Marauder (The Oregon Files)

by Clive Cussler

  Linc glanced at the game clock. Three minutes to halftime. “The plan was to wait until the end of the game so we can lose ourselves in the crowd.”

  “You don’t have time,” Gomez replied. “Alpha team’s mission went badly. You may be compromised soon. I’ll be calling Gamma next to tell them the same thing. Rendezvous is still as planned.”

  “Understood.” The connection clicked off.

  “Why was Gomez on the line?” asked Raven Malloy, who had been listening to the communication on her own molar mic. “Do you think something happened to Linda?”

  Like Linc, she was dressed in a Mexican national team jersey, except on her it was tied at the waist and showed off her trim, athletic figure. On him it strained to contain his huge shoulders.

  Linc, an African-American, and Raven, a Native American, blended in easily with the multicultural audience. In addition, their clothes, similar to the gear worn by the thousands of other Mexican fans around them, ensured that they didn’t stand out.

  “I don’t know,” Linc answered. “But if Gomez had to take over for Linda, it can’t be good.”

  Raven nodded at López and his two companions. “You still thinking the bathroom is the way to go?”

  Linc nodded. “Those two have been swilling beers since they got here,” Linc said. “They’ll definitely make a pit stop at halftime.”

  “At least López has been smart enough to lay off. He’s drunk half a bottle at most.”

  Raven used to be an Army Military Police investigator, and nothing escaped her observation. Since she’d joined the Corporation, she’d proven herself the equal of any Special Forces veteran on the Oregon. She was also the fastest runner on the ship, and a dead shot with every weapon they had in their arsenal.

  Unfortunately, neither of them was armed, since they couldn’t get guns past stadium security. On the other hand, Linc was sure the two men with López were packing heat. The baggy shirts they wore concealed the bulges of pistols tucked into waistbands. No doubt they bribed someone to bring them in undetected.

  As a former Navy SEAL, Linc was an expert at assessing threats, evac routes, and possible hiccups in mission planning. This situation was rich with both problems and opportunities because of the massive crowd. Lots of witnesses, which could be either good or bad depending on how this went down. But also the ability to get lost in the scrum as people swarmed the food and drink vendors and the bathrooms at halftime.

  Linc was sure there were more of the cartel’s people in the stadium watching López. He was still proving himself to the cartel as a banker who could launder dirty billions. They weren’t going to let him out of their sight.

  Linc looked at the clock. Two minutes left in regular time. He estimated there were four minutes to be played in stoppage time. As soon as the men started to leave, he and Raven would follow them out. Raven would isolate one man and take him out on the concourse while Linc followed López and the other cartel guy into the bathroom, knock the cartel guy out, place him in one of the stalls, and whisk López away before anyone knew what had happened.

  That plan sounded great until one of the men jerked his thumb over his shoulder and walked up the aisle.

  “Guess he couldn’t wait to go,” Raven said.

  “That might cause problems. Think you could get rid of him now?”

  “You read my mind.”

  Raven waited for him to pass, then followed him to the concourse exit.

  Time to let López know what was coming. Linc picked up the beer by his feet and stumbled down the aisle as if he were drunk.

  He plopped into the seat vacated by the cartel henchman.

  López, who had thin lips and a Roman nose, looked at him in surprise and spoke in Spanish. Linc didn’t speak the language, so he slurred his words in English.

  “Who are you guys? Where’s my wife?” He took a big gulp of the beer, which by now was warm and flat.

  “Get out of here, hombre,” López said. “This isn’t your seat.”

  “Hombre? Hey! You must be Mexican! Just like my wife!” He patted López on the shoulder.

  The man next to López sneered at Linc. “Listen to him, gringo. Go away now or we’ll make you go away.”

  Linc put up his hands in surrender. “Hey, man, I’m sorry. I thought this was my seat.” He looked intently at the bottle in his hand. “What do they put in these beers anyway? Must be tangerine liqueur from Madagascar. I’ve only had eight of them and I’m already feeling a buzz.”

