Dark Watch

“No, not really, but I pass him little notes. The guards haven’t made me stop.”

“Okay, that is good. I need you to write to your husband. Tell him that we haven’t harmed you and that he is to listen carefully to what Ludmilla tells him. Can you do this for me?”

“Ja, yes, I can.” She was regaining her senses and seemed to accept that Juan and Julia were there to help her. “What happens afterward?”

“You mean once we free your husband? I do not know. I am only to take him to a safe house. After that” — Juan shrugged like a soldier just doing his job — “it is up to your husband and my boss. I’m sure they will send for you, and the two of you can retire to the south of France or the Costa del Sol.”

She gave him a wan smile as if she knew that the rest of her life would never be so idyllic.

Julia left for the prison the following morning a little past nine. Juan chafed at having to wait around, but there was always the risk that Kara Isphording would lose her nerve and phone the police. After giving the maid the day off, the two of them sat in the dining room over a cold coffee service. Juan continued in his role of a Russian gangster so there was little conversation, and for that he was grateful. Only three days remained until they would snatch the lawyer, and he felt every minute tick by. The modifications to the truck weren’t complete, although they’d done run-throughs in rental cars and had the timing down. What worried him most was the work they had to get done over the weekend at the construction site. Fortunately, the company overseeing the building didn’t post night watchmen, so that wasn’t a problem. However, they had ten tons of cement to get into position tonight if they were to make their deadline.

By eleven Juan’s wrist was sore from checking his watch. He’d spoken with Linc and found they’d finished with the semi at the warehouse and were now loading the fifty-pound sacks of cement.

The sound of the automatic garage door opening launched Juan out of his seat. He was at the door to meet Julia when she stepped from the Isphordings’ 740 BMW.

“Well?”

“Piece of cake.” Julia smiled. “It actually took him a few seconds to see through the disguise, and none of the guards even looked twice.”

“Great job. Is he all set?”

“More than all set. He’s eager. I guess he really was hooked up with the PLO. As soon as I mentioned they were gunning for him, he agreed to everything.”

“And you laid out the whole plan?”

“He knows where and when we’re making the grab. He’ll tell the prison administrator that he needs to meet with his attorney early on Monday morning. That’ll put his convoy at the construction site before the work crew shows up.”

“Did he give up any information?”

“About the Maus? No. And I didn’t press. But when I told him the Russians sent me, he asked if I worked for Anton Savich. I played dumb and agreed. Isphording seemed relieved. Savich must be his principal contact.”

“Savich?” Cabrillo said the name aloud as if tasting it, trying to draw out a memory. He shook his head. “New one to me. I’ll contact Murph and have him do a search. Are you all set to watch the real Kara Isphording?”

“Got everything I need.” Julia patted her shoulder bag. Inside was a syringe that she’d administer Sunday night after Kara went to bed. She’d be out for twenty-four hours, long after Juan and Julia were headed back to the Oregon.

16

NO matter how often Doc Huxley admonished him, Max Hanley refused to give up his pipe or dessert. He figured that by his age he’d earned the right to know what was best for him. The thickening around his middle added only ten or fifteen pounds, and while he couldn’t run a mile in under ten minutes, his job rarely required him to run a mile. So what was the big deal?

His cholesterol was just about normal, he wasn’t showing any signs of diabetes, and his blood pressure was actually on the low side.

He swirled his fork through the raspberry drizzle pooled on his plate and made sure he got the last few crumbs of the chocolate cake. The fork was spotless when he returned it to his plate and pushed back from the mess hall table with a satisfied groan.

“All finished?” the white-jacketed mess steward asked.

“Only because I’d need a microscope to find the few remaining cake molecules. Thanks, Maurice.”

Max had dined alone this evening but nodded to the personnel at the other tables before leaving the mahogany-paneled mess. His sturdy brogans sank into the almost inch-thick rug. A squall had kicked up from the north over the past several hours, so he decided to take his pipe in his cabin. He’d just settled into an easy chair with a week’s worth of the International Tribune that had been choppered back to the Oregon when his intercom rang. He let his cheater glasses dangle around his neck and set his pipe into an ashtray.

“Sorry to bother you on your day off.” It was Linda Ross from the operations center.

“That’s okay. What’s the trouble?”

“No trouble, but you wanted to know if we got anything from Eddie. It appears he’s left Fouzou and might be headed back to Shanghai.”

Max digested the report. “Makes sense from the snakehead’s perspective. Shanghai is one of the busiest ports in the world. Much easier to slip a bunch of illegals onto an outbound freighter amid the confusion than at a smaller harbor like Fouzou.”

“That’s what Murph and Eric Stone think, too. Do you want me to call the chairman?”