Gutier displayed a poker face. “Man cannot predict his destiny. Tell me about your ship incident and the state of your oil-drilling prospects.”
“The Alta was a modern drill ship that specialized in deepwater operations. She was laying the foundation for an exploratory well in quadrant R-29 of our leasehold.” He slid a chart in front of Gutier and pointed to a section northeast of Havana. “This is one of two areas for which we had acquired oil exploration rights, as signed by Minister Ortiz before his passing. I hope there will be no problem in continuing to honor the agreement.”
“Minister Ortiz represented the Cuban government. The agreement will be honored. Now, what of this sunken ship?”
“An unknown explosion sent her to the bottom in less than ten minutes. The crew got away safely, but three divers were trapped on the seafloor. If not for a passing American research ship, they would have died. As it is, there was no loss of life.”
“That is fortunate. The vessel was insured by the owner?”
“In this instance, the operator was responsible for insuring the ship while it was on the job.” Ramsey’s lips tightened at the thought of the deductible that would come out of his pocket.
“When do you plan to return to the site?” Gutier asked.
“Our second leased rig is working on our other site off the western coast. We view that region as lower potential, so we’ll transfer operations in a week or two and complete the test well that the Alta started.”
Gutier looked Ramsey hard in the eye. “I would ask that you refrain from any further work in area R-29 for at least three weeks.”
“Any particular reason?”
“It is my desire,” Gutier said gruffly.
Ramsey slid the chart in front of him. “General, I know it took considerable effort within your government to allow our consortium to come into your territorial waters. I appreciate what you’ve done for us. But we were given authorization to explore only two small offshore quadrants, neither of which our geophysicists rated highly promising. For us to have success and allow you to develop an export oil market, we need access to additional seafloor.”
“Mr. Ramsey, I might remind you that there are other parties seeking the same opportunity.”
“We’re talking deepwater operations. It’s a different ball game. It’ll take you twice as long if you go with the boys from Venezuela or Mexico… or the Middle East.”
“But you yourself are a mining engineer.”
“True, my expertise is with mining. In fact, I’m just a limited partner in this joint venture. I’m here only because the venture group’s CEO is recovering from a mild heart attack. But I can assure you, our group of Canadian and Norwegian oil exploration experts have extensive experience in the North Sea and Arctic. They’ll get the job done. They have deepwater experience you can’t find just anywhere.”
“But you have yet to show results.”
“In the oil business, there are no guarantees.”
Gutier gazed at the map. “Where is it you would like to drill?”
Ramsey pointed to a large area a hundred miles northwest of Havana. “Given a choice, the North Cuba Basin is at the top of our probability list.”
“I might have some sway to open up a portion for your examination. But I will require something in return.” His dark eyes bore into Ramsey.
“Name it.”
“I understand you recently had some troubles with a mining operation in Indonesia.”
“The trouble was with some Islamic militants. They kidnapped my site mine supervisor and three engineers — in broad daylight off the streets of Jakarta.”
“And they were rescued?”
“All alive and well, thankfully.”
“And their captors?”
“Not so fortunate.” Ramsey offered a wry smile. “They were killed in a firefight.”
“But not by government forces.”
“No. Why the interest?”
“I have a project that requires some outside military expertise.”
“You have the top forces of the Cuban military at your disposal.”
“True, but this is an external project that requires absolute discretion.”
“Not in the U.S., is it?”
“No.”
Ramsey nodded.
“I’d like to hire your men,” Gutier said.
“They’re not my men. They were hired contractors who specialize in this type of work.”
“Would they work for me?”
“I don’t see why not, providing you’re not a secret al-Qaeda sympathizer.”
“If it makes you feel better, my mother was a devout Roman Catholic and raised my brother and me as such.”
Ramsey stepped to his desk and returned with a slip of paper containing a name and phone number.
“Maguire?” Gutier read aloud. “That’s it?”
“That’s my contact. The phone number — and a Cayman Islands bank account — is all the information I possess.”
“He is a professional?”
“First-rate. I just wouldn’t ask him a lot of questions.”
Gutier stood to leave. “I’m sorry for the loss of your ship. You will have access to the new oil lease site shortly.” He turned and walked out of the salon.
Ramsey didn’t move. Staring out the window as Gutier’s launch motored away, he couldn’t help but wonder if he had just made a deal with the devil.
PART II
AZTLÁN
11
The rays of the dive light shimmered through the crystalline waters, illuminating a coarse limestone wall a dozen feet away. No detail was too small to see, Summer Pitt thought, amazed at the clarity. Though she missed the color and warmth of the sea life that made a usual saltwater dive enticing, she relished the opportunity to dive in perfect visibility. Peering up, she watched as her air bubbles floated to the surface a hundred feet away.
The daughter of NUMA’s Director and an oceanographer herself, Summer was diving in a cenote near the coast of Tabasco, a state in eastern Mexico. A natural sinkhole formed in a limestone deposit, the cenote was essentially a vertical, water-filled tunnel. Summer had the sensation of traveling through an elevator shaft as she descended the fifty-foot-diameter cavern. As the filtered sunlight waned, she turned her dive light to the depths below. A few yards away, two other divers were kicking toward the sandy bottom. She cleared her ears and pursued the other divers, catching them as they reached the bottom at a depth of one hundred and twenty feet.
She swam alongside a dark-haired man whose tall, lanky body matched her own. He turned and winked, the joy of the cenote dive evident in his bright green eyes. Her twin brother, Dirk, who shared their father’s name, always showed an extra jolt of liveliness when exploring the depths.
They finned toward the third diver, a bearded man whose shaggy gray hair swirled around his facemask. Dr. Eduardo Madero, an anthropology professor from the University of Veracruz, was carefully examining the bottom. Dirk and Summer had just completed a joint marine project with Madero, assessing an area of coral reefs off Campeche. In appreciation for their help, Madero had invited them to dive in the isolated Tabasco cenote, where he was engaged in his own cultural resource project.
Madero hovered over a large aluminum grid anchored over a portion of the cenote’s floor. Small yellow flags with numbered tags sprouted from the sand, marking artifacts discovered during the formal excavation. Most of the targets of Madero’s excavation were readily visible.
Easing alongside him, Dirk and Summer aimed their dive lights at the partially excavated section. Summer immediately recoiled. A human skull stared up at her, grinning ghoulishly with brown-stained teeth. A pair of small gold hoops glistened in the sand beside the skull, a pair of hand-fashioned earrings once worn by the smiling owner.