The Minoan Cipher (A Matinicus “Matt” Hawkins Adventure Book 2) Read online

  “Cal-vin!”

  Junior’s klaxon voice echoed throughout the swamp. The mountains and mud hut vanished. Hayes was transported back to the bayou. He picked up his beer bottle and headed to the shack to dig into some crawfish. He was looking forward to seeing Hawkins again. But, first things first.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Bend, Oregon

  “When the bird flies over your head, don’t reach up or it will think your hand is something to eat.”

  The warning provoked nervous giggles from the audience. At least half of those sitting in the rows of folding chairs were children. The speaker was a slightly plump, pretty woman in her twenties. Her name was Molly Sutherland. A brown-feathered falcon clutched her padded wrist guard with its talons.

  At the back of the room was a wooden rectangle attached to a vertical support. A young female assistant standing next to the pedestal scattered food pellets on the platform and tapped the wood with her forefinger to get the bird’s attention.

  Sutherland lifted her arm and launched the bird into the air. The falcon spread its wings and flew to the back, passing inches above the heads of the audience. Some people ducked, but the children issued a multitude of oohs and aahs.

  The bird fluttered to a landing on the pedestal and gobbled down the pellets of food. A third assistant enticed it back to the front of the room where it re-settled on Sutherland’s wrist. She pointed out the forward-facing eyes, the sharp talons and the hooked beak designed for tearing. All raptor characteristics. She repeated the routine with a great horned owl, explaining how the soft fringe feathers made the owl’s flight over the audience practically soundless.

  The birds were returned to their cages. Sutherland introduced the assistants and thanked the audience for supporting the museum. As people filed out of the room, a naturalist on the museum’s payroll came over and put her hand on Sutherland’s shoulder.

  “Nice going, Molly. Everyone enjoyed the show.”

  Sutherland once would have flinched at the physical contact. Instead, she removed her black-framed circular glasses to reveal remarkable orchid-colored eyes, and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand.

  “Everyone but me,” Sutherland replied. “I was a-sweating bullets.” In her nervousness, she slipped back into her West Virginia accent.

  “It’s hard to stand up in front of a group of strangers under any circumstance. And you never know what the birds will do. Don’t sell yourself short, Molly. You have a talent. Those raptors were perfectly at ease with you.”

  Sutherland replaced the glasses and coaxed a half-smile from her lips. “Don’t know if there’s much call for a hawk-whisperer. But thanks anyway. Means a lot coming from you.”

  “See you tomorrow?”

  “You bet.”

  Sutherland headed for the parking lot and swung a leg over the saddle of her customized, low-profile Forty-Eight model Harley-Davidson. She swapped her prescription glasses for a pair of wrap-around shades, started the 1203 cc V-twin engine and rode past the High Desert Museum sign. She cruised along the meandering road enjoying the guttural rumble of the exhaust in her ears, the cool dry air against her face, and reflected on the journey that had taken her to central Oregon.

  After leaving the Army, she had settled in Tubac, Arizona. Building a house in the hills, she’d taken up oil painting. She loved the desert light and the abundance of birds—hummingbirds, in particular. She had little contact with the outside world until Matt Hawkins, a fellow soldier who was pretty much her only friend, asked her to put her computer skills to work providing intelligence for a secret project he was involved in. Neither she nor Matt had any idea that they’d been drawn into a Byzantine plot that would have worldwide impact. Her computer probes triggered an assassination squad who burned her house, her paintings, and sent her running for her life.

  Thanks to Sutherland, the plot had unraveled.

  With her house and paintings reduced to ashes, Sutherland hit the road. She bought a tent and sleeping bag and headed West. In Salt Lake City, she got up one morning and decided she wanted to see the Pacific Ocean. California didn’t appeal to her, so she headed to the Pacific Northwest and tarried a few days in Portland, Oregon. She’d liked the city’s quirkiness but not the traffic and crowds, so she kept on moving.

  She arrived in the town of Bend late one afternoon and pulled her bike up to the walking path that ran along the banks of the Deschutes River. When Sutherland chose to stretch her legs with a stroll, three strangers along the path had smiled and said hello. That night she stayed in a motel and the very next day she contacted a real estate office.

  The agent showed her a rental house outside town that offered a view of the mountains. She had vowed never to paint again, but she still liked birds. She switched to photography. Unlike a painting, a photo could be stored in a computer, or in the cloud, or sent off to places where it would be safe from harm.

  Sutherland invested in a high-end Canon digital single-lens reflex camera. The infinite patience that had made her a computer whiz allowed her to sit for hours waiting for the right shot. She became fascinated with raptors. During a visit to the museum, she showed the staff pictures she had taken of a Golden eagle’s nest. The museum asked to see more, and ended up mounting an exhibition of her photographic work.

  She started volunteering a couple of days a week. When the museum created the program that introduced raptors to the public, she joined the team. Sutherland was uncomfortable around other people, but enjoyed working with the birds and seeing the amazed expressions on the faces of the children. She spent more time in the field, and when she did go to her computer, it was only to download photos.

  Her major talent was the ability to worm her way into other computers, leaving no trail behind. Since moving to Bend, she had used her talents only once, after she’d seen a newspaper headline in the local supermarket:

  Congress Debates Bill

  Curbing Sexual Abuse

  In the Armed Services

  Molly had narrowed her eyes in a Clint Eastwood squint. Pictures flashed in her head…. Staring up at the stars, savoring the quiet desert beauty of an Iraq night; rough hands grabbing her by the shoulders, slamming her to the ground and ripping her uniform off. The rape was a painful blur. Even more awful was the stony face of the officer who’d listened to her story, then recommended a psychiatric discharge and counseling.

