Havana Storm Page 20

  “What treasure?”

  Díaz stared at her. “You mean, you don’t know the stone’s significance?”

  He let out a bellowing laugh as he stepped to a bookcase filled with small stone carvings and artifacts. He picked up a figurine and set it on the desk in front of Summer. “Only a fool would risk his life for the sake of science.”

  It was a figurine of a dog made of solid gold. The design had an ancient look, which Summer suspected was Aztec. “Where did you steal this? The Veracruz University Museum of Anthropology?”

  “It was discovered at the bottom of the sea during one of our mineral surveys.”

  “On a long canoe,” Pitt said, “about thirty miles northwest of Montego Bay.” He had kept silent as the others talked, trying to edge closer to the wall map. A jab from a guard’s rifle kept him from discerning its markings.

  Díaz bristled at the comment. He picked up the figurine and returned it to the shelf. Then he stepped over to Summer. Reaching down, he grabbed a fistful of long red hair and yanked her head forward. “Tell me—now!—why are you here?”

  Pitt lunged across the room, his hands still pinioned behind his back, and plowed his shoulder into Díaz.

  Díaz sprawled back across his desk as the two guards jumped on Pitt and held him back. Molina unholstered a Makarov pistol and leveled it at Pitt.

  Díaz staggered to his feet and glared at Pitt, then regarded Summer. “A family resemblance, it seems. Your daughter?” he asked Pitt.

  Pitt said nothing, appraising him with contempt.

  “Perhaps she can entertain my men during your stay.” Díaz turned to the soldiers. “Get him out of my sight—now!”

  The soldiers dragged Pitt out of the office, leaving Summer alone with Díaz and Molina. Díaz opened a desk drawer and pulled out a knife with a carved obsidian blade. He showed it to Summer, then pressed its blade lightly against her cheek. “Now, where were we?”

  Summer gritted her teeth. “We are tracking the outbreak of mercury pollutants.”

  Díaz nodded and pulled away the knife, leaving a thin trace of blood.

  “Your mining operation has released toxic plumes that are destroying large swaths of marine life,” she said. “The plumes are visible by satellite. We tracked the latest one here and came to investigate. The mercury is creating a huge environmental risk.”

  Díaz nodded. He was aware of the methyl mercury toxins being released from his underwater blasting but was indifferent to its consequences. “Perhaps the mercury is problematic, but it will dissipate over time.”

  “Irreparable harm has already been done to marine life. And your mining here, in the Florida Straits, could have serious effects throughout the entire Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic Coast.”

  “Harmful to the U.S., in other words? That is no concern of mine.” Díaz laughed. “I’m afraid you are too late for that.”

  He stepped to the Aztec stone and admired it a moment before tapping it with the obsidian knife. “Yes, too late for that. But maybe . . .” He tapped the stone once more. “Maybe you will be here with me when I recover the second stone and complete the message of the Aztecs.”

  48

  The pilot killed the smoky outboard motor, allowing the skiff to drift with the current. A man on the bow tossed a purse seine net over the side, allowing the movement of the boat to spread its floats. Taking a seat on the forward bench, he made a show of regulating the net’s lines. Hesitating a moment, he waved a hand across his nose while gazing at the catch in the bottom. “Man, these fish have gone bad.”

  Seated by the outboard motor, James Maguire laughed. “Hopefully, they’ll deter anyone from searching the boat.”

  In ragged T-shirts and dirty baseball caps, the pair looked like local Cayman Island fishermen. They certainly didn’t resemble hired mercenaries. Maguire was in fact a former Marine Corps sniper and CIA field operative. Marty Gomez was an ex–Navy SEAL. Only a keen observer would notice the paltry catch they had hauled in over the past six hours, due in part to Maguire intentionally slicing a hole in the center of the net.

  While Gomez made a show of yanking on a snagged net, Maguire slouched in the stern and raised a compact pair of binoculars to his eyes. He focused on a small white yacht moored to a buoy a hundred yards away. There was nothing remarkable about the boat, except for a crisp Cuban flag that flapped above its flybridge.

