He had found Esteban Ramirez — who was his employer as well as the father of their powerful familia— lying face-up in the water. His severely burned body was floating some fifteen meters from the yacht. Holding on to a mooring rope, Juan jumped into the choppy waters. Dog-paddling toward Ramirez with his free hand and feet, he reached the man and pulled him toward the boat.
His employer was still breathing.
“Señor Ramirez,” Juan said. “It’s Juan Martinez. I’m going to bring you onto the runabout and get you to a—”
“Listen!” Ramirez wheezed suddenly.
Juan started. A moment later Ramirez’s groping hand latched onto his sleeve. His grip was surprisingly strong.
“Serrador!” Ramirez said. “Warn… him.”
“Serrador?” Juan said. “I don’t know him, sir.”
“Office—” Ramirez choked. “Reading glasses.”
“Please, sir,” Juan said. “You mustn’t exert yourself—”
“Must call!” Ramirez said. “Do… it!”
“All right,” Juan said, “I promise to call.”
Just then, Ramirez began to tremble violently. “Get them… or they… will… get us.”
“Who will?” Juan asked.
Suddenly, Juan heard the chugging of an engine on the other side of the yacht. He saw the edges of a bright white light creeping around it, playing across the water. A searchlight. A boat was approaching. Juan didn’t know much about his boss’s business affairs but he did know that their company’s powerful familia had many enemies. The boat might not belong to one of them, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to take that risk.
Before Juan could get his employer onto the runabout, Ramirez opened his mouth but did not close it again. Air hissed softly from deep in his throat as his mouth hung frozen, agape.
Juan shut his employer’s eyes. He decided to leave his body there. Doing so was a sign of disrespect and that bothered him. But whoever was responsible for the explosion might still be in the vicinity. Perhaps even on the boat that was approaching. Juan didn’t think it was prudent to be found here. Climbing back onto the runabout, he engaged the engine and sped away before the boat arrived. He headed out to sea where he wouldn’t be seen, then cut the engine. He remained until he saw the police arrive. Then he set out again, giving the accident a wide berth as he headed toward shore.
Upon reaching the dock, Juan went to a pay phone. Wet and chilly, he called the night watchman at the factory and asked him to send a car for him. Upon arriving, Juan went directly to Señor Ramirez’s office. He forced open the door and sat behind his desk.
His employer had mentioned something about his reading glasses. Juan found the pair in the top drawer. He looked at them. Printed inside the frames — innocuously, like serial numbers — was a series of four telephone numbers and identifying letters.
Ingenious, Juan thought. His boss didn’t need glasses—hadnt needed glasses, he thought bitterly — but no one would ever think to check them for coded messages or phone numbers.
He called the number with the S next to it. Serrador answered — whoever that was. The man was indignant, brusque, and in trouble, judging from the sounds Juan heard over the telephone. He decided to hang up before the call could be traced.
He remained behind the desk in the large second-floor office. He looked out the bank of windows at the large yacht factory. Esteban Ramirez had been good to him for many years. Juan hadn’t been an intimate but he was a member of Señor Ramirez’s familia. And that loyalty continued even after death.
Juan looked at the eyeglasses. He called the other numbers. Housekeepers answered using the family name: they were all men who had been on the ship. Juan knew because he had ferried them there.
Something evil was afoot, as Señor Ramirez had warned. Someone had been careful to wipe out everyone who was involved with the boss and his new project. It was a matter of honor, nothing else, that Juan find that someone and avenge the murders.
The night crew at the factory was already talking about the rumors of the death of their employer. They were also talking about a tape recording that had just been played at the local radio station. A tape that reportedly had their boss revealing his involvement in the murder of the American tourist.
Juan was too angry to allow himself to be overcome by grief. Rounding up several other members of the familia — two watchmen and a night manager — he decided to go to the radio station to find out if there were such a tape.
And if there were, find out who had brought it to them.
And whoever it was, cause him to regret that he had.
TWELVE
Paul Hood was unhappy. That was occurring a lot lately, and usually for the same reason.
Hood had phoned his wife to tell her that he’d be missing dinner with the family tonight.
“As usual,” Sharon reminded him before leaving him with a curt goodbye and hanging up.
Hood tried not to blame his wife for being disappointed. How could he? She didn’t know he’d lost Martha in the field. He wasn’t permitted to discuss Op-Center matters with anyone over an open line. Anyway, Sharon was more upset for the two kids than for herself. She said that even though it was spring vacation, eleven-year-old Alexander had gotten up early and set up his new scanner by himself. He was burning to show his father some of the computer-morphs he’d created. By the time Hood got home most nights, Alexander was too drowsy to boot the system and talk him through the steps of whatever he’d been working on, which was what the boy liked to do. Thirteen-year-old Harleigh practiced her violin for an hour after dinner each night. Sharon said that for the past few days, ever since she’d mastered her Tchaikovsky piece, the house at sunset had been a magical place to be. Sharon said it would be more magical for them all if Paul were there once in a while.
A part of Hood felt guilty. Sharon and also Madison Avenue were responsible for that. Family-first was the advertising mantra of the nineties. But Pennsylvania Avenue made him feel guilty too. He had a responsibility to the President and to the nation. He had a responsibility to the people whose lives and livelihoods depended upon his industry, his judgment. His focus.
He and Sharon both knew what the rules were when he took this job. Wasn’t it she who had wanted him to get out of politics? Wasn’t she the one who had hated the fact that being the family of the mayor of Los Angeles had entitled them to zero privacy even when they were together? But the truth was, whatever he did Hood wasn’t a high school principal with summers off like her father. He wasn’t a banker anymore, who worked from eight-thirty to five-thirty with the occasional client dinner. Or an independently wealthy yachtsman like that rugged, self-impressed Italian winemaker Stefano Renaldo with whom she’d sailed the world before marrying Hood.
Paul Hood was a man who enjoyed his work and the responsibility of it. And he enjoyed the rewards, too. Each morning he woke up in the quiet house and went downstairs to make his coffee and sat there drinking it in the den and looking around and thinking, I did this.
They all enjoyed the rewards. There wouldn’t be a computer or violin lessons or a nice house for them to miss him at if he didn’t work hard. Sharon would have to work full-time instead of being able to appear semiregularly on a cable TV cooking show. She didn’t have to thank him but did she have to damn him? She didn’t have to enjoy his absence — he didn’t — but she could make it easier.