Deadly Salvage. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
have thought?” He laughed.
Grimes forced a laugh, too. This seemed to please the boss. Good. The last thing he wanted to do was piss the guy off. His temper was legendary.
“What about those FBI agents?” Everett asked.
“Most of them are in Ponce helping check things out for the vice president’s visit.”
Everett smiled. “They won’t know what hit ’em. What about the agent they sent here?”
“Just a big, dumb Iowa farm boy. He’s being led around by one of Le Pierre’s goons on a snipe hunt.”
“We can’t assume that’ll last forever.” Everett glanced at his watch. “Okay, line up a couple sparring partners for me. I want to work out before we go out on the rig.” He strode back to the desk and picked up the camera.
“Want me to delete those pics?” Grimes asked.
Everett rotated his head, as if loosening up his neck muscles. “Not till I tell you. Keep me posted on the salvage progress, and keep your eyes open for any new arrivals. Especially Americans.”
The airport was on the southern, Dutch side of the island and situated uncomfortably close to the populated beach. Grimaldi remarked that a high serve from one of the beach volleyball games could have bounced off the big 747’s window as they skidded onto the tarmac and began braking to a stop.
“It looks pretty tight, all right,” Bolan said. “Maybe that’s why they booked us commercial instead of having you try to fly us down.”
“Like hell.” Grimaldi frowned. “I could’ve landed this tub so smoothly it would have been like flopping down onto a featherbed.”
Bolan grinned. His old friend always prided himself on being able to fly anything with wings or rotors better than anyone else. And he was probably right.
As the two of them stood in the customs line for arriving passengers, the soldier looked around. Their line was full of tourist groups and was moving at a snail’s pace, compared to the one on their right, which moved faster but was considerably longer. Grimaldi seemed to notice this, too.
“The line you’re in always seems to move slowest, doesn’t it?” he said.
Bolan nodded as he studied the makeup of the other line. It was overwhelmingly composed of black and Hispanic people with makeshift luggage. They weren’t dressed like tourists, and seemed to be conversing in either Spanish or French.
Prospective workers, Bolan thought, probably from the Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico or Haiti.
He looked at the customs agent scrutinizing the passports and papers. The man waved one arrival through and accepted a passport from the next person. Bolan watched as the agent opened the passport, holding it up in front of him, then quickly rubbed his hand over it. A quick cough followed and he brought his right palm up to cover his mouth. Then he dipped his hand beneath the counter, appearing to wipe it on his pant leg. He asked a few more questions and then waved the person through the gate.
As their line progressed Bolan watched the man repeat the coughing gesture, or a variation of it, sometimes using a sneeze, with four other arriving passengers. Bolan was close enough to read the agent’s name tag now: J. Van der Hyden.
Grimaldi was next in line and stepped forward, handing over his passport with an exasperated, “Finally.”
The customs agent smiled pleasantly and gave a welcome greeting in accented English. “And what, may I ask, is the purpose of your visit?”
“You may ask,” Grimaldi said, gesturing toward Bolan and himself. “We’re reporters. My partner and I are here to cover the big movie that Willard Everett III is producing down here.”
“Ah, yes,” the agent said. “That is on the French side. May I see your passport, as well, sir?”
Bolan handed the man his passport, which was under the name Matt Cooper, his civilian alias. The agent’s eyes went from Grimaldi to Bolan, then back to their passports as he shone a light on both documents, making a thorough examination.
Two more people slipped through the gate from Van der Hyden’s line.
The customs agent looked up at them once more. “You may pick up your luggage at the end of the corridor. Have a pleasant stay on the island.”
Grimaldi grabbed the passports and handed Bolan his. “Took him long enough,” the pilot said as they headed to the luggage carousel. “Did you see how many people got through the other station before us?”
“There’s a reason for that,” Bolan replied. “Most of them had a c-note in their passports. They’re probably here illegally.”
Grimaldi smirked. “Hey, so are we, in a manner of speaking.”
* * *
THE ROAD WOUND through the mountains, widening occasionally on fenced-off plateaus where numerous taxis had pulled over and parked so tourists could take pictures of the scenic view. After Bolan and Grimaldi rented a car at the airport, a Citroën, they’d loaded their luggage into the trunk and taken off toward their hotel, which was on the French side of the island. Bolan let the pilot drive, and as the cool wind whipped through the open window, checked in for a sitrep with Brognola on his satellite phone.
“How’s it going so far?” the big Fed asked.
“Not bad,” Bolan said. “We’re on our way to the Omni now.”
“Good to hear,” Brognola said. “We’re working on hooking you guys up with the FBI agent down there.”
The curving roadway straightened out and they started a descent. Ahead, Bolan could see the bay area, with numerous high-rise hotels blocking out the view of the ocean beyond. The tallest one, he knew from his research, was Everett’s resort. Between the ridge they were on and the wall of hotels was a sea of ramshackle buildings and houses where he assumed the locals lived.
Catching a glimpse of something in the side mirror, Bolan straightened. A white jeep was behind them, with POLICE stenciled in black block letters below the windshield. Its flashers lit up and a siren began to wail.
“Hal, I’ll call you back,” Bolan said. “We’ve got a slight problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“Island police,” Bolan said. “Jack must have been speeding.”
Grimaldi swore as he pulled the rental car over to the side of the road and stopped. “I’m liking this place less and less,” he said as he and Bolan exited the vehicle.
Two officers approached. One was a tall, muscular black man with a neatly trimmed beard and a starched blue-and-white uniform with chevrons on the shoulders. The other man was white, about five foot eight, and sported a pencil-thin mustache. His uniform had a row of shiny gold buttons, a three-stripe captain’s insignia on both epaulets and a golden braid looped through the left one. His name tag read LE PIERRE.
Bolan studied the sidearms that both men wore. The sergeant’s was a Manurhin MR 73 .357 Magnum revolver. The captain’s weapon looked to be a 9 mm SIG Sauer SP2022. Both dependable guns with smooth action. Bolan smiled. “Good afternoon, Officers. What can we do for you?”
“Ah.” The captain lifted an eyebrow. “You are Americans, n’est-ce pas?”
“That’s right,” Grimaldi said. “How can we help you?”
“You will both give your passports to the sergeant,” the captain said.
Bolan and Grimaldi handed over their documents. The big man glared at them and handed the passports to Le Pierre, who took his time paging through them. “No luggage?”
“It’s