“Is that enough protection?” Loren’s concern for her husband was evident in her violet eyes.
“We’re not going up against a warship. Plus, I’ll be in constant communications with Rudi at headquarters if we need any extra muscle.” He turned to Ann. “We’ll have to leave for Hawaii in two days. Are you in?”
Ann picked up the rock and turned it around. “I’d love to, but I’m in the heart of the investigation and I would hate to break things off now. Plus, I wouldn’t be much help aboard ship.” She looked in Pitt’s eyes. “But, I tell you what. If you’re right, then Loren and I will be waiting for you at the dock in Long Beach.”
Pitt smiled at the two attractive women and raised his wineglass. “That would be a sight any lonely sailor would welcome.”
30
VIEWED FROM THE AIR, THE DENSE JUNGLE SPREAD across the horizon like a lumpy green carpet. Only the occasional wisp of smoke or a quick glimpse of a shack in a clearing gave any sign that human life existed beneath the foliage.
Though the helicopter had departed Panama City’s Tocumen International Airport just a few minutes earlier, the roar of its turbine was already grating on Pablo’s nerves. He gazed ahead and spotted the sprawling green waters of Gatun Lake, a massive body of water formed during the construction of the Panama Canal. Their destination was close.
The pilot banked the chopper and followed the eastern shore of the lake, passing several large islands known for their assortment of primates. A narrow peninsula rose up ahead, and he guided the helicopter back over the jungle, gradually reducing speed. As he reached the center of the landmass, the pilot put the craft into a hover.
Pablo gazed at the treetops below—and noticed them move. The trees weren’t swaying from the chopper’s rotor wash, but instead began to spread apart. A seam appeared in the foliage, and it grew into a large square opening with a helicopter landing pad marked with lights and a reflective white circle.
The pilot centered the helicopter and gently dropped onto the pad. The moment the pilot cut the power, Pablo tore off his headphones and climbed out.
Once beyond reach of the twirling rotor, he glanced up as the artificially landscaped roof closed overhead. The hydraulically powered cover was a stand-alone structure built on pilings in a jungle clearing. Two armed men in fatigues operated the controls from a panel box at the side.
As the sky disappeared, a golf cart emerged from the surrounding jungle and pulled to a stop in front of Pablo.
“
The two men stared at each other with a mix of respect and disdain. Both employed as hired muscle, they observed a cold, formal truce. “Good day to you, too, Johansson,” Pablo said. “And, yes, I had a very enjoyable flight, thank you.”
Johansson stomped on the accelerator as Pablo climbed into the golf cart, not waiting until he was fully seated.
The two men rode in silence as Johansson followed a paved path through the jungle. They entered a shaded clearing dotted with more armed men in fatigues. To their right sat a pyramid-shaped pile of gray rocks. A group of ragged men, wearing dirty, sweat-stained clothes, were shoveling the rocks into small carts and pushing them down a carved path.
The golf cart bounded through another stretch of dense jungle, then stopped in front of a large, windowless concrete structure. Its flat reinforced roof, landscaped with vegetation, disguised it from the air even more realistically than the landing pad. Only a row of palm trees on either side of the entrance offered the structure any semblance of warmth.
Pablo jumped out of the cart. “Thanks for the lift. Don’t bother to keep the motor running.”
“I wouldn’t plan for a long visit, if I were you,” Johansson said, then drove away.
As Pablo climbed a short flight of steps to the doorway, a breeze from the lake helped stir the muggy air. A guard at the threshold opened the door and escorted him inside.
In marked contrast to the plain walls outside, the building’s interior was an exercise in opulence. Built as a personal residence, it was decorated in bright tropical colors, illuminated by a surplus of overhead lighting. As Pablo was led down a white-marbled corridor, he passed a sunken living room decorated with modern art on one side and an indoor, glass-enclosed lap pool on the other. The rear of the house ran along the rim of a low hillside that jutted above the water. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased an expansive section of Gatun Lake.
Pablo was led to a large open office that overlooked the rocky shoreline below. In the distance, a containership could be seen heading south through the canal on its way to the Pacific.
He stood in the doorway a moment until he gained the attention of the man seated behind an antique mahogany desk. Edward Bolcke peered over a pair of reading glasses and nodded for Pablo to enter.
Beginning with his conservative suit and tie, every detail of Bolcke’s appearance testified to his exacting nature. His silver hair was perfectly coiffed, his fingernails precisely trimmed, and his shoes highly polished. His office was almost spartan in decor, his desktop devoid of clutter. Bolcke took off his glasses, leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and stared at Pablo through hawk-like brown eyes.
Pablo took a seat across the desk and waited for his employer to speak.
“So what went wrong in Tijuana?” Bolcke asked, the words tinged with a German accent.
“You know that Heiland destroyed his own boat during our initial operation,” Pablo said. “This, of course, upset our planned extraction. Before we could get an appropriate recovery vessel there, the Americans arrived and raised the test model. They were from their civilian group NUMA, though, so we had no trouble getting the device from them at sea. But two of their men managed to follow us to shore in Mexico. And there was also a female investigator involved.”
“Yes, so I hear.”
Surprised at Bolcke’s comment, Pablo cleared his throat. “There was a traffic incident in the streets of Tijuana as we were making our way to the airport. The device was destroyed, and Juan was killed in the collision. I lost my man Eduardo as we made our way out of the situation.”
“Quite the blown opportunity,” Bolcke said, his eyes narrowing. “At least there appear to be no repercussions.”
“All the men I work with are trained mercenaries from Colombia with manufactured identities and no criminal records. There will be no connection to you.”
“A good thing, as the team you sent to Idaho was also killed.”
Pablo stiffened in his chair. “Alteban and Rivera are dead?”
“Yes. They were killed in a ‘traffic incident’ after departing Heiland’s cabin,” Bolcke said, his expression stern. “The female investigator, one Ann Bennett, and the Director of NUMA, whom you apparently met in Tijuana, were responsible. Fortunately, I was able to arrange the recovery of the research plans in Washington.”
Bolcke reached into a desk drawer, retrieved a thick envelope, and slid it across the desk. “You shall enjoy a fine payday, my friend. Your own wages, plus those of your four dead comrades.”
“I cannot accept this,” Pablo said as he reached over and grabbed the envelope.
“No, I pay for the job, not the results. In light of the events, however, I have decided to rescind the bonus I had intended to pay for your good work at the Mountain Pass Mine.”
Pablo nodded, grateful to get his hands on the envelope. “You have always been generous.”
“I will not be so generous should there be any more failings. I presume you are prepared for the next assignment?” He crossed his hands on the desk as he gave Pablo a fixed stare. Pablo avoided the gaze, instead looking at Bolcke’s hands. That’s what gave the man away, the hands. They were thick, gnarled, and blemished by the sun. They weren’t the hands of a man who had spent his life in corporate boardrooms, as Bolcke appeared to be. They were the hands of a man who had spent a lifetime digging rocks.
Born and raised in Austria, Edward Bolcke had spent his youth scouring the Alps for gold and rare minerals. It
