Luckily for everyone involved, the pilot’s business inside the hangar took long enough that Valentine was able to call back and ask to speak to him. The pilot stood chatting for a full minute. His head swiveled this way and that as if he expected a raid at any moment. At length he shrugged and said, “Okay, I’ll keep our deal going. But if your father finds out, we’re all dead.”
He passed the phone back to Pollard.
“It seems my father believes our shipments bring unnecessary scrutiny on his high office,” Zamora said. “The bastard has barred me from doing business in my own country, Matthew. Can you believe that? He said he’d have me arrested if I landed in Venezuela with a load of weapons.”
Pollard swallowed. He didn’t know what to say. He only wanted to see his wife and son again.
“In any case,” Zamora went on. “Your priorities have not changed. Do as the pilot tells you. I will see you soon — and when I do, I hope for your family’s sake everything is in working order.” His voice grew giddy as if they were old friends. “Okay then, bye now… ”
Pollard switched off the phone and let his hand fall to his side. He looked at the pilot for directions.
“Load your shit,” the pilot said. “Looks like I’m taking you to Bolivia — if the bastards don’t shoot us out of the air.”
CHAPTER 24
The spacious interior of the Gulfstream V gave Valentine Zamora room to stretch his legs as he reclined in one of two buttoned leather seats at the front of the cabin. Monagas sat in the other, and the gap-toothed twins lay in the settees along the cabin walls behind, each with her nose glued to a cell phone.
Zamora had a wet cloth over his eyes and his own phone pressed to his ear.
“I told you, we have nothing to worry about,” he said. Discussions like this made him want to strangle something helpless. “The move to Bolivia is a mere hiccup.”
“I understood our purchase included the use of your pipeline into the United States,” the voice on the other end said. It clicked with a thick Arab accent “The American border is a very long way from Bolivia.”
“I am aware of the geography.” Zamora clenched his teeth. “All that is left is for you to transfer the balance of what I am owed to my Cayman account. Things are already set in motion to move the product north. I have planned for all eventualities, Inshallah.” He threw out the Arabic as a statement of solidarity.
“Oh,” the voice said, unimpressed. “Make no mistake. This is most definitely God’s will. We are looking closely at the target you suggested. It seems worthy—”
Zamora rose up in his seat, ripping the wet cloth from his eyes. “Of course it is worthy!” He fought to keep from screaming. “What could possibly hurt the Americans more than this?” The call was scrambled, but he stopped short of actually naming the interfaith choir. One could never be certain of the American NSA.
“Is not the device ours once we purchase it?”
“Of course it is.” Zamora stood to pace up and down the aisle as he spoke. One of the gap-toothed twins reached out to give his leg an affectionate touch and got the back of his hand in return. “But things are already set in motion.”
“Relax,” the voice said. “We are merely exploring other avenues. My brother is looking at your route as well as your target.”
Zamora ran a hand through his hair, wracking his brain. “Do you not trust me, my friend?”
“Of course,” the voice said. “I trust — but tie my camels tightly. Before there can be a target, I need your assurance that you can actually move the device up from Bolivia.”
“You have my word,” Zamora said. “There is nothing to worry about.”
Zamora ended the call and turned to watch the clouds outside the G Five’s oval window. Of course there was nothing to worry about. Nothing but thousands of miles of jungle, poorly maintained aircraft, guerrilla armies, and the governments of most of the free world that wanted to see him killed — and that didn’t even take into account his father.
But before any of that mattered, Matthew Pollard had to make the damned thing work.
CHAPTER 25
His bags packed, Quinn switched on the standing lamp beside his leather sofa and plopped down with the two-foot cardboard box he’d picked up from the post office. Flicking open his ZT folder from his pocket, he broke his own rule about using a “people-killing” knife to cut cardboard.
Quinn knew what was inside before he opened it. Smiling, he lifted the fourteen-inch curved blade.
He picked up his phone with the other hand.
“Ray,” he said when the other party answered. “You are the man!”
“You got it?” Ray Thibault’s smiling voice came across the line. He and his son, Ryan, ran Northern Knives in Anchorage. Both were on Quinn’s short list of trustworthy people. Ryan wore his hair in a buzz cut and shared his father’s easy laugh and religious zeal for all things edged. An expert pistol shot and knife fighter, Ryan carried a straight razor in his belt. Not everyone respected a pistol, he reasoned, but nearly everyone had been cut at least once. It was something they wanted to avoid at all cost — which made a straight razor a formidable psychological weapon. Ray preferred an Arkansas Toothpick. All grins and friendly advice, both father and son gave off a calm but deadly don’t-screw-with-me air.
“It looks like you left a kukri and a Japanese short sword in a drawer together and they had offspring,” Quinn said.
“We call it the Severance.” Ray gave an easy chuckle. “We talked about calling it the Jericho, but I thought you might get pissed. Anyway, when we heard about Yawaraka-Te, Ryan and I wanted you to have something to use.”
Quinn turned the knife in the lamplight. It was fourteen inches long and nearly an eighth of an inch thick along the spine. A black parachute-cord strap hung from a hole in the nasty skull-crusher pommel. The olive drab scales felt as natural in Quinn’s hand as the throttle of his motorcycle.
He missed Yawaraka-Te, and frankly could not wait until Mrs. Miyagi had her repaired. But for the utilitarian chores he might find in South America, Severance seemed to be the perfect blade. It looked to be the kind of knife that could cut down a small tree or convince an opponent that he should comply in order to keep his head.
“Mind field-testing it for us?” Ray asked, the sparkle in his eyes almost audible on the phone.
“I appreciate this more than you know, Ray.” Quinn weighed the blade in his hand, feeling the balance and heft of it. “But the places I go, you might not get it back.”
“Good deal,” Ray said. “Now about that other matter. Just send her by. I think I know exactly what she needs… ”
“Are you really going to buy me a pocketknife?” Mattie Quinn asked ten minutes later when Jericho had her on the phone.
“Everybody needs a knife, sweet pea,” he said. “Go ahead and check me right now.”
“Okay.” Mattie giggled. “Dad, have you got your pocketknife on you?”
“I have my pants on, don’t I?” Quinn said, sharing their inside joke. When she was barely old enough to understand, he’d promised her that if was wearing pockets and she caught him without a knife, he would buy her a soda.
“Mom says I might be too young.”
“I’ll square it with Mom,” Quinn said, knowing full well Kim was likely on the other line. “Do you cut up your own steak?”
“Of course, Dad. I’m seven.” He could hear her crinkling her nose in that adorable way of hers.