Piranha (5 page)

“You're a minute early,” Kevin Nixon said with a bright smile. “I wish my actresses had been so punctual. Often I was happy if they showed up at all. Sober.”

Kevin had been an award-winning Hollywood makeup artist, but after his sister died in the attacks on 9/11 he felt the need to contribute his skills to the war on terror. He applied to the CIA but went with a much more interesting and challenging offer when he was guided to Juan and the Corporation. In addition to disguising the crew's faces for operations when needed, Kevin and his team also had racks of uniforms and clothing from every nation and built whatever unusual props and gadgets they needed, occasionally tapping Max's engineering expertise for the most technical items. Kevin was the person responsible for Juan's earlier disguise, the stuffed rat, and the combat leg he now wore.

Normally, Juan would have met him on board the
Oregon
in the Magic Shop, the name they'd given the workshop where Kevin crafted his amazing designs. But since Juan had to swim out of the
Oregon
, any appliances and makeup would have washed off before he reached shore. So they'd prepositioned Kevin in the abandoned shed with enough battery power to keep him off the grid. Linc had flown in the week before, liberated the Humvee from a naval armory near Caracas, and stashed it in the shed for tonight's use.

Juan spotted discarded food wrappers in the corner. Food used to be Kevin's Achilles' heel. At one point, he weighed almost two hundred and seventy-five pounds, but successful stomach bypass surgery and a special diet prepared by
Oregon
's gourmet chef brought his now solid frame down to a slender one eighty-five.

“I hope you've been careful with the local cuisine,” Juan said to Kevin. “Nothing like Montezuma's revenge to make a sea voyage unpleasant.”

“Tell me about it,” Linc said, rubbing his belly. “I hope I never go back to Mozambique.”

“Nothing but bottled water and prepackaged food for me,” Kevin replied. “Now, let's get you in the chair. We have some work to do.”

Part of Linc's time in Venezuela the previous week had been spent observing the suspected warehouse from afar. Covered wide-load trucks went into the facility night and day—presumably with armaments on them—through a razor-wired security fence and a well-guarded gatehouse before disappearing into the building. Sentries walked the perimeter on random schedules, and cameras monitored both the dock and the fence, ruling out stealthy infiltration.

The only other option was to go through the front gate. Twice Linc noticed the same captain going into the facility. The long-lens photos were sent to the CIA, where he was identified as Captain Carlos Ortega. He spent most of his time at the main naval base in Puerto Cabello, where he was now. Although Ortega was similar to Juan in height and build, they looked nothing alike. Whereas Juan was fair-haired and clean-shaven, Ortega was swarthier, with dark hair, bushy eyebrows, brown eyes, a trim mustache, and a nose that looked as if it had been broken.

That's where Kevin came in. He had several of Linc's photos of Ortega taped to the mirror. He would transform Juan into the Venezuelan Navy captain.

Juan dried off and sat in the chair while Linc went over the Humvee to make sure it was in good running order. They'd need to depend on it to get back to the
Oregon
in a hurry once their reconnaissance was complete.

Normally, Kevin would put on laid-back alt-rock music while he worked, but the unusual location demanded quiet so as not to attract attention. With an expert touch, he applied the glue for the latex nose, weaved on a thatchy set of eyebrows, and dusted Juan's face with makeup. The final touches were the black wig and colored contacts. When Kevin was finished, Juan felt the odd sensation that a stranger was staring back at him from the mirror.

“Excellent work as usual, Kevin,” Juan said. “I can't recognize myself.”

Linc, who was already in his Navy kit, complete with sidearm and FN FAL assault rifle slung across his shoulder, clapped Kevin on the shoulder. “Wow! I don't know whether to salute him or recommend a plastic surgeon for that ugly mug.”

“Don't listen to him,” Kevin said. “You look perfect, if I do say so myself. Try on the uniform.”

Juan put on the tailored outfit, including the cap. When he was fully dressed, Linc and Kevin appraised him.

“I'd say you're an inch or two taller than Ortega,” Linc said, “but I doubt anyone will notice.”

