“I don’t know,” April admitted cheerily. “I just sense that—well I have the feeling that it’s starting to break open.”
Brognola grinned. “Couldn’t have a thing to do with the fact that we got the wires back on our man,” he said.
“’Course not,” April said, smiling back at him. “I’m a professional. I don’t get emotionally involved in my work.”
The chief was about to say something cute in reply to that outrageous lie when the technician at the communications desk brought in a new one. “Flash from Flypaper,” he announced. “They’re airborne again. And you won’t believe this!”
“What?” Brognola inquired, rising quickly to his feet.
“Says he has a Mr. Smith aboard. That translates to Guido Riappi. They’re enroute to Miami International. ETA is eleven o’clock. He wants an official reception for Mr. Smith.”
“Tell him we’re covering it!” Brognola snapped, turning then to April with a baffled frown. “How the hell …?”
“Our man is operating!” she exulted.
“Yeah, but, how the hell …?” Brognola stalked to the communications console and commanded the technician, “Cut me in!” He donned a headset and spoke into the mouthpiece: “Flypaper, this is Alice. What the hell is going down?”
He stared thoughtfully at April while the report rattled his earphone, then: “Okay, I guess. Good work. Pass that along. How can we support?”
Another thoughtful stare at April, then: “I guess I can live with that. I just hope you guys can.”
“He’s operating, all right,” Brognola told April. “Striker is still on the island. He’s taken the whole joint over. Riappi thinks he’s on his way to a meeting in Miami.”
She bit her lip as she prompted, “And …?”
“And that’s all I know. How the hell am I supposed to know what that guy is doing?”
“I’ve seen him operate at close range,” April murmured.
“So’ve I,” the chief said heavily. “And that’s what scares the hell out of me.”
“What was it you said you could live with?”
“Inactivity,” Brognola fumed. “He’s demanding plenty of room, in which his miracles are to be performed.”
“Then we’ll just have to give him the room,” April decided, very uncharacteristically. She caught the disbelieving glint in the chief’s eyes. “No, I mean it. I’m very grown up about all this, now. But that isn’t what is really bothering you. What is?”
Brognola’s eyes fled to the ceiling of the mobile command center as he told her, “Flypaper says there’s at least fifty guns on that island. He sounded, uh, very concerned.”
April said, in a very small voice, “I see.”
“Striker wants us to pull back and confine our activities to electronic surveillance. Absolutely no physical intrusion.”
“Until when?”
Her telephone rang. Brognola seemed to welcome the interruption. April glowered at the phone for a moment then picked it up and announced, “Justice Three-Ten.”
A cultured voice in there told her, “This is Louis Cardinez.”
Brognola had turned away and was going into a huddle with a couple of his marshals. He was obviously deeply concerned about the recent turn of this mission.
April was concerned, too, but she was learning how to handle it. Professional involvement … that was the key.
She composed her voice and told the caller, “Oh, yes, thank you, Doctor, for returning my call.”
“I understand there is a matter of some urgency. To whom am I speaking, please?”
April identified herself, then asked, “What is a cenote?”
The good doctor seemed to think that someone may be having a joke at his expense … and he was going along with the gag. “I believe that’s a vulgarism for a hundred dollar bill, isn’t it?”
April giggled indulgently, reaffirmed her identity, and told the man, “We are in the midst of an investigation, a highly important investigation, and we have come across a reference to a cenote.” She spelled it. “I can’t find the word in the dictionary. But I understand it to be an archeological term. The university information center referred me to you as the resident authority on archeological matters.”
“I see. Yes, well, you don’t find the word in your dictionary perhaps because it is not properly a part of the English language. Nor is it an archeological term, per se. You need to speak to a geologist.”
She said, “I need only very general information. Can’t you help me?”
He was sounding mildly exasperated. “What do you wish to know?”
“What is a cenote?”
Doctor Cardinez sighed as he replied, “The word comes to us from the Maya. To put it succinctly, a cenote is merely a fresh water well or reservoir.”
“Let’s put it another way,” April persisted. “As an archeologist, why would you be interested in such a thing?”
“First let’s define the term more precisely,” Cardinez said, apparently getting into the scholarly spirit. “Cenotes are quite common along the Yucatan Peninsula and some have been discovered here in Florida, most notably in the southwestern region. They are peculiar to geological formations featuring thick limestone strata. A cenote occurs when a surface of limestone becomes undermined and collapses, revealing underground water which has collected in natural reservoirs beneath the porous surface. I presume that your interest is confined to our local phenomena?”
“That’s right, yes. And why archeology?”
“Well, you see, for many primitive peoples, the cenotes represented their only source of fresh water, especially during long dry periods. You can understand, then, why the primitives would attach holy significance to such phenomena. Water, my dear, is the source of all life. And it has not always been in plentiful supply for those who depend upon it for survival. You can imagine the impression made upon a primitive mind when a thirsty and dying tribesman finds the earth collapsing beneath his feet to reveal a seemingly infinite supply of potable water.”
