The Silent Sea (Oregon Files 7)

“That is where your husband sent us, to America, where we grabbed a woman who’s an expert on Chinese ships or something. I have no idea why. I tell you, though, it’s not what I joined the Army to do.”

“I know my husband,” Maxine said. “Everything he does is planned, from eating breakfast to commanding your regiment. He has his reasons. This must be why he took off for Buenos Aires just as you and Jorge returned.”

“We met him at your apartment in the city. He had some men with him—Chinese, I think.”

“They’re from the embassy. Philippe has been meeting with them quite a bit recently.”

“I’m sorry, but I still don’t like it. Don’t get me wrong. I love the Army and I love Jorge, but these past few months . . .” His voice trailed off.

“You may not believe this,” Maxine said, her voice crisp and firm, “but I love my husband very much, and I love this country. Philippe may be many things, but he is not reckless. Whatever he is doing is for the greater good of Argentina and its people.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen some of the things he’s ordered us to do.”

“I don’t want to hear about it,” she said stubbornly, the romantic cocoon they had built for themselves dissolving.

He placed a hand on her bare shoulder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset,” she replied, but had to wipe at her eyes. “Philippe tells me very little, but I have always trusted him. You should, too.”

“Okay,” Jimenez said, and reached for her.

Maxine slithered out of his grip. “I must be getting back now. Even with Philippe in BA, the servants talk. You understand?”

“Of course. My servants are always gossiping.” They both laughed because he had come from a poor family.

Maxine moved off to dress. She climbed aboard Concorde, who had stayed near them the entire time.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” he asked, stuffing the blanket back into the saddlebag.

“So long as you promise not to discuss my husband or his work.”

“I will be the good soldier and do as you order.”

THE CHOPPER PILOT WAS RELIEVED that his passengers had paid cash because when he saw their destination he knew any check they wrote would have bounced. As it stood, he considered radioing his business partner and having him make sure the money wasn’t cou

nterfeit.

He was taking the two men from Rio’s Galeão International Airport to a cargo ship a hundred miles offshore. From a distance, it looked like any of the dozens of vessels that approached Brazil every week, but as they neared and details came into focus he could see she was a floating heap of rust barely held together by duct tape and baling wire. The smoke from her stack was so black, he suspected she burned bunker fuel and lubricating oil in equal ratios. Her cranes looked like they could barely hold themselves up, let alone lift any cargo. He glanced over his shoulder at the younger passenger as if to say: Are you sure?

The man had the sallow look of someone who hadn’t slept for days, and whatever burden he carried was just ounces away from crushing him. And yet, when he realized the pilot was looking at him, the passenger winked one of his bright blue eyes, and the mask of consternation melted away.

“She’s not much to look at,” the passenger said over his mike, “but she gets the job done.”

“I don’t think I can land on the deck,” the pilot said, his English tinted with a hint of Portuguese. He didn’t add that he thought the weight of his Bell JetRanger would probably collapse a hatch cover.

“No problem. Just hover over the fantail, and we’ll jump.”

The second passenger, a man in his late fifties or early sixties with a bandage on his head, groaned at the prospect of leaping from the helicopter.

“You got it.” The pilot turned his attention back to flying while the passengers gathered up their luggage, which consisted of a laptop case and a battered canvas shoulder bag. Everything else had been dumped in Mississippi.

Juan Cabrillo never tired of looking at the Oregon. To him, she was as fine a piece of art as any of the paintings hanging on the walls of her secret passageways. He had to admit that homecomings were sweeter when a mission was complete, not like now, with Tamara Wright in the hands of an Argentine death squad and her exact whereabouts unknown. The cocky wink he had thrown at the pilot was just that—cockiness. Her fate lay like a stone in his stomach.

To the Brazilian pilot’s credit, he held the skids of the helicopter a foot off the deck when first Max and then Juan jumped to the ship. The two men ducked low in the pounding rotor wash until the JetRanger peeled away and clawed skyward. When it was a glittering speck on the western horizon, the helmsman—Juan assumed it was Eric Stone—killed the smudge generator that gave the illusion the ship was powered by traditional, albeit poorly maintained, marine diesels.

He gave the Iranian flag hanging from the jack staff his traditional one-finger salute and followed Max toward the superstructure.

They were met at a watertight door by Dr. Huxley and Linda Ross. Hux immediately started escorting Max down to Medical, muttering about the butcher job they had done on him in the hospital.