“If they’re still there at all,” Juan said. “Martinique isn’t exactly off the beaten path. Divers have been picking over those Saint-Pierre wrecks for decades.”
“Maybe not so thoroughly as you think. The Roraima sits in one hundred and fifty feet of water, below the level of most recreational scuba divers. Bottom times will be limited for all but the most technically adept divers, and few will have fully explored the interior, which is dangerous because of the rusting hull.”
“It’ll take a while to search the ship since we don’t know where his cabin was,” Eric said.
Perlmutter gave him a crafty grin. “I believe I can help you out there as well.” He darted out of the room and came back with a roll of paper that he spread on the table. It was the deck plan for the Roraima.
“Okay, I’m convinced,” Eric said. “No computer needed here.”
Although he couldn’t know which particular cabin Lutzen had occupied, Perlmutter pointed out where the passenger staterooms were located, considerably narrowing the search grid.
“May I take a photo of this?” Eric asked.
“By all means,” Perlmutter said, waving at the plans. “And when I finally get a chance to see that fantastic ship of yours, I expect a guided tour from you.”
“Absolutely.”
When Eric was finished with the snapshots, Perlmutter ushered them to the door. “Do come back someday. And let me know if you find Oz as well.”
“I just hope we don’t run into any flying monkeys,” Juan said with a wink.
“Me neither,” Eric agreed. “They always freaked me out.” When he saw the looks from the other two men, he quickly added, “Back when I was a kid. Not now.”
Perlmutter bellowed a hearty laugh, and after Eric gave Fritz one last scratch, he closed the door behind them.
No sooner were they on the road than Langston Overholt called back.
“Juan, we’ve found the translation firm. Global Translation Services.”
“That was fast.”
“They remembered it because it was such an odd job. Kensit had the translator transcribe the notes by hand so there wouldn’t be a digital record.”
“I’d like to speak to the translator.”
“That’s going to be a problem,” Overholt said ominously.
“Why?”
“He’s dead. Killed in a hit-and-run four months ago.”
Juan grimaced. “That’s not the kind of coincidence I like.”
“Neither do I.”
“Is there anyone else I can talk to there? They might remember something.”
“The translator worked for a man named Greg Horne. He’d be willing to speak with you.”
“Where are they located?”
“Manhattan. Midtown. They do a lot of work for the United Nations.”
Juan checked his watch. “We can be there in two hours.”
“I’ll set it up.”
After alerting Tiny Gunderson to fire up the jet for a New York flight, Juan made sure he had a secure encrypted phone connection before he called Max, who he’d left in charge of the Oregon.
“How are our guests?” Juan asked.
“Mr. Reed is being tended to at the rehab facility by some nurses that are so beautiful, I wish I was the one who had been shot. His fishing boat is fully repaired and ready to sail back to Jamaica when he’s feeling up to it.”
“What about Maria Sandoval?”
“She’s been given our finest guest cabin and has an escort with her at all times to the exercise facilities, the mess hall, and the deck. I think she’s still under the impression that we’re a high-tech smuggling operation.”
“Good. But she’s free to go anytime she wants.”
“I think she’s okay for a few days. A friend told her that her apartment was ransacked, so she thinks laying low for a while is a good idea. So was your talk with Mr. Perlmutter useful?”
“More than we hoped,” Juan said, and told Max about their discoveries concerning the Roraima and the connection between Kensit and the dead translator in New York.
“I think I see where this is going,” Max said when Juan was finished.
“Get the Oregon under way for Martinique. You should be able to be there in twelve hours. When Eric and I are done in Manhattan, we’ll fly directly there to meet you. But don’t wait for us. Start diving as soon as you arrive. Eric will send you the deck plans for the search pattern.”
“Already got them.”
“Good. And don’t tell Overholt where you’re going if he calls. We don’t know how Kensit’s surveillance system works or how deep its reach is.” Eric, Murph, and Hali had completely scrubbed their communications systems, so Juan was confident that no one was listening to this conversation.
“You think he might have penetrated CIA?” Max asked.
“Probably not, but it isn’t a risk I want to take. Those photos in the Roraima could be our only clue to tracking down Kensit. If he learns about them and retrieves them first or destroys them, we may never find him.”
Manhattan
It wasn’t difficult to follow the white delivery van through the bustling New York traffic. The green-and-gray logo of tropical vines wrapping around skyscrapers on the back door served as a target that could be seen from several blocks away. Hector Bazin had been on its tail since the Urban Jungle courier service van had left its company’s loading dock.
“Don’t miss this light,” he told his driver. “We don’t have time to go back and follow another van if we lose this one.”
“Yes, sir.” The driver nosed the car around a stopped bus and goosed the accelerator. With the congested streets, there was no chance the van driver would suspect he was being followed.
After putting Brian Washburn and Lawrence Kensit on a helicopter to go visit the Sentinel facility, Bazin had taken one of their two private jets and headed straight for New York City on intelligence that Juan Cabrillo and his companion would be going there next. Bazin’s mission was to intercept him and stop his investigation before it could go any further.
