19
ANDRAS, THE KNIFE,
stood at a pay phone overlooking the harbor at Vila do Porto. He
felt as if he’d gone back in time, using such a phone to make a
call. He could hardly remember seeing one over the last few years.
But despite its vacation destination status, the Azores were not
quite up to speed in the technology department. Many of the
island’s inhabitants were less than wealthy and often did not have
landlines or mobile phones, so the pay phones still sprouted in
many places.
For Andras, that
meant the chance to make an untraceable call, one the U.S.
government or Interpol could not tap into as its digital signal
flew through space and bounced off a satellite somewhere. To listen
to this conversation they would have to break into a heavy trunk
line buried under Azorean soil and stretching across the floor of
the Atlantic to North Africa, where it made landfall.
This was not
impossible—in fact, the Americans had famously done just that to a
Russian trunk line during the cold war—but unlikely, considering no
one had a strategic reason to care what conversations were going on
between the Azorean islanders and their families and friends on the
mainland.
And that was a
pleasing thought to Andras, because recent discoveries had raised
the specter of danger for him.
He dialed and waited
for what seemed like hours. Finally, he was connected to an
operator in Sierra Leone and then to an office in Djemma’s palace.
Eventually an aide put the President for Life on the
line.
“Why are you calling
me?” Djemma said. He sounded like he was in a tunnel
somewhere—apparently there were drawbacks to using old landline
technology.
“I have news,” he
said. “Some good, some bad.”
“Begin, and be
quick.”
“You were right. At
least twenty scientific groups have shown up, with others on their
way. This magnetic phenomenon seems to be drawing great
interest.”
“Of course it is,”
Djemma said. “Why else do you think I sent you there?”
“It’s not only
scientific interest. There are some military personnel here as
well.”
Djemma did not sound
concerned. “That is to be expected. You will have no issues with
them if you do as planned.”
“Maybe,” Andras said.
“But here’s the real problem. The Americans who almost caught us on
the Kinjara Maru are here. I’ve seen
their ship in the harbor. Now it anchors over the magnetic tower.
According to the Portuguese, they’ve been put in charge of the
entire study. I’m sure there’s a military angle to
it.”
Djemma laughed. “You
continue to make your enemies bigger than they really are, perhaps
to add glory to your name when you knock them down, but it smacks
of paranoia.”
“What are you talking
about?” Andras asked.
“You were not
attacked by U.S. Navy SEALs or Special Forces, my friend. These men
from NUMA are oceanographers and divers. They find wrecks and
salvage ships and take pictures of sea life. Honestly, I’d have
thought you could handle them. I wouldn’t let it get out that they
bested you so easily, it may reduce your ability to charge such
outrageous fees.”
Djemma laughed as he
spoke, and Andras felt his blood beginning to boil.
“Are you worried
about facing them again?” Djemma asked, needling him.
“Listen to me,”
Andras said, growing furious. And then he paused as a sight he
could hardly believe came walking right up the dock toward him. The
same silver-haired American who’d interfered with him on the
Kinjara Maru, walking with a
dark-haired woman he recognized as the Russian scientist he’d been
told about. As they drew closer, Andras recognized the man in a
more concrete way.
“Well I’ll be,” he
whispered to himself.
“What?” Djemma said.
“What are you talking about?”
Shrinking back into
the kiosk that held the pay phone and turning away, Andras ignored
them as they passed on the far side of the street.
“Andras,” Djemma
said. “What the hell is going on?”
Andras returned to
his phone call, calculating a new play. “This NUMA is not as
toothless as you might think,” he said. “My concern is that they
will interfere again. One of their members in particular. It would
be best if I take them out.”
“Don’t antagonize
them,” Djemma warned. “You’ll only draw attention to us at the
wrong time. We are very close to making our move.”
“Don’t worry,” Andras
said. “It’ll go off without a hitch, I promise you.”
“I’m not paying you
for revenge,” Djemma said.
Andras laughed.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “This one’s on the house.”
Before Djemma could
reply, Andras slammed the heavy plastic receiver back onto its
metal cradle. The sound it made and the sensation left him grinning
maniacally, so much more satisfying than pressing a red button on a
cell phone.