  López stared at him with barely concealed surprise. “Tangerine liqueur from Madagascar” was his blown cover code phrase. Linc briefly narrowed his eyes at López to make it clear he wasn’t really drunk.

  The cartel assassin didn’t notice the look. “I said go,” he repeated. “Now!”

  Linc went back into his drunk mode and lurched to his feet. “I’m going, I’m going!” He hiccupped. “Maybe I should go to the bathroom before I hurl right here. Adios, muchachos!”

  The disgusted cartel man had turned back to watch the game, so Linc gave López one last look. López nodded ever so slightly.

  He understood Linc. He was in mortal danger. And the only way out was through the stadium restroom.

  Linc staggered back up the aisle to get set for the coming fight.

  12

  Most people got to the top of Rio’s Sugarloaf Mountain by riding its famous cable car. Thousands of tourists a day visited the observation deck at the summit for the spectacular view, as well as its snack bars and shops. From down in the city, the monolith towering thirteen hundred feet above the entrance to Guanabara Bay looked like a bomb standing on end, with sheer, rocky cliffs on all sides. But from the bay, boaters could see a sloping ridge covered with low trees and scrub brush extending from the sea all the way to the summit. Almost none of the visitors took the alternative route up along this ridge, a rough and difficult hiking trail marked by steep stone faces and several near-vertical rock climbs.

  “Whose idiotic idea was this?” Hali Kasim asked, wiping sweat from his brow as he trudged up the worn dirt path near the peak. The slim Lebanese-American served as the Oregon’s communications officer and seldom ventured into the field. He certainly wasn’t used to the rigors of the three-hour trek carrying a huge pack on his back. His T-shirt and cargo pants were covered in dust and soaked in perspiration.

  Marion MacDougall “MacD” Lawless chuckled.

  “Ah believe it was yours,” the blond Army veteran said with a honey-thickened Louisiana drawl. He followed behind Hali to catch him in case he stumbled and fell backward down some of the steeper inclines. Although MacD carried the same kind of backpack, he didn’t think the hike had been so bad. “This is nothing compared to Ranger School. Our packs weighed twice as much as this one, and we’d go twenty hours straight on two rations daily and four hours’ sleep.”

  Hali waved his hand dismissively. “Yeah, but I’m used to sitting in a comfy chair with a refreshing beverage by my side, and the heaviest weight I typically lift in my workday is the headset hanging around my neck. You, on the other hand, look like you were designed in a laboratory experiment to bring marble statues to life for Army recruiting posters. If a movie were made about your life, Chris Hemsworth would be considered too ugly to play you.”

  “And too wimpy,” MacD said, happily going along with the premise. “Ah do think Ah was a Spartan in a previous life.”

  MacD laughed as Hali threw a glance over his shoulder and rolled his eyes. “Ugh. I’m just thankful I don’t have to see you in a loincloth. My humiliation would be complete.”

  “This might be a good time to remind you that it was your hobby that convinced the Chairman to let us try this.”

  “I didn’t think he’d actually go for it,” Hali said.

  “Neither did Ah. But that video of you flying over Mexico was impressive. You’ve got a knack for it.”r />
  “So do you. It’s infuriating that in only two days you mastered the hobby I’ve been pursuing for three years.”

  “Ah wouldn’t say ‘mastered.’ But Ah’ve jumped out of my fair share of airplanes. It ain’t that different.”

  “Is there anything you’re not good at?” Hali asked.

  “Ah don’t know,” MacD said with a smile. “Ah haven’t tried everything yet.”

  They were within a hundred yards of the dirt trail’s transformation into a paved path when they got a call on the comm system.

  “Gamma, this is Omega,” Gomez said. “We’ve had some issues down here. You need to push your timetable up as fast as you can.”