  Maguire shifted his gaze to two Revolutionary Armed Forces patrol boats just beyond, which circled the yacht in a slow, continuous loop.

  “We’re losing daylight,” Gomez said. “Are you going in?”

  They had spent the better part of the day inching close to the yacht. A few hours earlier, one of the guard boats had whisked by for a look but took no interest in the derelict craft.

  Maguire looked from one patrol boat to the other, then lowered his binoculars. “Those boys look half asleep. My grandma could probably pull off the job in a pink rowboat. Anchor us down and I’ll be on my way.”

  Gomez lowered an anchor beneath the net lines and tied it off.

  Reaching beneath the pile of rotting fish, Maguire retrieved a plastic box containing a small dive computer. Activating a digital compass, he took a sighting of the yacht and programmed a path to its estimated position, then strapped the mechanism to his arm.

  “Ready to roll.” He removed his hat and sandals. “Give me some cover.”

  “Roger.” Gomez stood with an armful of netting, blocking Maguire from view of the patrol boats. “I’ll keep the lights on.”

  Maguire took a last look at the yacht and slipped over the transom. He swam beneath the boat, its underside not looking anything like its shabby topside appearance. He pulled himself past twin impellers and a set of extending hydrofoils, which had propelled the Surprise at over forty knots during its offshore voyage from the workboat the night before.

  The boat’s slick hull now resembled a rack from a sporting goods store. Maguire grabbed a tank and buoyancy compensator that hung from a hook and popped the regulator into his mouth. A mask and fins came next, then a weight belt. Once outfitted, he swam over to two other concealed items. The first was a hardened plastic box affixed to the hull with a large suction device. He twisted a grip handle, pulled it clear of the boat, and attached it to his BC. Then he grabbed a small diver propulsion unit dangling from a rope. Taking a bearing from his dive computer, he held the water scooter in front of him and powered it on.

  He whisked through the water, angling the scooter until he was thirty feet deep and beyond clear view of the surface. The visibility was good, allowing him to see well ahead as schools of fish darted out of his path. Tracking his progress on the computer, he hesitated at reaching his designated end point. The seafloor was empty, so he continued another fifty feet before spotting his target, a large concrete mooring block. His line was true, he had just underestimated the distance.

  Powering off the scooter, he set it on the mooring block and ascended a chain that ran to a metal float overhead. Looking up, he could see the outline of the yacht floating above him. He checked its orientation, then moved amidships just aside of the keel line and brushed some marine growth from a small area on the hull. He secured the suction device, along with the plastic box containing five pounds of high explosives and an electric detonator.

  He unwound a thin spool of wire attached to the detonator and stretched the wire down to the mooring float. With some plastic ties, he secured it to the float chain and carefully ascended. Just beneath the surface, he affixed a small receiver to the base of the float and extended a flat wire antenna out of the water, plastering it to the side of the float with a wad of putty. With a reassuring tug on the wire, he swam back down the chain and retrieved his underwater scooter.

  Ten minutes later, he was alongside Gomez, guiding his skiff down the coast under a setting sun, just another tired Cayman fisherman bringing home his
meager catch.

  49

  A thousand thoughts raced through Pitt’s mind, but foremost was concern for his daughter’s safety. Pitt’s children had been raised by their now deceased mother, so he had missed their childhood upbringing. When Dirk and Summer entered his life as young adults, he had instantly bonded with them. Working together at NUMA had instilled a trusting relationship, allowing their shared love of the sea to draw them even closer. Although Pitt knew his daughter was a tough and savvy young woman, her safety still tugged at his heart.

  He focused on the more immediate problem. He had been thrown into an empty storage closet near Díaz’s office, secured with a thick door and a sliding-bolt lock. Save for an overhead light fixture attached to the plaster ceiling, the tiny room was bare.

