Celtic Empire Read online

  “Seems like a nice kid.”

  “We can check on her after we return the boat.”

  They hiked along a dirt frontage road lined with local townspeople gawking at the shrunken reservoir. At a wood-frame building that faced the lake, Pitt and Giordino entered a door beneath a sign marked DARIEN CIVIL ENGINEERING. A heavyset man at a desk was hanging up the phone.

  “Thank heavens you’re safe.” The man looked out the window at the boat grounded by the pier.

  Pitt gave a wry smile. “And your boat, too.”

  “I heard some boats went over the spillway and I feared the worst.” He gave Pitt a sideways look when he noticed his clothes were wet.

  “We got close to the action to help some people, but your boat was never in peril.”

  Eduardo Darien shook his head. “I relayed to the authorities your call about the attack on the aid workers’ camp. The town police are on their way, and an army drug enforcement helicopter from San Salvador is also en route. Can you describe the attackers?”

  “I’m afraid we didn’t see them. They were apparently well armed with explosives and automatic weapons.”

  “While this is a peaceful area, the drug gangs in our country are out of control. A territorial dispute, I fear. I am sorry the U.S. aid team was involved and that you were placed in danger.”

  “I just got an unplanned swim in the lake,” Pitt said. “What happened to the dam?”

  The civil engineer shook his head. “I’m told the upper half of the main spillway gave way. Funny thing is, that section just underwent a thorough inspection three weeks ago and checked out perfectly.”

  “Sabotage?” Pitt asked.

  “It’s possible. There were a lot of displaced people when the dam and reservoir were built. And you never know what twisted motivation one of the drug gangs might have.”

  “We heard a few loud rumblings before it gave way,” Giordino said. “Sounded a lot like explosives.”

  “There will be a full investigation.” He looked at Pitt. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “We just wanted to test the sonar by dragging it over some of the settlements that were flooded when the dam was built. We got a nice look at a submerged village just east of here.” He motioned toward the reservoir.

  As he did, a thundering explosion erupted outside, rattling the office windows. Pitt turned to see the grounded workboat explode in a fireball, raining bits of debris in all directions.

  “My boat!” The engineer leaped from the desk and bolted out the door.

  “My sonar,” Giordino said. He beat Pitt out the door, following Darien to the shoreline, where they watched the remaining hull disintegrate under a veil of black smoke.

  “How could this happen?” the engineer asked.

  Pitt kicked at a smoldering piece of fiberglass near his feet. “That was too massive an explosion to be an accident.”

  “Fuel tanks were about run dry,” Giordino said.

  Darien stared at the debris. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “Likely the same people who blew up the dam and attacked the aid team.” Pitt wheeled around to see who was nearby.

  The gathering of villagers stared at the boat like it was a fireworks display. They all looked shocked.

  Pitt, noticing his rental car was blocked by the spectators, turned to Darien. “The girl we brought ashore might be in danger. Can you take us to the clinic?”

  The engineer fished through his pocket and handed Pitt the keys. “I’m going to call the police, then see what I can salvage from the boat. You can take my truck. The clinic is a yellow building at the far end of town.”

  Pitt and Giordino found the engineer’s pickup truck parked behind the building. Pitt took the wheel and drove the single-lane dirt road toward town. The road wound around a forested hill, then into Suchitoto. It was a small, quaint colonial village with cobblestone streets and a tall whitewashed church at its center, La Iglesia Santa Lucía.

  As they entered the town, they passed a well-dressed man wearing a hat and sunglasses walking along the road. Pitt drove past him, took a careful look, then stomped on the brakes. As the truck shuddered to a stop, the man produced a handgun and pumped two quick shots into the cab, then fled down an alley.

  Fired at an angle, the bullets had ripped through Pitt’s door, passed beneath his arm on the windowsill, and struck the dashboard. Pitt jammed the truck into reverse and floored it, backing up just enough to turn and pull into the alley.

  “How did you know?” Giordino asked as the truck raced after the fleeing figure.

