by Tom Clancy
Felipe lifted the water to his mouth and drank without a word, still seemingly unable to quite grasp the idea that there might be more than two early birds roaming the beach in the state of California.
He was passing the bottle back to Marissa when the guy behind the Saturn straightened from rummaging around in his cooler and turned to look at them.
His appearance caught Marissa by surprise. For whatever reason—his posture, or the way he was dressed, or maybe because of that oversized two-tone beer cooler—she had assumed he would be a youngish man, but the face under the bill of his cap was far from youthful. In fact it was incredibly ancient. Lined and wrinkled, its cheeks sagging in loose folds of flesh, the slits of its eyes peering at her from above a vulturous nose and scowling lips, it was also infinitely unpleasant . . .
Then Marissa noticed what he was holding in his right hand. What he’d drawn out of the cooler, keeping it briefly hidden from sight by his body as he turned. And all at once her surprised reaction jolted up to one of surpassing shock and fear.
Not at any point in the waking nightmare to come would Marissa be certain whether she realized the man was wearing a mask before she actually saw his weapon, what might have been an Uzi, or something like one. But she knew what was happening the instant she did see it, knew it was her fault, all hers . . . and knew that none of the protective structures she’d built to contain her orderly little world had kept the truth from breaking through at last.
The man raised his gun in front of him, and then the rear doors of the station wagon were flying open, and more men were exiting both sides, three of them spilling from the doors, sprinting across the sand toward her and Felipe with miniature submachine guns also in their hands and obvious disguises pulled over their heads—a bearded pirate, a devil’s head, a grinning skull.
Tears began to flood Marissa’s eyes, further distorting the grotesque Halloween shop faces, but she held them back, checking them almost on reflex, refusing to succumb to panic. This was a public beach, hadn’t that been what she’d insisted? A public beach, where any break in the quiet would stand out. Her voice would carry, and someone might be close enough to hear her scream. Driving, walking, on a bicycle. Close enough to hear.
Make some noise, she demanded of herself. Come on, make some noise, scream your head off—
But it was too late, the men from the wagon were on her in a flash, surrounding her, a hand clapping over her mouth to stifle her rising cry for help. “Entra aqui! A prisa!” the one with the old man mask shouted to the others in Spanish, telling them to hurry up. And an instant later she was grabbed by the arms and shoulders and hustled toward the car with the metal bore of a gun sticking into her back. Alongside her, and then slightly ahead of her, Felipe was also jostled forward at gunpoint, stumbling a little as they pushed him toward one of the wagon’s open back doors.
He turned his head toward her, eyes wide, and started to call out her name, but was punched hard across the face by the man in the pirate mask before it could fully escape his lips.
They shoved Felipe into the rear of the station wagon as his legs crumpled underneath him, and moments later jammed Marissa through the same door, a gunman climbing into the backseat on either side of them, the others rushing around into the front.
This is my fault, she thought again mutely. It’s true, it’s my fault, I should have known.
And then the wagon’s motor came to life, and Marissa was jerked back in her seat as it kicked into reverse, cut a sharp turn away from the beach, and went speeding off in a cloud of spun-up sand.
SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA
“Trinidad,” Megan Breen said to Nimec.
“What?”
“And Tobago,” Megan said. “With Annie.”
“Huh?”
“Annie, your lovely and beloved wife.” She regarded him across her desk with mild amusement. “The place I mentioned . . . on Tobago, not Trinidad . . . is called Rayos del Sol. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”
Nimec sat with a blank expression on his face.
“Testing one-two-three, Pete,” Megan said, and pointed to her ear. “Can you read me, or is it cochlear implant time?”
Nimec frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about your hearing. I’ve noticed it seems to conk out whenever I ask you to do something that conflicts with plans you’ve already locked in on.”
His frown deepened.
“I sat here listening to your Caribbean project update for half an hour,” he said. “You want me to run every detail back to you, I’ll be glad to oblige.”
