China Strike Page 18

  Florian shook the flab that hid his chin and ran his fingers over his keyboard. “One seat on the flight to Palma de Mallorca,” he mumbled.

  Todd dropped three one-hundred-euro bills on the counter. Florian stared at the cash. “I don’t have change. People don’t usually pay with—with money. Not in Luxembourg.”

  Todd watched McCarthy move through the metal detector beyond the check-in desks. The Palma flight was at the top of the list of departures. It was already boarding. “Keep the change, Florian. It’s a gift from the Department of Homeland Security.”

  The ticket agent reached for the money nervously.

  “If you see something, say something.” Todd winked.

  Florian withdrew his hand in surprise.

  Todd jogged toward the security check and cut the line. The Luxembourgers didn’t like that. They called out to him. The only word he understood was “Monsieur,” which showed how little they knew—he wasn’t looking for respect. He brushed off their complaints. “Yeah, yeah. Wheels up, pants down, guys.” He showed his ID to the security guard and went past.

  Down another set of escalators, McCarthy disappeared into the telescopic tunnel at the gate. Todd went after him. Unless his mother retired to Spain, he thought, this guy has some other purpose to his trip, and that makes it a lot more interesting for me.

  At the door of the plane, Todd greeted the flight attendant politely and looked down the aisle. He flushed because he realized he’d made an error. The flight was full. McCarthy settled into his window seat in the front row, his legs constricted by the bulkhead. All the other seats were occupied by cheerful vacationers, excitedly looking forward to Spanish sunshine. Todd’s seat was right next to McCarthy.

  He sat gingerly beside the Irishman. McCarthy watched him closely. It wouldn’t be the first time a suspect had read the signs that said law enforcement all over Todd. But those were street mopes who were accustomed to arrest, interrogation, and jail time. Nervously, McCarthy wrung his hands. Todd saw how smooth his knuckles were. McCarthy wouldn’t know a cop until the cuffs were on.

  So maybe it wasn’t a mistake to buy this ticket after all. In fact, it was an opportunity. “Been to Palma before, sir?” Todd gave McCarthy his best simple-American-abroad smile. “I don’t mind telling you, it’s my first time.”

  The Irishman flinched, surprised by the down-home accent. “Palma? No, I’ve not been there before.” He turned to the porthole. The plane drew back from the gate.

  “What’re you doing down there? Business trip?”

  McCarthy glanced at the happy tourists in their T-shirts and the kids grabbing for their iPads. He touched the lapels of his suit and laid his hands flat on the attaché case across his lap. “Something like that, yes.”

  “Something like that? What’re you, a criminal?”

  McCarthy’s eyes widened. The plane rumbled faster along the runway.

  “I got you. Didn’t I? I got you there.” Todd nudged the Irishman’s arm. “What’s your game? I’m in real estate. I’m headed down to Palma to buy up land and develop it for vacation homes. Sorry, we’re in Europe now. ‘Holiday’ homes. You in real estate?”

  “No, no, I’m not.”

  “Banking? This is Luxembourg. You’ve got to be a banker, right? What do you do? I bet you hide rich guys’ millions from the IRS. I nailed it, right?” Todd slapped the attaché case playfully. “What you got in there? About a million bucks?”

  McCarthy yanked the case away and tucked it between his feet. He gestured to the flight attendant. “Whisky,” he called. In a tone of profound desperation, he added: “Please.”

  The plane jerked into the air. The flight attendant’s smile was a wince as she rolled her finger to signal that she’d be along with the alcohol as soon as they were at cruising height.

  “Me too,” Todd called out to her. Then he squeezed McCarthy’s arm. “I’ll take a whisky with you.”

  McCarthy couldn’t resist a smile. An Irishman never likes to drink alone, and he always likes a man who drinks. Particularly when he fears for his life.

  After the whisky arrived, McCarthy loosened up. It was a flight of less than two hours, but the Irishman seemed determined to put away enough scotch to last through a long haul to Australia. By the fourth measure, he had an arm around Todd. He pulled himself to his feet. “I have to piss, mate.” He swayed drunkenly and dropped on top of Todd as he edged past him into the aisle. “Bugger me. Turbulence.” He laughed. “Did you feel that turbulence just then?”

