McCaskey gave him a funny look. “Who’s going up there?”
“Maria Corneja,” Luis answered softly.
McCaskey quietly placed his knife and fork on his plate. Aideen watched as a strange discomfiture came over the normally stoic former G-man. It started with a sad turn of the mouth then grew to include the eyes.
“I didn’t realize she was working with you again,” McCaskey said. He touched his napkin to his lips.
“She returned about six months ago,” Luis said. “I brought her back.” He shrugged. “She needed the money so she could keep her small theater in Barcelona going. And I needed her because—
McCaskey was still looking away. Far away. He managed a weak smile. “She is good.”
“The best.”
McCaskey finally raised his eyes. He looked at Aideen for a very long moment. She couldn’t imagine what was going through his mind.
“I’ll have to clear it with Paul,” he said, “but I’m in favor of having our own intel from the site. Take your tourist papers.” He looked at Luis. “Will Maria be going as an Interpol officer or not?”
“That will be her call,” he replied. “I want her to have the freedom to act.”
McCaskey nodded. Then he fell silent again.
Aideen looked at Luis. “I’ll get a few things together. How are we going to San Sebastian?”
“By helicopter from the airport,” he said. “You’ll have a rental car when you arrive. I’ll phone Maria to let her know that you will be accompanying her. Then I will take you over.”
McCaskey looked at Luis. “Did she know I was here, Luis?”
“I took the liberty of informing her.” He patted the back of his friend’s hand. “It’s all right. She gave you her best.”
McCaskey’s expression grew sad again. “That she did,” he replied. “That she most surely did.”
ELEVEN
When Juan Martinez maneuvered the runabout away from the Ramirez yacht, the twenty-nine-year-old sailor and navigator had no idea that he’d be saving his own life.
Idling roughly twenty-five meters from the boat, Juan was rocked from his feet by the explosion. But his small boat was not overturned. As soon as the main blast had died, the muscular young man threw the small boat ahead, toward the listing ship.
He had found Esteban Ramirez — who was his employer as well as the father of their powerful
His employer was still breathing.
“Senor Ramirez,” Juan said. “It’s Juan Martinez. I’m going to bring you onto the runabout and get you to a —”
Juan started. A moment later Ramirez’s groping hand latched onto his sleeve. His grip was surprisingly strong.
“Serrador!” Ramirez said. “Warn… him.”
“Serrador?” Juan said. “I don’t know him, sir.”
“Office—” Ramirez choked. “Reading glasses.”
“Please, sir,” Juan said. “You mustn’t exert yourself—”
“All right,” Juan said, “I promise to call.”
Just then, Ramirez began to tremble violently. “Get them… or they… will… get us.”
“Who will?” Juan asked.
Suddenly, Juan heard the chugging of an engine on the other side of the yacht. He saw the edges of a bright white light creeping around it, playing across the water. A searchlight. A boat was approaching. Juan didn’t know much about his boss’s business affairs but he did know that their company’s powerful
Before Juan could get his employer onto the runabout, Ramirez opened his mouth but did not close it again. Air hissed softly from deep in his throat as his mouth hung frozen, agape.
Juan shut his employer’s eyes. He decided to leave his body there. Doing so was a sign of disrespect and that bothered him. But whoever was responsible for the explosion might still be in the vicinity. Perhaps even on the boat that was approaching. Juan didn’t think it was prudent to be found here. Climbing back onto the runabout, he engaged the engine and sped away before the boat arrived. He headed out to sea where he wouldn’t be seen, then cut the engine. He remained until he saw the police arrive. Then he set out again, giving the accident a wide berth as he headed toward shore.
Upon reaching the dock, Juan went to a pay phone. Wet and chilly, he called the night watchman at the factory and asked him to send a car for him. Upon arriving, Juan went directly to Senor Ramirez’s office. He forced open the door and sat behind his desk.
His employer had mentioned something about his reading glasses. Juan found the pair in the top drawer. He looked at them. Printed inside the frames — innocuously, like serial numbers — was a series of four telephone numbers and identifying letters.
He called the number with the S next to it. Serrador answered — whoever that was. The man was indignant, brusque, and in trouble, judging from the sounds Juan heard over the telephone. He decided to hang up before the call could be traced.
He remained behind the desk in the large second-floor office. He looked out the bank of windows at the large yacht factory. Esteban Ramirez had been good to him for many years. Juan hadn’t been an intimate but he was a member of Senor Ramirez’s
Juan looked at the eyeglasses. He called the other numbers. Housekeepers answered using the family name: they were all men who had been on the ship. Juan knew because he had ferried them there.
Something evil was afoot, as Senor Ramirez had warned. Someone had been careful to wipe out everyone who was involved with the boss and his new project. It was a matter of honor, nothing else, that Juan find that someone and avenge the murders.
The night crew at the factory was already talking about the rumors of the death of their employer. They were also talking about a tape recording that had just been played at the local radio station. A tape that reportedly had their boss revealing his involvement in the murder of the American tourist.
Juan was too angry to allow himself to be overcome by grief. Rounding up several other members of the
And if there were, find out who had brought it to them.
And whoever it was, cause him to regret that he had.
TWELVE