  “His shoes. They were covered in fresh mud. He didn’t exactly look like he was dressed to go clamming.”

  They gained on the man until he turned the corner into a narrow side street. Pitt threw the truck into a slide to follow, but then stood on the brakes and jerked the wheel to one side.

  Filling the cobblestone lane, a half-dozen small boys were engaged in a game of soccer. The speeding truck ground into the stucco side of a corner building, stopping just short of the nearest boy. A few yards ahead, the gunman had already threaded his way past the boys. He glanced toward the damaged truck and ducked into a long brick building.

  Giordino flung open his door and jumped to the ground. “Glad to see the team didn’t lose a man. I’ll see if I can cover the back door.” Then he was gone, sprinting around the rear of the building.

  With the driver’s door wedged against the wall, Pitt slid across the bench seat and climbed out. The foolishness of chasing an armed man through town flashed through his mind. Maybe the assailant didn’t know he was unarmed. Pitt glanced into the back of the truck, scooped up a hammer lying in the bed, and turned up the street.

  The boys playing soccer stared at the tall stranger as he approached the building and paused beneath a hanging sign marked FÁBRICA DE VIDRIO. Pitt stepped to the entrance, eased aside the door handle, and then burst inside.

  6

  Pitt had lunged into a showroom lined with high wooden shelves, each overflowing with glass objects: vases, dishware, drinking glasses. The Fábrica de Vidrio was a factory that produced colorful tableware for local use and souvenirs for the tourist trade.

  The showroom was empty, save for a young girl cowering behind a counter, staring at Pitt through frightened brown eyes.

  “¿El hombre?” Pitt asked.

  She pointed at an opening that led to the factory area. Pitt slipped around the corner and was instantly met by a gust of hot air. The back of the building was a high-roofed production bay, constructed around a mixing furnace, an open-air reheating pit, and a drying kiln. More shelves of glassware filled the sides, with stores of sand, soda ash, and limestone.

  Two workmen sat on stools beside the open-air firepit, shaping balls of molten glass on the ends of blowpipes into small vases. They stood and shouted as the fleeing gunman sprinted past, kicking over a rack of animal figurines. The assailant ignored the workers and weaved his way to a heavy metal door at the rear.

  Pitt entered the bay as the man reached the back door and twisted the handle. He got no farther. Giordino had just made it to the other side and rammed the door into him as it opened. The unexpected blow flung the gunman backward onto the concrete floor. Recovering quickly, he thrust the gun forward and fired two shots at Giordino while climbing to his feet. Both shots went high, but forced Giordino to duck behind the door. Pitt intervened before the man could fire again.

  From across the bay, he wound up the claw hammer he’d taken from the truck and flung it. The tool spun through the air and struck the gunman’s back shoulder. Dropping to one knee, the man gasped in pain, but only for a moment. Then he was up, backtracking across the bay.

  Pitt was still on the move. Approaching one of the glassblowers, he plucked the blowpipe from the worker’s hand and hurled it like a javelin at the gunman. The spear struck the assailant’s outstretched arm, enveloping his hand in a glowing blob of molten glass. The man screamed as it torched his flesh. Shaking his arm, he flung the gun and most of the glass off his hand and onto the floor. Then he staggered toward the entrance, avoiding Pitt by skirting the far side of the reheating pit.

  The second glassblower decided to follow Pitt’s lead. He stood and with a strong arm flung his glasswork at the fleeing man. It struck him on the hip, but glanced off and fell to the ground.

  Disoriented, the gunman wobbled into a storage rack of glass goblets, which showered onto him. He staggered to the side, tripped, and fell into the open firepit. Surprisingly, he didn’t scream.

  Pitt and the workmen rushed over and pulled him from the burning embers before his skin was charred. He didn’t move a muscle as Pitt rolled him onto his back. His head and torso were covered in white ash.

  “Está muerto,” one of the glassblowers whispered.

  Pitt, too, saw that the man was dead.

