The Trojan Sea (13 page)

Mazie waited until Stuart had left. “He’s doing good work for us,” she told Butler. “What’s going on?”

“Office politics. Mike’s boss doesn’t like him getting all the exposure over here. I’ll take care of it and have him frozen in his current assignment.”

“We need him,” Mazie said. “The president is worried and would like for us to get a handle on this. She doesn’t like the idea of other countries controlling ninety percent of the tanker fleet.”

Butler looked worried. “I’m not sure what we’re seeing, but I fear it’s tied to the globalization of the economy. The equilibrium of the system rests on a very fragile balance between states and the market.”

“I’m not an economist, Bernie. What does that mean?”

“Neither am I. But I see a system emerging where a nation is captive to the market, which is now beyond its immediate control. So if a country wants to challenge another nation, it first captures a key part of the market critical to that nation.”

Mazie nodded. “A form of economic warfare.”

“A very sophisticated form of warfare that only a large nation has the resources to pursue.”

“Can you give me an example?” Mazie asked.

“Say China decides to challenge Japan and the United States for supremacy in Asia.”

“Like during the Okinawa crisis,” Mazie added. They both had vivid memories of the early days of Madeline Turner’s presidency, when China had blockaded Okinawa in an attempt to drive a wedge between the United States and Japan. It had been a near thing, and Maddy Turner had barely avoided a major war.

“So,” Butler said, thinking aloud, “China first gains control of the oil tanker fleet. Then, when push comes to shove, China shuts off the flow of oil, and the U.S. doesn’t have the means to supply its forces. In short, the military option is taken off the table.”

Mazie’s chin came up, her eyes flashing with anger. “And they can also shut off the oil to Japan. I don’t think the president wants to hear this.”

“Someone had better tell her before it’s too late,” Butler said.

The yellow chalk dust brought on an itch, and Stuart’s nose exploded in a thunderous sneeze, sending his glasses flying. Twice more the small office echoed with a crashing barrage. He wiped at his nose with a Kleenex, picked up his glasses, and stared at the green chalkboard in front of him. “Is your rear-end still attached?” Peggy Redman said from behind him. She was standing in his cubicle’s doorway wearing her coat and holding her handbag.

“I hope so,” he said.

“Colonel Priestly wants to see you. But I told him you’d left for the day.” He gave her a quizzical look, wondering why she’d done that. “Headquarters MPC,” she explained, “sent him an e-mail canceling your assignment to Germany. I figured he needed time to cool down.” She turned and left, eager to get home.

“Fuckin’ Ramjet,” Stuart muttered to himself. He turned back to the chalkboard and studied the complicated equation he’d transferred from the file Mazie had given him. “Okay, Dr. Steiner, what’s wrong with this picture?” Then he saw it. He circled the same subset that had caught L.J. Ellis’s attention four days earlier. “Naw,” he said. “I must be doing something wrong. Steiner’s too good for that.” He sat down at his desk and kicked back, still working the problem. He had always loved math and found an escape in neatly ordered equations and the tight logic of advanced calculus. But this wasn’t calculus.
So what is it?
He worked for another three hours, oblivious to the time.

The phone rang, claiming his attention. The flashing light announced it was an outside line and not from Ramjet’s office. He picked it up on the second ring. “Mike,” Jenny said, her voice tight and a little too loud. “It’s after eight o’clock. Don’t you ever go home?”

He recognized the symptoms immediately. “What’s the problem?”

“Mike, it’s just not enough money. We need to buy a car to go to Aspen, and Granny wants a sport utility vehicle with four-wheel drive so we’ll have the proper image when we get there, because image is everything in Aspen.”

At least I know where Eric’s run-on sentences come from,
he thought. “You know what I make,” he said, hoping that would pacify her.

“Mike!” she shouted. “I don’t want to go to my mother!”

And God only knows what will happen then.
“Let me think for a minute.” Getting Jenny out of Virginia would take the heat off Eric, but Stuart couldn’t afford to buy her a new car.
Maybe my Explorer would do the trick. And it’s paid for.
“Jenny, I hardly drive anymore, so why don’t we switch cars? You take my SUV—it’s a four-wheel drive—and I use your car. But I’ll need mine back when I retire. In sixteen months.”

“That would be wonderful,” she sang. “We’ll be all set up by then, and you and Eric can come out to get it and visit us.”

“Great,” he said.

