“John Q. Public,” Dan announced moments later. “This is our modem. Gimme a sec while I pull up the activity history.” He tried the admin/password combination, but was surprised to discover that whoever owned this particular modem had changed the password to something slightly more secure. Dan invoked Homeland’s intrusion software.
He and Sam scanned the modem’s recent activity history. “Looks like two phone calls in the past day, and nothing else,” Dan said. “The first call is weird. Looks like this modem acted as a go-between.”
“So they laundered the call’s origin?”
“That’s what it looks like. It originated from the 403 area code.” He did a quick internet search. “Banff, Canada,” he announced.
“Strange. Where did the call connect?”
Dan pointed his finger at a telephone number. It was a familiar number. “Is that…?”
“Yep. The dead guy in the warehouse.”
They were on the right track, but if anything, the picture was even muddier. Why would someone in Canada call a goon in Costa Rica, but take pains to route the call through an electronic cutout in DC? “You said there was a second phone call?” Sam asked.
Dan nodded. “To another familiar number.”
Holy shit. It was the number that Sam had asked McClane to locate using his Zip Line credentials. It belonged to a cell phone currently located in Rome.
Sam shook her head. “This is turning into a yarn ball.”
“Don’t they all?”
“So what does our friend Jeffrey Santos have to do with it?” By Sam’s reckoning, the odds were very low that Santos didn’t know something about the satellite internet service billed to his address. After all, the dish stared him in the face every time he looked out the balcony door.
They decided to wait around for a friendly conversation with Mr. Santos. They filled the time with a thorough search of Santos’ apartment.
They didn’t have to wait long. Half an hour later, they heard the click of the lock on the front door. In walked a muscular twenty-something, attractive, hair gelled in a gravity-defying configuration, black tee shirt half a size too small, a cologne cloud nearly thick enough to see. Did he wax his eyebrows? Sam thought they looked a little too perfect.
“Hello, Mr. Santos,” Sam said in the overly friendly tone that Dan recognized instantly as dangerous. “We appreciate your hospitality.” They flashed tin, and watched Santos blanch just a little.
“Got a warrant?” Santos asked, puffing his chest out a little further.
“Don’t need one,” Sam said. “Martial law, plus a serious national security concern, means we get to waltz right in like we own the place. Have a seat.”
Santos remained standing.
“Really, Jeff. Have a seat.” Sam pointed to an overstuffed chaise lounge. “We’re not going away anytime soon.”
Santos complied, and Sam continued. “So here’s the way this works. We’re in what the bureaucrats call a national security situation,” she said. “It essentially means that you don’t enjoy all of your usual rights as a US citizen, if you get my drift.”
Santos’ eyes narrowed. “I want a lawyer.”
“Sure thing, Jeff. But I’m not sure how many days you’ll have to spend in the tank before we find a public defender for you. Things are a bit of a mess right now, as you may have noticed.”
“You’re taking me to jail?” Santos stood up, arms held back, chest puffed out, neck forward in an aggressive stance. Mr. Testosterone here, Sam thought, rolling her eyes a little.
“Not really jail, per se,” Sam said, her tone still friendly. She leaned back in the chair and crossed her legs. “That implies a lot more due process than we’ll need to apply in your case. Think more along the lines of Guantanamo.”
Santos’ face lost color. Sam smiled inwardly as she watched most of the bluster leave his expression, replaced by fear. Then outrage. “This is bullshit! I haven’t done anything!”
She smiled. “Then this will be easy. Have a seat.”
Santos sat back down, and Sam got right to the point. “You have two internet services here. One is in your name, and the other is registered to John Q. Public. We’re interested in the second one.”
She watched the wheels turn inside Santos’ head. His eyes darted about. He was clearly struggling to conjure a plausible story, Sam surmised.
Sam leaned toward Dan and cupped her hand over her mouth. “He’s going to tell a lie, isn’t he?” she asked in an exaggerated stage whisper. “Maybe we should ask him about his bank receipts.”
Dan unfolded a half dozen pieces of paper from his jacket pocket. “I found these in a file marked ‘bank statements’ in the other room,” he said.
