Shere Singh’s driver unintentionally slowed as he watched the destruction in his rearview mirror. This gave Franklin Lincoln all the opportunity he needed. George passed the Mercedes flying ten feet above the low jungle canopy and fifty feet to the right of the road. Linc nestled the Barrett to his shoulder and fired. While a normal bullet might have only punctured the Mercedes’s tire, the .50 caliber slug shattered the spline where the front axle met the wheel. The entire assembly, wheel, hub, and tire were torn from the car. The heavy Mercedes dropped onto the shattered axle in a shower of sparks, and the car instantly began to decelerate as the driver fought to keep it on the road.
For good measure Linc put two bullets through the front of the hood and gave a satisfied nod when steam erupted from the mangled radiator.
Adams brought the Robinson over the road, keeping just behind the dying limousine, and when it finally came to a stop, he had the skids on the macadam. Even before the machine had settled onto the road, Cabrillo, Linc, and Tory Ballinger were rushing ahead. Linc and Juan carried M-4A2 assault rifles while Tory had borrowed a Beretta semiautomatic pistol from the Oregon’s armory.
The team had covered half of the twenty yards when the driver heaved open his door. He was out and around it before anyone could get a shot off. From his covered position behind the door, he sprayed the roadway with fire from a machine pistol. The driver was panicked, and his shots went wild, but still the trio fell to the ground. Linc opened up with his M-4, concentrating a withering stream of 5.56mm into the open door. The high-powered rounds ricocheted off the armored door and turned the bulletproof glass opaque.
Having assumed that the big Mercedes would be armored, Juan fired under the door. His first burst missed the driver, but the second tore apart the calf and ankle of one of his legs. As he fell the door closed, exposing him to a double tap from Tory’s Beretta. The impact threw him bodily into the car’s fender before he slid to the ground in a disjointed heap.
Juan checked the Mercedes’s rear door. Locked. He loosed his nearly full magazine into the glass at point-blank range. The first dozen bullets couldn’t penetrate the tough laminate, but by clamping the barrel tightly he was able to bore a hole through the pane. Linc stepped up as Juan backed away to reload and expanded the hole, sending chips of glass arcing though the air like glittering diamonds.
Once Juan had his weapon reloaded, he tapped Linc on the shoulder to cease firing.
“Singh, I’m giving you three seconds to place both hands outside the window.” There were no sounds coming from inside the vehicle. “One. Two. Three.” Linc and Juan opened fire at the same instant. Bullets passing through the shattered glass started to disintegrate the opposite window. Several imbedded in the seat back, and a couple pinged off the armored plating and rattled around the back of the car until burying themselves in a soft target. A sharp cry of pain cut above the rifles’ chatter. Both men held fire.
“Singh!”
“I’m shot.” His voice remained strong. “Oh, praise to Allah, I am going to die.”
“Put your goddamned hands outside the window now, or I throw in a grenade.”
“I cannot move. My legs, you have paralyzed me.”
Juan and Linc exchanged a look, both certain they couldn’t trust the Sikh but knowing they had no alternative. Juan reached his hand into the car and opened the door with Linc in position to cover as much of the interior as he could. As the door came open, the interior lights came on. Singh was on the floor and as soon as he could draw a bead he fired with his own machine pistol. His aim was even worse than his driver’s. The stream of bullets plowed into the armored door, saving Linc’s life. The former SEAL did what tens of thousands of hours of training had instilled in him. As he dodged out of the way he put two rounds into Singh’s face, one below the eye and the other straight down the man’s throat. His turban uncoiled like a striking snake, and the back of his head came apart in a blooming flower of blood and tissue.
Linc cursed, twisting away in frustration and self-recrimination. “Damnit, Juan, I am so sorry. It was just—”
“Instinct,” Juan finished for him, peering into the car to survey the carnage. “You had no choice. I would have done the exact same thing.”