  “Nearly shook me out of my seat, man.” Todd joined in the merriment, so McCarthy wouldn’t see or feel the agent’s hand in his jacket pocket. Todd turned his wrist to slip the guy’s keys out of sight. Then he touched his finger to the side of his nose, sharing the joke. “Right. That’s what it is. Turbulence.”

  McCarthy locked himself into the toilet. Todd watched the green overhead light go on. Then he took the attaché case from under the seat. He flicked the keys through his fingers until he came to a small square one. With a turn in the lock, the key opened the clasps of the case. Todd lifted the lid carefully.

  The case was half filled with blank letterhead from McCarthy’s bank, ballast and camouflage for the real contents of the case. In the middle of the papers, Todd found a FedEx envelope. The edge had been torn away. Bloody fingerprints marked the waybill poking out of its plastic cover.

  Todd glanced toward the toilet as he reached into the envelope. He drew out a plastic baggie. He turned the case on his lap so that no one else would see inside. He bent lower and examined the baggie. It was smeared with blood. At first he thought it contained a dead black rat. Then he saw what it was.

  He shoved the baggie into the pocket of his jacket. He read over the FedEx waybill in a hurry. He couldn’t see anything useful in it, but Haddad might be able to trace the sender, so he folded it unevenly in his shaking hands and stuffed it into his pocket. He pushed in the clasps on the case, turned the lock, and dropped the keys to the floor. Just as the toilet flushed, he stood the case in front of McCarthy’s seat.

  The Irishman called out for two more whiskeys from the flight attendant as he returned.

  “We are about to start our descent, sir,” she said.

  “There’s always time for another. Besides, me and my pal Billy here are never coming down, are we, sunshine?”

  “Let’s keep circling the airport until we run out of fuel or whiskey,” Todd said.

  McCarthy slid into his seat. Inadvertently, he kicked the keys against the side of the plane. “Look at that. I dropped these buggers.” He jangled them and slipped them into his pocket. “Let’s have that whisky, darlin’ girl.”

  The flight attendant brought two more tumblers. McCarthy toasted Todd. The ICE agent smiled feebly. He ought to keep up the conversation. He had a lot of questions for the Irishman, but none that he could ask. Not outside of an interrogation room or a jail cell.

  “You look a bit peaky,” McCarthy said. “Whisky catching up with you?” He pulled out the sick bag from the pocket in front of him and unfolded it. Todd almost used it.

  McCarthy picked up his attaché case and set it on his lap again. If it had been a nuclear device in the case, Todd would have been cool and directed. But the shock of what he had seen wouldn’t leave him. Why did McCarthy have a scalp in his case?

  Todd fumbled with the tumbler of whisky, dribbling some on his chin. The scotch burned in his throat and made him gasp. McCarthy hammered him on the shoulder, laughing. “Let’s get together tonight, old fella. I’m at the Hotel Melia by the marina. Where are you staying?”

  “No kidding. I’m at the same place. Want to share a cab?”

  McCarthy lost a little of his vim. “Got to make a stop first.”

  “I’m okay to wait. Is it somewhere far? It’d be cool to see a bit of the city.”

  The Irishman stared out of the window as the airstrip approached. Beyond it, Palma’s medieval cathedral spiked the sky on a rise at the edge of the water. Whe
n he looked back toward Todd, he was wistful and his eyes were watery. “I don’t mind telling you, I’m a bit fearful, mate.”

  “Are you okay? Are you sick?”

  “I’m not talking about my health.” He turned to the window, sniffing and wiping at his nose and cheeks, and then he was quiet until the plane landed.

  Outside the terminal, the heat sucked the whisky right through Todd’s pores and dried him up, so that his tongue felt thick and his head ached. McCarthy led him to the taxi rank. As they climbed into the cab, the Irishman pushed the door and started to get out.

  “I can’t do it,” he said. “I have to go alone. I can’t involve you in this, Bill.”

  Todd gripped McCarthy by the elbow. “We’ve shared a drink or two. It’s not the booze talking when I say that it still means something to me. It’s a bond between men.” He made sure it sounded as though the booze was, indeed, running his mouth. “Something’s worrying you, buddy, and I’m not going to ask you what it is, but I’m also not going to let you be alone in a foreign city. I’m going to watch your back, you hear?”

