Page 80
“Please,” said Grey. “I could use the company.”
They both turned back toward the screen as the white line got closer and closer to Houston.
Grey closed her eyes. Be safe, Auguste. Come home. To me.
CHAPTER 81
RON AND PETE were wide-awake and focused on their task. As it turned out, the emergency drill had been a blessing. In the aftermath, the decks and gangways were bustling with hundreds of restless crewmembers. Some were headed back to their work shifts. Others were just too jacked up for sleep. At times like this, the platform resembled a crowded city, which was exactly the kind of cover the two operatives needed.
Pete took the lead as they wound their way down a dizzying sequence of ladders and passageways until they reached Deck 4—the lowest working level of the platform. They were still three stories above the water. Down here, it felt like the floor itself was throbbing with power. This was the location of the rig’s massive pump chambers, the heart of the operation.
Both men had studied diagrams and schematics, but the sheer scope of the machinery down here was almost overwhelming—a massive network of pipes, ducts, and conduits. In the center of the deck sat two huge pump units in a redundant configuration. If one failed, the other would take over.
The pumps were enclosed in solid steel housings designed to withstand explosions from without or within. Their inner walls were built to resist corrosion from both salt water and hydrocarbons. They were equipped with fire and gas detection systems, pressure relief valves to manage surges, and emergency shutdown sensors. They were pretty much impervious to just about anything man or nature could throw at them.
But as Oliver Paul liked to say, every system had its weak points.
The pump chambers were managed and monitored from Central Control on Deck 3.
The teams working down here were mechanics and technicians, in charge of making on-site measurements and adjustments. At the moment, there were only two men near the pump chambers. One was checking a valve; the other was reading a meter. Pete spotted the security camera on the wall that covered the immediate area.
As the workers went about their tasks, Pete pulled out his iPhone, rested it on a metal railing just below the camera, and pressed Record. He let it run for about one minute, then tapped the Stop button.
He grabbed on to the railing and lifted his phone up toward the security camera. He snapped a picture of the base. He checked the image, then zoomed in with his thumb and forefinger. Not perfect but legible. Model and serial number. He sent the image off.
Pete put his phone away and nudged Ron with his elbow. Together, they jogged up several levels of stairs, all the way back to Deck 1. They’d done all they could do on their own. Nothing left but to stare out over the open water and wait for the watchmaker.
He would have everything they needed to finish the job.
If it came to that.
CHAPTER 82
THE SLEEK PHENOM touched down at an isolated government airfield about ten miles north of Houston’s George Bush Intercontinental Airport.
As the jet rolled to a stop, Brendan Holmes could see a helicopter waiting on the tarmac, lights blinking. He unbuckled his seat belt and stood up in the narrow aisle, his shaved head almost brushing the roof of the cabin. Margaret Marple was still in her seat, her ankles now linked by metal shackles.
Edwards turned to Holmes and Poe. “I’ll perp-walk her to the chopper. You two follow.”
Holmes nodded. He watched as Edwards walked aft and unfastened Marple’s seat belt. He pulled her to her feet and kept one hand on her shoulder as he nudged her up the aisle, her hands cuffed in front of her.
Marple stopped when she got to where Holmes and Poe were standing. “How do I look?” she asked.
“Like a world-class killer,” said Holmes.
“And a racist to boot,” added Poe.
“Damn right,” Marple replied, her Yorkshire accent firmly in place.
“Ready?” said Edwards. “Walk at my pace. Don’t trip over your shackles. Keep your head down. Let your hair cover your face. Let’s make it look good, just in case somebody’s watching.”
Holmes and Poe stood at the top of the jet’s staircase as Edwards escorted Marple down, her leg chains banging on the aluminum steps. Edwards looked toward the helicopter and circled one finger in the air. The chopper engine fired up. The rotor started to spin. The agent kept a firm grip on Marple’s left arm as he led her across the dark stretch of tarmac. Marple looked down and scowled the whole way.
Holmes descended the staircase and followed a few yards behind. Poe caught up and walked beside him.
Edwards helped Marple into the chopper and sat her down. He fastened her safety harness. Poe got in next. When Holmes climbed into the cabin, he saw movement in the back. Two guys in full camo were seated in the last row. They had night-vision goggles clamped to their helmets. Holmes turned to Edwards. “Who are they?”
“Sharpshooters,” said Edwards, buckling himself into his seat. “One way or another, Oliver Paul is coming back on this chopper—either cuffed to a seat or zipped into a body bag. Makes no difference to me.”
