It took them fifteen minutes to cross the sprawling port facility and reach the main gate. Flickering light from inside the guardhouse meant the security men were watching television. Juan and Linda strolled leisurely past, and a few minutes later found a taxi cruising the deserted streets. Cabrillo gave an address a few doors down from General Espinoza’s building. One of the junta’s laws mandated that the cabbie write down their names and addresses from their travel papers. It was one more way for the government to keep track of its people. The lack of freedom made Cabrillo’s skin crawl.
He grabbed the newspaper someone had left on the backseat and used it to cover his head when he and Linda got out of the cab.
They walked the last few feet to their destination once the taxi had disappeared around a corner. The first floor of most of the buildings were leased commercial spaces—boutiques catering to the wealthy women of the neighborhood mostly, but a few restaurants that were closing up at this late hour. There were no other pedestrians on the broad sidewalk. The cars parked along the curb represented every German luxury-automobile company.
Falling rain slashed silver and gold in the lights cast from apartment windows above.
Espinoza’s corner building had a glass-and-brass revolving door that Juan and Linda sped through like happy lovers, laughing at how wet they were and how glad they were to be home.
Cabrillo pulled up short almost immediately and laughed. “Oops. Wrong building,” he said, grinning drunkenly. He escorted Linda back outside. The doorman barely had time to step from behind the counter before the well-dressed couple was gone. In all, they had spent seven-point-one seconds inside the building.
More than enough.
“Talk to me,” Juan said as soon they were outside.
“The doorman’s wearing a gun in a shoulder rig,” Linda said. “There was one camera covering the front door.”
Juan stopped dead in the street, disregarding the rain. “That’s all you saw?” His tone was both mocking and disappointed.
“What? What did you see?”
“Okay first, the gun under his shoulder was obvious. His suit was tailored to highlight it. Anyone passing by was meant to see it. It’s a deterrent. What you weren’t supposed to see—and what you didn’t—was the pistol strapped to his ankle. His pants flared like bell-bottoms to hide it, but not well enough. Guy that carries two pistols will probably have a submachine gun behind the counter. He’s definitely Ninth Brigade and not the regular doorman. Tell me about the cameras.”
“Cameras?” Linda asked. “We were in there for two seconds. Like I said, I only saw one camera, and it was covering the front door.”
Juan took a breath. He had no desire to teach a lesson in this kind of weather, but he felt that to bring Linda along to the next level he had no choice. “Okay. We were in the lobby for a tick over seven seconds. From now on, you need to be precise. You observed one guard and one camera. Yes?”
Linda didn’t want to reply, but she mumbled, “Yes.”
“There was a second camera inside, just above the revolving door, that covers the elevator and also the counter where the doorman sits. It looks like it was just installed. The feed wires are exposed and just sort of strung up. Dollars to doughnuts, it was put there when they brought Professor Wright to this building, and it’s monitored from the penthouse suite.”
“How did you see it?”
“Reflection off the mirror next to the elevator doors.”
Linda shook her head. “When I saw the mirror, the only thing I saw was us. Well, me, actually.”
“Human nature,” Juan replied. “First thing people always look in a mirror or in a photograph for is themselves. It’s simple vanity.”
“So what do we do now? Check the back service door?”
“No, it’ll have cameras, too. We can get away with the tipsy, lost couple once, not twice. If they saw us again, they’d call the police, or just take us into custody themselves.”
“We’re going with Mark’s idea?”
“Sledgehammer it is.” They found a vestibule a few doors down that sheltered them from the rain. The street was so quiet that they’d spot an approaching police car long before they could be seen. Juan raised Linc on the tactical radio. “We’re a go. How are you guys doing?”
“Mark’s out on the street and already has a car hot-wired,” Lincoln reported. “I’ve found what we need and am just waiting for the word from you.”
“Mount up. About how long to get here?”
“So long as the harbor cops don’t give me any trouble and we don’t get pulled over, we should be there in an hour.”
“See you when you get here.” Juan switched frequencies. “Mike, you out there?”
