Trojan Odyssey (28 page)

P
OCO
B
ONITO
PASSED
through the mouth of the Rio Colorado in the early afternoon in water that changed from the traces of the brown crud to the algae green of the river. Burly white clouds splashed the blue sky, some dropping light showers as they blocked out the sun. The NUMA crew stood on the deck and waved to the fleet of small fishing boats that darted past, outboard motors buzzing like a swarm of hornets, fishermen proudly displaying their catch of tarpon, snook and barracuda. One boat celebrated with raised bottles of beer as they passed the crippled research boat. Two of the anglers held up a tarpon that looked as if it weighed more than a hundred pounds.

Gunn ran
Bonito
in slowly, keeping to one side of the river out of the way of the little fiberglass fishing boats, skirting the buoys and angling around a slight bend. He made a half turn on the wheel, setting the bow on a heading past the Rio Colorado Lodge and beyond, to a dock that led to a covered walkway bordered by flowers that trailed up to a large house set under a grove of palm trees.

“It looks heavenly,” said Renee, admiring the lush beauty of the tropical forest surrounding the house that was built from lava rock with a large thatched palm frond roof.

“A fisherman's paradise,” Gunn said from the pilothouse. “Built by an old friend from my academy days, Jack McGee. If you enjoy seafood, you'll get your fill of exotically prepared fish here. He's accumulated thousands of recipes from around the world and has written several books on the subject.”

Pitt jumped to the dock and took the lines thrown by Giordino and tied them to the cleats. By law, they stayed close to the boat until their papers were checked by the local border guards, who were surprised at the damage suffered by
Poco Bonito.
Renee used her Spanish to spin a wild story of how they escaped a fleet of drug-smuggling pirates, as cutthroat as any of their ancestors who pillaged the Spanish Main.

Since the incident happened in Nicaraguan waters, the guards didn't request a report. Rita Anderson, on the other hand, would have created a sticky problem. She had no papers, and since Pitt and Gunn had no wish to explain her presence on board their boat, Renee bound and gagged her before she and Giordino crammed Rita into a storage closet in the engine room. The guards made a cursory inspection of the boat, and had no desire to stain their starched and neatly pressed uniforms in the engine room after seeing Giordino looking like James Dean after the oil well came in in
Giant.

After the guards had walked up the dock out of earshot, Dodge turned to Pitt. “Why are we treating Mrs. Anderson like a criminal and keeping her as a prisoner? Her husband was murdered and her yacht seized by pirates.”

“She's not what you think,” said Renee curtly.

Pitt kept his eyes trained on the guards as they climbed into a Land Rover and drove from the dock over a dirt road muddied from rain. “Renee is right. Mrs. Anderson is no pawn. She's mixed up to her ears in shady business. Admiral Sandecker has contacted Costa Rican law authorities, who agreed to take her into custody and launch an investigation. They should be along any time.”

Renee stepped down the ladder to the cabin. “I'd better get our princess ready for her incarceration.”

She had no sooner dropped out of sight than a man strode briskly down the walkway and onto the dock. Jack McGee was a ruddy-faced man in his late forties. His hair was blond without a trace of gray, as was his Wyatt Earp mustache. The adobe brown eyes set far apart gave him the look of an animal on constant lookout for a predator. He wore navy blue shorts with a flowered shirt and a tired old Navy officer's cap that looked like it had seen action in World War II.

Gunn stepped forward and they shook hands before embracing. “Jack, you age ten years every time we meet.”

“That's because we only meet every ten years.” McGee greeted Gunn in a voice that sounded like he sang bass in a choir.

Gunn made the introductions. Giordino merely waved from the engine room hatch. “We have one more of our crew for you to meet, Renee Ford. She's handling a little matter below.”

McGee smiled knowingly. “Your unexpected guest?”

Gunn nodded. “Rita Anderson, the lady I mentioned over the satellite phone when I announced our dropping in.”

“Police Inspector Gabriel Ortega is an old friend,” said McGee. “He'll require you to come down to the station and fill out a report, but I think you'll find him most courteous and considerate.”

“Are you plagued by piracy in these waters?” asked Pitt.

McGee laughed and shook his head vigorously. “Not in Costa Rica. But they sprout like weeds to the north in Nicaragua.”

“Why there and not here?”

“Costa Rica is the success story of Central America. The standard of living is higher than in most other Latin nations. Although largely agricultural, tourism is booming and, surprisingly, they're a big exporter of electronics and microprocessors. In contrast, Nicaragua has gone through thirty years of revolution that's left the infrastructure in ruins. After the government finally stabilized, most of the rebels, who possessed no job skills other than fighting guerrilla warfare, refused to take up farming or menial labor jobs. They found drug smuggling more profitable. This led to piracy, since they had to build a fleet of cocaine runners.”

“Have you heard any rumors about the brown crud?”

McGee gave a little shake of his head. “Only that it exists north and east out in the Caribbean. Between the bandits, the missing ships and the contamination, the fishing industry off Nicaragua has died an unnatural death.” McGee turned and doffed his hat as a uniformed police official came down from the house and stepped onto the dock. “Ah, Gabriel, there you are.”

