The Silent Sea (20 page)

The master bedroom was the last door on the left, just past the single bath. Juan even knew where the bed would be placed, as it was the only logical location, and he jumped on it, bending his knees to absorb some of the spring, and leapt again. He covered his head with his hands when he smashed through the window.

He hit the wet, needle-covered ground, shoulder-rolled, and came up with his gun ready. The muzzle flash from a snap shot fired from the far corner of the house gave away the gunman’s location. Cabrillo put two rounds downrange. He didn’t hear the meaty slap of a strike, but a low, mounting wail rose from the patch of darkness where the shooter had been.

Max came through the window a second later, having paused to let Juan clear the area. His exit wasn’t as dramatic as Cabrillo’s, but he made it nevertheless. They moved through the downpour as fast as they could, the wind and rain masking the sound of their escape. There was barely enough light to see but enough so they didn’t run headlong into any trees. After five minutes, and several random turns, Juan slowed and dropped to his belly behind a fallen log.

Max’s deep chest pumped like a bellows next to him. “You mind telling me,” he panted, “what the hell they’re doing here?”

Cabrillo’s breathing was far less labored, but he was twenty years younger than his friend and, unlike Max, knew what a workout routine was. “That, dear Maxwell, is the million-dollar question. Are you okay?”

“Just a small cut on my hand from going through the window. You?”

“Nothing’s hurt but my pride. I should have had that guy with my first shot.”

“Seriously, how did they get here?”

“Same as us. They followed the trail from the
Flying Dutchman
. What I really want to know is what they hoped to find.”

“Unless they’re as nerdy as Mark and Eric, they’re not looking for Devereaux’s treasure.”

“And we’ll never know. The rubbing burned up in the kitchen, and I’d already given the journal or log, or whatever it was, to Ronish.”

Max fished around in his jacket pocket and tapped something on Juan’s wrist. He felt the spongy mass of latex-sheathed papers. “I nabbed this when I tackled him.”

“I could kiss you.”

“Let me shave first so you really get to enjoy the experience.” Humor had always been their way of decompressing from a high-stress situation. “So what’s our play?”

Where Max had always been the dogged one, the person who would bull through any challenge, it had always been Cabrillo who came up with the plan. Hanley really didn’t see what to do next while Juan had figured it out the moment he leapt up and tossed the picture frame into the growing kitchen fire. If he was honest with himself, he’d known the instant the Argentine Major had shown up on James Ronish’s doorstep.

“It’s simple really,” he said, turning on his back so that the rain washed the taste of gunpowder from his mouth. “You and I are going to solve the mystery of the Pine Island Treasure Pit.”

 

 

 

A
GROUP OF FIVE LATINOS, ONE OF WHOM WAS WOUNDED, would have stood out in a town as small as Forks or Port Angeles, so Espinoza and his men were forced to return to Seattle. Their injured comrade, shot through the side, suffered in silence for the hours it took to drive to the city. It wasn’t until they were in the seedy hotel on the outskirts of the city that they were able to treat the wound properly. It had been a clean in and out and hadn’t perforated the intestine, so unless he developed an infection he should be fine. They loaded him up with over-the-counter medications and half a bottle of brandy.

Once his men were settled, Espinoza returned to the room he shared with Raul Jimenez. He asked his friend to excuse himself and powered up a satellite phone. He wasn’t sure how his father would react to the call. He was nervous nonetheless.

“Report,” his father said by way of greeting, no doubt recognizing the number.

Espinoza hesitated, well aware that the computers of the American NSA monitored nearly every wireless transmission in the world, trolling through the mountains of data for key words that would make the call of interest to the intelligence community.

“We ran into competition. The same man I saw a couple of days ago.”

“I wasn’t sure they would be interested, nor did I expect them to move so fast,” the General said. “What happened?”

“The target was collateralized, and one of my men was grazed.”

“I don’t care about your men. Did you learn anything? Or have you failed me again?”

“I retrieved a document,” Espinoza replied. “I think the American tried to destroy it by throwing it into a fire before making his escape. However, we entered the target’s house before it was damaged. You said it was possible we’d find evidence that the target knew something about China, so when I saw it on the kitchen floor I grabbed it.

“It appears to be a rubbing of some kind, like when families make tracings of headstones. It shows the map of a bay, but no location is given. There are glyphs on it that almost look like some Asian language.”

“Chinese?” The General’s tone was eager.

“It looks like it.”

“Excellent. If this leads where I think it might, we are going to change the world, Jorge. Were you able to speak to the target?”

The elder Espinoza hadn’t explained what it was he was after, but the words of praise made his son swell with pride. “He was already gone when we got inside. We burned his house to the ground afterward. I doubt they will bother checking the body for any sign of foul play, so we’re clear.”

“Where are you now?”

“Seattle. Do you want us to return home?”

“No. Not yet. Tomorrow, I want you to overnight the rubbing to me.” The General paused. Jorge knew his father was considering angles and odds. He finally asked, “What do you think the competition will do now?”

“It depends if they extracted any useful information from the target. I checked the hood of their truck when we reached the house. It was still warm, so they hadn’t been there long.”

“They were interested enough to reach out to the target,” General Espinoza said, more for his own benefit than his son’s. “Will they continue on or have they had enough?”

“If I may hazard a guess . . . The men were obviously soldiers. I think it’s most likely they came here to tell the target about his brothers as a military courtesy. A
Band of Brothers
type thing.”

“You believe they will drop it?”

“I think they will tell their superiors what happened tonight, and it will be they who decide to drop it.”

