Havana Storm (Dirk Pitt 23)

“Exactly. He found what he thinks could be a link to a vessel called the Oso Malo, or Bad Bear.”

Madero smiled. “They do sound similar. It wouldn’t be a stretch to think the Aztecs misinterpreted the Spanish sailors’ name of their ship. That may be an inspired correlation by your historian.”

“He’s been known to work miracles for the right motivation.”

“But identifying the ship won’t produce the stone,” Madero said.

“It might in this case,” Summer said, “as the fate of the Oso Malo is rather compelling. She made only one voyage to Veracruz, in 1525. On her return trip to Cádiz, she sailed into a hurricane and had to make for Jamaica. She nearly made it, before foundering on the north shore.”

“Was the wreck salvaged?”

“We don’t know yet,” Dirk said, “but we intend to find out. Summer and I are flying to Jamaica tonight. We’re scheduled to return to work aboard a NUMA research ship in three days but will use the intervening time to locate and explore the wreck site.”

“We hope any historic salvors would have been interested only in precious metals or jewels and would have tossed aside a broken old stone.” Summer pointed to the photo. “At least we know what we’re looking for.”

Madero looked at the twins and shook his head. “The link to the ship is tenuous at best. I think you are chasing a fantasy. Please, let it rest. Once the first stone is recovered, the academic community will learn of its existence and we shall receive all kinds of leads to the second fragment. It is no doubt in a museum somewhere.”

“Perhaps,” Summer said, “but there is no harm in looking. Besides, I’m not going to Jamaica just so my brother can lie on the beach and drink rum for three days.”

“Spoilsport,” Dirk muttered.

“You two be careful,” Madero said quietly.

“We will, Eduardo.” Summer shook his hand. “We’ll let you know exactly what we find.”

Madero stood motionless as they departed the lab, then turned stiffly toward his office. Out of its shadows, Juan Díaz emerged, holding a gun. A younger man behind him crossed the lab and locked the door to the hallway.

“A very enlightening conversation,” Díaz said. “I’m so glad we happened to be here. Your friends are quite helpful. Perhaps they will be as helpful in locating the second stone as they were in discovering the first.”

Madero stood quietly, fury seething in his eyes. Only moments before Dirk and Summer arrived, Díaz had appeared in his office with the gun to demand the codex. The realization that the Cuban had murdered Torres struck him with a bolt of anger. “The link to the shipwreck in Jamaica is pure speculation,” Madero said. “You’d be wasting your time going there.”

“I admire your attempt at dissuasion, but we both know it’s an entirely reasonable hypothesis.”

He stepped close to Madero and eyed him. “You neglected to tell your friends the true value behind the stone. Why is that? Are you going to plunder your friends’ riches?”

Madero clenched his teeth. “I was just trying to protect them from harm.” He looked at Díaz, a rugged-framed man whose black eyes gyrated like a hungry hawk’s. “How do you know what the stone says?”

Díaz smiled. “I happened to make my own find, which brought me to Dr. Torres. A stroke of good fortune, really, that you happened to share your discovery of the codex. Now, where exactly is that fine document?” The Cuban raised his pistol at Madero.

Madero cautiously slipped a hand into his pocket and produced a key ring, then unlocked a steel cabinet. The Aztec codex, tucked in its felt lining, lay inside a small plastic bin. Díaz gave a slight nod to his companion, then snatched the container.

His attention focused on the codex, Madero didn’t detect the other man lift a stone Olmec statue off the lab bench. With a wide swing, the man brought the statue down across the back of Madero’s head. Madero melted to the ground.

Díaz stepped over the prone body and turned to his partner. “Wipe your prints off that statue. If we are lucky, the police will think his American friends killed him and stole the codex.”

With a look of smug satisfaction, he tucked the container under his arm and strolled out of the building.

25

The moss-colored water washed over the Starfish, snuffing out the bright Caribbean sunshine. Pitt monitored the ballast tank from the pilot’s seat, while alongside him, Giordino checked the power and life support systems.

“Estimated bottom depth is twelve hundred feet,” Pitt said.

Giordino yawned. “Nearly enough time to slip in a nap before we get there.”

The deepwater submersible descended by gravity alone, making for a lethargic ride to the seafloor. The descent seemed even slower for Giordino, who was deprived of a nap as Pitt needled him about his latest girlfriend, a well-known Washington attorney.

“At least I’m not married to a politician,” Giordino countered.