by Michael Howe
Dana put her hand gently on his.
“. . . especially since what with the cost of college these days it may be a long time before we can have another grand family adventure.”
“Bravo!” enthused Sam.
“Are you tired, dear?” asked Tim.
“Not at all. I’m loving every minute.”
Tim and Dana had sworn an oath to each other not to mention Dana’s incurable cancer while on the cruise. And Tim could well understand that she might have little interest in sleep. She’d have plenty of time for that later.
Dave Ellison, Aurora’s one-man security department, made a final visit to his office before going to bed. He checked to ensure that the security cameras—which covered the public spaces and the passageways leading to the passengers’ rooms—were all running. He checked his e-mail. Then he pulled a bottle of Scotch out of his desk drawer, poured himself a shot and leaned back in his chair.
This, he told himself, had to be the cushiest job he’d ever had. Even cushier than being a lieutenant in a small, suburban police department. All he had to do was deal with drunks and make sure nobody stole the passengers’ jewels. As it turned out, few, if any, of the passengers ever brought their jewelry to Antarctica—and certainly not their fur coats. And, so far, there’d been no drunks, although he had a feeling the kid with the ring in his ear might develop into a problem before the voyage was over. He was an arrogant little prick and he was a drunk and who knew what else. Cutting him down a little might be a very satisfying exercise.
7
Rio de Janeiro
“I don’t like this part of town, Marine. I didn’t like it in daylight and I like it even less now.” As he spoke, Ted reached into the pocket of his still-wrinkled jacket, just to ensure the Beretta hadn’t somehow disappeared.
“I’m totally with you, amigo. I’d feel lonely here with a battalion of combat-ready grunts to keep me company.”
Ted grunted noncommittally.
“For what it’s worth,” said Ray, “this place is undoubtedly as dangerous for locals as it is for us.”
“Yeah. Good.”
As they spoke, Ray was driving slowly down the once-paved street on which—according to Alex’s map—the Bar Tiffany was located. For Ted, the street’s transformation was stunning. What had been a row of drab, colorless storefronts during the day, had come to life. With the setting of the tropical sun, it had transformed itself into something that resembled a jungle garden, filled with extravagant, night-blooming orchids of all colors and shades.
“There it is,” said Ray, pointing ahead at the “Bar Tiffany” sign in yellow-and-blue neon. When they were abreast of it, he stopped so Ted could peer into the open door.
“Looks jammed,” remarked the SEAL as the beat—a mix of Africa, Iberia and very possibly Los Angeles—blared out at them. Just when the two began to feel themselves moving ever so slightly to the music, the driver of the truck behind them leaned on his horn and the music was forgotten.
“God.” Ted groaned as both jumped slightly to the reverberating concussion. “That was shock and awe!”
Half a kilometer down the street Ray thought he spotted a reasonably safe place to park. “Don’t lock it,” he said as they closed the doors.
“That comprehensive insurance you signed up for cover here?”
“That’s Alex’s problem.”
“Hey, you pay us guard your car?”
The two Tridents looked at each other. “Maybe we should have walked,” remarked Ted.
“We may end up doing that yet.” As Ray said it, three kids—who couldn’t have been more than eight—appeared from the shadows. Praying that this was one of the cases where cash really could buy loyalty, the marine gave each a dollar. “And each of you will get two more dollars if the car’s still okay when we get back,” he promised.
“Sure thing!” said the leader of the guardians.
“We’re too early,” grumbled Ray as they approached the Bar Tiffany. Where they stood in the street, the melody of odors—cooking oil, urine, an undertone of rot and a whiff of some flowering plant—was especially strong. “We’ve got fifteen minutes, at least.”
“Let’s kill it here,” replied Ted, nodding at another garish watering hole a few yards from where they were standing. “We’ll be less obvious sitting at a table than standing on the sidewalk, looking like we’re trying to pick up some disease.”
The bar in question, the Club Travessura, turned out to be a large, open room, decorated in red and green with colored lights flashing and loud music blaring. After edging their way in, they took a battered Formica-and-stainless table as close to the center of the action as they could. Ray ordered each of them a beer. The air-conditioning whirred and rattled, but it was still hot and crowded and smelled of beer, booze, humanity and tobacco smoke. Everybody seemed to know everybody and nobody seemed to pay the two Americans any attention. Not even the very worn girls, some of whom couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen.
The Club Travessura was not the sort of place American tourists—or even businessmen—could be expected to visit. It was clearly a local bar for the residents of a painfully impoverished barrio. Still, cariocas rich or poor tend to be a very cosmopolitan people, and none of those enjoying the action at the Travessura saw any reason to gawk. Ray tried to strike up a conversation with the three men at the next table. They were polite but clearly not overly impressed by the visitors, preferring to continue discussing something they seemed to consider of real importance. All the while the crowd flowed around them—swaying either to the music or to the tune of the alcohol in their blood—as if the two weren’t there. Ray thought he recognized one or two men from the yard. Ted thought he spotted one or two who seemed to recognize them. They each finished half a beer, laughing self-consciously as they did. It was then time to move on.
