“And if I refuse to play along?”
“Then we tie you up and shove you in. Your choice, but your last twenty-four hours will be a lot more unpleasant that way.” The grin on Tate’s face radiated with gleeful malevolence.
“I see your point,” Overholt said.
He started climbing in.
23
OFF THE COAST OF BRAZIL
As the Oregon headed southwest toward Buenos Aires at top speed, Juan sat in the infirmary while Julia Huxley injected the GPS tracker into his right thigh. All crew members were outfitted with trackers so that they could be found in the case of abduction.
She wiped away a drop of blood and said, “Done. You sure this new design will work?”
“Murph double-checked it.” Juan inspected the injection site. “How long until you can’t see that hole?”
“It should be invisible in a day. Let’s hope you don’t need that thing.”
He stood and pulled up his pants. “You know me. I always like to have a backup plan.”
“From what I’ve heard,” Julia said, pointing at his leg, “this doesn’t sound like a backup plan. It sounds like the plan’s plan.”
“It is,” Max said from behind them. “And I don’t like it.”
Juan turned and said, “We’re going to have to put a bell around your neck.”
“I have a tracker, just like you.”
“Then I’ll be sure to set a phone alert when you get close to me.”
“That would get annoying fast,” Max said. “For both of us. Where are you headed now?”
“To the Magic Shop.”
“I’ll come with you.”
Julia waved as they left.
“I got a call from Tiny,” Max said as they walked. “He’s on his way to Buenos Aires in the Gulfstream. Should be there in eight hours.” Chuck “Tiny” Gunderson was the Corporation’s dedicated airplane pilot. When they needed to get somewhere fast, Tiny flew them by private jet or on just about anything else with wings.
“Did he find the charter we need?” Juan asked.
Max nodded. “He’s got an old buddy in the city who hooked him up. It’s a single-engine Pilatus PC-6 Porter. Tiny says it’s a cinch to fly.”
“How’s the weather in Buenos Aires tomorrow?”
“Clear. Zero chance of rain.”
“Then it sounds like we’re a go.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Max asked.
“I need you in command of the Oregon. I know Tate has something up his sleeve about the Kansas City, and I want you here to handle it.”
“Fine,” Max grumbled. “For the record, I still think your plan is stupid.”
“You don’t think it’ll work?”
“No, I think it will. That’s the problem.”
Without knowing exactly where Overholt would be or how the diving bell would be booby-trapped, the mission would require a good bit of improvisation. Since Linda was still out of commission with ruptured eardrums, Eric Stone would be driving the Nomad, their large submersible equipped with an air lock. The Oregon was going to approach twenty miles off Buenos Aires and launch the Nomad. It would take more than three hours to reach the harbor at its maximum cruising speed. Eddie and Linc would also be on board the sub. At the same time, Juan would launch the Rigid-Hulled Inflatable Boat, or RHIB, an extremely fast hydroplaning boat favored by Navy Special Forces around the world. Murph was in the process of adding some special modifications to it. Juan was going to take the RHIB alone into Buenos Aires Harbor to receive the further instructions from Tate.
Once the sub and RHIB were away, Max was going to take the Oregon to the supposed vicinity of the Kansas City’s sinking southeast of Montevideo, only a hundred fifty miles away across the Rio de la Plata estuary.
Getting Overholt out of the diving bell alive would be the tricky part. The depth of the harbor averaged thirty feet, so diving on the bell in regular scuba gear wouldn’t be an issue, but Juan expected Tate to be monitoring it on video feed. And he’d be nearby, watching the location and set to capture Juan the moment he got any clue that a boat or sub was approaching the location. That’s why Juan would be offering up an eye-catching distraction. A very risky distraction.
“We’ve gone over all the options,” Juan said, “and all of the other plans have less chance of success. This is the only way to save Lang and stop Tate. I have to do this.”
They were passing the ship’s armory and firing range when Max stopped and frowned at him. Then he motioned for Juan to come with him into the reinforced single-lane, twenty-five-yard-long range where they tested weapons and maintained shooting proficiency. Max closed the door behind them.
“All you’ve told us is that Tate is a traitor to the CIA who deserved to go to a Chechen prison. Now he’s after us. What happened between you two?”
Juan sighed. “I’m not proud of how I handled the situation.”
“Why?”
“I worked with Zachariah Tate for more than a year. He was the smartest and most resourceful agent I ever met. I learned a lot from him about tradecraft, and he could get us out of the most difficult situations you could imagine. He’s fluent in Russian like I am, so we were a natural fit. Or so I thought.”
“What went wrong?”
“He did.” Juan shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe he was born in the wrong country. Or maybe at the wrong time. Or both. He would have thrived in any number of ruthless regimes, from Genghis Khan’s Mongol horde to Nazi Germany. I only recognized too late that he was a complete sociopath. No means was off-limits if it achieved the ends he wanted.”
Juan stared off into the distance as he remembered the last time he saw Tate.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Max said.
