You wouldn't say that if you'd seen some of the things he's ordered us to do.
I don't want to hear about it, she said stubbornly, the romantic cocoon they had built for themselves dissolving.
He placed a hand on her bare shoulder. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you.
I'm not upset, she replied, but had to wipe at her eyes. Philippe tells me very little, but I have always trusted him. You should, too.
Okay, Jimenez said, and reached for her.
Maxine slithered out of his grip. I must be getting back now. Even with Philippe in BA, the servants talk. You understand?
Of course. My servants are always gossiping. They both laughed because he had come from a poor family.
Maxine moved off to dress. She climbed aboard Concorde, who had stayed near them the entire time.
Will I see you tomorrow? he asked, stuffing the blanket back into the saddlebag.
So long as you promise not to discuss my husband or his work.
I will be the good soldier and do as you order.
THE CHOPPER PILOT WAS RELIEVED that his passengers had paid cash because when he saw their destination he knew any check they wrote would have bounced. As it stood, he considered radioing his business partner and having him make sure the money wasn't counterfeit.
He was taking the two men from Rio's Gale+uo International Airport to a cargo ship a hundred miles offshore. From a distance, it looked like any of the dozens of vessels that approached Brazil every week, but as they neared and details came into focus he could see she was a floating heap of rust barely held together by duct tape and baling wire. The smoke from her stack was so black, he suspected she burned bunker fuel and lubricating oil in equal ratios. Her cranes looked like they could barely hold themselves up, let alone lift any cargo. He glanced over his shoulder at the younger passenger as if to say: Are you sure?
The man had the sallow look of someone who hadn't slept for days, and whatever burden he carried was just ounces away from crushing him. And yet, when he realized the pilot was looking at him, the passenger winked one of his bright blue eyes, and the mask of consternation melted away.
She's not much to look at, the passenger said over his mike, but she gets the job done.
I don't think I can land on the deck, the pilot said, his English tinted with a hint of Portuguese. He didn't add that he thought the weight of his Bell JetRanger would probably collapse a hatch cover.
No problem. Just hover over the fantail, and we'll jump.
The second passenger, a man in his late fifties or early sixties with a bandage on his head, groaned at the prospect of leaping from the helicopter.
You got it. The pilot turned his attention back to flying while the passengers gathered up their luggage, which consisted of a laptop case and a battered canvas shoulder bag. Everything else had been dumped in Mississippi.
Juan Cabrillo never tired of looking at the Oregon. To him, she was as fine a piece of art as any of the paintings hanging on the walls of her secret passageways. He had to admit that homecomings were sweeter when a mission was complete, not like now, with Tamara Wright in the hands of an Argentine death squad and her exact whereabouts unknown. The cocky wink he had thrown at the pilot was just that cockiness. Her fate lay like a stone in his stomach.
To the Brazilian pilot's credit, he held the skids of the helicopter a foot off the deck when first Max and then Juan jumped to the ship. The two men ducked low in the pounding rotor wash until the JetRanger peeled away and clawed skyward. When it was a glittering speck on the western horizon, the helmsman Juan assumed it was Eric Stone killed the smudge generator that gave the illusion the ship was powered by traditional, albeit poorly maintained, marine diesels.
He gave the Iranian flag hanging from the jack staff his traditional one-finger salute and followed Max toward the superstructure.
They were met at a watertight door by Dr. Huxley and Linda Ross. Hux immediately started escorting Max down to Medical, muttering about the butcher job they had done on him in the hospital.
Welcome back, Linda greeted. That sure wasn't the relaxing couple of days you'd expected.
What's that line: 'yNo good deed goes unpunished'? That was a great job you did in Antarctica.
Thanks. There was an edge of bitterness in her voice. We got the intel to Overholt less than twenty-four hours before the Argentines took over, so it didn't do much good.
What's the latest?
There's been no contact with any of the other stations on the peninsula. We believe that the Argentines grabbed up the remaining interntional scientists and are going to use them as human shields at the oil terminal.
Juan frowned. Borrowing Saddam's playbook.
The Generalissimo plays dirty, that's for sure.
I asked Overholt if they have any assets in Argentina who could find out where they took Tamara Wright. Has he gotten back to you?
Not yet. Sorry.
Cabrillo's scowl deepened. This never would have happened if . . . There was nothing to be gained by venting his feelings so he didn't continue. He motioned for Linda to enter the ship. The Oregon was picking up speed, and the wind was starting to howl across her deck.
We'll be off the coast of Buenos Aires in thirty hours. With luck, Overholt will have something for us.
God, I hope so. Juan raked his fingers through his hair. I need to burn off some of this restless energy. If anyone needs me, I'll be in the pool.
One of the two enormous ballast tanks the Corporation used to raise or lower the ship depending on her disguise was tiled in buttery Carrara marble and lit with a combination of fixtures that approximated sunlight. It had taken a pounding when the Oregon went toe to toe with a Libyan frigate, but the artisans who'd made the repairs had done a masterful job.
Cabrillo shrugged off his robe and strapped four-pound weights to his wrists. The water wasn't kept that deep because the ship was racing for Argentina, so he shallow-dove, barely submerging his entire body, and came up in a breaststroke that he knew from experience he could maintain for hours.
The water had always been his refuge, and it was from here he could free his mind and let himself relax. The repetition of his thrusting limbs and the slow burn building in his muscles was like meditation.
The following morning, after a sumptuous breakfast in the dining hall, Juan stood his watch in the op center. He arrived early and relieved Eddie Seng, who'd had the dog shift. Eddie gratefully relinquished the command chair once he'd briefed Juan on shipping around the Oregon and the weather, which was about to turn nasty. The main view screen, all eight feet of it, showed the seas as if they were on the actual bridge several decks above them. The sky was a sunless gray, full of ugly, roiling clouds, while the sea was as black as slag from a foundry except where the wind tore at the tops of the waves and threw up custard-thick spume.
Water regularly burst over the bows in sheets that raced for the scuppers. A crewman was up on the forecastle, securing a hatchway. He looked as small as a child and nearly powerless in the face of the elements. Juan breathed a little easier when the man returned inside the ship.
Hali Kasim, the ship's communications expert, was at his station along the wall to Cabrillo's right near the now-dim waterfall display for the Oregon's sonar system. In these seas, and at the ship's speed, it was impossible to hear acoustical signals, so the sonar was off-line.
Call for you, Chairman, Hali said. His hair stuck up at odd angles because of the old-fashioned headset he preferred. It's Overholt at the CIA.
About damned time, Juan muttered, and hooked a Bluetooth over his ear. Langston, what have you got for me?