The van bashed into a particularly nasty pothole, jarring him out of his daze. He just hoped Tuni was safe. He believed he could handle the danger and distress better than she could. This in itself was a character change, he realized, for he had always been the weak one.
They drove in silence for another twenty minutes before Rheese asked Matt whether he had learned anything new.
“I did, yeah. There was a whole town here full of people from Norway, on top of a mountain. And not at all related to Haeming’s group.”
Rheese’s tired, defeated eyes flashed with that old glint of excitement. “Indeed! An entire settlement? How long were they here?”
“Not sure. Must have been a while, though. They were pretty well settled in—had some sort of partnership with a native tribe nearby—houses and such.”
“Could you find it, Turner?”
“Well, maybe. I’m not exactly sure what happens to it next. There might have been an incident. Some destruction. Hell, for all I know, the whole thing could have been destroyed.”
Rheese frowned, “Is that so? ‘La la la, Norse settlement in the bloody Caribbean . . . archeological gold . . . but, um, Doctor, I’m afraid there’s zero evidence it was ever here.’ Most convenient, don’t you think?”
Matt bristled. “I don’t know, Rheese. I tell you what I see, and you doubt it till I show you. I just don’t know what, if anything, there’d be to show in this case.”
“Wars and fires have destroyed the mightiest of history’s cities, lad. There’s always something to show.”
“So you do believe me or you don’t? Make up your damned mind.”
Garza chuckled. “You tell him, Turner.”
“In the absence of anything else concrete, I say we make it our next target after the opal tree site. Solorzano, might we soon find an eatery on our present course? I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m bloody famished.”
Fando’s shades appeared in the mirror.
Garza said to Fando, “Yeah, let’s find something in Pinar del Río before we head north.”
* * *
“Are we still headed to Viñales?” Rheese asked, not expecting a reply.
The farther they drove from Havana, the more anxious he felt. He suspected that his hired help were beginning to see just how little use they had for him. And now that Turner had quashed all their hopes of a big payoff, they had likely calculated that splitting a smaller reward two ways would pencil out a lot better. He had to keep them doubting Turner and, at the same time, hype his own worth as historian and fact-checker—at least until an opportunity for escape presented itself. He would make an effort to free Turner as well, but not if it meant being a hero. He had finally come to appreciate the greater potential the lad had for unlocking the deepest mysteries of human history—truths long lost to modern-day scholars—but if Turner didn’t make it out of this predicament, the world would be no more unenlightened than it was today.
“Any idea where that sword is?” Garza asked Matt.
“Not really, no. Same as before. The imprints end when he puts the opal in that tree. In all honesty, he could have thrown the sword down next to it, or taken it back to Iceland with him. He cherished it, though, so I doubt he’d leave it willingly.”
“How do you do this shit, anyway?” Garza said. “Just by touching stuff.”
“Born with it, I guess. I don’t know.”
“Could you, like, touch me and read my mind?”
“No. It doesn’t work on living things. They have their own . . . I don’t know, energy, I guess.”
“The doctor here told us he knocked you out for months by sticking something into your skin. What happens if you swallow something that has a story?”
“I don’t know,” Matt said. This line of questioning was beginning to worry him.
“What about water? Can water get a story in it? Then you get wet and you’re stuck until it dries?”
“No, I don’t think it works with water . . . or any liquid for that matter.”
“You ever been a chick before?” Fando asked.
Matt sighed, though he much preferred this sort of juvenile question to Garza’s worrisome exploration of his vulnerabilities. “Yes, many times.” Here it comes . . .
“You ever get banged as a chick?” Fando smirked in the mirror, and his head moved as if to disco music.
Play it up. Be ashamed. “I . . . I don’t remember.”
Garza and Fando both burst out in gales of laughter.
“Ah, shit, homes, you got nailed!” Fando howled, and the van swerved a little. “Probably liked it, too.”
Matt’s expression said, Real mature, guys.
“Wait,” Fando continued. “You ever been a gay dude?”