The Bar Tiffany proved to be smaller, darker and dirtier, although just as crowded as the Club Travessura had been. It also had its limited supply of Christmas decorations set up and flashing.
The two insurance investigators took a table right alongside a small, scuffed dance floor and each ordered a beer. And again, nobody seemed to pay any attention to them. Except for one of the B-girls, Ray suddenly realized. She was looking right at him and laughing. Without taking her eyes off him, the girl tapped the girl next to her on the shoulder and whispered something. The other girl burst into laughter.
That, thought Ray, must be Dani. He studied her as she studied him. She was small. Scrawny, he decided. Far too scrawny. Unhealthy. He could well imagine the bitter existence she endured and could see from twenty feet that her teeth looked like hell. What her true age was he couldn’t guess, though he felt certain she’d be dead by thirty unless the Agency did something for her. Not that he had the slightest idea what their deal with her was.
Dani was a wreck, yet Ray couldn’t take his goddamn eyes off her. It was the smile—mischievous, challenging and commanding at the same time. Dani was in charge and she knew it. And so did just about everybody else in the bar.
A stream of sweat began to work its way down his spine.
Dani started to walk slowly toward them, her face alight with that impossible smile. Ted, having noticed the odd expression on Ray’s face, had turned, only to be captivated by that same smile. As she approached, hands reached out from beside her to attract her attention, to hold her. She brushed them all away with a “your time will come” smile. Her progress was something just short of regal. It was as if a queen were passing through the mass of her subjects.
Men continued to follow her with their eyes as she worked her way toward the two obviously wealthy Americans, weaving through the swaying, sweating mob.
“Hi, guys,” she said in heavily accented English. “I think I’d like to know you better. Buy me a drink. A champagne cocktail.”
“With a cherry?” offered Ray, as he had been instructed by Mike. Before he could even wave, the waitress had appeared at the table wit
h the drink.
Dani smiled. “What do you want to know about Coccoli and Rojas?” she asked after the waitress had disappeared back in the direction of the bar.
“Whatever you do. What are they up to? Where did they go? Why?”
“I don’t know that much. I never sat with either or did anything like that. They come in here from time to time and I’ve got big ears. Coccoli, he’s a big talker. The other one always looks like his wife’s hounding him.” As she spoke, Dani’s fingers tapped on the wood table as if she were playing a piano one-handed.
“You mean Rojas?”
“Yes.”
“Does he have a wife?”
“Don’t know. Never mentioned her, but a lot of guys who come here have wives and don’t mention them.”
“When’s the last time you saw them?”
“At least a week ago. Maybe more.”
“Know where they are?”
“No idea.” As she spoke, Ted noticed that her smile, while still in place, had a certain hollowness to it. As if the sense of strange power the girl radiated was a masterful act that might collapse from exhaustion at any time. Not tonight, perhaps, but some night.
“You said Coccoli was a big talker. What did he talk about?”
“Recently? He seemed to think he was on to something big. You know, big bucks. I assume drugs. That’s the big business around here.”
“There anybody here they talked to who we can also talk to?”
Suddenly, Dani’s smile completely disappeared, replaced by an expression as cold and disinterested as the heart of the most heartless terrorist. “That’s all I can tell you except they both talked about somebody named Omar. Omar this and Omar that. I’m sure Omar had something to do with their big plan.”
Without making any sudden moves, Dani stood and, giving no warning whatsoever, somehow just disappeared into the crowd. It was as if she hadn’t been there at all.
So intent were Ray and Ted on trying to figure out the girl’s actions that they didn’t notice, until it was too late, the two men who had appeared alongside the table. One, who moved around behind Ted, was short and wiry, much like the SEAL. The other, now standing beside Ray, was seriously overweight. “You are Mr. Anderson and Mr. Fuentes?” asked the fat one.
Ray looked at him without saying anything.
“Show me your identification. Your passport.”
“Who are you?” asked Ray, suspecting he already knew the answer.
“Federal police,” snapped the fat one, flashing an ID quickly in his face. “Now your passports!
“You are insurance investigators?” asked the fat one after perusing the little blue books.
“Yes.”
“You have been asking questions all over the shipyard. Now we wish to ask you some questions. Come with us.”
Ted tensed, certain he could overpower the guy behind him but unsure whether or not the two were really cops. The boss had made it very clear he didn’t want any incidents. Ted decided to follow Ray’s lead. He was, after all, senior.
The two Americans glanced at each other. “These aren’t cops,” the glances said simultaneously. “Or if they are, they’re bent.”
Before either could act, both their heads erupted into sharp, overpowering pain. The sort of pain that makes you quiver from head to foot and want to vomit. Stunned by their assailants’ blackjacks, neither reacted when the Berettas were stripped from their pockets.
“Get up! We’re leaving.”
Clutching his spinning, screaming head and on the verge of screaming himself, Ray just looked up at him stupidly.
“Up!” shouted the fat one again, dragging Ray to his feet.
None of the Bar Tiffany’s other customers seemed to show the slightest shock at, or even interest in, the proceedings.
The blackjacks had been applied with a high degree of finesse. The blows had been calculated to stun rather than totally incapacitate, and they had done just that. Even before they reached the door, the two Tridents had regained the ability to move under their own power and their heads had cleared somewhat, although the pain continued to throb nauseatingly.
