“What do you mean?”
“I mean, whatever number we settle on, you will always be out there lurking with the Sword of Damocles.”
“If you give me ten million dollars, I guarantee I will never talk about this again.”
“I think I’m the one who can make that guarantee,” Washburn said. He pulled a Smith & Wesson revolver from between the seat cushions and shot Clement in the chest.
As Clement gasped for air, Washburn said, “I found your files before we came out here. Not much of a backup plan.”
Clement sighed a death rattle and slumped in the chair. Washburn tossed the revolver overboard and disappeared from the picture for a minute. He came back holding four diving weight belts. He tied one to each of Clement’s wrists and ankles and heaved the body over the side. After scrubbing away any traces of blood with the bleach he’d brought with him, he tossed that over as well. No one knew there was a connection between the two men, let alone that Clement had been on his boat that night. At the time, Washburn thought it had been the perfect crime.
Now as he stopped the video, he knew this Doctor could ask for anything and he would have no choice but to give it.
“I would delete that immediately, if I were you,” the voice on the phone said.
Washburn did as instructed, his hand shaking as he worked the trackpad.
“How did you get that video?”
“I don’t divulge my secrets. But my talents could be very useful to a man like you.”
“What talents?”
“I told you: I see everything.”
“How much do you want?”
“You think this is about money?”
“Isn’t it?”
“Money I have, Governor Washburn. What I don’t have is your charisma, reputation, and commanding presence. I couldn’t buy those no matter how much money I had.”
Washburn shook his head in confusion. “Then what do you want?”
“The same thing as you,” the self-proclaimed Doctor said. “I want to make you president of the United States.”
After stopping to recover the Discovery without incident, and now well out of radar range and in international waters, the Oregon shifted course northwest.
By the next day, a rested Juan sat at his desk and read each team’s reports. Despite some hiccups in the execution of the plans, the outcomes were what they’d been expecting. Juan was consistently proud of the hard work his people put into their jobs, as well as their ability to think on their feet.
With a rap on the door and a curt “Enter,” Eric and Murph joined Juan in his cabin. Stoney wore what seemed to be the same outfit he’d had on the previous night, but Juan knew he had multiple versions of white shirt and khaki slacks. Murph, on the other hand, had changed into a T-shirt that bore the image of a burning figure and the line “I tried it at home.” After getting a few hours’ rest last night, the two of them had dedicated themselves to cracking the laptop and memory card. They gleamed with triumph.
“I’m guessing you guys had no luck with your hacking,” Juan said drily.
“Au contraire, mon Chairman,” Murph said. “They didn’t stand a chance.”
“Pretty simple military-grade encryption algorithms,” Stoney added. There wasn’t a computer system Eric and Murph couldn’t break into, as far as Juan knew.
“What did you find on the laptop?” he asked.
“That was the mother lode for the arms smuggling operation,” Murph said. “Shipment manifests, payment schedules, the works. The guys at Langley will have a field day.”
“What about the phone?”
“It took a bit longer to access those files because of the water damage,” Eric said. “We found the usual text messages and phone logs, again related to the smuggling op. We also found a few files. One of them was particularly intriguing.”
“Why?”
“Because it had dates. Four of them. Three dates occurred over the last three months. The fourth date is two days from now.”
“We’re still working on what they refer to,” Murph said. “Below each date is some kind of code.” He read off the list. “Alpha seventeen, Beta nineteen, Gamma twenty-two, Delta twenty-three.”
“Obviously, the Greek letters are in order,” Eric said, “but we haven’t been able to decipher the numerical progression’s pattern.”
“Assuming there is one,” Murph said. “They could also have been assigned randomly, although the continual increase suggests that’s not the case.”
“And you don’t have any theories about what they mean?” Juan asked.
Murph shook his head. “We’ve scoured the laptop for anything that refers to these codes and dates, but there’s nothing. Without more data, we’re at a dead end.”
