Spy (38 page)

F
ocus. Concentrate. Look where you’re going, not where you are,” Hawke said. He was standing, feet planted wide apart to brace himself, at
Stiletto’s
helm. Stoke could only hear him because of the headphones he was wearing.

It was two in the morning. Having notified the police and searched the entire hotel and grounds for his missing friend, Hawke had decided he’d no choice but to press on without him. It had not been an easy decision to make. There was a big moon hiding behind swiftly moving clouds. Not much traffic at this hour, only the small double-decked ferries and few big cruise ships headed upriver to Manaus.

Hawke, outwardly calm but still angry, was driving the powerful offshore boat flat-out over the wide river, hurling masses of foaming white water out to either side of the razor-sharp hull.
Stiletto
was hammering east on the Amazon, backtracking down to the Madeira River before she’d make the turn south and head into the deep jungle of the Mata Grosso.

Hawke was in a hurry, running at the extreme edges of the powerful vessel’s performance parameters. Stoke could see the digital speed readouts flickering red over Hawke’s head well enough. They were doing nearly 130 knots. In the dark.

This would be pushing it in broad daylight. On the open sea, running in a flat calm. But at night? On a damn river? Stoke didn’t even want to think about what would happen if they struck a submerged object at this speed. Radar only picked out what was on the water, not what was under it. At this speed, it was hard enough to avoid the lighted navigation buoys that were blurring by now and then, disappearing astern almost before you saw them coming.

“You want the helm, Stoke?” Hawke said, his eyes riveted on the onrushing river. All lights in the wheelhouse were extinguished. He was only a silhouette, standing at the wheel in the pale reddish light of the control fascia overhead. Everyone on the bridge deck was wearing headsets in order to hear. The noise of three 1,600-horsepower gas turbine engines at full bore, even muffled, was overwhelming.

“Like to watch you a little longer,” Stokely said carefully, “then I’ll take her.”

In truth, he wasn’t at all anxious to take the helm from Alex. He wanted Hawke’s mind fixed on the boat and the river, not on what had happened to his friend Ambrose Congreve. And whatever was waiting for them in the jungle. The “Reckoning” as Ambrose said it was called in the code letter. Better to keep Hawke focused, concentrating on driving the boat as fast as it would go for long as he could. Stoke knew Hawke had to be thinking exactly what he was thinking.

Get there fast.

If Top had their friend, and there was not much doubt now that he did,
Las Medianoches
henchmen would soon be breaking that dear man into a million little pieces to find out what he knew. Congreve could not long survive the vicious blend of voodoo tortures Top’s terrorists practiced in the jungle.

The boat heeled sharply to starboard. A second later, she slammed hard to port. Hawke had just missed a low-lying barge, towed by a small tug plying her way downriver. Much as he wanted to, Stoke couldn’t tell Alex Hawke to slow the boat down. Unless they found this damn River of Doubt, unless they found Muhammad Top, soon, the terrorists would have their Day of Reckoning. And Hawke’s best friend Ambrose, the man who’d been a father to him since early childhood, would be gone the hard way.

In the end, Stoke knew, everybody talks anyway.

“Nav,” Hawke said quietly into his lip mike. On the primary navigation monitor mounted above him, the image of the boat was rapidly moving easterly across the GPS map displaying the Amazon. They were rapidly closing the distance to the mouth of the Madeira River.

“Navigation here, sir.”

“Nav, when do we pass through zero-five-zero south, zero-fifty-five west?”

“Local time or Zulu time, sir?” Zulu was Coordinated Universal Time, which had replaced Greenwich Mean Time as the world’s standard.

“Local.”

“Zero-two-twenty, sir.”

Hawke stole a glance at his watch and edged the throttle a notch forward. Except for the dull roar of the engines, it was deathly still on the bridge. Everyone strapped into his seat, keeping conversation to a minimum. All probably thinking the same thing. Hit a log or an oil drum at this insane speed and you’re dead before you know it.

“Focus is the big one at this speed, right?” Stoke asked Alex, not wanting his friend’s mind to wander down any bad roads even for one second.

Hawke was silent for a moment, his eyes scanning the river of blackness the boat was devouring at a staggering rate. He saw something ahead, a pinpoint of light, put the helm over a fraction and the boat heeled sharply, then corrected. On an even keel once more,
Stiletto
surged forward.