“Jack, old friend,” said Ortega. “What mischief have you gotten yourself into now?”

“Not me,” McGee laughed. “My friends from the States here.”

Though decidedly Latin, Ortega looked like Agatha Christie's Hercule Poirot—the same black, slicked-back straight hair and thin, immaculately trimmed black mustache, the soft dark eyes that missed nothing. He spoke in English, with just a bare trace of Spanish. He revealed perfectly capped teeth when he smiled during the introductions.

“Your Admiral Sandecker alerted me of your situation,” he said. “I hope you will accommodate me with a detailed report of your adventures with the pirates.”

Pitt nodded. “Count on it, Inspector.”

“Where is this woman you saved from the pirate ship?”

“Down below.” A concerned frown crossed Pitt's forehead. He turned to Giordino. “Al, why don't you drop below and see what's keeping Renee and our guest?”

Giordino wiped his hands on an oily rag without comment and disappeared below. He was back in less than a minute, his face a mask of wrath, his dark eyes bleak. “Rita is gone and Renee is dead,” he said, his face a mask of anger. “Murdered.”

D
URING THOSE INITIAL
moments of shock, everyone stood there stunned with disbelief. They stared at Giordino stupidly, not understanding what he'd said. It took another five seconds for the implication to sink in.

Then Dodge blurted, “What are you saying?”

“Renee is dead,” Giordino repeated simply. “Rita murdered her.”

Pure rage flooded Pitt. “Where is she?” he demanded.

“Rita?” Giordino's face had the look of someone who had woken up from a nightmare. “She's gone.”

“Impossible. How could she leave the boat without being seen?”

“She's not to be found,” Giordino said.

“May I see the body?” Ortega asked, with official dispassion.

Pitt was already dropping down the ladder, almost falling on Giordino, who leaped off to one side. “This way, Inspector. The women were in my cabin below.”

Inwardly, Pitt felt a flood of guilt at not recognizing Rita as a woman who was capable of murder. He cursed himself for not accompanying Renee, for sending her alone to release her killer.

He muttered, “Oh God, no!” under his breath at the sight of Renee, stripped nude, lying on the bed with her legs together, arms outstretched in the position of a cross. The image of the Odyssey logo, the Celtic White Horse of Uffington, had been carved into her stomach.

 

R
ITA HAD ACTED
compliant and docile when Renee removed the duct tape from around her arms. But when Renee, innocently unaware that her life was in jeopardy with five men less than ten feet away, knelt to remove the duct tape from Rita's legs and ankles, the witch clenched her hands and brought them down in a vicious chop to the nape of the neck. Renee dropped without uttering a sound.

Rita quickly removed Renee's clothes, laid her out on the bed and pressed a pillow over her face. There was no struggle. Already unconscious, Renee was never aware of being smothered to death. Then Rita took a pair of hair scissors from Pitt's shaving kit in the bathroom and carved the image of the Celtic horse on Renee's stomach. From start to finish, the hideous act took less than four minutes.

Moving quickly toward the forward section of the boat, Rita came up through the bow hatch, shielded by the pilothouse. Out of sight of the men conversing on the stern deck, she climbed over the side and slipped into the water without making a splash. Then she swam underwater to the opposite side of the dock, reached the shore and crawled through the thick vegetation that covered the bank. In the exact moment Giordino discovered Renee's body, Rita disappeared into the jungle.

 

T
HE WOMAN CANNOT
get far,” said Ortega. “There are no roads leading in and out of Rio Colorado. She cannot flee into the jungle and live. My men will apprehend her before she can obtain air transportation or a boat.”

“All she has is the bikini she's wearing,” Pitt informed him.

“She took no clothes?”

“Renee's closet is still closed and her clothes are scattered on the deck,” said Gunn, pointing to where Rita had thrown them.

“Does she have money?” Ortega asked.

Pitt shook his head. “Not unless Renee had some on her person, which I doubt.”

“Without money or a passport, she has no place to run except the jungle.”

“Hardly a place a woman could survive in only a bikini,” said McGee, who stood in the doorway.

“Please secure the cabin,” instructed Ortega. “And do not touch anything.”

“Can't we at least dress her?” Pitt requested.

“Not until my forensic staff arrives and conducts a formal examination.”

“When can we remove her for a flight to the States?”

“Two days,” Ortega replied politely. “In the meantime, please remain here and enjoy Mr. McGee's hospitality until you can all be questioned and reports filled out.” He paused to look down at Renee indifferently. “She is from your country?”

Dodge could not bear to look at Renee and turned away. “She lives in Richmond, Virginia,” he whispered in a voice that choked.

Pitt looked at Gunn. “We'd better inform the admiral.”

“He won't take this sitting down. If I know him, he'll demand Congress declare war and send in the Marines.”

For the first time, Ortega's eyes widened. “He would do what,
senor
?”

“A play on words,” said Pitt, ignoring the police inspector and drawing a blanket over Renee.