Santos’ face flushed and his pupils dilated. Bingo.
“Nothing really looked unusual,” Dan said, “until I noticed that someone seems to be giving you two hundred bucks on the fifth of every month.” He waved the bank sheets for emphasis. “Tell us about that.”
Santos considered. He seemed to deflate. A worried frown settled on his brow.
“You’ve been naughty,” Sam said. “Haven’t you, Jeff?”
Santos bristled at Sam’s prod, recovering some of his swagger. “I wouldn’t say that,” he said. “They rent a spot on my balcony. What’s the big deal?”
“Do you know what these guys are involved in?” Sam asked.
Santos shook his head. “No way. I don’t know anything about their business.”
“You didn’t ask any questions?” Sam asked. “That’s a little strange, don’t you think?”
Santos shook his head again. “I didn’t want to know. Besides, that’s part of the deal. No questions. I’m not involved at all, whatever it is.”
“Unfortunately,” Dan said, “that’s not going to be much of a defense. As far as the law is concerned, you’re a full partner.”
“And these guys are into some very bad stuff,” Sam added. “Hence our interest. So who’s your contact?”
Santos shook his head. “I have no idea. The money shows up in my gym locker every month.”
“Cash?”
Santos nodded.
“How did this little deal get set up in the first place?” Sam asked.
“I was out drinking,” Santos said. “I met up with some friends, and this guy was a friend of a friend.”
“What guy?”
“They called him ‘Slow’.”
“As in not fast?” Sam asked.
“Right,” Santos said. “Some Russian guy or something. Had a funny accent. Real tough guy, though. You can tell.”
So Slow was short for Slobodan. “Go on.”
Santos eyed her uneasily, but continued talking. “So we go out drinking a few times, a group of us, and one thing leads to another. Next thing you know, Slow hands me five hundo, cash. He promises me two more Benjies every month.”
“In return for what?” Sam asked.
“For leaving my door unlocked one day, and then for not asking any questions after that.”
“Sounds too good to be true.”
“Maybe,” Santos said. “But that was real money. I mean, it used to be. Can’t buy shit for two hundred bucks any more, though.”
“You have Slow’s phone number? For emergencies?” Dan asked.
Santos shook his head. But Sam caught something in his eyes. She and Dan shared a glance.
“You have no way at all to get in contact with him?” Sam asked, disbelief in her voice. “Like in case the satellite dish blows off the balcony in a storm?”
“No. Nothin’ at all. That was part of the deal, right? No contact.”
“Okay then,” she said, rising to leave. “Don’t go anywhere. And definitely don’t try to leave the country. You’re under the eye, and a guy we call Knuckles will have you bent over for a cavity search faster than you can imagine.”
They left Santos’ apartment and walked down the hallway to the elevator lobby. “Knuckles,” Dan said, shaking his head and
laughing. “I almost pissed myself.”
Sam smiled. “I might have stretched the truth a wee bit.”
“I think he definitely got the message,” Dan said, opening his laptop. “Okay, we’re still connected to his Wi-Fi. Any bets on how long it takes before he calls someone?”
Sam didn’t have time to make a guess. Santos’ modem became active almost immediately. “He’s dialing,” Dan said.
They both recognized the telephone number.
“Guess we should pack our bags,” Sam said.
Dan smirked. “Apparently, all roads lead to Rome.”
Sam groaned. “I don’t know how your wife puts up with you.”
“I’m not sure she does,” Dan said, punching the elevator button.
Part II
1
Sabot looked around. They were in some sort of earthen chamber. The floor was the same wet, loamy soil they’d just crawled over, through some low side tunnel that branched from a larger cave — a cave they’d accessed through a hidden doorway inside a broom closet. Am I hallucinating? He once again had that strange, faraway feeling, as if he were outside of himself.
Fredericks’ body odor hit him like a freight train. I don’t think I’m imagining that, Sabot thought. Fredericks had showered less than an hour earlier, but the man already smelled like a goat.
Fredericks was bent over the motorcycle, inspecting it. “I think it runs,” he said. “Still warm.”