“Just chilling with the fishes.”
“Move to waypoint Beta.” All locations had been worked out long in advance.
“On my way.” There was a slight catch in Mike Trono’s voice. He knew the Chairman was getting a bad feeling.
“Why reposition the sub?” Linda asked.
“It occurred to me that with this weather, there are going to be a lot of police with little to do. Once the alarm’s sounded, we’re going to have every cop in BA after us.”
Linda suddenly had Juan’s bad feeling, too.
They circled around the block, moving only when they were certain no one was watching. Once, they had to hide behind trash Dumpsters near a construction zone when a patrol car eased by. The officer wasn’t scanning the curbs. He was just focused on driving through the downpour. A miserable man walking a little dog was the only person they saw, and neither group acknowledged the other. The weather was just too nasty for pleasantries.
Juan touched the Bluetooth in his ear. “Go ahead, Linc.”
“Wanna let you know that things are going smooth. Bluffed my way past the guards, no problem, even if my Spanish is rusty and I look about as native as a rhinoceros. Tell people you need to borrow something for the Ninth Brigade and the questions come to a halt.”
“That’s the beauty of a police state. No one will stick his neck out. They’ve learned it can get chopped off.”
“Mark’s right ahead of me, and we’re getting close.”
“We’ll see you coming.”
Fifteen minutes later, a strange convoy rounded a far corner and started approaching. Murph was in the lead, driving a nondescript compact sedan. Emergency flashers on the roof were strobing a rhythmic orange beat as if to announce the vehicle behind him. Which was the point. Linc was behind the wheel of a mobile crane emblazoned with the logo of the Buenos Aires Port Authority. The vehicle really didn’t have a body but rather a turret like an Army tank’s, mounted on a heavy-duty chassis. Its wheels were twice the size of a car’s tires. The collapsible boom was at its shortest but still protruded from the crane like a battering ram.
They would have to act fast because a big crane in the middle of a posh residential neighborhood would attract attention. Juan stripped off his overcoat and suit jacket and tore away the white oxford shirt. The clip-on tie went flying. It was a disguise, after all. Under it, he wore a black long-sleeved T-shirt and two empty shoulder holsters. He slipped on a pair of tight black gloves.
Linda was at the sedan’s driver’s-side door before Mark had come to a complete stop. She killed the two battery-operated flashers and plucked them off the roof. The suction cups used to hold them in place made an obscene smacking sound. Murph ran for the crane at the same time as the Chairman. While Mark was heading for the cab, Juan leapt for the industrial hook dangling from the boom and climbed his way atop it.
He was met there by Linc, who handed over an MP-5 as well as a pair of Fabrique Nationale Five-seveN automatic pistols, Cabrillo’s weapon of choice because the small 5.7-millimeter bullets could defeat most body armor at close range. The extralong suppressor on the end of the submachine gun made it unwieldy.
The team was moving as though they had been choreographed. Juan jammed the pistols into his shoulder holsters at th
e same time Mark settled into the crane’s cabin and Linda legged into the sedan. Sitting astride the boom, Franklin Lincoln tightened his grip with his thighs a second before Murph hit the hydraulics to extend it upward.
It was happening this fast.
That was the plan.
The boom telescoped up toward the fifth floor. Mark kept the engine noise to a minimum, sacrificing speed for stealth, but to Juan the crane sounded like a snarling animal. He and Linc rose atop the boom as it aimed for one of the dark apartment windows. A light snapped on a floor below their target as a homeowner was woken by the noise outside his bedroom. Thankfully, Espinoza’s windows remained black.
Mark rammed the tip of the boom through the glass, and Linc and Cabrillo launched themselves into the room beyond. They landed as agile as cats, and both had their weapons ready when a man wearing camouflage opened the door to see what was happening. Both guns spat, and the man went down.
Linc whipped a pair of plastic ties around the guard’s wrists. The bullets they were using were hardened rubber—nonlethal, yet hitting with enough force to incapacitate a fully grown man. It was essentially the same as a blow from a baseball bat. They had considered using tranquilizer darts instead, but even the best drugs needed precious seconds to knock someone out.
