Trident Force (10 page)

“Thank you, Mr. Mate.”

“What do you think of the new men you got in Rio?”

“For the most part they're good. No real bad apples, no real incompetents, although a few are pretty young and green. There're a couple I might like to trade in at the end of this trip, but I don't really have anything to complain about.”

“Good,” said Winters as the pair continued to walk forward. After they'd gone a few paces, the mate stopped and banged his hand on one of number three boat's gripes—the wire straps that held the boat securely in its cradle. “I see you replaced this one. By this time tomorrow we'll probably be back in the usual shit, so let's take the chance to fix and secure anything else that needs fixing and securing this afternoon.”

“Yes, sir.” By now both the wind and the ship's motion were beginning to develop a certain edge.

The mate and the boatswain continued their tour of inspection. It was a ritual with which both were very familiar. The mate would comment on things, knowing that in most cases the boatswain was already working on them, and the boatswain would agree, knowing the mate was condemned to return soon to his purgatory of paperwork. The two had now been working together for several years and had developed a comfortable relationship. Anyway, that was how matters have always been handled between mates and boatswains.

 

Despite the growing seas,
Aurora
continued to make good time as she sliced her way south toward the fiftieth parallel and the even worse weather that awaited her there.

As midnight approached, a number of the tables in the Masthead Lounge, the larger of the ship's two lounges, remained crowded. While pop music played quietly in the background and three servers made the rounds, the more social among the passengers were able to enjoy themselves or, in a few cases, drink themselves half to death. Thanks to their inability to see anything but their own reflections in the lounge's picture windows, most were blissfully unaware of what the dawn might bring.

At table seven, Senator Alvin Bergstrom held court. In attendance were Babs, Linda Williams and several media persons who were there to get a little “background,” having promised to use no direct quotes. Wendell Gardner had also settled there a few minutes before, after managing to wear out his welcome at several other tables, even though the other people at those tables had essentially agreed with his stridently advocated positions.

“I'm still a little confused about the man versus nature argument,” remarked one of the news reporters.

“That's no longer a legitimate question,” replied Linda, before Wendell could butt in. “Our computer models prove that all significant change is controllable . . . by us.”

“But some big names continue to argue the contrary . . .”

“Old has-beens!” shouted Wendell before Linda could cut him off again. “Those characters are stuck in the past . . . and many of them have accepted money over the years from the oil companies. Look, who's getting all the federal grants these days? It's not the old, corrupt fogies; it's the young people who know what's what.”

Linda glowered at Wendell while the senator sat, smiling, and Babs squirmed. How much of this would the media end up indirectly attributing to the senator? she worried. Guilt by association was a big part of the game. And how would his backers react? God, she might yet have to find a new job. And all because the old bastard had the hots for a girl forty years younger than he was.

At table thirteen Tim Sanders was exchanging pleasantries with Sam and Alison Parker—a pair of lively senior citizens who looked half their real age—when Dana returned from checking on Katie.

“All well?” asked Alison.

“Oh yes,” replied Dana with a smile. “She's sound asleep, and anyway what could happen to her? We know the neighbors on each side and across the hall—Katie introduced us to them. I've already spoken to the night steward and she knows how to ring for him.”

“She'll be fine,” Alison assured her.

“You know,” started Sam, “this is the fourth expedition cruise we've been on—Asia, Africa and South America—but I have a feeling this one is a little different. We're still trying to keep an open mind about this global warming business, and when I attend some of these seminars I get the same feeling I got when we went on one of those long weekends the time-share developers give out. We ended up almost locked in a room for hours while three brokers triple-teamed us to buy a unit.”

“We're here for the penguins,” said Tim, “and anything else we get to see or do. I mean, Antarctica is Antarctica, whether or not it's shrinking, so when special discounts were offered to schoolteachers in my area, Dana and I decided it would be a great family adventure, especially since . . .”

Dana put her hand gently on his.

“. . . especially since what with the cost of college these days it may be a long time before we can have another grand family adventure.”

“Bravo!” enthused Sam.

“Are you tired, dear?” asked Tim.

“Not at all. I'm loving every minute.”

Tim and Dana had sworn an oath to each other not to mention Dana's incurable cancer while on the cruise. And Tim could well understand that she might have little interest in sleep. She'd have plenty of time for that later.

 

Dave Ellison,
Aurora
's one-man security department, made a final visit to his office before going to bed. He checked to ensure that the security cameras—which covered the public spaces and the passageways leading to the passengers' rooms—were all running. He checked his e-mail. Then he pulled a bottle of Scotch out of his desk drawer, poured himself a shot and leaned back in his chair.

This, he told himself, had to be the cushiest job he'd ever had. Even cushier than being a lieutenant in a small, suburban police department. All he had to do was deal with drunks and make sure nobody stole the passengers' jewels. As it turned out, few, if any, of the passengers ever brought their jewelry to Antarctica—and certainly not their fur coats. And, so far, there'd been no drunks, although he had a feeling the kid with the ring in his ear might develop into a problem before the voyage was over. He was an arrogant little prick and he was a drunk and who knew what else. Cutting him down a little might be a very satisfying exercise.

7

Rio de Janeiro

“I don't like this part of town, Marine. I didn't like it in daylight and I like it even less now.” As he spoke, Ted reached into the pocket of his still-wrinkled jacket, just to ensure the Beretta hadn't somehow disappeared.

“I'm totally with you, amigo. I'd feel lonely here with a battalion of combat-ready grunts to keep me company.”

Ted grunted noncommittally.

“For what it's worth,” said Ray, “this place is undoubtedly as dangerous for locals as it is for us.”

“Yeah. Good.”

