Serpent nf-1 Read online

  "My compliments for cauterizing that infection so quickly. How much of a threat is NUMA?"

  "I wouldn't underestimate them. You saw what happened in Morocco."

  "I agree: I think it best that you remain in charge of all operations where NUMA is concerned. Use all force necessary."

  Guzman's cell phone rang, and he excused himself to listen.

  "Yes. Immediately. Patch it into Don Halcon's closed circuit.

  A moment later the television screen blinked into life and showed a wooded scene in black and pale green.

  "What is it?" Halcon snapped impatiently.

  "This was taken with a surveillance camera in the small rise on the north of the complex."

  As they watched the colors were manipulated so that the face of a man running through the woods was enlarged to fill the screen.

  Guzman swore under his breath.

  "Do you know him?" Halcon asked.

  "Yes. His name is Zavala, and he was with the NUMA team on the Arizona project."

  "You're correct about NUMA not being a toothless dog." Halcon stared at the screen, thinking. "You said there was another man, the leader of the team.":

  "Kurt Austin. He was running the project."

  "They'll do for a start. Have him and this man. killed. Put the salvage plans off if you have to."

  "As you say Don Halcon."

  Halcon dismissed Guzman and went back to his map.

  Guzman had no illusions about Halcon. He had known him since he was a boy hovering over him like a guardian angel. He thought Halcon's megalomaniacal scheme had more to do with his selfish pursuit of power and riches than restoring the lost grandeur of those he called his people. He was using those. of Indian blood toward his own ends and would enslave them much as his conquistador ancestors had. What he was proposing would mean civil war, certain bloodshed, possibly the death of thousands.

  Guzman knew all this and didn't care. When the old master took the young blond boy under his wing, he created a being of undiminished loyalty. Killing highly placed NUMA operatives could be a big mistake, Guzman thought as he left the room. But he had become bored with his work in recent years, and what had become important was the game. The NUMA men would be worthy opponents. His mind began to work on an assassination plan.

  The Yucatan, Mexico

  34 THE YUCATAN HAMMOCK WAS NEVER meant for a man as long as Paul Trout. The handwoven fiber sling was designed with the diminutive Mayan stature in mind. When he wasn't swatting mosquitoes Trout was trying to find a place for the arms and legs that dangled to the dirt floor of the Indian hut. Dawn's first gray light was a welcome relief. He extricated himself from the sack, smoothed the wrinkles out of his suit as best he could, decided he could do nothing about his morning beard, and with a bemused glance at Morales, who lay snoring in another hammock, emerged into the morning mists. He trekked across a cornfield to the edge of woods where the helicopter lay on its side resembling a big dead dragonfly.

  The pilot had tried to land in the field as the helicopter used up the fuel vapors powering its engine. The aircraft plunged into the canopy of foliage that was so deceivingly softlooking from above. The fuselage crashed through the treetops accompanied by a horrendous racket of snapping branches and the screech of tortured metal.

  Trout had the wind knocked out of him. The pilot hit his head and was knocked cold. Morales was dazed. Ruiz, who'd been awakened by the racket, sat there in bewilderment with drool on his whiskered chin. Morales and Trout dragged the pilot out of the chopper, and he came around in the fresh air. Everyone had bruised knees and elbows, but no serious injuries were noted. Trout was glad Ruiz had survived; he might prove a valuable source of information in finding Gamay.

  With his hands on his hips Trout surveyed the damage and shook his head in amazement. The trees had cushioned the copter's momentum. The runners had collapsed, and the main and tail rotors were history, but the body remained miraculously intact. Trout rapped on the mangled fuselage. There was a stirring inside. The pilot, who had chosen to spend the night in the helicopter crawled out, stretched his arms, and opened his mouth in a bellowlike yawn. The noise awoke Ruiz, who was on the ground with his hands cuffed to the useless runners. He blinked sleepily when he saw Trout. The mosquitoes didn't seem tohave bothered him. Smelling like a swine pen had its advantages, Trout guessed. He walked around the chopper and thought again that it was a miracle they'd got down in one piece. He had counted seven bullet holes in the helicopter including the lucky fuel tank shot.