The van took a right on a quiet street in Greenwich Village and double-parked outside a brownstone with a shingle for an accountant’s office. The driver, a white man an inch shorter than Bazin, dressed in the company’s uniform of black trousers and green shirt, jacket, and cap, all emblazoned with the company logo, hopped out of the van with a package. He ducked his head against the chilly wind and rushed inside.
Bazin got out, hauling his own package, a box the size of a bread loaf. He casually walked up to the passenger side of the van and assured himself that no one on the street was watching. Like the deliveryman, the few people who were on the street had their eyes to the sidewalk out of the wind.
The driver had locked the van on exiting, but Bazin shoved a metal shim down the window frame and snagged the lock in seconds. He yanked up, then pulled the door open and slipped inside.
He relocked the door, took up position behind the driver’s seat, drew a Glock semiautomatic, and waited. A minute later, he heard quick footsteps shuffling toward him. The driver’s door opened, letting in a blast of air. The deliveryman settled into his seat with a squeak of springs and tossed his electronic signature pad on the passenger seat.
Bazin stuck the Glock into the driver’s side.
“Hey!” the deliveryman yelled. When he looked down and saw the gun, he added, “Oh, God!”
“Go,” Bazin said.
“Yeah, yeah. Okay, man. Just don’t shoot.” He put the van into drive and eased forward.
“What’s your name?” Bazin asked.
“Leonard O’Shea. Where are we going?”
“I’ll tell you where to turn, Leonard.”
“Don’t kill me, man.”
“I won’t hurt you as long as you do what I say,” Bazin said in
a soothing voice. “Do you understand?”
O’Shea nodded so violently that his skull banged against the headrest.
“Good. Keep going.”
They drove for ten minutes until Bazin had O’Shea thread his way into a deserted alley in Hell’s Kitchen. O’Shea parked and put his hands on the wheel. He eyed Bazin in the mirror with a pleading look.
“Listen, man, take anything you want. It’s all insured anyway. It’s mostly rich bankers sending each other stuff. They won’t miss it.”
“Unfortunately, Leonard, that’s not why I’m here.”
A confused expression was all O’Shea could muster before Bazin pistol-whipped his temple. The blow knocked him cold, but Bazin had to make sure he wouldn’t come to and attract attention. He pulled O’Shea out of the driver’s seat and snapped his neck before laying him on the floor among the packages.
Bazin was already dressed in black pants, but he needed the rest of O’Shea’s uniform. He swapped clothes and was disappointed to find that the sleeves were a couple inches too short. Although they were close to the same height, which is the reason Bazin had selected the unfortunate man in the first place, O’Shea’s arms were unusually short.
Bazin shrugged and donned the Urban Jungle cap. It was too late now to do anything about it. He had a package to deliver.
He rechecked the encrypted radio detonator in his pocket and secured the box on the passenger seat. The bogus packing slip on top, printed out with the Urban Jungle logo and a United Nations return address, read “Global Translation Services, Attn: Greg Horne.”
—
Juan reached the offices of Global Translation Services fifteen minutes before they closed. He had Eric drop him off and circle the block so they wouldn’t have to deal with Manhattan parking. The firm was a much smaller operation than the name implied. The front lobby overlooked Fortieth Street five floors below, and Juan spotted a dozen desks with translators listening to headsets busily typing away, three private offices, and a conference room.
A pretty, young receptionist informed Greg Horne of his visitor. Juan watched the traffic as he waited.
A short, dark-haired man, crisply dressed in a charcoal pin-striped suit, opened a door at the far end of the workspace. It was the largest office and had a plate-glass window with a view of the entire operation. The man quick-stepped toward Juan, a tight smile set beneath an upturned nose.
“Mr. Cochran, I’m Greg Horne, president and owner of GTS,” he said with an outstretched hand. Juan had thought it prudent to use one of his aliases for this meeting.
“Thanks for meeting with me on such short notice, Mr. Horne,” Juan said with a friendly grin, and adjusted the glasses he was wearing. “This is quite an operation you have here.”
“We run a pretty lean business,” Horne said as he walked Juan back to his office. “Most of the work is farmed out to independent contractors except for the most high-profile and sensitive jobs, which are kept in-house.”
Horne ushered Juan into his office and closed the door. Juan took the proffered seat.
“Was the job for Lawrence Kensit in-house?”
Horne tented his fingers and peered at Juan. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cochran. What is your relation to Mr. Kensit?”
“So you remember him and Dr. Lutzen’s diary?”
“Certainly. But the diary made no mention of him being a doctor. Although it was more than two years ago, it was a fascinating case. It’s not often we translate a document that old. How do you know about it?”
“I represent a collector who is interested in buying it. I can’t say who it is, but he’s a wealthy tech entrepreneur who collects rare scientific journals. Mr. Kensit is thinking of selling it, so we wanted to verify its authenticity.”
