Politely Liz went around her. Or tried to. A clawlike hand reached out and snagged her arm. Startled, she looked down into a seamed face framed by wispy white hair. Bottle-thick glasses magnified the woman's eyes into blurred brown orbs. Her voice weak and wavering with age, she asked for assistance.
"You are pilot, si?"
"Si."
"Would you help me to find my bag? It doesn't come off the plane."
Liz threw a quick glance around the terminal. She wanted to track down Devlin, hear the results of last night's efforts, verify he had a visual on her passengers.
"Porfavor," the crone pleaded.
"Yes, of course. Lost baggage is right this way."
At the baggage claim area Liz looked in vain for a handler.
"I don't see..."
The grip on her arm tightened. "In there," the woman murmured in an entirely different voice, thrusting her toward a side door.
"Hey!"
"It's me. Maggie."
Her jaw sagging, Liz gaped at the seamed face. "In here."
Still slack-jawed, Liz let Maggie tug her into a dusty, disused office. Adam was there, in deep conversation with a slender blonde in a leg cast and a gorgeous Latino. Devlin sat with his shoulders hunched and eyes locked on the screen of a high-tech laptop.
He was in black Lycra again. Her pulse jumping at the sight of all those interesting bulges, Liz skimmed a quick glance around the room. His wet suit and scuba gear were stashed in a corner. Stifling a pang of regret that they'd only have time for another parting, she returned the smile he aimed in her direction.
"Good run out to the patch?"
"Smooth as a baby's butt," she replied.
Her attention diverted, she watched in utter fascination as Maggie straightened and shed a good fifty years with just a simple rearrangement of her features.
"How the heck did you do that?"
Grinning, the brunette slid the bottle-thick glasses down to the tip of her nose. "It's simple. You think old, you act old, you are old. Same when you're playing a giddy young housewife or a tired IBM executive."
"Or a streetwalker," the hunk of a Latino commented, strolling over to join them. "That is how I met Chameleon," he explained, his smile devastating under a pencil-thin black mustache. "In a very dark, very smoky bar. I am Colonel Luis Esteban," he said, offering Liz his hand. "And this is my wife, Dr. Claire Cantwell."
"Code name Cyrene," Maggie supplied as the blonde stumped forward on her half cast. "Luis and Cyrene were supposed to be on their honeymoon. They flew in to help with the surveillance."
"We couldn't let you two have all the fun."
Smiling, Cyrene was about respond to Liz's question about her cast when Devlin scraped his chair back.
"Okay, team. Those six men are the same ones I tagged on the rig. I've activated their tracking devices. Check to see if you're picking up their signals."
The other four flipped up cell phones and punched various buttons. Liz felt distinctly left out when they acknowledged the signals and prepared to disperse. The blonde and her husband, she was informed, would follow the three men heading straight for the La Paz airport and see they boarded their international flights. Adam would trail the American, who had driven down from San Diego and planned to drive back. That left two—a Mexican electrician's helper who lived right here in Piedras Rojas and a Portuguese crane operator.
"You need to keep the Portuguese on your radar screen," Devlin said to Maggie. "He was issued a visa to visit relatives in the States. The visa's good for six months."
"I've got him covered."
Right before their eyes she went through a re-transformation. The glasses slid up, blurring the brilliance of her eyes. The lines of her face seemed to sag. Her shoulders slumped. Grasping the walking stick, she shuffled toward the door.
"What about me?" Liz asked Devlin when the others had departed. "What can I do?"
"You can tell me what Jorge had to say this morning." He checked his watch. "I've got a little time before I need to get back aboard the rig."
"How are you planning to accomplish that in broad daylight without anyone seeing you?"
"Through one of the subsea escape hatches."
She'd forgotten about the safety hatches. Some were designed to allow subs and other submersibles to dock to a rig and perform rescues in a catastrophic event such as a sinking. Others merely allowed crew members to egress the structure and swim like hell.
"What did Jorge say?"
"He said Emilio is always wishing for more than he had."
"Our friend Emilio has more than meets the eye. Adam and I shook down his boat at oh-dark-thirty this morning. He's running a seven-hundred-horsepower Caterpillar diesel turbocharged engine."