“Yes. Focus,” Stoke heard Hawke say in his headset. The voice was calm, almost no emotion at all. “It’s oddly cerebral. What you’re thinking about determines what you tell the boat to do. What your inputs are. That’s why you must always be thinking ahead of the boat. The further behind the boat you are mentally, the more forced and rougher your inputs are likely to be.”

“Makes sense to me.”

“The enemy of concentration is emotion,” Hawke said, verifying Stoke’s instinctive theory. “Or, exhaustion. Most high-speed accidents occur when the guy driving the boat becomes afraid he’s in over his head, doesn’t think he quite knows how to exit this turn. Panic rules. Or, he’s running on pure adrenaline. Can’t do that, either. You have to quiet your mind enough to listen to the boat. Let it tell you what it wants you to do, and do it. This boat gives you a lot of feedback. But you’ve got to stay ahead of it. Ready to drive? I’d like to grab an hour or so of rack.”

“Yeah. I’ll take it. Just a sec.”

Stoke had been watching Hawke carefully. He’d gone a little crazy with the local Military Police commander when nobody could help him find Ambrose. Realized, finally, they’d have to shove off without him. He seemed calmer now. Stoke thought Hawke could handle it now, do what he had to do in the next day or so. He’d already moved into his mission performance zone. He’d pushed emotion back in that dark closet where it rightly belonged. Still, he looked exhausted from pushing the boat hard all the way down from Key West, three days in open ocean. Stoke thought he’d soon be no good to anyone without some rest.

Stoke had unbuckled his restraining belts and now stood beside Hawke, moving his hands to the wheel as Hawke backed off the throttles momentarily.

“I got the helm, Alex.”

“It’s yours,” Hawke said, only removing his hands when his own hands told him that Stokely had full control of the boat.

“Feels good,” Stoke said, and he meant it. He saw how wide the river looked from here. He accelerated easily back up to one hundred knots. The sense of power was like nothing he’d felt before. Hawke stayed right by his side, his eyes ranging over the three dedicated groups of engine gauges and flat-screen navigation and weather monitors mounted above.

Hawke said, “You’re good to go. Remember, Stoke, your hands are hardwired to your eyes. Look ahead; see where you want to be next. Don’t look where you don’t want to go. It’s called ‘target fixation.’ Your eyes stray to a target you don’t want to hit. Your hands will automatically take you there if you’re not careful.”

“Tunnel vision,” Stoke said.

“Right. As you reach the limits of your ability to think ahead of the boat, your peripheral view narrows, and it’s harder to see the next target. And let Brownlow or me know as soon as you’re ready for a break.”

“Go get some rack, boss,” Stoke said, enjoying himself for the first time in a week.

“Yeah. Wake me in an hour if you don’t see me back up here.”

“Got it.”

“We’re going to find this bastard, you know. And kill him before he kills us. Any of us.”

“I know that.”

“I’ve seen this guy, you know. Had some quality time with him. You’ll recognize Top when you see him, Stoke. Can’t miss him.”

“How’s that?”

“His eyes.”

“What about them?”

“Like two piss-holes in the snow.”

H
ALF AN HOUR
later, Stoke became aware of a small man standing just behind his right shoulder. He was using one of the handholds on the overhead to keep on his feet. There was light chop now, and the beginning of river traffic, and Stoke had wisely slowed the big boat to less than forty knots.

“Mi scusi, Señor Jones,”
the man said.

It was Gianni Arcuri, the Italian engineer provided with the boat for the first three months of shakedown. He was a Neapolitan, and had a cherubic face, huge brown eyes and a big black moustache under his generous nose.

“Hey, Gianni, what’s up?”

“I’m so sorry, eh? But I’ve been down in the engine room. I don’t like what I am seeing with Number Three engine. She’s no acting so good.”

“What is it, Gianni?”

“She’s running a little hot. Manifold pressure is dropping a little bit. Nothing too serious, okay, but I’d like to shut her down for a while. We’ll take a look, eh? Find the little problem and fix it before it becomes a big problem later.”

“Should we reduce speed now?”

“Please. Twenty-five, thirty knots maximum. You’ll be carrying the heavy extra load of the down engine so you’ll have to trim, okay? I’ll shut Three down now and fix it as fast as I can.”

“You know we’re in a big hurry tonight, Gianni.”

“
Si, si.
Everyone knows that, Señor Jones. We do the best we can, eh? Give me twenty minutes, a half hour.”