This would be the duty guard watching the video feed from the lobby, Juan thought as he flipped the man’s pistol under the four-poster whose huge size made him think this was the master suite. And the General is out tonight, which means the Chinese interrogators were probably out with him. He guessed there would be no more than three other guards watching over Tamara Wright. They’d caught a break.
Beyond the bedroom door was a hallway with mahogany floors and an Oriental runner. Light spilled from an open door a few paces away, and by its gray hue Juan knew it was where the guards had their monitor station. The ceiling in the hall was at least eleven feet, and the crown molding was the most intricate Cabrillo had ever seen.
Another door opened. The man wore nothing but boxer shorts and was wiping sleep from his eyes. Juan gave him a double tap to the forehead that would put him down for hours. With Linc covering his six, Juan peered into this new room. There were two beds, but only one had been slept in. The random thought that the lady of the house couldn’t be too thrilled about soldiers sleeping on her fine linen popped into his head.
He opened the next door a crack and saw a tiled bathroom with a tub big enough to swim laps. He swung the door open just a bit more to let in light from the hallway and spotted three razors on the vanity and three toothbrushes sitting upright in a cut-crystal glass.
One more to go. The next door was a closet filled with towels and sheets, and the one after that was the General’s study. The desk was enormous, and behind it, on a credenza, was a stuffed and mounted jaguar. From the size, it looked to be an adolescent female. Cabrillo was liking Espinoza less and less.
A gun went off behind him, a loud report that echoed off the tall ceiling. Linc twisted around the doorjamb as another round blew some molding into expensive slivers. Juan slung the MP-5 behind his back and pulled one of the FN pistols. Unlike the machine gun’s, these bullets were hot-loaded with lead. His wet shoes squelched, but he suspected the gunman’s hearing was compromised.
He ducked his head around the corner, low to the ground, and drew a snap shot that went high but gave away the Argentine’s position. He was hiding behind the door at the end of the hall. A light was on in the room, and Juan could see the outline of his foot in the space between the door and the floor. He laid his automatic on the carpet runner and fired two quick shots. The spent brass arced inches from his face.
The scream echoed almost as loud as the gunshots. The bullet hit the gunman’s foot and shattered the delicate bones. As he hopped onto his other foot, Cabrillo fired again. This bullet grazed the bottom edge of the door but still carried the energy to plow through flesh. The Argentine fell to the ground, moaning at the agony radiating up from his ruined feet. Linc moved fast, covering the unseen gunman with his own pistol held ready.
He swept into the room, checking corners automatically and kicking aside the fallen gunman’s pistol. “We’ll have you out of here in a second, ma’am,” he said to Tamara Wright, who was handcuffed to a bed and gagged. She wore the same dress she had on aboard the Natchez Belle.
Juan came in right after him, and when she recognized the Chairman the panic and fear that swelled in her eyes subsided. He untied her gag and tossed it to Linc, who quickly wound it around the wounded guard’s mouth to stifle the sounds of his agony.
“How did . . . ? How are . . . ?” So overwhelmed, Tamara couldn’t get a question out.
“Later” was all Juan said.
Linc carried a heavy pair of bolt cutters in a scabbard on his back. He pulled them free like a samurai drawing his katana. It didn’t take one tenth of his strength to cut the chain binding Tamara to the bed. They would remove the cuffs back on the Oregon.
“Have they hurt you?” Juan asked.
“Um, no. Not really. They’ve just been asking me questions about—”
“Later,” he repeated. Getting to her was the easy part of the operation. Getting them all back out was going to be tricky. “Do you know how to swim?”
She could only stare at such an apropos-to-nothing question.
“Can you?”
“Yes, why? Never mind. I know, later.”
Juan admired her spirit and didn’t blame Max one bit for wanting to date her. Tamara Wright had an inner core of strength that even the past few days of terror couldn’t diminish.
He tapped his comm link. “Sitrep.”