“Yes, well—”
“The primitives attached great supernatural significance to such phenomena. Some cenotes have been found to extend to considerable depths, often fed by underground streams. It was a widespread custom during ancient times to drop all manner of precious objects into them as an offering to the gods. The custom survives today, though few of us really understand why we feel so compelled to drop coins into wishing wells, manmade fountains, and the like. The ancients even gave human sacrifices to their cenotes. So you can understand the archeological significance. A very old cenote can become a rich source of human artifacts dating back to Paleolithic times and even beyond.”
“That’s very interesting,” April murmured. “Do you have personal knowledge of any such Paleolithic studies being conducted here in Florida?”
“I believe that you have something specific in mind,” Cardinez replied, becoming just a shade defensive.
“I have Satan’s Hammock in mind,” she said bluntly.
He coughed delicately and said, “Yes, well, that one was quite a disappointment. The cenote discovered on Satan’s Hammock is relatively modern. The age has been calculated at something less than four hundred years so there is no possible Paleolithic significance. A few scattered artifacts left by Calusa peoples who may have camped at the site from time to time were found but, you see, surface water has been abundant on the Florida peninsula for the past five thousand years. Cenotes are significant to local inhabitants only during periods when fresh surface water is in relatively short supply, during dry climactic periods. There were many such periods during Paleolithic times, of prolonged duration, so naturally any existing cenotes would have strongly influenced the distribution of human populations. What I am saying, in brief, is that Paleolithic peoples tended to cluster and settle around sources of fresh water.”
“And Florida had Paleolithic peoples—Stone-Agers?”
“Oh yes. The archeological finds at Little Salt Sp
ring, for example, have convincingly dated human presence in the area at roughly fifteen thousand years.”
“That’s in Florida?”
“Oh yes. Near Charlotte Harbor, on the gulf side.”
“Is Little Salt Spring a cenote? I thought you said they were fresh water.”
“Little Salt Spring deteriorated during the mineralization process, during relatively modern times—an almost inevitable process. Satan’s Hammock presents a rather striking contrast, due perhaps to its relative youth. You would have to ask a geologist about that. In most other respects, the two cenotes are strikingly similar. In each case, the original reservoir has become obscured by the formation of a larger surface basin which has filled with water from the cenote, presenting the appearance of an ordinary pond or small lake. But this is quite common, of course, particularly in areas such as—”
“I don’t understand that, Doctor.”
“What? Oh. Well, viewed from the surface, the observer sees only a small body of water, in no way distinguishable from any small spring-fed lake or pond, with which this state abounds. It’s an old saying in these parts that you can stamp on the ground most anywhere and strike a spring.”
“I see.”
“Yes. Not even a trained observer—a geologist, for example—would suspect the presence of a cenote occurring somewhere on the floor of that basin. Not until he donned diving apparatus and thoroughly explored the bottom of the lake or pond or whatever.”
“Then how would he recognize—exactly what would he find down there to tell him that this is a cenote?”
“That would vary, depending upon the size and constitution of the subterranean chamber. In the case of Little Salt Spring—Satan’s Hammock, as well—it is a dramatic and stirring discovery. He would find a vertical underwater cavern, quite deep—eight to ten times deeper, in fact, than the lake above it, with an entrance measuring some twenty meters wide.”
“That’s uh …”
“Roughly sixty feet in diameter. May I inquire as to the Justice Department’s interest in Satan’s Hammock?”
April countered with a question of her own. “Are you aware that it has been abandoned as an archeological preserve?”
“Oh yes. There’s nothing irregular about that, let me assure you. The academic community abandoned the project years ago.”
“Are you also aware that the site has recently been purchased by a resorts corporation at an unbelievably high price?”
The archeologist replied thoughtfully, “No, I was not aware of that. As to the price, it would be difficult to assign a dollar value to such a phenomenon, especially if one is thinking in terms of a tourist attraction.”
“It would be an attraction, then?”
“Oh, good lord, yes! Have you ever been to Silver Springs?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Fabulously popular place. A goldmine. The early Tarzan movies were filmed there. Satan’s Hammock could be beautifully developed along similar lines. Of course, there could be an access problem, when one is thinking of hordes of visitors. Presently the hammock is accessible only via water. But the large island just to the north of the hammock has automobile access. And I suppose another land bridge could be built to connect the two. But it would take an enormous investment, wouldn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” April agreed. “Well … you have been a delight. Thanks for the cooperation, Doctor Cardinez. Oh … one more thing … have you actually been there?”
“Satan’s Hammock? Oh yes, certainly, many times. But not for quite a long time. Why do you ask?”
“Just how deep is that cenote?”
“The main chamber extends to a depth of some sixty meters below its opening.”
“I’m not, uh, too quick at metric conversions, Doctor.”
“Well a meter is roughly one yard. You can figure it that way, if you’re not going for a precision measurement.”
“So it’s almost two hundred feet deep.”
“In the main chamber, yes.”
“Wait a minute, now. Are you suggesting that there is more than one cavern down there?”