  McCarthy swallowed hard, evidently moved, and settled back into the taxi. He leaned forward and spoke quietly to the driver. The driver frowned and uttered a couple of complaining sentences. McCarthy handed him a one-hundred-euro note. It did the trick. The driver shut up and took off.

  “He’s been waiting a while in the rank for his turn to pick up a customer,” McCarthy explained to Todd. “We don’t have far to go. Our boy felt a bit shortchanged.”

  “You made him happy?”

  “Yes, I made him happy.”

  “Me too. I hate flying, but I just had a great time. You made me happy too, Dermot. You have a talent for it.”

  McCarthy murmured, “We’ll find out in a minute, won’t we.”

  The cab swung out of the airport. Instead of heading west into the city, it cut east into the shabby beachfront neighborhood of Can Pastilla. They rode through the dusty orange groves between the highway and the beach. The driver pulled over in front of a round building with a swooping roof. It could have been a basketball arena in a moderately sized city. The sign over by the ticket booth said it was the aquarium. Todd squinted at the sign advertising Europe’s biggest shark tank. “You here to see the sharks, man?”

  McCarthy’s hands shook as he reached for his attaché case. He stepped out of the car. “I’ll be back in just a minute or two, Bill. Probably best if you wait here.”

  Todd watched the Irishman walk at speed over the small plaza to the entrance of the aquarium. As soon as he was out of sight, Todd left the taxi and followed him. He bought a ticket and weaved through the vacationers and school groups and the staff dressed as mermaids and seals. A pirate on stilts gave him a playful slash with his plastic cutlass and waved a thumbs-up.

  He trotted through the darkness of the tropical fish displays, illuminated only by the lights inside the tanks. If McCarthy saw him, Todd decided he’d make an excuse about an argument with the driver. But he picked up his target before the Irishman spotted him. McCarthy was into the daylight and moving toward the pirate ship playground.

  Todd waited beside a pool of blue rays. McCarthy halted at the bar of a snack restaurant. The waitress brought him a beer. Todd clicked his tongue. The guy would soon be too drunk to make any sense.

  Then he realized that McCarthy hadn’t stopped for the sake of the alcohol. The man at his side carried an identical attaché case. He was four inches over six feet, with a deep tan and short white hair. His back spread out wide in the shoulders. He had an effortless power and authority that seemed to shrink McCarthy. Todd pulled out his phone. Keeping it low, as if he were reading a text, he took a few photos of McCarthy and the tall man.

  The Irishman shoved his attaché case at the man, who took it smoothly and made the switch. They shared a few words that didn’t involve much lip movement from the big man. McCarthy sucked down his beer and started away, but the man held him by the back of his jacket while he glanced inside the case and searched among the papers. His features darkened. Todd shivered. Even if the big man murdered McCarthy, he’d still have plenty of death to spare in that face.

  McCarthy did a lot of shrugging and animated whispering. But the tall guy shifted his weight, drew himself up, and laid his hands flat on the attaché case with finality. The two men moved away toward the hall that housed the bluefin tuna tank. They passed within a few yards of Todd. McCarthy didn’t see the ICE agent. He was squinting away the rivers of sweat pouring out of his brow.

  “I do not know where it is.” McCarthy spoke with the kind of emphatic whisper that’s louder than much conversational speech. “It was in the bloody case. Jesus, God, Wyatt, I can’t explain it. I had it on the plane.”

  “It ain’t there now, hoss.” The man McCarthy called Wyatt had an American accent, his voice deep and Southern.

  Wyatt pushed the attaché case into McCarthy’s chest and tried to take back the other one. McCarthy held onto it. “That’s mine. You can’t go back on this.”

  Wyatt let go of the second case. He didn’t want a scene. “Did someone switch cases on you at the airport?”

  “Couldn’t have.” McCarthy had sweated through his suit jacket. The silvery gray material was dark under the arms and down the back. “The case still has all the papers I put in there to—to add ballast.”

