by Gregg Loomis
Holding the light between his teeth, he reached into another pocket, producing an odd, remotely gun-shaped object. A screwdriver-like blade extended from what would have been the gun’s barrel. Inserted into a lock, the blade vibrated, causing the pins to fall into the lock’s preset pattern. The device had arrived from Washington via UPS along with his weapon.
SouthOrd electric lock-pick gun, available on the Internet to anyone who could come up with $49.95, no identification other than a credit card required. The thought had done little to increase Jason’s sense of security, but he had gone right ahead and ordered it anyway.
The click of metal on metal told him the lock had yielded. Replacing the lock pick in his pocket, he squatted, reaching up to the knob. There was only one way of telling if the door was connected to an alarm system. He turned the knob and eased it open a mere crack. The absence of sound did not mean the system was not in place, just that the occupants of the building didn’t want an intruder to know it had been set off.
When there was no reaction after a full five minutes, he guessed there was no alarm or it hadn’t been armed. He opened the door wider and slid into darkness. He waited another moment, hoping his eyes would adjust. Too dark. Blind, he felt for the railing along the steel spiral staircase and slowly eased down to the next floor.
When he reached the bottom, he could see light squeezing under a door. There were muffled voices inside, although he could not tell if they came from this floor or the one below. The one sound definitely emanating from the other side was a muted hum that Jason associated with high-powered electronics.
He mentally discussed the pros and cons of breaching this door also. Too great a risk. If there were someone in this room, he not only would be in trouble but his penetration of the building discovered, bringing stronger security measures. No, better to try again when he could be relatively certain he would have the opportunity to look around.
The question was, when would that be?
Jason thought he had the answer.
48
Hotel Coral by the Sea
Calle Rosa 2
San Juan
The Next Afternoon
Hotel Coral by the Sea was not beside any sea Jason could ascertain. The fourth-floor room did, however, have a narrow view of the beach some three blocks distant. Other amenities were a remarkable similarity to a 1960s Holiday Inn, including, as Jason had insisted, a small kitchenette. Refrigerator, sink, and two-eyed electric range. That the place was neat, clean, and inexpensive was the most benign description Jason could think of. It was also probably not in the first tier of hotels whose registers would be hacked by someone trying to find him.
Jason and Judith were unpacking for the third time in as many days. “What makes you sure it will rain tonight?” she asked as she folded a pair of jeans and put them in a dresser drawer.
Jason had a pair of folded polo shirts in his hand. “The fact it has rained the last two. At almost exactly the same time. Say, can you save at least one drawer for me?”
She noted the bed where he had dumped the small number of clothes from his suitcase: two T-shirts, two polo shirts, two pair of underwear, one swimsuit, one pair of jeans, two pair of socks. Nothing that could not be washed in a bathroom sink. “You don’t need a whole drawer. All you brought, you could store them in the medicine cabinet in the bath.”
Jason nodded toward the closet, where she had hung up two dresses, rayon that easily dropped the wrinkles of being rolled up in a suitcase. “You didn’t bring a whole lot more.”
“You were pretty insistent on the point. ‘If it doesn’t go in the overhead, it doesn’t go,’ you said. ‘We’re not going to have time to spend packing and unpacking,’ you said. ‘Certainly no time to chase lost baggage.’ Well, OK, I did as I was told.”
“It’s the military training for you.”
“Maybe, Captain, you’re forgetting your rank.” She smiled as she brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes.
Jason put the two polo shirts in a bureau drawer. “My operation, my command. You’re the one who wanted to come.”
She sat down on the bed. “Truth is, I’d have invited myself along if you’d been going to the North Pole. Time for a break in the routine.”
“I thought you liked the travel, the lack of hassle.”
“The travel’s OK as long as you like Air Force bases. But it’s not thrilling, either. Then, along you come with your good looks, mysterious past, just reeking of excitement and adventure. No chance I was going to let all that slip away without a try.”
Jason turned from the bureau. “Candor is among your more endearing traits.”
“Candor gets what I want; feminine shyness doesn’t. Look, I’m an MD, not some bimbo who flirts with every man she sees. I’m not getting any younger and I don’t see much future with the career military types who, up until you came along, were pretty much all the men I met. I’m not looking to get married again anytime soon; I’m not even looking for a ‘committed relationship,’ whatever the hell that is. I didn’t invite myself along to be Robin to your Batman or Wonder Woman on my own. All I want, when it’s time to cash in my chips, when it’s time to retire someplace, is to have done something besides treat the common cold.”
“And VD.”
“And VD,” she echoed. “So much for what I want. What about you?”
“I want to accomplish what I came here to do, and for both of us to leave in at least as good a shape as when we arrived.”
She shook her head. “There must be something in your life besides whatever mission you’re on. What happens when it’s over? Where do you go, what do you want?”
For the first time, Jason asked himself just that: Where would he go? Not back to Ischia, where Moustaph’s men had found him. And what did he want, just to be left alone to paint? Obviously not, since he had accepted this job. And what about Maria? He realized he had intentionally, if unconsciously, postponed making some very hard decisions.
