“You out there, Tiny?” Juan said.

“Loud and clear, Chairman,” he replied. “Glad to see you sailed over the cliffs. Looked like a close one. Everyone all right?”

“No injuries, thanks to you. Your aim was impeccable.”

“I nearly didn’t make it out myself.”

“We saw that. We’re on our way to a town called El Menia. We’ll land there and gas up. We should be back to the Oregon late this evening. Have Max let the Algerian Army know that they’ve got some Libyan intruders at the coordinates where you made the last drop.”

“Did you make any recoveries?”

“We found the packages we were looking for. Tell Max that Langston Overholt should get ready to make a deposit to Credit Condamine with a lot of fluffy zeroes.”

“There may be a problem with that,” Tiny said, all humor gone from his voice.

“Why?”

“Because Credit Condamine was robbed today during the Monaco Grand Prix. Max said it’s a big mess.”

The Corporation held its assets in several banks around the world, but Credit Condamine was one of its biggest deposits, mainly because of Monaco’s status as a tax haven.

Eddie and Linc knew just as well as Juan did what the implications were.

“You’re kidding,” Linc said.

Eddie looked at Juan with a raised eyebrow. “This doesn’t sound good.”

Juan shook his head in disgust. “How much did they get?”

“All of it,” Tiny said. “All our money in that account is gone.”

EIGHT

ALGIERS

Curious stares from dockworkers greeted the odd-looking Daedalus when it arrived at the port, with the evening sun nearing the horizon. Juan was too concerned about the theft of Corporation funds to care. The old rust bucket tied to the dock may have been the ugliest ship in the harbor, but Juan was happy to see the Oregon again.

To say the 560-foot-long cargo freighter had seen better days was like saying Chernobyl had had a slight accident. The ship looked as if it might sink within minutes of setting sail. The peeling green paint was the color of something a seasick sailor might produce in heavy swells. Rust patches that dotted the hull were so pronounced, they seemed to be mere days from becoming holes.

The upper segment was even worse. Gaps in the bent railing were spanned by chains and bailing wire. The ship was equipped with five cranes, but three of them were in such disrepair that they were obviously useless. The single funnel was caked with soot. Barrels, both upright and overturned, and piles of trash littered the deck. The filthy white superstructure aft of amidships sported windows that were so etched, they looked as if they’d been cleaned with steel wool. One pane of glass was missing and replaced by a moldy piece of plywood.

“Home sweet home,” Linc said, echoing Juan’s thoughts.

The Daedalus was hauled up by one of the operational cranes and lowered into the hold.

They made their way up the gangplank and separated once they were on board. Eddie and Linc went to secure the Daedalus and its radioactive cargo, and Juan entered a companionway toward the crew area.

Buzzing fluorescent lights blinked overhead, providing dim illumination for the grimy bare metal walls and chipped linoleum floor. He passed the captain’s quarters, the pungent odor coming from it as overwhelming as ever. The interior was so sparsely furnished and dingy that it would have made a Third World interrogation chamber seem like a palace by comparison.

Juan reached a utility closet and opened it to find mops, brooms, and other cleaning supplies that had gathered dust from disuse. He closed the door behind him and turned the knobs on the slop sink in a practiced pattern, and, with a click, the back wall slid open, revealing lush carpeting and mahogany walls in a hallway lit by recessed lighting befitting a five-star hotel.

Juan went inside and the wall closed behind him, the buzzing of the fluorescents and the foul smell vanishing instantly. Paintings by impressionist masters lined the halls, which safeguarded some of the Corporation’s resources in assets that were stowed aboard the Oregon.

Selling them would be a last resort, but he was glad he had them as a backup, especially after hearing that a major portion of the Corporation’s cash reserve was now gone.

The biggest asset the Corporation owned was the Oregon itself. When Juan had created his brainchild for carrying out U.S. government operations off the books, his first task had been to find a ship appropriate for the job. After a long search, he found photos of an 11,000-ton lumber carrier destined for the scrapyard. The old freighter had performed well over a couple of decades hauling timber to Asia from the Pacific Northwest, but she had become too slow and obsolete to be profitable. She was so plain and unassuming that Juan knew she would be perfect for his purposes.

Although three breaker yards had bid against him, she was still far cheaper than a new ship. He took the junker to a covered dry dock in Vladivostok, where she spent six months getting a radical keel-to-deck overhaul, care of a friendly and corrupt Russian admiral who knew a good business opportunity when he saw it.

Tags: Clive Cussler Oregon Files Thriller
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