  “One of the glass goblets.” Giordino approached and pointed to a gash in the dead man’s neck.

  Pitt saw it now, a short but deep gash below his ear that had been cauterized in the firepit. Beneath the ashes, a thick layer of dried blood streaked across his back.

  “A shard struck him in the carotid artery,” Pitt said. “He must have fallen into the pit unconscious and died before the fire got to him.”

  “¡Un accidente!” shouted the worker who’d pitched the blow. “Un accidente.”

  “Sí,” Pitt said, “un accidente.”

  Giordino scanned the dead man. “Who do you think he is?”

  Pitt searched the man’s pockets. “No wallet or identification, but plenty of cash.” He produced a thick fold of U
.S. dollars, used as currency in El Salvador. He threw it to the ground beside the body.

  “All the markings of a professional,” Giordino said.

  “One who probably isn’t working alone.” Pitt gazed at Giordino with concern.

  “You think someone else is still after Elise?”

  Pitt nodded.

  “Let’s go.”

  Pitt told the workers to call the police, then sprinted out of the building with Giordino at his side, hoping that his gut instinct was wrong.

  7

  The black Jeep had kept its distance behind the ambulance, then stopped a block from the medical clinic at the edge of town. The driver, an athletically built woman with dark red hair and an angular face, watched as Elise was hurried into the building on a stretcher. She drove casually past the entrance, then continued toward the main road to San Salvador.

  She circled back, drove to the rear of the building, and parked under a tree in view of the service entrance. Her partner had claimed he’d shot Elise before she disappeared into the cornfield. Maybe she’d die on her own, but it couldn’t be left to chance.

  It had been several minutes since the explosion at the lakefront, and she looked down the road for a sign of her partner. He was nowhere in sight. A small laundry truck approached the clinic and backed up to the service entrance. The driver hopped out, rang the buzzer, and an orderly propped open the door.

  The woman smiled and reached for a small case. Inside was a makeup kit and a black wig. She applied a darkening cream to the naturally light skin of her face, neck, and hands. Then she pinned up her hair, slipped on the wig, and inserted a pair of brown contact lenses. Next, she slipped on the black ball cap she’d worn earlier and pulled the brim low. The final touch to distract from her natural features was a heavy pair of pink-framed eyeglasses.

  She waited until the deliveryman entered the building with a load of clean laundry, then she ducked through the open door. The doorway opened into a cramped, dim stockroom. She stepped behind a tall shelf stacked with sheets and blankets. The deliveryman was retrieving bags of dirty laundry that lined the corridor. When he stepped outside with a load, she snatched a remaining bag and pulled it to her hiding spot.

  She rifled through a twisted pile of patient gowns until she spotted a green doctor’s smock. She ditched the ball cap and pulled on the smock, finding it close to her size. She rose with the bag as the deliveryman reentered.

  “Uno más.” She handed it to him and turned on her heels.

  Exiting the storeroom, she snatched a clipboard hanging on the wall and entered the hospital’s main corridor.

  The clinic was larger than she expected, with more than fifty beds. That would help protect her anonymity, but would make it harder to find the woman from the boat. She walked toward the entrance of the building, holding the clipboard to her nose whenever an employee appeared. Near the front desk, a pair of swinging doors plastered with red stripes marked the emergency room. She opened one of the doors and peered inside.

  It was empty except for an orderly cleaning up a treatment table. Moving back down the main corridor, she found another door marked CUARTO DE RECUPERACIÓN. Entering the room, she encountered a leather-faced nurse.

  “¿Está de servicio?” the nurse asked.

  Unsure of her Spanish, the woman simply nodded, then scanned the recovery room. It held a half-dozen beds, each shielded by hanging drapes. Just two were occupied. The nearest held an old man surrounded by family members. At the far corner, behind a half-closed curtain, lay Elise.

  The woman brushed past the nurse, strode to Elise’s bedside, and pretended to study her medical monitors. The American aid worker’s arm was heavily bandaged, and she appeared sedated.

