The Devil's Triangle (A Brit in the FBI 4)

Adam lit up like a Christmas tree. “Hold on, hold on, yes, I remember reading something—yeah, here it is, I bookmarked it to look at later for a computer program I’d like to write. Ah, here it is. Bathymetric LIDAR—it’s a remote sensing method that NOAA—the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration—uses to map seabeds. LIDAR stands for ‘Light Detecting and Ranging.’ They can map coastlines and seabeds to examine natural and man-made environments. If we can get our hands on the technology—”

Mike said, “That’d take too much time—”

“I’ll call a friend who works at NOAA, see if she knows.”

“Go, do it,” Nicholas said. “But be careful what you say. We don’t want anyone getting word of what we’re doing, especially the Kohaths. We don’t know the sophistication of their communications.”

Mike reholstered her spanking-clean Glock, hoped it worked. “You’re saying we now have a way to find them?”

Louisa propped her chin on her fisted hands. “So any sort of cloaking device wouldn’t extend to beneath the water. And maybe that means we’re looking for some sort of base they built, or—”

“An island,” Mike said. “What if they found a place to live out here and have managed to keep it off the radar—literally—all these years?”

Nicholas said, “So you’re thinking they found an isolated, uninhabited island and set it up as their home base? And this is where all their manufactured storms come from? Okay, that could work. Adam, is there any way to track where the storms were generated from? Are there any sort of coordinates that trace back to this area?”

“Nothing I can see. Sorry, Nicholas. Unless my friend has something for us to latch on to, we’re going to have to go out there and take a look around. I’ve also been looking at pre-twentieth-century maps of this area. No sign of an island in a thirty-mile radius of where Kitsune’s tracker went off. Okay, my call went through. Let’s see what my friend can do. Chill out, guys, we’ve still got thirty minutes before we land.”

Nicholas smiled, stepped away. He looked over at Mike. She was watching him as she put on her gear. She was moving slowly, but she did have some color in her face. He remembered her lying so still, not breathing—he brought himself back. No, she wasn’t dead, she was here, with him, locked and loaded. She was smiling. She was fine.

“Here, let me,” he said, and helped her with the Velcro panel of her bullet-proof vest. She rested her head against his shoulder for a minute, then straightened and passed her belt through the holster and settled it at the right spot on her hip. She grabbed Nicholas’s hand and gave it a good squeeze. “Wipe the worry out of your brain. I’m all right, Nicholas. Quite all right. And both my Glock and my ankle pistol survived their swim. Hopefully.”

He watched her fasten the small holster, then pull on her boots. She looked up at him, frowned. “The boots still feel wet. I doubt they’ll ever dry out.”

“Yeah, give them a decade.” And he brought her up, cupped her face in his hands. “Tell me the truth, and I’ll shut up. How do you feel?”

She lightly stroked her fingers over his scruffy cheek. “I’m good to go, I promise. I like the beard stubble, it’s sexy.”

He had to laugh. “You mean I can seduce you if I don’t happen to shave?”

“Could be. Maybe. Probably.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

Preston Airfield

Cuba

Louisa was standing on the tarmac, having a discussion in heated Spanish with the airport authorities, who were doing their best to make her and Adam get back on the plane and bugger off their tarmac. Clancy and Trident were still in the cockpit, Louisa had told them they couldn’t help, they didn’t speak Spanish. As for Adam and Nicholas, they were still studying maps and doing their computer magic.

Mike, who’d been listening and understood some Spanish, moseyed over. “Louisa, tell our friends here that I know the vice president of the United States personally. I’ll call her, let them speak to her about letting us use their airport.”

Louisa translated in rapid Spanish, and Mike had a feeling she was embroidering Mike’s message. Who cared? Whatever worked.

She saw the official finally nod. He stood there, his shoulders hunched, and kicked a pebble out of his path. Another man came to join him, but he said nothing, merely looked at Louisa, and if Mike wasn’t mistaken, there was admiration in his eyes. Finally, both men nodded.

“Good going, Louisa,” Mike said.

Adam had come out of the plane, stood at the top of the stairs, and stared at a culture completely alien to him—ancient airport, cars from the fifties, jungle creeping onto the runway, impenetrable tangled green as far as the eye could see. He’d watched Louisa, forensics queen of the universe, spewing out fluent Spanish, throwing her weight around. It was a fine sight to see.

He saw a speck on the horizon. Within moments, it grew larger, and he could hear the whine of an engine.

“Nicholas, come here now.”

Nicholas came down the stairs, shaded his eyes. “It’s an old Grumman Albatross coming in for a landing. Louisa, find out where that plane’s coming from.”

She launched into another barrage of Spanish. The first man spoke, then shrugged, and both men hightailed it back to the ancient corrugated steel building that looked close to collapsing in on itself, and disappeared inside.

Mike asked, “What did they say?”