The Minoan Cipher (A Matinicus “Matt” Hawkins Adventure Book 2) (12 page)

“Does that mean they’re phasing out the cowboys?”

“Got that right, pal. I’m still majority stockholder. The directors pretty much run the show. That’s why I got time to go bayou racing with my pal Junior.”

“Junior?”

“Cajun guy. Gator hunter who made a killin’ on reality TV. Drives an old pick-up, but that’s for show. Lives in a trophy house and got a couple of Bentleys in his garage.”

“What are you driving, Cal?”

“Ford pick-up.” He paused. “And a Bentley Cabrio convert in the garage of my trophy house. Does two-hundred plus, but it can’t pass a gas station. You still designing those Jules Verne gadgets at Woods Hole?”

“Taking a break from the scientific stuff, actually. I’m in Spain on a shipwreck expedition.”

“Nothin’ wrong with that,” Calvin said.

“Actually, old pal, there’s a
lot
wrong with it. You got a minute?”

“Hold on.” Hayes went inside the shack which was filled with the succulent fragrance of boiling crawfish. He told Junior to go ahead without him.

He put a bottle of Dixie beer on the tab and walked out to a bench on the end of the fuel dock. “Okay, Hawk. What’s got you riled up?”

“It’s a complicated story. I’ll give you the CliffsNotes version.”

Hawkins told him about Kalliste and the invitation to survey what could be a history-making shipwreck. Calvin set his beer aside and listened intently as Hawkins laid out the details of the attack and sinking.

Calvin had an encyclopedic knowledge of weaponry. “From what you said, it sounds like you got hit by Spike missiles. Anything bigger could have sent you to the bottom with one shot.”

“I’ve been out of the war game. Not familiar with the brand.”

“Developed to slow down swarm-type attacks. Couple of feet long and a few inches wide. Highly portable. They pack a heck of a wallop, but nothing like the big hardware that’s available. Interesting what you said about a missile blowing up the guy on deck.”

“What’s your take on that?”

“Coulda been intentional. Spikes are pretty accurate. He never knew what hit him. Still a tough way to go.”

“It probably saved my ass. The captain and his son had time to get a life boat in the water.”

“Glad you’re all okay. Where do you go from here?”

“I want to see if my submersible is salvageable. I’ll need someone to ride shotgun.”

“I’m in. If I can scare up an executive jet, I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Abby’s company always has planes in the air. That’s how I got over here.”

“Good idea. I’ll give her a call.”

“Thanks, Cal. I knew I could count on you. I’m staying at the Hotel Cadiz. One more favor. I’m wondering if you can pick something up for me on the way.”

Hayes listened to the request and said it would be no problem. Hanging up, he stared off at the mangroves. He was picturing mud huts set against the rugged landscape of Afghanistan. The SEALs mission was supposed to be routine, but the drug lord they’d been sent to capture knew they were coming and had ringed his compound with explosive devices. A fellow SEAL had triggered the IED and was blown to pieces. Hawkins was close by, and his leg caught some of the fragments that would have killed Hayes. He still felt guilty about not having Matt’s back when the Navy dumped him.

“Cal-vin!”

Junior’s klaxon voice echoed throughout the swamp. The mountains and mud hut vanished. Hayes was transported back to the bayou. He picked up his beer bottle and headed to the shack to dig into some crawfish. He was looking forward to seeing Hawkins again. But, first things first.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Bend, Oregon

“When the bird flies over your head, don’t reach up or it will think your hand is something to eat.”

The warning provoked nervous giggles from the audience. At least half of those sitting in the rows of folding chairs were children. The speaker was a slightly plump, pretty woman in her twenties. Her name was Molly Sutherland. A brown-feathered falcon clutched her padded wrist guard with its talons.

At the back of the room was a wooden rectangle attached to a vertical support. A young female assistant standing next to the pedestal scattered food pellets on the platform and tapped the wood with her forefinger to get the bird’s attention.

Sutherland lifted her arm and launched the bird into the air. The falcon spread its wings and flew to the back, passing inches above the heads of the audience. Some people ducked, but the children issued a multitude of
oohs
and
aahs
.

The bird fluttered to a landing on the pedestal and gobbled down the pellets of food. A third assistant enticed it back to the front of the room where it re-settled on Sutherland’s wrist. She pointed out the forward-facing eyes, the sharp talons and the hooked beak designed for tearing. All raptor characteristics. She repeated the routine with a great horned owl, explaining how the soft fringe feathers made the owl’s flight over the audience practically soundless.

The birds were returned to their cages. Sutherland introduced the assistants and thanked the audience for supporting the museum. As people filed out of the room, a naturalist on the museum’s payroll came over and put her hand on Sutherland’s shoulder.

“Nice going, Molly. Everyone enjoyed the show.”

Sutherland once would have flinched at the physical contact. Instead, she removed her black-framed circular glasses to reveal remarkable orchid-colored eyes, and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand.

“Everyone but
me
,” Sutherland replied. “I was a-sweating bullets.” In her nervousness, she slipped back into her West Virginia accent.

“It’s hard to stand up in front of a group of strangers under any circumstance. And you never know what the birds will do. Don’t sell yourself short, Molly. You have a talent. Those raptors were perfectly at ease with you.”

Sutherland replaced the glasses and coaxed a half-smile from her lips. “Don’t know if there’s much call for a hawk-whisperer. But thanks anyway. Means a lot coming from you.”

“See you tomorrow?”

“You bet.”

Sutherland headed for the parking lot and swung a leg over the saddle of her customized, low-profile Forty-Eight model Harley-Davidson. She swapped her prescription glasses for a pair of wrap-around shades, started the 1203 cc V-twin engine and rode past the High Desert Museum sign. She cruised along the meandering road enjoying the guttural rumble of the exhaust in her ears, the cool dry air against her face, and reflected on the journey that had taken her to central Oregon.