As they spoke, Ray was driving slowly down the once-paved street on which—according to Alex's map—the Bar Tiffany was located. For Ted, the street's transformation was stunning. What had been a row of drab, colorless storefronts during the day, had come to life. With the setting of the tropical sun, it had transformed itself into something that resembled a jungle garden, filled with extravagant, night-blooming orchids of all colors and shades.

“There it is,” said Ray, pointing ahead at the “Bar Tiffany” sign in yellow-and-blue neon. When they were abreast of it, he stopped so Ted could peer into the open door.

“Looks jammed,” remarked the SEAL as the beat—a mix of Africa, Iberia and very possibly Los Angeles—blared out at them. Just when the two began to feel themselves moving ever so slightly to the music, the driver of the truck behind them leaned on his horn and the music was forgotten.

“God.” Ted groaned as both jumped slightly to the reverberating concussion. “That was shock and awe!”

Half a kilometer down the street Ray thought he spotted a reasonably safe place to park. “Don't lock it,” he said as they closed the doors.

“That comprehensive insurance you signed up for cover here?”

“That's Alex's problem.”

“Hey, you pay us guard your car?”

The two Tridents looked at each other. “Maybe we should have walked,” remarked Ted.

“We may end up doing that yet.” As Ray said it, three kids—who couldn't have been more than eight—appeared from the shadows. Praying that this was one of the cases where cash really could buy loyalty, the marine gave each a dollar. “And each of you will get two more dollars if the car's still okay when we get back,” he promised.

“Sure thing!” said the leader of the guardians.

“We're too early,” grumbled Ray as they approached the Bar Tiffany. Where they stood in the street, the melody of odors—cooking oil, urine, an undertone of rot and a whiff of some flowering plant—was especially strong. “We've got fifteen minutes, at least.”

“Let's kill it here,” replied Ted, nodding at another garish watering hole a few yards from where they were standing. “We'll be less obvious sitting at a table than standing on the sidewalk, looking like we're trying to pick up some disease.”

The bar in question, the Club Travessura, turned out to be a large, open room, decorated in red and green with colored lights flashing and loud music blaring. After edging their way in, they took a battered Formica-and-stainless table as close to the center of the action as they could. Ray ordered each of them a beer. The air-conditioning whirred and rattled, but it was still hot and crowded and smelled of beer, booze, humanity and tobacco smoke. Everybody seemed to know everybody and nobody seemed to pay the two Americans any attention. Not even the very worn girls, some of whom couldn't have been more than fourteen or fifteen.

The Club Travessura was not the sort of place American tourists—or even businessmen—could be expected to visit. It was clearly a local bar for the residents of a painfully impoverished
barrio.
Still,
cariocas
rich or poor tend to be a very cosmopolitan people, and none of those enjoying the action at the Travessura saw any reason to gawk. Ray tried to strike up a conversation with the three men at the next table. They were polite but clearly not overly impressed by the visitors, preferring to continue discussing something they seemed to consider of real importance. All the while the crowd flowed around them—swaying either to the music or to the tune of the alcohol in their blood—as if the two weren't there. Ray thought he recognized one or two men from the yard. Ted thought he spotted one or two who seemed to recognize them. They each finished half a beer, laughing self-consciously as they did. It was then time to move on.

The Bar Tiffany proved to be smaller, darker and dirtier, although just as crowded as the Club Travessura had been. It also had its limited supply of Christmas decorations set up and flashing.

The two insurance investigators took a table right alongside a small, scuffed dance floor and each ordered a beer. And again, nobody seemed to pay any attention to them. Except for one of the B-girls, Ray suddenly realized. She was looking right at him and laughing. Without taking her eyes off him, the girl tapped the girl next to her on the shoulder and whispered something. The other girl burst into laughter.

That, thought Ray, must be Dani. He studied her as she studied him. She was small. Scrawny, he decided. Far too scrawny. Unhealthy. He could well imagine the bitter existence she endured and could see from twenty feet that her teeth looked like hell. What her true age was he couldn't guess, though he felt certain she'd be dead by thirty unless the Agency did something for her. Not that he had the slightest idea what their deal with her was.

Dani was a wreck, yet Ray couldn't take his goddamn eyes off her. It was the smile—mischievous, challenging and commanding at the same time. Dani was in charge and she knew it. And so did just about everybody else in the bar.

A stream of sweat began to work its way down his spine.

Dani started to walk slowly toward them, her face alight with that impossible smile. Ted, having noticed the odd expression on Ray's face, had turned, only to be captivated by that same smile. As she approached, hands reached out from beside her to attract her attention, to hold her. She brushed them all away with a “your time will come” smile. Her progress was something just short of regal. It was as if a queen were passing through the mass of her subjects.

Men continued to follow her with their eyes as she worked her way toward the two obviously wealthy Americans, weaving through the swaying, sweating mob.

“Hi, guys,” she said in heavily accented English. “I think I'd like to know you better. Buy me a drink. A champagne cocktail.”

“With a cherry?” offered Ray, as he had been instructed by Mike. Before he could even wave, the waitress had appeared at the table with the drink.

Dani smiled. “What do you want to know about Coccoli and Rojas?” she asked after the waitress had disappeared back in the direction of the bar.

“Whatever you do. What are they up to? Where did they go? Why?”

“I don't know that much. I never sat with either or did anything like that. They come in here from time to time and I've got big ears. Coccoli, he's a big talker. The other one always looks like his wife's hounding him.” As she spoke, Dani's fingers tapped on the wood table as if she were playing a piano one-handed.

“You mean Rojas?”

“Yes.”

“Does he have a wife?”

“Don't know. Never mentioned her, but a lot of guys who come here have wives and don't mention them.”