They followed the tracks left by the dirt bike’s knobby tires in the soft, damp soil, moving slowly in the dim light cast by bare bulbs hanging from wires above their heads.
Sabot felt the earth angle upwards beneath his feet, and he soon had to lean forward for balance. The walls of the chamber narrowed, and he felt the need to duck his head, though the roof of the cave was still several feet above his height.
He heard Fredericks’ heavy footfalls behind him, and the fat man’s heavy, gasping breaths. Fredericks seemed every bit a liability, and Sabot resolved to ditch him as soon as it became practical.
The upslope steepened. Sabot’s feet slipped in the soft earth, and he put his hand forward to catch his fall.
“Easy, surefoot,” Fredericks said between gasps, nearly stepping on him.
Several steps further, Sabot encountered a set of double doors. They were made out of wood planks, reinforced by a zigzag frame, secured by a latch and padlock.
He tugged on the doors. They wiggled ever so slightly, but showed no signs of allowing passage. “Shit,” Sabot said.
“Try your keys,” Fredericks suggested. Of course. How had Sabot forgotten about the key ring he’d stolen from Zelaya? I’ve got to get my mind right, he thought for the thousandth time. I’m never going to survive this otherwise.
He held the keys up to the dim light. They were all large keys. None was small enough to fit in the padlock’s slot.
Sabot’s heart sank. They’d come such a long way. Their captors would undoubtedly be searching for them by now. They didn’t have time to waste. Sabot didn’t want to spend another second in one of those cells. He had to escape, to get the hell out of this godforsaken place, to find Angie and Connie. They’d figure the rest of it out after that. He just had to get out of this hellhole.
He pulled on the door handles. The doors had just enough play to make an ungodly racket in the otherwise silent chamber. But there was no chance of getting through without doing something about the padlock.
“We’re stuck,” he said, dejected.
“No we’re not,” Fredericks said. He was wielding a pickaxe.
“Where’d you find that?” Sabot asked.
“You should look around, notice things,” Fredericks said, slipping the narrow end of the pickaxe through the latch. “Amazing what you’ll find sometimes.”
Fredericks put the butt of the axe against the doors, creating a lever. He pushed down against the axe handle. The latch groaned. He put more of his mass into the effort. The latch didn’t stand a chance. The metal pins securing the latch to the door yielded with a god-awful screech that echoed forever down the chasm. The mechanism fell to the earth with a clank.
And the doors opened. Sweet, muggy air filled Sabot’s lungs as he walked further up the sloping path. He heard insect sounds, and the earth became spongy with decomposing vegetation. They were definitely in the jungle someplace. There was almost no light. It was nighttime, ink black. The jungle canopy exaggerated the darkness, letting no starlight through.
Sabot’s heart pounded. Were they really about to break free? He could hardly believe it.
He heard Fredericks’ footsteps retreating back down into the tunnel. “Come on,” Fredericks said. “We won’t get far on foot.”
They hustled back into the underground chamber, back to the motorcycle. “You ever ride?” Fredericks asked. Sabot shook his head.
Fredericks swung a fat leg over the dirt bike. He pulled the motorcycle upright, and stowed the kickstand. “Get on.”
Sabot did as instructed, doing his best not to rub his body against the walrus-sized human in front of him. But there was no avoiding physical contact with the sweaty fat man. There simply wasn’t enough space on the bike seat for the appropriate amount of man-clearance.
They heard a loud creaking sound from the far end of the chamber. A door opening? “Hurry up,” Sabot whispered.
Boot steps, and voices.
Fredericks jumped on the kick-starter. The bike’s suspension groaned in protest beneath Fredericks’ tonnage. The engine lubbed.
But it didn’t turn over.
Someone called out loudly in Spanish.
Jesus, they sound close. Sabot felt a rush of panicked adrenaline hit, and his bowels clamped. “Go!” he hissed in Fredericks’ ear.
Fredericks jumped on the starter lever again.
The engine grumbled again, but didn’t start. Fredericks cursed.
