Navigator, and take him to the airstrip. He would be safe in Mexico in time to watch the evening news.
But did this unidentified man's presence mean that it was all over? If Macias followed his own rules, yes. Any sign of a countering effort meant quitting the scheme. This was the fucking U.S., after all.
On the other hand, they were only hours away from collecting a damned fortune.
Macias immediately closed the Loza e-mails and erased them. He tried to clear his thoughts. Think. That guy could've been anybody. Just because he was there didn't mean he was competent or accomplished at whatever it was he was doing. Didn't mean he was a professional. Maybe Cain was trying to play Spy Man.
But what if this was a serious move? What if this was the endgame and Macias's greed was clouding his reasoning? Both Macias and Luquin had agreed that the reward was worth the risk, but if it failed, well, then they had differing points of view. Luquin took every failure as a personal insult. As irrational as that was, it didn't change the fact that he believed it.
And now, the arrival of bodyguards meant that Luquin's order to kill Rita Cain was impossible in the short term.
The pressure for Macias was sudden and excruciating. Cayetano Luquin would have him killed for this one. If not immediately, then later, when Macias was least expecting it. Tano would see the failure of this operation-the loss of so much money-as an unforgivable betrayal.
Suddenly, getting Luquin out safely seemed less of a priority. In fact, it actually seemed like a stupid move.
This wasn't a time for half measures. Everything had to be put on the table for consideration.
Chapter 42
The two fishermen had been maneuvering the bass boat along the northern bank of Lake Austin for half an hour, every so often putting in next to the cliffside woods, tying up temporarily to an overhanging tree and then casting their lures into the shade along the bank. The boat was covered with a canvas canopy to keep the searing afternoon sun off them as they dabbled along, heading in the direction of the looming steel arches of the Loop 360 bridge.
They were having lousy luck. The ski boats were active on this particular afternoon, roaring up and down the center of the long lake, throwing an endless series of swelling wakes toward the wooded shores. The fishermen stubbornly worked their way in the direction of the bridge, stoically tolerating the rolling action of their boat, casting uselessly into the thin margin of shadows thrown onto the water by the woods that crowded against the limestone cliffs.
Finally they tried one last spot. After tying up close to the bank, they pulled the boat under a thick shelter of oaks. From across the lake the boat was almost hidden, but no one noticed. The bass boat had been piddling along for three-quarters of an hour now, and all of the attention on the water was attracted to the skiers who blazed up and down in their lanes in the lake's center. Summer afternoons on this part of the lake were given over to water sports that were louder and faster than fishing.
From the clifftop homes above, the bass boat hadn't been visible at all for the last half hour.
The boat hugged its shady bower for nearly twenty-five minutes. The ski boats continued to plow liquid furrows in the lake, only to have them dissipate in swells that headed slowly for the shores in a lugubrious flight from the boats that had created them.
Finally the anglers had had enough. Slowly the boat emerged from overhanging vegetation under the high cliffs and moved out into the lake. After crossing to the other side, it turned southward and picked up speed as it headed downriver toward the main part of the city. Soon the boat was clipping along, wasting no time. It was too far from shore and moving too fast for anyone to see clearly under the deep shade of its canvas canopy. But anyone who had had the opportunity, or cared enough to follow closely the boat's progress up, and now down, the river, would have made the curious observation that there seemed to be only one angler in the bass boat now.
When the telephone rang, Rita picked it up in Titus's office, where she was still making calls about Carla.
“May I please speak to Mr. Cain? ”a man asked.
Rita froze. He had a Spanish accent. All of the planning, all of the tactical maneuverings, were taking place over secure transmissions. What was this? Was it unrelated? She threw a look at Janet, who was standing at the window.
“May I tell him who's calling?”
“He's expecting me.”
Another alarm bell.
“Just a second, ”she said, “I'll have to connect you to his phone. ”She punched the hold button and spoke to Janet. “This is someone asking for Titus. Mexican accent. Won't leave his name.”
“Just put him through, ”she said, and then she turned aside and spoke softly into her mike.
Herrin was tapping away on the laptop found in the orchard, with Titus and Cline looking over his shoulders. Cline, who was wearing headphones and a mike on a long cord, was the communications hub for everyone. He heard all transmissions among the bodyguards and all the phone calls.
“Uhhh…, ”Herrin said.
The three of them were looking at a picture of Rita just about as naked as anyone could be and still be wearing clothes. She was beautiful.
“Son of a bitch, ”Titus said. “How many of those are there?”
“Uhh… one other, ”Herrin said, closing the image.
“Let's see it, ”Titus said, and Herrin hit the keys.
Unbelievable.
“Delete it, ”Titus said, “and keep going. ”Jesus Christ. He was furious, and uneasy with the creepy feeling that came over him as an image popped into his head of some guy crouching behind the stone wall taking nearly nude pictures of Rita.
Herrin's fingers snapped over the keys in double time, as if to get the hell away from those images as fast as possible. Then he hit the ones he was looking for. Five shots. He went through them quickly, slowing on the last two. He threw them both on the screen at the same time. The three of them stared at the photos.
“I just don't see how you could identify him from those,” Titus said.
“I guess that depends on what kind of software they're going to use, ”Herrin said.
“Yeah, I guess so, ”Titus agreed. “But, right off the bat, I don't see how this is any great revelation for them.”
The phone rang on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Surprised, Titus saw that it was coming from his office. He went over and picked it up. He glanced at Cline, who seemed to be listening to some other communication.
“Titus, ”Rita said, “this is some guy with a Spanish accent for you. Wouldn't give his name.”
“Did he say what he wanted?”
“He said you were expecting the call.”
Titus turned to Cline, who was already nodding at him and heading for the digital trace-and-record setup sitting on folding tables against one wall.
“Titus, I'm coming over, ”Rita said. “I want to hear this.”
Before he could object she disconnected, and he glanced at Cline.
“She can use those headphones over there, ”Cline said, pointing at the other end of the table. “We're good to go.”
Titus punched the button on the phone.
“This is Titus.”
“My name is Jorge Macias. I believe you know about me already.”
Titus, stunned, said nothing.
“I think you do, ”Macias said. “I want you to know that I am taking a deadly risk by making this call to you. I have to meet with you, Mr. Cain. We have to talk.”