“Just nasty memories,” Juan replied. “We were trying to acquire some information about an impending terrorist attack in Moscow that would have targeted the U.S. embassy. The plotters were Chechen separatists, and we’d tracked their origin to a tiny village in the Caucasus Mountains. According to our intel, the attack was only hours away, so we needed to find out who they were and where they were hiding in Moscow. Hundreds of lives were at stake.”
Juan swallowed hard as he thought back to that day.
“We had one of the terrorists tied up in a farmhouse,” Juan continued, “but he wasn’t talking. His family—wife, sister, and three children, all under ten—were in the next room. I left to follow a lead on his partner somewhere else in the village. Looking back, it was obvious that I shouldn’t have left Tate alone with them. He had a look in his eye, a complete lack of compassion. I thought he was simply pushing aside his emotions like I was. But the emotions simply weren’t there, except for excitement about what he was planning.”
Max had a stricken look. He knew what was coming.
“I had a gunfight with the second terrorist,” Juan said. “He died, so I got no more information. When I returned to the farmhouse, I found Tate outside with the terrorist, who was on the ground crying. The house was going up in flames.”
“Tate had set it on fire?”
Juan nodded. “He was smiling, actually grinning ear to ear. He said he got the terrorist to tell him the location of the hideout in Moscow, already bragging about the promotion he’d get for stopping the attack.”
“He burned up the guy’s family?”
“He locked them inside and threatened to torch the house to get the man to talk. The terrorist didn’t believe him until he tossed in a gas can with a lit rag stuck in it.”
Max shook his head in disgust. “He murdered five innocent people.”
“No, one. I wanted to go in to save them, but Tate wouldn’t give me the key. And it was a heavy oak door, so they would have burned alive before I could break it down. Tate said the terrorist was getting what he deserved. So I sh
ot Tate in the leg and took the key from him. He called me a traitor, and every other name you could think of. I was able to get the three kids and the sister out, but I couldn’t reach the mother.”
“I never heard about an embassy bombing in Moscow. You obviously stopped the attack.”
“We did, but not because of the information the terrorist gave Tate. Turns out the guy was lying. The info about the hideout was actually in a notebook he’d hidden in the pocket of the youngest child.”
“Which you wouldn’t have gotten with Tate’s methods.”
“I later found out that Tate had done similar things before in his career to get ahead.” Juan took a breath. “When I got out of the house with the last child, Tate was gone. He took our SUV and fled with the terrorist, leaving me to hike for two days through the forest to my rendezvous. Tate got caught at a roadblock because one of the rebel soldiers noticed the blood on his pants from the gunshot wound. They threw him in prison, and the CIA had to disavow his status as an agent.”
“I can see why he hates you,” Max said, “but I’m glad to know we don’t have someone like that on our side anymore. You did the right thing, as usual.”
“Yes, but not soon enough. I thought that was all in my past. I received a report from Langley three years ago that Tate was killed in prison by another inmate.”
“That must have been when he escaped,” Max said.
Juan nodded. “It appears that he faked his death and that he’s been planning his revenge ever since.”
“Including building the doppelgänger Oregon.”
“I guess he got to Vladivostok before we did and found the blueprints.” The Russian shipyard was where the Oregon was constructed with the help of a corrupt Navy admiral. Juan and his team went back later when they realized a secret copy of the ship schematics were still in storage there and shredded them.
“Where do you think Tate had the Portland built?” Max asked.
“I’ll ask him.” Juan opened the door. “I better get to the Magic Shop. See you later.”
He left Max mumbling sarcastically, “‘I’ll ask him,’ he says . . .”
If a mission required any specialized gadgets, disguises, or false credentials, the Magic Shop was where they were created. It was run by Kevin Nixon, an award-winning Hollywood special effects and makeup artist who left show business behind to join the fight against terror after losing his sister in an attack. The CIA was his first choice until the Corporation came calling. Juan was glad he’d been able to snag Kevin because he was also the person who designed all of the clever versions of Juan’s prosthetic legs.
When Juan got there, Kevin was rummaging through the extensive racks of clothing, which included military uniforms from around the world. If Kevin didn’t have something in stock, his team had everything they needed to tailor it from scratch.
“Did you find a match?” Juan asked.
Kevin poked his head out of a wardrobe full of suits. He had a slim face and thick brown beard, and the stick end of a lollipop stuck out of his mouth. When he saw Juan, he pushed his way through, triumphantly holding up a gray Armani suit and red tie.
“This close enough, Chairman?” Kevin asked.
Juan squinted at the suit and nodded. It was nearly an exact duplicate of the outfit Overholt was wearing in the hostage video.
“By the time they’re close enough to notice it’s not really Lang’s, it won’t matter,” Juan said. “Just don’t get that lollipop stuck to it. It’ll be a dead giveaway.”
Kevin chuckled and said, “Oh, sorry,” before tossing it in a wastebasket. “Sugar-free. Keeps me from snacking.”
