The Jungle (Oregon Files 8)

“The casino’s owned by an American company, and, according to the tenets of Islam, gambling, or maisir, is forbidden,” Cabrillo replied. “That place is the church of all things unholy. Anything on the bombers themselves?”

“Just what was captured on the hotel’s surveillance cameras when they were in the lobby and elevator. They were either Malay or Indonesian. No IDs were found. And it’ll take days to do a DNA search, and most likely these guys aren’t on any databases. Their pictures might match with something, but nada for now.”

“It’s early,” Juan remarked.

They stepped over the coaming of a watertight door and into the superstructure. The lighting was fluorescents bolted to the ceiling, and the hallways were painted steel. When there was no prospect of outsiders entering the ship, the air was kept comfortable, but it could be changed at a moment’s notice. In cold climes, if an inspector or customs agent was aboard, they cranked up the big Trane air conditioners, or in the tropics they would pump in additional heat just to make the interlopers want off the ship as fast as possible. Also, the lighting could be set to flickering at microburst frequencies designed to interfere with neural activity. For some it brought a mild headache and a little nausea. It could send an epileptic into a seizure.

That had happened only once, fortunately, and Doc Huxley was there in moments.

Since an incident involving Somali pirates a few months back hadn’t gone as planned, Max had installed injectors that could flood the entire superstructure, or individual rooms, with carbon monoxide, again under the watchful eye of Julia Huxley. The odorless and colorless gas induced drowsiness and lethargy at first, but prolonged exposure would bring brain damage and death. Because individuals react differently depending on their size and physical condition, Cabrillo considered this to be a last-ditch option.

They stepped into a little-used janitor’s closet, and Linda twisted the taps of a slop sink like she was working the dials of a safe. The water that splashed from the faucet was rusty brown and somehow lumpy.

No detail was too minor.

A secret door clicked open to reveal the opulent core of the Oregon, the spaces where the men and women who manned her spent most of their time.

They went one deck lower to where most of the crew’s cabins were located, and Juan paused outside the door of his own suite. Linda made to follow him in and continue the briefing.

“Sorry,” he said, “but I need a shower and to get out of these clothes. I look like a Star Wars action figure dressed in an old G.I. Joe doll’s outfit.”

“I wasn’t going to mention your need for a new tailor,” she grinned saucily. “You look like I did wearing one of my dad’s shirts as an art-class smock when I was a little girl.”

“We hired Tiny for his flying ability, not his uniformity of size.” He turned away, then stopped. “One more thing. Go down to the boat garage and tell them we need to strip one of the RHIBs of every ounce of weight they can think of. That includes pulling one of her outboards and centering the other. Max has Gomez Adams and his team doing the same thing to the whirlybird.”

An RHIB was one of the two Rigid Hulled Inflatable Boats the Oregon carried, one in a starboard-mounted chamber where it could be launched into the sea and another in storage in a forward hold as a backup.

Linda didn’t point out the obviousness of Cabrillo’s plan. Once they choppered into Myanmar, the only real way around the interior was by boat. “Aye, Chairman. Enjoy your shower.” Linda sauntered off.

The Chairman’s cabin was decorated like it had been the stage for the film Casablanca, with all sorts of archways, finely carved wooden screens, and enough potted palms to seed an oasis. The tile floor was laid over a rubber membrane so the ship’s vibration wouldn’t crack it.

Before he saw to his own needs, and inspired by the gun crew up on deck, he retrieved the Kel-Tec pistol from his overalls’ pocket and set it on the blotter on his desk next to what looked like an old Bakelite phone but was actually part of the Oregon’s sophisticated communications array. Behind his desk was a gun safe. He opened the heavy door, ignoring the assortment of arms and the bundles of currency and gold coins stored within. Instead, he retrieved a gun-cleaning kit. He knew the little automatic’s chamber was clear, but he jacked the slide several times, once he’d pulle

d out the empty magazine. After carefully scouring the barrel and chamber, he wiped all the parts with gun oil. He loaded fresh .380 ammunition into the magazine. He would have chambered a final round, but he wanted the armorers and Kevin Nixon down in the Magic Shop to give his artificial leg a going-over after its dunking, so he just put the pistol into his desk drawer.

An unchambered bullet wasn’t a danger until someone touched the gun.

He fought his way out of the XXL-sized jumpsuit, pulled off the prosthetic leg, and hopped easily into his luxurious bathroom. It had a copper tub big enough for elephants to laze away an afternoon in, but it was rarely used. Instead, he got into the shower, adjusting the heat and the multiple heads until his body was being pummeled by tsunamis of water just a few degrees cooler than scalding.

He dressed casually in lightweight khakis and a rich purple polo shirt, his feet shod in soft leather moccasins without socks. Unlike his combat leg, the prosthesis he had on now was a virtual twin of his flesh-and-bone limb.

His cabin was the closest to the Op Center, the electronic nerve center of the freighter. It was from this room, as high-tech as the bridge of a science-fiction starship, that all the Oregon’s weapons, defensive systems, damage control, helm, and propulsion were controlled. The semicircular room, dominated by a massive flat-panel display and kept dimly lit, had a helmsman and fire-control officer sitting toward the front, with duty stations for communications, radar and sonar, and a dozen others ringing it. The watchkeeper sat at the middle of the space in a single chair with its own monitor and controls that could supersede all others. Mark and Eric had dubbed it the “Kirk Chair” the first time they had seen it, which secretly pleased Cabrillo since that had been his inspiration when he’d designed the space.

Eddie Seng had the conn but leapt to his feet when Juan entered the Op Center.

“As you were, Mr. Seng.” On the split screen were feeds from multiple cameras mounted at strategic locations around the ship. “Anything to report?”

“We’re all alone out here, so I’ve got her humming along at forty knots.”

“Any word from young Mr. Lawless?”

“He’s still in Kabul but will make our pickup in Bangladesh.”

“Get word to him that he’ll be choppering out to the ship with another passenger, and that discretion is the better part of valor. A loose lip could sink this ship, and all that.”

“Who’s the other passenger?” Eddie asked.

“A corporate minder named John Smith,” Juan said. “Ex-Legionnaire. He’s Croissard’s muscle, and Croissard’s insisting that he come with us.”