Dirk Pitt 22 - Poseidon's Arrow

by Clive Cussler

  “Thank goodness there’s no talent aboard that ship.” Pitt plucked a twenty and handed it to the attendant.

  They didn’t wait for the change, bursting through the turnstiles and running up into the stadium.

  Trumpets blared from a live band as the evening troupe of matadors and their assistants was introduced, the cuadrilla traipsing across the circular dirt arena in a colorful procession. A raucous crowd filled the stadium, standing and cheering. Lost in the mass of bodies, Ann and her abductors were nowhere to be seen.

  “They might be making for the exit on the other side,” Pitt said.

  Giordino nodded. “In that case, we better split up.”

  They descended a stepped aisle to the lower section of the arena, where Giordino moved right while Pitt cut left. Pitt worked his way across the first section of seats, scanning up and down, with no success. When the fans suddenly cheered, he glanced at the ring and saw a lone matador entering for the first fight. An ornery half-ton bull named Donatello was released to join him. Initially ignoring the matador, the beast stood, pawing the dirt and absorbing the crowd’s cheers.

  Pitt wormed his way through the next section of spectators, dodging vendors selling cotton candy and cold drinks. Suddenly he caught a glimpse of a woman with blond hair seated by the aisle one section over. It was Ann. The burly figure of Pablo was wedged against her, busily scanning the crowd. He soon noticed Pitt and locked eyes on him. Pablo spoke rapidly to the driver beside him, then stood up, pulling Ann to her feet. She looked at Pitt for an instant, her face a mask of fear and pleading. While the driver stood and tracked Pitt, Pablo jerked Ann away, leading her down the aisle steps to a narrow walkway that circled the ring.

  Separated by a full section of cheering fans, Pitt took off at a run down the nearest steps. In the next aisle, the driver hustled to match him. When Pitt reached the low wall that surrounded the bullring, he turned and needled his way toward Ann and Pablo, who were fleeing in the other direction just a few yards ahead. Then the driver leaped off the next set of steps and stood in his path.

  He was an inch or two shorter than Pitt but carried broad shoulders on a thick frame. As he shook his head for Pitt to stop, he briefly hitched up his shirt to expose a gun holstered at his waist.

  Pitt moved without hesitation, lunging forward and throwing a left cross that struck the driver on his cheekbone. The driver staggered to the wall. Giving him no time to recover, Pitt pressed the barrage with a quick combination to the head.

  The driver instinctively tried to block the blows, raising his hands in protection rather than reach for the gun. Then he regained his senses. He charged back at Pitt, swinging with both fists. Pitt ducked the first punch but caught a blow to the ribs that made him gasp.

  Pitt countered with more blows to the head as the driver hurtled into him, knocking them both hard against the safety wall. The driver got his left arm hooked around Pitt while grabbing for his gun with his right. But his feet became entangled with Pitt’s, causing both men to lose balance as they fell back.

  As they teetered against the wall, the driver pulled the gun free but was forced to catch himself with the same hand. As he grasped for the wall, Pitt swung an elbow into his arm. The gun fell free, and both men tumbled over the side.

  Nearby spectators gasped as the men dropped six feet into the ring. At its center, a matador stood with his back to them, not seeing their intrusion, as he flirted with the fresh bull.

  Pitt took the brunt of the fall, landing hard on his shoulder, as the two men struck the dirt together, then rolled apart. The driver bounced to his feet first and searched the ground for his lost gun. As he shuffled toward the wall, he bumped into a wooden rack stocked with banderillas. Long, razor-sharp darts wrapped in colorful ribbons, they were the tools of the banderilleros who assisted the matador. They would fling the banderillas into a knotty mass on the bull’s back, which would agitate the bull and weaken his neck muscles so he would charge with his head lowered.

  Pitt was just regaining his feet when the driver grabbed one of the darts and flung it at him. The throw was high, and Pitt easily ducked the projectile. He backpedaled along the wall as the driver grabbed three more banderillas. Pitt spotted a matador’s cape hanging on a peg beside him. He grabbed it and wadded it into a makeshift shield.