 

R
ITA HURRIEDLY MADE
her way through the jungle, staying close to the riverbank until she reached the Rio Colorado Sport Fishing Lodge. She followed the signs on the walkway to the swimming pool. Wearing her bikini, she fit right in with the other fishing widows lying around the pool while their husbands indulged themselves trolling for tarpon and snook in the river.

Ignoring the stares from the pool attendants and waiters, she snatched up a towel from an empty lounge chair and draped it over one shoulder. Then she stepped along the walkway between the lodge's rooms. Finding one where the maid was cleaning the room, she stepped inside.

“Tome su tiempo.”
She told the maid to take her time, acting as if it were her room.

“Me casi acaban,”
the maid replied, as she carried the dirty towels to her cart on the walkway and closed the door.

Rita sat at the desk, picked up a phone and requested an open line. When a voice answered, she said, “This is Flidais.”

“One moment.”

Then came another voice. “The line is clear. Please go ahead.”

“Flidais?”

“Yes, Epona, I'm here.”

“Why are you calling on an open line from a hotel?”

“We have an unexpected problem.”

“Yes?”

“A NUMA research boat looking for the source of the brown crud was not deceived by the hologram and destroyed our yacht.”

“Understood,” said the woman called Epona, without the slightest trace of emotion. “Where are you?”

“After our yacht sank, I was captured by the NUMA people, who held me prisoner. I escaped and am now sitting in a room at the Rio Colorado Lodge. It's only matter of minutes before the local police trail me here.”

“Our crew?”

“Some were killed. The rest escaped in the helicopter and abandoned me.”

“They will be dealt with.” The voice paused. “Did they interrogate you?”

“They tried, but I gave them a phony story and told them my name was Rita Anderson.”

“Keep the line open and wait.”

Flidais, alias Rita, went to the closet and found a flowered-print summer dress that was a size ten to her size eight. Close enough, she thought. Better large than too small. She pulled it on over her bikini and found a scarf, which she tied around her head to hide her red hair. It didn't bother her in the least that she was stealing another woman's clothes and running up a large phone bill, certainly not after having killed Renee. Next she pulled on open sandals that were a close fit. A pair of sunglasses were sitting on a bed stand, so she slipped them on.

She smiled to herself as she searched the drawers of the dresser and found the room occupant's purse. Why women never used any creativity in hiding their valuables was a mystery to Flidais. It was well known among hotel thieves that women invariably hid their purses, including their wallets, under their clothes in a drawer. She found eight hundred dollars American and a few Costa Rican colones. With an exchange rate of 369,000 colones to the dollar, most monetary transactions in Costa Rica were handled in foreign currency.

Barbara Hacken was the name below the picture of the face on the driver's license and the photo inside the passport. Except for a different hair color and a few years' difference in age, they might have passed for sisters. Flidais cracked the door to see if the room's occupant was coming up the walkway, when Epona came back on the line. “All is arranged, sister. I'm sending my private plane to pick you up at the airport. It will be waiting on the tarmac when you arrive. Do you have transportation?”

“The hotel should have a car to carry guests to and from the airport.”

“You may have to show identification to get past airport security.”

“All is established on that score,” answered Flidais, slinging the purse strap over her shoulder. “I'll see you and our sisters at the ritual in three days.”

Then she hung up and walked to the hotel lobby past two local uniformed policemen who were checking the grounds. Looking for a woman last seen in a bikini, they gave her a quick glance, thinking she was a guest of the lodge, and passed on. She spotted Barbara Hacken sunning at the pool. She looked to be dozing. When Flidais reached the lobby, the owner of the lodge was standing behind the desk and smiled when she asked for a car.

“You and your husband are not leaving us, I hope.”

“No,” she said vaguely, scratching her nose to cover her face. “He's still out on the river after the big ones. I'm meeting some friends who are dropping in at the airport to refuel before continuing on to Panama City.”

“We'll see you for dinner?”

“Of course,” Flidais said, turning away. “Where else would I eat?”

When her car reached the airport gate to the tarmac, the driver stopped, as the security guard stepped from a small office.

“Are you leaving Rio Colorado?” he asked Flidais through the open window.

“Yes, I'm flying to Managua.”

“Passport, please?”

She handed him Barbara Hacken's passport and sat back looking out the opposite window.

The guard went by the book. He took a long moment comparing the passport photo with Flidais's facial features. The hair was covered by a scarf, but a few red strands seeped from under the silk. He was not concerned. Women seldom tinted their hair the same color they wore the month before. The face seemed similar, but he could not see the eyes behind the sunglasses.

“Please open your luggage.”

“Sorry, I don't have luggage. Tomorrow is my husband's birthday. I forgot to buy him a gift, so I'm on a shopping trip to Managua. I intend to return in the morning.”

Satisfied, the guard handed back the passport and waved the car through.

Five minutes later, everyone within a mile of the airport stared in awe as a lavender-colored aircraft that looked too large to land on the airstrip came in low over the trees and set down smoothly. Reversing engines and braking, it stopped a hundred yards short of the runway's north end. Then it turned and taxied to where Flidais was waiting in the car. Five minutes later, she was aloft on the Beriev Be-210 bound for Panama City.