I should have thought of that.
I've spent the last eighteen hours under police interrogation and I saw it, so, yeah, you should have. Juan was teasing, which at a time like this was an indication of the depths of his exhaustion.
What are your plans now?
I've got to make contact with the Oregon before I know where we're heading, but I'll keep you updated. Please do the same.
Talk to you soon.
Max had listened to Juan's end of the conversation. You don't know where we're going?
Juan pulled the microphone from his ear. Do you honestly think I'm going to trust the locals to find Tamara Wright? We got her into this mess and we're damned sure going to get her back out. I've rented the plane with the greatest endurance they have here, so we're going to get her no matter where she is.
That's why I love you. You'll spare no expense trying to get me a date.
Cabrillo grinned at Max's shamelessness and replaced the Bluetooth headset to call the Oregon. He asked Hali Kasim, their communications specialist, to patch him through to Eric Stone.
Why did you pull us off our search for the mystery bay? Eric asked.
Because you've already found it.
I have?
It's within snowcat distance of Wilson/George, maybe closer.
How could you know that?
Because I'm the Chairman. Juan really was exhausted. Do me a favor, I want you to check the logs of Jackson-Evers field for any private jets that flew out of here between, say, midnight and noon today.
In the pre-9/11 days, he probably could have charmed that information out of the pretty receptionist at the general-aviation counter, but not anymore.
Give me a second. Over the connection, he could hear Stone's fingers flying over his keyboard.
Juan was playing a hunch, one he felt reasonably certain about.
One last firewall, Eric said absently, then a triumphant, Got it. Okay, there were two. One was an Atlantic Aviation charter to New York City that left at nine o'clock this morning. The other was a private jet that filed a flight plan for Mexico City that took off at one-thirty this morning.
What can you tell me about that plane?
Hold on. That's another database. It took him less than a minute. The plane's owned by a company registered in the Cayman Islands.
A dummy front?
No doubt. It's going to take some time to . . . hold on a second. I'm checking its past flights. It arrived in the United States at Seattle-Tacoma International three days ago from Mexico City.
Then flew here yesterday, Juan finished for him. That was their plane, and if they were heading to Mexico City it was only to refuel. Thanks, Eric.
Juan turned to Max. They're taking her to Argentina.
The Silent Sea
Chapter NINETEEN
THE HORSE WAS A BIG ARABIAN STALLION WITH SUCH taut muscles that veins showed in relief under its glossy skin. It was streaked in sweat and blew heavily, and yet was game to keep charging across the Argentine landscape, its hoofs pounding the ground in a thundering drumbeat. Its rider barely moved in her saddle, her slouch hat hanging off her throat by a strap.
Maxine Espinoza was a superb horsewoman, and raced for the stream five miles from the mansion as though she was gunning for the Triple Crown. She wore tan riding breeches and a man's white oxford unbuttoned enough so that wind caressed her skin. Her boots had a worn look that bespoke of countless hours riding and an almost equal amount of time being lovingly polished.
It was that perfect moment of late afternoon, when the sun dappled the ground under the occasional tree and slanted so the grass looked like burnished gold.
Movement to her left caught her eye, and she turned quick enough to see a hawk lift off from the ground with its dinner clutched in its razor-sharp talons.
Ha, Concorde, she cried, and firmed her grip on the reins.
The horse seemed to love these wild rides as much as his mistress, and he lengthened his stride. They were of one mind, and existed almost as a Centaur rather than two separate beings.
Only when they neared the band of forest that lined both sides of a stream did they slow. Maxine entered the glen at an easy walk, the big stallion beneath her heaving great lungfuls of air through his flared nostrils.
She could hear the stream gurgling over rocks and songbirds in the limbs of trees. She ducked under a branch and weaved Concorde deeper into the woods. This was her sanctuary, her special place, on the sprawling estate. The clear waters of the stream would sate her horse's thirst, and along the bank was a bed of grass where she'd slept during countless siestas.
She legged over Concorde's back and lowered herself to the ground. She needn't worry about him wandering off or drinking too much. He was better mannered than that. From her saddlebag she pulled a blanket of the finest Egyptian cotton. She was just moving to spread it on the grass when a figure emerged from behind a tree.
Excuse me, se+|ora.
Maxine whirled, her eyes narrowing in anger at the intrusion. She recognized the man. It was Raul Jimenez, her stepson's second-in-command. How dare you come here? You should be on the base with the rest of the soldiers.
I prefer the company of women.
She took two steps forward and slapped him. I should tell the General of your impudence.
And what would you tell him about this? He grabbed her smoothly and drew her body to his. He kissed her, and for a few seconds she resisted, but it was too much, and soon she had her hand on the back of his head as her hunger grew.
Jimenez finally pulled back. God, I've missed you.
Maxine's reply was to kiss him again, even more passionately. Now that they were alone, all pretense of his shyness around her was gone. They gave in to their desires.
It was much later that they were lying side by side on the hastily spread blanket. She gingerly touched the burn scars on his face. They were still red and looked painful.
You are no longer so beautiful. I think I should find myself another lover.
I don't think there is another in the regiment who would dare do what we just did.
Are you saying I am not worth a court-martial?
To me, you are worth death itself, but you forget I am the bravest man in the Army, he joked. And then a shadow passed behind his eyes.
What is it, darling?
'yBravest,' I said. His voice filled with bitterness. It takes little bravery to gun down villagers or kidnap American women.
Kidnap Americans? I don't understand.
That is where your husband sent us, to America, where we grabbed a woman who's an expert on Chinese ships or something. I have no idea why. I tell you, though, it's not what I joined the Army to do.
I know my husband, Maxine said. Everything he does is planned, from eating breakfast to commanding your regiment. He has his reasons. This must be why he took off for Buenos Aires just as you and Jorge returned.
We met him at your apartment in the city. He had some men with him Chinese, I think.
They're from the embassy. Philippe has been meeting with them quite a bit recently.
I'm sorry, but I still don't like it. Don't get me wrong. I love the Army and I love Jorge, but these past few months . . . His voice trailed off.
You may not believe this, Maxine said, her voice crisp and firm, but I love my husband very much, and I love this country. Philippe may be many things, but he is not reckless. Whatever he is doing is for the greater good of Argentina and its people.