  The two of them stopped walking and exchanged glances. That didn’t sound good, especially because it wasn’t Linda Ross, as expected, talking to them.

  “Everyone all right?” MacD asked.

  “We’ve had some casualties. The CIA agent’s identity may be compromised sooner than we thought it would.”

  “Is our extraction rendezvous still a go?”

  There was a pause before another voice came through their molar mics. This time, it was the Chairman on the other end.

  “Rendezvous will be as planned,” Juan said. “We’ll meet you at the designated coordinates whenever you get there. Let us know when you’re on the way.”

  “Acknowledged. Gamma out.”

  Hali’s face was a study of concern. “Sounds bad.”

  MacD shook his head in confusion at what he’d heard. “Ah don’t get it. Should have been a simple op on their end. But we can’t do anything about it right now. We need to focus on our job.”

  As if they needed any more distractions, three monkeys hopped through the bushes beside them, begging for food, but MacD and Hali ignored them. The monkeys chattered in disappointment but hovered nearby just in case.

  MacD looked at both sides of the trail and saw that there was a relatively level spot to the right that sloped down to a cliff twenty-five yards away. The tiny island of Ilha da Laje, with its deserted concrete fortress, was far below them at the entrance to Guanabara Bay, and, beyond it, was the eight-mile-long Rio–Niterói Bridge stretching from one side of the bay to the other. Farther in the distance he could make out the shape of the Oregon, which was probably in the process of recovering the Gator so they could treat the casualties. Since the ship was turning, that meant it’d raised anchor.

  MacD and Hali were low enough on the hill that tourists on the observation deck above couldn’t see them, and a mass of trees obscured the view of the path higher up. MacD walked over to an area that was covered only by tall grasses and shrugged off his backpack.

  “This is as good a place as any to launch,” he said. “Can you get them both set up while I’m gone?”

  Hali studied the terrain and put his hand up to feel the direction of the light breeze wafting up the side of the mountain. Then he nodded.

  “Shouldn’t be a problem as long as the monkeys stay out of my way.”

  “Let me know if you run into any snags,” MacD said. “Ah’ll give you a shout when Ah’ve got her.”

  “I hope she’s not afraid of heights.”

  “She had to take the cable car to get up here.”

  “Not the same thing,” Hali said, unzipping his pack.

  MacD peered over the ledge to the water a thousand feet down. “You’re right.”

  While Hali unpacked the equipment, MacD went back to the trail and walked up the remaining section until he could hear the sound of voices coming from the crowd gathered on the observation platform.

  The huge deck spread in a semicircle around the building housing the cable car loading area and winch. There were several buildings housing the snack bars and the stores selling knickknacks and souvenirs. Hundreds of visitors leaned against the railings to take in the view, took selfies, or sat at tables, gazing at the incredible scenery.

  MacD was looking for a CIA agent named Jessica Belasco. According to the photo and bio he’d studied for the operation, she stood an athletic five-six, held a black belt in tae kwon do, and she had long black hair, full lips, and a white three-inch scar down the side of her neck. He’d also noticed she was very cute, so he had no doubt she’d be easy to spot.

  Belasco had infiltrated a Bolivian cocaine cartel and was tasked with discovering links between it and a series of government assassinations throughout South America. She was in Rio to connect with their Brazilian counterparts.

  According to her weekly report, Belasco and some of the cartel’s big bosses had cable car tickets that would have put them at the top fifteen minutes earlier. This was the only place where she’d be in public during the Rio visit, so the extraction had to occur there.

  MacD wandered through the stores and around the deck, just another tourist among many who was taking in the sights. But unlike the rest of the people, he wasn’t looking at the statue of Christ the Redeemer or at Copacabana Beach. He was systematically scanning the crowd for his target.

  He finally spotted her sitting at a table with two men and a woman. They were eating cups of gelato while speaking animatedly in Spanish and laughing. Belasco looked like she was having fun. MacD was about to spoil it.