Tory shouldered past them and stepped into the back of the stretch Mercedes. Ignoring the blood she patted down Shere Singh’s corpse, handing out his wallet, a leather billfold. She plucked a briefcase from where Singh had wedged it into a seat cushion, looked around to see if she’d missed anything, and backed out once again.
“Well, lads, this turned into a dead end, eh?” She wiped her hands on the seat of her pants and gestured up the road behind the idling Robinson helicopter. “It won’t take long for more of Singh’s forces to get organized and come looking for their boss. Discretion being the better part of valor and all that, I think we should get the hell out of here.”
As they started for the chopper, George Adams added power in preparation for takeoff, choking the air with fine grit and forcing them to bend double. Juan tapped Tory on the shoulder and jerked his thumb back toward the Mercedes limousine.
“Just an investigator for Lloyd’s?”
Tory intuitively knew what he was talking about. She gave him a cocky grin. “Before that I was employed by Her Majesty’s government.”
“Doing what?”
She placed a hand on her holstered Beretta. “Troubleshooter.”
22
JUAN Cabrillo slouched in the master’s chair on the Oregon’s faux bridge. Although the tall seat’s leather was torn to make it appear as old as the rest of the tramp freighter, he’d had it custom fit so it was perhaps the most comfortable on the ship. Any watch officer was expected to use the central workstation in the op center, but this chair was reserved exclusively for Cabrillo’s use.
The sun was sinking fast to port, a dramatic play of color and light made more intense by the stratospheric curtain of volcanic dust billowing from peaks far to the north on Kamchatka Peninsula. The heat of the day lingered on the bridge. Metal was still warm to the touch, and the band of Juan’s shorts was damp with perspiration. He wore no shirt and had only boat shoes on his feet. With the speed the Oregon was making over the water, opening a door would have invited a hurricane into the bridge, so the room remained hot and stuffy.
Rather than risk running up through the East China Sea and the Sea of Japan, where shipping traffic was as thick as a Los Angeles rush hour, he had decided to vector to the east once they cleared the northernmost of the Philippine Islands and race along Japan’s Pacific coast. Shipping lanes were more regulated, so he didn’t have to worry about other vessels reporting a ship steaming through the region at over fifty knots. With their radar jamming on active mode, it was visual reports that concerned him. In another few hours they would cross the Tokyo shipping lanes, and traffic would drop precipitously, ending their need to steer around car carriers, container ships, and the dozens of other vessels plying the Pacific routes.
They lost only a few minutes whenever they had to detour, but time was the one thing that Juan could no longer afford. Eddie was another two days away, and already the scant reports coming from the Russian volcanologists trapped in the capital city of Petropavlovsk were disturbing. The peninsula was being rocked by nearly continuous earthquakes, and three volcanoes along the same chain were belching ash and noxious gas. So far there had been no reports of deaths, but most of the settlements on Kamchatka were so remote it might take weeks to get word.
The only bright spot, if it could be called bright, was that Eddie’s transmitter continued to send out a signal that Hali could receive through the satellite umbrella. But there was a problem with even that. According to the satellite data, he was on the beach in the shadow of one of the erupting volcanoes. Juan could have asked Dr. Huxley how long the batteries in the transmitter would last after the wearer was dead, but he knew the answer already. Eddie could have died a week ago, and no one on the Oregon would be the wiser.
&nb
sp; “Penny for your thoughts.”
Juan whirled around before recognizing the voice, his face a mask of anger at being disturbed.
“Whoa, sorry,” Tory said. “Didn’t mean to startle you so.”
“You didn’t.” He turned back to gaze at the horizon once more as if watching it would somehow bring it closer.
“I thought you might like one.” Tory held out a bottle of San Miguel beer, what Juan regarded as the Philippines’ only worthwhile export.
She wore a white linen skirt, a teal polo shirt, and flats. Her dark hair was brushed away from her face, highlighting the graceful curve of her high cheekbones, and artful cosmetics deepened the already arresting blue of her eyes and the fullness of her mouth. As openly as Juan studied her, he could feel her attention on him. She took in the breadth of his shoulders and the dense muscles of his chest and how even lounging in the chair, his stomach was rippled. But when her glance shifted farther south, to his artificial leg, she quickly looked away.
