The Silent Sea

The Silent Sea

Chapter TWENTY

FOUL WEATHER DOGGED THE OREGON AS SHE POUNDED her way southward. Ship and crew took the abuse stoically, as if it were penance for Tamara's capture. At least that's how Cabrillo felt about it. Some of the waves reached almost the height of the bridge, and, when her stern rose high, water exploded from the pump jets in twin lances that shot nearly a hundred feet.

Juan had assembled the senior staff in the Corporation's board-room. The space had been destroyed by a direct hit from the Libyan frigate, and in the reconstruction Juan had gone for a modern glass-and-stainless-steel look. The table was embedded with a microscopic mesh of electrical wires that, when activated, created a static charge that kept papers in place no matter the sea's state. With winds blowing force seven outside, the table was cranked up to keep the dozens of notes and photographs from being dumped on the floor. On the head and foot walls hung large flat-screen displays running a slide show of photographs of the target house and its environs.

The beautiful apartment building looked like it had been taken apart stone by stone in France and erected on a broad avenue in South America. In fact, much of BA's older architecture was in the French Empire style with mansard roofs, ornate stonework, and innumerable columns. Because of the wealth in the Recoleta District, there were countless parks dominated by statues of past leaders. Many of the main streets had been built to accommodate the turning radius of eight-horse teams when wagons were the dominant mode of transportation.

Because he admittedly lacked any tactical ability, Max Hanley wasn't part of the meeting and stood watch in the op center. With Cabrillo were Mark Murphy, Eric Stone, Linda Ross, Eddie Seng, and Franklin Lincoln, their lead gundog. While civilian attire was the preferred mode of dress aboard ship, Eddie, Linda, and Linc wore black tactical uniforms. Mark had thrown a grunge-era flannel shirt over his St. Pauli Girl Beer T-shirt.

Juan took a sip of coffee and set the cup back into a recessed swivel holder. To recap, we're not going to bring the ship within Argentine waters, so that leaves us with a submersible infiltration, yes? Heads nodded. I recommend we use the bigger ten-person Nomad 1000. We probably don't need the room, but better too much than too little.

Who's tail-ended Charlie and gets stuck babysitting it? Linc asked.

Don't know until we firm up our plans. We have to assume a building like this will have a doorman. He might be our key. Not sure yet.

Eddie raised his hand despite Juan's repeated admonishments that he could interrupt whenever he liked. If she's held on the top floor, wouldn't going through the roof make more sense?

It's slate, for one thing, Eric said. And you can best believe that the substructure is going to be substantial. The cribbing and decking to support such a shallow pitch is going to be thick and sturdy.

It's gotta be some god-awful exotic timber that's harder than steel, Murph added. The building predates the use of metal girders as a support structure, so there are fundamental flaws in its design and construction. Explosives in the right place would topple an exterior wall.

I'm looking for the velvet touch here, Juan said, not a sledgehammer. We have to remember that Argentina is a police state, and, as such, there will be cops on every corner with the authority to arrest anyone at any time. And every third pedestrian's a snitch. I don't want to have any reason for anybody to give us the hairy eyeball. We need to be subtle.

There's always the sewers, Linda suggested. And if that's how we do this, let me go on record and volunteer to stay with the minisub.

That's taking one for the team, Eddie teased.

It'll be a sacrifice, Linda said with as straight a face as she could muster. But you know me. I'll do anything to help.

Ideas were floated, analyzed, and dissected for the next two hours. The five of them had planned countless missions together, and in the end they could come up with nothing better than a slight variation on Mark Murphy's sledgehammerish suggestion. There were too many variables like the number of men guarding Tamara to try anything with more finesse.

THE SPACE WHERE THEY could launch either of the two mini-subs they carried buzzed with activity when Juan entered through a watertight hatch. The massive keel doors, as large as those on a barn, were still closed, and the moon pool was empty, but the air was heavy with the smell of the ocean.

Technicians swarmed over the sleek Nomad 1000. The mini looked like a scaled-down version of a nuclear submarine, only its nose was a convex piece of transparent acrylic capable of withstanding depths of more than a thousand feet, and robotic arms hung under its chin like the claws of some enormous sea monster. The conning tower was only two feet tall, and lashed behind it was a large black rubber boat. They wouldn't be going very deep on their run to shore, so the Zodiac had been filled with air already. All their gear was stored internally and would be transferred to the inflatable when they were closer to shore.