Liz whistled softly. "That's a lot of horses for a fishing boat."
"It is. Plus he's packed it with electronics. Radar, a new loran system, GPS—everything he needs to dodge coast guard patrol boats."
"You think he's running drugs?"
"I think it's a damned good possibility."
Devlin's jaw set. The ice in his eyes sent a little shiver down Liz's spine.
"The question I want answered is what else he's running. Adam and I planted hidden cameras. Next time Emilio puts out to sea, OMEGA will be watching. In the meantime..."
The hard edges softened and the cocky roustabout she knew emerged once again.
"In the meantime," he said, slipping an arm around her waist, "let's both do some thinking."
"About?"
He drew her closer, teasing her mouth with his. "What we talked about last night."
Nine
Despite her shuffling gait and sweltering layers of black clothing, Maggie had no difficulty keeping up with Paulo Casiiniro. The big, curly haired Portuguese departed the Aero Baja terminal toting a duffel bag on his shoulder and, according to Rigger, a full month's pay in his pocket. His red-and-white-striped shirt made him an easy target. The electronic device Rigger had planted on the man made following him even easier. Maggie hobbled along, dropping well back at times. Other times, she'd hike her heavy black skirt, cut through back alleys and pick him up again when she emerged onto Piedras Rojas' one main street.
Lord, it felt good to be back in the field again!
After ten years of marriage, she adored Adam more than she would have dreamed possible and experienced a ridiculous gush of love at the mere thought of Gillian's cornflower-blue eyes or Samantha's infectious giggles. And Adam Ridgeway Jr. aka the Tank. So sturdy. So strong. Smelling of baby powder and the dirt he and their horse of a dog loved to dig in. Maggie missed the kids more with each passing hour, but had to admit being part of the action again sent a sizzle through her veins. Enjoying the adrenaline rush, she kept on her target.
He was booked on a flight out of La Paz tomorrow morning, reportedly heading for Boston to visit relatives before flying home. The man had plenty of time to idle away until then, but appeared to be in no hurry to squander his pay. He strolled down the street, savoring the scent of pork sizzling on charcoal braziers and the raucous salsa beat booming from the corner stand where an enterprising youngster hawked CDs and video games.
He made the mistake of stopping to purchase a CD. Like a Biblical plague, a swarm of other determined entrepreneurs appeared from nowhere, offering outrageous discounts on everything from hand-worked jewelry to hubcaps. The crane operator slapped a thorny palm over his back pocket to avoid losing his wallet and waded through the noisy throng. A determined quartet trailed him for several blocks.
"You come off the rig, yes? You buy tequila or rum to take home."
"This silver is from Taxco. Look, it is very fine workmanship."
"You want a woman, senor? My sister, she is beautiful."
Shaking his head, Casimiro plowed ahead. The eager salesmen dogged his heels.
"My sister, she has a friend. Many friends. You like two women? Three?"
"Taxco silver is the best, senor. Loo
k! Look!"
In an effort to lose them, the Portuguese ducked down a side street. Maggie started to follow but stopped when a figure emerged from the shadow of a doorway. With the rolling gait of those used to a deck under their feet, he sauntered after the roustabout.
"Hola, senor."
Casimiro threw a glance over his shoulder. Mixing Spanish and a smattering of tortured Portuguese, Emilio caught up with him.
"You come off AM-237, si?"
"Si."
I "My friend works the rig." He slapped a hand on the roustabout's back, one deepwater man to another. "I have tequila on my boat. The Santa Guadalupe. She is just there, at the dock. will pour you a drink, yes, and you tell me how my friend does."
Some yards back, Maggie slipped a hand into her skirt pocket. Her heart thumping, she palmed a cell phone. When she raised her hand again, a casual observer would have thought she'd lifted it to scratch the hairy wart on her chin.
"OMEGA control," she murmured into the speaker, "this is Chameleon."
"I'd better make tracks."