“Which I guess would make your deafness selective.”
Nimec crossed his hands in a time-out gesture.
“We going to talk straight?” he said.
“I’d be peachy with that.”
“I’m not getting shipped out to Trinidad. Not with Ricci on our front burner.”
“Then we’ll shift burners.”
“That isn’t fair.”
“To him or us?” Megan said.
Nimec shrugged.
“Both, I suppose,” he said. “Our lead field op being on indefinite suspension is the kind of thing that leaves everybody betwixt and between. UpLink’s stuck without a replacement, Ricci can’t move on with his life.”
She looked at him, her large, intelligent green eyes holding steady on his face. Nimec braced for a difficult contest. He’d been in this spot with Meg before, or in similar spots, and didn’t see any easy give in her right now.
“I’m prepared to occupy a solitary corner of limbo for a while,” she said. “In a sense, we’ve been in it for over a month. Tom Ricci’s got us in a bind with all three branches of government and every major law-enforcement agency you can name. Even our best friends at the Pentagon have started to distance themselves, which puts our pending defense contracts at risk. And you know the table’s set for us to become the target of a public furor the moment any information about his one-man road show on the East Coast is declassified.”
“Figure the people whose lives he saved from those terrorists might be a few million exceptions to popular opinion.”
“And if it had gone the other way, I don’t know that even God in all his mercy could forgive us,” Megan said. “Ricci’s secretive actions could as easily have made those people casualties, Pete. But that’s over and done. He took us out of the decision-making loop by going it alone. Now it’s his turn to wait outside it while we deal with the consequences.” Megan paused. “You need some physical and mental distance from San Jose. A chance to order your thoughts before making a comfortable decision on whether he stays or goes.”
Nimec held his silence. Behind Megan, her office window gave a curiously smog-bleared view of Mount Hamilton away to the north. He remembered its rugged flank as everlastingly vivid and imposing from Roger Gordian’s office, which was just catercorner up the hall. But then, Meg’s window was just that, a window. Gord’s occupied an entire side of the room from floor to ceiling . . . really, it might be considered a glass wall. With that much light pouring through, Nimec supposed you would see well into the distance regardless of hazy environmental conditions. Anyway, it was impossible to make comparisons. And unfair. Gord was more or less retired. Megan had gotten a deserved promotion in rank to CEO and was more or less in charge of UpLink International’s corporate affairs. The outlook from her office was the one Nimec had here before his eyes these days, and it remained consistent with the view he’d always appreciated next door. How could Meg be blamed if it wasn’t as impressively crystal clear?
The simple fact was that, little by little, things had changed. And he’d have to accept it.
“Bottom line,” he said after a moment, “you’re telling me I need a vacation.”
Megan shook her head.
“Wrong,” she said. “Though I was afraid you’d see things that way.”
“How am I supposed to see them?”
“It goes back to the
project update you can supposedly recite back to me by heart,” she said. “We’ve finished wiring Sedco Petroleum’s deepwater rigs for fiberoptics. Within a month to six weeks we should be finished laying our submarine cables between Monos, Huevos, and Chacachacare—”
“Those islands in that strait over there?”
“Boca del Sierpe, right,” Megan said. “The Serpent’s Mouth. It separates Trinidad and Venezuela.”
“Colorful name.”
“Give due credit to Christopher Columbus,” she said. “Anyway, we have to get on with some logistical decisions and I don’t think we should wait too long . . . for our own sake, and because we owe it to the Trinidadians, who’ve done everything within their political and economic capabilities to make us feel welcome.”
“As in footing a chunk of the bill for our fiber network.”
“And hammering out that bargain rate government land lease for our base.” Megan smiled wryly. “It’s nice to know you really and truly were paying attention to me before.”
Nimec shrugged in an offhand way.
“So we’re looking at either converting our temporary hq on the southern coast to something permanent, or moving the facilities inland and closer to a developed area,” he said. “I got that part. I realize there are different security issues depending on which site we choose . . .”