Because he was so adept at hiding his prosthetic limb, usually by never wearing shorts in public, Juan had encountered few awkward moments since losing the leg. Although he barely knew her, Tory’s sudden discomfort made him very conscious of the leg, especially because the one he was wearing made no effort to look real. It was all tubular steel and black carbon fiber. He suddenly wished he’d either worn long pants or at least one of his legs that looked more human.
He took his feet off the rail beneath the forward windows and sat up straighter in his chair so his leg was better hidden. He was both annoyed and intrigued by why he felt Tory’s opinion of him was important.
Juan accepted the proffered bottle and rolled the dew-blistered glass across his forehead before taking several healthy gulps. Julia had rebandaged his wound so he no longer looked like he was wearing a diaper on his head. He was putting off a skin graft until after the mission was over. “Thanks. Sorry about the glare of death I just shot you. I was lost in my own world there.”
“Thinking about your man? Eddie, is it?”
“Eddie Seng, yes. One of my best.”
“Max told me a bit about him. Actually, he told me a bit about all of you.” She smiled. “Quite a collection of pirates you’ve put together.”
He chuckled. “Brigands and privateers every man jack of them, and in all my life I’ve never worked with a finer team. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to give you the nickel tour and introduce you around.”
“I know you’ve been busy. Linda was kind enough to play docent.” She waved her hands down the length of her body. “And to let me borrow some clothes from your Magic Shop.”
“And your cabin. Is it all right?”
Her eyes went wide with delight. “All right? It’s bigger than my flat in London, and if you find the marble tub missing after I’m gone, don’t be surprised. You do seem to enjoy life’s finer things. The food rivals Cunard, and Maurice, the steward, is an absolute love.”
“Just because we’re in a savage business doesn’t mean we have to act like savages.”
“How did you become, well, mercenaries, I suppose?”
Juan indicated for Tory to take the closest seat. This one was Max’s and it seemed to swallow her. “When the Cold War ended I knew that the global polarity that had kept the world in check for a half century was over. Regional conflicts were bound to erupt, and the need to provide security services would grow. That’s why I created the Corporation. As for the Oregon, well, rather than base my outfit in some country where I’d be subjected to their laws, I decided that using a ship would give me the freedom we would need.”
“And you do this for the money?”
“I’m as much a capitalist as the next man, but I’m also particular about my clients.”
“I think you are more particular than you are capitalistic.”
Juan laughed again. “Maurice has been gossiping.”
“He thinks the world of you.” Tory smiled. “Actually, your whole crew does. I’ve heard you’ve turned down some very lucrative offers in the past few years.”
“And accepted some, too.”
“You know what I’m saying. This isn’t all about the money.”
“Let’s just say it’s pretty gratifying to get paid to do what you know is right. How about you, madam investigator? Did you take your job with Lloyd’s because their ad in the Financial Times promised more pay than becoming a stockbroker?”
“Touché.” She sipped from her own bottle of beer. “So, do you have any theories about what’s going on?”
“Theories, yes. Answers, no. Especially since we lost our last link in the chain.”
“Franklin hasn’t forgiven himself, you know.”
“He and Eddie are best friends. He won’t forgive himself until he knows Eddie’s safe. That reminds me.” Juan jumped down from his stool and grabbed a portfolio from the deck. He handed it to Tory. “The computer finished with this about an hour ago. You might find it interesting.”
“What is it?” Tory asked, opening the crisp leather cover.
“Translation of what we found in the briefcase you recovered from Singh’s car. In a nutshell it lists every ship his group has hijacked over the past several years from all over the Pacific. I imagine it can close a number of your cases. Most of the ships were scrapped at Karamita, but some are still sailing under flags of convenience for dummy companies Singh controls.”
“Controlled,” Tory corrected without looking up from the book.