“Basta, Fando,” Garza said. “Hay un café. Up there on the left.”
Fando pulled off the road and into the dirt parking lot, leaving a plume of dust behind them. As they got out of the van, Fando’s cell phone sounded a hip-hop ringtone.
“Bro, you still got signal?” Garza said.
Fando glanced at the screen, “Shit, man, it’s Celia. What should I do?”
“You pick it up, tell her you miss her, how boring these things are, and that you’re gonna be home soon. Hurry up, get it! We’re going in.”
* * *
“Hey, baby,” Fando said into the phone. “Whoa, whoa, slow down. I can’t understand a word if you talk like that. What? Slow the hell down! Now, start over. Is Papo okay? Okay, so what’s on the house? . . . uh-huh . . . uh-huh . . . Did you see who put it there? . . . Okay, calm down. Calm down and listen to me, baby, yeah? You go outside. Okay, good. You lookin’ at that paper? I need you to walk right up to it and tear that shit off the garage door. You hear me? Tear that shit off right now. Nobody’s takin’ shit from us, yeah? . . . Good. Now, ball it up. Get the tape, too. Yeah, don’t leave nuthin’ . . . Nah, it don’t matter if Little Man sees. He needs to see Mommy and Daddy don’t get punked like that, ha ha ha . . . Okay, yeah, I’m gonna be home soon—like, a few days, all right? Stop cryin’. I gotta finish this thing up.” Garza mouthed bo-o-oring to him through the café window. “These things are so damned borin’, you know? Yeah, I will. Love you, too . . . Huh? Who called? He give a name? What’d he say?” Fando’s teeth clenched and he swallowed hard. “Nah, that’s a wrong number, baby. You were right. Hang up if someone like that calls again. It’s bullshit. What? . . . God damn it baby, I gotta go! Ay—which card? You tried every single card and every single one doesn’t . . . Well, how much were you tryin’ to spend? Okay, well, it’s a mistake, obviously. We have money. Yes! We have fuckin’ money! Shut up with that shit! I gotta go.”
He hung up. He could hear Junior starting to wail in the background. It was because his mom was crying, though. He was sensitive that way. Sees her freaking out about shit he doesn’t understand, so he freaks out, too. And she was too selfish and unconscious to calm herself down to not scare the baby. That was why he didn’t want to marry her high-drama ass.
Now the bank said they were taking the house? He knew fools who had been in their homes for over a year without making even half a payment. He skipped three to save up and they said they’re foreclosing? Bullshit. That wasn’t real. That was a tactic to make you pay when you didn’t really have to. Regardless, it didn’t matter. He was going to come home with a pile of cash. Screw that house, anyway. He’d get a better one. By the time Junior was old enough, all this bullshit would be in the past and he would be growing up as a spoiled-assed rich kid.
* * *
Fando opened the glass door of the café, and an old cowbell hanging from a braid of pink yarn clanked.
“What’s up?” Garza asked.
Fando shook his head and grabbed a takeout menu, mumbling to himself. “Goddamn bloodsuckers.”
“How do I order just plain meat?” Rheese asked. “Without any sauce or soup or fur?”
“Tell her you want flan con mojo,” Garza said. “If she argues, just say it aga
in. Insist. Only way to get what you’re looking for. Flan . . . con . . . mojo.“
Garza winked at Fando, but his friend’s sense of humor had run dry.
Matt leaned in front of Rheese and put his finger down on the laminated menu taped to the counter, pointing at the number 11 meal. His eyes met Rheese’s, and Rheese caught on. Interesting gesture on the part of a hostage, Rheese thought, imagining how annoyed he would have been to get whatever prank meal Garza was suggesting.
They were sitting at a table in the far corner of the room, which was empty of other patrons. They sat in awkward silence until the food came out, and then, a few minutes into the meal, Fando finally spoke.
“Yo, man, I think we’re wastin’ our time up on that hill.”
