Piranha (Oregon Files 10)

“He’s dead. Killed in a hit-and-run four months ago.”

Juan grimaced. “That’s not the kind of coincidence I like.”

“Neither do I.”

“Is there anyone else I can talk to there? They might remember something.”

“The translator worked for a man named Greg Horne. He’d be willing to speak with you.”

“Where are they located?”

“Manhattan. Midtown. They do a lot of work for the United Nations.”

Juan checked his watch. “We can be there in two hours.”

“I’ll set it up.”

After alerting Tiny Gunderson to fire up the jet for a New York flight, Juan made sure he had a secure encrypted phone connection before he called Max, who he’d left in charge of the Oregon.

“How are our guests?” Juan asked.

“Mr. Reed is being tended to at the rehab facility by some nurses that are so beautiful, I wish I was the one who had been shot. His fishing boat is fully repaired and ready to sail back to Jamaica when he’s feeling up to it.”

“What about Maria Sandoval?”

“She’s been given our finest guest cabin and has an escort with her at all times to the exercise facilities, the mess hall, and the deck. I think she’s still under the impression that we’re a high-tech smuggling operation.”

“Good. But she’s free to go anytime she wants.”

“I think she’s okay for a few days. A friend told her that her apartment was ransacked, so she thinks laying low for a while is a good idea. So was your talk with Mr. Perlmutter useful?”

“More than we hoped,” Juan said, and told Max about their discoveries concerning the Roraima and the connection between Kensit and the dead translator in New York.

“I think I see where this is going,” Max said when Juan was finished.

“Get the Oregon under way for Martinique. You should be able to be there in twelve hours. When Eric and I are done in Manhattan, we’ll fly directly there to meet you. But don’t wait for us. Start diving as soon as you arrive. Eric will send you the deck plans for the search pattern.”

“Already got them.”

“Good. And don’t tell Overholt where you’re going if he calls. We don’t know how Kensit’s surveillance system works or how deep its reach is.” Eric, Murph, and Hali had completely scrubbed their communications systems, so Juan was confident that no one was listening to this conversation.

“You think he might have penetrated CIA?” Max asked.

“Probably not, but it isn’t a risk I want to take. Those photos in the Roraima could be our only clue to tracking down Kensit. If he learns about them and retrieves them first or destroys them, we may never find him.”

Manhattan

It wasn’t difficult to follow the white delivery van through the bustling New York traffic. The green-and-gray logo of tropical vines wrapping around skyscrapers on the back door served as a target that could be seen from several blocks away. Hector Bazin had been on its tail since the Urban Jungle courier service van had left its company’s loading dock.

“Don’t miss this light,” he told his driver. “We don’t have time to go back and follow another van if we lose this one.”

“Yes, sir.” The driver nosed the car around a stopped bus and goosed the accelerator. With the congested streets, there was no chance the van driver would suspect he was being followed.

After putting Brian Washburn and Lawrence Kensit on a helicopter to go visit the Sentinel facility, Bazin had taken one of their two private jets and headed straight for New York City on intelligence that Juan Cabrillo and his companion would be going there next. Bazin’s mission was to intercept him and stop his investigation before it could go any further.

The van took a right on a quiet street in Greenwich Village and double-parked outside a brownstone with a shingle for an accountant’s office. The driver, a white man an inch shorter than Bazin, dressed in the company’s uniform of black trousers and green shirt, jacket, and cap, all emblazoned with the company logo, hopped out of the van with a package. He ducked his head against the chilly wind and rushed inside.

Bazin got out, hauling his own package, a box the size of a bread loaf. He casually walked up to the passenger side of the van and assured himself that no one on the street was watching. Like the deliveryman, the few people who were on the street had their eyes to the sidewalk out of the wind.