After leaving the Army, she had settled in Tubac, Arizona. Building a house in the hills, she’d taken up oil painting. She loved the desert light and the abundance of birds—hummingbirds, in particular. She had little contact with the outside world until Matt Hawkins, a fellow soldier who was pretty much her only friend, asked her to put her computer skills to work providing intelligence for a secret project he was involved in. Neither she nor Matt had any idea that they’d been drawn into a Byzantine plot that would have worldwide impact. Her computer probes triggered an assassination squad who burned her house, her paintings, and sent her running for her life.

Thanks to Sutherland, the plot had unraveled.

With her house and paintings reduced to ashes, Sutherland hit the road. She bought a tent and sleeping bag and headed West. In Salt Lake City, she got up one morning and decided she wanted to see the Pacific Ocean. California didn’t appeal to her, so she headed to the Pacific Northwest and tarried a few days in Portland, Oregon. She’d liked the city’s quirkiness but not the traffic and crowds, so she kept on moving.

She arrived in the town of Bend late one afternoon and pulled her bike up to the walking path that ran along the banks of the Deschutes River. When Sutherland chose to stretch her legs with a stroll, three strangers along the path had smiled and said hello. That night she stayed in a motel and the very next day she contacted a real estate office.

The agent showed her a rental house outside town that offered a view of the mountains. She had vowed never to paint again, but she still liked birds. She switched to photography. Unlike a painting, a photo could be stored in a computer, or in the cloud, or sent off to places where it would be safe from harm.

Sutherland invested in a high-end Canon digital single-lens reflex camera. The infinite patience that had made her a computer whiz allowed her to sit for hours waiting for the right shot. She became fascinated with raptors. During a visit to the museum, she showed the staff pictures she had taken of a Golden eagle’s nest. The museum asked to see more, and ended up mounting an exhibition of her photographic work.

She started volunteering a couple of days a week. When the museum created the program that introduced raptors to the public, she joined the team. Sutherland was uncomfortable around other people, but enjoyed working with the birds and seeing the amazed expressions on the faces of the children. She spent more time in the field, and when she did go to her computer, it was only to download photos.

Her major talent was the ability to worm her way into other computers, leaving no trail behind. Since moving to Bend, she had used her talents only once, after she’d seen a newspaper headline in the local supermarket:

Congress Debates Bill

Curbing Sexual Abuse

In the Armed Services

Molly had narrowed her eyes in a Clint Eastwood squint. Pictures flashed in her head…. Staring up at the stars, savoring the quiet desert beauty of an Iraq night; rough hands grabbing her by the shoulders, slamming her to the ground and ripping her uniform off. The rape was a painful blur. Even more awful was the stony face of the officer who’d listened to her story, then recommended a psychiatric discharge and counseling.

In the days after she’d seen the newspaper headline, thousands of phantom e-mail letters in support of the bill went out to recalcitrant congressmen. The names of some senders came off lists of Civil War veterans. The modified bill was approved. Not perfect, but it was something. She felt like the token retired gunslinger who comes out of retirement to shoot up a town full of bad guys. As soon as she got home from the museum, she powered up her computer to download photos she had taken near Mt. Bachelor. She saw that she had an e-mail from Matt Hawkins. It was the same message he sent every couple of months.

HI MOLLY. R U OK?

She sent the same answer she always did.

YUP. THX.

Matt was the closest thing she had to a friend. They’d both been abandoned by their commanding officers. Matt’s wounds were mostly physical; hers, mental, but the hurt was the same. But in trusting Matt, she believed there might be a chance to one day trust others. Molly had a long way to go before she was at that point. Maybe she’d never be there. Right now, all she could handle were her birds.

Matt usually ended the conversation by saying he was glad to hear she was okay. But this time the message was different.

NEED UR HELP MOLLY.

Her finger hesitated for a moment above the keyboard. She stared at the blinking cursor. Then she typed:

?

SOMEONE TRIED TO KILL ME.

?

??

The double question marks meant he didn’t know the answer.

TALKED TO CALVIN?

HE’S ON BOARD.

If Calvin Hayes had joined Hawkins, it must be serious.

ABBY?

HOPE SO. R U 2?

Molly’s mind raced. She was enjoying her new life taking photos and talking about raptors. The last time she helped him, she’s lost her house and her art, but she didn’t want to disappoint Matt. She typed: NOTHING OPERATIONAL. JUST INTEL.

OK. NEED INFO ON SPIKE MISSILES. SELLERS? BUYERS IN THE LAST SIX MONTHS.

The answer was quick in coming.

WILL GET TO IT DIRECTLY.

Hawkins thanked Molly, sent her a summary of the events leading up to his request for help and promised to keep her in the loop with daily reports. He leaned back in his chair and stared at the computer screen.

Sutherland had the ability to mess up things and people she didn’t like, and that was a long list. The gods must have had a big laugh when they stoked the emotion of smoldering anger, mixed it with the potential for creating havoc, and poured the brew into a pudgy young woman with the meekness of a lamb. He needed her if he wanted to find out who sent the salvage boat and submersible to the bottom, but he was aware of a simple fact: Sutherland couldn’t be any more controlled than a bolt of lightning.

The cell phone rang. It was Captain Santiago. “I’ll meet you at the hotel in half an hour. I have found us a boat.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Leonidas had called Isabel as soon as he returned the boat to the lease company. They celebrated his impending payday with dinner at an expensive restaurant, followed by hours of bar hopping before they returned to the hotel for a wild night of drug-powered sex. At least, he thought that’s what happened, but wasn’t sure. They had gotten so blasted that he remembered little after they stepped into the hotel room.