Rheese nodded. “I concur fully with Mr. Solorzano.”
“Shut up,” Garza said, and turned back to Fando. “You think we should go straight to this mountain instead?”
“We should do whatever the punk thinks is gonna make money.”
They both turned to Turner, who swallowed his half-chewed mouthful of black beans.
“Yeah?” he said after wiping his mouth with a napkin.
Garza asked, “You think there’s money to be made on this mountain?”
Turner glanced at Rheese as if for backup, and Rheese gave a mildly optimistic shrug.
“It was a pretty big place,” Turner told them. “Lots of people, buildings, and stuff. I’d definitely pick that over a logged and scraped hilltop.”
“Not to say the hill is a lost cause,” Rheese put in.
This time, Garza had only to look at him to shut him up.
They paid with cash and got back onto the paved road.
Rheese said, “I was just thinking—”
“Shut up,” said Garza.
TWENTY-FOUR
Jivu Absko picked up the phone, saw that the call was from Spain, and answered in Spanish. “¿Mande?”
“Mr. Absko, we have a hit on the subject,” the woman on the other end said.
“So I presumed. Please go ahead.”
“Phone call from one of the spouses. They stopped in a small town called Pinar del Río, southwest of Havana. We called petrol stations and eating establishments in town and found the café where they ate. Would you like the address?”
“Pinar del Río, you say?” He brought up a detailed atlas of Cuba on a computer. “Ah, yes, I have it. Please inform our closest team of the address. Was the phone call regarding financial issues?”
“It was.”
“Good. Have the accounts of the other two been handled as well?”
“They have.”
“Very good. And what is your name?”
“Talena Ferrer, sir.”
“Ah, Catalán?”
“Well . . . yes, sir.”
“Talena Ferrer. Very nice, I like it. The people at the café who provided the information—were they forthcoming?”
“They were. And there is more.”
“Good. Please have them rewarded appropriately, and do the same for yourself. What is the ‘more’?”
“Thank you, sir. She stated that she overheard a bit of conversation between the two contractors and your acquaintance.”
“Yes?”
“They argued about their destination. Viñales was mentioned.”
“I already know about Viñales. Anything else?”
“They seemed to debate between ‘the hill’ and ‘the mountain’ as their destination, if that makes any sense.”
“Hmm . . . interesting,” he said. “I do not know what that means just yet, but please send that to the team, as well. Anything else?”
“That is all, sir.”
“Thank you, Miss Ferrer.”
He hung up and took a deep breath. This would end up a very lucrative day for Talena Ferrer and the lucky owner of a dirt-poor Cuban café. These little surprise benefactions made the nasty tasks more bearable. His other phone vibrated in his pocket, and he pulled it out. The screen bore a text message from another Spanish number. He replaced the phone in his pocket, then returned to the first phone. Scrolling through the recent call history, he found the contact he sought, and tapped it.
Two rings, and a voice said, “Priviet?”
Absko said in English, “Markus, may I speak with Vitaliy again?”
“Ah, of course, Mr. Absko, just one moment. He is swimming.”
A moment later, “What can I do for you now, Jivu?”
“No, no, nothing like that,” Absko said. “I wanted to let you know that everything is working out thanks to your cooperation. Please let me know when I can return the favor.”
“Yes, sure, okay. That friend of yours—is he finished yet?”
“Not just yet, no. Anyway, thank you again.”
“Yes, yes . . .”
Absko hung up and checked the call off his mental to-do list.
The mountain or the hill, he thought. Mr. Turner must be learning much from the opal.
TWENTY-FIVE
The helicopter, an old Soviet Mi-8, flew high over the forested hills. The cabin had been converted for civilian use but remained essentially spartan and painfully loud. Jess was strapped into one of the frontmost seats, across from Roger, staring at his cell phone. He grabbed the coil-corded transceiver from the partition in front of him and yelled into it.
