Grunting, he soaped down. The mere thought of all the ways he wanted to cover Elizabeth Moore flashed through his mind. He'd accomplished several different coverings last night. Next time he'd try a few more.
He had no doubt there would be a next time. Since meeting Liz on the beach what now seemed like a lifetime ago, he hadn't been able to get her out of his head. He'd figured their hours together in that cramped bunk would satisfy the lust she generated in him. He'd figured wrong. If anything, the feel of her sleek, supple body under his had fed a craving for more.
Her involuntary visit with Alvarez had thrown him a real curve, however. In addition to lusting after the woman, he was now worried as hell about her safety. Devlin had yet to link Eduardo Alvarez to the stolen passports. Or to his friend Harry, missing for several months. But Alvarez controlled the drug trade in this area with an iron fist. Odds were he controlled all other illegal activities. If El Tiburon had sold Harry's passport to the bastard who'd used it to run child prostitutes across the border, Devlin intended to have a piece of him.
First he had to establish the link, if there was one. They'd tracked the crew members that had rotated off the patch when Devlin had rotated on. All had arrived home safely and were still accounted for. Another batch was scheduled to rotate in three days, when Liz made her next scheduled run.
Devlin had already gotten acquainted with four of the men. He'd also planted tracking devices in their personal gear. If any of the four disappeared en route to their homes, the device might help locate them.
He had the next two days to tag the remaining two, both of whom possessed entry visas for the States. One was Portuguese and planning to visit a cousin in Massachusetts. The other hailed from Kuwait and had applied for a follow-on job at a rig off the coast of Louisiana.
Unfortunately, both men spoke limited English and Devlin's Portuguese was as fractured as his Arabic. He had the solution for the communications problem, however.
Toweling off, he dressed and dug a set of miniature earphones out of his desk drawer. The earphones were plastic, the kind that plugged into any iPod or MP3 player. Devlin unscrewed one of the tiny buds that served as an earpiece and inserted it into his ear canal before contacting Riever via his cell phone.
"Okay, Riev, I need you to sing to me in Portuguese."
"No problem, pal."
Knowing Devlin would be working with an international crew, OMEGA's electronics wizard, Mackenzie Blair, had adapted the miniaturized translator recently developed by the military for special operations forces dropped behind enemy lines. The tiny computer embedded in the earpiece used satellite signals to pick up spoken words, interpret them and feed an instant response. It wasn't as reliable as a real-live interpreter who could assess facial expressions and idiomatic nuances, of course. But absent a reliable man on the scene, the little bug worked wonders.
"Pode voce ouvir-me?"
The device translated Riever's question and supplied Devlin an answer.
"Yeah, I can hear you," he replied in fluent Portuguese.
"Sounds like you're good to go."
"Roger that."
With the device buried deep in his left ear, Devlin went in search of Paulo Casimiro. He found the dark-eyed, curly-haired crane operator in the recreation center, wearing a look of desperation. Conrad Wallace had cornered the man and was expounding on a recent trip to Lisbon and the loss of a fistful of cash in the famed Estoril Casino.
"Two hundred euros," Wallace groused. "Com-preende two hundred? That's, uh, dos ciento."
A quiet murmur sounded in Devlin's ear. "I think you mean dots cem," he then said to the AmMex rep.
"Dos, dois, whatever. The point is, those dealers at the Estoril were raking in the euros faster than I could shell them out. Damned dealers had to have stacked the deck. I tell you, they—"
Ruthlessly Devlin cut him off midstream. Courtesy was wasted on Wallace.
"I need to borrow Paulo for a few moments. I understand he's rotating in two days. Before he leaves, I'd like him to show me this new computer-aided offload system. I've heard about it, but haven't seen how it works."
It was a legitimate request. Crane operators on offshore rigs had a helluva job. The cab they worked in sat almost ninety feet above the surface of the sea, limiting their visibility. Fog, strong winds and rough seas could make the task of loading and unloading supply ships a tricky proposition at best.