  His wrists were still bound behind his back with the cable tie. But that was no barrier, as the Cubans had never searched him. Stretching out on the floor, he lay on his side and twisted his arms until he worked a hand into his front pocket. The penknife from the Starfish was buried deep, but he grasped it and pulled it out. Working by touch behind his back, he opened the blade and sawed through the tie.

  Once free, he rose to his feet and massaged his wrists while studying the closet door. Again his luck held. Though it was locked on the outside, the door opened inward, held in place by three tubular hinges. Pitt again went to work with the penknife, prying two pins from their hinges while loosening the third. Then it became a waiting game.

  Pitt could still hear voices in the office and he sat and waited for silence. Once he heard the slide of the bolt latch, he jumped back from the door, pocketing the loose pins and hiding his wrists behind his back. A guard stuck his head in and tossed a bottle of water and an empty bucket toward Pitt, then departed.

  When an hour of silence had passed, Pitt pried the last pin from its hinge. Working the knife blade into the doorframe, he wedged open the back side and peered through the crack. He could see no one. Grasping the door, he yanked it into the closet and pulled the bolt free of its latch. He slid the bolt over and replaced the door on its hinges, securing it with one of the pins. Finally, he stepped out of the closet and locked the door behind him.

  But the office complex wasn’t empty. He heard two men conversing down the corridor, so he headed the other direction, toward the entrance. He checked the office where he and Summer had first been held, but the room was empty. Summer, he suspected, was no longer in the building.

  The voices grew louder, so Pitt ducked into Díaz’s open office and closed the door behind him. He stepped to the wall map showing the Florida Straits. The chart had three circles marked in red and green. The smallest he recognized as the location where the Alta had sunk. With a sense of dread, he saw that the two red circles were farther offshore, near the center of the strait. They could only be the next thermal vents targeted for destruction and they were in the worst possible location.

  At the center of the Florida Straits, the Florida Current was in high gear, generating a northeast flow in excess of three knots. Pitt knew counterclockwise gyres spun off the current, cycling water to the eastern Florida shoreline. He followed the path of the Florida Current as it curled up the coast to join the Gulf Stream. Miami Beach appeared on the map barely a hundred miles away. The miners couldn’t have picked a worse location if they’d intentionally tried to commit environmental sabotage.

  With a sinking feeling, Pitt envisioned the invisible tide of death. If the thermal vents were blown and the mercury release was of the expected magnitude, the devastation would be wholesale. Contaminated waters, dead marine life, and extinguished fish stocks could plague the entire East Coast. It would make the BP oil spill look like a minor nuisance.

  He briefly perused the desk, spotting a calendar with several handwritten notations. An entry marked the imminent arrival of a vessel named Algonquin. Below the ship’s name was the notation “250 tons at 45% yield.”

  Pitt rifled through the desk drawers, finding only routine paperwork and a crude obsidian knife. He palmed the knife when he heard voices outside the door.

  The voices receded, and he stepped to the shelf of artifacts. The collection of clay pots, stone carvings, and gold jewelry was stacked high. A mahogany paddle sat on the top shelf, a reproduction, Pitt presumed, of one used with the Aztec canoe. At the far end of the shelf, he noticed a framed drawing of a page from a Mesoamerican codex.

  Picking it up, Pitt saw that it showed a man in a green feather headdress lying facedown. In the background, two men wearing eagle-beaked head coverings were loading a chest into a small canoe. Pitt gazed at the drawing for a long while, then considered the half stone next to it.

  “Well, I’ll be . . .” he muttered, patting the stone in understanding. “No wonder the big fuss.”

  He put the stone out of his mind, focusing on locating Summer and figuring a way to halt the blasting of the thermal vents. But first he had to find his way out of the building. As far as he could tell, there was only one entrance. It was sure to be guarded.

  Pitt opened the door to Díaz’s office and listened. The corridor was silent, the back-office occupants having apparently left the building.

  Testing the waters, he stepped into the hall and made his way toward the foyer. He froze after seeing an armed guard standing by the front receptionist desk, looking out the window. There was too much distance to approach undetected, so Pitt backtracked down the hall—with an idea.