The extraction team consisted of Cabrillo, Linc, Linda, and Mark Murphy. Juan wouldn't have minded another gunner along, but he wanted to keep the group as small as he could. Mike Trono would drive the sub and stay with her when the others motored to the coast.

Kevin Nixon waved him over. The former Hollywood special-effects guru ran what the crew called the Magic Shop. He was responsible for creating any disguises the shore operators would need, as well as providing documentation. Though he himself wasn't a master forger, he had two in his division.

These should pass, no problem, the tall, bearded Nixon said. He handed Cabrillo a folder.

Juan thumbed through the papers. There were Argentine IDs for the four of them, plus travel and work permits. All the documents looked authentic and properly aged. The thick sheaf of cash was real.

First-rate, as usual, Cabrillo said. Let's just hope we never need to use any of this stuff.

Batteries are fully charged, nav and sonar check out, and life support is set, Trono reported when Juan approached. Wish I was coming all the way with you.

We don't know what condition Dr. Wright's going to be in, so I need Linc in case we have to carry her back to the Zodiac.

I know, but, well . . . You know what I mean.

Juan laid a hand on Mike's shoulder. I understand.

Max Hanley arrived. Seas aren't going to get any calmer, so you might as well launch.

Cabrillo raised an eyebrow. Here to see us off?

No, just to make sure you bring her back. I wasn't kidding about wanting to take Tamara out on a date. She's dynamite.

The future of your love life is in capable hands. Were you serious about the weather?

'Fraid so. Rain's coming down in buckets and won't let up until tomorrow night. Do you want to delay?

Launching and recovering one of the submersibles was tricky enough in calm weather, but Juan wasn't tempted. Every second counted. No. Not this time.

Good luck, Max said, and turned to head back to the op center.

Cabrillo was neither superstitious nor a fatalist, yet somehow Hanley's wish made him uneasy. Wishing luck to someone going into danger was just bad luck. He roused himself. Okay, people, let's saddle up.

He was the last one through the Nomad's hatch and he spun it closed, tightening the seal until an indicator light in the cramped conning tower flicked to green. Mike would see the same indicator in the high-tech cockpit. A second later the technician on launch control used the heavy machinery to lift the submersible off its rack while at the same time opening the controls that flooded the moon pool.

The lighting in the space switched from fluorescent tubes to red bulbs to help the crew adjust to the coming darkness. When the artificial basin was full, hydraulic rams opened the keel doors. Water in the moon pool sloshed dangerously, washing across the deck and dousing one technician with spray. The submersible held steady in its cradle.

It was slowly lowered into the water, waves splashing against the acrylic dome. It was too rough to risk divers in the moon pool, so a worker leapt across to the top of the sub and detached the cables while she was still floating inside the ship. Mike immediately dumped air, and the minisub dropped clear of the ship.

The water was pitch-black, and at this shallow depth they could feel the powerful South Atlantic surging above them. Until they were about fifty feet down, the Nomad dipped and swayed in a nauseating random ballet.

Everyone okay back there? Trono called over his shoulder after setting a westerly heading.

There should have been a sign back there that said I was too short for this ride, Linda said. She massaged her elbow where it had been slammed into the steel hull.

Juan climbed through the austere cabin and plopped himself in the copilot's seat to Mike's right. What's our ETA?

One second. Mike finished punching numbers into the navigation computer. It spit back the answer instantly. We've got five hours in this can, provided we don't stumble on any Coast Guard or Navy ships.

They'll never hear us in this slop. Juan leaned back so he could see the others. Five hours. Might as well catch a few z's.

Mark, you can share my bench, Linc said. We can spoon.

Forget it, Colossus. You never let me be the little spoon.

The ride in was uneventful. There was no shipping into or out of Buenos Aires and no military patrols. They surfaced a mile from shore. The proximity to land had calmed the waters somewhat, though rain fell steadily. Through the murk they could see the lights of the downtown high-rises as a spectral aura announcing the city. What was known as the Latin Paris looked ominous in the storm. A mile from them was a place of malice and fear, where the state controlled every aspect of its citizen's lives. To be captured would mean their death.

Juan organized the loading of their gear into waterproof bags. He lashed each one to the Zodiac as it was passed up to him from below. He suspected they were taking too much equipment, but there were variables within variables, and they needed to be ready for anything.

