Jeffery Deaver - The Kill Room

The door opened and a man joined him. He had black skin, a bullet-shaped head, shaved shiny, a lean body. Bobby Cheval wore jeans, a denim shirt with sleeves cut off so that it resembled a vest. He was barefoot. He glanced to the horizon. He said, “Too bad, don’t you think? He won’t see it happen. That is sad.”

Cheval had been Robert Moreno’s main contact in the Bahamas.

“Maybe he will,” Cruz said. He didn’t believe this but he said it to reassure Cheval, who wore a horsehair cross around his neck. Cruz didn’t accept the afterlife and knew his dear friend Robert Moreno was as dead as the heart of the government that had killed him.

Cheval, who would lead the Local Empowerment Movement in the Bahamas once it was up and running, had been instrumental in putting together today’s plan.

“Any ships? Signs of surveillance?” Cruz asked.

“No, no. Nothing.”

Cruz was sure no one suspected what was going to happen. They had been so very careful. His only moment of concern had been earlier in the week when that sexy redheaded policewoman had shown up in the Chambers Street office of Classrooms for the Americas to ask about Roberto’s visit on May 1. He’d been surprised at first but Cruz had dealt with some truly despicable people—al-Qaeda operatives, for instance, and Shining Path rebels—and didn’t get rattled easily. He’d distracted Detective Sachs with the true story of the “white guy” who’d tailed Roberto, from NIOS undoubtedly. And distracted her further with some fiction about a mysterious private jet.

A red herring about a blue plane, he thought to himself now and smiled. Roberto would have liked that.

“Is the skiff ready?” Cruz asked Cheval.

“Yes, it is. How close will we get? Before we abandon, I mean.”

“Two kilometers will be fine.”

At that point the five crewmen would climb into a high-speed cigarette boat and head in the opposite direction. They’d follow the ship’s progress on the computer. They could steer remotely if the GPS and autopilot broke down; there was a webcam mounted on the bridge of the vessel and they’d be able to watch the ship approach its destination.

At which the men now gazed.

The Miami Rover was American Petroleum Drilling and Refining’s only oil rig in the area, located about thirty miles off the coast of Miami. (And named rather ironically; it didn’t rove anywhere anymore and its journey here had been straight from Texas, at the meandering rate of four knots.)

Months ago Moreno and Cruz had decided that the oil company would be the target for their biggest “message” to date; American Petroleum had stolen huge tracts of land in South America and displaced thousands of people, offering them a pathetic settlement in return for their signatures on deeds of transfer that most of them couldn’t read. Moreno had organized a series of protests in the United States and elsewhere over the past month or so. The protests had served two purposes. First, they’d brought to light the crimes of AmPet. But, second, they lent credence to the proposition that Moreno was all talk. Once the authorities saw that mere protesting was what he had in mind they largely lost interest in him.

And so nobody followed up on leads that might have exposed what was going to happen today: ramming the ship into the Miami Rover . Once it hit, the fifty-five-gallon drums containing a poignant mixture of diesel fuel, fertilizer and nitromethane would detonate, destroying the rig.

But that in itself, while a blow for the cause, wasn’t enough, Moreno and Cruz had decided. Killing sixty or so workers, ruining the biggest oil rig in the Southeast? That was like that pathetic fellow who suicide-crashed his private plane into the building housing the IRS in Austin, Texas. He killed a few people. Caused some damage, snarled traffic.

And soon, back to business as usual in the Lone Star State’s capital.

What would happen today was considerably worse.

After the initial explosion destroyed the rig, the ship would sink fast. In the stern was a second bomb that would descend to the seafloor near the wellhead. A depth-gauge detonator would set off another explosion, which would destroy both the well’s ram and annular blowout preventers. Without any BOPs to stop the flow, oil would gush into the ocean at the rate of 120,000 barrels a day, more than twice what escaped in the Deepwater Horizon disaster in the Gulf.

The surface currents and wind would speed the oil slick on its mission to destroy much of the eastern coast of Florida and Georgia. And might even spread to the Carolinas. Ports would close, shipping and tourism would stop indefinitely, millions of people would take a huge economic hit.

Roberto had said, “Americans want oil for their cars and their air-conditioning and their capitalist companies. Well, I’ll give it to them. They can drown in all the oil we’ll deliver!”

Forty minutes later the ship was three kilometers away from the Miami Rover .

Enrico Cruz checked the GPS one last time and he and Cheval left the bridge. Cruz said, “Everybody in the speedboat.”

Cruz hurried to the gamy forward hold, in which slimy water sloshed, and checked the main bomb. Everything fine. He armed it. He did the same with the second, the device that would destroy the blowout preventer.

Then he hurried back to the rocking deck. A glance over the bow. Yes, she was making right for the rig. He scanned the massive deck of the structure—easily a hundred feet above the surface. No workers were visible. This was typical. Nobody on oil rigs wasted time lounging on the fiercely hot iron superstructure, taking in the non-view. They were hard at work in the interior of the unit, mostly in the drill house, or asleep, waiting for the next shift.

Cruz hurried to the side of the vessel and climbed down the rope ladder and dropped into the speedboat with Cheval and the others of the crew.

The motor started.

But before they pulled away, Cruz opened his palm and kissed the pads of his fingers. He then touched it to a rusty patch of hull and whispered, “This is for you, Roberto.”

CHAPTER 95

THE CLUSTER OF PASSENGERS ON the cruise ship’s forward deck was being photographed by Jim from New Jersey, as opposed to Jim from Cleveland or Jim from London (all right, the Brit preferred “James” but since he was on holiday, he was happy to play along with the others).

The group had become friendly in the days since the ocean liner left Hamilton, in Bermuda, and had spent the first tipsy cocktail hour noting coincidences of career and number of children…and given names.

Four Jims, two Sallys.

Jim from California was below, neither the patch nor Dramamine working well, and so he would not be included in the picture.

Jim from New Jersey lined everyone up against what he said was a gunwale, though nobody knew exactly what that was—he didn’t either—but it seemed very nautical and fun to say.

“Nobody sing the Titanic song.”

There’d been a lot of that, especially as the bars remained open late into the night, but the truth was that very few people, men or women, could bring off the treacly song like Celine Dion.

“Is that Florida?” somebody asked. One of the Sallys, Jim from New Jersey believed.

He saw a dim line on the horizon but that was probably just a layer of clouds.

“Not yet, I don’t think.”

“But what’s that? It’s a building.”

“Oh, that’s the oil rig. The first one in this part of the Atlantic. Didn’t you see the news? A year ago or so. They found some oil between Nassau and Florida.”

“They? Who’s they? Everybody always says ‘they.’ Are you going to take the picture? My margarita’s melting.”