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The wall monitor switched from a view of Overholt’s face to his laptop screen. A video started playing. It showed a large red cargo ship at sea, lit by the setting sun.
“That’s the Avignon, a French freighter. She sailed from São Paolo’s Porto de Santo yesterday.”
“We were on our way to Vitória last night,” Juan said.
“The problem is, we both know that at the Oregon’s top speed you could have been at sea near São Paolo and still made it to where you are now.”
Overholt was right. Their alibi was worthless.
“Where did you get this video?” Juan asked.
“It was sent to us anonymously. There’s no sound. We think it was taken from a cell phone on a fishing boat. You’ll see in a moment why it has the CIA Director very concerned.”
A missile streaked in from out of frame and slammed into the side of the Avignon, ripping a gaping hole in her side. A second later, the camera wobbled from the blast concussion.
Whoever was taking the video pivoted, and that’s when Juan knew the Corporation was being framed. He was horror-struck as he watched a tramp cargo freighter fire a second anti-ship missile at the Avignon to finish her off.
The attacking ship looked just like the Oregon.
20
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
Langston Overholt didn’t often have to leave CIA headquarters to meet with people. Because of his position and experience, they almost always came to him. But as liaison to the Corporation, it was his responsibility to deal with the seemingly rogue actions of the Oregon. The Director himself was expressing doubts about Juan Cabrillo, and it had taken all of Overholt’s considerable charm and persuasion to convince him not to declare the Corporation a criminal enterprise and traitorous organization.
Overholt needed to buy Juan some time. He had to drive into D.C. to visit the State Department and keep the situation from becoming a full-blown diplomatic incident with both France and Brazil. Meanwhile, he’d instructed Juan to do whatever he could to find out who was pinning their crimes on the Oregon.
As he reached the main entrance, Overholt heard his name called. He turned to see Catherine Ballard hurrying toward him carrying a briefcase. With flaxen hair, a trim build, and a long stride, Ballard still carried herself like a field agent even though she’d been promoted to running her own operations at Langley three years earlier. Her tailored pantsuit and tortoiseshell glasses did little to hide the beauty she’d used to her advantage on more than one mission.
“It looks like you’re off to the State Department now,” she said. “We’ve just received some new information about the Portland, so I’m going down to NUMA headquarters to follow up on it. Can I talk to you about it when I get back?”
Ballard was running the Nicaragua rebel operation and had become friends with Jack Perry, the agent who met Juan Cabrillo’s impostor.
“Since we’re headed in the same direction, do you want to ride with me and give me the briefing on the way?” Overholt asked.
She looked surprised at the offer, but after thinking about it she agreed to join him. “I can get an Uber back here after the meeting.”
Overholt’s black Suburban SUV was waiting at the entrance. As they walked to it, he said, “How’s Perry doing?”
“He was pretty dehydrated when they found the lifeboat, but he’s recovering well. He should be back at work in a few days.”
“Don’t you think it’s odd that their lives were spared?”
Ballard shrugged. “Remember, the man calling himself Chester Knight wanted him to convey a message to us, that Knight didn’t want to work for us any longer.”
Overholt nodded. “Still, I find it strange. It was Perry who hired the Portland to bring the weapons from South Africa, correct?”
“Yes. He found them through a referral from an emir in the Persian Gulf who had used them for security purposes.”
That did fit Juan’s MO. The Corporation didn’t work exclusively for the CIA and had a web of contacts for finding other jobs, one of which was providing security at sea for friendly governments and companies.
When they arrived at the Suburban, Jeff Connolly, Overholt’s driver and bodyguard, was holding the rear door open for them. Ballard smiled a thank-you to the burly Connolly and got in.
“What’s the traffic look like this afternoon, Jeff?” Overholt asked, before he joined her.
“Surprisingly, the G.W. Parkway doesn’t look bad today, sir,” Connolly said with a Texas twang. “We should be there in half an hour.”
“Ms. Ballard needs to go over to NUMA headquarters after you drop me off, if you don’t mind taking her.”