“We’ll hand the information over to Langston Overholt. Maybe his people can find a pattern for the dates in their intel. After that, as far as we’re concerned, our job is done and we can collect payment, just in time for everyone’s quarterly shares.” Because all of the crew were partners in the Corporation, profits were shared after expenses based on position and length of service. Although the hours were long and the missions risky, everyone aboard could expect to retire to a life of luxury after their years aboard the Oregon.
That evening, the Corporation enjoyed a five-star dinner. As coffee was being poured, Juan said, “We’ve got a long trip to Malaysia coming up to bust that piracy ring in the Strait of Malacca, so I hope everyone has plans to make the most of their shore leave in Jamaica.”
“I talked Linda into a girls’ day at the Sunset Cliff Spa and Resort,” Julia said. “I’ve read it’s Montego Bay’s finest new resort.”
“In exchange for putting up with massages and manicures,” Linda chimed in, “I talked her into taking windsurfing lessons with me.”
“We’ll see how you feel about doing that after you have a few glasses of good Sauvignon Blanc and a foot rub,” Julia retorted. “What about you, Linc? A massage for you, too?”
“Are you kidding?” he said. “With all those great coastal roads? It’s time to get my motorcycle out of the hold. And since there’s a new Harley dealer in Mobay that rents bikes, Eddie’s gonna come along with me.”
“How about you, Hali?” Juan asked. “Any adventures for you?”
“I have a feeling I might find one. MacD and Trono are taking me to a bar on the Hip Strip called the Waterfront. They claim it’s got the best mojitos on the north coast.”
“Be careful with those two. I don’t want you waking up wondering what happened to all your clothes.” Juan looked at Murph. “Let me guess what you’re going to be up to . . .”
“Oh yeah! Time to set up the skateboard park. Eric’s going to help me construct a new half-pipe. I’m trying to invent a new trick called the Murph 720.” Juan grudgingly let Murph transform the deck into his own playground, when the opportunity arose. It was a small price to pay for having such a technical wizard on the team.
“Don’t worry,” Eric said. “I’ll be there to film it for everyone’s viewing pleasure later when he wipes out.”
“What about you, Juan?” Julia asked. “Is there a beach with your name on it?”
“No, I’m going to stay on board to catch up on paperwork and oversee the resupply.”
“The hell you are,” Max said.
“No, really. I’ll be fine.”
Max threw a look at Julia. “You were right. We’re the only ones who know what’s best for him.”
Juan trained his eyes on the two of them, recognizing co-conspirators when he saw them. “What are you scoundrels up to?”
“We thought you might be reluctant to take a little R and R,” Max said, “so I took the liberty of chartering a fishing boat for tomorrow. Throwing back a few Red Stripes and wrestling tuna will do you some good.”
Juan glanced at each
of them in turn and realized arguing was useless. He put up his hands in surrender and laughed. “All right. I’ll go. But then it’s back to work.”
“That’s what we wanted to hear. You won’t regret it.”
Montelíbano, Colombia
As the helicopter descended toward the landing pad, Hector Bazin took in the sprawling estate hugging the forested hillside next to the village of Montelíbano. With its terraced gardens, tennis courts, and three swimming pools fit for a Hawaiian resort, the mansion and grounds seemed an ostentatious way to show that cocaine trafficking had been exceedingly good for its owner, Alonzo Tallon. But the lavish villa also indicated that Tallon could afford Bazin’s business proposal.
The helicopter flight from Cartagena’s international airport had taken less than an hour, nearly the same time it had taken for his private jet to get to Colombia from his home in Haiti. Due to Tallon’s mistrust, Bazin and the three men accompanying him were forced to ride in Tallon’s helicopter instead of chartering their own. Guards with RPGs made sure no other chopper would be allowed anywhere near the mansion.
When the helicopter settled onto the pad, Bazin and his men exited into the sweltering tropical air to find a dozen guards aiming Heckler & Koch G36 assault rifles at them. Bazin stepped forward and stopped in front of the only man not holding a rifle, Tallon’s second-in-command, Sergio Portilla. Bazin recognized the beefy subordinate by his thin mustache and the tattoo of a flaming skull on his neck. Portilla did his own visual appraisal of Bazin, verifying that he was the same man as the one in the photo that had been sent.