“We want to leave near the end of the month, so we can pick it up at your folks’ place then.” She hung up before he could change his mind.

Stuart dropped the phone into its cradle and looked up to see Ramjet Priestly staring at him. “I thought you’d gone home,” Priestly said, his voice icy cold.

“I stepped out for a few moments,” Stuart replied, covering for Peggy. He motioned at the chalkboard. “A major problem.”

Priestly glared at him. “That’s nothing compared to the bucket of shit you stepped in when you tried to make an end run around me.”

Stuart stifled a groan. He wanted nothing more than for Ramjet to be kicked upstairs so a seasoned logistician could take over ILSX. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t understand.”

“The hell you don’t. You may think you picked up a sponsor in Butler, but I’ve got friends. And I control the personnel in my division—not you, not Butler. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly, sir.”

“Thank God for that. I’d suggest you start packing.” Priestly spun around and walked away, his hard heels echoing down the corridor.

Why didn’t I hear him coming?
Stuart wondered. Ramjet’s hard heels were an ongoing joke in the office. Stuart gathered up his coat and hat, turned out the light, and headed for the Metro station. He had to hurry to catch the next train and, as usual, it was almost empty.
With my luck they’ll cancel the late trains as soon as I give Jenny the Explorer.
He settled into a seat in the front and let his mind wander. An image of Eric spinning around holding the model of the Lightning flashed in his mind’s eye. There was no way Jenny would allow him to take Eric to Germany, and that meant Barbara Raye would win by default.
What do I do now?
he moaned to himself. He glanced at his watch, the memory of the street sweeper still vivid in his mind. Could he catch a taxi for the short ride home? Probably not.
Perfect,
he thought,
an absolutely perfect fuckin’ day.

He walked out of his Metro station in time to see a taxi pull away. For a moment he considered waiting to see if another cab might drive by. But the way things were going, he knew there wouldn’t be another one. “What the hell.” He sighed, then turned and walked briskly across the street. He passed a few people, all walking confidently, and told himself the neighborhood was improving and perfectly safe. The street sweeper had just been a fluke accident. He turned down his street, less than a hundred yards from his apartment. “Ah, shit,” he groaned. The streetlight was out, and he was walking in a dark shadow. Instinctively he hurried toward the next light.

A dark image emerged from the shadows and walked toward him. The man was huge, well over six feet tall, and wore a dark duffel coat that reached to his knees. The hood was up, and his left arm hung at his side as if it were paralyzed. Stuart froze as pure fear sent shock waves through his body.

For a split second Stuart wanted to believe that the apparition bearing down on him was a homeless person begging for money. Indecision tore at him. A primal instinct urged him to run, while his mind rationalized that this couldn’t possibly be happening to him. A car turned the corner behind the man, and its headlights flashed on the man’s back, setting him in stark relief. A knife dangled from his left hand.
I’m going to get that stuck in my body!

But Stuart couldn’t stop himself from walking. His instincts finally took over. He leaped in front of the car that was bearing down behind the man, desperate to get anything between him and the knife. But he was too close, and the man grabbed Stuart’s coat and jerked him back. Stuart twisted and grabbed for the man’s left hand in a desperate attempt to stop the knife. Somehow the man’s right hand, which was still holding on to Stuart’s coat, was jammed against his mouth. Stuart bit down. Hard. The man let go as Stuart twisted away, again jumping into the street.

His assailant’s left hand cut an arc, swinging at Stuart’s back. The tip of the blade caught in his coat and dragged across his shoulder blades. Stuart fell into the street as another car approached, its headlights flashing across them. For a fraction of a second Stuart had a clear view of his assailant’s face under the hood. The driver of the second car stood on the brakes and swerved to avoid hitting Stuart as the man ran into the shadows.

“You okay, buddy?” the driver shouted.

Stuart staggered to his feet. He tasted blood in his mouth. He spit as hard as he could.

Miami

The driver deposited the young woman at the entrance to Marsten’s hotel at exactly 10:25 Tuesday evening. She was tall and elegant and walked with confidence into the small lobby. She wore a classic little black dress that was on the edge of perfect taste, not too tight but tight enough to tantalize. The night manager came out from behind the counter and buttoned the coat of his tuxedo. “May I help you?” he asked.

“Mr. Marsten is expecting me,” she said.

