“He asked for me by name?”
Eric nodded. He looked just as puzzled and concerned as Juan felt.
Max left the dismantling work to be completed without him, and they all hurried to the op center. When they got there, Juan took a seat in the command chair, while Eric sat at the helm and Max took his spot at engineering. Hali was back at his communications post, with his leg in a brace and crutches perched next to him, and Murph was at the weapons station. He didn’t seem his usual bright self, and Juan caught him glancing at Linda’s empty seat. Murph still blamed himself for her absence. Juan made a mental note to talk to him later.
“Hali,” Juan said, “focus the camera tight on me and put the guy on the main screen.”
At first all Juan could see was a blurry room with several indistinct people moving around in it. One person was closer, in the center, but his face wasn’t visible.
“Who am I speaking to?” Juan asked.
“Ah, Juan Cabrillo!” a man jovially replied. “I’d recognize that voice anywhere. I hope you remember mine.”
The voice sounded familiar, as if echoing from his past, but Juan couldn’t quite place it. “It would help if I could see your face.”
“Of course. My bad.”
The image resolved itself. Juan was bewildered by what he was seeing.
The room on the screen was an exact duplicate of the Oregon’s op center. There were four people in it, including the man at the center.
All of them had Juan’s face.
It looked like it was actually Juan talking when the man said, “Here I am. Now, we have some important things to discuss.”
Juan motioned for Hali to mute the feed.
“What’s going on here?”
Murph swiveled in his chair. “They must be using an app like deepfake. It lets you paste a person’s face onto someone else in a video and make it look like they’re talking.”
Eric nodded in agreement. “The most famous example is when some joker put Nicolas Cage’s face on characters in a dozen different movies that he never appeared in, like Lord of the Rings and The Terminator. It can be done in real time. And the software special effects have gotten very realistic.”
“Does it change their voice?” Juan asked.
“So far, that’s been harder to do,” Murph said. “It’s probably his real voice.”
“Are you still there?” the man asked, waving. “Hello?”
Juan looked at Hali. “Put me back on.”
Hali nodded.
“We’re all laughing hysterically here,” Juan said in a monotone. “It was getting so loud I had to put us on mute.”
“I thought you’d like this,” the man said. “You’ve always had a high opinion of yourself.”
“And what should I call you? Juan Squared?”
“I think you know what name to call me, although it has been a while. I think the last time we saw each other was at that little bar in Chechnya. What was it called? The Brown Bear?”
Juan felt the blood drain from his face as he suddenly realized who it was. The voice he heard now was more gravelly than he remembered, but it was definitely the same man.
Juan slowly stood up. “You were declared dead.”
“So you do remember me!”
“Zachariah Tate.”
“If that’s what you want to call me.” Tate lounged in his own command chair, rotating side to side like a hyperactive child. Now that Juan knew who the impostor was, it was even more revolting to see his face plastered on Tate’s body.
“By the way,” Tate went on, “I know you’re recording this call. But if you were stupid enough to send a plainly faked video to the CIA to exonerate yourself, they’d never take you seriously again. You realize, of course, that there are no recordings of Tate’s voice to compare the audio to. So, for all they’d know, you hired one of those guys from Saturday Night Live to do an impression.”
“We got your message,” Juan said. “We heard about the Mantícora and the Avignon.”
“Not very subtle, I know, but it got your attention, didn’t it? Now I have an important task for you. Two tasks, actually.”
“Why would I do anything for you?”
“You don’t have to, but I think you will. The first item on your to-do list has to do with a Los Angeles–class nuclear sub called the Kansas City. I’m putting a bomb on its hull, and you have to disarm it before it goes off. It’s in two hundred fifty feet of water, but that should be well within your abilities. Fun challenge, huh? But, then again, you guys specialize in that kind of fun.”
“You could be sending us on a wild-goose chase,” Juan said. “How do I know you had anything to do with its sinking?”
Tate motioned to the side, and someone handed him a three-foot-long tube. “Do you know what this is?”
Juan nodded. “It’s a SEPIRB. It stands for ‘Submarine Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacon.’ It’s ejected from the hull when a sub goes down and floats to the surface to broadcast its location.”
“Exactly.” Tate held the SEPIRB closer to the camera. It had the name KANSAS CITY stenciled on the side. Although it could have been a fake, there was also a serial number printed on it. He would have Murph and Eric check Navy databases to make sure it was authentic, but Juan had to assume it was the real thing.
“Are you going to tell me where the KC is?”
“Well, not its exact location,” Tate said. “Not right now. That would be too easy. How about this? I’ll tell you the precise coordinates an hour before the bomb goes off, which means that fancy ship of yours needs to be in a spot a hundred miles southeast of Montevideo ready to deactivate the explosives.” He read off the latitude and longitude coordinates.
“What’s the catch?” Juan asked.
“You knew there’d be one,” Tate said, wagging a finger. “You always were smart. It’s actually more like a dilemma. Is that the right word? Anyway, I expect you personally to be in Buenos Aires at the exact same time.”
“Why would I do that?”
“To save this guy.” Tate pointed to his right, and the camera slewed around.
