“If I remember correctly, the Recoleta District is the swanky part of town.”
“The apartment belongs to General Philippe Espinoza, the commander of the Ninth Brigade.”
“Ninth Brigade, huh?” That wasn’t welcome news.
“I’m afraid so. The General is interrogating her personally. I would guess with the help of whatever spooks the Chinese have in Buenos Aires.”
The image of Tamara Wright strapped to a chair flashed through Cabrillo’s mind, and he winced. “Download whatever intel you have on the building. We should be off the coast by sunset.”
“How are you going to get her out?”
“As soon as I come up with a plan, you’ll be the second to know.” Juan cut the connection and leaned back, absently rubbing his chin. He hadn’t been joking. He had no idea how to save the professor.
TWENTY
Foul weather dogged the Oregon as she pounded her way southward. Ship and crew took the abuse stoically, as if it were penance for Tamara’s capture. At least that’s how Cabrillo felt about it. Some of the waves reached almost the height of the bridge, and, when her stern rose high, water exploded from the pump jets in twin lances that shot nearly a hundred feet.
Juan had assembled the senior staff in the Corporation’s board-room. The space had been destroyed by a direct hit from the Libyan frigate, and in the reconstruction Juan had gone for a modern glass-and-stainless-steel look. The table was embedded with a microscopic mesh of electrical wires that, when activated, created a static charge that kept papers in place no matter the sea’s state. With winds blowing force seven outside, the table was cranked up to keep the dozens of notes and photographs from being dumped on the floor. On the head and foot walls hung large flat-screen displays running a slide show of photographs of the target house and its environs.
The beautiful apartment building looked like it had been taken apart stone by stone in France and erected on a broad avenue in South America. In fact, much of BA’s older architecture was in the French Empire style—with mansard roofs, ornate stonework, and innumerable columns. Because of the wealth in the Recoleta District, there were countless parks dominated by statues of past leaders. Many of the main streets had been built to accommodate the turning radius of eight-horse teams when wagons were the dominant mode of transportation.
Because he admittedly lacked any tactical ability, Max Hanley wasn’t part of the meeting and stood watch in the op center. With Cabrillo were Mark Murphy, Eric Stone, Linda Ross, Eddie Seng, and Franklin Lincoln, their lead gundog. While civilian attire was the preferred mode of dress aboard ship, Eddie, Linda, and Linc wore black tactical uniforms. Mark had thrown a grunge-era flannel shirt over his St. Pauli Girl Beer T-shirt.
Juan took a sip of coffee and set the cup back into a recessed swivel holder. “To recap, we’re not going to bring the ship within Argentine waters, so that leaves us with a submersible infiltration, yes?” Heads nodded. “I recommend we use the bigger ten-person Nomad 1000. We probably don’t need the room, but better too much than too little.”
“Who’s tail-ended Charlie and gets stuck babysitting it?” Linc asked.
“Don’t know until we firm up our plans. We have to assume a building like this will have a doorman. He might be our key. Not sure yet.”
Eddie raised his hand despite Juan’s repeated admonishments that he could interrupt whenever he liked. “If she’s held on the top floor, wouldn’t going through the roof make more sense?”
“It’s slate, for one thing,” Eric said. “And you can best believe that the substructure is going to be substantial. The cribbing and decking to support such a shallow pitch is going to be thick and sturdy.”
“It’s gotta be some god-awful exotic timber that’s harder than steel,” Murph added. “The building predates the use of metal girders as a support structure, so there are fundamental flaws in its design and construction. Explosives in the right place would topple an exterior wall.”
“I’m looking for the velvet touch here,” Juan said, “not a sledgehammer. We have to remember that Argentina is a police state, and, as such, there will be cops on every corner with the authority to arrest anyone at any time. And every third pedestrian’s a snitch. I don’t want to have any reason for anybody to give us the hairy eyeball. We need to be subtle.”
“There’s always the sewers,” Linda suggested. “And if that’s how we do this, let me go on record and volunteer to stay with the minisub.”
“That’s taking one for the team,” Eddie teased.