Like most Haitians’ skin, Bazin’s complexion was a smooth ebony, and his hair was cut tight to his scalp. An inch over six feet tall and as lithe as a panther, he concealed a well-muscled physique beneath the contours of his tailored Armani suit.
“I must check you for weapons,” Portilla said with a growl. Bazin noticed a bulge under Portilla’s jacket, which meant that either his suit was too tight or the pistol underneath was too big.
Bazin’s men grumbled, but he quieted them with a stern look. He knew it was all part of the ritual. New visitors normally weren’t allowed inside the house, let alone those who hadn’t been searched. He held his arms up high as Portilla patted him down thoroughly.
Assured that Bazin was unarmed, Portilla jerked his head for him to follow, leaving Bazin’s men at the helicopter. A solo meeting was one of the requirements to get an audience with Tallon.
They took a serpentine path through the marbled halls and lushly carpeted rooms of the air-conditioned mansion. Bazin stifled a sneer at the lavishly gilded decorations. Tallon’s taste went toward the gaudy and grandiose, a far cry from Bazin’s own restrained inclinations.
When they reached Tallon’s palatial office, it was more of the same. Gold leaf on every surface that wasn’t teak or granite, the better to display his wealth. Against one wall was a well-stocked wet bar, replete with expensive scotches and ports. On the other wall hung an original Picasso from his Cubist period. A gigantic cherrywood desk squatted at the far end of the room.
Behind it sat a stoic Alonzo Tallon warily eyeing Bazin as he walked toward him. Tallon’s silk shirt strained to cover a gut expanded by too much gourmet food and fine wine. His wavy black hair shined from the sunlight streaming in from the window behind him.
Tallon didn’t stand, didn’t offer a handshake. He simply motioned for Bazin to take a seat in one of the leather chairs opposite the desk and Bazin took him up on the offer.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Mr. Tallon,” Bazin said in English. Though French Creole was his first language, he’d been taught English at an early age by American missionaries in Port-au-Prince. He did not speak Spanish, and he knew Tallon’s command of English was quite good.
“Your demonstration was convincing, Mr. Bazin. Your intel about the raid by the DNE saved my organization a lot of money. We were also able to rid ourselves of five agents.”
The Dirección Nacional de Estupefacientes, Colombia’s antidrug agency, had targeted one of Tallon’s factories for destruction. Bazin’s tip about the raid allowed Tallon to shut the factory down before the operation and set up an ambush in its place.
“Call it a goodwill gesture on my part,” Bazin said. He smiled. “No charge, of course.”
“You said you had a business proposition that would continue to provide me the same kind of intelligence.”
“I do. It can be very lucrative for both of us.”
“You’ve worked in this line of business for a while?”
“Although I was born and raised in Haiti, I moved to France with my parents. I went to school there and joined the French Special Forces. I was asked to leave under unfortunate circumstances, so I’ve spent the last three years paving a new road for myself. This opportunity I’m presenting to you is my latest venture.”
“You are not even a citizen of Colombia, let alone inside the government. How are you coming by your information?”
Bazin paused for effect. “Mr. Tallon, do you believe in magic?”
Tallon’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
“Magic.”
“Of course not. It’s nonsense.”
“Too bad you feel that way. Because magic is what I’m selling.”
Tallon did not look amused. “Is this a joke? Is this what you came all the way from Haiti to propose to me? Magic?”
“It is. Magic is what will keep your product flowing from Colombia and into Mexico, where the cartels there handle the difficult task of smuggling it into the U.S. Magic will alert you to drug interdiction operations before they occur. It will tell you when the Army is planning to torch your crops. It will inform you when your enemies are planning to take over your business. The intel about the DNE raid was just a taste.”