He fitted a headset over his ears. Comm check, comm check, how do you read?

Five by five, Mike answered from the submersible's cockpit.

Mind the shop while we're gone.

You got it, Chairman.

Juan waited until the other three had clamored out the hatch and settled into the inflatable before releasing the lines that had kept it secured. As they floated free, he eyed another bundle of equipment they had left lashed to the deck and hoped against hope they would not need to use it.

The Zodiac's electric motor made a whine that was lost to the storm, and with its low profile they were all but invisible. Juan had to steer a few degrees off point because of the current of the mighty Rio de la Plata, the river that first attracted Spanish settlers to build BA.

They made their way toward the heavily industrialized port area where big freighters lay idle since so few countries maintained trade ties with the rogue nation. Cabrillo noticed that the ships here were registered to nations such as Cuba, Libya, China, and Venezuela. He wasn't surprised.

Because of the weather, there was virtually no activity on the docks that they could see from their low vantage in the inflatable raft. The big gantry cranes were immobile and the tower lights were off. He motored them under an unused pier whose concrete pilings were covered with mussels and sea growth that stank of iodine. The water was remarkably free of trash, thanks to the river.

Linc tied off the Zodiac while Juan cut the motor.

Hi, honey, I'm home, Mark quipped. They all wore foul-weather gear, but Murph had a particular drowned-rat look to him.

Cabrillo ignored the joke. He had his game face on. Okay, we all know the plan. Stick to it. We'll call when we've cased the building.

We'll be ready, Linc replied.

Juan and Linda stripped out of their nylon rain pants and jackets. Under his, Cabrillo wore a thousand-dollar suit, which he quickly wrapped in a Burberry trench coat. His shoes looked like wingtips but were in fact combat shoes with nonskid rubber soles. Linda had on a red cocktail dress that was slit up high and cut down low. Her trench coat was black, and she wore boots that nearly reached her thighs. Like Juan's shoes, these were designed for ease of movement and traction. Only another woman would notice they weren't quite the apex of fashion. They had no heels.

Juan climbed the ladder built into the dock pylon first, and Linda shot her two crewmates a look that said, Peek up my dress and you'll regret it, before following him. She pulled a little feminine umbrella from her coat pocket and popped it over her head. Because he stood a solid ten inches taller, Juan couldn't fit under it with her, and as they started down the quay he had to duck several times to avoid having one of its thin metal ribs gouge out an eye.

It took them fifteen minutes to cross the sprawling port facility and reach the main gate. Flickering light from inside the guardhouse meant the security men were watching television. Juan and Linda strolled leisurely past, and a few minutes later found a taxi cruising the deserted streets. Cabrillo gave an address a few doors down from General Espinoza's building. One of the junta's laws mandated that the cabbie write down their names and addresses from their travel papers. It was one more way for the government to keep track of its people. The lack of freedom made Cabrillo's skin crawl.

He grabbed the newspaper someone had left on the backseat and used it to cover his head when he and Linda got out of the cab.

They walked the last few feet to their destination once the taxi had disappeared around a corner. The first floor of most of the buildings were leased commercial spaces boutiques catering to the wealthy women of the neighborhood mostly, but a few restaurants that were closing up at this late hour. There were no other pedestrians on the broad sidewalk. The cars parked along the curb represented every German luxury-automobile company.

Falling rain slashed silver and gold in the lights cast from apartment windows above.

Espinoza's corner building had a glass-and-brass revolving door that Juan and Linda sped through like happy lovers, laughing at how wet they were and how glad they were to be home.

Cabrillo pulled up short almost immediately and laughed. Oops. Wrong building, he said, grinning drunkenly. He escorted Linda back outside. The doorman barely had time to step from behind the counter before the well-dressed couple was gone. In all, they had spent seven-point-one seconds inside the building.

More than enough.

Talk to me, Juan said as soon they were outside.

The doorman's wearing a gun in a shoulder rig, Linda said. There was one camera covering the front door.

Juan stopped dead in the street, disregarding the rain. That's all you saw? His tone was both mocking and disappointed.

What? What did you see?