“Satan’s Hammock sits atop a network of subterranean chambers, my dear. A number of underground streams converge at the main chamber. How do you think it came to be called Satan’s Hammock? There may be no end to the thing. But there is no practical method to explore beyond the main chamber … not for very far … unless one is equipped with unlimited funds and boundless curiosity as well as great courage. However, as I mentioned earlier, it has been positively established that there is no archeological significance to the phenomenon.”
April thanked the good doctor again and broke the connection.
Brognola was staring at her from his desk, having obviously long ago concluded the conference with his gunslingers.
She’d lost track of the time, and the conversation with Cardinez had covered considerably more ground than had been anticipated. Ask a simple question, April …
She turned a thoughtfully puckered face to her boss and said, “Well I’ll be darned.”
“What did you get?” he asked her.
“I’m not sure,” she replied. “But I think … well, maybe … it’s just possible that what I got is …”
“What?” he prompted.
“Lucifer’s Ladder,” she said quietly.
8
THE TAKEOVER
Bolan’s psy-war tactics had made a quivering mess of Guido Riappi. The guy’s recent history had apparently made him especially vulnerable to artfully applied pressure—and Bolan was a master of the art.
When he “revealed” the true nature of his visit, the one-time legbreaker came apart at the seams.
“I don’t personally like this, Guido.”
“What don’t you like, Frankie?”
“I was never one to stand and smirk over another man’s broken body. Especially a man who has been a brother for so long.”
“I don’t think I get you. Do I get you?”
“I guess you get me, Guido.”
That was when the seams ripped. They were all inside seams, of course, but wholly visible through the eyes. The guy gulped air as though he were trying to feed a fire down below and he came halfway out of the chair twice before finally settling in a defeated heap. Then nothing moved but the lips, like waxen flaps reciting some long-feared litany. “Just like Gus. Just like Gus, dammit, Frankie … why do they do this? It’s crazy! Why do they do this?”
Bolan gently explained, “You reach a certain level, Guido, and there’s no other way out. You know that. In this outfit, you move either head first or feet first. If someone figures the head isn’t working right then there’s only one way they can move you.”
“It’s working, dammit, the head’s working. It’s been going like a dream. One small fuckup, that’s all, just one. And it ain’t even hours old before they’ve decided something’s wrong with the head. Who’re they to decide? Huh? Who th’ hell are they?”
“They’re the men with the investment, Guido. Hey—there’s nothing personal. You know that.”
“Sure I know that, Frankie. Hey—have I said a word in anger to you—personally to you?”
Of course he hadn’t. That would come later, if at all, in a final fling for survival. At the moment, Riappi was deeply grateful to have a show of sympathy from his executioner. That was something to work with. And Bolan allowed him that much.
“We’re men, Guido. Brothers. We don’t need anger.”
“Right. You’re right. Listen, if I could just talk to someone—if I could just show them how wrong they are—listen, I could turn this thing around.”
“I told ’em that, Guido. I told ’em, the man has been a brother, a good brother, for a long time. Forget the thing with Gus. It was his only trespass. And, after all, there was blood between them. But you know, Guido, you’ve been like on probation here. I mean, some things are hard to forget. And it don’t take much to bring back unpleasant memories. I give it to you f
lat and straight. They think you’re dead on your ass. They think you’ve gotten fat and soft, especially in the head. That’s why I was sent.”
“I can’t believe this, Frankie. I really can’t believe this. I’m not soft in the head. You can see that. Why can’t they?”
“There’s all this heavy investment, Guido. You know how they get when big bucks are on the line. Hey—don’t we know how they get?”
“Sure, sure. The bucks are all that count, isn’t that right? See, I feel the same way. I want the same things they want. Listen, I still think I could talk—who should I call—who’s the best—?”
“No calls, Guido. Hey. It would make me look bad.” Bolan made an exaggerated study of his watch. “How long have I been here? About ten minutes? That’s not very damn long, is it? Hell, maybe I’m not even here yet.”
There was no mistaking that offer, not to a wiseguy. Bolan thought for a moment the guy was going to drop to his knees and kiss his hand. He did it symbolically, anyway, raising his own chubby hand to his lips and speaking past it as he gasped, “God you are a hell of a man, Frankie. You are a man! But what should I do?”
“If it was me, Guido,” Bolan replied quietly, “and I’d heard a rumor that someone was being sent for me, I don’t think I’d make any phone calls. I think I’d want to talk to the senders, myself, face to face, man to man, before they knew I knew. And if I had a plane sitting out here on the airstrip, and a pilot just waiting for some flight orders … well, hey, that’s what I’d do, Guido. I’d go talk to those men.”
“Are they in Miami Beach? Is that where? At Muscatel’s?”
“That’s where I’d go,” Bolan said softly. “And I’d do it before a certain somebody got here. What time you got, Guido? I guess my watch is fast. I shouldn’t be arriving here for another half-hour or so.”
The guy was ready to lick his feet. “I won’t forget this, Frankie. I swear, I—”
“It never happened!” Bolan said harshly. “Don’t you never forget that! I never saw you, you never saw me, you never heard my name! You got that? One last thing … you go anywhere but Miami Beach and you’ll have my shadow on your ass ’til the day you die.”
Thermal Thursday Page 5