“Unfortunately,” Juan continued, “there’s nothing about what the Maus’s sister ship, Souri, has been doing since Singh bought her. I suspect that there are other ships she’s transported, perhaps a great many, that Singh kept in another ledger to compartmentalize this particular aspect of his criminal fiefdom.”
She looked up. “Why would he do that?”
“No idea.”
“What if he doesn’t control this aspect of his criminal fiefdom?”
Juan leaned forward in his chair, sensing she might have something. “Anton Savich?”
“Max told me that’s a name that has cropped up all during your investigation, although I confess I never came across his name during mine.”
“All we’ve learned is that he was a functionary for the Soviet Bureau of Natural Resources, and after the collapse he worked for the Russian equivalent. We have no clue how he got tangled up with a smuggler like Shere Singh.”
“Are there any natural resources on Kamchatka? Maybe something he came across in a report when he worked for the bureau? Like precious gems or metals or something?”
“Mark Murphy checked a bunch of databases and found nothing in any appreciable quantities.”
A light shone in Tory’s eyes. “What if it’s something that never got reported? What if when he was working for the Soviets a report crossed his desk that indicated a major find of some kind, and he quietly buried the discovery?”
Juan nodded. “That’s a distinct possibility. We all believe that they’ve brought a lot of Chinese labor up there. It could be he has them working in a mine of some kind.” Then he got a sudden burst of inspiration. He plucked his encrypted cell phone from his pocket and dialed. On the third ring of the Oregon’s private cellular system, Mark Murphy answered. “Murph, it’s Juan. Where are you?”
“Down in the Magic Shop fixing my skateboard,” the weapons specialist said.
“Hop on a computer terminal and tell me if mercury is used in any kind of mining techniques.”
Used to obscure requests, Mark said he would get right on it and killed the connection.
“What’s this about mercury?” Tory asked.
“Julia found heavy doses of mercury poisoning when she performed autopsies on the pirates who tried to attack my ship—the ones who dumped the container carrying those Chinese immigrants.”
“You think they picked it up on Kamchatka?”
Cabrillo nodded. “The Chinese weren’t contaminated, just the sailors. If they’d been up the
re a lot, say dropping off other workers or on guard rotation, then its possible that’s the source.”
A companionable silence passed while they waited for the couple of minutes until Juan’s cell chimed. He answered it by saying, “What did you find?”
“Mercury is the only element that bonds with gold,” Mark replied. “It’s been used to separate raw gold from ore. The practice is banned in a lot of countries because of environmental and health concerns, but it is still widely employed by indigenous miners in South America.”
Juan mouthed the word gold to Tory. “Thanks, Murph. You can get back to your skateboard now.”
Tory leaned back in her seat. “So Anton Savich is using Chinese slave labor, provided to him by Shere Singh, to mine gold on the Kamchatka Peninsula, most likely under the nose of the Russian government.”
“I think that about sums it up,” Juan agreed, taking another healthy swallow of his beer.
“That solves that mystery, then. We know the who, the how, and now the why.”
“Appears that way.”
Something in Juan’s tone made Tory wary. “What is it?”
“I was just thinking, with Shere Singh out of the piracy business, your end of this investigation is over. I don’t know what we’re going to find when we get up there, but if our run-ins with Singh and his gang are any gauge, it’s going to get bloody.”
“And?” she asked, already suspecting what Juan was about to say.
“And you don’t need to come with us. We’d only lose an hour or so by choppering you off when we pass the northern tip of Japan and enter the Sea of Okhotsk.”
Her fury was at full gale by the time he’d stopped speaking. She came out of her chair, placed both hands on the armrests of his seat, and leaned in so her face was inches from his. “I’ve dedicated the last six months to this investigation. This has been my life, my every waking moment. I had to fight to get the Royal Geographic Society to let us join their expedition, only there wasn’t anything I could do once the pirates hit. I had friends on the Avalon who were butchered by these monsters, so don’t think for one second I’m not going to see this through to the bitter end, Mr. Chairman of the bloody Corporation.”