  “Then someone must’ve gone inside the case and taken it out,” Wyatt said. The scalp seemed to scrabble like a live animal inside Todd’s pocket. He ducked his head as Wyatt peered around the snack bar.

  McCarthy turned a circle, staring about him, but he was blind with booze and panic and stinging sweat. “It has to be him, it has to be.” McCarthy was looking straight at Todd. But he didn’t see him. “The bloke on the plane. He had a few drinks with me. He took it, he must’ve taken it. When I went for a piss.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Jesus, I don’t know. But he’s out front in a taxi, waiting for me.”

  “You brought someone here?”

  “I didn’t think it would—I thought it might—”

  Wyatt gave McCarthy a look like he was something he’d just stepped in. He went into the bluefin pavilion and jerked his thumb for McCarthy to follow.

  Todd wiped the sweat from his lip. He had to follow them inside. But McCarthy was looking for him now. He went carefully.

  The giant tuna glided past him in the massive tanks. Up ahead, Todd caught sight of the tall American. Wyatt had his hand on McCarthy’s shoulder, keeping hold of him in the crowd and the low light from the tanks. Everyone was moving swiftly, ignoring the tuna, heading for the shark display. A group of Chinese tourists cut across the stream of the crowd, stumbling and talking loudly. Todd lost McCarthy and Wyatt. He pushed through the Chinese and on into the shark wing.

  Wyatt. He remembered the name now. Kinsella forced it out of McCarthy. Wyatt was the name on the account that received the profits from the Darien stock market play. The scalp linked that trade to the killings of the Chinese engineers. Which made Todd’s situation even more dangerous.

  A dozen sand tigers moved slow and menacing through the blue water. The crowd pressed to the glass and flowed down the stairs to the lower floor, where more of the predators glided in circles. Wyatt had given off the same deliberate aura of inexhaustible malice as the sharks. Todd steeled himself. He had to get on Wyatt’s tail, no matter how dangerous he seemed. If the guy wanted the scalp, it was surely because he knew the reason the killer had cut away a strip of the flesh from the heads of the dead Chinese engineers. Todd needed that information. At any cost.

  He didn’t spot the two men on the upper floor of the shark tank. He made for the stairs. Then he heard the screams.

  Children, women, and men bawling and bellowing and wailing. All transfixed by the blue water.

  Todd followed their shocked stares. Inside the shark tank, a man in a dress shirt and undershorts came out of a dive at a depth of about twenty feet. His ankles were tie
d with a knotted pair of suit pants. His arms were wrapped behind him by a suit jacket that had been twisted to serve as a rope.

  McCarthy wriggled toward the surface of the pool. He seemed to gape out of the tank at Todd with recognition. Then blood swirled from a deep cut across his belly. The scent in the water was enough to bring the sharks.

  The screams of the tourists around Todd were deafening. Some ran as if the sharks might come for them too. Others watched in horror. More than a few recorded it on their cell phones.

  McCarthy was dead in less than a minute, but the sharks were still working on him as Todd hurried away. He went down the stairs among the terrified tourists. He had to find Wyatt.

  A ramp led toward the exit. Another short corridor went to a soft-play area for small children. Then Todd found a service door with the lock and handle kicked away. He pushed through it and went up the bare steps.

  At the top of the stairs, he came to another busted door. He passed into a gallery that would have been used to feed the sharks and clean their tank. The water was murky with McCarthy’s blood. The surface rippled with the distant traces of the feeding frenzy over his body. The gallery was empty.

  Todd hurried down the stairs and back into the crowd. He headed for the entrance. His heart battered in his chest louder than the terrified bawling of the tourists around him. He knew what he had to do. He dialed Kinsella. “McCarthy is dead.”

  “How’d that happen?”

  “Someone put him in a shark tank.”

  “Jesus. Who?”

  “Wyatt. Got to be the guy whose name was on the crooked account. I’m going to send you a photo of McCarthy with him. I’ll send it to Roula too. He’s American. I heard his accent. Southern. Big guy. Looks military, or maybe law enforcement.”

  “You saw him put McCarthy in the tank?”

  Todd came out into the heat and the glare of the sunlight off the Mediterranean. “What? No, I saw McCarthy in the tank. You think he jumped in for a nice cool dip?”