Okay first, the gun under his shoulder was obvious. His suit was tailored to highlight it. Anyone passing by was meant to see it. It's a deterrent. What you weren't supposed to see and what you didn't was the pistol strapped to his ankle. His pants flared like bell-bottoms to hide it, but not well enough. Guy that carries two pistols will probably have a submachine gun behind the counter. He's definitely Ninth Brigade and not the regular doorman. Tell me about the cameras.

Cameras? Linda asked. We were in there for two seconds. Like I said, I only saw one camera, and it was covering the front door.

Juan took a breath. He had no desire to teach a lesson in this kind of weather, but he felt that to bring Linda along to the next level he had no choice. Okay. We were in the lobby for a tick over seven seconds. From now on, you need to be precise. You observed one guard and one camera. Yes?

Linda didn't want to reply, but she mumbled, Yes.

There was a second camera inside, just above the revolving door, that covers the elevator and also the counter where the doorman sits. It looks like it was just installed. The feed wires are exposed and just sort of strung up. Dollars to doughnuts, it was put there when they brought Professor Wright to this building, and it's monitored from the penthouse suite.

How did you see it?

Reflection off the mirror next to the elevator doors.

Linda shook her head. When I saw the mirror, the only thing I saw was us. Well, me, actually.

Human nature, Juan replied. First thing people always look in a mirror or in a photograph for is themselves. It's simple vanity.

So what do we do now? Check the back service door?

No, it'll have cameras, too. We can get away with the tipsy, lost couple once, not twice. If they saw us again, they'd call the police, or just take us into custody themselves.

We're going with Mark's idea?

Sledgehammer it is. They found a vestibule a few doors down that sheltered them from the rain. The street was so quiet that they'd spot an approaching police car long before they could be seen. Juan raised Linc on the tactical radio. We're a go. How are you guys doing?

Mark's out on the street and already has a car hot-wired, Lincoln reported. I've found what we need and am just waiting for the word from you.

Mount up. About how long to get here?

So long as the harbor cops don't give me any trouble and we don't get pulled over, we should be there in an hour.

See you when you get here. Juan switched frequencies. Mike, you out there?

Just chilling with the fishes.

Move to waypoint Beta. All locations had been worked out long in advance.

On my way. There was a slight catch in Mike Trono's voice. He knew the Chairman was getting a bad feeling.

Why reposition the sub? Linda asked.

It occurred to me that with this weather, there are going to be a lot of police with little to do. Once the alarm's sounded, we're going to have every cop in BA after us.

Linda suddenly had Juan's bad feeling, too.

They circled around the block, moving only when they were certain no one was watching. Once, they had to hide behind trash Dumpsters near a construction zone when a patrol car eased by. The officer wasn't scanning the curbs. He was just focused on driving through the downpour. A miserable man walking a little dog was the only person they saw, and neither group acknowledged the other. The weather was just too nasty for pleasantries.

Juan touched the Bluetooth in his ear. Go ahead, Linc.

Wanna let you know that things are going smooth. Bluffed my way past the guards, no problem, even if my Spanish is rusty and I look about as native as a rhinoceros. Tell people you need to borrow something for the Ninth Brigade and the questions come to a halt.

That's the beauty of a police state. No one will stick his neck out. They've learned it can get chopped off.

Mark's right ahead of me, and we're getting close.

We'll see you coming.

Fifteen minutes later, a strange convoy rounded a far corner and started approaching. Murph was in the lead, driving a nondescript compact sedan. Emergency flashers on the roof were strobing a rhythmic orange beat as if to announce the vehicle behind him. Which was the point. Linc was behind the wheel of a mobile crane emblazoned with the logo of the Buenos Aires Port Authority. The vehicle really didn't have a body but rather a turret like an Army tank's, mounted on a heavy-duty chassis. Its wheels were twice the size of a car's tires. The collapsible boom was at its shortest but still protruded from the crane like a battering ram.

They would have to act fast because a big crane in the middle of a posh residential neighborhood would attract attention. Juan stripped off his overcoat and suit jacket and tore away the white oxford shirt. The clip-on tie went flying. It was a disguise, after all. Under it, he wore a black long-sleeved T-shirt and two empty shoulder holsters. He slipped on a pair of tight black gloves.

Linda was at the sedan's driver's-side door before Mark had come to a complete stop. She killed the two battery-operated flashers and plucked them off the roof. The suction cups used to hold them in place made an obscene smacking sound. Murph ran for the crane at the same time as the Chairman. While Mark was heading for the cab, Juan leapt for the industrial hook dangling from the boom and climbed his way atop it.