“It’ll be a sacrifice,” Linda said with as straight a face as she could muster. “But you know me. I’ll do anything to help.”
Ideas were floated, analyzed, and dissected for the next two hours. The five of them had planned countless missions together, and in the end they could come up with nothing better than a slight variation on Mark Murphy’s sledgehammerish suggestion. There were too many variables—like the number of men guarding Tamara—to try anything with more finesse.
THE SPACE WHERE THEY could launch either of the two mini-subs they carried buzzed with activity when Juan entered through a watertight hatch. The massive keel doors, as large as those on a barn, were still closed, and the moon pool was empty, but the air was heavy with the smell of the ocean.
Technicians swarmed over the sleek Nomad 1000. The mini looked like a scaled-down version of a nuclear submarine, only its nose was a convex piece of transparent acrylic capable of withstanding depths of more than a thousand feet, and robotic arms hung under its chin like the claws of some enormous sea monster. The conning tower was only two feet tall, and lashed behind it was a large black rubber boat. They wouldn’t be going very deep on their run to shore, so the Zodiac had been filled with air already. All their gear was stored internally and would be transferred to the inflatable when they were closer to shore.
The extraction team consisted of Cabrillo, Linc, Linda, and Mark Murphy. Juan wouldn’t have minded another gunner along, but he wanted to keep the group as small as he could. Mike Trono would drive the sub and stay with her when the others motored to the coast.
Kevin Nixon waved him over. The former Hollywood special-effects guru ran what the crew called the Magic Shop. He was responsible for creating any disguises the shore operators would need, as well as providing documentation. Though he himself wasn’t a master forger, he had two in his division.
“These should pass, no problem,” the tall, bearded Nixon said. He handed Cabrillo a folder.
Juan thumbed through the papers. There were Argentine IDs for the four of them, plus travel and work permits. All the documents looked authentic and properly aged. The thick sheaf of cash was real.
“First-rate, as usual,” Cabrillo said. “Let’s just hope we never need to use any of this stuff.”
“Batteries are fully charged, nav and sonar check out, and life support is set,” Trono reported when Juan approached. “Wish I was coming all the way with you.”
“We don’t know what condition Dr. Wright’s going to be in, so I need Linc in case we have to carry her back to the Zodiac.”
“I know, but, well . . . You know what I mean.”
Juan laid a hand on Mike’s shoulder. “I understand.”
Max Hanley arrived. “Seas aren’t going to get any calmer, so you might as well launch.”
Cabrillo raised an eyebrow. “Here to see us off?”
“No, just to make sure you bring her back. I wasn’t kidding about wanting to take Tamara out on a date. She’s dynamite.”
“The future of your love life is in capable hands. Were you serious about the weather?”
“’Fraid so. Rain’s coming down in buckets and won’t let up until tomorrow night. Do you want to delay?”
Launching and recovering one of the submersibles was tricky enough in calm weather, but Juan wasn’t tempted. Every second counted. “No. Not this time.”
“Good luck,” Max said, and turned to head back to the op center.
Cabril
lo was neither superstitious nor a fatalist, yet somehow Hanley’s wish made him uneasy. Wishing luck to someone going into danger was just bad luck. He roused himself. “Okay, people, let’s saddle up.”
He was the last one through the Nomad’s hatch and he spun it closed, tightening the seal until an indicator light in the cramped conning tower flicked to green. Mike would see the same indicator in the high-tech cockpit. A second later the technician on launch control used the heavy machinery to lift the submersible off its rack while at the same time opening the controls that flooded the moon pool.
The lighting in the space switched from fluorescent tubes to red bulbs to help the crew adjust to the coming darkness. When the artificial basin was full, hydraulic rams opened the keel doors. Water in the moon pool sloshed dangerously, washing across the deck and dousing one technician with spray. The submersible held steady in its cradle.
It was slowly lowered into the water, waves splashing against the acrylic dome. It was too rough to risk divers in the moon pool, so a worker leapt across to the top of the sub and detached the cables while she was still floating inside the ship. Mike immediately dumped air, and the minisub dropped clear of the ship.
