The two hired thugs pulled away the tarps covering the Sea Arrow’s motor. Then they donned heavy gloves and went to work on the bales of hay. Clarence started up the forklift, and using an attached device called a bale squeeze, he began hoisting blocks of multiple bales onto the flatbed. The second man stood on the bed, guiding the bales into place around the motor.

Meanwhile, Pablo unhitched the truck from the flatbed. He parked the truck off to the side and returned with the other big rig, a blue Kenworth. In ten minutes he had the new truck hitched to the trailer. He scrutinized the flatbed for a second GPS tracking device. Finding none, he swapped the rear license plate.

The other two men had nearly finished building a wall of hay around the Sea Arrow’s power plant. Pablo helped them pull a tarp across the top of the bales and tie it to the sides of the trailer, completing its disguise as a hay truck.

Clarence, the larger of the two men, pulled off his gloves and approached Pablo. “That concludes our part of the job,” he said in his raspy voice. “You have our pay?”

“Yes,” Pablo said. “And you have the plans?”

“In the back of the van. Along with an added present for you,” he said, grinning.

“Bring the documents to the truck. I’ll get your money.”

Clarence opened the back of the van and pulled out the plastic bin containing Heiland’s supercavitation plans. He followed Pablo to the Kenworth and placed it on the passenger seat. Pablo reached behind the seat and handed the hired thug a thick envelope. The big man ripped off one end, revealing several bound stacks of hundred-dollar bills.

“My, that does look pretty.” He folded the envelope closed. “Now, if you’d be kind enough to retrieve your gift, we’ll be on our way.”

Pablo gave him a puzzled look. Clarence jerked his thumb toward the van and led Pablo to the open back doors, where the other man stood, smiling.

As Pablo peered past him into the van’s interior, his eyes flared in anger. Coiled on the van’s floor was the bound-and-gagged Ann Bennett.

A look of rage seared her face until her eyes met Pablo’s, then the shock of recognition hit home. The Colombian terrorist was the last person she expected to see here. Her brazenness evaporated, and she wriggled farther into the confines of the van.

Pablo turned to Clarence. “What is she doing here?”

“We got a call to pick her up,” Clarence said. “We were told not to waste her, so here she is.”

Pablo reached under his jacket, pulled out a Glock pistol, and aimed it into the back of the van.

“Yo, man, don’t do her in the back of the van,” Clarence said. “It’s a rental.”

“Okay.”

Pablo wheeled around and fired the Glock point-blank in Clarence’s face. As he fell back dead, his partner lunged at Pablo. But the Colombian was quicker. He turned and pumped three shots into the man’s chest. The dying thug could only grip Pablo’s collar and pull him to his knees before collapsing.

Ann screamed, but her cry was muffled by a band of duct tape. Pablo gazed at her a moment, then calmly holstered the Glock. He reached into the van, yanked Ann out, and tossed her onto a leftover bale of hay. “I’m afraid it won’t do to kill you here.”

As she watched in terror, he hoisted the two dead bodies into the back of the van and closed the doors. Tossing the now bloodied cash envelope toward Ann, he looked at her and said, “Don’t move.”

An instant later, Pablo peeled the van out of the barn, spraying dust and loose hay. He drove just a short distance, then stopped and carefully positioned the van. He lowered the windows, removed all the keys from the fob except for the ignition key, then walked around searching for a large flat rock. Finding one, he placed it on the accelerator pedal and mashed it down flat. Climbing out of the truck, he reached in through the open window and started the engine. Before the revolutions could skyrocket, he pulled the column shift into drive and jumped away.

The rear tires spun in the loose dirt, and the van shot down the road. It traveled less than fifty feet before it angled off the road and careened through a small ditch. Its momentum carried it up the opposite side and over a small embankment, where it lunged into the pond.

A lone goose scattered with an angry honk as the van hurled up a wall of green water. After a few seconds, the van filled with water and disappeared into the deep pond, leaving only a diminishing froth of bubbles.

Pablo didn’t wait for it to sink but instead jogged back to the barn. He picked up the envelope and threw it into the truck’s cab before coming back for Ann. Without a word, he carried her to the cab and dropped her in a flat compartment behind the front seats.

“You might as well get comfortable,” he said, starting the truck and shifting into gear. “We have a long trip ahead of us.”

36

THE HELICOPTER FLEW IN FAST AT TREETOP LEVEL, zooming low over the hangars to surprise the waiting dignitaries seated along the runway. It was a military chopper, its fuselage designed with sharp angles and coated with an absorbent material that rendered it nearly invisible to radar. A special composite five-blade main rotor and matching tail assembly added to its stealth qualities by dramatically reducing its noise signature. An aviation expert from Jane’s Defence Weekly would take one look at the chopper and identify it as a Stealth Hawk, one of the U.S. Army’s heavily modified UH-80 Black Hawks, like the one used in the raid to capture Osama bin Laden. But this helicopter was entirely Chinese built.

The craft swooped about the Yangcun Air Base south of Beijing, buzzing the field several times before alighting. The crowd of generals and defense officials stood and applauded the exhibition of the country’s latest technological triumph. The cheers became muted when a Party official took to an elevated podium and launched into a tired diatribe touting China’s greatness.

Edward Bolcke leaned over to a bullet-eyed man wearing a uniform draped with medals. “Splendid aircraft, General Jintai.”

“Yes, it is,” Jintai said. “And we didn’t even need your help to build it.”

Bolcke shook off the jab with a grin. Having just received Pablo’s call from Maryland, he was brimming with confidence.

The crowd suffered through several more long-winded speeches before being herded into an open hangar with a buffet line. Bolcke trailed the general, a vice-chairman of China’s Central Military Commission, as he mingled with other top People’s Liberation Army officials. After inquiring about a fellow general’s new condominium in Hong Kong, Jintai backtracked to Bolcke.

“My hospitality duties are now complete,” he said to the Austrian. “We have some business to discuss?”

“If you please,” Bolcke replied.

“Very well. Let me find our chief spymaster, and we’ll speak in private.”

Jintai scanned the crowd until locating a slight, bespectacled man drinking a Heineken beer. Tao Liang was a directorate head in the Ministry of State Security, the agency that handled China’s intelligence and counterintelligence activities. Tao stood talking with Zhou Xing, the field operative from Bayan Obo, who calmly studied the assembled dignitaries. The peasant-faced man subtly alerted Tao that Jintai was stalking him while the general was still halfway across the room.

“Tao, there you are,” the general said. “Come, we have a business proposal to evaluate with our old friend Edward Bolcke.”

“Our old friend Bolcke,” Tao said with an acid tone. “Yes, I am curious to hear his latest offerings.”

With Zhou following, the men crossed the hangar to a small private office. It had been prepared for them with a portable liquor cabinet and a platter of dim sum. Jintai poured himself a whiskey and sat down with the others at a teak conference table.