He was met there by Linc, who handed over an MP-5 as well as a pair of Fabrique Nationale Five-seveN automatic pistols, Cabrillo's weapon of choice because the small 5.7-millimeter bullets could defeat most body armor at close range. The extralong suppressor on the end of the submachine gun made it unwieldy.

The team was moving as though they had been choreographed. Juan jammed the pistols into his shoulder holsters at the same time Mark settled into the crane's cabin and Linda legged into the sedan. Sitting astride the boom, Franklin Lincoln tightened his grip with his thighs a second before Murph hit the hydraulics to extend it upward.

It was happening this fast.

That was the plan.

The boom telescoped up toward the fifth floor. Mark kept the engine noise to a minimum, sacrificing speed for stealth, but to Juan the crane sounded like a snarling animal. He and Linc rose atop the boom as it aimed for one of the dark apartment windows. A light snapped on a floor below their target as a homeowner was woken by the noise outside his bedroom. Thankfully, Espinoza's windows remained black.

Mark rammed the tip of the boom through the glass, and Linc and Cabrillo launched themselves into the room beyond. They landed as agile as cats, and both had their weapons ready when a man wearing camouflage opened the door to see what was happening. Both guns spat, and the man went down.

Linc whipped a pair of plastic ties around the guard's wrists. The bullets they were using were hardened rubber nonlethal, yet hitting with enough force to incapacitate a fully grown man. It was essentially the same as a blow from a baseball bat. They had considered using tranquilizer darts instead, but even the best drugs needed precious seconds to knock someone out.

This would be the duty guard watching the video feed from the lobby, Juan thought as he flipped the man's pistol under the four-poster whose huge size made him think this was the master suite. And the General is out tonight, which means the Chinese interrogators were probably out with him. He guessed there would be no more than three other guards watching over Tamara Wright. They'd caught a break.

Beyond the bedroom door was a hallway with mahogany floors and an Oriental runner. Light spilled from an open door a few paces away, and by its gray hue Juan knew it was where the guards had their monitor station. The ceiling in the hall was at least eleven feet, and the crown molding was the most intricate Cabrillo had ever seen.

Another door opened. The man wore nothing but boxer shorts and was wiping sleep from his eyes. Juan gave him a double tap to the forehead that would put him down for hours. With Linc covering his six, Juan peered into this new room. There were two beds, but only one had been slept in. The random thought that the lady of the house couldn't be too thrilled about soldiers sleeping on her fine linen popped into his head.

He opened the next door a crack and saw a tiled bathroom with a tub big enough to swim laps. He swung the door open just a bit more to let in light from the hallway and spotted three razors on the vanity and three toothbrushes sitting upright in a cut-crystal glass.

One more to go. The next door was a closet filled with towels and sheets, and the one after that was the General's study. The desk was enormous, and behind it, on a credenza, was a stuffed and mounted jaguar. From the size, it looked to be an adolescent female. Cabrillo was liking Espinoza less and less.

A gun went off behind him, a loud report that echoed off the tall ceiling. Linc twisted around the doorjamb as another round blew some molding into expensive slivers. Juan slung the MP-5 behind his back and pulled one of the FN pistols. Unlike the machine gun's, these bullets were hot-loaded with lead. His wet shoes squelched, but he suspected the gunman's hearing was compromised.

He ducked his head around the corner, low to the ground, and drew a snap shot that went high but gave away the Argentine's position. He was hiding behind the door at the end of the hall. A light was on in the room, and Juan could see the outline of his foot in the space between the door and the floor. He laid his automatic on the carpet runner and fired two quick shots. The spent brass arced inches from his face.

The scream echoed almost as loud as the gunshots. The bullet hit the gunman's foot and shattered the delicate bones. As he hopped onto his other foot, Cabrillo fired again. This bullet grazed the bottom edge of the door but still carried the energy to plow through flesh. The Argentine fell to the ground, moaning at the agony radiating up from his ruined feet. Linc moved fast, covering the unseen gunman with his own pistol held ready.

He swept into the room, checking corners automatically and kicking aside the fallen gunman's pistol. We'll have you out of here in a second, ma'am, he said to Tamara Wright, who was handcuffed to a bed and gagged. She wore the same dress she had on aboard the Natchez Belle.

