Chapter 10

 

 

Tia sat in the passenger seat of the Toyota Land Cruiser as it bounced down the road from the Carlos Ibanez de Campo International Airport toward Punta Arenas. The flight had been long enough that she felt fully rested despite the lateness of the hour. It had also been long enough to make her glad to be free of the confines of the Learjet. Two men sat in the seat behind her. Another Land Cruiser followed a few yards behind.

“Would you like refreshment, Señorita?” Oscar, the driver, asked, his accent thick. “Your trip has been long.” The driver was younger than thirty but looked older. Eric had told her he was a supervisor at one of the copper mines in the country.

“We had plenty of refreshments on the plane, Oscar,” Tia replied. Her eyes traced the dim road ahead. They had flown far enough south that the sun barely set beyond the horizon. The twilight was confusing, her internal clock telling her it must be close to midnight. To her left she saw the dark blue stretch of water called the Strait of Magellan.

“I know a place not far from here where the beer is good.” He paused and ran a hand through dark hair that already showed touches of gray. His features were Spanish, but some sharp edges around the face told Tia that some Native American blood coursed through his veins. “I think of the men—a chance to stretch their legs before checking in at the hotel.”

Tia turned to the two companions who rode silently in the back. One raised an eyebrow but offered no words. They were due to check in at the hotel and spend half of the next day touring the copper mine, waiting for final preparations to be made for the next leg of their journey. She had no interest in seeing the gaping hole in the ground, but it was necessary to keep up appearances. Covertness came with a price.

Turning back to the road ahead, she gave it another moment’s thought. She had no desire to sit in a hotel room. She nodded. “Beer it is.”

Oscar grinned broadly. Tia was certain he was thinking of more than just the men.

The cantina was off a back street in the north part of town. They passed through an industrial area, past a few small shops, and pulled onto a gravel parking lot, where a lone clapboard building stood. A hand-lettered sign identified the establishment as Sebastian’s. Yellow paint peeled from the wood, and the shingle roof looked in need of repair. The blue water behind it gave it the kind of quality landscape painters loved to capture in oils.

“It is not much to the eyes, but the cerveza is the best in all of Magallanes.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it,” Tia said. Her five travel companions poured out of the vehicles, stretched, and made their way to the door which hung awkwardly on its hinges. Tia followed and entered last, except for Oscar, who stood to one side and waved her in with a gallant motion.

The inside of Sebastian’s was little better than the exterior. Abused wood tables, some leaning precipitously, dotted the dirt-caked wood floor. Tobacco smoke filled the air, stinging Tia’s eyes and chewing at her throat.

The driver stepped to her side. “Many of the miners come here. For many, here is better than home.”

The rocky tables, worn booths, and long, scarred bar were filled with men. Dirt clung to their clothing and sweat to their skin. Outside, the air was cold. Punta Arenas’s average temperature was a mere forty-four degrees, much colder when winter arrived. Two hundred inches of precipitation fell every year, mostly snow. Inside, the bodies of patrons and an overworked heater had raised the temperature beyond the level of comfort.

When Tia first entered, the bar was reverberating with Spanish rock music and the cacophonous hum of forty simultaneous conversations. The sight of seven men entering dulled the roar—and Tia’s presence quenched it.

Most of the patrons were male, but a few provocatively dressed women were scattered around the room. Tia was sure their trade had nothing to do with mining, manufacturing, or anything similar.

Tia stood out. Her height and waist-length black hair made her irresistible to the eyes of many men. She had grown used to it. Men had been undressing her with their eyes since high school. It had ceased to bother her. The five men with her and the two drivers moved to the battered bar, and Oscar ordered beer for everyone in his charge.

Tia stood next to Oscar at the bar. “You come here often?” she asked and wondered why anyone would.

“On Sábado,” he said. “Saturday nights. It is the only day I can leave the work at the mine.”

It was Saturday; apparently Oscar did not want to waste his one free night. The bartender, a pudgy man with dark skin, a week’s worth of stubble on his chin, and a shiny bald head, set a chipped glass of beer before Tia. She eyed it then took the mug in hand.

A man sidled up to her and said something in Spanish. Tia set down her beer and turned. “Excuse me?”

“Americano?” the man asked. He tapped the small glass in his right hand on the marred bar top. The bartender pulled a bottle of tequila from beneath the bar and filled the man’s glass. She judged him to be in his early twenties, and he stood as tall as she. Muscles bulged beneath his worn beige shirt. She was certain they were formed by hard work and not membership in a gym. His breath was sour from bad gums and alcohol. Tia decided she didn’t like the man.

“I’m from America,” Tia said. “What of it?”

“Please, amigo,” Oscar said, “this is a private party.”

“Too good for us?” the man asked.

“No—” Oscar began.

“Yes,” Tia interjected and turned her back on the man. She caught sight of her crew, each one smiling but not making eye contact.

“That’s a pretty tattoo,” the interloper said. “It is some kind of dragon, no?”