At worst, the crash of a metal crane against a steel deck could spark a fire, as had happened just last year off the coast of Brazil. Almost a hundred men died in the series of explosions that followed. Three days later, exhausted rescue workers had watched with tears streaming down their faces as what remained of one of the world's largest rigs had tipped onto its side and sunk into the turquoise waters.
After that incident AmMex had followed the lead of other major oil companies and purchased a computer-based, sonar-sounding system that helped operators judge the crane's position relative to the boat deck. Besides having a professional interest in the system, Rigger figured asking about it was a good way to detach Paulo from Wallace and get him alone for a spell.
He figured right. Using pantomime and a few key phrases fed to him through his earpiece, he got his message across. The burly Paulo jumped to his feet and led the way out of the lounge. Devlin followed, making a mental note to have Riever dig into Conrad Wallace's financial situation. Losing a couple hundred euros at a casino was no big deal—as long as Wallace didn't make a habit of it.
In the meantime, Devlin had two days to get close to Paulo Casimiro.
Six
Maggie and Adam Ridgeway showed up at Aero Baja at one-fifteen the following afternoon. Liz spent the rest of the day with them, starting with a three-hour aerial tour of the coast north of Piedras Rojas and finishing with drinks at their private casita and dinner at the restaurant of their exclusive resort.
The following afternoon they flew south. A slight dogleg at Todos Santos took them to Eduardo Alvarez's walled compound. Liz made only one low-level pass. The heavily armed gate guards didn't appear to appreciate the outside interest. The two goons had their semiautomatics at shoulder level when Liz zoomed away.
"Interesting," Maggie commented through the headset, twisting around in her seat harness to get another look at the compound. "Very," Adam agreed.
They made a brief stop at the resort town of Cabo San Lucas, crowded with tourists off the gleaming white cruise ships lined up at the docks. Maggie tried to convince Adam she only wanted to pick up some souvenirs for the kids, but he insisted on buying her a magnificent silver cuff incised with a lizard set in turquoise, lapis and malachite.
Once back in Piedras Rojas, Liz invited Maggie and Adam to join her for dinner at El Poco Lobo. She'd gained enough insight into the aristocratic-looking Adam by now to know he wouldn't hesitate to chow down at a chipped Formica table on Anita's chicken, frijoles and rice. Still, she was surprised at how easily he blended in. While Maggie and Liz devoured hot, cinnamon-and-sugar-dusted sopaipillas dripping with honey, Adam joined the locals at the bar. Within minutes he was immersed in a deep philosophical discussion of the relative merits of football versus soccer.
Contentedly licking the honey from their fingers, Maggie and Liz lolled at their outdoor table in a breeze stirred by the swirling overhead fan. Cool and comfortable in a white cotton peasant blouse trimmed with colorful ribbons, another gauzy skirt and huarache sandals, Maggie tossed back the strong local brew with the same gusto she seemed to bring to every aspect of her life.
After two days in their company, Liz knew little about their personal life aside from the fact that they had three children and lived in Washington, D.C. Curious, she drew a lazy circle on the Formica with her dew-streaked beer bottle. "How long have you and Adam been married?"
"Ten years next month. We worked together for some time before that. Those were, uh, interesting years." Her gaze drifted to the tall, broad-shouldered Americano at
the bar. "These are better, though. Much better."
Ridgeway glanced over his shoulder and caught his wife's gaze. Smiling, he tipped his beer bottle in her direction. The look they shared sent a little ping of envy through Liz.
She'd been so sure she'd found her mate in Donny. Had sweated down here in Mexico all these months to build up their joint account and dreamed of buying the first of their planned fleet. All the while he was having fun with Bambang.
Bambang. God!
Her disgusted grunt brought the other woman's head around.
"Sorry. Did you say something?"
"No."
"What about you?" Maggie asked after a moment, picking up the conversational thread. "Do you have any particular males on your radar scope?"
"I had one. He dropped off a week or so ago."
Liz took a long swallow of beer and made an interesting discovery. The anger was still there, but fading fast. So was the self-disgust. But the hurt had completely evaporated. A certain roustabout had shoved Donny Carter right out of her heart.