“Will we have cellular service again?” He pressed it to his ear while plugging a finger into his other ear. Putting the handpiece to his mouth again, he said, “Cellular. Cell service. Teléfono celular,” then quickly put it back to his ear again. Nodding, he hung it on its clip.
Roger leaned across the open aisle. “What’d she say?”
“I think she said there’s a tower a couple kilometers from our LZ, but that she doesn’t know if it reaches that far.”
Chuck and Núñez poked their heads forward. “What’s the plan, boss?” Chuck shouted. “We gonna take out the two preemptively, or we gotta wait for provocation?”
Jess cocked his head sideways. “We’re not authorized to so much as wipe our asses preemptively, but I tell you what: we get both of them in our sights at the same time, chances are we’ll suddenly come under fire and have to take defensive measures.”
“Defensive measures . . . gotcha,” Chuck said, grinning.
“What about Dr. Rheese?” Núñez said.
Jess started to say something, but Roger interrupted. “We need him alive if at all possible, but he could be just as dangerous as the other two. We can’t assume.”
Paul appeared in the aisle between Núñez and Chuck. He yelled over the engine’s whine, “I feel like I’m back at the kids’ table at Thanksgiving.”
Núñez ignored him. “Who’s on sniper duty?”
“You requesting it?” Jess asked her.
She lifted her chin as if to say, You got someone better?
“You got it, then. Chuck, we both know you’re for shit with anything other than a handgun. Rog, how’s your marksmanship these days?”
Roger shook his head. “If it wasn’t my kid’s life on the line, I’d be a lot more confident about it. You always were a better shot than me, anyway.”
Paul leaned farther forward. “I can shoot a dog out from under a flea’s ass.”
“Good to know,” Jess said. “I’ll do it, Rog. But that means you’re down there with the ground team.”
“That’s where I want to be.”
“Looks like we’re landing,” Núñez said.
It looked as though the bird was descending straight into dense jungle canopy, but as they moved along, a clearing appeared. Most of the ground was covered in gravel, and heavy equipment littered the area. No people were visible. A construction site trailer sat at the far edge of the clearing, and beside it was a half-loaded log truck. The helicopter touched down.
Jess grabbed the transceiver and said, “If your dispatch doesn’t hear from us in twenty-four hours, can you come back here to this spot?” He listened but didn’t hear
anything.
The pilot appeared in the doorway and spoke to Núñez. “¿Qué quiere decir?”
Núñez replied in Spanish, and the pilot nodded, smiled curtly at Jess and Roger, and returned to her cockpit.
“You tell her twenty-four hours?” Jess asked as they stepped down to the ground.
“Yes, and she understands.”
They unloaded their gear and watched with half-guarded eyes as the helicopter took off.
“You think anyone’s in that trailer?” Chuck asked.
“No,” Roger said. “They would have come out when they heard a damned chopper landing outside.”
“Oh, yeah, duh.”
The site was essentially what Larry had described: a logging base. To the north, a small road for the Cats, skidders, loaders, and log trucks; to the south, the only access road into the site. A steep hill rose up to the west, patterned evenly with young plantation redwoods. Eastward was more forest, though obscured by two tall cranelike vehicles.
Núñez scanned it all, then said, “Do we want to use one of the cranes for a sniping position, sir?”
Jess gazed up at the two towering arms. “If you want to climb your ass up one of ’em, be my guest. I sure as hell ain’t.”
“It’s a prime spot, sir,” she said. “Also provides quick access to the ground, if needed.”
“How much time do we think we have?” Roger asked Jess.
Jess looked at his watch. “It’s almost five p.m. Anywhere from four hours, if they sped the whole way without even pulling over to piss, up to eighteen hours, if they stopped to sleep and are taking their time. Either option is equally likely, I suppose. But either way, it’s doubtful they’d be planning to hike it outta here before daylight. If they show up tonight, they probably plan to camp here or somewhere near. If they arrive in the morning, they’ll probably march right through this place and down the hill Larry spoke of.
The Opal (Book 2 of the Matt Turner Series) Page 17
