Final Option (Oregon Files 14)

nodded. It was nearly an exact duplicate of the outfit Overholt was wearing in the hostage video.

“By the time they’re close enough to notice it’s not really Lang’s, it won’t matter,” Juan said. “Just don’t get that lollipop stuck to it. It’ll be a dead giveaway.”

Kevin chuckled and said, “Oh, sorry,” before tossing it in a wastebasket. “Sugar-free. Keeps me from snacking.”

Years of craft services on movie sets had caused Kevin’s weight to balloon far past obesity, but once he joined the Corporation, he went on a strict diet designed by Julia Huxley and controlled by the Oregon’s Michelin-rated chef. He’d kept the weight off for the most part, but it was a constant battle for him.

“I think the suit will look even better once I have it on Fred over there,” Kevin said, pointing at one of the makeup chairs.

Juan smiled when he saw the articulated dummy sitting there. They often used it for testing the safety of new equipment. Today Fred was wearing a gray wig that looked remarkably like Langston Overholt’s hairstyle. His facial features were altered to look like the CIA administrator.

“You even got the wrinkles right,” Juan said in amazement.

“Don’t worry,” Kevin said. “All of that will stay in place even when Fred is wet.”

Juan was impressed by the top-notch job, but not surprised. Like the rest of his crew, Kevin didn’t settle for doing anything but his best work, especially when he knew his fellow crewmates’ lives depended on it.

He understood that Fred would be a key player in the effort to rescue Overholt. The crash test dummy was going to be Juan’s distraction.

24

BUENOS AIRES

Less than a day later, Juan stood alone next to the Obelisco de Buenos Aires, the monument commemorating the city’s founding in 1536. It was one of the most famous landmarks in Argentina and sat in the middle of Avenida 9 de Julio, a twenty-lane boulevard known as the widest street in the world. He choose to take Tate’s phone call here because it was recognizable and near his next destination.

Right on time, Juan’s phone buzzed with a call from Overholt’s number.

He answered in video mode, as instructed, and saw his own face on Tate’s body again.

“Good to see you again, Juan,” Tate said.

“I can’t say the same.”

“Take a spin to show me you’re really in Buenos Aires.”

Juan turned the phone around and showed the midday traffic on the easily recognizable street.

“Good enough?” Juan asked.

“You’re on La Avenida, I see.”

Juan started walking toward a side street. “I won’t be here long enough for you to find me, in case you’re thinking of capturing me before I get Lang out of that diving bell.”

“And interrupt the game before it’s started? I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“I know you’re here as well. I saw the Portland in the harbor.” Juan had spotted it during his morning reconnaissance. The name on the stern read SALEM, and the ship was configured differently than the Oregon, but its length was identical and the superstructure was in the same location.

“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”

“Nice ship that you stole from us.”

“I didn’t steal it, I copied it,” Tate said. “Didn’t Picasso say, ‘Good artists copy, great artists steal’?”

“You’re no artist.”

“Maybe you’d think differently if I stole the Oregon herself.”

“You can try.”