“And that’s it? No one’s heard from him since?”
“You expecting him to make contact after we dumped him?” Washburn gave him a look. “Sounds like you’ve been talking to him more recently than we have.”
Grillo pulled a grimace. It meant “No comment.”
Washburn gave him a thump on the shoulder. “I’m outta here. Any of my bosses see me talking to a rich-ass boy like yourself, they’ll think I’m pulling an Aldrich Ames.”
“In this case, I’d say it’s the opposite. You’re helping the good guys.”
“Good guys?” said Washburn. “Who are they?”
“You know who they are.”
“Maybe I do. You’re one of ’em, Grill-O. That’s the only reason I’m here.”
The two men reached the corner of Fifth Avenue and stopped before crossing, allowing the pedestrians to stream around them.
“Look, Jeb, my client would like to thank you for your services.”
“No way,” said Washburn in horror. “I do this for God and country.”
“Maybe I’ll buy you a pair of shoes. Ferragamos.”
“Buy my wife a pair. Size seven. Don’t ask me how I know.”
“You got it, Jeb.”
Washburn turned and looked Grillo in the eye. “You still smokin’ those nasty cigarettes?”
“Shermans? Yeah. Want one?”
“Hell, no. Just wondering why a smart, suave motherfucker like you wants to kill himself.” Washburn laughed. “Cigarettes ain’t bad enough, now you go asking about Palantir. Tell you something for free, Grill-O. Your days are numbered.”
48
The CH-53 Super Stallion carrying the eight members of Team Three approached the Tamondo oil rig from the south and touched down on the landing platform at 8:20 local time. The rig was a hive of activity. The night crew had four hours remaining on their shift, and the roustabouts and roughnecks could be seen scrambling among the rig’s catwalks, tending to the giant drill that turned twenty-four hours a day, bringing heavy crude to the surface. Nearly half of the sixty-five-man shift worked in confined environs deep inside the rig, where temperatures routinely hit 100 degrees and the mechanical noise was deafening. Only a few people noted the helicopter’s arrival, and they were quick to turn their heads and quicker to forget that the bird had ever arrived. Word had spread about a group of visitors inbound from Mexico. Word said to keep your eyes closed and your mouth shut. None of the crew had a problem with that. Roughnecks knew how to follow orders.
The members of Team Three jumped onto the deck. A supervisor in a hard hat and sunglasses led them to a private dining room adjacent to the chow hall. A regal spread awaited. Pancakes, eggs, bacon, sausage, fresh fruit, baked goods, and a variety of juices filled the buffet table. The mercenaries loaded their plates and ate quickly and without comment. They had been given instructions, too. Eat. Get in. Get out. And shut the hell up.
Thirty minutes after touching down, they returned to the landing platform and boarded the refueled helicopter. At two minutes past nine the helicopter took off and banked north toward the coast of the United States of America. At no point had anyone checked their travel documents, though technically they had arrived from a foreign country. Nor had anyone made an official notation of their presence. For all intents and purposes, Team Three had never set foot on the Tamondo rig.
Two hours later, the CH-53 landed at the Noble Energy compound in Houma, Louisiana. Team Three hit the tarmac and walked to a waiting van. Again, no travel documents were checked. No customs officials were present. What was the point? To watching eyes, the team was just another crew happy to be back on dry land after their two-week stint at sea.
Team Three was on American soil.
49
“Where we headed?” asked John Sullivan.
“Cherry Hill.” Settling into the backseat, Astor caught Sullivan’s look of surprise. “You heard me. And step on it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sullivan navigated north to Delancey Street and crossed the East River on the Williamsburg Bridge before merging onto the Brooklyn Queens Expressway. At 10:15, traffic was light, and the vehicle made good time driving north, reaching I-495 in just fifteen minutes.
“Got your wheatgrass if you’re interested,” said Sullivan when the ride had smoothed.
“Screw my wheatgrass.”
Astor stared out the window glumly. How quickly they deserted the cause. At the first signs of adversity, they all fled like rats from a sinking ship. Marv had likened the firm to the Titanic. If he was right, the rats were the smart ones, and Astor was the fool rushing around the deck mustering the band to play one last waltz. He felt a blackness nipping at his heels. It wasn’t fear. It was doubt, which was more ill-defined and thus more dangerous.