“She’s carrying a full load of crushed monazite,” Gomez said. “Testing confirmed high concentrates of neodymium, cerium, and dysprosium.”

“Excellent. The extraction facilities have been waiting for new material. We will engage the new prisoners in off-loading the ore.”

“What about the ship?”

“She would make a nice addition to the fleet. Determine what reconfigurations are required to erase her identity, and we’ll discuss it with Bolcke after she’s unloaded.”

Johansson turned his back on Gomez to examine the new captives. He reviewed the men with a caustic eye, paying particular attention to the SWAT team.

“Welcome to Puertas del Infierno,” he said, “the Gates of Hell. You now belong to me.”

He waved his arm across the dock toward the buildings beyond. “This is an ore-refining center. We take raw ore and process it into various minerals of high value. You will be workers in the process. If you work hard, you will live. If you do not complain, you will live. And if you do not attempt escape, you will live.” He stared down the line of weakened men. “Are there any questions?”

A crewman from the Adelaide, one who’d had a difficult time in captivity, cleared his throat. “When will we be released?” he asked.

Johansson approached the man and smiled at him. Then he casually pulled his sidearm and shot the man in the forehead. A swarm of nearby jungle birds screeched at the sound as the man tumbled backward, falling into the water dead.

The other assembled captives gaped in stunned silence.

Johansson grinned. “Are there any more questions?”

Met by barely a heartbeat, he holstered his weapon. “Good. Again, I welcome you to Puerta del Infierno. Now, let’s get to work.”

51

THE DEEP THROB OF THE TOWBOAT’S ENGINE FELL silent, revealing the lesser sound of waves lapping against her hull. Awakened by the absent growl and vibration, Ann arose from her bunk and stretched her arms. She rubbed her wrists, where the handcuffs irritated her skin, and stepped to a tiny porthole on the starboard bulkhead.

It was still dark. Scattered lights dotted the shore a mile or so across the river, indicating they had docked on its eastern bank. The river, she was certain, was the Mississippi. From their starting point in Paducah, there was only one way to go downriver, taking the Ohio to its confluence with the Mississippi near Cairo, Illinois. The night before, she had peered out to see the glowing lights of a large city, wondering if they shined from Memphis. As she watched the silhouette of a large freighter pass upriver, she guessed they were somewhere near New Orleans.

She rinsed her face in a basin and again searched the cramped cabin for a potential weapon. It was a hopeless exercise she had performed at least twenty times before, but at least it kept her mind working. She got only as far as an empty bureau when she heard the lock jiggle and the cabin door open. Pablo stood in the doorway, a bemused look in his eyes and a baseball bat in his hands.

“Come along,” he said, “we are changing vessels.”

He led her onto the towboat’s deck, where he slipped the bat across her back, wedging it into the crooks of her elbows.

“There will be no swimming exhibition this time.” Keeping one hand firmly grasping the bat, he led her off the towboat.

The contortion made Ann’s shoulders ache as they stepped onto a dimly lit dock. Pablo guided her past the barge, where a mobile dock crane had hoisted the flatbed trailer from the deck. Stray wisps of hay fluttered through the air as Pablo and Ann followed the crane, which crept down an embedded rail track toward a small freighter. In the faint light, she could make out the ship’s name on the transom. Salzburg. Though the dock was deserted save for the crane operator, several armed men wearing fatigues lined the freighter’s rail.

“Please let me go,” Ann said with exaggerated fear.

Pablo laughed. “Not before we make our delivery. Then, perhaps, you can win your freedom,” he added with a leer.

He marched her up the freighter’s forward gangway and across the deck. A large rectangular dish mounted to a wheeled platform blocked their path. Next to it, a crewman was checking cables at a control station mounted with power generators and computer displays. As they passed, the man looked up, briefly locking eyes with Ann.

She gave him a submissive look, pleading with her eyes for help.

He smiled as they passed. “Don’t get cooked,” he said.

Pablo pushed Ann ahead, guiding her to the superstructure at the stern and up two flights to the crew’s quarters. Her new cabin was slightly larger than the last but featured a similarly minuscule porthole.

“I hope you are pleased with the accommodations,” Pablo said, removing the baseball bat from her arms. “Perhaps later in the voyage we can spend some time together.” He stepped from the cabin and locked the door from the outside.

Ann sat on the hard bunk and glared at the door. Despite her act with Pablo, most of her fears had been replaced by anger. Clearly the freighter was leaving the country, taking both the Sea Arrow’s motor and its plans. She would be trapped in the cabin for days, or even weeks. Rather than lament, she contemplated how it had all been pulled off.

Her analytical mind went to work, stewing over the thefts. Acquiring the Sea Arrow’s plans and motor had been all too easy for Pablo. He must have had inside help. The involvement of the two men who had abducted her, and then were killed, indicated as much. And what about her? Why had she been abducted?

She could draw only one conclusion, that she must have been getting close to identifying the source. She racked her brains, reviewing the contractors and persons of interest. She kept returning to Tom Cerny. Could the White House aide have been alerted to her inquiry?

She paced the small cabin, noticing several cigarette burns on the corner desk. The marks made her think of the crewman and his odd greeting.

“Don’t get cooked,” she repeated. The words nagged at her until suddenly their meaning struck like a bolt of lightning.

“Of course!” she said, disgusted that it hadn’t come to her sooner. “Don’t get cooked indeed.”

52

A LATE-NIGHT COMMERCIAL FLIGHT FROM DURBAN via Johannesburg proved the quickest way back to Washington for Dirk and Summer. They were bleary-eyed when they staggered off the plane early the next morning at Reagan National Airport. Remarkably, Summer walked freely through the terminal, showing stiffness from the flight but no lingering paralysis from her decompression sickness.

Timely immersion in the Alexandria’s deco chamber had proved her salvation. While the NUMA ship rushed from the tip of Madagascar to Durban, Summer and Dirk had been pressurized to an equivalent depth of four hundred feet. The paralysis in Summer’s leg promptly disappeared. The ship’s medical team slowly relieved the pressure in the chamber, allowing the nitrogen bubbles in their tissues to dissipate. When they were released from the chamber almost two days later, Summer found she could walk with only a faint lingering ache.

Since flying could aggravate the symptoms, the ship’s doctor insisted they not board an airplane for twenty-four hours. Fortunately, their steaming time to Durban occupied the full duration. Free of the chamber, they had time to brief the others on their work in the submersible, inspect its damage, and book their flight home, before racing to Durban’s King Shaka International Airport the moment the Alexandria touched the dock.

After collecting their bags at Reagan, they took a cab across the tarmac to their father’s hangar. Letting themselves in, they stored their bags and cleaned themselves up in the loft apartment.