It was Langston Overholt, gagged and strapped to a chair. His eyes smoldered with defiance.
Tate continued. “I’m going to sink him in a diving bell somewhere in Buenos Aires Harbor, and you’ll have to get him out before he suffocates. At the appropriate time, I’ll start sending you live video from the bell and all you have to do is just find it. Piece of cake.”
It made Juan sick how much Tate was enjoying this. “How do I know this isn’t a trap?”
Tate rolled his eyes. “Of course it’s a trap! That’s part of the challenge. I just don’t see how you have much choice but to go along with it.”
He was right. There was no choice.
“We’ll be ready.”
“I would expect nothing less. Oh, and I shouldn’t have to say it, but if I see anyone but you and your people trying to save either this guy or the ship, the game is over. Ciao for now!”
Before the screen went blank, it flickered.
“Put up that last frame,” Juan said.
In that last split second, the deepfake software turned off before the feed did. The image was a bit fuzzy from motion blur, but Juan recognized the older, more worn version of Zachariah Tate.
For a moment, there was only stunned silence in the op center.
Max walked over to Juan. “Who is Zachariah Tate?”
“He’s a former CIA agent I worked with. He’s also the most dangerous man I’ve ever met.”
“But you thought he was dead?”
“According to the official reports, he was killed by another inmate in a Chechen prison.”
Max stared at the picture on the screen. “Why is he after us?”
“He’s after me,” Juan said, scow
ling at Tate’s image. “I was the one who put him there.”
22
BUENOS AIRES
Overholt’s cabin on the Portland was plushly furnished and comfortable, with his own bathroom and a soft bed, but it was a prison cell all the same. There were no windows or portholes, the door was guarded, and he had no doubt he was being watched at all times. Although he was quite healthy and strong for his age, breaking out by force or stealth wasn’t even close as an option. His days as a field agent were long behind him. Words were his weapons now. And if he was going to get out of this situation, it would be with wits, not brawn.
He would have liked a change of clothes, but his jail was more pleasant than the ride that had gotten him to Argentina. After Catherine Ballard had killed his driver, Connolly, and taken Overholt captive, he assumed he would be driven to an undisclosed location for questioning, torture, or both. Instead, the truck was driven to a warehouse, where he was transferred to a smaller container with a cot and some food and water. The walls were insulated, so any attempt to yell for help was futile. He couldn’t tell what was happening except when the container finally moved. It quickly became clear that he was being loaded onto an airplane. After that, he slept most of the way to the destination.
When they arrived and he was taken to the port, he was shocked to see former CIA officer Zachariah Tate welcoming him aboard a ship that looked like a carbon copy of the Oregon. He surmised it was the Portland, the ship that sank the Mantícora and Avignon. The only stop before coming to the cabin was to participate in Tate’s odd show for Juan in the op center.
That had been a day ago, and Overholt had no visitors other than the guard who brought him food. He spent the time developing a plan for how to approach Tate when and if he got the chance to speak to him.
Overholt heard a woman’s voice speak to the guard outside. He stood and put on his jacket as the door opened.
Catherine Ballard smiled when she saw him. “Do you think we’re going back to your office? Even your tie is still knotted.”
“I presume we’re going somewhere,” Overholt said. “That’s why you’ve come, isn’t it?”
“You’re sharp for an old-timer.”
“Not as sharp as I was when I was younger. I should have spotted your deceptions.”
“Don’t beat yourself up,” she said. “I’m very good. So is Zach.”
“I know. I trained him myself long ago.”
“Then you’re going to be proud of what he’s been able to accomplish.”
“I sincerely doubt that.”
“Come with me and find out.”
She led him into the luxurious corridor, and the guard followed behind. The guard and Ballard both looked at ease. Overholt wasn’t a physical threat. He was just a creaky old man. His mind raced for how to use that as an advantage.
“I understand why Tate would have a grudge against me,” Overholt said as they walked, “but why have you thrown your life away to follow him?”
“‘Thrown my life away’?” she parroted with a contemptuous laugh. “It’s your reputation that will be in shambles. I left behind some very damaging information that will implicate you in a rogue operation involving Juan Cabrillo. I’m going to be regarded as an innocent bystander who was made to disappear by you for discovering your secret. It’s what you deserve for letting Zach rot in that Chechen prison.”
“He knew the risks when he took the job.”
“The risks shouldn’t have included being sold out by your own country.”
“He was the traitor. He betrayed everything we were fighting for.” He turned to Ballard and saw her seething hatred for him. Then it clicked. “You’re in love with Tate.”
“And we were able to keep it a secret for all those years. That shows our abilities in the trade.”
“When?”
“We started dating when we were both fresh recruits. We knew it would damage our careers if we came clean about it, so we kept it hidden. It became a kind of game to see how long we could stay under the radar of the great Langston Overholt. And you never found out. Neither did Juan.”
“So when Tate was imprisoned,” Overholt said, “you couldn’t very well reveal your relationship.”
“And be branded a co-conspirator?” she asked with a chuckle. “Give me some credit.”
“I do. You’re quite devious. That’s why I knew you’d make a good agent. I just didn’t realize how deep that deception went.”
