to come looking for him. The fact there had not been another shot made him fairly certain they didn’t know exactly where he was and that they had no night-vision equipment.
Clad in the fireman’s attire, Jason stood, leaned over, and took the strap from around the man’s shoulder and the small radio attached to it. “If I hear a peep out of you, you are dead,” he said to the trembling fireman, who was still prone. “Comprende?”
A violent nod was his answer.
Jason forced himself to walk slowly to the place the ladder jutted above the roofline, praying the lights from below would only silhouette a figure in a fireman’s helmet and bulky jacket. If not, he made a perfect target.
Just as he reached the ladder, the radio he had confiscated crackled with words he didn’t understand. He could only hope that, if someone were calling the fireman left on the roof, they wouldn’t come looking for him for a few seconds yet. He swung a leg over the roof’s edge and looked down into a maelstrom of flashing lights and upturned faces.
At the bottom, he was greeted by relieved firemen, slapping him on the back and chattering in Spanish. Until one got a look at his face.
For an instant, there was a shocked silence punctuated by the idling of big engines.
Jason didn’t wait to see what happened next.
He ran without looking back.
If there was pursuit, he never heard it. Instead, he shed the hat and jacket as he alternated turning corners of the narrow streets. Finally, he glanced over a shoulder. The street was deserted. The chase, if there had been one, was over.
He called Judith’s BlackBerry.
“Where are you?” were her first words.
He looked across the street into a small plaza. In the center was a bronze statue of what looked like a conquistador. He told her as much.
“Plaza de San José,” she informed him. “The statue is of Ponce de León and was cast from English cannon captured in the late eighteenth century. You are panting like a dog.”
“Did a little roadwork. Good for the heart. You know how to get to this Plaza …”
“Plaza de San José. I can be there in a few minutes.”
“Best come in a cab if you can. I have a feeling we may have worn out our welcome.”
How the hell had she known the name of the plaza? Or the history of the statue?
52
“You want to go where?” Even with the heavy Latino accent, the cabbie’s disbelief was quite clear.
“Mercedita Airport, Ponce,” Jason said. “You know, the city on the south side of the island.”
“It will cost you a hundred fifty.”
Jason managed both shock and indignation. “For an hour-and-a-half ride?”
The driver shrugged. “It is late, Señor.”
Jason knew what the man meant: They had been lucky to flag this cab down. After dark, tourists tended to move between the casinos at the big beach resorts, not the old city.
Guessing GrünWelt would immediately put the San Juan airport under surveillance, Jason had opted for the other Puerto Rico airport with flights to the States, Ponce. The problem, as revealed by using the BlackBerry’s Internet app, was that the next plane to the continental US was a JetBlue flight to Charlotte at one o’clock tomorrow afternoon. By that time, Ponce would likely be watched as well.
“You have a hundred fifty dollars, Señor?”
The taxi driver was getting nervous, not wanting to miss other fares if these gringos did not have the money.
Jason waved a wad of bills in front of him. “And a tip if you get us there in a hurry.”
“You have your passport?” Judith asked.
“Of course. You?”
Jason knew well the wisdom of carrying cash, credit cards, and travel documents at all times in case an expedited departure became necessary. Although passports were not required of US citizens or legal residents traveling to or from Puerto Rico, the precaution was fortunate. The first flight from Ponce was to St. Maarten, an island half Dutch, half French. From there almost hourly flights departed for the mainland United States.
By seven o’clock that evening, the weary travelers were in another cab, this one from Dulles International.
“You have no idea what you sent to your computer expert?” Judith asked.
“Nope.” Jason was staring out the window. “But if any of it was half as incriminating as the papers I swiped, I’d say GrünWelt is finished.”
“You don’t think there will be reprisals?”
He shook his head. “No point. The organization will already be exposed for what it is. I think everyone connected to GrünWelt will be scattering for cover like cockroaches when you turn on a light.”
She leaned back into her seat with a sigh. “I hope so. I’ve had about as much excitement as I can stand.”
“That’s why you insisted on coming along.”
“If I do that again, you have my permission to slap my face until I return to reality.”
The cab pulled up to Judith’s contemporary-styled town house.
“No point in your going all the way back to the base tonight,” she observed as she climbed out of the car.
“No point,” he agreed as he paid the driver.
The inside of her home was as modernistic as its exterior. Chrome and glass was far more in evidence than wood tone, if the blond Danish modern pieces could be described as having any tone at all. Canvases paraded as contemporary “art”—blank, single-colored earth tones hung above a pair of acrylic cases housing blobs of metal in no ascertainable shape. One corner was occupied by a bust only vaguely human. It might have been life-sized, had any such creature existed.