Devlin gave Liz a last, long kiss. He'd delayed his return to the rig as long as he dared to hear what she had to say concerning Jorge. He'd also tracked the movements off all six targets. Three were on a bus en route to the La Paz airport, with Cyrene and Esteban right behind them. The local had arrived home and was undoubtedly enjoying a reunion with his wife and kids. The American had picked up his car and hit the road north, with Adam following a few miles behind. Maggie had the Portuguese in her sights.
Much as Devlin hated to depart the scene, he had to get back to the rig. If these six made it home safely, the next six might not. OMEGA intended to keep him in the field until they broke this vicious ring.
Leaving Liz made the departure harder than he'd anticipated, however. The woman was now not only in his head. She was in his blood.
"When are you scheduled to make your next run?" he asked, retrieving his scuba gear.
"AmMex is flying in an on-site inspection team. I'm supposed to haul them out to AM-237 on Wednesday."
"Wednesday, huh? If I'm still on the patch, maybe you can arrange..."
His cell phone pinged, cutting him off in midsentence. Riever was coordinating the movements of all four agents from headquarters. That was his ring tone. Dropping his gear, Devlin flipped up the phone. "Rigger, here."
"It's Riev. Chameleon's target was just approached by the local you had me check out, Emilio Garcia. She says— Hang on a sec."
Fierce satisfaction ripped through Devlin. Finally! A real break!
"That was Chameleon. She says the target and Garcia boarded his boat and went below decks. She's going to slip aboard, as well."
"Adam and I planted cameras on that craft last night," Devlin reminded him with tense urgency. "Get those activated, Riev."
"I'm receiving the visuals as we speak."
Devlin kept the phone to his ear and used the brief pause to fill Liz in. "Emilio lured the Portuguese crane operator aboard his boat. Maggie's going aboard as well."
"I've got Garcia and Casimiro on the screens," Riever reported, switching to broadcast mode to include both Rigger and Maggie on the transmissions. "There's someone else in the cabin. I don't... Hell! Whoever it is just whacked the Portuguese over the head with a marline spike. He went down like a felled ox. Chameleon, did you copy that?"
"I copy. I'm going below."
"No!" Devlin bit out. "Wait for backup."
He was already digging in his gear bag. Retrieving a belt with a lethal assortment of attachments, he raced for the door. A startled Liz chased after him.
"Hang tight, Chameleon. I'm on my way."
"Can't wait," Maggie replied in a terse whisper. "Emilio's firing up the engines as we speak. They'll have to come above deck to throw off the mooring ropes and clear the dock. I'll take them one at a— Uuuuuh!"
The small grunt was followed by silence that sliced into Devlin's heart. Riever broke the stillness with a taut transmission.
"Chameleon, this is control. Come in, please."
Devlin was in full sprint, the phone jammed against his ear. He burst through the rear door of the terminal into a blinding haze of light.
He and Riever weren't the only ones on the net, he discovered as he and Liz ran for the vehicle he'd parked at the rear of the building.
"Chameleon, this is Thunder." His voice as cold and sharp as a scalpel, Adam tried to contact his wife. "Come in, please."
Devlin strained to hear over the hammer of pounding footsteps. Maggie didn't reply. A second later Riever made a stark report.
"We've lost her signal."
"What about the cameras?" Devlin panted into the phone. "Are you still receiving visuals?"
"Roger. I'm showing Emilio at the controls. The other guy is tying up our target. Wait! Here comes a third. He's dragging something behind him. Something bundled in black."
Over the jackhammer beat of his heart, Devlin heard the hiss of Adam's indrawn breath.
"It's Chameleon," Riever confirmed after a second that seemed to stretch for hours. "Looks like she's out cold, but she must be alive. They wouldn't waste rope tying her up otherwise."
The vise around Devlin's heart eased a micrometer. He grabbed the vehicle's door handle and threw the web utility belt in the backseat. Liz jumped into the passenger seat.
"The boat's moving," Riever reported as Devlin jammed the key into the ignition. "We're tracking it via the signals from the device planted on the Portuguese."
Adam came on the net again. His years as head of OMEGA resonated as he assumed command of the situation.
"Notify the coast guard. Mexican or American, whoever's got a cutter nearby. Tell them to run an immediate intercept. And get some air cover. I'm returning to Piedras Rojas. Keep me advised."