  Across the ring, a pair of banderilleros on foot noted the scuffle and began to make their way around the perimeter wall. The matador was still oblivious, his attention focused solely on the bull. Dangling his cape in an orchestrated movement called a veronica, the matador lured the bull to charge. The animal brushed by, just inches from his body. Clearing the matador’s cape, the bull trotted a few paces—then stopped, seeing Pitt and the driver moving along the wall.

  Some bulls are calm in the ring, requiring much prodding and wounding to entice them to charge. Others are naturally aggressive, bolting after anything that moves. The rust-colored beast named Donatello rated at the top of the belligerence scale. Yet to be speared by the banderilleros, he was an ornery bull at full strength. He trotted closer to the new targets, carefully eyeing the two men.

  Pitt saw the bull draw near but was more concerned with fending off his attacker’s banderillas. Facing Pitt, the driver didn’t see the bull.

  The driver stepped forward and began to release his barrage on Pitt, heaving the darts like a lancer. Pitt kept his eyes focused on the projectiles. Still stepping backward, he batted the first dart away with the wadded cape. The second throw went a centimeter wide when Pitt jumped to one side. The driver yanked back his arm with the last banderilla, then took a step closer for a better aim. As he flung the dart, the bull charged.

  The throw was perfect. The razor tip shot straight at Pitt—and would have struck him in the chest if he hadn’t blocked it with the cape. The dart tore through the fabric, losing just enough of its momentum before slicing Pitt’s hand. As if touching a scalding pot, Pitt hurled the balled cape and embedded spear back at the driver, then dove to the ground.

  Any uncertainty over which figure to target vanished from the galloping bull. The brute animal followed the airborne cape to the driver, who reached out and grabbed the bundle.

  The bull lowered his head and accelerated.

  The driver was confused by Pitt’s sudden dive to the ground, and then he detected movement behind him. He turned, seeing the charging bull just a few feet away, and froze.

  Donatello barreled straight into the man. The crowd screamed as the bull’s horns punctured the driver’s stomach, nearly breaking through to his back. Tossing his head, the bull lifted the impaled man into the air and paraded him for several feet before dumping the limp, bloodied body onto the dirt.

  Pitt heard a delayed solitary scream from the crowd and looked behind him. A short distance across the ring, Ann tussled with Pablo. In a quick motion, the big gunman scooped Ann off her feet and tossed her into the ring. Her hands still bound, she landed awkwardly and fell to the ground. She struggled to get up, then felt a burning pain in her ankle. She could stand on only one foot.

  Frenzied by his fresh kill, the bull studied Ann for a moment and snorted. Lowering his head, he angled toward the woman and charged.

  The two banderilleros and the matador sprinted across the ring, yelling, but the bull ignored them. They were too distant to attract the bull’s wrath. But Pitt wasn’t.

  He jumped to his feet, ran and scooped up the shredded cape, then bolted for the bull. Charging hard, the animal was less than twenty feet from Ann.

  She tried shuffling to the wall but could barely move from the pain in her ankle. Her heart pounded as she faced the charging animal, then froze like the driver had. Her frightened trance was broken by a sudden shout.

  “¡Toro! ¡Toro!”

  She turned to see Pitt rushing toward her, wildly waving the shredded cape. The bull took one look at the tall, bounding man with the bright magenta cape—and bit.

  Ann felt the heat from the beast’s breath as it veered away from
her at the last second and chased after Pitt.

  He skidded in the dirt as the bull overtook him. Extending the cape to his side, he shook the material like a dusty rug, drawing the bull’s eye. Donatello followed the movement. He burst into and through the cape, his sharp horns skimming just millimeters past Pitt’s body.

  Pitt yanked the cape upward as the bull tore through, then spun to face the animal. He was too engrossed in self-preservation to hear the applause and chants of Olé that poured from the crowd. He shook the cape, then stepped aside as the bull charged once more.

  “Allow me, señor,” the matador said, rushing up with an embarrassed look.

  With the aid of a banderillero, the matador drove the bull to the center of the ring while two other men dragged away the driver’s body.

  Pitt turned to approach Ann, only to see her hoisted into the stands by Giordino. He stepped closer and grasped Giordino’s outstretched left hand. To the thunderous applause of the crowd, Pitt climbed over the wall. A pale and shaken Ann grabbed him by the arm. “That bull would have mauled me if you hadn’t stepped in. It was a crazy thing to do, but thank you.”

