Havana Storm (Dirk Pitt 23)

“On a long canoe,” Pitt said, “about thirty miles northwest of Montego Bay.” He had kept silent as the others talked, trying to edge closer to the wall map. A jab from a guard’s rifle kept him from discerning its markings.

Díaz bristled at the comment. He picked up the figurine and returned it to the shelf. Then he stepped over to Summer. Reaching down, he grabbed a fistful of long red hair and yanked her head forward. “Tell me—now!—why are you here?”

Pitt lunged across the room, his hands still pinioned behind his back, and plowed his shoulder into Díaz.

Díaz sprawled back across his desk as the two guards jumped on Pitt and held him back. Molina unholstered a Makarov pistol and leveled it at Pitt.

Díaz staggered to his feet and glared at Pitt, then regarded Summer. “A family resemblance, it seems. Your daughter?” he asked Pitt.

Pitt said nothing, appraising him with contempt.

“Perhaps she can entertain my men during your stay.” Díaz turned to the soldiers. “Get him out of my sight—now!”

The soldiers dragged Pitt out of the office, leaving Summer alone with Díaz and Molina. Díaz opened a desk drawer and pulled out a knife with a carved obsidian blade. He showed it to Summer, then pressed its blade lightly against her cheek. “Now, where were we?”

Summer gritted her teeth. “We are tracking the outbreak of mercury pollutants.”

Díaz nodded and pulled away the knife, leaving a thin trace of blood.

“Your mining operation has released toxic plumes that are destroying large swaths of marine life,” she said. “The plumes are visible by satellite. We tracked the latest one here and came to investigate. The mercury is creating a huge environmental risk.”

Díaz nodded. He was aware of the methyl mercury toxins being released from his underwater blasting but was indifferent to its consequences. “Perhaps the mercury is problematic, but it will dissipate over time.”

“Irreparable harm has already been done to marine life. And your mining here, in the Florida Straits, could have serious effects throughout the entire Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic Coast.”

“Harmful to the U.S., in other words? That is no concern of mine.” Díaz laughed. “I’m afraid you are too late for that.”

He stepped to the Aztec stone and admired it a moment before tapping it with the obsidian knife. “Yes, too late for that. But maybe . . .” He tapped the stone once more. “Maybe you will be here with me when I recover the second stone and complete the message of the Aztecs.”

48

The pilot killed the smoky outboard motor, allowing the skiff to drift with the current. A man on the bow tossed a purse seine net over the side, allowing the movement of the boat to spread its floats. Taking a seat on the forward bench, he made a show of regulating the net’s lines. Hesitating a moment, he waved a hand across his nose while gazing at the catch in the bottom. “Man, these fish have gone bad.”

Seated by the outboard motor, James Maguire laughed. “Hopefully, they’ll deter anyone from searching the boat.”

In ragged T-shirts and dirty baseball caps, the pair looked like local Cayman Island fishermen. They certainly didn’t resemble hired mercenaries. Maguire was in fact a former Marine Corps sniper and CIA field operative. Marty Gomez was an ex–Navy SEAL. Only a keen observer would notice the paltry catch they had hauled in over the past six hours, due in part to Maguire intentionally slicing a hole in the center of the net.

While Gomez made a show of yanking on a snagged net, Maguire slouched in the stern and raised a compact pair of binoculars to his eyes. He focused on a small white yacht moored to a buoy a hundred yards away. There was nothing remarkable about the boat, except for a crisp Cuban flag that flapped above its flybridge.

Maguire shifted his gaze to two Revolutionary Armed Forces patrol boats just beyond, which circled the yacht in a slow, continuous loop.

“We’re losing daylight,” Gomez said. “Are you going in?”

They had spent the better part of the day inching close to the yacht. A few hours earlier, one of the guard boats had whisked by for a look but took no interest in the derelict craft.

Maguire looked from one patrol boat to the other, then lowered his binoculars. “Those boys look half asleep. My grandma could probably pull off the job in a pink rowboat. Anchor us down and I’ll be on my way.”

Gomez lowered an anchor beneath the net lines and tied it off.

Reaching beneath the pile of rotting fish, Maguire retrieved a plastic box containing a small dive computer. Activating a digital compass, he took a sighting of the yacht and programmed a path to its estimated position, then strapped the mechanism to his arm.

“Ready to roll.” He removed his hat and sandals. “Give me some cover.”

“Roger.” Gomez stood with an armful of netting, blocking Maguire from view of the patrol boats. “I’ll keep the lights on.”

Maguire took a last look at the yacht and slipped over the transom. He swam beneath the boat, its underside not looking anything like its shabby topside appearance. He pulled himself past twin impellers and a set of extending hydrofoils, which had propelled the Surprise at over forty knots during its offshore voyage from the workboat the night before.

The boat’s slick hull now resembled a rack from a sporting goods store. Maguire grabbed a tank and buoyancy compensator that hung from a hook and popped the regulator into his mouth. A mask and fins came next, then a weight belt. Once outfitted, he swam over to two other concealed items. The first was a hardened plastic box affixed to the hull with a large suction device. He twisted a grip handle, pulled it clear of the boat, and attached it to his BC. Then he grabbed a small diver propulsion unit dangling from a rope. Taking a bearing from his dive computer, he held the water scooter in front of him and powered it on.