Chapter 64

64

Aboard the Oregon

After a hot meal and an even hotter shower, Juan sat with one of the Magic Shop’s gifted sketch artists. Each of her long fingernails were painted in a different neon hue, and flew across the keyboard as they spoke.

Cabrillo was still waiting for reports from Eric, Murph, and the other analysts for any clues they could tease out of the fragments of pocket litter, scraps of paper and, most importantly, Plata’s recovered satellite phone. So far, nothing had turned up.

But it was beneath the scalding showerheads he realized he already possessed one of the best clues he could hope for—the Vendor’s physical identity.

One of the many reasons for Cabrillo’s extraordinary success as a CIA field officer was his nearly picture-perfect memory. The problem was getting that visual image out of his brain and into a computer loaded with facial recognition software.

The young artist sitting at her workstation had spent two tours in naval intelligence before leaving the service and pursuing her lifelong dream as a portrait artist and later as a Hollywood set designer. Her combination of skills and devoted service to her nation made her a perfect candidate for Nixon’s workshop when an opening appeared in his roster.

Like most young people, she had grown up a “digital native.” Using a computer for her artwork was as natural to her as speaking her native tongue. But when the AI-powered art program Midjourney suddenly appeared, everything changed. Of course, just about anybody with the capacity to engineer thoughtful prompts could produce incredible AI-generated works of art now. But that was like saying anyone with a cell phone camera could take good snapshots. It took a true artist to produce truly great works of art, and the young woman had just created a masterpiece.

The Midjourney image on her screen was an excellent replication of the Vendor’s essential appearance. The software had generated a very workable likeness in record time. But it was her skilled artisan’s eye and hand that brought it life. Using a digital paintbrush, she took the image to the next level, capturing the Vendor’s high intelligence, arrogance, and savagery with her masterful brushstrokes.

“Anything else we need to add?” she asked.

“You nailed it,” Juan said. “Let’s get that to Eric so he can start a web search for this cat.”

“I’ll send it right now.”

Juan’s earpiece rang. “Thanks. I need to get this.”

She turned back to her keyboard as Cabrillo stood and left her workstation.

“Tell me you found him,” Cabrillo said.

“Not quite,” Linda replied in her high-pitched voice. “But maybe we picked up another thread.”

“Tell me.”

“The Sniffer picked up a sat signal from a place called Jaco Island, just off the coast of Timor-Leste.”

“Formerly known as East Timor. What kind of sat signal?”

“A sat signal that originated from a piece of equipment installed in an American Humvee.”

“Let me guess. A Humvee that should have been located in an Afghani arsenal.”

“Bingo. That Humvee shouldn’t be there.”

“And yet it is. Sounds like a Vendor op.”

“Our best guess, too.”

“Can Overholt contact any of his CIA assets in-country to confirm?”

“He says there aren’t any. Timor-Leste holds no strategic value for Uncle Sam, and it’s way out in the boonies.”

Juan did the math in his head, calculating the distance from their current position to the former Portuguese colony. They wouldn’t arrive on scene until late tomorrow evening. That was a long way to run for a pocketful of nothing.

Linda read his mind. “Wild-goose chase?”

“Yeah, but it’s the only goose in town. Lay in a course.”

“Aye, Chairman.”

Juan’s spirits lifted. It wasn’t much of a lead, but it was something. Anything was better than sitting around on his duff and hoping something would drop in his lap.

Time to celebrate.

---

★Cabrillo’s favorite pastime was working out, the greater the physical and mental exertion, the better. Daily gun practice, wall climbing, weight lifting—he loved all of it. But nothing was more satisfying or better for his overall conditioning than swimming. Cabrillo could think of no better way to spend the next hour than doing butterflies with arm and leg weights in the Oregon’s Olympic-sized pool, which he hoped to have all to himself. He had already changed into his swim trunks and carried his swim goggles in his hand.

He flung the door open to the pool area. The overhead lights were off but the pool lights were on. The shimmering marble-tiled walls echoed with the sound of a world-class swimmer churning the water like a pod of dolphins chasing a school of fish. Massive arm strokes flew through the air and thundering leg strokes crashed behind as the swimmer raced for the far end of the pool in record time.

Cabrillo bristled with frustration. He preferred to swim alone.

After an underwater flip and a powerful kick off the wall, the swimmer’s body exploded back out of the water and charged toward the near end where Cabrillo was standing.

It took Cabrillo’s eyes a couple of seconds to adjust to the image. He saw the thick rope of blond, French-braided hair and goggled eyes covering the familiar face. It was Callie setting a new women’s butterfly speed record in the Oregon pool.

As if reading his mind, Callie reached the end of the pool where he was standing and came to halt. She thrust herself out of the water with a single press of her powerful arms and a splashing kick with her legs, vaulting onto the marble floor in a single bound.

Callie stood dripping wet in front of the Chairman, breathing heavily but not out of breath. She pulled her goggles down around her neck and stood at her full height.

The only thing he had ever seen that had even come close to the vision of athletic beauty and female form was Ursula Andress emerging out of the Caribbean Sea in Dr. No.

Juan could think of only one word to describe Callie at that moment.

Or maybe it was two.

Hubba-hubba.

Callie flashed an awkward smile.

“I’m so sorry. Linda said it was okay for me to swim here.”

“No, of course. The pool is for everybody, especially our VIP guests.”

“But she also said you like to swim by yourself.”

“There’s plenty of room to share. I play a mean game of Marco Polo.”

Callie laughed. “I bet you do. I just haven’t had the chance for a swim lately. It’s my favorite form of exercise. Well, that and surfing.”

“I haven’t surfed since college days in SoCal,” Juan said. He suddenly regretted that fact, but it was true. Life had taken him far away from his carefree days along the California coast. Callie reminded him of his glorious, sun-soaked youth.

Momentarily lost in nostalgia, he suddenly realized she didn’t mention diving.

She saw the wheels turning behind his eyes.

“Scuba doesn’t hold the same allure these days,” she said. “A kind of PTSD, I suppose.”

“Different strokes for different folks,” Juan said.

“Literally.”

Now it was Juan’s turn to laugh.

They held each other’s gaze. The air nearly crackled with feral electricity. Cabrillo suddenly felt very warm.

Callie broke the silence.

“I really should get back. I’ve got a Zoom call with my Honolulu team in twenty minutes.” She stepped over to a rack of folded towels and grabbed one.

Cabrillo couldn’t help but steal another admiring glance. He savored the cut of her jib as she began to towel off.

Lucky towel, Juan thought.

“I hear we’re on our way to Timor-Leste,” Callie said as she dried herself.

“We’ll be there tomorrow evening.”

She tossed the towel into the bin and faced him with an earnest look.

“I know you need to catch the Vendor. But don’t get yourself killed doing it, okay?”

“There are worse things than dying.”

“Better things, too.”

“Maybe when this is all over, we can pick up where we left off.”

Callie grinned.

“Double entendre acknowledged and accepted, mon Capitan.”