  He walked up to the table and used the French he’d learned growing up near New Orleans.

  “Pardonnez-moi,” he said. “En aurez-vous bientôt fini avec cette table?”

  Pardon me. Will you be done with this table soon?

  As he’d expected, the three people with Belasco looked at him blankly. But MacD knew the CIA agent spoke French. She responded, “There are plenty of free tables around us, monsieur.”

  She switched back from French to Spanish and explained what he was asking. They all looked at him like he was a moron.

  “I know,” he continued in French, “but this is my favorite table. It reminds me of a place where I grew up, a small country village outside of Chamonix.”

  “A small country village outside of Chamonix” was her blown cover code. She swallowed her ice cream and looked up at him, her smile faltering only slightly.

  “It does?”

  He nodded with a serious expression to let her know that she’d heard correctly. “While I wait for the table, I’ll browse the gift shop on the other side of the deck. I want something that reminds me of this place when I leave. À bientôt.”

  See you soon.

  He smiled at the group, then turned and walked away, certain that she understood the message.

  Two minutes later, as he scanned the postcards, she sidled up beside him, but facing the other direction.

  “I only have a few minutes,” Belasco said. “I told them I wanted to do some shopping before I went back down.”

  “You can’t,” MacD said. “Your cover is blown. They’ll get a text at any moment that you’re really a CIA agent. They might not even wait to get into the cable car before they kill you.”

  “And you are?”

  “MacD Lawless. Rescuer and all-around nice guy. To my friends, at least.”

  “How do you know my cover is blown?”

  “There was a leak at CIA headquarters. You and two other agents were compromised. That’s all Ah know. But they wouldn’t have sent me if they didn’t think it was serious.”

  She threw up her hands in frustration. “All my work down the drain. I don’t believe this.”

  “Believe it. Would Langston Overholt have given me your blown code if he didn’t think you were in danger?”

  The mention of Overholt’s name seemed to convince her that she had no choice but to abandon her operation.

  “Even if we take care of the three people with me,” she said, “there are half a dozen more killers waiting for us at the bottom of the mountain.”

  “Ah know. You wouldn’t get twenty feet from the cable car station before they�
�d stuff you in a van and make you disappear.”

  “So, what now?” she asked with a sigh. “You’re going to escort me down on the cable car all by yourself?”

  “Not exactly. Have you ever been skydiving?”

  “Twice. Both tandem jumps.” She turned to him and cocked her head in suspicion. “Why?”

  MacD grinned. “Because we’ve got a flight to catch.”

  13

  Raven Malloy lingered near a trash can as she nursed the last of her water. The concourse of Maracanã Stadium was still fairly empty, but in a few minutes it would be full of people heading for the restrooms or food stands. Right now, other than the few who couldn’t wait for the break at halftime, the only people nearby were the ever-present police officers patrolling the grounds in teams of two.

  She kept an eye on the closest men’s room door. The Mexican assassin had gone in two minutes before, and she was going to intercept him on his way out.

  Raven and Linc had planned on waiting until the end of the game to make their move. With seventy-eight thousand fans leaving the stadium all at once, it would have been easy to get lost in the crowd during the exodus. Now with an accelerated timetable, they had to hope the commotion at halftime would provide them with enough of a distraction.

  She looked at one of the monitors displaying the game for those people who couldn’t be at their seats. The clock was ticking down, with only three minutes left in stoppage time. López would be leading the other Mexican to the bathroom as soon as the first period ended. If the first guy didn’t exit the men’s until then, the mission would get far more complicated.

  Raven hoped her target wasn’t having intestinal problems. Just thinking about the possibility made her gag.

  She didn’t have to imagine for long. Seconds later, the Mexican emerged. In her mind, she dubbed him Feo because he was snaggletoothed and had a bushy unibrow. Although she was fluent in Arabic and Farsi, Raven only dabbled in Spanish, but she did know that feo meant “ugly.”