Juan came in right after him, and when she recognized the Chairman the panic and fear that swelled in her eyes subsided. He untied her gag and tossed it to Linc, who quickly wound it around the wounded guard's mouth to stifle the sounds of his agony.

How did . . . ? How are . . . ? So overwhelmed, Tamara couldn't get a question out.

Later was all Juan said.

Linc carried a heavy pair of bolt cutters in a scabbard on his back. He pulled them free like a samurai drawing his katana. It didn't take one tenth of his strength to cut the chain binding Tamara to the bed. They would remove the cuffs back on the Oregon.

Have they hurt you? Juan asked.

Um, no. Not really. They've just been asking me questions about

Later, he repeated. Getting to her was the easy part of the operation. Getting them all back out was going to be tricky. Do you know how to swim?

She could only stare at such an apropos-to-nothing question.

Can you?

Yes, why? Never mind. I know, later.

Juan admired her spirit and didn't blame Max one bit for wanting to date her. Tamara Wright had an inner core of strength that even the past few days of terror couldn't diminish.

He tapped his comm link. Sitrep.

Linda's elfin voice filled his ear. The doorman made a call as soon as he heard the shots. I figure we've got a minute, tops, before the cops arrive.

Cabrillo guessed less. We're on our way.

Mark's ready.

The three Americans retreated back the way Juan and Linc had assaulted the apartment. The hook hovered just outside the broken window. Linc lifted Tamara over the broken glass and set her directly atop a metal platform encircling the crane's cable just above the hook. While it made a perfect perch for them, its purpose was to prevent rats from climbing the cable in what was a millennialong battle between rodents and mariners.

Lincoln climbed on directly behind her, shielding her body and holding her steady. Don't you worry. Uncle Franklin's got you.

Don't you mean Nephew Franklin? she said.

As soon as Juan wrapped his gloved fist around the cable, Mark dropped them toward the sidewalk as smoothly as an Otis elevator. Linda had the car pulled over to the curb with the doors already opened. The windshield wipers beat furiously at the rain.

Mark jumped from the crane's cab, and he and Linc sandwiched Tamara Wright in the backseat. The feet wells were packed with equipment, forcing Linc's knees up by his head. Linda had slid over to the passenger's side, leaving Juan at the wheel. Sirens sounded in the distance. He put the sedan in gear and eased away from the curb as if they didn't have a care in the world.

Maybe the hard part is over, Juan thought, but he knew not to say it aloud.

The fates heard him anyway.

A big black town car raced into the intersection and slid to a stop a few feet from their bumper, forcing Cabrillo to jam on the brakes. Doors were thrown open, and a large bald man wearing a dress uniform erupted from the back of the Cadillac. He had a pistol in his hand and opened fire immediately.

The people in the sedan ducked as bullets cored through the windshield. Juan cranked the transmission into reverse and reached up to adjust the rearview mirror. A bullet whizzed close enough to his wrist that he could feel its hot passage, but now he could see behind them without exposing his head.

They backed up for fifty feet, beyond all but an expert's ability with a handgun, before Juan mashed the emergency-brake pedal and spun the wheel. The wet asphalt helped him pirouette the woefully underpowered car in a slide worthy of a Hollywood chase.

He released the brake, dropped the car into first, and accelerated away. One more bullet hit the car, a wild shot that mangled one of the wing mirrors.

Is everyone okay? he called without taking his eyes off the road. It was like driving through a continuous waterfall.

Yeah, we're fine, Mark replied. Who was that?

General Philippe Espinoza, whose house we just raided. He must have been on his way back from dinner when the doorman called.

That was the man asking me questions, Tamara told them, him and the creepy Chinese guy named Sun. I could tell he was from Beijing, and I'm pretty sure he was State Security.

Here in Argentina on a diplomatic passport, no doubt. The sirens were getting closer. Juan slowed. The only way out of this was to not attract attention and hope they could lose Espinoza, because the General was surely coming after them. Mark, are you ready with our bag of tricks?

Say the word, Chairman.

Juan was thinking about chain of command. Espinoza doubtlessly knew someone in the police a chief or commissioner, most likely. Fifteen minutes would pass by the time the General called his friend, who would in turn call someone lower in the police hierarchy, and so on, until a description of their car made it to the patrols out on the streets. If they could elude Espinoza and not draw attention to themselves, they would be halfway across the city before the APB went out.

