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Brekker narrowed his eyes at Polten, whose lip twitched ever so slightly. A liar knew a liar, and Polten certainly wasn’t sharing the whole truth about the shipment of the Typhoon pills.
“The ship was never found?”
“Not until recently,” Polten said. “Some recreational divers found the wreck buried in sand, so the U.S. agency named NUMA—the National Underwater and Marine Agency—is sending a vessel to secure any live munitions that might still be on board.”
“Does NUMA know about the cargo?”
“I doubt it. It was top secret at the time. We only knew about it from the classified archives at Dugway. That must be why the NUMA ship isn’t scheduled to arrive for another three weeks.” Polten showed Brekker a map of the sunken Pearsall’s position at an uninhabited atoll near Samar Island. “But Locsin may have already found it and removed the cargo. We have to find him if we’re to have any chance of getting that formula.”
“Why is this formula so important?” Brekker asked, nodding at Davis, who was analyzing the tablet. “You already have the pill sample.”
“It’s complicated,” Polten said, “but the critical ingredient is a plant that grows only in the Philippines. The problem is, we don’t know which plant it is. It may be something that grows on only one island. With seven thousand islands in the chain, each with its own endemic species, the plant we need would be virtually impossible to find without that formula.”
“And with that formula, you could make as much Typhoon as you wanted?”
“Sure,” Davis piped in as he continued his analysis. “As long as you had the formula and a good supply of the plant, anybody with a chemistry degree could make it.”
Polten’s eyes blazed with anger at Davis’s interjection and he hastily added, “But to reduce the extreme side effects, it might take years of testing and reformulation.”
“I see,” Brekker said. He glanced at Van Der Waal, who responded with the barest nod.
“Got confirmation,” Davis said triumphantly. He looked at Polten with a big smile. “This is definitely the original Typhoon formulation.”
“You’re sure?” Brekker said.
“No doubt.”
“Now,” Polten said, “I want to know how you plan to find—”
A rapid double report from Van Der Waal’s Vektor pistol interrupted Polten, who coughed twice before slumping to the floor. Davis pitched over onto the table, a surprised look in his open eyes. Van Der Waal had hit each of them in the center of the chest. Blood soaked Polten’s shirt and pooled on the marble floor.
“At least it’ll be easy to clean up,” Van Der Waal said, holstering his pistol. “Moron. He agreed to the increased price too fast.”
Brekker nodded in agreement. “You could practically see the dollar signs in his eyes. If he was willing to pay that price, imagine how much the formula would be worth to Locsin.”
“We could always sell it ourselves on the open market.”
“If it’s still on that destroyer, if the formula still exists, and if we can successfully manufacture it. That’s a lot of ifs. I’d rather get paid now. Let Locsin take the risk of being a drug dealer.”
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sp; The men who’d been asleep had been waiting for the gunshots. They came up and began tying the feet of Polten and Davis to the heavy kettlebells. They’d take the bodies to the middle of Manila Bay later for an unceremonious burial at sea.
Van Der Waal pointed to the computer screens and said, “Looks like we’ve got some activity.”
Brekker looked at the feed from the remote cameras stationed outside the Baylon Fire factory and saw two SUVs enter the gate. They were waved through by the guards without even stopping. When they reached the warehouse, a half-dozen men got out, including one that looked like Locsin, though it was impossible to be sure at this distance. Two women got out with them, one a redhead, the other raven-haired. Both were shoved roughly toward the warehouse and taken inside.
“You think they’re going to have a party?” Van Der Waal asked in amusement.
“I don’t know,” Brekker said, unzipping one of the equipment bags and taking out his assault rifle. “Let’s go find out.”
29
OFF NEGROS ISLAND
From the catwalk at the top of the chamber housing the moon pool, Juan looked down at the unusual vessel that hovered above the water, making sure it was positioned correctly as it was lowered by the gantry crane. The distinct smell of ocean brine and machine oil filled the cavernous room, the largest on the Oregon. It was in the center of the ship and contained an Olympic-pool-sized opening that was equalized with the sea level outside the ship so that subs and divers could leave unnoticed through huge double doors that swung down from the keel. Eddie, Linc, MacD, and Murph, clad in black night camo, were down below getting ready to load their tactical gear on board.
The Gator was the newest addition to the ship’s complement of watercraft. The test dives they’d put it through over the last few months had gone off without a hitch, but this was the first time it would be used on an operation. Modeled after the U.S. Navy Sealion and other semi-submersibles employed by countries like Singapore and North Korea, the 40-foot-long Gator was a craft specifically designed for infiltration of targets both at sea and onshore. The Oregon’s Discovery 1000 had been used for similar missions in the past, but its replacement boasted significant advantages.
