as a result more power plants were being built and more pollution was pumped into the atmosphere. It was a classic catch-22. But he was familiar with the arguments and felt a surge of confidence that he could talk his way out of this.
“She works for you. She is not innocent.”
“How can you possibly say that? You didn’t even ask her name or what she does.”
“The specifics of her job are unimportant. That she is willing to work for you is proof enough of her complicity and culpability.”
Merrick took a breath. He had to find a way to convince them he wasn’t their enemy if he was going to get out of this alive. “Listen, you can’t hold me responsible for the world’s continued demand for more energy. You want to clean up the environment, convince people to have fewer children. China will soon pass the United States as the world’s biggest polluter because they have a population of one point two billion. India, with its billion citizens, isn’t too far behind. That is the real threat to the planet. And no matter how clean Europe and America become—God, we could go back to horse-drawn carriages and plowshares—we would never be able to counteract the pollution produced in Asia. This is a global problem, I totally agree, and a global solution is what is needed.”
The men and women at the far end of the table sat unmoved by his speech and the computer’s silence stretched ominously. Merrick fought to remain strong, to not give in to the fear sliding like oil through his gut. In the end he couldn’t do it—his voice turned strident and fresh tears came to his eyes.
“Please, you don’t need to do this to me,” he pleaded. “Is it money you want? I can give you all the money your organization will ever need. Please, just let us go.”
“It is too late for that,” the computer said. Then the electronic filter was switched off and the person on the other end of the link spoke in his own voice. “You have been tried, Geoff, and found guilty.”
Merrick knew that voice all too well, though he hadn’t heard it in years. And he also knew it meant he was going to die.
11
CABRILLOdidn’t have time for his shower and only barely managed to change out of his workout clothes and get to theOregon ’s bridge before Sloane and her group were escorted in by Frank Lincoln.
He glanced around quickly as he heard them mounting the outside stairs. The bridge was in its normal state of disrepair and neglect; no one had left any of their high-tech toys lying around to belie the true nature of the vessel. Eddie Seng was again playing helmsman, wearing a battered one-piece utility suit and a baseball cap as he stood casually behind the old-fashioned wheel. Seng was perhaps the most meticulous planner on the Corporation payroll, someone for which no detail was too minute. Had his temperament not been one that thrived on danger he would have made a great accountant. Juan noted Eddie had set the fake telegraph handles to All Stop and had even changed over the unused carts to show the coast of southwestern Africa.
Juan tapped the faded and stained map. “Nice touch.”
“Thought you’d like that.”
Juan had given no thought to what Sloane Macintyre would look like until the moment she walked through the door. Her hair was coppery red and in a tangled bush from so much wind and sun, giving her a wild and untamed look. Her mouth was a bit too wide and her nose too long, but she had such an open look to her face that these minor flaws were nearly indistinguishable. With her sunglasses dangling at her throat he could see she didn’t have the green eyes of a romance novel redhead but wide-set gray ones that seemed to take in her surroundings with a quick glance. She carried a little extra weight that made her body more curvy than angular, but the flesh under her arms remained taut, which made Juan think she was a swimmer.
With her were two men, a Namibian who Cabrillo assumed owned thePinguin , and another Caucasian with a prominent Adam’s apple and a sour look on his face. Juan couldn’t imagine many scenarios that would place an attractive woman like Sloane in his company. And by their body language he could tell that while Sloane might be in charge, her partner was extremely angry with her.
Cabrillo stepped forward, extending a hand. “Juan Cabrillo, captain of theOregon . Welcome aboard.”
“Sloane Macintyre.” Her grip was sure and firm and her gaze was level. Juan saw no trace of the fear she must have felt when they were being fired on. “This is Tony Reardon and Justus Ulenga, master of thePinguin .”
“How do you do?” Reardon surprised Juan with a crisp British accent.
“By the looks of you no one appears to need medical attention. Am I right?”
“No,” Sloane said. “We’re all fine, but thank you for asking.”
“Good, I’m relieved,” Juan said, and meant it. “I’d take you to my cabin to talk about what just happened out here but it’s a bit of a mess. Let’s go down to the galley. I think I can get the cook to whip up a little something.” Juan asked Linc to find the steward.
The truth was, the master’s cabin he used to greet inspectors and harbor officials who came aboard was a disaster zone, and had been designed to make visitors want to get off the ship as quickly as possible.
The walls and carpet had been chemically infused with a stench of cheap cigarettes that was guaranteed to leave even a chain-smoker gasping; and the sorrowful gaze of the velvet clown paintings made most people extremely uncomfortable, as they were supposed to. It simply wasn’t the proper setting for an interview. Although the topside galley and adjoining mess hall couldn’t be held to a much higher standard, at least they were reasonably clean.
Juan led them down a flight of internal stairs with treads of chipped linoleum and cautioned them about a handrail that was kept purposefully loosened. He ushered them into the mess, flicking one of two light switches to snap on the banks of fluorescents. The other switch only turned on a couple of the lights and two of them would constantly flicker and emit an annoying buzzing sound. Most Customs inspectors going over manifests preferred sitting on the bridge floor rather than working in the dining room. There were four mismatched tables in the spacious mess hall, and of the sixteen chairs only two looked even remotely similar. The walls were painted in a color Juan called Soviet Green, a dull mint hue that never failed to depress.
Two decks below this room was theOregon ’s real mess, as elegant a dining area as any five-star restaurant.
He indicated where he’d like them to sit, placing them so they faced a pinhole camera hidden in a picture on one wall. Linda Ross and Max Hanley were in the op center to monitor the interview. If they had any questions they wanted Juan to pose they would be passed to him by Maurice, the steward.
Cabrillo folded his hands on the tabletop, glanced at his guests but let his eyes settle on Sloane Macintyre. She returned his gaze without blinking and he believed he saw a hint of a smile at the corner of her lips. Juan expected fear or anger after what they’d been through, but she almost appeared amused by the whole thing; unlike Reardon, who was clearly rattled, or thePinguin ’s captain, who was pensive, most likely hoping Juan wouldn’t call the authorities.
“So, why don’t you tell me who those people were and why they wanted you all dead?” Sloane leaned forward brightly and was about to speak, but Juan added, “And don’t forget I heard what they said on the radio about warning you off last night.”
She sat back again, clearly rethinking her response.
“Just tell him, for God’s sake,” Tony sputtered when Sloane didn’t immediately respond. “It doesn’t matter now anyway.”
She shot him a scathing look, recognizing that if she didn’t talk openly Tony was going to tell Cabrillo everything. She let out a breath. “We are looking for a ship that sank in these waters in the late 1800s.”
“And let me guess, you think there’s treasure aboard?” Juan asked indulgently.
Sloane refused to let his sarcasm pass. “I am so certain I was willing to bet our lives on it. And someone else seems to think its worth killing for.”
“Touche.” Juan looked from Sloane to Reardon. They didn’t look like treasure hunters, but it was a fever that could infect anyone. “How did you two hook up?”
“In an Internet chat room devoted to lost treasures,” Sloane said. “We’ve been planning and saving for this since last year.”