  The woman glanced over her shoulder. The duty nurse had taken a seat by the door and was typing on a computer. She pulled the curtains around Elise’s bed, turned down the volume on a beeping heart monitor, and stepped to the head of the bed. Beneath her smock, she felt the grip of a handgun, but felt no need to use it. In Elise’s unconscious state, she could be smothered quietly and without protest.

  The woman reached for Elise’s pillow, heard the curtains draw back. She wheeled to face two flushed and breathless men, one tall, the other short.

  “Is she all right, Doctor?” Pitt asked.

  The woman eyed Pitt’s damp clothes, recognizing the duo from the boat. “Sí. Surgery was a success,” she said in a gruff voice. “The young woman, she needs rest. No molestar.” She raised her clipboard and tried to shoo the men away.

  But Giordino had already plopped into a chair beside the bed. “We’re not going anywhere until she’s well enough to walk out of here.”

  Pitt nodded. “Her life may be in danger. Can you call for security protection?”

  Time was short. She saw the determination in both men’s faces and realized she couldn’t coerce them away. She gave a frustrated glance at Elise and nodded.

  “Yes, I will take care of it.” She turned away quickly and strode out of the room.

  “Something funny about her,” Pitt said.

  “What’s that?”

  “The page on the clipboard looked like a stockroom inventory sheet.”

  “Maybe somebody’s been pilfering her supply of white stockings.”

  The two men were eyeing Elise’s first stirrings when a bearded doctor entered a moment later with a nurse at his side.

  “¿Cómo está nuestro paciente?” he asked.

  “She’s well, according to the other doctor,” Giordino said.

  “What other doctor?” the man asked in English.

  Pitt described the woman, the doctor shrugged.

  Pitt and Giordino looked at each other, then motioned toward Elise.

  “Her life is in danger from an outside threat,” Pitt said. “Please call security and post a guard with her.”

  He bolted for the door with Giordino right behind. Pitt motioned toward the clinic entrance. “You try the front, I’ll check the back.”

  He sprinted down the corridor, peering into each side room for the woman in the green smock. He reached the storeroom at the back of the clinic, ducked inside, and saw an open door to the parking lot. Outside, a car’s engine revved.

  He stepped into a cloud of dust as the black Jeep roared out of the lot.

  Giordino ran up to him a minute later. “Got away?” he asked between heavy breaths.

  Pitt motioned down the road. “A black Jeep.”

  “I think I saw it by the waterfront.”

  “Guess she decided to leave her bomb-throwing friend behind,” Pitt said.

  “They were certainly serious about putting Elise and the aid team out of business. I wonder why?”

  “Maybe the water specimens. Did they survive the glassworks ordeal?”

  Giordino smiled. “You dare doubt Al the Magnificent?”

  He pulled open his windbreaker, revealing the four test tubes Elise had given him, intact in his shirt pocket.

  Pitt grinned. “Better than pulling a rabbit out of a hat.”

  They waited at the hospital another hour until a NUMA helicopter arrived, summoned by Pitt from a research vessel working off the coast. A now conscious Elise was whisked aboard for a short ride to Comalapa International Airport near San Salvador, then onto a U.S. military transport bound for the States.

  Pitt and Giordino remained there to brief police and embassy officials before they hopped their own commercial flight to Washington the next morning, leaving behind the unanswered mystery of who destroyed Cerrón Grande Dam—and why.

  8

  The city lights of Detroit glistened off the black river like crystalline stars in the night. Bounding waterfront skyscrapers of illuminated glass and steel showed a vibrant defiance to the recent economic struggles of the old industrial city. Captain Ron Posey glanced from Detroit’s shining aura off the starboard bow of his ship to a similar, smaller radiance off the vessel’s port side. In the midnight hour, Windsor, Canada, countered with an equally warm glow of buildings and homes. Posey rubbed his eyes and refocused on the black ribbon of water between the cities that funneled into the narrows of the Detroit River.