Sabot heard a click from the far end of the chamber. Halogen lights flickered to life above his head. More shouted Spanish assaulted his ears.
And the unmistakable sound of a round being chambered. “Goddamn it, go!” Sabot yelled.
Fredericks tried a third time to start the dirt bike. It still didn’t start.
Sabot panicked. He turned to look back down the chamber. The halogen lights were now near full strength. He saw a guard stop, raise his pistol, click off the safety.
Fear blinded him. He ducked, eyes closed, curling his body into Fredericks’ bulk on the bike seat in front of him.
The guard fired. The gunshot was incredibly loud in the small chamber. Sabot pissed himself a little. Am I hit? It didn’t feel like it. “Gawhhh!” he shouted nonsensically, his terrified reptilian brain overpowering all logic.
Fredericks futzed with something near the gas tank.
Sabot jabbed the fat man’s ribs. “Goddammit!” he yelled. “Go!”
Another gunshot deafened him. The slug splintered the wooden support above their heads. We’re going to die here.
Fredericks’ body heaved for a fourth time. The motorcycle engine sputtered, complained, clanked.
Then it started.
Sabot heard the engine rev as Fredericks twisted the accelerator on the right handle. He felt Fredericks’ left foot jam the bike into gear.
Fredericks popped the clutch. The front tire jumped off the ground even as the back tire spun in the soft earth. Sabot nearly fell off the back of the bike. He threw his arms around Fredericks’ pudgy girth and squeezed for all he was worth as the bike lunged forward and upwards.
Another gunshot assaulted his ears. He felt a sharp, stinging pain in the back of his left arm. I’m hit! He lost his grip on Fredericks’ midsection. He felt his body sliding off the back of the bike. His arms flailed involuntarily.
His right hand brushed against something fabric. Fredericks’ shirt. He clamped his hand closed and held on with all of his might, torso hanging precariously over the back tire, left arm flailing.
He felt Fredericks’ body heave ba
ckwards. Sonuvabitch, we’re both going to fall off of this thing.
Fredericks let off the gas and tapped the rear brake. The forces shifted. The front tire slammed back to the earth. Sabot’s body lunged forward. His face smashed against Fredericks’ sweaty back. The bike accelerated.
And then they were gone, weaving wildly up the narrow earthen passage, flying by the still-open gate, into the heavy, humid jungle air.
2
Maurizio Turcoe rose as the sun peeked over the Adriatic Sea. He was a sailor, and had been his entire life. He got his sea legs in the Italian Navy, then cut his managerial teeth as a mate on a freighter.
He loved the nothingness, the haze gray, the sameness as far as his eye could see in all directions. Underway, Turcoe felt in his proper place, a mote, adrift on a speck, bobbing in an unfathomably large ocean.
Then came a wife, and kids, and his heart became a house divided, his love for the sea at odds with his love for family. Cruises were the answer, short jaunts to and fro. Not on those gigantic floating bacteria farms full of human livestock, where he’d be just another underpaid footman, with little chance of advancing to Captain. Maurizio opted to be a bigger fish in a smaller pond. Private cruises, on private yachts worth as much as small cities. He knew a guy who knew a guy, and the rest was history. He paid his dues, but his expertise was soon impossible to hide, and he found himself climbing the ranks rapidly.
And, in time, the day arrived. He was Captain of the Anzio, one of the largest private yachts ever assembled. At long last, he was the guy. Sure, the pay was better on the big ships, the supertankers and the cruise liners, but he really liked being in charge.
And truth be told, only the official pay was better on bigger ships. The unofficial pay he enjoyed as captain of the Anzio, on the other hand, was a compelling perk. In exchange for mountains of under-the-table cash, Maurizio greeted the Anzio’s exceptionally distinguished and fanatically private guests with a smile, sailed at a medium pace between Italy and Croatia, avoided rough seas, and kept his mouth zipped about who had been onboard his vessel and what they might have discussed. It wasn’t terribly exciting work, but Maurizio and his family lived very, very well.
The Essential Sam Jameson / Peter Kittredge Box Set: SEVEN bestsellers from international sensation Lars Emmerich Page 181