Years of craft services on movie sets had caused Kevin’s weight to balloon far past obesity, but once he joined the Corporation, he went on a strict diet designed by Julia Huxley and controlled by the Oregon’s Michelin-rated chef. He’d kept the weight off for the most part, but it was a constant battle for him.
“I think the suit will look even better once I have it on Fred over there,” Kevin said, pointing at one of the makeup chairs.
Juan smiled when he saw the articulated dummy sitting there. They often used it for testing the safety of new equipment. Today Fred was wearing a gray wig that looked remarkably like Langston Overholt’s hairstyle. His facial features were altered to look like the CIA administrator.
“You even got the wrinkles right,” Juan said in amazement.
“Don’t worry,” Kevin said. “All of that will stay in place even when Fred is wet.”
Juan was impressed by the top-notch job, but not surprised. Like the rest of his crew, Kevin didn’t settle for doing anything but his best work, especially when he knew his fellow crewmates’ lives depended on it.
He understood that Fred would be a key player in the effort to rescue Overholt. The crash test dummy was going to be Juan’s distraction.
24
BUENOS AIRES
Less than a day later, Juan stood alone next to the Obelisco de Buenos Aires, the monument commemorating the city’s founding in 1536. It was one of the most famous landmarks in Argentina and sat in the middle of Avenida 9 de Julio, a twenty-lane boulevard known as the widest street in the world. He choose to take Tate’s phone call here because it was recognizable and near his next destination.
Right on time, Juan’s phone buzzed with a call from Overholt’s number.
He answered in video mode, as instructed, and saw his own face on Tate’s body again.
“Good to see you again, Juan,” Tate said.
“I can’t say the same.”
“Take a spin to show me you’re really in Buenos Aires.”
Juan turned the phone around and showed the midday traffic on the easily recognizable street.
“Good enough?” Juan asked.
“You’re on La Avenida, I see.”
Juan started walking toward a side street. “I won’t be here long enough for you to find me, in case you’re thinking of capturing me before I get Lang out of that diving bell.”
“And interrupt the game before it’s started? I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“I know you’re here as well. I saw the Portland in the harbor.” Juan had spotted it during his morning reconnaissance. The name on the stern read SALEM, and the ship was configured differently than the Oregon, but its length was identical and the superstructure was in the same location.
“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”
“Nice ship that you stole from us.”
“I didn’t steal it, I copied it,” Tate said. “Didn’t Picasso say, ‘Good artists copy, great artists steal’?”
“You’re no artist.”
“Maybe you’d think differently if I stole the Oregon herself.”
“You can try.”
“Yes, I can.”
“I’m tired of this,” Juan said. “Where’s Overholt?”
“As promised, he’s under the water not far from you. I just texted you the coordinates and a link to a live feed.”
Juan entered the coordinates into his phone’s mapping app and saw that the diving bell was a mile away from the Portland. He had to assume the location was correct. He believed Tate couldn’t bear the thought of having to cheat to beat his nemesis.
Then Juan clicked on the link. It brought up a video feed showing Overholt sitting in a tiny diving bell, sipping from a bottle of water. He seemed in good health. In the corner of the screen was an air pressure gauge. Given how much was left in the tanks, Juan estimated Overholt had less than thirty minutes before it ran out.
“This might be prerecorded,” Juan said. “How do I know he’s still alive?”
“Tell me something you’d like to see him do,” Tate said.
Juan thought for a second and said, “Have him give the hand signal he uses when he finishes a race.”
“I get it,” Tate said.
“You want him to know it’s you asking.”
There was a short pause before Juan saw Overholt look at the camera. Then he gave two thumbs-up, his traditional sign whenever he completed a 10K.
“Happy?” Tate asked.
“No,” Juan answered. “But I believe he’s alive.”
“For now. Better get going. I’ll see you soon.”
As soon as Tate was off the line, Juan called Tiny Gunderson.
“I’ve got the location. Are you ready to go?”
“Engine is idling,” came back Tiny’s deep baritone. “Ready for takeoff.”
“I’ll be there in five minutes.”
Juan got into his rental car and headed north of downtown toward Aeroparque Jorge Newbery just a couple of miles away. The airport abutted Buenos Aires Harbor, not far from where Overholt was being held captive. When Juan got there, he bypassed the exit for the airline terminal and drove to the general aviation tarmac on the other side of the runway.
He drove up to a white plane with its propeller spinning. It looked different from all of the other airplanes because it was sitting on two pontoons that had landing gear extending from them. This particular Pilatus Porter was an amphibious floatplane. Once the gear was raised, it could land on the water.
Tiny waved from the pilot’s seat. His nickname was given to him ironically since the blond Swede was actually six foot five and built like a rugby player. He pulled the headset aside and leaned out the window.
“We’ve got clearance to take off anytime.”
“Good. Let’s get in the air.”
Juan climbed the pontoon to get in and closed the door behind him. As soon as the plane was sealed, Tiny revved the engine, and the Porter began to taxi.
Marauder (The Oregon Files) Page 12