“Yes, that’s most likely how the military would act. There is no obvious threat to national security, so the soldiers will be told to stand down. Even if they want to pursue it, they will have their orders to let it go. This is good, Jorge, very good.”

“Thank you, sir. May I ask what this is all about?”

General Espinoza chuckled. “Even if we were alone together here at the house, I could not tell you. I am sorry. I can say that in a few days an alliance is going to be announced that will forever change the world’s balance of power, and, if I am correct about your find, you will have contributed to its success. I sent you to hunt a wild goose and it may yet turn out to lay a golden egg.”

His father wasn’t one to use such a frivolous turn of phrase, so Jorge took it as a sign of his happiness. Like any good son, he was especially proud when he could bring his father joy.

“See to your injured man,” the General continued, “and be ready to move at a moment’s notice. I am not sure if you will come back home or if you will have another mission. It all depends what we learn from the rubbing.” He paused to give weight to his following words. “I am proud of you, son.”

“Thank you, Father. It’s all I ever want you to be.” Espinoza hung up. He had more on his mind than simply waiting for orders. He wasn’t sure what the Americans had learned from the old man, but it wasn’t unreasonable to guess they might show up at his private island.

CABRILLO HAD ALWAYS HELD the belief that if you threw enough money at a problem, it would go away, and he figured getting to the bottom of the Treasure Pit should be no different.

He and Max spent two hours in the woods watching the cheery glow of the fire as James Ronish’s little ranch house burned to the ground. They waited that long to make sure the better-armed Argentines had left the area. Nothing remained of the house but a toppled chimney and smoldering ash piles that spat and hissed in the rain. As a parting gift, all four tires on their rented SUV had been shot out, forcing them to drive back to the motel on flats.

Before they could think about hot showers and beds, they had to cut up the tires to retrieve the bullets so when they brought the truck to a garage the mechanic wouldn’t report the incident to the police. They also smashed a headlight and keyed dozens of random lines into the glossy paint. Coming on the heels of such a fatal fire, it wouldn’t do to arouse any kind of suspicion in the sleepy little town. The truck looked like the victim of juvenile vandals.

It was this kind of attention to detail, no matter how minute, that made the Corporation such a success.

The next morning, while Max went to find a garage to get the truck repaired, muttering about ‘those damned kids these days,’ Juan set up a video conference with his brain trust. When he told Mark and Eric that he had no choice but to dive the Treasure Pit, they looked like they were ready to jump ship to join him.

“My question to you is: How do I do it? How do I duplicate what only the Ronish brothers managed to accomplish on the eve of World War Two?”

“Have you gone over the information you recovered from the
Flying Dutchman
?” Eric asked. Juan had caught them eating breakfast. Over Stone’s shoulder, Mark Murphy was munching on a banana. “They could have left a clue there.”

“I took a quick peek. Despite the protection, the paper is in pretty bad shape. I don’t know if I’ll be able to get anything off of it. Assume I can’t, and tell me what you two think. The pit has thwarted a number of attempts. You mentioned one that used some pretty high-tech solutions and yet they failed. What do you think the brothers figured out?”

Mark swallowed a mouthful of food, and said, “We know their first attempt ended in disaster, so obviously one of them learned something during the war that gave him the answer.”

“Which one?”

“I doubt the pilot. He was an observer on a blimp. I can’t imagine that kind of job giving him much inspiration.”

“So it’s either the Marine or the Army Ranger,” Juan said.

Mark leaned in toward the webcam. “Look, this is an engineering problem, hydrodynamics, stuff like that. The Marines faced some pretty tricky booby traps as they fought their way to Japan. My bet is, he saw something the Japanese had done and thought Pierre Devereaux had come up with it first.”

Eric looked at him crossways, and said what Cabrillo was about to. “You still think this is about an old pirate? There’s no way the Argentines would be this interested if the Treasure Pit turns out to be just that.”

Murph looked a little defensive. “What is it about, then?”

“Obviously, I can’t answer that question.” Eric turned back to Juan. “Do you have any ideas, Chairman?”

“Nothing. Ronish died before he could talk. And Max and I weren’t in any position to search his place. Come on, think. What did they figure out? How do we crack the Treasure Pit?”

Mark tapped his chin. “A device . . . a device . . . A booby trap . . . Something involving water . . . Hydrostatic pressure.”

“You have an idea?”

Murph didn’t answer because he didn’t have one. “Sorry, man. I’ve been so wrapped up in the history, I never really thought about the technology.”

Juan blew out a breath. “Okay. Don’t sweat it. Max and I will think of something.”

“May I ask what?” Eric said.

“God, no. I’m winging it here.”

For the next hour, they created a list of equipment the pair might need and went about filling it. What couldn’t be purchased in Port Angeles would be delivered from Seattle. By the time they were done, a delivery van was headed to Forks from Washington’s queen city and a small ferry was under way from Port Angeles and would pick up Max and Cabrillo at the fishing pier in the town of La Push. That coastal village was just a few miles north of Pine Island. The only problem was that they would lose another day because the sophisticated underwater communications equipment was coming in as airfreight from San Diego.

When it was all said and done, there was an additional forty thousand dollars’ worth of charges on the Chairman’s Amex, but, as he’d always believed, problem solved.

Hopefully.

He asked about the crew’s morale, especially Mike Trono’s. Eric said, “He spent an hour or so after the service talking with Doc Huxley.” She was the
Oregon
’s de facto shrink. “He says he’s fit for active duty. Linda cleared it with Hux, so he’s back working with the rest of the fire-breathers.”