“Then we're set,” Juan said. “You've outdone yourself again, Kevin.”

“It looks like my work is finished here,” Kevin said, and started packing up his cosmetic supplies. “I'll head back to the
Oregon
as soon as you go.”

He'd leave the less portable items behind and walk to the
Oregon
. Though the Venezuelans were watching for anyone leaving the ship, they wouldn't stop Kevin from getting on, especially because he had all the proper documentation to rejoin the crew.

Since Linc was playing the lower-ranking officer, he would act as the driver. They got in the Humvee and Kevin opened the shed doors. Linc started it up and eased out onto the road.

They didn't have far to go. It was a two-minute drive to the warehouse and dock.

When they reached the gatehouse, a guard armed with an assault rifle similar to Linc's waved them to a stop behind the lowered bar. A second guard stood behind him. The first guard leaned in and saluted when he saw Juan's lapel insignia and face.

Juan returned the salute and handed him the ID card that Kevin had forged for him. Although the guard clearly recognized him, the check was required.

The guard handed it back and motioned for the other guard to open the gate.

“Welcome back, Captain,” the first guard said. “If you're here to see Lieutenant Dominguez, he's in the security office.” The guard pointed, leaving no doubt as to their destination. It was a door at the corner of the warehouse. The huge garage doors were closed and no light leaked from underneath. Aside from the arc lamps around the compound, the only other lights shone on the deck of the giant oil tanker docked behind the warehouse. Workers swarmed around the front of the ship, where they were connecting pipes to feed the holds from the nearby refinery, one of Venezuela's largest.

Juan used his Spanish to order the guard not to announce their arrival, and Linc pulled away from the gate.

“So we have a host,” Juan said. “We were hoping for a skeleton crew at this time in the evening.”

“You know what they say,” Linc replied. “No plan survives contact with the enemy.”

“True, but I'd hoped it would last longer than this. We may have to act more quickly than we expected. Follow my lead, and remember to let me do all the talking.”

Linc just laughed. While Juan was fluent in Spanish, Arabic, and Russian, Linc could speak and understand only English. Using a parabolic microphone during his surveillance, Linc had captured enough of Ortega's speech to give Juan time to practice mimicking the Venezuelan's cadence, tone, and accent. Although limited to a Saudi accent when speaking Arabic, Juan could modify his Spanish with ease to match virtually any accent in Latin and South America.

But the usefulness of the makeup and mimicry was predicated on cowing enlisted sailors and noncommissioned officers. If this lieutenant was very familiar with Ortega, it would only be a matter of time before he saw through the disguise.

Linc pulled up to the front of the warehouse office door next to a second Humvee. They got out, and Linc looped the FAL over his shoulder in as nonthreatening a way as possible. It was common to see soldiers and sailors carrying around assault rifles in South America, and Captain Ortega's adjutant had been no different.

Juan flung open the door in the style he'd memorized from Linc's video and strode into the office, surprising four men, three of whom were sitting behind desks, the fourth in front of a bank of video monitors and ignoring them. A radio in the background was playing a soccer match.

The heads turned toward the visitors as one and the radio flicked off. All four men leaped from their chairs and snapped to attention.

Juan scanned the group for only a moment and focused on the sailor with lieutenant's bars on his epaulettes.

“¡Teniente
Dominguez!”
he bellowed.
“¿Cuál es el significado de está?”
—
What is the meaning of this?

The chastened officer was caught off guard, his eyes wide with fear. He showed no sign that Juan's voice was anyone's other than Ortega's.

“Captain Ortega, I thought you were in Puerto Cabello.”

“That's what you were meant to think. I see that I should conduct surprise inspections more often. Despite your mistaken assumption, it is not your patriotic duty to listen to our national team play Argentina. Quickly—how many are on duty tonight?”

Dominguez practically spit the words out. “Myself and ten sailors. The four of us here, two at the guardhouse, three on sentry duty, two guarding the payload.”

“Only two in the warehouse?”