  He returned to Díaz’s office and studied the phone. It was an older executive model with push buttons for multiple lines. Pitt lifted the receiver and began pushing the buttons until a ringing erupted from the front reception. He set the receiver on the desk, moved to the shelf, and removed the mahogany paddle.

  Pitt stepped into the hall and crept toward the foyer. The phone continued ringing at the reception desk as the guard paced its perimeter with a look of annoyance. After five minutes, the irritation became too great and he picked up the receiver. “Hola? Hola?”

  When there was no response, he slammed down the receiver. Detecting a movement behind him, he spun around to find Pitt in a home run swing with the paddle. It struck him on the side of the head, knocking him onto the receptionist desk. He sprang forward in a daze, only to collect another blow to the opposite side of his skull that laid him out.

  Pitt grabbed the limp body and dragged it to the locked closet. Pulling him inside, he removed the man’s camouflage jacket and pants and slipped them on over his own clothes. He locked the man in the closet and made his way to the front of the building, grabbing the soldier’s AK-47 for good measure.

  He peered outside, finding the immediate area quiet. Treading cautiously out of the building, Pitt moved in a frantic hunt to find his daughter.

  50

  Admiral Raphael Semmes awoke with a start. His ears prickled at a distant sound and he let out a low growl.

  The twenty-pound tabby cat rose from his floor pillow, stretched his legs, and hopped onto a king-sized bed. Approaching his sleeping master, he brushed his whiskers against the man’s cheeks and began meowing.

  St. Julien Perlmutter roused from a dream and pushed the cat from his face. “What is it, Admiral?”

  The cat responded with a loud meow, then hopped off the bed and waited near the doorway. Perlmutter took notice and dragged himself out of bed. His cat wasn’t prone to feeble neediness. Indeed, he had proven himself something of a fine house guard. Once, he had alerted Perlmutter to a forgotten strudel burning in the oven. Another time, he garnered his owner’s attention when some neighborhood kids tried to take his vintage Rolls-Royce for a joyride.

  Pulling on a robe and slippers, Perlmutter walked to the door, then hesitated when he heard a sound downstairs. From a display shelf above his dresser, he pulled down a large marlinespike. Nearly the size of a nightstick, the polished metal pin had been used by seamen during the age of sail to splice heavy ropes. With his de
facto weapon, Perlmutter stepped down the stairs as quietly as his large frame could muster.

  At the base of the stairs, he saw the glow of a penlight coming from his study. He stepped to the doorway and was reaching for the light switch when Admiral Semmes meowed loudly. The penlight’s beam swung to the doorway, shining in Perlmutter’s eyes.

  He shielded his eyes from the light. “What’s going on here?” the marine historian boomed.

  He heard a scurrying of papers, so he reached once more for the light switch.

  Before he could flick the switch, a heavy book was flung at him and struck the side of his face.

  Perlmutter shook off the blow and charged into the dark room, shouting, “Heathen!”

  The penlight blinked off, but Perlmutter stepped toward its source and swung the marlinespike in front of him in a wide arc. He cut only air, then was struck hard by a body blow to the side.

  He reacted with a swipe of his free hand, clasping the jacket of the black-clad robber. Perlmutter yanked and the man flew into him. He was barely half Perlmutter’s size and squirmed like a snake.

  Perlmutter brought the marlinespike around and jabbed the blunt end into the man’s ribs, causing a sharp cry. He tried to put his weight to use by grasping the man in a bear hug, but the intruder slipped free and retaliated with a kick to Perlmutter’s knee.

  Perlmutter buckled and staggered back, stepping on the tail of his cat. Admiral Semmes shrieked and clawed the floor as Perlmutter tried to dance clear. His feet became entangled and he tripped to one side. His head caught a corner of his desk and he crashed to the floor as the intruder bolted out the front door.

  The next thing Perlmutter felt was Admiral Semmes’s tongue lapping his face. He slowly sat up and rubbed the bump on his head. After a few minutes, the throbbing pain eased enough for him to stand. He flicked on the lights to inventory the room.