“I see,” the manager said, immediately pegging her as a very high-priced call girl. It was a situation the hotel dealt with daily. His only concern was that a guest might make a bad liaison. But as she didn’t fit the profile that spelled trouble, he didn’t foresee a problem. “Shall I call Mr. Marsten and tell him you’re on your way up?”

“Please do,” she said, bestowing a beautiful smile on him. She handed him a discreet business card with a hundred-dollar bill folded underneath.

He glanced at the card. “Heather,” he read. “And you’re with Specialized Associates. I’m not familiar with your, ah, firm.”

“We specialize in personal services that require a great deal of discretion,” she told him.

“Of course,” he said, palming the hundred dollars. He kept her card for a possible referral, should the need arise. He was certain any guest using her services would be most appreciative. He escorted her to the elevator. “Mr. Marsten is on the eighth floor.” There was no room number, as each suite occupied an entire floor. He turned a key, and the door slid back. The manager stared at her as the doors closed, trying to estimate what she charged for an evening. He knew that the two other girls currently in the hotel charged two thousand dollars for the night. He decided that “Heather” was worth much more. He didn’t know how right he was.

Marsten was waiting when the elevator stopped. “Right on time,” he said. “Lloyd Marsten.” He extended his hand.

“Sophia James,” she replied. They shook hands in a businesslike way. “We have the information you asked for.” He nodded and led the way into the study. She sat down at a writing table and pulled a small palm-size computer out of her bag. She plugged in the modern and turned on the computer, all business. “We’ve a positive make on the terrorists who bombed RTX Farm Supplies. They’re a small splinter group of Puerto Rican nationalists who call themselves the Group. The FBI rolled up three of their members in Puerto Rico last August, and until now they’ve been very quiet.”

“Are we dealing with true believers here?” Marsten asked.

“Apparently so,” she replied. “While there is always a strong self-destructive element in any group like this, the woman’s death was an accident.”

Over the years Marsten had developed the ability to take the measure of people quickly, and Sophia James was someone he could use. But he had to probe a little deeper before making a decision. “I’d like to turn this over to the FBI, but you know how slowly they move.”

“And only if they believe you. Even then they double-check everything. And that can take forever.”

Marsten said, “We’re worried this so-called Group may hit us again. We don’t want any of our people killed or injured simply because the authorities refuse to act in a timely way.” He paused for effect. “We will protect our people and want to be proactive in this matter.”

“The FBI won’t like that at all,” she said.

He nodded. “Perhaps it would be best not to involve them, at least not yet. So exactly who and what are we dealing with?”

Her fingers danced on the keyboard. The screen flashed, and three images appeared. “Luis Barrios is their leader and their only source of money. Neither Francisco Martínez nor Eduardo Pinar works. Prior to her death, the woman known as Carita was the main source of money, which she earned working as a prostitute.”

Marsten scanned the dossiers Sophia had compiled, growing even more impressed. “Can we get someone on the inside?”

Sophia instinctively sensed where he was going. “If approached the right way, yes. Barrios is no fool. He knows they need money and information to survive. It’s a weakness we can exploit.”

“How vulnerable are they?”

“Very,” she answered. She hesitated. Did she want to lie to Marsten this early in the game? She decided to be truthful. “You can’t believe how easy it was to crack their cover. I know all there is to know about them, including the last time they washed their underwear. It’s only a matter of time before the FBI rolls them up.” She thought for a moment. “I’ll need a cover.”

“We can assume they’re familiar with the Puerto Rican scene,” Marsten said. “You could always be a Cuban freedom fighter.”

“That should work,” she replied.

Marsten studied Barrios’s picture, trying to take his measure. “How does Barrios earn his money?”

“He works for SuperComputers. That’s a large chain of computer stores.”

“I’ve never been in one,” Marsten told her.

“Interesting place.” Her long fingernails clicked as they danced over the keyboard. “For some reason, young males of one ethnic group will take over the staff of a particular store. All of them seem to be wheeler-dealers looking for the golden opportunity. For example, the staff where Barrios works is composed almost entirely of Hindi-speaking immigrants from India. Barrios is the only Latino working there. He specializes in HTML and is the store’s Web-site expert.”

“Not to mention the token Hispanic,” Marsten added. He thought for a moment. “Can you create a Web page?”

“Of course. I can do it now, if you want. Besides, if I left too soon, it would blow my cover.”

“We certainly wouldn’t want to do that,” Marsten replied. He made a decision. “What does ARA pay you?”

“When they use me, four hundred and fifty a day plus expenses. I made forty thousand dollars last year.”

