Gregg Loomis - Gates Of Hades

Even in December of 1999, when Ahmed Ressam had been apprehended near here with a carload of explosives with which to celebrate the new millennium, the Canadian authorities had done nothing to tighten security. It was the Americans, not the Canadians, who had to worry. Ahmed's target had been the Los Angeles airport, not something in Canada. Besides, prosecuting or even extraditing accused terrorists was contrary to the country's open-door policy to all people, a policy that endangered their neighbor to the south, much to the glee of most Canadians.

United States bashing had replaced apathy as the national pastime of Canada.

Don't offend, don't interfere, don't get involved. Canada's national mantra. A national character that rivaled cottage cheese for blandness. And why not? Any external threat would be met not by the few largely ceremonial troops of Canada's military, but by U.S. military might. Like most recipients of charity, Canada was resentful, believing it could avoid global conflict by political correctness and siding against their protector on every issue.

Rassavitch smiled, showing yellowed teeth, as the officer waved him across the border. Didn't even ask for the keys to inspect the trunk. That would be racial profiling, hassling someone to whom English was not a native language. And America, the democracy, would not treat any of its minorities differently from its majority.

Apparently dogs were immune from political correctness. The black Lab had sniffed its way around the car and wagged its tail in a most friendly manner. Of course, there was nothing in the car for the dog to smell. Only Rassavitch, who intended to be much more effective than a few hundred pounds of explosives.

He returned the officer's wish that he have a good day and entered the United States. When he was out of sight of the border station, he pulled to the side of the two-lane road and waited for a fully loaded logging truck to pass before he flicked a flame from a cigarette lighter and burned the driver's license and passport to unrecognizable ash.

Then he turned east and began the long drive to the opposite coast.

Grand Turk

That afternoon

On the few occasions he had visited there, Jason had been impressed with just how unattractive a tropical setting could be made. Grand Turk was a center for off-shore banking, corporations and individuals who were willing to pay handsomely to remain below the radar of any number of tax-collecting authorities and the lawyers who served this very specialized clientele. One-story office buildings, mostly concrete block, crowded one another for space along one side of Front Street. Any number of colors, apparently based on the availability of paint at the time of construction rather than aesthetics, had been used. Across the street, a beach, framed by tired palm trees, had probably once been a spectacular crescent. Today, litter and garbage of every description covered the golden sand and floated in the turquoise surf as though a giant party had just ended.

The business of Grand Turk was business. Scenic vistas belonged elsewhere.

Jason sat in the backseat of an ancient Ford between two burly officers who reeked of sweat and stale tobacco smoke. The prison occupied two blocks of the town's less desirable real estate, ten-foot-high stone walls topped with broken glass that sparkled in the sun with a cheerfulness that seemed out of place.

Upon arrival, he was taken to a small, airless room where the smell of lye soap was strong enough to make his eyes water but not sufficient to conceal the odor of old urine, feces, and despair. He was stripped and searched by two other officers and fingerprinted with a kit J. Edgar Hoover would have discarded as antiquated. His clothes, minus belt and shoelaces, were returned to him. The size of the eyes of the guard examining the contents of the money belt told Jason what was in the man's mind.

"Barclays has a receipt for issuing every dime of that," Jason said. "I'd hate to have to make a claim for any that was missing."

The glance exchanged between the two guards did little to reassure Jason.

"And I believe I'm entitled to a phone call."

The two looked at him as though he were speaking in tongues.

"A phone call," Jason repeated, holding a fist next to his ear to simulate the device.

One of the men grinned. "Mon, dis ain' some hotel on de beach."

The other nodded. "Yeah, we ain' got room service, neither."

The first twisted Jason's arms behind him with more force than was necessary and shoved him forward. "An' you don' gets a choice of view wid de room."

A short walk down a hallway brought them to an enclosed square, each side lined with six cells. The man behind Jason gave him another push that sent him stumbling, into darkness and crashing into the far wall.

"You does git a private room, though!"

Both found this extremely funny. A barred door clanged shut, and the two men were laughing as the sound of their footsteps faded.

Jason guessed the room was about six by six. A single bunk with a soiled cotton-tick mattress occupied one entire wall. Opposite from the entrance, a barred slit of a window was next to the ceiling. Below that, a seatless commode and a stained basin with a single handle added to the austerity of the room. A cursory inspection showed the walls to be island limestone, a porous material that was likely to seep water in a driving rain but hard enough to resist any efforts to escape.

A colony of mold was prospering on one wall.

Jason examined the barred door closely. Although the lock was of the old type that required a key, the lock plate was firm and, as far as he could tell, well maintained.

He stretched out on the bunk for lack of a better place. If they didn't know already, Eco's minions would soon be aware he was confined, locked up with no chance of escaping whatever they had in mind for him. The memory of Paco's headless body was enough to guarantee he would not accidentally doze off.

Providenciales International Airport

Providenciales, Turks and Caicos Islands

British West Indies

The next morning

There was something downright strange about Charlie Calder's four passengers, the ones who had just gotten off the international flight from Miami.

They didn't smile, unusual in a place where the sun was almost always shining, the beaches and water almost always beautiful. People were mostly happy to get here and smiled a lot. It was the eyes, Charlie thought, dark, almost black eyes that seemed to scowl from faces that looked very much like they had spent time in a boxing ring, faces very much like those of the six men he had seen here at the airport last week.

Those men, he understood, had chartered a fishing boat run by his cousin Willie, but had done nothing but drift outside the North Caicos reef and look at the beach through binoculars before having Willie put them ashore at North Caicos's only dock just at dark. As far as Willie knew, they were still over there.

Now here were these men, just as dark, just as grim, and just as big and muscular, who wanted Charlie to fly them over to Grand Turk in the charter service's aging Piper Aztec just as soon as they had recovered their baggage from the airport's sole carousel.

Odd. Their only luggage appeared to be one briefcase apiece, leather attache cases that could easily have been carried on board. Why check such little luggage? Hard question, unless maybe there was something in the cases they didn't want scanned by security before the boarding gates. What would somebody bring here like that?

Willie said his customers carried only briefcases, too, ones they never relinquished once they took them from the baggage claim. Strange, too, that they were willing to pay to charter the Aztec, because Turks and Caicos Air had a flight to Grand Turk that left in a little over an hour. The Twin Otter, a ten-passenger job, was a lot roomier than the Aztec, but Charlie guessed they were in a hurry, something no native ever was.