The Navigator (NUMA Files 7)

The line went dead.

“She must be quite a woman,” Flagg said. He rose from his chair. “You’d better get moving. I’ll try to run Baltazar to ground.”

Austin told Flagg to use Zavala as his contact. After his friend had left, Austin picked up the phone and called Joe, holding back the temptation to hurl some choice epithets at the unknown listener.

“Hi, Joe. Kurt. I won’t be able to meet with you tomorrow. Pitt called and wants me to meet him tonight.”

“Must be pretty important.”

“It is. I’ll give you a call later.”

Austin made the second call to Zavala fifteen minutes later during the drive along the Beltway toward Washington.

“I was waiting for your call. Didn’t see how you’d meet with Pitt tonight. Last I heard, he was on the Sea of Japan.”

“Sorry for the runaround. Someone was listening to every word.”

Austin told him about Carina and his intention to comply with the kidnapper’s orders.

“I’ll go along with anything you say, Kurt, but do you think going into this will help Carina?”

“I don’t know. It may put me close enough to her to help. The fact that I have a lead on the location of the mine might give me some leverage.”

“Hate to rain on your parade, but what if they’re simply after your hide and don’t want to bargain?”

“I’ve given that possibility serious consideration. I’ll have to take that chance. Meanwhile, I want you to find the mine. It could be a trump card. Speed is of the essence.”

“I’ve already arranged for a chopper and talked to the Trouts. We’ll hook up with Saxon at first light. Good luck in the meantime.”

“Thanks,” Austin said. “I’ll need it.”

Austin told Zavala that Flagg would be in touch with him and hung up. He parked the Jeep in the NUMA underground garage and caught a cab to the Lincoln Memorial. He got there a minute before the ninety minutes had elapsed. Seconds after the taxi pulled away, a black Cadillac Escalade SUV pulled up to the curb and the rear door opened. A man got out and pointed to the backseat.

Austin took a deep breath and got into the car. The man slid in behind him, wedging Austin between another occupant. The SUV sped away from the memorial and joined the traffic stream.

The man to his left reached under his jacket. Austin saw the gleam of metal. He couldn’t tell whether it was a knife or a gun. He cursed his bad judgment. They weren’t taking him anywhere. They were going to kill him immediately.

He brought his arm up to protect himself.

Something cold pressed against his neck and he heard a soft hiss.

Then someone pulled a blackout curtain down over his eyes.

His body went limp, his eyes closed on their own, and his head lolled. Only the presence of the men on either side of him prevented him from falling over.

Before long, the SUV was on the outskirts of the capital, moving as fast as the speed limit allowed, in the direction of the airport.

Chapter 45

THE MCDONNELL DOUGLAS MD 500 utility helicopter darted through the sky high over Chesapeake Bay, its turquoise fuselage bathed in the soft light of dawn. Joe Zavala was at the controls. Gamay was in the passenger bucket seat. Paul Trout’s long form was stretched out on the rear bench seat, which he shared with bags of dive gear.

Zavala squinted through the tinted bubble canopy and jabbed his forefinger downward. “That’s where Kurt and I dove on the wreck,” he said. “Havre de Grace coming up.”

The white spike of the Concord Lighthouse came into view. Then the railroad bridge at the mouth of the Susquehanna River.

Zavala followed the course of the river as the muddy waterway headed in a northwesterly direction. The Susquehanna’s flow was broken here and there by scraggly islands. Rolling agricultural fields out of a Grant Wood painting flanked both shores.

Cruising at a speed of one hundred fifty miles per hour, the aircraft quickly covered the distance to Harrisburg. Traffic on the roads was still light. About ten miles north of the Capitol dome, the helicopter veered east, away from the river and toward a range of mountains. The helicopter passed over dense woodlands and farms, finally dropping down through the early-morning mists to land at a grassy airstrip.