  Minutes after the JetRanger hit the ground a figure had approached from across the cornfield. An Indian farmer who lived nearby had seen the crash. He greeted them with a friendly grin from under his straw hat. He was unperturbed, as if strange men dropped out of the sky every day. The pilot did a quick damage assessment and found that the radio was useless. They followed the farmer to his hut, where his wife offered food and water and four young children eyed them warily from a distance.

  Morales questioned the farmer at length, then turned to Trout.

  ."I asked him if there is a village or town near here with a telephone. He says a priest in a nearby village has a radio. He will go there to tell him about us and ask to send help."

  "How far is the village?"

  Morales shook his head. "It's a ways. He will spend the night and come back tomorrow."

  Thinking of Gamay Trout chafed at the delay, but there was nothing he could do. The farmer's wife packed food in a cotton, sack, and her husband climbed onto a grizzled burro, waved goodbye to his family, and set off on his grand adventure. Trout watched the burro plod down a trail and prayed the unsteady animal would last the trip. The farmer's wife offered the use of her home and said she would stay the night with relatives. She was back by the time Trout and the pilot returned to the but to see if Morales was awake. Then she prepared tortillas and beans for everyone.

  After breakfast Trout took some tortillas out to Ruiz. Morales unlocked the chiclero's cuffs but kept his legs bound. Ruiz noisily devoured the tortillas, and Morales gave him a cigarette. He puffed on it gratefully. The crash had wiped the cocky sneer off his face, and he was more. than cooperative when Morales asked a series of questions.

  "He started working with this gang of looters about six months ago," Morales translated. "He says he used to gather chime sap before that, but I don't believe him." He quizzed the man again, more forcefully this time. "Si,' he said, laughing. "It is as I thought. He is a thief. He used to steal from the tourists coming to Merida. A friend told him he could make more money smuggling artifacts. The work is harder, but the pay is better and there is less risk.".

  :Ask him who he works for," Trout suggested.

  Ruiz shrugged when .the question was presented to him. Morales said, "He worked for a man who used to be a policeman guarding the ruins. There is a small gang, maybe a dozen. They find a place and dig trenches. The jades and the pots with the black lines are the best, he says. Maybe two hundred to five hundred dollars for one pot. His boss takes his cut and arranges transport."

  "Transport to where?" Trout said.

  "He's not sure," Morales translated. "He thinks his boss was connected with people operating out of the Petan, just over the border in Guatemala."

  "How does he get the artifacts there?"

  "He says they would move the goods down the river in the small boats to a place where trucks come in. Then maybe they go to Carmelita or probably across the border to Belize. I have heard what happens then. The artifacts go on planes or ships to Belgium or to the States when: people pay big money for them." He glanced, almost with pity, at Ruiz. "If this toothless idiot only knew these people make hundreds of thousands of dollars and he takes all the risks." He chuckled. Ruiz, sensing a joke but not understanding with his limited English that he was the butt of it, grinned his toothless grin.

  Trout turned the information over in his mind. Gamay and Chi must have stumbled onto a smuggling operation. They escaped on the river, using the same ro
ute as the smugglers, and were trying to get away when the helicopter found them. He asked Morales to find out how far the truckloading spot was from the rapids.

  "Couple of nights on the river, he says. He doesn't know the distance in miles. He says the river goes dry, in places sometimes, and they work it after the rainy season."

  At Trout's request, the pilot dug a map out of the helicopter. No river was depicted, confirming the information from Ruiz. There was no way to trace the course Gamay would take.

  The interrogation was interrupted by a commotion. A boy of about ten was running across the cornfield, shouting in his highpitched voice. He rushed up to the helicopter and announced breathlessly that his father was home. They retied Ruiz and went back to the hut.

  The farmer said he would have been home sooner, but he took the opportunity to visit his brother who lived near the village. Oh, yes, he said after a long description of his family reunion, he had talked to the priest, who no longer had the radio. Trout's heart fell. Then rose again a minute later when the farmer said the priest used a cell phone that he kept for emergencies, mostly medical. The priest had called for help and asked the farmer to relay the following message, which he wrote on sheet of paper: "Tell the men in the helicopter that someone will be sent to find them."