“What do I want? I haven’t planned that far ahead. There’ll be time for that when we’re finished here.”
Judith took a step back to allow Jason to toss the polo shirts into another open drawer. “And if it does not rain?”
It took a second for Jason to understand that she had switched back to the original conversation. “I guess we get a rain check.”
She turned toward him, holding a pair of bras. “Suppose it doesn’t?”
Jason finished putting away the last of his clothes. “I’d say we change hotels and wait for the next rainy night.”
“Why is the rain so important?”
“Those people on the roofs of adjoining houses. What I have in mind doesn’t play well before an audience.”
“And exactly what is it you have in mind, blowing up the house? That’s the sort of thing Delta Force does, isn’t it?”
“No. We aren’t going to get rid of this bunch by destroying bricks and mortar. Or, for that matter, the people in it. What will put a finish to them is exposure. But we will use a bomb of a sort, though.”
He explained.
“And you want me to … ?”
He explained that, too.
“I’ll need incentive,” she said, unbuttoning her blouse.
An hour later, incentive provided, they were in a garden store. Jason was mesmerized by the varieties and colors of tropical flowers. Frangipani, hibiscus, and bougainvillea were among the few he recognized. Potted citrus, avocado, and mango waited to grace someone’s yard and dining table. He wished he had both his art supplies and the time to use them. This garden of tropical delights would be beautiful in acrylic.
“We came for the fertilizer and some pots,” Judith reminded him.
“Er, yeah.” He was examining the lists of contents on several bags while a bemused salesman watched. “Potassium nitrate is what I need.”
“We have a number of products that contain varying amounts,” the salesman offered.
Jason shook his head. “
Won’t do. I mix my own fertilizer. Surely you have pure saltpeter.”
A smile cracked the man’s face, showing dazzling teeth. “Ah! Saltpeter! You should have said so. Yes, we have it. How much do you need?”
“A couple of pounds.”
The man’s face fell. “But it only comes in fifty-pound bags.”
“I’ll take one.”
Back at the hotel, Judith watched Jason fill a dented frying pan with a combination of sugar and saltpeter. “It matters how they are mixed?”
Jason nodded as he added just enough water to give the blend a claylike substance before turning on the stove’s eye. “About five parts to three.” He stirred with a wooden spoon. “We want to caramelize the sugar, not melt it.”
Fifteen minutes later, he was putting the frying pan into the small oven.
Judith watched skeptically. “It won’t ignite from the heat?”
Jason shook his head. “It will ignite only from direct contact with fire. The oven will only dry it out.”
“Now what do we do?”
“We go shopping for the rest of what we’ll need. By that time, the stuff in the oven should be ready.”
“Incentivize me again.”
Jason rolled his eyes. “I’m beginning to think it wasn’t the chance of excitement that made you want to come along.”
“Depends on how you define ‘excitement.’”
On their backs an hour later, both stared at the featureless ceiling.
“And now?” she asked.
“We make fuses.”
49
Old San Juan
8:32 the Same Night
It rained.
The anticipated downpour beat against shutters of the old buildings like a demon seeking entrance and sent torrents of water boiling down the streets’ open gutters. Even the coquí were silenced by the intensity of the deluge Jason knew would last half an hour at best.
Covered by a recently purchased poncho, Jason reached the point where the old city’s fortifications began a steep rise above the street. He was thankful to note that the cuts in the razor wire from the previous night had not been detected. He stopped in shadows to reach under his rain gear to make sure the three pots from the garden store were dry. Then he looked through the curtain of rain at the row of rooftops. The deluge had chased their nocturnal occupants inside, at least for the moment.
But they would be back shortly after the rain stopped.
On the street below, a blond in a black dress entered the bodega across from Calle Luna 23. Used to a familiar clientele, the chubby, white-haired proprietor, owner, sole waiter, and, most importantly, cashier was surprised to see her. Surprised and delighted. She was by far the most attractive customer he had enjoyed for some time. In fact, he thought she might have been with a tour group that had briefly visited his establishment yesterday. It was unlikely he would forget the blond hair, the full figure. And the eyes, pools of green that reminded him of the water just off the island’s coast before the sandy bottom fell away. It was enough to make a man weep that he was not twenty years younger.
He wiped his hands on an apron, smiled, and indicated one of the two tables that had hastily been moved in from the street and now crowded the bistro’s already-small space, which included a tiny kitchen visible in the rear. She had seemed interested by some feature of the house across the street, but she turned, sat, unslung her purse from her shoulder, and ordered a Caribe, sipping the local beer as she studied the menu.
Was she dining alone, the owner asked?
As a matter of fact, she was.
He tried not to show his surprise. Only an unromantic gringo would miss the opportunity to dine with such a magnificent creature.
An angry rattle of cookware from the rear told him his wife, the cook, was tuned in to the conversation.
Under the scowling eyes of his spouse, the owner apologized that most of his customers were locals and, therefore, he had not had the bill of fare printed in English. Perhaps she would allow him to translate some of the house’s specialties?