  Pitt gave her a tired grin. “You forget that I work in Washington. I’m fighting bull all the time.”

  Then his face grew serious, and he gazed around them. “Your abductor, Pablo?”

  Ann shook her head. Giordino was already scanning the crowds, but he too came up empty.

  The big man had made himself small in the crowd and disappeared.

  20

  I’M THINKING WE REALLY SHOULDN’T LOLLYGAG TO chat with the authorities,” Giordino said. He tilted his head toward a bullring official who was making his way across the stadium with two security guards.

  “Lead on,” Pitt said, and cinched his arm tight around Ann’s waist.

  She took a hesitant step with her injured leg, then grasped Pitt’s shoulder for support as a burst of pain bolted through her ankle.

  “Just put your weight on the good leg, and we’ll get there,” Pitt said. He easily supported her one-hundred-and-ten-pound frame.

  Giordino charged through the crowd like a snowplow, clearing a path for the hobbling duo following close behind. They found the rear exit ramp and hustled out of the stadium, to the crowd’s fading cheers. Unable to draw close, the bullring authorities could only watch in puzzlement as the three Americans jumped into a taxi and roared off into the night.

  Ann begged to be taken to the American consulate but was outvoted by the NUMA men, who had already negotiated a supplemental fuel purchase from the taxi driver. As the cab zipped across Tijuana, the exhaustion of the chase caught up with them and the conversation fell silent. Pitt had plenty of questions for Ann, but now was not the time to ask.

  She had kept her emotions bottled up since leaving the ship, refusing to allow her fears to overcome her. Now that she was free from Pablo’s death threats and safe in the company of Pitt and Giordino, the fright seeped out. She shivered in the warm night air and fought back her emotions. Pitt gently tucked an arm around her and gave her a light squeeze, which seemed to purge her stressful feelings. Within a few minutes, she had drifted off to sleep.

  The drive to the coast took over an hour at legal speeds, pushing the clock to almost ten when they arrived at the small sandy beach. Pitt was relieved to spot the barge’s inflatable sitting where they had left it. He dragged it down to the surf and helped Ann climb aboard. Giordino retrieved the inflatable’s fuel can and passed it to the cabby, who siphoned a few gallons of gas from his car with an old hose he kept in the trunk.

  “Gracias, amigo,” Giordino said as he parted with the balance of his poker winnings. Then he hauled the fuel can down to the beach.

  Counting his cash windfall, the cabby beamed and shouted, “¡Buen viaje!”

  Pitt attached the engine’s fuel line to the gas can and then with Giordino’s assistance shoved the inflatable past the surf line and climbed aboard. The outboard fired up with little trouble, and they were soon racing past the rocky breakwater.

  “You sure you can find the Drake?” Ann asked, scanning the black horizon. Her eyes were again alert but tinged with apprehension.

  Pitt nodded. “I think Rudi will leave the lights on for us.”

  Once clear of the jetty, he turned the inflatable north and followed the coast. After a mile or so, he veered out to sea to retrace their original course. Gazing over his shoulder, he found a bearing, the lights of a lone house high on a hill that lined up vertically with a pale yellow streetlamp near the shoreline. Steering to keep the two lights in alignment, he guided the inflatable offshore until the beacons vanished. They motored on for several minutes in complete darkness, Ann fighting her fears that they would become lost at sea. Just as the waters around them became blackest, a faint glow appeared a few points off the bow. A single white light emerged from the distant sea, gradually morphing into several lights. As they bore closer, they could see they belonged to three vessels grouped together.

  The Drake and the barge were stationed alongside each other, while a larger ship waited nearby. Pitt observed its white-and-orange-banded hull, signifying a U.S. Coast Guard vessel. A pair of lookouts on its deck monitored the inflatable as Pitt eased it alongside the Drake and killed the engine.

  When he saw Ann, a visibly relieved Rudi Gunn leaned over the rail above them. “Thank heavens, you’re safe.”

  “Careful, she’s got a bad wheel,” Giordino said. He lifted her to the rail, where Gunn helped her aboard the ship.

  “I’ll call for the Edisto’s medic to come aboard,” Gunn said.

  Ann shook her head. “All I really need is some ice.”

  “Me, too,” Giordino said, pulling himself onto the deck. “In a glass with a shot of Jack Daniel’s.”