It was exactly the kind of problem Marsten delighted in solving. Instinctively he ran the numbers. ARA had used her services eighty-nine days last year. A waste of talent. “How would you like to work full-time for me? A hundred thousand a year, all expenses paid.”

She considered the offer. “Very interesting. Does it require, shall we say, certain services of a very personal nature?”

“Absolutely not,” Marsten replied.

She smiled at him. “What a pity. I rather enjoy sex. With the right person.”

He returned her smile. She was the person he was looking for.

Luis Barrios saw Sophia James the moment she entered the store. The miniskirt to her business suit revealed shapely legs, and her dark hair was pulled back, reminding him of an exotic dancer he had once lusted after. He felt his blood stir as she moved through the displays.

Instinctively he angled her way, hoping to be the first to reach her. But Habib got there first. Normally Barrios would have barged ahead, but Habib was the assistant manager and very conscientious. He would see that she was properly helped.
Not like the others,
Barrios thought. He stood back as he watched them. She glanced at him and held his gaze for a moment. The surge of interest coming from his groin grew stronger.
She’s sending signals,
he told himself. There was something vaguely familiar about her.
I’ve seen her before. But where?
He moved closer and heard her say, “I’m trying to create a Web site for my company. But I think I need to upgrade my computer.” She gave a charming laugh. “And I certainly need help.”

“Yes, I see,” Habib said in his precise English. “You need to speak to Luis. He’s our expert on HTML and creating Web sites.”

“What’s HTLM?” the woman asked, getting it wrong.

“Luis will explain it all to you,” Habib said, motioning Luis over. “Luis is an expert Webmaster.”

“You’re just the man I’m looking for,” Sophia said to Luis.

Luis tried to concentrate, fighting the urgent signals coming from his groin, as he led her to the section where a computer station was set up. It was one of Luis’s creations, and a big monitor hung from the ceiling to relay to a large audience what was on the computer’s screen.

Luis took a deep breath. Everything about the woman excited him—the way she walked, her hair, her perfume. They sat down in front of the computer. Her skirt crept even higher, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her legs. “How may I help you?” he asked.

“Well,” Sophia said, “I run my own company, and I’m trying to start a Web page. But I’m having trouble with my computer and…well, why don’t I show you what I already have? We can go from there.”

Luis breathed deeply. She was definitely sending signals. “Yes, why don’t we do that?” He watched as she typed in www.allaboutyou.com. “What an unusual name,” he said. The super-VGA monitor blinked, and he froze. His own photo filled the screen. The monitor blinked again, and Carita’s picture appeared, a very dead Carita. That image was quickly replaced by Francisco’s and Eduardo’s. Then his own picture was back on the screen. His mouth fell open and he gasped, realizing everyone in the store could see what was on the large monitor hanging over their heads.

When Habib was on duty, he never missed a thing. “Luis,” he called. “What is going on?”

“Nothing!” Luis said. He bounced out of his chair to see what was on the overhead monitor. At the same time he heard Sophia’s fingernails clicking as she worked the keyboard. The large screen went blank, and Habib turned away. Luis collapsed into the chair, his heart still beating fast. “FBI?” he moaned.

“Of course not,” Sophia said, switching to Spanish. She stroked the inside of his thigh.

“CIA?”

She laughed. “Never.”

“Why are you here?”

“Like I said, you’re just the man I’m looking for.” This in English.

“Am I?” he replied in Spanish.

She answered in the same language. “We need each other.”

“For what?”

“You can do things I cannot. On the other hand, I can supply money and information.”

“Who are you?”

“Like you, a freedom fighter.”

A fellow traveler,
Luis thought. He had seen it before. She was a true believer who had given herself completely to a cause. But which one? Then he remembered. He had seen her at Café Martí talking to the waiter who would sell anything to anyone for the right price. “Cuba?” he asked. A slow blink of her dark eyes confirmed his guess. Again there was an unspoken promise in the way she looked at him. His mind raced with the implications. She was someone he could use, and there was a way to confirm if she was the legitimate article. “I need to think about it.”

“Think what might happen,” Sophia whispered, moving her hand higher up his leg. She gave a little squeeze and stood up. “I’ll be in contact.” She pointed at the computer, turned around, and walked away.

A combination of lust, fear, and curiosity cycled through his body, ratcheting up his libido. He wanted to shout, “What’s your name?” But Habib was still watching him.