He did so, leaning over her shoulder to point out each entree. His enthusiasm might have been attributed to the view down the front of her dress. He took the extra time to tell her the cocina criolla, the local cuisine, was a blend of Spanish, Taino Indian, and American cooking. Only an angry explosion of Spanish from the kitchen put an end to his explanation.
She ordered the chicken and rice soup, grilled fish with a mojo isleño sauce, and a side of plantains fried with rum. She deferred a choice of dessert but did order another Caribe.
As he turned to hand her order to the chef, he noted the customer was again looking intently at the building across the street. He was tempted to explain what strange neighbors lived there and their peculiar comings and goings, but an admonition from the kitchen to tend to his business dismissed the thought.
“Cabra viejo!” his wife snorted as he reluctantly turned his attention to arriving customers.
On the rooftop, Jason’s BlackBerry vibrated. He removed it from a pocket. “Check” was the only word he spoke. Judith was in place.
Holding the penlight in his teeth, he fumbled with the front plate of the air-conditioning unit on the first house. It came free with a clatter Jason could only hope was covered by the drum of rain on the flat roof. Careful to shield the clay pot from the downpour, he inserted it into the mechanism’s housing, making certain it was close to the fan that sucked fresh air into the unit.
Leaving the front plate leaning against the unit, he moved to the next two roofs, Number 23 and the one beyond, and repeated the procedure. At the last, he produced a cheap cigarette lighter and touched the flame to his improvised fuse. He made sure it was lit before moving back to Number 23, setting that fuse alight and then the next.
Then he returned to Number 23 and waited in the shadows cast by the housing of the stairwell to wait.
50
Calle Luna
Seven Minutes Later
Judith had taken only two spoonfuls of her soup when her BlackBerry buzzed.
She placed it to her ear.
“Ignition,” Jason’s voice said, and the connection went dead.
She returned the device to her purse and continued to spoon the broth. It had a unique blend of coriander, garlic, and spices she could not quite identify. She leaned over her bowl, sampling the fragrance in hopes of recognizing more of the ingredients.
Concentration on matters culinary was interrupted by the sound of shouts and a banging door across the street. Two men and a woman stood coughing on the rain-slicked sidewalk as white smoke billowed from doors and windows. Judith had barely time to take this in when four or five people, the men in sleeveless undershirts, the women in old-fashioned slips, burst out of the house on the other side of Number 23 with a cloud of smoke following them into the street. They did not seem to notice they were instantly drenched by the rain.
Arms outstretched, one of the women was wailing in incoherent Spanish when Judith first heard sirens and the rumble of heavy engines. At the same time, four men stumbled out of Number 23, coughing into handkerchiefs. Judith noted one had a bandaged face. She was certain it was the man from in front of the El Convento who had tried to kill her.
She selected “Call Jason Mobile” on her BlackBerry. “Go!”
On the roof, Jason had already used his electrical lock pick, waiting for Judith’s signal that the house had been evacuated. There was no way to know for sure that no one was left inside, but fear of a fire was the best way to make that possibility as remote as it could be.
He pulled goggles over his eyes and tied a wet bandana over his nose and mouth. A small oxygen tank would have been far better, but there was a limit as to how much he could carry given the swiftness the job required. Glock in his right hand, penlight in his left, he moved down the stairs to the door at the bottom. The beam of his light was diffused by the smoke, forcing him to hold the light in his mouth while he groped for the lock. It, too, yielde
d to his pick.
Inside, Jason swept the room with the Glock. The smoke bomb had done its job: total evacuation. A metal file cabinet sat against the far wall next to a generator. Puzzled for a moment, he wondered at its purpose. What he guessed was a shortwave radio was on a desk to his left. A table on which rested two computer monitors and a pair of keyboards was next to the door.
All the electronics, of course. That was what made the generator necessary. Dependable power supplies in the Caribbean were rare at best and nonexistent more often than not. The generator he had heard buzzing last night from the other side of the door made certain there was no interruption of communications.
Also on the table was a printer with a sheaf of paper hanging from its mechanical lips. Jason snatched up the papers.
Russian.
His command of the language had been limited to a few standard phrases (“Surrender! Hands High!” “What is your name?”), and even this had faded with disuse, but he recalled enough to know at a glance that these pages alone justified the risk he was taking. He rolled the papers and stuffed them into a back pocket.
One of the computers had been left on, deserted in a smoke-induced panic. An incredible bit of luck. Then his heart sank. The monitor showed a picture of a waterfall in a rain forest, a screen saver. There would be little time to try to penetrate what he was certain would be sophisticated firewalls.
Screen saver? There were no icons for program selection. Jason looked closer. Pretty picture, but hard to believe GrünWelt was using computers to exchange innocuous photographs. What was the word he had read recently? Steganography, that was it. The use of perfectly innocent images to hide messages. Prying eyes would see only a waterfall, mist, and a few orchids dripping from the trees that hosted the plants. Special software could coax text from the images.
Jason touched the Shift key and the screen filled with Cyrillic letters, five to a group. Double encryption, the image and now code. Some contemporary electronic version of the Enigma, the World War II machine where randomly selected wheels made deciphering possible only by a comparable device? No matter. Software was available that could accomplish in minutes what last century’s code breakers had been unable to do in months.