“Thank you,” she said sincerely, taking it as a compliment.
Overholt waved his arms at the surroundings as they got onto an elevator appointed in brass and mahogany. “This all must have cost a fortune, including smuggling me out of the U.S. Who is funding this operation? China? Russia? I know the Muslim extremist groups have access to oil money, but this isn’t their style.”
“We’re a private organization with a group of highly motivated volunteers who believe in our mission. Just like Cabrillo’s Corporation.”
Overholt knew there was more to that story, but he didn’t want her to put up roadblocks, so he played to her vanity.
“You must have helped Tate get out of prison. Only a talented insider could have done that.”
“And helped him fake his death,” Ballard said proudly. “It was all very clever and done right under your nose. Aren’t I just the best?” She smirked at him. “Please, I know all your tricks.”
The elevator opened, and the smell of saltwater washed over them. They emerged into a cavernous space percolating with activity. A gantry crane high above was lowering a yellow diving bell toward what looked like an Olympic-sized pool, and workers on the catwalks and the decking around the pool were shouting instructions that echoed through the space.
Zachariah Tate saw Overholt from across the pool and strode toward him, Ballard, and the guard.
“Isn’t it impressive?” Tate asked, showing off, his hands out wide. “Welcome to the moon pool.”
“I know what it is,” Overholt said. “I saw it in the plans of the Oregon. How were you able to copy Juan’s ship?”
“That is a long story involving some thievery from a Russian naval yard in Vladivostok a few years ago after I escaped from prison.”
“Juan destroyed all of those records.”
“He might have, after I got there, but we don’t have time to go into that now. We have a tight schedule to keep.” He turned to Ballard and gave her a kiss. “Have you told him any of the juicy details yet?”
“I would never rob you of that pleasure,” she replied with a sickly sweetness.
“Thank you, my dear,” Tate said with a clap of his hands. He pointed at the diving bell. “Do you know what that is?”
The sphere had one window and was surrounded by a protective cage of thick metal struts that extended below the bell to provide a base for when it rested on the ocean floor. The hatch was on the bottom, and the struts supported a dozen large air tanks and like number of batteries.
“It’s a Personnel Transfer Capsule, to use its technical name,” Overholt said. “It’s for housing divers during deep saturation dives.”
Tate wagged a finger at him and smiled. “Excellent! I see you’re still as formidable as ever. This one dates from the seventies and was used for North Sea oil rig maintenance. I got it for a song.”
“And you’re going to put me in this old diving bell as a lure to get Juan to save me.”
“Right again! We’re going to plant you at the bottom of the harbor and then put some distance between us and that location. You’ll have twenty-four hours before your air runs out. Carbon dioxide suffocation isn’t a terrible way to go, I’m told.”
“You’ll kill me no matter what.”
“That’s up to Juan.”
“Is it?” Overholt asked, nodding at a device mounted on the sphere. “That’s an explosive device, if I’m not
mistaken.”
“You are not,” Tate said, “but that’s just there to keep Juan honest. I doubt he’ll call the Argentine Coast Guard, but, if he does, I can’t have them saving you.”
“So you’ll set it off once he’s next to the diving bell?”
Tate shook his head as if Overholt just didn’t get it. “Hardly. I don’t want to kill Juan. I want him to suffer. He can’t suffer when he’s dead. When Juan fails to rescue you, I want him to live the rest of his miserable life knowing he had a chance to succeed and blew it. Pun intended.”
“Are you so sure he’ll come?”
“Juan’s a Boy Scout with a competitive streak. You’re his damsel in distress, so to speak. He wouldn’t turn down this challenge for anything. Believe me, I know him well.”
“And he knows you just as well.”
“That’s what makes this so much fun for both of us.” Tate seemed giddy over the prospect of matching wits with his former partner. Ballard beamed at him, reveling in his enjoyment.
“So you’re planning to capture Juan?” Overholt asked, hoping to goad Tate into revealing some useful information. “Good luck with that.”
Tate smiled. “Nice try. I realize it sounds like I’m monologuing here, but you know only the barest part of my plans.”
“I know that you sank the Mantícora and Avignon. And you’re responsible for the disappearance of the Kansas City.”
“Not bad for a week’s work, wouldn’t you say?”
“I understand why you destroyed the ships, but a U.S. nuclear submarine? That’s risky.”
“It was a good chance to show off our capabilities to potential customers. Besides, that SEAL was too curious about his cousins’ deaths.”
Overholt saw Ballard’s eyes narrow slightly, and he knew Tate had given away something important without realizing it.
“That SEAL may be your undoing once the Oregon finds him,” Overholt said.
Tate shook his head. “Not likely. The sub was so damaged that the entire crew will be dead by now even if they weren’t killed in the initial collision. Besides, all Juan knows is the actual depth of the sub. The Oregon will be two thousand miles away from the Kansas City’s real location.” He gestured to the diving bell, which now hovered beside them with a ladder resting against its open hatch at the bottom. “Now, time to get in. You’ll find a couple of protein bars and water bottles inside, as well as a camera to monitor you. I want you awake and alert when Juan sees your air run out.”
Marauder (The Oregon Files) Page 11