With the fat one walking beside Ray and the other thug behind them, they started down the brightly lit street. The bars and the sidewalks were still jammed with pulsating masses of humanity, desperate to grab a little bit of life and joy from the physical bleakness that dominated their daily existence.
“In!” said the fat one, stopping alongside a van.
While the fat one issued the orders, the smaller one reached to open the door, thereby making the last stupid mistake of his life. Driven by instinct and a totally unprofessional fury, Ted was all over him—knocking his legs out from under him, grabbing and breaking his arm and slamming his face into the side of the van. The fat man, who had overestimated the lasting power of their blackjack work, was stunned himself by the speed of Ted’s attack on his companion and was no match for Ray. It took the marine officer another fifteen seconds to force his opponent onto his knees with his arm half torn off and the gun now in Ray’s hand.
“Not bad for an officer,” hissed Ted, slightly winded.
“Oh shit!” growled Ray, also slightly winded, as he noticed the three men standing in a shadow at a corner about fifty feet away and felt the thunderous crashing of their automatic weapons pound against his mangled head as they opened fire. “God damn it, Ted, under the van!” he shouted. “We’ve walked into the middle of a turf war.”
While the two Tridents wormed their way under the van, wishing they could take their pounding heads off and throw them away, the automatic weapons tore the bodies of their first two assailants to shreds. They then processed the shreds into canned dog food.
Omar sat in a darkened car two blocks from the Bar Tiffany. He was little more than a shadow as he watched the gang he’d hired to kill the Americans massacred by another gang.
He’d made a mistake. If al Hussein had given him more time to arrange it, he would have been able to check out the gang’s current position more carefully. But more important than the mistake was his growing conviction that the operation itself was endangered. The Americans were not part of the plan and neither was this fiasco. Al Hussein was a very precise person—too precise. He’d be angered by tonight’s events, maybe even thrown off balance. He might well make a mistake himself, and he’d blame it all on Omar.
Even if al Hussein represented no serious threat, it was still time to move on. Omar was a very sensitive man and knew when an operation had veered out of control and might well blow up in his face. There was nothing more for him to do but leave. Tonight. To drive to the airport and get on one of the first flights out. Despite computers, despite identity chips, despite everything, the world was still a big place and Omar knew how to disappear into it. He’d done it before. And at the right time he’d reappear, although certainly not as Omar.
“Shit,” grunted Anderson just as his arm and head disappeared under the van.
“What?” Fuentes had to shout to be heard above the firing of the automatic weapons and the thunking of their heavy rounds into the van’s body.
“The pricks got me in the arm.”
“Keep moving. They’re going to hit the gas tank any second now. Then across the street and down that alley.”
“If this is a gang hit, why do they want us too?”
“Because we’re here.”
“Roger.”
Slithering backward as fast as they could, the two dragged themselves out from under the van. Crouching, they ran like hell across the now totally deserted street. By keeping the van between themselves and their assailants, they managed to make it almost to the alley before their retreat was appreciated by the gunmen.
“Wish to damn I’d grabbed that scumbag’s gun,” remarked Ted when the two stopped about fifty yards up the alley.
“I’ve got the fat guy’s,” Ray reassured him. “How bad’s your arm?”
“Nothing’s broken.”
“
You going to be able to kill one of these bastards?”
“It’ll be a mixture of pleasure and pain.”
“Good. You make yourself disappear behind that crap piled along that wall. I’ll hide behind that next pile of garbage. As soon as I can get a good shot, I’ll take out one of them. That should make the remaining two concentrate on me, allowing you to slip behind them as they pass and take out another. With luck I can then get the third before he blows you away.”
“What if they don’t follow us in? What if they just wait for us?”
“Don’t think they will. These guys are simple thugs. All of them. They’ll either come after us or leave before the cops arrive.”
“Can they get in behind you?”
“Looks like a dead end to me.”
Without uttering another word, Ted disappeared into the mound of boxes, garbage cans and whatever else was there. Ray sprinted to the next pile and slipped behind it. They waited in the tropical night, sweating and listening to the rats rooting around them. The air stank of garbage and humanity. Multicolored lights flashed dimly down the alley. Tense and alert, Ray checked over the gun. Even in the dim light he knew it was a cheap one. Probably not very accurate. But, fortunately, it had eight unused rounds.
Then, although Ted couldn’t see it, the light from the street dimmed and the shadows of three men became faintly visible to Ray. He tensed even more, a cascade of sweat now pouring down his neck. Long shot. Cheap gun. How long would it take them to respond and how accurate would their response be? If they got him, or if he failed to get at least one of them, he and Ted were dead.
The thugs advanced slowly, looking carefully around and behind anything stacked along the walls. Ray held the pistol in both hands and steadied it on the top of a garbage can filled with something that generated a sharp, nauseating stench. The thugs reached the pile in which Ted was mixed, and one angled over to look at it. Ray squeezed off four rapid shots and one thug collapsed onto the slick, grimy pavement. Cursing, the other two split, one moving to take cover on the left and the other moving unwittingly to take cover alongside Ted.