“The Americans have yet to cross the border, at least not in their RHIB. Patrols have turned up no sign of it on either bank of the river. We suspect they sank it and extracted overland.”
“Continue.”
“The helicopter pilot they kidnapped says the team leader was named Juan, another called Miguel. The leader spoke Spanish with a BA accent.”
“But you are certain they are American?”
“I saw the man myself. He might speak Spanish like us, but he”—Espinoza paused, trying to find the right words—“had that American look.”
The senior Espinoza finally looked up. “I attended their special School of the Americas, same as Galtieri, only years later. The instructors at Fort Benning all had that look. Go on.”
“There was one thing I left out of my report. We discovered the wreckage of an old blimp. The Americans found it first, and it looks as though they spent time examining it.”
A faraway look crossed the General’s face. “A blimp. You are sure?”
“Yes, sir. It was the pilot who recognized the type of aircraft.”
“I recall when I was a young boy a group of Americans flying across the jungle in a blimp. They were treasure hunters, I believe. They went missing back in the late 1940s. Your grandfather met them at a reception in Lima.”
“They’re found now. When the thieves stole our helicopter, they landed near the crash site as if they knew of it. I think they discovered it on their way to the logging camp.”
“And you say they examined the wreckage?”
“Judging by the footprints, yes, sir.”
“Not something disciplined commandos would do?”
“No, sir. Not at all.”
Jorge took it as a good sign that his father sat. The calm exterior which masked his anger was slowly giving way to something else. “Your performance in this matter is beyond reprehensible. I would almost say it borders on criminal negligence.”
Uh-oh.
“However, there are things you aren’t privy to at the moment that mitigate the situation somewhat. Plans that are known only at the highest levels of the government. Soon your unit will be sent south, and it wouldn’t do to have its most popular officer in custody. And what I put the official report of the incident will depend on how well you perform in an upcoming mission.”
“General, may I ask where we are to be deployed?”
“Not yet. A week or so and you will understand.”
Jorge straightened. “Yes, sir.”
“Now, go fetch your Captain Jimenez. I think I have something for you to do in the meantime.”
TWELVE
While the Oregon headed south under the command of Linda Ross, Cabrillo and Hanley flew north on a commercial flight to Houston, where the Corporation kept one of a dozen safe houses in port cities all over the globe. Each was loaded with just about anything a team could need. They considered this one a fairly central place for their search of the airship’s crew.
By the time they reached the town-house condominium in a generic development twenty miles from the city center, Eric Stone and Mark Murphy had done the necessary legwork, or finger work, as the case may be, since the two were virtuosos when it came to Internet research.
As Murph liked to boast, “I’ve never met a firewall I couldn’t douse.”
Unlike some of the other Corporation properties—the penthouse in a Dubai high-rise was as opulent as any five-star hotel—the Houston safe house was spartan. The furniture looked like it came from catalogs, which it had, and the décor was mostly cheaply framed prints of nature scenes. The only thing that set it apart from the four hundred identical units in the neighborhood was that the walls, floor, and ceiling of one of the bedrooms were lined in inch-thick steel. The door, though it looked normal, was as impenetrable as a bank vault’s.
Upon entering, Max made certain that the room hadn’t been breached in the three months since it had last been checked. He added batteries to an anti-eavesdropping device kept in storage and swept the entire condo while Juan opened a bottle of tequila and added ice from the bag of sundries they’d picked up at a convenience store on the drive in from the airport. Only when they were assured the place was clean did he connect his laptop to the Internet and place it on the coffee table in the living room.
The early-evening South Texas sun beat through the windows and created a glare on the screen, so Max shut the drapes and helped himself to some of the duty-free liquor. He settled onto the sofa next to Juan with a sigh.
“You know,” he said, running the chilled glass across his high forehead, “after years of using our own jet, first class is a disappointment.”