She flapped a hand in the air.
“Your turn to hit the pause button, Pete,” she said. “Security could determine our choice, and that’s the part I may not have stressed nearly enough. By this date next year we’ll have upwards of a thousand employees living and working on that base, a substantial number of them with their families. You know, and I know, that what’s convenient in terms of transportation, getting supplies in and out, those sorts of things, don’t necessarily dovetail with what’s safest for our personnel . . . and their well-being’s my top concern.” She paused. “I want your eyewitness perspective on which site makes the most sense. If you say we ought to stay put, fine, give me a list of suggestions on how existing security systems can be upgraded to the highest possible level. If you think changing locations would be best, I’d like your reasons laid out in a nice, bulleted report I can hand the board of directors along with my proposed budget.”
Nimec considered that.
“I might’ve been sold on the trip if it wasn’t for the vacation pitch,” he said. “It’d take three, maybe four days for targeted inspections with Vince Scull’s risk assessments in my hip pocket. But I can’t see how to justify two weeks away from here.”
Meg smiled, combed her fingers back through a long, thick sheet of auburn hair. “Pete, you’ve got to be the only man on this planet who’d fight to avoid this assignment. And you still haven’t heard me say ‘vacation.’ ”
“You call staying at some tropical resort work?”
Megan looked at him.
“Pull teeth all you want, I can stand the pain,” she said. “You don’t need me to tell you Rayos del Sol isn’t just another getaway. It’s an exclusive resort that caters to the world’s most powerful individuals . . . including our own past and present heads of state. It’s spread across an entire island in the Serpent’s Mouth and has its own international airport and ocean harbor. And lest we forget, it has a security force that’s been assembled by a former head of the French GIGN, Henri Beauchart, who would very much like to personally compare notes with our security chief.” She looked at him. “We should also keep in mind that its controlling owners include members of the Trinidadian parliament who have ties to Sedco, and are highly supportive of UpLink International’s regional presence. They’re eager to put their lush native paradise on proud display for us.”
There was another pause. Nimec thought some more, tugged his earlobe, leaned forward.
“I’ve been waiting for you to mention those e-mails you got a couple weeks back,” he said.
“My intention was to save them for a last-but-not-least.” Megan shrugged a little. “Every aspect of this deal’s been written about in the financial press, including the Rayos del Sol/Sedco connection. To be perfectly honest, I’d dismiss the messages as a nasty prank . . . somebody’s bush league attempt at throwing a wrench into things . . . if it wasn’t for that. Vague claims of accounting, inventory, and shipping irregularities at Rayos del Sol with nothing to back them up. Our nameless whistle-blower didn’t see fit to specify which inventories or shipments are supposed to be questionable, or even explain why he or she would choose to make the allegations to an UpLink executive.” She gave another shrug. “As I said, it’s all so insubstantial I’m tempted to ignore it. But it’s probably worth checking out while you’re there.”
“On vacation,” Nimec said.
Megan’s eyes were on him again.
“Repeat the word a hundred times, I still won’t understand why you find it so abhorrent,” she said. “Nor will I concede it’s even applicable. You have legitimate professional reasons for making the trip.”
“And for bringing along my wife, some fresh cabana shirts, and maybe a jug of suntan lotion.”
“No crime, Pete,” Megan said. “Your job’s taken you to some very unfriendly places. That doesn’t mean you’d be cheating your responsibilities by visiting a hospitable clime for a change. This isn’t the sort of opportunity that comes around very often. Enjoy it on the company’s tab. Bring Annie so she can enjoy it, too, I guarantee it’ll do both of you a ton of good—”
Nimec shook his head.
“We’ve got Chris and Linda,” he said. “They’ve got school.”
“They also have a grandmother to see they get there and back every day.”
He gave another head shake. “Annie’s mom lives in Kansas City.”