Devlin snapped his phone shut. He didn't have time to provide Liz with more than the bare essentials. "They've got Maggie and are putting out to sea. Adam has requested air cover."
She whipped her head up. "We can manage that. Let's go!"
Liz was out of the car and running before Devlin retrieved his utility belt. The Aero Baja chopper sat baking on its pad, right where she'd set it down less than an hour ago.
Her mind churned as she calculated fuel, weight, airspeed and direction on the fly. She hadn't had to buck headwinds on the run out to the patch this morning. The cargo hold was empty. With only her and Devlin's weight to factor into the equation, she should have enough fuel to stay in the air for an hour, if necessary.
Scrambling into the cockpit, she initiated the power-up sequence. Devlin tossed his gear into the rear compartment before releasing the tie-down straps and kicking away the chocks. He scrambled into the copilot's seat just as Jorge erupted from inside the hangar. Swiping his hands on a rag, the mechanic rushed over to the pad.
"Where do you go?" he shouted above the roar of the engines.
Liz weighed the odds and came down firmly on her friend's side. She trusted this man. Besides, there was a lot of ocean out there, OMEGA had lost Maggie's signal. If they lost the signal they'd planted on the Portuguese, Liz might be able to lock on to the fishing boat's transponder or ship-to-shore communications.
"We're going after Emilio," she yelled. "He's just put out to sea with Mrs. Ridgeway aboard."
"Senora Ridgeway charters his boat? He says nothing to us."
Liz didn't have time to explain. "Do you know what RSS frequency Emilio transmits on?"
Devlin had said the fisherman had crammed his boat with electronics. Liz was betting the array included a Raft Ship/Shore radio, the type used by most ships at sea to transmit and receive administrative and operational traffic. Shore stations transmitted on 5, 10 and 15 megahertz bands. Ships responded on frequencies in the 2, 3, 4, 6, 8, 16 and 22 megahertz range. Liz didn't have time to run through all of them searching for signals from Emilio's radio.
"Jorge, please! Mrs. Ridgeway's in trouble. What frequency?"
"Six-point-five. Sometimes eight-five." His face grim, the mechanic stuffed the rag in his back pocket. "I will come with you to help you look."
Liz darted a glance at Devlin, who gave a curt nod. Once Jorge was aboard and strapped in, the chopper lifted off the pad.
The tracking device Devlin had planted on the Portuguese crane operator continued to transmit, thank God. OMEGA headquarters vectored Liz on a course that took her north by northwest.
Using both hands and feet to work the controls, she pushed her bird to max airspeed. Ten pulse-pounding minutes later they picked up the lighter aquamarine of a boat's wake trailing through the cobalt-blue of the Pacific. Mere moments later they spotted the boat.
"There!"
Leaning over Liz's shoulder, Jorge pointed at the white speck. Devlin had filled him in on the details. He now knew what drove their desperate hunt for his cousin.
"That is the Guadalupe."
Nodding, Liz pushed for a few more knots of speed. The white speck grew to a fat-bottomed trawler, churning up a frothy wake. Its twin booms formed a V with the tall mast centered between them. The rear deck sported piles of rolled nets and a hoist that jutted up and out over the deck at a forty-five-degree angle.
"How close can you get me?" Devlin asked, straining forward in his harness to sweep the boat with narrowed eyes.
"As close as you want." Liz lined up on the rocking mast. "Getting you aboard her is another matter. I can skim alongside just above the waterline and let you swim for it or Jorge can lower you to the deck on a sling."
Either way made him an easy target should Emilio and friends object to being boarded. Liz tried to think of another option.
'Try the radio. See if you can raise them. Maybe they'll surrender peacefully if they know we're on to them."
Devlin flipped through the frequencies to six-point-five and keyed the mike. "Ahoy, Santa Guadalupe. This is Aero Baja 214. Do you read me?"
They waited for a response, static filling their earphones.
"Santa Guadalupe, this is Aero Baja 214. We're right off your stern. Do you read me?"
Devlin and the Deep Blue Sea Page 10
