A gust of wind hit the starboard side of the ship. Saltwater and ice sprayed across the decks. A split second later, the crate slammed into the side of the hold. Wood splintered and Reinhardt held his breath as the damaged crate was buffeted by the wind.
The first mate joined him on the quarterdeck, huddling in the lee of a cable housing, leathery face reddened by wind and ice. His gaze was glued to the frayed hawser. “What have they got in those crates?”
“I don’t want to know.” The less they knew, the more likely they were to get out of this alive.
A second gust sent the crate spinning. Fatigued steel groaned, the hawser snapped and the crate dropped like a stone, the contents exploding across the floor of the hold, scattering the loading crew. Hidden on the quarterdeck, Reinhardt had a moment to feel utter disbelief and fear as he stared at the strewn contents of the crate. Seconds later, the SS officers who were overseeing the placement of the crates stepped out of the gloom and the flat spitting of Schmeisser machine-gun pistols punctuated the pressurized whine of the wind.
An hour later, the hold was secured and the bodies of the loading crew were disposed of over the side. The spotlights washing the decks of the Nordika were extinguished and the small glow of a kerosene lamp on the bridge became the only point of reference in pitch-blackness.
Reinhardt ducked his head as he stepped onto the bridge, a sense of fatalism gripping him as he saw Dengler and another SS officer, this one a full colonel, studying a map of the channel. He had known the three men who had been executed in the hold most of his life. Konig and Holt had both been in their late fifties, with large families to support. Breit had been a gunner in the First World War. “Where is it you want to go?”
In the glare of the lamp, Reinhardt noticed for the first time that Dengler was barely old enough to shave. The Oberst was a different matter. His cheekbones were high, his mouth thin, his gaze coldly amused. It was the colonel who spoke.
“Somewhere warm. How about Colombia?”
One
Forty years later, San Francisco
The sound of the gun was an insignificant pop. The entry wound was even less startling, a hole about the size of a nickel.
FBI agent Lance Williams blinked, but the surprised flicker was a reflex only. The instant the .22 slug ploughed through his temple, slicing at an angle that sectioned both right and left hemispheres of his brain before lodging in his occipital lobe, he was clinically dead.
Agent Edward Dennison watched as Williams crumpled with an angular sideways grace, his shoulder brushing one of the potted palms that was positioned either side of the wide, elegant portico of one of Nob Hill’s most prestigious addresses. Methodically, he wiped the gun and slipped it back in his shoulder holster. The weapon was a Saturday-night special, the most popular handgun in town and the most difficult to trace; every career criminal and junkie—not to mention a lot of ordinary citizens—owned one. He would dump the gun and the body later, somewhere they would both be found after a decent interval had passed, in which time he would be able to voice his concern about his missing partner and maybe even raise the alarm.
He pressed the doorbell for the second time and tensed as the door swung open, startled when Alex Lopez answered the door himself. But then, he was aware that he and Williams had been on camera from the moment they had driven through the electronically controlled entrance gates.
Lopez studied the body, his expression bland, and Dennison felt a chill that was becoming familiar penetrate even his cynical exterior. He’d worked for Lopez on and off for the past eighteen months, but the kid had been busy since the last time they’d met. The baby-faced handsomeness had grown into the trademark cheekbones and heavy jaw that made his father, Marco Chavez, instantly recognizable, but some of the changes weren’t natural. Dennison knew enough about facial reconstruction to recognize that Lopez’s nose had been thinned, his cheekbones shaved, the distinctive hollows beneath filled. Even the slant of his eyes was subtly altered. The jaw hadn’t been touched, yet. He guessed that was a more complex procedure.
Despite the extensive surgery, Lopez was still recognizable as the heir apparent of one of Colombia’s most brutal and successful drug cartels, but the changes were enough to create uncertainty.
Lopez bent and touched Williams’s throat, checking the carotid. As the sleeve of his jacket slid back from his wrist, Dennison noted that the small tattoo on the back of his right hand had been removed. The patch of skin was noticeably lighter and faintly pink, which meant he’d gone for a skin graft instead of laser treatment. Given Lopez’s plans, the removal of the tattoo was expedient.
When Lopez was satisfied Williams was dead, he straightened. Not for the first time, Dennison wondered if Lopez saw anything more than the potential to satisfy his own needs when he looked at another human being. Williams had had a wife and two kids. On the drive up the hill, Dennison had heard it all, chapter and verse. Both of his boys had graduated from college, one was teaching math, the other had gone into the academy, following in his old man’s footsteps. With both his boys working, Williams had been looking to quit the bureau and sink his pension into a small business. Then he’d had the misfortune to stumble across Joe Canelli.
Canelli was a petty criminal and, when money was tight, a hit man. He was also an unfortunate link between the murder of a number of organized crime figures and the sudden boost in the amount of cocaine being trafficked along the West Coast by the new boy on the block, Lopez.
Dennison had dispatched Canelli, neatly tying off that loose end. He hadn’t wanted to kill Williams, but he’d had to be pragmatic. With the capture of Canelli, Williams had been on the verge of implicating Dennison in the series of killings, and that was something he couldn’t allow. After twenty years of climbing the slow, slippery ladder in the bureau, what Dennison needed was simple—money, and lots of it.
Murder didn’t sit easily with him. He had always walked a measured path between what the bureau wanted and his own personal needs, but lately his needs had become paramount. Lopez was dangerous, but the rewards were enough to make his head spin. Whether or not he lived to collect was another question, and that depended directly on his usefulness to Lopez. Dennison intended to be very useful.
Lopez met his gaze, dark eyes subtly amused, as if he knew exactly what had just passed through Dennison’s mind. With a jerk of his head, he indicated Dennison should precede him into the house.
A queer thrill ran up Dennison’s spine. He had passed the test. He was in.
Seconds later, Dennison stepped into a dimly lit reception room, and any thoughts of backing out of the deal he’d just contracted died an instant death as he made eye contact with a four-star general and a key official with the San Francisco Police Department. A wealthy financier and property developer recognizable from the society pages rose to his feet. The fact that Cesar Morell was here surprised Dennison. “Mr. Midas,” as he was known, was money, not power.
The door clicked shut behind him as a fourth figure rose to his feet and Dennison’s stomach contracted.
Becoming Alex Lopez’s mole in the FBI had always been a risk. He had negotiated the money; the initial down payment alone had made him a wealthy man and had relieved the financial pressures that had squeezed him dry. The money had enabled him to make ample provision to get out. He had formulated three separate identities. The passports were secured in a safe-deposit box, and he had deposited large sums of money in offshore accounts. He had done everything possible to ensure his survival and the survival of his wife.
Now the fail-safe escape plan he’d formulated seemed entirely useless.
Lopez had been a step ahead of him all the way. The man who had just risen to his feet