He glanced in the mirror just as the town car careened around the corner one block back. Juan was driving an overloaded Mitsubishi and had no illusions that he could outrun the big American V-8 even if the car was carrying armor, which it probably was.

Juan made two quick turns, and slowed as a police car with lights flashing went streaking past followed closely by another unmarked car.

His confidence evaporated when he saw both cars brake heavily in his mirror. It took them a few moments to turn around on this narrow street, forcing Espinoza to stop completely. Obviously, the General knew someone a lot lower down on the food chain than Cabrillo had estimated. He should have figured a man like Espinoza would know the neighborhood precinct's commander.

In seconds, all three cars would be in pursuit, and the little Mitsubishi's description would be on police radios all across Buenos Aires. He'd been right about one thing. Getting Tamara out of the apartment was the easy part of the night's work.

They turned into a narrow alley, and Juan shouted, Now, to Mark Murphy.

Murph already had his windows down, and he began pulling pins on smoke grenades as fast as he could. These were of the Corporation's own design and produced faster and denser smoke than even those used by the U.S. military. After the third one hit the street, Juan could see nothing behind him but a thick haze that even masked the streetlights and the illumination from second-and third-floor windows.

Enough, Juan said, and he made another series of random turns. His throat felt as dry as dust, but his hands remained loose on the wheel and his focus never wavered.

Just curious, Linc said from the backseat. Does anyone know where we are?

Linda? Cabrillo said.

She had a handheld GPS and studied the screen intently. Yeah, I've got a pretty good idea. We're heading in the general direction of the docks, but up ahead is a maze of streets. We need to cut to our left where there's a pretty big avenue.

The town car emerged from a cross street without warning. It slid neatly behind the sedan, pressing so hard on its suspension and tires that a hubcap came loose and spun across the sidewalk like a Frisbee. The driver knew this neighborhood better than even the police who patrolled it, and had outguessed Cabrillo.

Gunfire spat from the passenger's window, where a bodyguard leaned out with a big pistol in his hand. Linc twisted his considerable bulk and unleashed a full magazine from his machine gun. The rubber bullets were useless against the Caddie, but the psychological impact of a full-auto attack forced the chauffeur to brake hard and crank the wheel over. They scraped against a series of parked cars and set off a chain reaction of shrieking alarms and flashing lights.

Linc dropped the H&K and unholstered his Beretta. If the town car was armored, the pistol would do no more damage than rubber bullets, but it was better than nothing.

What about more smoke? Mark suggested.

This street was too wide to block with the grenades, so Juan said nothing and watched his mirrors. By the time the Cadillac took up the chase again, it was being tailed by the police cruiser. There would be dozens more converging on the elegant streets of the Recoleta District. They needed to ditch the car and find another.

There was a construction site to their left. The street had been torn up by large yellow excavators, and scaffolding spiderwebbed across the fa+oade of a columned building. Juan looked closer and realized it was a large ornamental gateway. He assumed there was a park through the closed gates and turned for it, pushing the little four-cylinder for everything it had.

The car maintained traction across the muddy ground, and Juan lined up the nose.

Brace yourselves!

They flashed through the scaffold latticework, bounced up one low step, and slammed into the gate. Cabrillo had expected a cataclysmic impact, but the gates were being repaired and had been leaned into place at the end of the work shift. The chain holding them together stayed in place, but the ornate wrought-iron panels crashed to the ground, and the Mitsubishi roared over them. The collision didn't even deploy the air bags.

Juan realized his mistake instantly. This wasn't a park, and it took a few seconds to understand what it was. Laid out in neat grids like a Lilliputian city were thousands of beautiful buildings made at about one-fifth scale. They were as ornate as any they had seen all night, with marble columns, bronze statues, steepled roofs, and all manner of religious iconography.

This wasn't a park. It was a cemetery, and those weren't miniature buildings but, rather, grand mausoleums.

After Arlington National in Washington and P+?re Lachaise in Paris, the Cementerio de la Recoleta was perhaps the most famous cemetery in the world. All of the city's most wealthy and prominent figures, including Eva Per+|n, were laid to rest in some of the most decorative and stunning aboveground crypts ever built. It had become a tourist destination almost as soon as it had opened.

It was also a maze too tight for a car and was walled in on all four sides.

Juan had led them into a dead end.