Stoke used the quiet time afforded by the slow speed to think. He’d studied the maps. He’d heard Brock’s estimates of the enemy strengths and weaknesses. He and Hawke had both gone over Harry’s recon report enough times to memorize the thing. They both knew these would be suicide troops mainly, big time Kool-Aid drinkers, jungle gangbangers ready to die for a one-way ticket to Paradise. And Caparina’s report had talked about robotic tanks and unmanned drones with Hellfire missiles. There’d be mines in the river, too, as they got closer.

On the plus side, they had this damn kickass boat. The secret to successful riverine operations, as he’d learned the hard way in the Delta, was speed.
Stiletto
was insanely fast. She was heavily armed and armored. She had amazing navigation and missile warning systems. The deeper into Top’s compound they could get
Stiletto,
the better chance they’d have.

The way Stoke saw this thing going down was pretty straightforward. He, Hawke, and the thirty badasses aboard this boat, would mount a riverine operation against Top’s compound; they would do as much damage as they could with
Stiletto’s
arsenal before going ashore. To that end, Hawke had ordered a PAM system installed on the stern. These Precision Attack Missiles weighed about 120 pounds each and had a range of 40 kilometers. They came in a container of 15 missiles, each with a 28-pound warhead. Once the container was plugged into the ship’s wireless battlefield internet, they were ready to fire at will.

Brock’s team would be composed of fifty or so Falcon Spec Ops guys, all of whom reported to Saladin. These were some serious anti-terrorist troops, all of them local boys with local knowledge. Saladin was even now briefing his men in the caverns he and Brock had discovered outside the town of Madre de Dios. Brock and Saladin’s team would fly with Mick Hocking. Two flights. They would land at the LZ Brock had found near the compound. While Mick returned for the second batch, the first arrivals would start a rapid deployment east.

When ordered to do so, they would cross the deep ravine that formed the western border of Top’s lair and advance toward the center, as the
Stiletto
force moved rapidly west, eventually creating a pincer movement.

Stoke and Hawke had debated and finally agreed to this strategy while calculating the forces available to them and studying the maps provided by Brock and Caparina. It was a basic element of military strategy used in nearly every war since people threw rocks. Even Hannibal used it against the Romans at Cannae, 216 B.C. Worked then, works now. The flanks of the opponent are attacked simultaneously in a pinching movement.

Draw the enemy in toward your base as you fake a retreat at the center, then, once they bite, move your outer flanks forward to encircle them. Then, everybody goes on offense. Trick was to get your flanks to fold at the exact same time so you don’t give the bad guys even a single opportunity to retreat.

Hawke said he had one reservation about this strategy. He thought an enemy realizing it was completely surrounded would fight more fiercely than one still believing it had an escape route. Stoke agreed.

“Right, boss. Let’s give ’em an escape route. Straight down to the river where we’ll park
Stiletto.
”

G
ood evening, Congreve,” Papa Top said, entering the room where the Englishman was held captive. The big man was wearing his Voodoo regalia. An ill-fitting tailcoat, black striped pants, and his black bowler swinging from one hand. There were two stocky chaps in green fatigues on either side of the door. They stood stiffly, like mannequins. The room was round and sparsely furnished. There were arched windows, shuttered.

Congreve raised his head. The man they called Doctor was still there, off to one side, putting a hypodermic into a red leather case. The doctor had asked him a lot of questions. But, hadn’t hurt him, oddly enough. He supposed that was coming now.

He’d been out, but now he returned to consciousness as easily and fully as if he’d been having a refreshing catnap. He tried to imagine what kind of amphetamine cocktail produced such startling clarity of thought? He was restrained to a kind of chaise-longue, made of bamboo but covered in some soft leather upholstery.

Top bent over him, looking into his eyes with a kindly solicitude that was mildly disconcerting.

“I’ve been reading your copy of the
Code,
” Top said, pulling up a chair from somewhere. “Fascinating.”

“Isn’t it,” Ambrose said, reclining his head and studying a piece of Brazilian folk art hanging on the wall. A face, with wildly distorted eyes. It was the only piece of art in the room.

“Dr. Khan says you’re not being very cooperative.”

“Where am I?”

“A reasonable question. You’re in the Black Jungle.”

“Those two by the door. Robots?”

“You’ve been reading too much science fiction, Inspector. Tell me. Where is Hawke now?”

“No idea.”

