Biloxi’s weather had thickened by the time the InterOil helicopter touched down, and the journalists dispersed, most of them aboard the courtesy VIP shuttle over to the airport’s terminal for their flights out. A couple of them cabbed it to the Grand Biloxi Casino and Hotel, making DeCamp the last to leave, taking a cab rather than the shuttle over to the terminal because, he told the driver, he didn’t like mobs.
He had a beer in the lounge, and lost a roll of quarters to a slot machine over a half-hour’s period, then walked across to the baggage pickup area, and outside to get a cab to the Beau Rivage Casino and Hotel on the beach, where he’d stayed in a suite for the past three days.
No one at the desk recognized him as he entered the hotel, passed through the casino, and then made his way back to the elevators and up to his suite where he took out the contacts that made his eyes look bright green, makeup that aged him by ten years, and padding on his torso and hips that’d put twenty-five pounds on him
Afterwards, looking out at the deepening gloom over the Gulf, first making sure that none of the telltales on his laptop had been disturbed, DeCamp felt a bit of nostalgia for Martine and his soft life above Nice. And sadness. Listening to the woman scientist speak about her project, watching the expression on her pretty, outdoorsy face, seeing her enthusiasm for what she was doing, and sensing her fears — some of which probably had to do with the presence of the flotilla, but at least some of which had to hinge on the outcome of her experiment — he could imagine someone like him coming to kill Martine. For perhaps the first time in his life he wanted something different, and for just a moment he thought he could put words to what he wanted; it was a notion just outside his immediate grasp, at the back of his head, on the tip of his tongue.
But then it was gone, and he ordered a bottle of Krug from room service, and when it came he sat down at his computer to make his notes, and download the photographs from his digital camera, sending them to Bindle when he was done.
DeCamp’s cover here was as Peter Bernstein, a businessman from Sydney, who was obviously wealthy, though not filthy rich by American standards, who was quiet and generally kept to himself, although each night he had a different woman up to his suite. He ate and drank well, tipped well, his credit was triple A, and although his losses at the tables — especially blackjack, a game he despised — were modest, they were steady. His initial reservation had been for three days, but he’d extended that indefinitely. “I’m on holiday, in absolutely no hurry,” he’d told the front desk. “Besides, it’s winter in Auz. No reason to go back till spring.”
After a short nap, he took a shower and changed into a European-cut soft gray suit, open-collar silk shirt, and hand-sewn Brazilian loafers. He’d left the television on a local news channel and as he was putting on his jacket, ready to go down to the casino, something caught his eye and he turned up the sound. It was a Fox News report on Eve Larsen’s oil rig and Schlagel’s God’s Flotilla. Schlagel himself had been asked by the Fox reporter, “What comes next?”
“Why, to stop this abomination against the righteous hand of God, of course.”
“How are you going to do it?”
“Make all Americans aware of the danger Dr. Larsen represents,” Schlagel said, his voice rising, and he started on his diatribe delivered in neatly scripted sound bites.
As he preached, Fox ran some of the footage of the flotilla taken from the main deck of Vanessa Explorer that morning. Although DeCamp’s attention remained atuned to Schlagel’s arguments — which he actually had to admire because of the man’s sheer brilliance — he suddenly saw the solution to both of the remaining problems, and he smiled, something he hadn’t done for a very long time.
Simplicity. The concept had been drummed into him from the day he’d come under Colonel Frazer’s roof.
He went back into the bedroom and used the encrypted Nokia sat phone to call Boris Gurov aboard the rig. “There has been a change of plans. For the better.”
“I’m listening,” Gurov said. “But something’s come up out here. Two new people have come aboard, and one of them is Kirk McGarvey.”
“Do you know this name?” DeCamp asked.
“Yes, and you should, too. A few years ago he served as the director of the bloody CIA. And he’s damned good. The best.”
“Who’s with him?”
“Some woman.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes, but McGarvey could be trouble,” Gurov insisted.
DeCamp thought about it for a moment. “His presence changes nothing. We’ll deal with him the same as the others. But listen, Boris, this is what’s going to happen.”
When he was finished the line was silent for a long beat, but when Gurov came back he sounded good. “It makes sense. Besides, if they keep up with all the racket, it’ll provide good cover.”
“What about the primary problem?” DeCamp askled.
“Nearly all communications to and from the rig go through a pair of satellite dishes on the roof of the control center. Taking them out will be a breeze. Presuming we do this outside cell phone range, it only leaves sat phones. This one, plus one the delivery captain carries in a holster on his belt, maybe one or more the scientists brought with them, and McGarvey might have brought one.”
“Find them, job one,” DeCamp said. “You have four days.”
“We’ll see you then,” Gurov said.
Schlagel was still on the television when DeCamp walked back into the living room. The reverend stood on the back of a pickup truck in front of a large crowd, exhorting them to make their voices heard in Washington and everywhere across the country. “We must work together to stop this abomination against God’s will.”
DeCamp called the second encrypted phone, that he’d given to Joseph Wyner who’d been holed up in New Orleans for the past five days with a four-man team they’d hired in London. All of them were mercs, Julius Helms and Edwin Burt, former British SAS demolitions experts, Paul Mitchell, a former U.S. Delta Force hand-to-hand instructor, and Bob Lehr, a German cop who’d grown up in the east zone, and whose KGB methods were too rough in the west.
Wyner answered. “You’re early,” he said.
“There’s a change of plans,” DeCamp said, and he told his team leader the same thing he’d told Gurov.
“Sounds good. When do you want us to join you?”
“As soon as possible. I want you to book three rooms at the Beau Rivage, for three nights, starting tomorrow. Absolutely no drinking and especially no gambling.”
“I don’t know if I can keep them under control for that long.”
The Fox camera had pulled back to show a large building behind Schlagel. The marquee in front read MISSISSIPPI COAST COLISEUM & CONVENTION CENTER, and a crawl at the bottom of the screen announced that the Reverend Jeremiah Schlagel’s God Project rally and revival meeting would begin at eight in the coliseum.
“It’ll only be for one night,” DeCamp said.
“We’ll be there before noon,” Wyner said. “What about a boat?”
“I’ll leave that to you,” DeCamp said. “A cabin cruiser in the forty-to fifty-foot range. Spare no expense. But use your work name.”
“I’ll call you with the details.”
“Do,” DeCamp said.
Five minutes later he reached navy captain Manuel Rodriguez at his home outside of Havana. He’d worked with the Cuban two years ago on an assignment in Miami for the government, for which he made an under-the-table kickback payment of fifty thousand dollars. Rodriguez was in his debt, and when DeCamp had called last month with his proposal and an offer of another fifty thousand, the man had been more than willing.
“I’ll be needing my boat ride within seven days. Can this be managed?”
“Of course,
“Only approximately,” DeCamp said, and he gave him the numbers for an area in the Straits of Florida, well