  Pitt remained in the inflatable, acting as taxi driver to shuttle over the Coast Guard medic. Ann was quickly settled into her cabin with her ankle iced and a dose of painkillers in her stomach. Pitt returned the medic to his ship, tied off the inflatable, and climbed aboard the Drake.

  When he met up with Gunn and Giordino on the bridge, Al had already explained their chase through Tijuana.

  “El Matador Pitt, eh?” Gunn smiled.

  “I must have some Spanish blood in me.” Pitt sighed and gazed out the bridge window toward the Edisto.

  “Nice work, getting the Coast Guard out here, but why aren’t they pursuing the Mexican boat?”

  “Absent a lifesaving emergency, they weren’t prepared to encroach on Mexican territorial waters without authorization. They’ve called in the Mexican Navy, who will take the lead.” Gunn took off his glasses and wiped the lenses. “Unfortunately, they don’t seem to have a vessel in the area, so the outlook isn’t good. I thought it best if the Edisto stood by until we heard back from you.”

  “A prudent call.”

  “It seems the thieves were standing by, waiting for us to salvage the Cuttlefish,” Gunn said. “What was in that crate that was so valuable?”

  Pitt’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a question I’d like an answer for.”

  “Whatever it was,” Giordino said, “nobody’s going to be too happy about its demise. Now it’s nothing but a worthless bundle of mashed wires.”

  “Speaking of which,” Gunn said, “we replaced the bridge radio with a spare unit from belowdecks. I guess I should let the Edisto know we can all head back to San Diego now.”

  “Rudi, aren’t you forgetting some unfinished business downstairs?” Giordino said, pointing toward the sea.

  He looked down his angular nose at Giordino. “Do you think we’ve been sitting around playing tiddlywinks while you were gone?”

  He stepped to the rear of the bridge and pointed out the window at the barge. Bathed in the glow of a dim deck light sat the Cuttlefish, supported on a pair of wooden cradles.

  “You landed her without us!” Giordino turned to Pitt. “Now, how did we miss that?”

  “Guess we were too focused on the Coast Guard cutter. Nice wo
rk, Rudi. Did she give you any trouble coming up?”

  “None at all. We just ran the sling cables from the submersible to the barge crane and hoisted away. She came up clean as a whistle, but I think you’ll want to take a look at her hull.”

  “Now’s as good a time as any,” Pitt said.

  Gunn gathered some flashlights, and they motored in the inflatable to the bow of the barge. The vessel was ghostly quiet, its pilot asleep in his bunk with the dachshund curled at his feet.

  The Cuttlefish stood tall above them. The hull’s sides were clean and dry, and the boat’s chrome sparkled bright under their lights, showing little indication it had been submerged for nearly a week.

  Giordino let out a low whistle as they viewed a gaping hole ripped in the base of the hull. “She must have sunk in a heartbeat.”

  “I guess the DARPA folks had reason to be suspicious,” Gunn said. “By the looks of it, this was no accident.”

  “Our buddies in the cabin cruiser probably attached some explosives to the hull,” Giordino said. “Must have detonated prematurely, before they could lay their hands on the crate.”

  “Actually, they planted the explosives inside the boat.” Pitt studied the damage with his flashlight. “The blast marks seem to indicate an internal explosion.”

  Gunn put his hand on a serrated section next to the hole; it flared outward. “You’re right. The explosives must have been placed inside the cabin.”

  Pitt knelt beneath the opening and shined his flashlight into the dark interior. The remnants of the boat’s galley were visible above him, with black-stained bulkheads and a crater-sized blast hole through the ceiling. Still, the interior damage was less severe than the breach in the hull.

  Examining the damage, Pitt noticed a pair of frayed orange wires trailing from the hole. He traced the wires’ path across the galley to an aft corner bulkhead, where they rose through a drilled hole. Squeezing through the blast hole, Pitt climbed into the galley and stepped aft past the cramped dining area to a flight of steps. He followed them up to the wheelhouse, where he stopped and studied the helm. In front of the pilot’s seat, he pulled open a kick panel, which contained a rat’s maze of colored wires that powered the boat’s electronics. He soon found the orange wires. One was spliced to a power lead, while the other ran up to the throttle housing. A minute later, he found its terminus—a hidden toggle switch mounted beneath the helm panel.