Poseidon's Arrow (Dirk Pitt 22)

“Yes, so I hear.”

Surprised at Bolcke’s comment, Pablo cleared his throat. “There was a traffic incident in the streets of Tijuana as we were making our way to the airport. The device was destroyed, and Juan was killed in the collision. I lost my man Eduardo as we made our way out of the situation.”

“Quite the blown opportunity,” Bolcke said, his eyes narrowing. “At least there appear to be no repercussions.”

“All the men I work with are trained mercenaries from Colombia with manufactured identities and no criminal records. There will be no connection to you.”

“A good thing, as the team you sent to Idaho was also killed.”

Pablo stiffened in his chair. “Alteban and Rivera are dead?”

“Yes. They were killed in a ‘traffic incident’ after departing Heiland’s cabin,” Bolcke said, his expression stern. “The female investigator, one Ann Bennett, and the Director of NUMA, whom you apparently met in Tijuana, were responsible. Fortunately, I was able to arrange the recovery of the research plans in Washington.”

Bolcke reached into a desk drawer, retrieved a thick envelope, and slid it across the desk. “You shall enjoy a fine payday, my friend. Your own wages, plus those of your four dead comrades.”

“I cannot accept this,” Pablo said as he reached over and grabbed the envelope.

“No, I pay for the job, not the results. In light of the events, however, I have decided to rescind the bonus I had intended to pay for your good work at the Mountain Pass Mine.”

Pablo nodded, grateful to get his hands on the envelope. “You have always been generous.”

“I will not be so generous should there be any more failings. I presume you are prepared for the next assignment?” He crossed his hands on the desk as he gave Pablo a fixed stare. Pablo avoided the gaze, instead looking at Bolcke’s hands. That’s what gave the man away, the hands. They were thick, gnarled, and blemished by the sun. They weren’t the hands of a man who had spent his life in corporate boardrooms, as Bolcke appeared to be. They were the hands of a man who had spent a lifetime digging rocks.

Born and raised in Austria, Edward Bolcke had spent his youth scouring the Alps for gold and rare minerals. It was his means of escape after his mother had run away with an American GI, leaving him in the care of an alcoholic father prone to violence. The young Bolcke’s mountain hikes fostered a love of geology, which led to a degree in mineral resources engineering from Austria’s University of Leoben.

He took a job at a copper min

e in Poland, and before long was hopscotching the globe, working tin mines in Malaysia, gold mines in Indonesia, and silver mines in South America. With an uncanny ability to locate the richest ore concentrations, he boosted recovery rates and profits everywhere he went.

But in Colombia, life threw him a twisted bone. Bolcke took an ownership interest in a small silver operation in the Tolima district. His astute analysis of the claim revealed a more valuable deposit of platinum alongside his property. He secured the rights and struck a major deposit, making him wealthy in a matter of months. While celebrating his good fortune in Bogotá, he met the vivacious daughter of a Brazilian industrialist and soon married.

He led a storybook life for several years, expanding his riches from the mine—until one day he returned to his home in Bogotá to find his wife in bed with an American consulate worker. With a fury he never knew he possessed, he shattered the man’s skull with a rock hammer. His wife came next, her throat crushed by his thick, burly hands.

A Colombian jury, well greased by his defense attorneys, acquitted him on the grounds of temporary insanity. He walked away a free man.

He was free physically, but not psychologically. The event reopened childhood scars of abandonment, while slashing new wounds. A bloodthirsty anger flooded his soul—and refused to recede. He sought revenge, turning to the easiest victims he could find: helpless young women. Cruising the slums of Bogotá at night, he would hire young prostitutes, then beat them unmercifully to vent his rage. Nearly gunned down one night by a watchful pimp, he finally abandoned that outlet for his rage and left Colombia, selling his remaining interest in the mine.

Bolcke had invested in an underperforming gold mine in Panama and he relocated there. Years earlier, he had studied the mine’s operations and knew it had been mismanaged. A privately held American firm with other holdings owned it, and to take control he was forced to purchase the entire company. But to enable the deal, he had to forfeit a portion of the mine’s equity to Panama’s corrupt government, headed at the time by Manuel Noriega. When the U.S. military ousted Noriega, the succeeding government laid claim to the mine and harassed Bolcke into amassing a mountain of legal bills before he reacquired ownership at a considerable cost. He blamed the Americans for his losses, inflaming an already deep-seated hatred against the country.

As part of the mining conglomerate, he found himself ironically owning a small enterprise in America: a trucking firm, several commercial freighters, and a small security business. What began as a minor annoyance turned into a major opportunity for revenge.

Every night the vision of his wife with the American officer haunted his dreams, replaying his childhood abandonment, and every morning he woke enraged. The perpetrators, though both long dead, remained targets of wrath, and, by association, their country of origin. The anger never left him. But rather than venting it through random violence, he turned down a new path of vengeance. Using the skills and knowledge from a lifetime of mining, he initiated his own economic war of retribution.

Bolcke’s joyless dark eyes, set in a lean, hardened face, probed his visitor while his hands flattened on the desk.

Pablo spoke uneasily. “I am not eager to return to America right away. My understanding was that I would remain in Panama City for several weeks before the next phase.”

“We had an outdated delivery schedule, and now the time line has been moved up. The shipment is being made in four days. You’ll need to return at once.”

Pablo didn’t balk. The ex–Colombian Special Forces commando never refused an order. He’d worked for the old Austrian for more than a dozen years, since first being hired to help quell a labor unrest at the mine. His unwavering loyalty had been well rewarded over the years, particularly as his boss drifted further over the line.

“I will need to assemble a new support team,” Pablo said.

“There is no time. You will be assisted by two American contractors.”

“Outside help cannot be trusted.”

“We will have to take that chance,” Bolcke snapped. “You lost your entire team. I can give you some of Johansson’s men, but they are untrained in your line of work. My Washington representative assures me these contractors are reliable. And besides,” he said, looking Pablo in the eye, “they accomplished what your team could not. They recovered the supercavitation data.”