Tallon chewed on his lip. “Suppose I believe you can get me this information, magic or not. What would it cost me?”
Bazin rose and walked over to the bar. He nonchalantly picked up a bottle of 1939 Macallan scotch and sensed Portilla tense behind him. He had to be concerned that Bazin was so casually handling a bottle worth over ten thousand dollars.
“I’ve never tasted this vintage,” Bazin said. “I’ve heard it’s very good.”
“Pour yourself a snifter,” Tallon said. “Consider it my thanks to you.”
Bazin did so and swirled the peat-rich liquor in the glass before taking a sip. It coated his tongue like honey and went down smoothly.
“Its reputation is justified,” he pronounced.
“I’m sure you want to charge me more than that bottle of scotch would cover.”
“I do,” Bazin said, draining the rest of the glass. “Ten percent of your gross earnings.”
Tallon’s eyes went wide and flicked to Portilla. Then they both started to laugh.
“To call that absurd would be an understatement,” Tallon said. “I will decline your generous offer.”
Bazin frowned. “That’s too bad. Unfortunately, not contracting with me could leave you open to all kinds of business risk. Suddenly, raids could happen without your knowledge. Shipments could be disrupted. Bank assets frozen. Your whole operation could come to a standstill. Is ten percent such a high price to pay to ensure that these kinds of events don’t befall you?”
For the first time, Tallon stood, bristling at Bazin’s words. “Are you stupid enough to come into my office and threaten me?”
“‘Threaten’? No, of course not. I’m offering a valuable service to you. Surely I can expect to be paid a reasonable wage for this service. You see, I make more money when you make more money. It’s a very equitable arrangement, and we both have a vested interest in making as much money as we can.”
“I make plenty of money as it is.”
Bazin made a show of looking around the room. “I see that. But I can provide you with information that will make your
life easier. And make no mistake, my intelligence-gathering capabilities know no limit.” He nodded at the Picasso. “For instance, there is a safe behind that painting. You access it by sliding a lever under the bottom right corner and swinging the painting out to the left. The combination is thirty-six, eight, seventy-two. Inside are one hundred thousand American dollars, two kilos of cocaine, a bag of twenty diamonds, and a matching pair of ivory-handled Colt revolvers. I can tell you their serial numbers, if you’d like.”
Bazin had been looking directly at Tallon as he recited the safe’s contents and the drug lord’s mouth gaped wider with the listing of each item. “I’m the only one with the combination to that safe. How do you know what’s in there?”
“I told you. Magic. Or maybe I have X-ray satellites watching this house. Or perhaps drones circling around day and night. I could have sent workmen in here to bug every room and plant cameras where you’ll never find them. Or . . .” Bazin paused for effect. “Or there’s always the possibility of a traitor in your midst.”
Bazin avoided looking at Portilla, but Tallon got the hint.
“You?” he screamed at Portilla. “You sold me out?”
Portilla had his hands up in supplication. “No, boss. I’m loyal to you, I swear. This guy is lying.”
“He’s not lying. He described every last thing in that safe. You betrayed me!”
“I swear I didn’t!”
Bazin edged closer to the bar, putting his hand by the drawer beneath it. To Tallon he said, “At least when I want to share in profits from your business, I’m upfront about it. I don’t want to skim it behind your back.”
“Is that true?” Tallon asked Portilla. “Are you taking money from me after all I’ve given you?”
“No! Please, Alonzo!” But Portilla’s eyes revealed the lie. With a look of pure rage, he pivoted and drew a nickel-plated Smith & Wesson from his shoulder holster.
Bazin didn’t know who Portilla planned to shoot—maybe both of them—but it didn’t matter. The instant Portilla had made the move for his holster, Bazin had yanked open the drawer and snatched up the Glock pistol that Tallon had placed there as an emergency backup weapon. With a motion honed from years of training, Bazin raised the semiautomatic and put one bullet through Portilla’s forehead before Portilla had even finished aiming at Tallon, who was still dumbfounded by what was happening.