The glasses Juan was wearing contained a microcamera. If he could get Horne to let him flip through the original German or the English translation, he would have it all recorded so he could take it back to the Oregon for examination later.
“You do have a copy of the document,” Juan said helpfully.
Horne’s eyes briefly flicked to a file cabinet. “As I said, it was a special case. My translator, Bob Gillman, was not allowed to record his translation into the computer. Those were Mr. Kensit’s instructions.”
“But you have a physical copy in that cabinet.”
“Of course not!” Horne exclaimed with feigned offense. “We were under strict orders to destroy even the handwritten copy.”
Juan nodded and looked toward the lobby as if he were considering other options. A deliveryman in a green jacket and cap was dropping off a package with the receptionist. Urban Jungle, the back of his uniform read. Not a well-fitting outfit, either. The sleeves were comically short.
Juan turned back to Horne as if he’d gotten a sudden idea. “May I speak to Mr. Gillman? Perhaps he can provide me with the information I need.”
“I’m sad to say that Bob was struck by a car outside of our offices just a few months ago. Hit-and-run. The driver got away. Bob was killed instantly.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yes, very tragic.”
“It sounds like you were privy to the contents of the document.”
Another eye flick to the cabinet. “I review the work of many of my employees.”
“Mr. Kensit claims the journal outlines a radical new scientific development unknown at that time. Can you confirm that?”
Horne shifted in his chair. “Mr. Cochran, perhaps you should have Mr. Kensit contact me. I can’t share confidential information without a release form.”
Juan put up his hands. “I understand. I don’t want you to divulge anything you shouldn’t.”
“Besides, although I can translate German scientific language, it doesn’t mean I can understand the science behind it.”
“That certainly makes sense. But if I could have a brief look—”
Horne suddenly stood. “Mr. Cochran, we don’t have a copy of the document, and I resent the implication that we would violate a trust like that.”
Juan got to his feet as well. Pushing further would accomplish nothing. But his assessment of the building’s security made it clear that breaking in this evening and photographing the copy of the journal that obviously was in the file cabinet would be a simple task.
“I’m sorry I can’t help more,” Horne said as he ushered Juan out to the lobby. All of the translators had gone home, leaving the receptionist as the lone employee. “Please have Mr. Kensit send me a notarized request to consult on the translation authentication and I will be glad to assist you.”
The receptionist handed him the package sitting on the counter. “This came urgent from the UN, Mr. Horne.”
“Thanks, Jill,” he said, and put the box under his arm. “Good-bye, Mr. Cochran.”
Juan shook his hand, and Horne walked back to his office. Juan called Eric to find out where he was and looked down to the street below to see if he could spot him.
He didn’t see Eric, but the deliveryman from Urban Jungle was still out there, looking up at the building. Now that Juan could see his face, he recognized the man immediately.
It was the assassin who’d been sent to kill Juan in Jamaica. For a moment, Juan thought the killer was waiting for him to exit the building.
Then he remembered the package.
Juan heard Horne shut the office door behind him. The assassin saw Juan staring down at him and waved with a wicked grin on his face. He held a small black object in his hand for Juan to see, his thumb poised over a red button. With a deliberate finality, his thumb stabbed down.
Juan dived over the lobby desk and tackled Jill before she could register what was happening, covering her body with his. The instant they hit the floor, a deafening blast blew apart Greg Horne’s office, showering the cubicles with glass shards and chunks of the thick wooden door.
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Juan shook off the stars circling his head and jumped to his feet to go to Horne’s aid, but there was nothing he could do. Smoke billowed across the room as an inferno raged in Horne’s office. The explosion was so powerful that it had damaged the sprinkler system, which sprayed haphazardly around the space.
Jill was cowering in the fetal position and screaming uncontrollably. Juan picked her up in his arms and carried her to the stairs, which was now crammed with the building’s other tenants escaping the fire. She was able to walk down the stairs, so he put his arm around her shoulder and kept his head on a swivel, looking for signs of the assassin.
By the time he got outside, emergency vehicles were already arriving. He handed Jill off to a paramedic and jogged across the street.
The Urban Jungle van was gone.
Eric ran through the crowd of onlookers.
“Chairman! Are you all right?”
Juan nodded. “It was the Haitians again. They knew we were coming.”
“How? We disabled our trackers.”
“I don’t know. Their surveillance system must be even more powerful than we thought. They must have cracked our communication encryption.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
Juan looked up at the flames licking from the fifth floor above him. “I think your evidence is on fire.”
“You weren’t able to get a copy of the diary?”
“It existed, but he wouldn’t show it to me. Now it’s up in smoke, and so is the only remaining person to read it besides Kensit.”
Police were now screeching to a stop in packs.
“Come on,” Eric said, “I’ve got the car stopped on the next block.”
“I did get one piece of information,” Juan said as they walked and rubbed the smoke from his eyes.
Piranha Page 24