The water was pitch-black, and at this shallow depth they could feel the powerful South Atlantic surging above them. Until they were about fifty feet down, the Nomad dipped and swayed in a nauseating random ballet.
“Everyone okay back there?” Trono called over his shoulder after setting a westerly heading.
“There should have been a sign back there that said I was too short for this ride,” Linda said. She massaged her elbow where it had been slammed into the steel hull.
Juan climbed through the austere cabin and plopped himself in the copilot’s seat to Mike’s right. “What’s our ETA?”
“One second.” Mike finished punching numbers into the navigation computer. It spit back the answer instantly. “We’ve got five hours in this can, provided we don’t stumble on any Coast Guard or Navy ships.”
“They’ll never hear us in this slop.” Juan leaned back so he could see the others. “Five hours. Might as well catch a few z’s.”
“Mark, you can share my bench,” Linc said. “We can spoon.”
“Forget it, Colossus. You never let me be the little spoon.”
THE RIDE IN WAS uneventful. There was no shipping into or out of Buenos Aires and no military patrols. They surfaced a mile from shore. The proximity to land had calmed the waters somewhat, though rain fell steadily. Through the murk they could see the lights of the downtown high-rises as a spectral aura announcing the city. What was known as the Latin Paris looked ominous in the storm. A mile from them was a place of malice and fear, where the state controlled every aspect of its citizen’s lives. To be captured would mean their death.
Juan organized the loading of their gear into waterproof bags. He lashed each one to the Zodiac as it was passed up to him from below. He suspected they were taking too much equipment, but there were variables within variables, and they needed to be ready for anything.
He fitted a headset over his ears. “Comm check, comm check, how do you read?”
“Five by five,” Mike answered from the submersible’s cockpit.
“Mind the shop while we’re gone.”
“You got it, Chairman.”
Juan waited until the other three had clamored out the hatch and settled into the inflatable before releasing the lines that had kept it secured. As they floated free, he eyed another bundle of equipment they had left lashed to the deck and hoped against hope they would not need to use it.
The Zodiac’s electric motor made a whine that was lost to the storm, and with its low profile they were all but invisible. Juan had to steer a few degrees off point because of the current of the mighty Rio de la Plata, the river that first attracted Spanish settlers to build BA.
They made their way toward the heavily industrialized port area where big freighters lay idle since so few countries maintained trade ties with the rogue nation. Cabrillo noticed that the ships here were registered to nations such as Cuba, Libya, China, and Venezuela. He wasn’t surprised.
Because of the weather, there was virtually no activity on the docks that they could see from their low vantage in the inflatable raft. The big gantry cranes were immobile and the tower lights were off. He motored them under an unused pier whose concrete pilings were covered with mussels and sea growth that stank of iodine. The water was remarkably free of trash, thanks to the river.
Linc tied off the Zodiac while Juan cut the motor.
“Hi, honey, I’m home,” Mark quipped. They all wore foul-weather gear, but Murph had a particular drowned-rat look to him.
Cabrillo ignored the joke. He had his game face on. “Okay, we all know the plan. Stick to it. We’ll call when we’ve cased the building.”
“We’ll be ready,” Linc replied.
Juan and Linda stripped out of their nylon rain pants and jackets. Under his, Cabrillo wore a thousand-dollar suit, which he quickly wrapped in a Burberry trench coat. His shoes looked like wingtips but were in fact combat shoes with nonskid rubber soles. Linda had on a red cocktail dress that was slit up high and cut down low. Her trench coat was black, and she wore boots that nearly reached her thighs. Like Juan’s shoes, these were designed for ease of movement and traction. Only another woman would notice they weren’t quite the apex of fashion. They had no heels.
Juan climbed the ladder built into the dock pylon first, and Linda shot her two crewmates a look that said, Peek up my dress and you’ll regret it, before following him. She pulled a little feminine umbrella from her coat pocket and popped it over her head. Because he stood a solid ten inches taller, Juan couldn’t fit under it with her, and as they started down the quay he had to duck several times to avoid having one of its thin metal ribs gouge out an eye.
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. A
nyone 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?”
The Silent Sea Page 23