“You think they screwed up, did an emergency deep, and maybe had to blow to the surface because the induction mast head valve stuck open, or something unlucky like that?”
“Maybe, XO. The Israelis and this crew especially are supposed to be darn good, but they ain’t acting like it. If I had red flashing lights, I’d pull them over to the curb and take their submarining license.”
Baines chuckled.
“Nice, sir, but seriously. We’re watching some of the worst submarine behavior I’ve seen.”
“It’s time to draft a message,” Flint said.
“Another situation report?”
“Yes, but with a little added flair. Add that I urge our brass to put pressure on the Israelis to tell us a bit about what this patrol is about.”
“Sounds good to me sir. But if the Israelis know that we’re tracking the Leviathan, they’ll tell the Leviathan the next time it pops up an antenna, and then the fun’s over.”
“That’s not for us to decide,” Flint said. “When a skilled submarine crew takes their submarine into new waters and starts making a bunch of rookie mistakes, you have to wonder what’s going on inside the hull — and wonder who’s calling the shots.”
CHAPTER 7
Hours earlier, after the limousine had picked him up and driven him through the coffee plantation, past armed guards, and by checkpoints to the villa, Jake Slate had thought that the sprawling estate reflected his old friend Grant Mercer less than it stank of black market money.
Fiddling with an Internet terminal in the sitting room was losing its allure. As he folded a hand of online Texas Hold’em, Jake wondered if he were waiting for an old wealthy friend or if he had been duped into visiting the lair of a dangerous stranger.
He scratched a cheek turned hypersensitive from a fresh shave while he watched his mentor, Pierre Renard, lower a copy of The Economist and wave a gold-plated Zippo lighter under a Marlboro. Gray wisps rolled over the Frenchman’s sharp features.
“What’s that now?” Jake asked. “Half a pack? I thought you were trying to quit.”
“The rules are different in Chile,” Renard said. “When in Rome, do as the Romans, you know.”
“You must have loved it in Taiwan,” Jake said.
“The freedom to smoke, yes. The waiting, no, although your friend is challenging my patience as badly as did the Taiwanese Defense Minister. I had expected him to give higher priority to old colleagues.”
“That’s why I’m getting nervous,” Jake said. “Maybe someone stumbled into our chat room and was pretending to be Mercer when he invited us here.”
“Unlikely. My experts evaluated your online security scheme,” Renard said. “The only way it was breached is if someone coerced data out of him, in which case Mercer is already dead.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Renard picked up his magazine.
“Don’t be,” he said. “I can smell a negotiation from across the ocean. Mercer is in this very building wondering what I intend to propose. I can sense his anticipation through the walls.”
“But if you’re wrong,” Jake said, “we’ve just walked into trap.”
“Two hours ago you were as giddy as a school girl with hopes of reuniting with him,” Renard said. “And now you would let a delay frighten you away?”
“Maybe.”
Renard flicked ashes into a tray.
“You can blame me for the delay,” he said. “Mercer never trusted me except when he had no choice. He will only accept my proposal if he believes that your trust in me is absolute, which is why he’s likely observing us through that camera to judge how we interact.”
His patience worn, Jake walked to Renard.
“Stand up,” he said.
“Why?”
“Just humor me.”
“Very well,” Renard said. “If you insist.”
Jake felt the Frenchman’s body tense as he snatched him into a one-armed hug.
“Jake, you know I loathe this.”
“Shut up and turn to the camera.”
Jake twisted Renard’s squirming torso, pressed his lips against his cheek, and waved to the camera. He then lowered his hand, patted the Frenchman’s silvery hair, and released him.
“That was uncalled for,” Renard said while tugging at the lapels of his blazer.
“Got the message across,” Jake said.
Five minutes later a door opened, and a Chilean man with high cheekbones dressed in a pinstriped suit swept his arm into the next room.
“Senior Martinez will see you now.”
“Martinez,” Renard said in Jake’s ear. “Mercer trusted me enough to keep the alias I gave him four years ago. That is encouraging.”
Jake passed the door attendant and entered a chamber that could have been a drug lord’s lair.
A flat screen television stretched over a cherry wood wall between a marble vase and the edge of a well-stocked wet bar. Leather stools formed a walkway through potted evergreens between what Jake assumed to be a door to Mercer’s private kitchen and a Jacuzzi in the center of the room. Brass rails led from the water towards a recreation area replete with a pool table, dart board, and a two-lane bowling alley.
“If we accomplish nothing else on this trip,” Renard said, “your friend can at least let us borrow his interior designer. This is exquisite.”
“Senior Martinez is in the office at the room’s far end,” the door attendant said. “Follow me.”
Jake followed the attendant over a teakwood catwalk that encircled the room. He traced his fingers over the brass banister bordering the sunken Jacuzzi as he decided that the room’s recreational flair exceeded his remembrance of Mercer’s hedonism.
Then again, Jake realized, Mercer had hinted in an online chat that in the four years since their attempt to deliver Trident missile warheads to Taiwan that he had multiplied his twenty-million dollar take many times over. Jake sensed that he had underestimated Mercer’s wealth.
Any doubt Jake retained that he walked through his old friend’s property evaporated as he reached the room’s corner. Behind protective glass hung a portrayal of eighteenth century patrons in exodus from a southern European church. The image seemed caught between a Renaissance painter’s attempt at replicating reality and an Impressionist’s exploration of interpretation.
Jake nearly bumped the cigarette from Renard’s mouth as he pointed.
“That painting?” he asked. “Is it Spanish?”
The door attendant stopped, turned, and admired the artwork.
“Indeed,” he said. “Goya’s Village Procession—dated to seventeen eighty-seven. There are few paintings by Goya in private collections, and Senior Martinez had to make three offers before the prior owner would part with it.”
“Oil on canvas,” Renard said. “As he deviates from the sharpness of reality, you can see that he portrays the villagers with just a slight hint of buffoonery. He was exploring satire as he bordered on impressionism.”
“You’re an art connoisseur?” Jake asked.
“Culture separates us from the beasts,” Renard said. “You would do well to immerse yourself in art. Over there, across the room. Is that not a Velázquez?”
“Most experts agree that it is, although it was once thought to be painted by Murillo,” the attendant said. “Sainte Rufina. It went for nearly nine million dollars at auction ten years ago. Senior Martinez paid an even higher price for it.”
Jake’s anxiety subsided.
“When we were in high school,” he said, “he studied Spanish while I studied French. We argued about whose art was better. He said that if he ever struck it rich he’d buy up every Spanish painting he could find.”