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Havana Storm (Dirk Pitt 23)

Page 74

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“Better start the video,” Maguire said. “Let’s see if we can get a positive ID.”

While Gomez swapped his binoculars for a video camera, Maguire pulled out a waterproof satchel and retrieved some photos. They all showed the same person: a short, fit, older man with gray hair, glasses, and a thin mustache. Most were distant shots, none particularly clear, but it was all they had been provided. Maguire passed the best one to Gomez. “What do you think?”

Gomez had already studied the photos. He took a glance, then checked the video camera’s zoomed-in display screen. “The guy in the gray suit looks like our boy.” He took a second look at the photo. “You know, there’s something familiar about him.”

Maguire nodded as he took another look at the speedboat—and the man in gray. The hair, the glasses, even the clothes seemed to match the photo. Alone, that wouldn’t be enough for his usual precise manner of doing business. But his employer had told him to expect the target to visit the yacht in the morning and there he was. He reached into his satchel and powered on a small transmitter.

The speedboat slowed and pulled astern of the yacht. Gray Suit’s two companions climbed up a stepladder first and helped the older man aboard. From their cropped hair, hefty builds, and ill-fitting suits, Maguire could tell they were a security detail. They escorted the older man into the main salon, then returned to the speedboat. With the patrol boat at its side, the speedboat raced back toward shore.

“Strange that his security detail left him aboard alone,” Gomez said.

“He’s probably got a girlfriend on the way, or maybe one already waiting for him in the master cabin.”

“If so, she must be invisible. I haven’t seen any sign of life aboard in the last twenty-four hours.” He looked at his partner. “Video’s still running.”

Maguire nodded, then pressed a red button on the transmitter as casually as flipping a light switch.

It sent a radio signal to the antenna Maguire had wrapped around the mooring buoy the day before. The transmission triggered a battery-induced charge to the detonator caps in the plastic case suctioned to the yacht’s hull. Their detonation in turn ignited the five pounds of plastic high explosives.

A low bellow echoed across the surface as the yacht rose out of the water in a fountain of smoke, flame, and debris. By the time particles of the yacht began raining in a wide, circular swath, Gomez had the skiff’s outboard motor started. Any remnants of the yacht that didn’t disintegrate in the blast quickly vanished under the waves.

As Gomez motored the skiff away, Maguire observed the scene with a morbid satisfaction. No man could have survived the blast, he thought. Then there came another rumble, this one from his stomach. All he could think about was crawfish étouffée.

54

General Alberto Gutier’s large corner office in the Interior Ministry Building was a model of vanity. The large-windowed suite, commanding a prime view of Havana’s Plaza de la Revolución, was plastered with photos of himself. Some showed Gutier as a handsome young officer commanding troops in Angola. Others showed him speaking with one—or both—of the Castro brothers. A few even showed Gutier with his own brother. But most were solo portraits of the man, gazing into the camera with mercurial poses of self-importance.

A look of aggravation registered on the flesh-and-blood face of Gutier as his younger brother strolled into the office. Juan Díaz, who had been given his late stepfather’s surname while a boy, helped himself to a seat in front of Gutier’s massive executive desk.

“You leave the country for a week, and when you return, there is nothing but chaos,” Gutier said. “You know I can’t afford any exposure with the mining operation—especially now. What is going on up there?”

“An American research ship, the Sargasso Sea, came snooping around the Domingo 1 site as we were concluding extractions.”

“Isn’t that the same vessel that happened by when you sank the drill ship?”

“The Alta. Yes, that was happenstance. But there was no happenstance in their return to the site. If they are to be believed, they were tracking plumes of mercury that are being released in the sea when the thermal vents are blown.”

“I told you that was a mistake to sink the drill ship.” Gutier scowled.

“If we didn’t clear the site, we couldn’t complete our excavation. And if we didn’t complete the excavation, we would fall short of our promised delivery.”

“You are naïve,” Gutier said. “This vessel is CIA, and they’ve discovered our deal with the North Koreans.”

“I don’t think so. I’ve confirmed that the mercury releases are occurring. Quite a large disturbance has been created from the Domingo 1 site.”

“Will that be of harm to Cuba?”

“No, the currents will carry it northeast.”

“That is good but no proof of the Americans’ intentions.”

“The vessel’s history tracks to strictly oceanographic projects,” Díaz said. “And we found no weapons or covert equipment aboard the ship. As you know, one of its submersibles was caught examining our excavation. Two men from the American ship then snuck aboard the Sea Raker and caused some damage. Commander Calzado felt it imperative to launch a counterassault, which you authorized. This was successful and the research ship has been relocated to our territorial waters.”

“There was no choice,” Gutier said, “but now we are playing with fire.”

“I feel the same, but it has already been done. There has been no outcry from the Americans yet, so we still have time to bury things.”

Gutier relaxed slightly. “This still has the potential to blow the lid on our entire project.”



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