“You know what this is?”

“Voodoo doll.”

“Yes. But the needles don’t go in the doll.”

“Get that away from me.”

“This will hurt.”

“Good God.”

A searing pain starting at his foot rose the length of his leg and causing his major muscles to spasm.

“Next question. We’ll take it slowly, no more pinpricks or superficial burns. When you stole the book from the hospital, were you able to finish it? I promised your predecessor in this room, the late Madame Zimmermann, I’d ask.”

“No.”

“Safe answer. How far did you get in the book?”

“Far enough, you bloody maniac.”

“Now, now. That’s going to cost you. The doctor and I were happy to see you arrive. This way, we’ll know who to expect and when. And, if we need to make any last minute adjustments to our…plans. You see? Where is Hawke now? Where did he go after Key West?”

“Sod off.”

“There’s a special nerve here, just below the septum of the nose. Feel that?”

“Definitely.”

“Hawke’s vessel was picked up by our aerial drones patrolling off the north coast of Cuba. He outran two of our high-speed patrol boats. He was last seen headed south, southwest. I repeat the question, where is Hawke now?”

“Bugger yourself, Muhammad. That’s your style, is it not?”

“Doctor? Sorry, would you bring your bag over here? Thank you. Doctor Khan is an engineer but he also dabbles in human anatomy. He is here to ensure that you undergo the worst possible pain, consistent with your remaining alive until your public execution at sundown tomorrow. It will be an interesting challenge to his skills…and your fortitude.”

“There’s really nothing else I can say.”

“He’s a brave one, isn’t he Doctor? A sip of whisky, Inspector? Here, hold your head up. That’s it.”

“Good stuff. Macallan, with a bit of an aftertaste. What’d you put in it?”

“I ask the questions. I’m sure you’re accustomed to outwitting your opponents. That will not be the case tonight. I will ignore your promises as well as your pleas, so don’t waste your breath or my time. Now. Once you acquired this book from the Germans, you acquired certain knowledge. How much of this did you impart to your friend Hawke before we had you arrested?”

“Ah. I told him enough.”

“Doctor?”

“Oh, lord. Oh, god.”

“Tell me. Now!”

“He’s passed out,” Khan said, “let me revive him.”

“Welcome back,” Top said, “Let us continue. How much does Hawke know? Tell me now.”

“We’re losing him again. Hold this under his nose.”

“There are twelve major bones in your body, Congreve. It will be a delicate task to break each one in ascending order of importance, starting with this one. Ready? You may begin, Doctor.”

There was a loud crack and Congreve heaved upward, tearing at his restraints.

“Please, God…”

“Will you talk now?”

“Some kind of—some kind of attack on Washington…”

“Does Hawke know?”

“No.”

“DOES HAWKE KNOW?”

“Y-yes. I mean, no. He doesn’t. I—please God.”

“One more, if you please, Doctor? After the bones are broken, the doctor will inject you with a solution that cause you to go into convulsions. It will be…difficult for you.”

“NO! Please…”

“Does Alex Hawke know the primary target?”

“The…president.”

“Who else?”

“Government.”

“And when will this attack occur?”

“I don’t know.”

“I said
when.
”

“The…pro—the procession to the Capitol.”

“What about
Bedouin?
”

“Unmanned submarine. Inside the Tidal Basin.”

“Weapon?”

“Small nuclear device. 150 kiloton.”

Papa Top looked at Khan and nodded. The doctor lifted Congreve’s right hand and bent the fingers backward at an acute angle.

“How much of this does Hawke know?”

“All of it. None of it. Choose.”

“I repeat. How…much of this…does Hawke know? Hmm? How much?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Very good, Inspector. I think that will be all for tonight, unless the doctor has any further questions? No? Good. We’ll see you in the morning? Don’t try to sleep by the way. It will be useless given what’s in your veins.”

“Wait!”

“There’s more?”

“There’s a woman. In England. I want to say good-bye. Please. Pen and paper. While I can still write…”

Top stared down at him for a few seconds, then looked at Doctor Khan before answering him.

“The doctor says ‘no.’ He doesn’t believe you’re telling the truth about Hawke. I will ask once more. Did you communicate with your friend Alex Hawke after you’d decoded the letter in its entirety?”

“No. Give me the bloody paper.”

“I believe him,” Top said to one of the guards, heading for the door. “For now. Give him what he wants. We begin again in the morning.”