Rivera just lay there, fighting pathetically for breath. Storm was sure he had broken the man’s spirit. But perhaps a bit more convincing was required. He tilted the board to again submerge Rivera.
“No! No! Please!” the man howled. “I promise you, I know nothing about this. Nothing at—”
Storm put him under, but counted only to sixty this time, if only because he really, really did not want to have to administer mouth-to-mouth on Rivera. Not at any time. And especially not when his face had been covered in fish entrails.
“You seemed pretty happy Vaughn died,” Storm said when he brought Rivera up again. “From what I understand, you’ve been toasting his death with everyone in Panama City.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Rivera said, panting fiercely. “You are right. I was very happy. Congressman Vaughn has been an impediment to getting funding for the canal expansion project. I said some terrible things about him and I’m very, very sorry. But I didn’t have him killed. I swear to you.”
“Then how did you know he was dead before the media announced it?”
“I have a cousin who emigrated to America in the eighties. He is a citizen now. He works for the FAA.”
“Who is he and what’s his date of birth?”
Rivera quickly replied with a name and a date.
“I’m going to have that checked out,” Storm said. “But in the meantime, I’m going to give the eel another chance to find your face.”
Rivera went back under. Pulling out his satellite phone, Storm called the cubby and got one of the nerds to run a quick check on the FAA’s employment records. Sure enough, Rivera’s cousin checked out.
Storm brought Rivera back up. The eel had not yet shown itself. All the movement was probably scaring it, encouraging it to stay hidden. A shame.
“My people say you’re lying,” Storm said.
“No, please, please! I’m telling the truth, I swear it! Listen to me, I had nothing to do with this congressman dying, but I might be able to help you.”
“I’m listening.”
“You said this laser, it was promethium, yes?”
“Yes.”
His voice came fast, and he forced the words out between large breaths. “I was at the locks a little while back, maybe three, four weeks ago, and one of my friends down there was talking. He was saying that a ship had come through that made the sensors go off, the nuclear sensors, what do you call them…?”
“A Geiger counter?”
“Yes, the Geiger counter. This was big news at the locks. Everyone was talking about it. There is always the fear that terrorists will try something at the canal. They pulled the ship aside, searched it, and found the container that was setting off the counter. I don’t know the details, but they tested what was inside and they found out it was promethium.”
“Did they detain it?”
“They couldn’t. That shipment, it was not intended for import into Panama, so there was nothing customs could do. They packed it back up, shielded it so the radiation wouldn’t get any of the sailors sick, and sent it on its way. There are many hazardous substances we are allowed to detain, but promethium isn’t on the list.”
“So they let it through.”
“Yes.”
“And how are you thinking this is helpful to me?”
“Because I remember the name of the sender. It was printed on the forms and my man at the locks told me what it was. It was a company out of Egypt called Ahmed Trades Metal.’”
“‘Ahmed Trades Metal,’” Storm repeated, making sure he had heard it correctly.
“Yes, that’s right. If you find that company, you will find the source of your promethium.”
STORM LEFT THE BEDROOM without another word. He had no continuing use for Eusebio Rivera, but also no desire to have Rivera slow his exit by calling building security.
Still, Storm didn’t lack compassion. He cut loose Hector, who signaled his profound thanks by slumping onto the floor, letting the drool continue to pour from his mouth and remaining in a deep sleep.
Eventually, Hector would wake up, remember having been tackled and wonder why his boss was perched atop a fish tank. But he would also cut everyone loose and let them go about their business. There was no harm done, except to Rivera’s pride and to the fish Storm had to cut open. Collateral damage.
“Blink once if you want me to change the channel,” Storm said to Cesar, who did not blink in return.
“Enjoy the game.” Cesar acknowledged Storm’s well wishes by smiling with his eyes.
Storm’s exit from the building — which came via the elevator — was substantially faster than his entry into it. Villante was waiting for him in his Cadillac, which was parked on the street outside.
“Jones wants a report,” Villante said as Storm climbed into the car. It was after two o’clock in the morning, which meant it was after three o’clock where Jones was. But, of course, the man would still be awake.
Storm pulled out his satellite phone, and prepared himself to lie. If the promethium had come from Ahmed Trades Metal, then the last thing Storm wanted was for Jones to know it. Whatever he discovered about the company, he would have to do without the help of anyone in the cubby.
“What do you have?” Jones asked.
“It’s a dead end. Rivera knew nothing.”
“Are you sure?”
“My methods were effective,” Storm assured him.
“Well, I’ve got another lead for you to follow. You remember I mentioned Ingrid Karlsson?”
“Yes.”
“Her reward offer has apparently netted some significant information,” Jones said.
“What is it?”
“She wouldn’t tell me over the phone. But she said she would share what she knows in person if I would send an agent I trusted.”
“And instead you’re sending me?”
“Exactly,” Jones said. “She’ll pick you up at Slip F-18 at the marina outside Casino de Monte-Carlo two mornings from now. A trip to Monaco won’t trouble you too much, will it?”
“You know I will sacrifice for my craft if I must.”
CHAPTER 15
MONTE CARLO, Monaco
he man who emerged onto the gaming floor at Casino de Monte-Carlo — refreshed, resplendent, and refined — owed a little something to the Boy Scout he had once been.
Derrick Storm’s association with the Boy Scouts of America had resulted in some less-than-desirable outcomes, yes: a brief bout of pyromania around the age of twelve that nearly incinerated his father’s car; a tendency to encourage younger boys to engage in snipe hunts, at least one of which ended with a Cub Scout getting lost in the woods overnight; and, later, during his time with the organization, a fascination with a certain Girl Scout camp across the lake that nearly led to his arrest.
But it had at least one positive result. Storm had been instilled with the virtue of self-reliance, having taken the Boy Scout motto, “Be Prepared,” very much to heart.
And so whereas a lesser man might have foundered when faced with this emergency — a night in Monaco, one of the world’s great human playgrounds, with nothing to do — Storm had found himself equal to the crisis.
Having the right friends helped in this matter. The moment he hung up with Jones, Storm calculated that it was nearing nine o’clock in the morning Monaco time. He deemed that an acceptable time to ring Jean-François Vidal, the chief operating officer of the Société des bains de mer de Monaco, the company founded by the Grimaldis — the ruling family of Monaco — to run the principality’s most important tourist properties.
He was also a man who owed his life — not to mention the non-bomb-marred façade of his most famous hotel — to the resourcefulness of a certain American intelligence operative.
So when Storm announced himself over his satellite phone, what he heard in response was Vidal half-speaking, half-singing, “Derrick, Derrick, Derrick! It is such an exquisite pleasure to receive your call. Please say you are coming to our small jewel of a city.”