  With rescue imminent Trout was even more impatient. He paced the edge of the cornfield, frequently glancing at the cloudless blue sky. Before long he heard a faint roughrough sound. He cocked his ear. The noise became louder until he could actually feel the vibration of whiplashed air.

  A Huey painted in greenish brown flashed into view above the trees with another right behind it. Trout waved his arms. The helicopters made a tight circle around the field, then touched down at the perimeter of the corn rows. The doors opened even before the rotors stopped, and men dressed in camouflage Uniforms spilled from the choppers. Morales, the pilot, and the farmer and his family went to greet the new arrivals. There were six of them, including a captain in the lead helicopter and a medical technician in the second. The med tech examined everyone and gave them clean bills of health except for superficial injuries.

  Trout and Morales went to the downed helicopter, but Ruiz was gone. The chiclero had squirmed out of his hastily tied bonds. After a quick parley they decided against a time-consuming search. Trout would have liked to see if Ruiz had more information to offer, although from what the chiclero recounted he was at the bottom of the smuggling totem pole. Looking at the escape optimistically, maybe Ruiz would be eaten by a jaguar. He would pity the jaguar. They thanked the farmer and his family for their hospitality and got into the Hueys. Within minutes they were skimming a few hundred yards over the treetops.

  Less than an hour later they set down at an army base. The captain said the base had been established near Chiapas at the time of the Indian uprising a year earlier. The captain asked if they would like food and a bath and a change of clothes. A shower could wait. Trout had other priorities. He asked to use a phone.

  Austin was in his office at NUMA headquarters examining the photos Zavala had taken in Halcon s underground garage when the phone rang. Zavala had just described the trip to Halcon's complex and the bloody ball game, and Austin was bringing him up to speed on his Nantucket encounter with Angelo Donatelli. A broad smile crossed his face when he heard Trout's voice. "Paul, good to hear from you. Joe and I were talking about you a few minutes ago. Did you find Gamay?"

  "Yes and no." Trout told Austin about the near miss on the river, the helicopter crash and rescue.

  "What do you want to do, Paul?" Austin said quietly.

  A heavy sigh came from Trout's end of the line. "I hate to let you down, Kurt, but I can't come back. Not until I find Gamay"

  Austin had already made his decision. "You don't have to come back. We'll come down to you."

  "What about the job we've been working on? The archaeology thing?"

  "Gunn and Yaeger can work up an operational plan while we're gone. You stay put until we get there."

  "What about the admiral?"

  "Don't worry. I'll handle things with Sandecker."

  "I really appreciate this, Kurt. More than you know" The statement was as far as Trout's Yankee reserve would let him go.

  Austin dialed Sandecker and told him the story. .

  Sandecker had a reputation' for carrying out a project once started, but his loyalty to his staff was equally legendary. "It took me years to put this Special Assignments Team. together. I'm not going to have one of its key members kidnapped by a bunch of damned Mexican bandits. Go get her. You'll have every resource NUMA can offer."

  It was the reaction Austin expected, but one never knew with the unpredictable admiral. "Thank you, sir. I'll start right off with a request for quick transportation to Mexico."

  "When do you want to leave?"

  "I want to put together a specialized gear package. Say two hours?"

  "You and Zavala be at Andrews Air Force Base with your toothbrushes. A jet will be waiting for you."

  Austin hung up. "Gamay's in trouble, and Paul needs our help." He sketched out the details. "Sandecker's given the okay.

  We'll be leaving from Andrews in about two hours. Can you handle that?"

  Zavala was up and heading for the door. "On my way"

  A minute later Austin was on the phone again. After a quick conversation he was out of the office as well and on his way to the boathouse, where he threw some gear and clothes into a duffel bag and headed to the airport. Sandecker was true to his word. A sweptwing Cessna Citation X executive jet painted in NUMA turquoise blue was warming up its engines on the tarmac. He and Zavala were tossing their bags to the copilot when an army pickup truck rolled up. Two husky Special Forces men got out and supervised while a forklift hoisted a large wooden box from the truck and into the cargo section of the plane.