"Another just popped up on the screen," she admitted with a half-embarrassed shrug.
Maggie arched a brow. "Would his name happen to be Joe Devlin?"
"It would." Shaking her head, Liz thumped the bottle back onto the table. "You'd think I would have learned my lesson. I fell for one slick operator and got burned. How dumb is it to jump into a bunk with another man less than a week later?"
Surprise rounded Maggie's eyes. "You and Devlin have made it to the bunk-jumping stage?"
"I didn't plan it."
"I'll bet he did!" Maggie retorted on a choke of suppressed laughter. "I know Rigger. He never goes into any situation unprepared."
Remembering the stash of condoms he'd had conveniently to hand, Liz pursed her lips. "See, that's the problem. You're obviously well acquainted with him. All I know is that he's big and tough and complicated."
"That pretty much pegs him. And most of the other men he associates with, my husband included."
Liz leaned back, letting the breeze stir the ends of the blunt-cut hair just touching her shoulder. "I don't suppose you're going to tell me exactly who you and Adam and Devlin work for."
"Adam is with the International Monetary Fund," Maggie replied gently. "As his business card indicates. I teach linguistics at Georgetown University. And Devlin is currently employed by..."
"...the American-Mexican Petroleum Company. Okay, I get the picture. I'm not cleared for that level of detail."
Drumming on the table with her nails, Liz shifted her gaze. The cantina was set on a slight hill, with red tile-roofed houses spilling down the hill on either side. Through the narrow slice between buildings she could just make out the cliffs that gave Piedras Rojas its name. The rocks glowed bright copper in the evening sun.
The scene was so peaceful, so idyllic. A small village perched on the cliffs overlooking the Pacific. A handful of cars parked in the narrow, cobbled streets. Dust swirling lazily in the slanting rays of the sun. Hardly the setting for danger and intrigue and murder.
"Devlin told me a little of what this is all about," she said, swinging her gaze back to Maggie. "It's pretty nasty stuff."
"Yes, it is."
"I might be able to help if you fill me in on..."
"Hola, Lizetta."
Grinning under his thick mustaches, Jorge waved and worked his way through the crowd. With him was a man Liz recognized as one of his many relatives. The fishing boat captain, she guessed from his denim shirt and the red bandanna knotted around his neck. The fishy tang of the docks that came with him provided another clue.
"Hello, Jorge. You remember Mrs. Ridgeway."
"But of course." The mechanic bowed over Maggie's hand with the grace of a matador. "Senora Ridgeway, this is my wife's cousin. I tell Emilio that Lizetta takes you and your husband up for charter flights. He wishes to know if you would like to charter his boat as well. The Santa Guadalupe is a very fine boat," he assured her.
"Very fine," the wiry Emilio echoed. "Clean and fast."
"We haven't talked about a fishing charter," Maggie said with a smile, "but I know Adam would enjoy it if we have time. Why don't you join us for a drink? I'll get him over to speak with you about it."
"She is a nice woman," Jorge commented as she went to relay their request for a cold beer to her husband.
"And very rich," Emilio murmured.
Liz said nothing. Tourism was the second largest legitimate industry in the area after tuna fishing. The locals could size up potential customers with a single glance at their shoes or watch. Then there was the rock atop the heavy gold band circling Maggie's ring finger....
When she returned with her husband and fresh drinks in tow, the talk turned to fish. Pacific striped marlin. Roosterfish. Sailfish. Tuna, dorado and wa-hoo. Liz sipped her beer, listening with half an ear, and let her thoughts slide back to her epiphany of a few moments ago. She was over Donny. She'd probably been over him for months and hadn't realized it. She ought to be grateful to Bambang. And to Devlin.
Her thoughts turning inward, Liz hid a small smile. She'd have to show him just how grateful on her next run out to the patch. If she timed it right, she could catch him coming off his shift and...
"Ayyyy!"
Dismayed, Jorge made a grab for the beer bottle he'd sideswiped while demonstrating the size of one of his cousins-in-law's catches. The bottle flew off the table, spraying Maggie's blouse in the process, and hit the floor. The thick glass didn't shatter, but clinked around under the table a few times, spraying feet and shoes as well.