“And she just might be available,” Megan said. “In fact, she’d probably love the chance to come visit the kids and spoil them rotten.”
Nimec started to say something, stopped, at a sudden loss.
“What makes you sound so sure?” he said after a moment.
Megan held her hands out and wriggled her fingers.
“A mildly psychic hunch,” she said, smiling.
Nimec felt as if he was looking at a good-natured hijacker.
He smoothed a hand over his hair, slightly grown out from his preferred brush cut at Annie’s insistence. What was it she’d said the other morning? Her remark had come out of the blue—or so it seemed to Nimec at the time—when he’d been readying himself for work, their bathroom’s skylit brightness washing over him as he knotted his tie in front of the mirror.
“Ricci’s Field,” she’d said from over his shoulder. “Oh how does your garden grow.”
Nimec had glanced questioningly at Annie’s reflection, noticed the sobriety in her smile.
“This gray patch,” she’d explained, and fondly scratched the side of his head. “We should dedicate it to Tom Ricci. Post a little handmade sign that says how much we really owe him for putting it there.”
Looking himself over in the mirror, Nimec hadn’t managed to smile back at her.
Now he sat opposite Megan in silence, his eyes returning to the blurry view of San Jose that filled her window. He thought about all the opinions of Ricci he’d heard, more than he could accurately recall. Sometimes he would hear a single person give contradictory opinions in what almost seemed to be the same breath. A lot of them seemed to have equal or nearly equal merit. But only three voices counted in deciding whether Ricci had become an unsalvageable liability. Meg had already gone down on record that she’d had enough of him. Rollie Thibodeau had been cagier about his sentiments, which was pretty uncharacteristic for someone who normally had no trouble expressing himself. But he’d always disliked and distrusted Ricci, and seemed resentful of sharing the title of global field supervisor with him. He also normally aligned with Meg on important decisions involving the company’s security arm. That, Nimec mused, left him straddling the fence alone. If a vote were taken that very morning, he was betting it would come out two-t
o-one in favor of Ricci’s permanent dismissal. A delay might be his only shot at a different result, and Nimec wasn’t too sure he could find a totally honest and unbiased rationale for why Ricci would deserve it. Or that Ricci, who’d returned none of his phone calls for the past several days, would even want to stick around, which might prove to be the real kicker in the end.
Nimec looked out at the somewhat indistinct contours of the mountain a while longer, turning things over in his mind. There were decisions and there were decisions. Some were tougher than others, and with good reason. When you had one that couldn’t be reversed and worried endlessly about the consequences of getting it wrong, Nimec guessed that ought to be reason enough to rank it high on the difficulty scale. And maybe knocking a week or two off the calendar was exactly what he needed to get the decision ahead of him right.
Another full minute of silence passed before he brought his eyes back to Megan’s face.
“Hope you’re okay holding down the fort while I visit Shangri-la,” he said with a relenting sigh.
“Fret not,” she said. “I’ll keep our stockades guarded round the clock.”
“You and Gramma Caulfield?”
Megan smiled, reached across the desk, and gave his wrist a fond little pat.
“Leave it to us womenfolk, pardnuh,” she said.
TERRITORIAL TRINIDAD
Jarvis wanted to believe the chopper wasn’t out searching for him. Even as he opened the motorboat’s throttle to push it faster downriver than any boat piloted by a sane man should be moving in the pitch darkness, he was wishing he could convince himself they would not do so drastic a thing, send a helicopter into the air after him, a small and unimportant person in their big, important world. Someone who’d not taken so much as an unearned cent from them, and did not let his eyes stray far from the grounds he kept in nice, trim shape for his weekly paycheck. And why not think he’d be found deserving of a fair turn? An honest, hardworkin’ gardener is Jarvis Lenard, we’ll make an exception an’ let him be, they might have said. Save some trouble, ya know. Leavin’ aside that bad seed family relation of his, what have we to fear from the man?
