Quinn trusted Mrs. Miyagi to make certain the KTM conformed to Dakar regulations. The bike was generally stock so there was little chance it would break any rules. Valentine Zamora, on the other hand, was spun into the rafters, spitting and cursing his mechanics in a black soup of Spanish and English.
He stomped back and forth wearing a gaudy Hawaiian shirt and New York Knicks shorts, checking and then double-checking the decibel measurements coming from the muffler of his Yamaha.
“Imbeciles,” he shouted at his two sheepish mechanics. They were the same young men he’d had with him at the track in Florida. “I pay you good money to get the motorcycle in perfect order and this is what you do to me? I swear to you.” His voice was tight and shrill amid all the buzzing chatter from the crowd of competitors and fans crammed inside the spacious tent.
“Monsieur Zamora,” a young Iranian motorcyclist named Navid Azimi tapped him on the shoulder.
Zamora spun, still spitting curses at his staff. “What is it?”
“You needn’t fret,” Azimi said. He pointed to his own bike, a blue and white Yamaha. “I had the very same issue. Your noise levels are just on the edge — easily remedied with a different muffler. I’m sure your mechanics have several in stock.”
Zamora glared at his staff. “Is this true?”
The two mechanics nodded. “Of course, sir.”
Zamora threw up his hands. “Then why didn’t you say so?” His tirade over for the moment, he looked up and noticed Quinn for the first time. A wide smile spread over his face. “You made it,” he said, walking over to grab Quinn’s hand between his.
Quinn didn’t bother to introduce Bo. Blond-haired and blue eyed, there was little chance he would be thought of as Jericho’s brother. Zamora treated his staff as nothing more than a backdrop for the great adventure of his life, so Quinn followed suit.
“If I may be so bold, where is the lovely Ms. Garcia?” The Venezuelan made a show of scanning the crowd behind Jericho.
“She had to check on her friends in New York,” Quinn said. “You know, that little bombing they had.”
“Of course.” Zamora nodded. “I understand the damage was extensive.”
“I guess.” Quinn shrugged “I stay out of that sort of thing. Too depressing. Anyway, good luck tomorrow.”
Zamora canted his head to one side. “I make my own luck.”
“Sounds ominous.”
“It does, doesn’t it? I don’t mean it that way. I’m hosting a party at my chalet tonight. You should drop by for some wine and a cigar.” Zamora put an arm around Quinn’s shoulders. “Because, tomorrow, friendship takes a backseat to the race. Do you understand?”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Quinn said.
“Monagas will get you the address. Come by anytime after nine. I don’t plan on sleeping until tomorrow evening—”
One of the mechanics called for Zamora to ask him a question about the new muffler. Focused again on the bike, the Venezuelan turned and left Quinn without another word.
Bo walked up beside him while Jacques saw to the scrutineering of the KTM. He wore faded jeans and a gray mechanic’s shirt with a TEAM QUINN patch over his right pocket.
“See those mean-looking dudes over by the ELF oil booth?” He kept his voice low. Blond hair, mussed as if he’d just gotten out of bed, hung just over the top of his ears. Tan from long hours riding his bike in the Texas sun, he was still lighter than Quinn, fair to his brother’s swarthiness, heavily muscled to Jericho’s wiry strength. Both looked as if they could grow a beard in a matter of minutes if they concentrated hard enough, but Bo’s would have been a sandy red to Jericho’s charcoal black.
“Droopy mustaches, look like brothers?”
“They are,” Bo said. “Andres and Diego Borregos. Heard of ’em?”
Jericho nodded, looking sideways at Bo. “The Borregos brothers run one of the largest drug cartels in Colombia. Just how is it you happen to know them?”
Bo chuckled. “Relax, big brother. We don’t run in the same circles if that’s what you mean. I saw their pictures on CNN, that’s all. You’re not the only one in the fam with a spectacular memory, you know.”
“Sorry,” Quinn said, still not completely convinced. “I’m not surprised they’re here. They may even be sponsoring one of the Colombian riders.”
The Dakar was an expensive proposition. The entry fee alone was over twenty thousand and a good rally motorcycle ran well above fifty thousand dollars. Virtually every rider’s bike and riding gear were plastered with ads for Red Bull, ELF, Loctite, Gauloises cigarettes, or some other commercial venture. Though Quinn’s KTM, entry fee, and operational expenses were completely paid by the American taxpayer, the bike still bore a hodgepodge of sponsor stickers so it wouldn’t stand out from the rest.
“Here come the superstars,” Bo grunted, nodding to the entourage of crew and paparazzi that surrounded the two race favorites. Both riding for Team KTM and sponsored by the company, Nick Caine and Raynard Geroux could not have been any more different. Caine, the hulking South African, had an easy smile and lumbering gait that belied the grace with which he rode a motorcycle. He was patient with reporters and fans alike, giving interviews and signing autographs while other racers would stalk off to their trailers for a shower and hot meal. Though his brooding accent made him something of a chick magnet, every press conference saw him teary eyed and blowing kisses to his beautiful wife and baby daughter back in Cape Town.
Geroux, on the other hand, looked and acted like a bantam rooster. Famous for the neatly trimmed soul patch beneath a sneering smile, he strode past adoring fans without so much as a glance and had to be prodded into signing autographs by his handlers. The tabloids made a great show of the fact he was rarely seen with the same swimsuit model two times in a row.
Though few Americans had ever even heard of the Dakar Rally, it was third only to the Olympics and the World Cup in global attention. There were plenty of other great riders in the race. Navid Azimi, the promising young Iranian, had stepped outside the confined social restraints of his country to rocket to the top of the leaderboard in rally races around the globe. Exceptional riders from the United States, Europe, all over South America, and even Qatar filled the race board, but everyone knew the real contest was between Caine and Geroux.
“Congratulations,” Thibodaux said, wiping his big hands on a shop towel as he walked up. He carried a free emergency kit courtesy of the Loctite booth. “We passed the scrutineers with nary a peep of protest.” He threw back his head in a huge yawn that showed his teeth. “Tomorrow’s a big day, l’ami. We could all use some sleep if we’re gonna be alert enough to look for that… missing item.”
“I’ve noticed something,” Bo said, as they maneuvered back to their bike through the press of onlookers who stood in pockets to watch the scrutineering process. “There is an extremely high percentage of classy women in Argentina. I mean every hot pair of legs I see is sticking out of a pair of designer shorts — hardly a pair of cutoffs among them. I didn’t realize it was so European down here.”
Thibodaux yawned again. “I just heard some guy say Argentines are a bunch of Italians who speak Spanish but think they’re British living in France.”
A flash of red by the tent entry caught Quinn’s eye as he threw a leg over the lanky KTM. Less than twenty yards away stood Russian FSB agent Aleksandra Kanatova. She met his eye, then froze for a long moment as if trying to figure out which way to run. By the time he’d started the 450’s engine, she’d ducked out of the tent and disappeared.
CHAPTER 28
Quinn took the long way home, cruising the bike slowly in and out of the crowds in front of the Mar del Plata Naval Base scanning for any sign of Kanatova. As a competitor, he enjoyed a certain amount of celebrity, and spent a good deal of his ride giving high-fives to children as he rode past.