"Excuse, sehora! Excuse.r
"It's okay." Smiling, Maggie raised the wet cotton a few inches off her chest. "No harm done."
"I am so clumsy," Jorge moaned as Emilio and Liz both bent to retrieve the bottle.
They came within a hair of knocking heads. She drew back just in time and left it to the fisherman to scoop up the bottle. When he did, a thin gold chain slithered out of his shirt collar. Dangling from the end of the chain was a three-inch-long shark's tooth capped with a gold filigree crown.
Liz froze, bent low in her chair. She'd seen a necklace just like that recently. Around the neck of Eduardo Alvarez, in the photo taken with his family aboard a sleek white yacht.
"That's quite a trophy," she commented. "Did it come from one of your catches?"
Emilio glanced down and muttered a curse under his breath. With a swift move, he stuffed the tooth back inside his shirt.
"Si, I catch it."
Straightening, he plunked the bottle on the table and shoved back his chair.
"I must go," he told the Ridgeways. "You will contact Jorge if you wish to fish, yes?"
"Yes, we will."
While Maggie and Adam said goodbye to the still-mortified Jorge, Liz sat like a cardboard cutout in her chair. She had the sinking suspicion she'd just spotted the item of property El Tiburon was determined to reclaim.
Problem was, she couldn't decide what the heck to do about it.
She almost mentioned the tooth to Maggie and Adam before they parted at the cantina. Loyalty to Jorge kept her silent. He wasn't just her partner at work. He was her closest friend here in Mexico. She'd eaten dinner with him and Maria and their assorted relatives dozens of times and returned their hospitality at regular intervals.
She refused to believe the Aero Baja mechanic was involved in any way with the shooting on the beach. But he had brought Emilio to the cantina, and Emilio had acted really weird over the tooth.
Chewing on her lower lip, Liz drove through the gathering dusk and parked under the leafy jacaranda tree. She kept her collapsible baton handy until she ascertained the massive trunk shielded no unwanted visitors, then climbed the stairs to her apartment.
The three rooms welcomed her with warm yellow walls and smooth tile floors. Since Liz had put every spare peso into the bank, she'd limited her decorating to inexpensive paintings by local artists and colorful handwoven rugs. Her only real in
dulgence was satellite Internet service.
She'd tried to convince Conrad Wallace that AmMex should cover the cost, since she used her computer to check weather the night before scheduled flights. Fiscally conservative as always, Wallace had countered that she should use the weather service at the terminal.
Tossing her purse onto the sofa, Liz hunkered down at the computer and booted up. When the screen lit up, she logged onto the net and typed "Eduardo Alvarez, El Tiburon" into Google's search box. A click of the mouse returned a surprising number of entries, but instead of scrolling through them, Liz aimed the pointer at the images icon at the top of the search screen.
She found what she was looking for almost immediately. The second image she looked at showed a black-and-white newspaper image of Alvarez. The photographer had caught him at an angle. His face was turned away, his upper torso twisted. The neck of his shirt had parted just enough to show a white triangle outlined against a mat of black chest hair.
Her stomach knotting, Liz zoomed in on the triangle. Yep, there it was, unique filigree crown and all.
She'd lived in Mexico for seven months, had hit the jewelry markets in Cabo and in La Paz. The tourists seemed to love shark's teeth necklaces, but the teeth were usually small and strung on leather rather than gold chain. Best she could recall, she'd never seen one as big or with such elaborate workmanship as this one. A master goldsmith had crafted the crown. The tooth itself...Liz didn't want to think about the size of the shark that must have come from.
Suspicion now hardened into certainty, she printed out the picture and exited the search mode. That was when she noted the envelope icon at the upper corner of her screen. Another click took her to her e-mail. One was from her mom, currently vacationing in Michigan with a gaggle of girlfriends. Another was a notice from Citibank confirming receipt of the latest payment on the loan she'd taken out for the Ranger. The third was from Donny.
Devlin and the Deep Blue Sea Page 7
