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For a moment, there was only stunned silence in the op center.
Max walked over to Juan. “Who is Zachariah Tate?”
“He’s a former CIA agent I worked with. He’s also the most dangerous man I’ve ever met.”
“But you thought he was dead?”
“According to the official reports, he was killed by another inmate in a Chechen prison.”
Max stared at the picture on the screen. “Why is he after us?”
“He’s after me,” Juan said, scowling at Tate’s image. “I was the one who put him there.”
22
BUENOS AIRES
Overholt’s cabin on the Portland was plushly furnished and comfortable, with his own bathroom and a soft bed, but it was a prison cell all the same. There were no windows or portholes, the door was guarded, and he had no doubt he was being watched at all times. Although he was quite healthy and strong for his age, breaking out by force or stealth wasn’t even close as an option. His days as a field agent were long behind him. Words were his weapons now. And if he was going to get out of this situation, it would be with wits, not brawn.
He would have liked a change of clothes, but his jail was more pleasant than the ride that had gotten him to Argentina. After Catherine Ballard had killed his driver, Connolly, and taken Overholt captive, he assumed he would be driven to an undisclosed location for questioning, torture, or both. Instead, the truck was driven to a warehouse, where he was transferred to a smaller container with a cot and some food and water. The walls were insulated, so any attempt to yell for help was futile. He couldn’t tell what was happening except when the container finally moved. It quickly became clear that he was being loaded onto an airplane. After that, he slept most of the way to the destination.
When they arrived and he was taken to the port, he was shocked to see former CIA officer Zachariah Tate welcoming him aboard a ship that looked like a carbon copy of the Oregon. He surmised it was the Portland, the ship that sank the Mantícora and Avignon. The only stop before coming to the cabin was to participate in Tate’s odd show for Juan in the op center.
That had been a day ago, and Overholt had no visitors other than the guard who brought him food. He spent the time developing a plan for how to approach Tate when and if he got the chance to speak to him.
Overholt heard a woman’s voice speak to the guard outside. He stood and put on his jacket as the door opened.
Catherine Ballard smiled when she saw him. “Do you think we’re going back to your office? Even your tie is still knotted.”
“I presume we’re going somewhere,” Overholt said. “That’s why you’ve come, isn’t it?”
“You’re sharp for an old-timer.”
“Not as sharp as I was when I was younger. I should have spotted your deceptions.”
“Don’t beat yourself up,” she said. “I’m very good. So is Zach.”
“I know. I trained him myself long ago.”
“Then you’re going to be proud of what he’s been able to accomplish.”
“I sincerely doubt that.”
“Come with me and find out.”
She led him into the luxurious corridor, and the guard followed behind. The guard and Ballard both looked at ease. Overholt wasn’t a physical threat. He was just a creaky old man. His mind raced for how to use that as an advantage.
“I understand why Tate would have a grudge against me,” Overholt said as they walked, “but why have you thrown your life away to follow him?”
“‘Thrown my life away’?” she parroted with a contemptuous laugh. “It’s your reputation that will be in shambles. I left behind some very damaging information that will implicate you in a rogue operation involving Juan Cabrillo. I’m going to be regarded as an innocent bystander who was made to disappear by you for discovering your secret. It’s what you deserve for letting Zach rot in that Chechen prison.”
“He knew the risks when he took the job.”
“The risks shouldn’t have included being sold out by your own country.”
“He was the traitor. He betrayed everything we were fighting for.” He turned to Ballard and s
aw her seething hatred for him. Then it clicked. “You’re in love with Tate.”