Dominguez hesitated for a moment. “I have no men in the warehouse. I could post some there, Captain, if that's your order, but since it is empty I saw no need.”

“I see,” Juan said. But he didn't. If the payload wasn't in the warehouse, where was it?

“We have intelligence to suggest spies may be trying to gain knowledge about this facility. I want two of these men to join the sentry posts.”

Dominguez didn't hesitate this time. “You heard the captain!” he yelled at the two men. “Move!”

The sailors snatched up their rifles and donned their caps as they scrambled out of the room. The only one to stay behind was the man at the monitors.

“Get back to work, seaman,” Juan said to him, and the man plopped into his chair. Juan shifted his gaze back to the lieutenant. “Show me the payload.”

“Sir, Admiral Ruiz ordered that no one was to view the cargo once it was loaded.”

“You will show us the payload or I will report that you disobeyed a superior officer.”

Another hesitation from Dominguez. “The admiral's orders were very specific.”

“His orders are immaterial. That is the purpose of a surprise inspection.”

Juan was an excellent interpreter of people's faces, and something that he'd just said was wrong.

Dominguez's arm did nothing more than twitch, but Juan could sense that the lieutenant was attempting to be a hero. Juan drew his pistol and had the FN pointed between Dominguez's eyes before the lieutenant could even get a finger on his own sidearm. Linc moved even faster, whipping the assault rifle around in one smooth movement.

Dominguez froze, then slowly raised his hands above his head without being told. Linc disarmed him and patted him down before gesturing that he had no other weapons. The seaman, who'd watched the whole sequence motionless and agog, moved against the wall with his lieutenant.

“Don't make a sound,” Juan said. “Either of you.”

Slow nods confirmed the order.

“How did you know?” Juan asked.

“The admiral,” Dominguez said. “She's a woman. You used the word ‘his' when you talked about her orders.”

Juan shook his head. Talk about playing the percentages. He didn't know how many female admirals were in the Venezuelan Navy, but it couldn't have been more than a handful. For once, the odds beat him.

“What did he say?” Linc asked.

“Apparently the admiral in charge of this operation is a woman. I will have to remember to look her up when we get back. Keep an eye on the lieutenant here while I collect what we came for.”

Since Linc didn't speak Spanish, Juan would have to be the one to scour the files and computers for anything relevant to the smuggling operation. He hit the jackpot when he found an encrypted computer. He didn't waste time trying to crack it. That wasn't his expertise, and they didn't have time. He'd let Murph and Eric, the Corporation's computer specialists, do their magic once he got the computer back to the
Oregon
.

A phone started to ring, but not one of the desk phones. It was the trill of a smartphone. Juan spotted it under some papers on Dominguez's desk.

Before either of them could stop him, Dominguez lunged for it and swept it off the desk, smashing it into the concrete wall.

Linc grabbed him and pressed the barrel of the assault rifle against his chest. “Don't do that again,
por favor
.”

Juan picked up the pieces, making sure to get the memory card. Whatever was on there was important enough for the young lieutenant to risk his life to protect it.

Juan put the laptop and the phone pieces into Dominguez's briefcase.

“Let's see if we can get some pretty pictures,” Juan said to Linc.

“What about him?”

“Hmm. Methinks he's not going to be very cooperative.” Juan turned to Dominguez.
“¿Dónde está el baño?”

The lieutenant reluctantly pointed to a door at the other side of the room. They slipped plastic ties around the hands and feet of both captives and used torn uniform fabric as gags. When the men were cinched up tight against the toilet with more ties, Linc locked the door from the inside and closed it.

Killing them, of course, would have been easier and safer, but that wasn't the way the Corporation did things. Although they were technically mercenaries, killing in cold blood wasn't part of their moral code. Juan created the Corporation to stop terrorists and assassins, not become them.

“Two minutes and we're back here,” Juan said. “Nobody should need the potty that soon.”

Linc nudged open the only other door in the room. After a quick sweep of his rifle, he said, “Clear. And I mean
clear
.”

Juan followed him through into the main body of the warehouse.