“Yes. Now go away.”

“I go where I wish to go, pretty Americano.” He raised his voice. “Eh, amigos?” The others in the bar cheered in agreement.

Tia looked at Oscar, whose face had gone white and his eyes doubled in size. She knew what he was thinking, that he had led his employer’s representative into a dangerous situation. “Amigo,” he said, “please let us drink our beer in peace. We don’t want trouble.”

“I don’t want no trouble, either,” the thick-armed man said. He leaned forward and sniffed Tia’s neck. “I want something else.”

“Please,” Oscar said, his voice shaking. “Do not do this. You do not understand.”

“I understand enough.” He reached forward and gently stroked the dragon tattoo on Tia’s hand. “Such a pretty tattoo for such a pretty lady.”

“Do you use that hand?” Tia asked.

“For many things,” he cooed. He sniffed her neck again. Two of her crew pushed away from the bar, but she shook her head. They returned to their previous position, their eyes fixed on the drunk man. “Would you like to see what I can do with this pretty hand?”

Tia’s movement was so swift the man could not have responded if he had been sober. She grabbed the man’s fingers and squeezed like a vise. Before he could release a cry of pain, she slammed his hand to the bar, raised her mug, and then brought it down like a mallet, its edge digging into the man’s flesh. She heard the bones in his hand snap.

Then came the scream of pain. Spanish began to flow from his lips in what Tia assumed were curses, but she didn’t try to translate. Instead, she spun, her arm outstretched, the glass mug still in her hand. It struck the man hard on the cheekbone. The cursing stopped, and he dropped to the floor. He shuddered and shook as blood ran from his nose and the gash on the side of his head.

Another man sprang from a nearby table and charged Tia, but she saw him coming. A quick side step, and her extended foot sent the would-be assailant to the ground. Tia shattered the mug on the back of his head. The man did not move.

Hearing a sound behind her, she spun to see the bartender pull a baseball bat from somewhere beneath the counter. He took one step, then his direction changed. One of her team had seized the barkeep by the front of his shirt and dragged him over the counter. One punch later, he became the third man on the floor.

The men in the bar shot to their feet as if choreographed but stopped before they could take a step, their eyes fixed on Tia’s five-member crew. All five had pulled identical nine-millimeter pistols from beneath their coats. Five guns were pointed at the heads of various patrons. Only the rock-and-roll song could be heard.

Tia looked down at her hand, which still held the handle of the shattered mug. “A waste of beer if you ask me.” She tossed the glass handle and walked to the unconscious bartender. She studied him for a moment then reached into the back pocket of her jeans and removed a thin billfold. She extracted an American hundred-dollar bill and tucked it into the bartender’s shirt. “Perhaps we should call it a night, gentlemen.”

She walked to the door, patrons parting before her like water before the prow of a ship.

 

The wind had settled some, but it was unwilling to release its grip on the flat expanse of ice. Perry leaned forward over the steering bars of the snowmobile, trying to lower the profile of his body and present less surface for the wind to press against. Perry could feel Griffin mimicking the position behind him. A glance at the other snowmobile showed Jack and Larimore doing the same thing.

The cold was bitter and angry. The moist air left Perry’s lungs and froze against the stubble on his face. Breathing was difficult as the wind slapped around his parka’s hood. His jaw hurt from chattering, and his body protested the odd position, but Perry pushed on. He had no choice.

The realization that one of the remaining eight could be a saboteur gave him a different kind of chill. He corrected himself. Not eight. He could vouch for Jack, Gleason, Dr. Curtis, and, of course, himself. That reduced the number of suspects to four: Larimore, Griffin, Gwen, and Sarah. Not one was a likely candidate. Larimore had lost six of his own men. Griffin might have some hidden motivation, but the scientist didn’t seem the kind to resort to mass murder. Gwen and Sarah seemed even less likely. Perhaps he was showing his male chauvinism. A woman could make a bomb as easily as a man. He strained his memory to recall any news story about a female bomber. While he may have seen one, none came to his mind.

Perhaps it had been a suicide bombing. Such things were no longer rare. The Middle East, Europe, and other countries had their share. And who could forget the airliners crashing into the Trade Towers on September 11 just a handful of years before?

Maybe it had been an accident. After all, they were ill equipped to judge what caused the explosion. Perry certainly wasn’t skilled in evaluating aircraft accidents. Perhaps something on board had exploded because of some unfortunate circumstance. He hoped that was the case. He doubted it was.

The thoughts boiled in Perry’s brain. If one of the remaining eight were a saboteur, then he was facing the most dangerous situation in his life. There were no police to call, no security detail to ease his mind. He and the others would be sleeping with a terrorist. An icicle ran through Perry’s mind. Or terrorists. The deed could just as easily have been done by more than one person.

Perry consulted the GPS monitor mounted on the snowmobile. Fifteen miles to go, a short distance in most circumstances. Today, it seemed half a world away.

Perry wondered what he would find when, Lord willing, they pulled up at the Dome.