Austin went over the events of the past several days in his mind until he felt his eyelids drooping. He downed the last of his drink, climbed the stairs to his bedroom in the turret surmounting the mansard roof, and turned in. He slept soundly and was up and dressed early the next morning, refreshed by a night's sleep and stim- ulated by a pot of strong Kona coffee. He telephoned an old friend at the CIA to make sure he would be in, then called his NUMA of- fice to say he'd be late.
Unlike his colleague Dirk Pitt, who collected antique autos and relished driving them, Austin was indifferent when it came to ground transportation. Driving a sedan from the NUMA car pool, nondescript except for its turquoise color, he headed to Langley, along a route he knew well from his days with the CIA, and parked his car next to dozens of other government vehicles. Security at the sprawl- ing complex was tighter since 9/11.
Herinan Perez, whom he had called earlier, was waiting in the vis- itors' area. Perez was a slightly built man with an olive complexion and dark-brown eyes that matched his thinning hair. Perez helped speed the check-in process through security and led Austin through the labyrinth of corridors to an office uncluttered by a scrap of paper. The only objects on the desktop were a computer monitor, a tele- phone and a photo of an attractive woman and two cute children.
"Kurt, it's great to see you!" Perez said, motioning for Austin to sit down. "Thinking of jumping Sandecker's ship to come back into the Company? We'd love to have you. The cloak-and-dagger stuff you're so good at has become respectable at Langley once again."
"Admiral Sandecker might have something to say about that. But I'll have to admit that I still get misty-eyed when I think about the fun we had on our last job."
"The secret missile retrieval job we did off Gibraltar," Perez said with a boyish grin. "Oh boy, that was something."
"I was thinking about that on the drive over this morning. How long has it been?"
"Too damned long. You know something, Kurt, I still hear little flamenco dancers in my head whenever I drink Spanish wine." A dreamy look came into Perez's face. "By God, we had some good times, didn't we?"
Austin nodded in agreement. "The world has changed a lot since then."
Perez laughed in reply. "Not for you, old pal! Hell, I read about that amazing rescue you pulled off in the Faroe Islands. You haven't changed a bit, you old sea dog. Still the same swashbuckling Austin."
Austin groaned. "These days, for every minute swashing buckles, I spend an hour at my desk dealing with reports."
"I hear you! I could do without the paperwork, although I've got- ten to like my nine-to-five schedule since I became a father. Two kids, would you believe it? Being a desk jockey isn't all bad. You might want to try it."
"No, thanks. I'd rather have my eyeballs tattooed."
Perez laughed. "Well, you didn't come here to talk about the good ol' days. You said on the phone that you were looking for background info on Balthazar Aguirrez. What's your interest in him, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Not at all. I ran into Aguirrez in the Faroe Islands. He seemed like a fascinating character. I know he's a shipbuilding magnate, but I suspected there was more to him than meets the eye."
"You met him?"
"He was fishing. So was I."
"I should have known," Perez said. "Trouble attracts trouble."
"Why is he trouble?"
"What do you know about the Basque separatist movement?"
"It's been around a long time. Every so often, Basque terrorists blow up a public building or assassinate an innocent government of- ficial."
"That pretty much sums it up," Perez said. "There's been talk for decades of a separate Basque state that would straddle Spain and France. The most radical separatist group, ETA, started fighting for an autonomous Basque state in 1968. When Franco died in 1975, the new Spanish government gave the Basques more political power, but the ETA wants the whole enchilada. They've killed more than eight hundred people since taking up the cause. Anyone who is not on their side is an enemy."
"A familiar story around the world, unfortunately."
"The political wing of the separatist movement is the Batasuna party. Some people have compared it to Sinn Fein, the public face of the IRA. The Spanish government threw up its hands after more as- sassinations and the discovery of a big ETA weapons cache. Auton- omy wasn't working, so they banned Batasuna and started to crack down on the whole separatist movement."
"Where does Aguirrez fit in to this bloody little picture?"
"Your instincts were right about there being more to him than meets the eye. He has been a major backer of Batasuna. The gov- ernment has accused him of financing terrorism."
"I liked him. He didn't look like a terrorist," Austin said, recall- ing his benefactor's bluff and down-to-earth manners.
"Sure, and Joe Stalin looked like somebody's grandfather."
Austin remembered the yacht's tough-looking crew and the heavy- duty armament that the vessel carried. "So, are the charges true?"
"He freely admits to supporting Batasuna, but points out that it was a legitimate party when he gave them money. The government suspects he's still channeling money into the movement. They have no proof, and Aguirrez is too well-connected to bring into court with flimsy evidence."
"What's your take on the guy?"
"In all my years in Spain, I never met him, which was why I was surprised when you said you had. I think he's a moderate who'd like to see a peaceful separatist solution, but the ETA murders have un- dermined his cause. He's afraid the crackdown will rekindle the con- flict and endanger innocent citizens. He may be right."
"Sounds like he's walking a very thin tightrope."
"Some people say that the pressure's made him unhinged. He's been talking about a way to rally European public opinion in favor of a Basque nation. Did he give you any hint of what's on his mind ?" Perez narrowed his dark eyes. "Surely you didn't talk just about fishing."
"He struck me as very proud of his Basque heritage-his yacht is named the Nat/arm. He didn't say a word about politics. We talked mostly about archaeology. He's an amateur archaeologist with strong interest in his own ancestors."
"You make him sound like a contender for the nutty professor. Let
me give you a warning, old friend. The Spanish police would love to nail him to the wall. They have no direct proof linking him to ter- rorist acts, but when they do, you don't want to be in their way."
"I'll remember that. Thanks for the heads-up."
"Hell, Kurt, it's the least I could do for a former comrade-in- arms."
Before Perez had the chance to start reminiscing again, Austin glanced at his watch. "Got to get moving. Thanks for your time."
"Not at all. Let's get together for lunch sometime. We miss you here. The brass is still ticked off about Sandecker grabbing you for NUMA."
Austin rose from his chair. "Maybe we'll work on a joint opera- tion someday."
Perez smiled. "I'd like that," he said.
The Washington traffic had let up, and before long, Austin saw the sun gleaming on the green glass facade of the thirty-story NUMA building overlooking the Potomac. He groaned when he walked into his office. His efficient secretary had neatly piled the pink call-back slips in the center of his desk. In addition, he would have to dig him- self out of an avalanche of e-mail messages before he got down to preparing a report on Oceanus.
Ah, the exciting life of a swashbuckler! He scrolled through his e- mail, deleted half of it as nonessential and shuffled through his pink slips. There was a message from Paul and Gamay. They had gone to Canada to check into an Oceanus operation. Zavala had left a call on his answering machine saying he would be home that night in time for a hot date. Some things never change, Austin thought with a shake of his head. His handsome and charming partner was much in demand among Washington's female set. Austin sighed and began to tap away at his computer. He was wrapping up the first draft when the phone rang.