  Zavala raised an eyebrow. "Glad to see you brought beer for the trip."

  "I thought the basic Austin Rescue Kit might come in handy." Austin signed a receipt for one of the Special Forces men. Minutes later he and Zavala were buckling into their seats in the plush twelve-passenger cabin, and the plane was in line for takeoff.

  The pilot's voice came over the speaker.

  "We're cleared for takeoff. We'll be. flying at a cruising speed of Mach .88, which should put us in the Yucatan in less than two hours easy. Just sit back and enjoy the ride. You'll find the scotch in the liquor cabinet and soda and ice cubes in the refrigerator."

  Minutes later the plane was in the air, climbing to its cruising altitude at four thousand feet per minute. As soon as they leveled off Zavala was out of his seat. "This is the fastest commercial jet except for the Concorde," said a mistyeyed Zavala, who had flown everything under the sun. "I'm going to chat with the guys in the cockpit."

  Austin told him to go ahead. It would give him the chance to think. He put his seat back, closed his eyes, and tried to imagine the events Trout had described in their phone conversation. By the time Zavala came back and relayed the pilot's message that they were about to land, Austin was erecting a mental framework the way a bridge builder extends steel girders into thin air.

  Trout was waiting for them as the Citation taxied to a stop. He'd bathed and shaved and had borrowed a camouflage uniform to wear while his suit was being cleaned. The uniform was made for the smaller framed Mexican GI and emphasized Trout's long arms and legs, giving him a spidery aspect.

  "Thanks for coming so quickly, guys," he said, taking their hands.

  "We wouldn't have missed seeing you in that uniform for the world," Austin said with a grin.

  "Suit's being laundered," Trout replied with some discomfort.

  "You look quite fetching in cami," Austin said. "Sort of a distinguished Rambo, wouldn't you say, Joe?"

  Zavala shook his head slowly. "Dunno. I think maybe Paul is more the Steven Seagal type. Jean Claude Van Damme, maybe."

  "I'm so glad you rushed down here at NUMA expense to evaluate my sartorial splendor."
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br />   "No problem at all. It's the least we could do for a pal."

  Trout's face grew somber. "Kidding aside, it's great to see your ugly faces. Thanks for coming so quickly. Gamay needs backup in the worst way"

  "She'll get more than backup," Austin replied. "I've got a plan."

  Zavala glanced over at the Special Forces boxes being unloaded from the plane. "Uhoh," he said.

  The greatest asset for a sniper is not aim, Guzman mused, but patience. He sat on a blanket in the bushes on the . shore of the Potomac River; his cold eyes fixed on the Victorian boathouse exactly opposite. He had been there for hours, lapsing into a detached yet alert zombielike state that allowed him to ignore the numbness in his buttocks and the biting insects. He had watched the sun go down, aware of the beauty of the river but not connecting with the changing reflections and shadows in any emotional way.

  He knew Austin was not coming even before the automatic nightlight flicked on in the living room of the darkened house. He lifted the Austrian Steyr SSG 69 sniper's rifle from his lap and sighted through the Kahles ZF69 telescopic sight on the picture of a boat hanging on the wall. A squeeze of the trigger would send a bullet winging across the river at 2,821 feet per second. He made a click sound with his tongue, then lowered the rifle, picked up a cell phone, and dialed a number at NUMA headquarters.

  The answering machine's recorded message said Mr. Austin would be away from his office for a few days, gave NUMAs office hours and asked Guzman to leave a message. He smiled.. There was only one message he wanted to give Mr. Austin. He punched another number. The phone rang in a car parked outside Zavala's house in Arlington.

  "It's off," Guzman said, and hung up. The two men in the car looked at each other and shrugged, then started the engine and drove off.

  Back along the Potomac, Guzman carefully wrapped the rifle in the blanket and set off through the woods as silently as a ghost.

  35 THE PRAM GLIDED THROUGH THE eerie mists as if in a dream. Moist exhalations rising off the river materialized into ectoplasmic wraiths that waved their spectral arms as if in warning. Go back.