Chapter 6

6

Juan and Callie took up a couple of overstuffed leather chairs beneath a massive oil painting, Crepin's majestic Battle of Trafalgar 1805 .

Callie gestured at the naval masterpiece above their heads. "My father would have loved that."

"I'm so sorry you lost him."

"You would have liked him."

"I bet."

"He was a senior chief master diver."

Juan whistled. "That's some achievement. He must have had the brains of an astronaut and the skill of a surgeon."

A young steward in a crisp white shirt and sharply creased slacks wheeled a cart and a silver coffee service over to Juan and Callie.

"How's Maurice?" Juan asked.

"He's still recovering from the croup, I'm sorry to say." There was a faint Irish lilt in his voice.

"Still wheezing like a squeeze box?"

"Dr. Huxley suggested that if we could acquire a washboard and a fiddle we could start a zydeco band down there."

"Tell her to check with MacD. He's probably got one of each in his gun locker."

"Coffee, sir?"

"Please."

The steward filled two bone china coffee cups in saucers and set them on the side tables next to their chairs.

"Cigar, Chairman?" the steward asked.

Juan turned to Callie. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all."

The steward offered a leathered box of cigars featuring a wide selection. Juan chose an Arturo Fuente Don Carlos. The steward fired up a Zippo and Juan puffed the luxurious cigar into life before blowing his first cloud of blue smoke toward the vented coffered ceiling.

Callie enjoyed the hint of espresso beans, chestnuts, and earth filling the air as she sipped her coffee.

"Reminds me of my father. He always had a stogie in hand."

Juan took another satisfying puff before setting the Arturo down in the crystal ashtray perched beneath a ventilating device. He picked up his cup.

"What did your father do after he retired from the Navy?"

"Dad started an underwater marine salvage and repair operation. He was based out of Honolulu—that's where I grew up. My mother died when I was born. We had a wonderful life, and he was my world. I grew up on the beach—learned how to surf before I could ride a bike. I was dive certified at the age of sixteen. Even helped Dad out on a couple of projects for the Navy."

"I can see why you decided to follow in your father's footsteps."

Callie's face darkened with a memory. Juan sat in silence, letting her process.

"He was two hundred and fifty feet down, servicing a rig in the Gulf of Mexico when it partially collapsed. The coroner said he died instantly, but I have my doubts. I was nineteen when it happened."

"That's rough for a kid. Anybody, really."

"At first, I couldn't make any sense of it. It seemed so…random. He was very methodical, very careful. That's probably why I became an engineer. I see the world as a function of a balance of forces. If the water pressure is too great for a submarine hull, it collapses, and people die. Life is symmetrical. Death is chaotic. And for a while there, I let the chaos get inside of me."

"So how did you process all of that?"

A smile creased her full mouth.

"I knew Dad would have kicked my butt if I quit. So, I didn't. Seven years ago, we managed to rescue three demolition divers at a job in the North Sea. There have been others since. That's when it started to make sense."

"You balanced his tragic death by building a company that saves lives. I know your dad is smiling down on you for that."

"I'd like to think so."

"So you got out of the fins and neoprene part of the business and acquired advanced degrees in Marine and Maritime Intelligent Robotics from the Norwegian University of Science and Technology in Trondheim."

"You've done your research."

"Then you started building underwater vehicles."

"My company can do more work in more places and at greater depths for less risk than a regular operation."

"And that makes you more profitable."

"Which allows me to plow more money back into research and development."

"My people have looked at your work. They were impressed—and trust me, that's no small accomplishment."

Callie smiled. "Thank you."

"My people also tell me you once owned the world record for no-limits free diving."

"I was twenty-two years old. Unfortunately, I blacked out on the way back up and suffered an aneurysm. Nearly died."

Now Juan understood what he had been sensing about her appearance all along.

"Is that how you lost your left eye?"

Juan had noticed earlier the way the dining room lights had played in her eyes. She also had the habit of subtly turning her head so that the right side of her face was always closest to whomever she was speaking with. The more he searched her face the more he realized that the glass left eye was a near-perfect reproduction of her right eye. In fact, it was almost too perfect.

Callie flushed with embarrassment.

"I suppose it's my vanity that won't let me wear an eye patch."

"Like Linda said, you'd fit in perfectly with this pirate crew. They'd elect you captain of the ship if you wore it."

"I'm grateful, actually. It could've been worse. I haven't attempted another world record since."

"Can't say that I blame you."

"Ironically, I've traveled a hundred times deeper in submersibles since then. Only now, I don't have to hold my breath."

"It's still plenty dangerous." Juan was thinking of a fatal accident with a commercial submersible that had been in the news recently.

"It's a calculated risk. But survival is largely a function of good engineering and a clear understanding of hydrostatics."

"It still takes a lot of guts."

"Whatever I've got, I got it from my dad." She took another sip of coffee. "This is so good."

"Fresh-ground Cuban dark roast pour-over. My personal favorite."

"So what about you? How did you wind up in this line of work? My guess is former CIA."

"I was a NOC for longer than I can remember."

"Non-official cover. A spook out in the cold."

"More like in the hot, most of the time."

"Why'd you quit?"

"The American intelligence community has largely become just another government bureaucracy, as sluggish and dysfunctional as your local DMV. Red tape, executive orders, legal opinions, and too many white-shoed political appointees more interested in the D.C. cocktail circuit than the national interest. I couldn't take it anymore."

"But you're still in the same game." Callie gestured at the ceiling. "So why do all of this?"

"Same arena, different game. Now we play by our own rules. And we're still playing, because there are still monsters out in the world that mean to do us harm. I'm beholden to only one voice now and that's the one in my head. My mission is the safety of my country and my crew. There isn't anything I won't do to secure both."

Juan picked his cigar back up and took another satisfying drag. If it had been after dinner he would have ordered a couple of fingers of twenty-three-year-old Pappy Van Winkle bourbon, but a full workday was still ahead of them, including a test dive with Callie's Spook Fish .

"Dessert?" Juan asked. "Chef makes a tiramisu that will sing in your mouth like a Puccini aria."

"I'm already stuffed to the gills. Maybe I can have a rain check?"

"Of course." Juan checked his watch. "There's one more department I want to show you before I cut you loose to get to work. You game?"

Callie's eyebrows bounced.

"Always."