The Bug Man pointed his ray gun up toward the network of branches. Numbers appeared on the small LED display screen, and the gun let off a series of electronic pings.
He borrowed the flashlight and asked Flagg and Austin to give him a hand. They hoisted him up to the lowest branch, and he climbed halfway up the tree. He dug into a thick limb with a pocketknife, then climbed back down to earth, and he held his hand out in the beam of the flashlight. A black plastic box the size of a deck of cards rested in his palm.
“State-of-the-art. Maybe even beyond that. Voice-activated. Solar-powered. This little gadget picked up every phone call you made, whether on the regular line or cell phone, and transmitted the conversations to a listening post. Your phone conversations could have been relayed anywhere in the world. What do you want me to do with this thing?”
Flagg had watched the debugging process without talking, but now he offered a suggestion. “I’d put it back. It might come in handy if you want to spread some disinformation around.”
“I was thinking of using it to send a few choice words to the listening post,” Austin said, but he knew Flagg’s suggestion was a good one.
The Bug Man climbed back into the tree. Flagg glanced up into the branches and said, “Somebody went through a lot of trouble to butt into your business. I thought that all you had to worry about since going over to NUMA was counting fish.”
“You wouldn’t believe the size of some of the fish in the ocean,” Austin said. “When your friend is through, I’ll crack open a couple of beers and tell you all about it.”
The fumigator dropped out of the tree after reinstalling the electronic bug. He gathered up his tools and took off in his truck. Austin got two bottles of Sam Adams from the refrigerator, and he and Flagg settled into leather chairs in the study. For the next hour, Austin filled Flagg in on the events that had transpired since the hijacking of the containership.
Flagg allowed his wide mouth a slight smile in his otherwise impassive face. “King Solomon’s mines! Compared to you, Austin, my job is about as exciting as sorting mail.” He grew serious again. “You’re up against some real heavyweights. You think this Baltazar character has your lady friend?”
“Baltazar’s signature as been all over this thing since the very start.”
“What can I do?”
“Try to find out where Baltazar spends his time.”
“I’ll get right on it. Anything else?”
“Stand by.” Austin picked up the phone, put it on speaker, and punched in the number left by his anonymous caller.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” said the weird voice.
“I was out of town. What’s this Italian property you told me about?”
“You know her as Carina Mechadi. She’s in good shape. For now. I can’t vouch for her future health.”
“What’s your asking price?”
“Not what. Who. We would exchange her for you.”
“Guaranteed?”
“In a perfect world. Yours is very imperfect right now.”
“What are the terms?”
“Be out in front of the Lincoln Memorial in exactly ninety minutes. Have no one with you. Don’t try to bring any positioning devices. You will be scanned.”
Austin glanced at Flagg. “I’ll be there.”
The line went dead.
“She must be quite a woman,” Flagg said. He rose from his chair. “You’d better get moving. I’ll try to run Baltazar to ground.”
Austin told Flagg to use Zavala as his contact. After his friend had left, Austin picked up the phone and called Joe, holding back the temptation to hurl some choice epithets at the unknown listener.
“Hi, Joe. Kurt. I won’t be able to meet with you tomorrow. Pitt called and wants me to meet him tonight.”
“Must be pretty important.”
“It is. I’ll give you a call later.”
Austin made the second call to Zavala fifteen minutes later during the drive along the Beltway toward Washington.
“I was waiting for your call. Didn’t see how you’d meet with Pitt tonight. Last I heard, he was on the Sea of Japan.”
“Sorry for the runaround. Someone was listening to every word.”
Austin told him about Carina and his intention to comply with the kidnapper’s orders.
“I’ll go along with anything you say, Kurt, but do you think going into this will help Carina?”
“I don’t know. It may put me close enough to her to help. The fact that I have a lead on the location of the mine might give me some leverage.”
“Hate to rain on your parade, but what if they’re simply after your hide and don’t want to bargain?”
“I’ve given that possibility serious consideration. I’ll have to take that chance. Meanwhile, I want you to find the mine. It could be a trump card. Speed is of the essence.”
“I’ve already arranged for a chopper and talked to the Trouts. We’ll hook up with Saxon at first light. Good luck in the meantime.”
“Thanks,” Austin said. “I’ll need it.”
Austin told Zavala that Flagg would be in touch with him and hung up. He parked the Jeep in the NUMA underground garage and caught a cab to the Lincoln Memorial. He got there a minute before the ninety minutes had elapsed. Seconds after the taxi pulled away, a black Cadillac Escalade SUV pulled up to the curb and the rear door opened. A man got out and pointed to the backseat.
Austin took a deep breath and got into the car. The man slid in behind him, wedging Austin between another occupant. The SUV sped away from the memorial and joined the traffic stream.
The man to his left reached under his jacket. Austin saw the gleam of metal. He couldn’t tell whether it was a knife or a gun. He cursed his bad judgment. They weren’t taking him anywhere. They were going to kill him immediately.
He brought his arm up to protect himself.
Something cold pressed against his neck and he heard a soft hiss.
Then someone pulled a blackout curtain down over his eyes.
His body went limp, his eyes closed on their own, and his head lolled. Only the presence of the men on either side of him prevented him from falling over.
Before long, the SUV was on the outskirts of the capital, moving as fast as the speed limit allowed, in the direction of the airport.
Chapter 45
THE MCDONNELL DOUGLAS MD 500 utility helicopter darted through the sky high over Chesapeake Bay, its turquoise fuselage bathed in the soft light of dawn. Joe Zavala was at the controls. Gamay was in the passenger bucket seat. Paul Trout’s long form was stretched out on the rear bench seat, which he shared with bags of dive gear.
Zavala squinted through the tinted bubble canopy and jabbed his forefinger downward. “That’s where Kurt and I dove on the wreck,” he said. “Havre de Grace coming up.”
The white spike of the Concord Lighthouse came into view. Then the railroad bridge at the mouth of the Susquehanna River.
Zavala followed the course of the river as the muddy waterway headed in a northwesterly direction. The Susquehanna’s flow was broken here and there by scraggly islands. Rolling agricultural fields out of a Grant Wood painting flanked both shores.
Cruising at a speed of one hundred fifty miles per hour, the aircraft quickly covered the distance to Harrisburg. Traffic on the roads was still light. About ten miles north of the Capitol dome, the helicopter veered east, away from the river and toward a range of mountains. The helicopter passed over dense woodlands and farms, finally dropping down through the early-morning mists to land at a grassy airstrip.
Saxon’s secondhand Chevy Suburban was parked at the edge of the tarmac. As the helicopter’s skids touched the ground, Saxon started the engine and drove across the field. The Suburban pulled up next to the helicopter and Saxon bounded out. He strode under the spinning rotors to greet Zavala and the Trouts with vigorous handshakes. He was decked out for an African safari in cargo pants, a cartridge vest, and a bush hat with the brim curled up on one side.