letter word in their line of work.
The Silent Sea got separated from the other two ships for a month on its way to South America. They stopped at a remote island please don't ask which and they traded for fresh food from the natives. That's the only deviation from what the other ships encountered, so I've always believed the food was tainted somehow.
Would you excuse me for a moment, Juan said, and stepped away. Max couldn't have been happier.
Juan dialed the Oregon and asked to be put through to Dr. Huxley.
Jules, its Juan.
Hey, where are you guys?
Believe it or not, on a Mississippi riverboat.
It's warm and sunny, isn't it? There was envy in the ship's medical officer's voice.
The sun just set, but it's still about eighty.
And you're calling to gloat. That's cold, Chairman, even for you.
Listen, have you had a chance to check those samples you asked Murph to bring back from Wilson/George?
Not yet.
Test them for prions.
Prions . . . seriously? You think Andrew Gangle had mad cow disease?
A form of it, yes, and I think he got it from the other body. Prions don't die, right?
They're just proteins, so they aren't really alive. But, yes, in a sense they don't die.
So someone could become infected if prions are introduced into the bloodstream by, say, accidentally jabbing yourself with the bone of a corpse riddled with them?
Julia didn't hesitate. Theoretically. Where'd this brainstorm come from?
A Chinese ship that isn't where it was supposed to be. Do me a favor and tell Mark and Stoney to quit studying the map. I found the bay. He left it at that and rejoined Max and Tamara, who was laughing at some joke Hanley had just cracked.
What was that all about? Max asked.
Playing a hunch about what tainted the food aboard the Silent Sea. Cannibalism was a common occurrence on several Pacific islands, and, if he was right, he knew what kind of meat the Chinese had bartered for. What cargo did the ship carry?
She was loaded with everything from gold and spices to silks and jade, all the items that the Chinese held in esteem. They wanted the best in their dealings with natives they met on their voyage, so they brought only their best. What else did Admiral Tsai write?
I have a translation down in my cabin. It would be my pleasure to get you a copy.
It was only because the band had stopped that Juan heard the low throb of powerful engines. He knew what it was even before he sprang to his feet. His sudden action alerted Max.
Juan raced to the side of the stern-wheeler and peered down into the dark waters. There was enough glow left in the sky for him to see that a forty-foot cigarette-style boat had pulled alongside the Natchez Belle. In it were four men dressed in dark clothes with ski masks pulled over their faces. So many things gelled in his mind at that moment, so many implications of what their dogged pursuit meant. But he didn't have time to dwell on them.
Already one of the men had leapt the narrow gap from the cigarette boat to the lowest deck of the lumbering pleasure boat.
They had four men. One would have to stay with their vessel, meaning three would board the Belle. Juan and Max had faced worse odds, but he had to consider the other passengers' safety. From what he'd seen of the Argentines, they weren't above targeting civilians.
Max, stay with her. Jump over the side if you have to.
Hanley hadn't drawn his pistol but his hand was at the ready in his jacket.
What's happening? Tamara asked, her body sensing the tension in her new companions.
You're in danger, Max said. You have to trust us.
But I don't
Max cut her off. There isn't time. Please, trust me.
Juan had made his way to the main stairwell down to the lower decks when he heard screams coming from below. The Argentines were all aboard now, he guessed, and brandishing weapons. He could see a panicked mob, surging for the stairs. There was no way he'd be able to fight his way down through the mess of clamoring people.
He turned instantly and rushed forward. Next to the hot tub was a peaked skylight made up of dozens of pieces of emerald-cut glass set in a wrought-iron frame. He kicked at a few of the panes, shards of glass cascading onto the dinner table below. More shrieks came from startled early diners who hadn't heard the commotion.
Cabrillo jumped through the opening he'd created and hit the table a little off center. It collapsed, tossing him to the floor in an avalanche of food, cutlery, and plates. His momentum knocked a matronly woman back in her chair so her thick legs were pointed at the ceiling. They bicycled comically as she tried to right herself.
Juan got to his feet, stinking of wine and collard greens. His ankle gave a slight twinge. It wasn't sprained, but he'd twisted it in the fall. While some passengers stared, the husband of the woman he'd knocked over started yelling at him. He made to push Cabrillo in the shoulder, but Juan sidestepped his attempt, rotating in place and pushing the man on the back in a maneuver that looked like a matador turning a charging bull.
It happened so fast that the irate husband took two steps before he realized he was past his target. He spun to up the fight's ante but stopped dead when he saw Juan had drawn his pistol. Cabrillo didn't aim it at him, though he made sure the guy got a good look at it and rethought how best to defend his wife's honor. She still hadn't managed to get her legs down or her backside out of the overturned chair.
The glass doors leading into the dining room were suddenly smashed open. Two of the gunmen burst through. Screams erupted when the passengers saw the assault rifles. Cabrillo recognized them as Ruger Mini-14s, among the best civilian rifles made. He didn't have a clear shot because of the people scrambling to get away from the armed intruders. Some dove under tables while others seemed rooted where they stood, ashen and unsure.
The men swept the room, looking for Tamara Wright. They would easily have gotten a picture off the Internet, something Cabrillo had forgotten to do. Juan turned slightly and crouched so they wouldn't get a look at his face.
Everybody line up against the back wall.
Cabrillo recognized the voice of the Argentine Major.
There was a waiter standing next to the kitchen doors. He slowly tried to sneak his way through and escape. The second gunman saw the movement and fired without hesitation. The bullet caught him square in the chest, its speed sending it straight through him and on into the kitchen, where it ricocheted off some piece of equipment.
The passengers' screaming built into a crescendo of noise that filled the dining room. In this fresh surge of panic, Cabrillo made his move. He knew that once the gunman got control of the room he was a dead man, so he launched himself toward the big picture window overlooking the inky river. He took four paces before the Argentines reacted. A string of rounds from the semiautomatic rifles buzzed around him. Glassware and dishes exploded off the tables when they were hit. One round caught a tuxedoed man in the arm. He was so close to Cabrillo that his blood splashed Juan's sleeve.
Several other bullets hit the window, starring the glass and weakening it enough so that when Cabrillo threw himself against it it failed spectacularly. He crashed into the Mississippi in a hail of shards, forcing himself as deep as he could.
The water was pitch-black just inches below the surface. By feel, he swam along the hull as the Natchez Belle continued southward. He could sense the vibration of her props through the river and hear the relentless churning of her decorative stern wheel.
Juan surfaced just under where the hull and deck met, in an area protected from above. The boat was moving at about four knots, and its passage pulled him through the water at nearly the same speed. He jammed his pistol into its holster to free up his hands.
Like on a traditional stern-wheeler, there was a rocker arm protruding over the side of the ship, like the pistons that drive a locomotive's big wheels. On the Belle, it wasn't functional, only an additional element to make