Linda’s elfin voice filled his ear. “The doorman made a call as soon as he heard the shots. I figure we’ve got a minute, tops, before the cops arrive.”
Cabrillo guessed less. “We’re on our way.”
“Mark’s ready.”
The three Americans retreated back the way Juan and Linc had assaulted the apartment. The hook hovered just outside the broken window. Linc lifted Tamara over the broken glass and set her directly atop a metal platform encircling the crane’s cable just above the hook. While it made a perfect perch for them, its purpose was to prevent rats from climbing the cable in what was a millennialong battle between rodents and mariners.
Lincoln climbed on directly behind her, shielding her body and holding her steady. “Don’t you worry. Uncle Franklin’s got you.”
“Don’t you mean Nephew Franklin?” she said.
As soon as Juan wrapped his gloved fist around the cable, Mark dropped them toward the sidewalk as smoothly as an Otis elevator. Linda had the car pulled over to the curb with the doors already opened. The windshield wipers beat furiously at the rain.
Mark jumped from the crane’s cab, and he and Linc sandwiched Tamara Wright in the backseat. The feet wells were packed with equipment, forcing Linc’s knees up by his head. Linda had slid over to the passenger’s side, leaving Juan at the wheel. Sirens sounded in the distance. He put the sedan in gear and eased away from the curb as if they didn’t have a care in the world.
Maybe the hard part is over, Juan thought, but he knew not to say it aloud.
The fates heard him anyway.
A big black town car raced into the intersection and slid to a stop a few feet from their bumper, forcing Cabrillo to jam on the brakes. Doors were thrown open, and a large bald man wearing a dress uniform erupted from the back of the Cadillac. He had a pistol in his hand and opened fire immediately.
The people in the sedan ducked as bullets cored through the windshield. Juan cranked the transmission into reverse and reached up to adjust the rearview mirror. A bullet whizzed close enough to his wrist that he could feel its hot passage, but now he could see behind them without exposing his head.
They backed up for fifty feet, beyond all but an expert’s ability with a handgun, before Juan mashed the emergency-brake pedal and spun the wheel. The wet asphalt helped him pirouette the woefully underpower
ed car in a slide worthy of a Hollywood chase.
He released the brake, dropped the car into first, and accelerated away. One more bullet hit the car, a wild shot that mangled one of the wing mirrors.
“Is everyone okay?” he called without taking his eyes off the road. It was like driving through a continuous waterfall.
“Yeah, we’re fine,” Mark replied. “Who was that?”
“General Philippe Espinoza, whose house we just raided. He must have been on his way back from dinner when the doorman called.”
“That was the man asking me questions,” Tamara told them, “him and the creepy Chinese guy named Sun. I could tell he was from Beijing, and I’m pretty sure he was State Security.”
“Here in Argentina on a diplomatic passport, no doubt.” The sirens were getting closer. Juan slowed. The only way out of this was to not attract attention and hope they could lose Espinoza, because the General was surely coming after them. “Mark, are you ready with our bag of tricks?”
“Say the word, Chairman.”
Juan was thinking about chain of command. Espinoza doubtlessly knew someone in the police—a chief or commissioner, most likely. Fifteen minutes would pass by the time the General called his friend, who would in turn call someone lower in the police hierarchy, and so on, until a description of their car made it to the patrols out on the streets. If they could elude Espinoza and not draw attention to themselves, they would be halfway across the city before the APB went out.
He glanced in the mirror just as the town car careened around the corner one block back. Juan was driving an overloaded Mitsubishi and had no illusions that he could outrun the big American V-8 even if the car was carrying armor, which it probably was.
Juan made two quick turns, and slowed as a police car with lights flashing went streaking past followed closely by another unmarked car.
His confidence evaporated when he saw both cars brake heavily in his mirror. It took them a few moments to turn around on this narrow street, forcing Espinoza to stop completely. Obviously, the General knew someone a lot lower down on the food chain than Cabrillo had estimated. He should have figured a man like Espinoza would know the neighborhood precinct’s commander.