The Matarese Countdown by Robert Ludlum Read Free Book Online Page B

skipper.
    “What the hell is that?” asked Pryce. “ ‘A
cigarette
?’ ”
    “Cigarette boat, sir. We’re fast, but no match for one of them.”
    “Please bring me up to speed, Lieutenant.”
    “That’s what we’re talking about. Speed. The Cigarette boat is the favorite of the drug crowd. It can outrun anything on the water. It’s why, when we know they’re in use, we call in aircraft. But with all our equipment, here and in the air, we’re no damned good after dark. The Cigarettes are too small and too fast.”
    “And I thought it was as simple as our lungs.”
    “Funny man … sir. If your target goes full throttle, we’ll lose it. No interdiction, no boarding.”
    “I don’t want to interdict and I certainly don’t want to board, Lieutenant.”
    “Then, if I may, sir, why the
hell
are we here?”
    “I want to pinpoint where the target goes. You can do that, can’t you?”
    “Probably. At least to a land mass, an island maybe. But there are lots of them, and if he pulls into one and we get a radar fix, then he pulls out for another, we’ve had it!”
    “She, Lieutenant,
she.
”
    “Oh? Wow, I never figured.”
    “Get your radar fix, I’ll take my chances.”
    The minor island in question was named simply Outer Brass 26 on the charts. Uninhabited; questionable foliage; no long-range human habitation considered. It was barely four square miles of volcanic rock expunged from the depths of the ocean, with several hills that permitted profuse greenery from the generosity of the tropic sun, the afternoon showers, and said greenery spread to the lands below. Although once considered part of the Spanish Caribbean chain, it had never actually been claimed in recent history. It was an orphan in a sea of illegitimate children, nobody cared.
    Cameron Pryce stood at midships in a diver’s wet suit provided by the Coast Guard. Below him was a ladder that led down to a rubber raft with a small, quiet three-horsepower motor that would take him into the shore. In his left hand was the waterproof flight bag with his items of choice and necessity.
    “I feel damned awkward just leaving you here, sir,” said the very young skipper of the vessel.
    “Don’t, Lieutenant, it’s what I came for. Besides, I can reach you whenever I want, can’t I?”
    “Of course. As you instructed, we’ll remain out here, roughly five miles from land, beyond visual sighting if the light’s right.”
    “When it’s daylight, just stay in the path of the sun. The old cowboys-and-Indians movies were right about that.”
    “Yes, sir, it’s part of our combat-strategies courses. Good luck, Mr. Pryce. Good hunting with whatever you’re doing.”
    “I’ll need a little of both.” The former CIA case officer descended the ladder to the bobbing PVC craft below.
    The engine gurgled, it did not really run, as Pryce steered the rubber raft into shore. He chose what appeared in the moonlight to be a small cove; it was wooded, with overhanging palms roofing the perimeter. He jumped out of the raft and pulled it between the rocks to the sand, securing itto the trunk of a palm. He lifted out his waterproof case and flung the strap over his right shoulder; it was time for the hunt, and hopefully luck would be part of it.
    He knew what to look for initially: light. A fire or battery-induced illumination, it had to be one or the other. For two people to live on a deserted island without either was not only uncomfortable, it was dangerous. He started to his right, walking cautiously over the rocky shoreline, constantly peering into the heavy foliage on his left. There were no signs of light
or
life. He trudged for nearly twenty minutes, greeting only darkness, until he saw it. But it was neither light nor life, only small metallic reflections of the moon; numerous short poles were in the ground, mirrors on top, angled toward the sky. He approached them, yanked the flashlight out of his case, and saw the wires, leading to the right and