  In the days after she’d seen the newspaper headline, thousands of phantom e-mail letters in support of the bill went out to recalcitrant congressmen. The names of some senders came off lists of Civil War veterans. The modified bill was approved. Not perfect, but it was something. She felt like the token retired gunslinger who comes out of retirement to shoot up a town full of bad guys. As soon as she got home from the museum, she powered up her computer to download photos she had taken near Mt. Bachelor. She saw that she had an e-mail from Matt Hawkins. It was the same message he sent every couple of months.

  HI MOLLY. R U OK?

  She sent the same answer she always did.

  YUP. THX.

  Matt was the closest thing she had to a friend. They’d both been abandoned by their commanding officers. Matt’s wounds were mostly physical; hers, mental, but the hurt was the same. But in trusting Matt, she believed there might be a chance to one day trust others. Molly had a long way to go before she was at that point. Maybe she’d never be there. Right now, all she could handle were her birds.

  Matt usually ended the conversation by saying he was glad to hear she was okay. But this time the message was different.

  NEED UR HELP MOLLY.

  Her finger hesitated for a moment above the keyboard. She stared at the blinking cursor. Then she typed:

  ?

  SOMEONE TRIED TO KILL ME.

  ?

  ??

  The double question marks meant he didn’t know the answer.

  TALKED TO CALVIN?

  HE’S ON BOARD.

  If Calvin Hayes had joined Hawkins, it m
ust be serious.

  ABBY?

  HOPE SO. R U 2?

  Molly’s mind raced. She was enjoying her new life taking photos and talking about raptors. The last time she helped him, she’s lost her house and her art, but she didn’t want to disappoint Matt. She typed: NOTHING OPERATIONAL. JUST INTEL.

  OK. NEED INFO ON SPIKE MISSILES. SELLERS? BUYERS IN THE LAST SIX MONTHS.

  The answer was quick in coming.

  WILL GET TO IT DIRECTLY.

  Hawkins thanked Molly, sent her a summary of the events leading up to his request for help and promised to keep her in the loop with daily reports. He leaned back in his chair and stared at the computer screen.

  Sutherland had the ability to mess up things and people she didn’t like, and that was a long list. The gods must have had a big laugh when they stoked the emotion of smoldering anger, mixed it with the potential for creating havoc, and poured the brew into a pudgy young woman with the meekness of a lamb. He needed her if he wanted to find out who sent the salvage boat and submersible to the bottom, but he was aware of a simple fact: Sutherland couldn’t be any more controlled than a bolt of lightning.

  The cell phone rang. It was Captain Santiago. “I’ll meet you at the hotel in half an hour. I have found us a boat.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Leonidas had called Isabel as soon as he returned the boat to the lease company. They celebrated his impending payday with dinner at an expensive restaurant, followed by hours of bar hopping before they returned to the hotel for a wild night of drug-powered sex. At least, he thought that’s what happened, but wasn’t sure. They had gotten so blasted that he remembered little after they stepped into the hotel room.

  When they woke up well into the next day, Isabel said he had asked her to marry him, which may have been true. He said they’d discuss it after a few more hours of sleep. His brain felt slightly less like scrambled eggs when he awoke the second time. Isabel was snoring beside him. He still had on the clothes from the night before and surmised that they had been too stoned-out to have sex. Just as well. The romp might have triggered the sock pistol tied to his ankle.

  He stared at the clock with blurry vision. It was late afternoon. He got up and went into the kitchenette. His mouth felt like the Mohave Desert. After he re-hydrated by guzzling a gallon of ice water he felt better. He was thinking that life with a reformed prostitute might not be all that bad—it would certainly never be dull—when Salazar called and rained on his parade.

  There were no preliminaries. He simply said, “You lied to me.”

  “Huh—?”

  “You said you sank the boat.”

  “No lie there, Mr. Salazar. I saw it sink.”

  “Then consider this. I have learned from my government informant that the Coast Guard rescued Hawkins and the Greek woman. The captain and his son also escaped. The deal called for no boat and no witnesses.”

  “Damn, Mr. Salazar. Okay, I screwed up,” Leonidas said. “I’ll make it good. Hawkins and the others will be dead by this time tomorrow.”

  “Plans have changed. I’ll deal with this problem in another way.”

  “Sorry about this, Mr. Salazar. I don’t blame you for firing me.”

  “On the contrary, I’m not firing you,” Salazar said, chuckling, his mellow voice warming slightly. “You’ve always come through for me before, so I’d like to keep you on retainer. It’s helpful to be able to call on someone with no ties to me. Since you didn’t accomplish your assignment, I won’t be paying you the second half of your retainer. But I understand that you had certain expenses, such as the missiles, so I’ll allow the first half. Does that seem fair?”

  “More than fair, Mr. Salazar. I’m still available if you need me to take care of Hawkins.”

  “Forget Hawkins for now. That situation will soon be resolved.”

  “Whatever you say, Mr. Salazar. Thanks for being so understanding.”

  “Of course. Then you’ll understand that with this situation being slightly more delicate than before, it might not be safe to put your payment in your Swiss account, with the potential for traceability.”

  “Whatever you say, Mr. Salazar.”

  “I don’t like to drag things out. I’ll send someone over to deliver the cash, if that’s all right with you.”

  Even better, Leonidas thought. “Thanks, Mr. Salazar. I’ll be waiting.”

  The phone went dead. The smile Leonidas had pasted on his lips disappeared. He threw the phone across the room. He had only himself to blame. He cursed himself for getting so stoned on the job that he’d imagined he was shooting ducks in a gallery.

  He liberated a bottle of single malt whiskey from the liquor cabinet and poured himself a stiff shot. The smooth liquid fire trickling down his throat washed away his mental cobwebs. He picked up his cell phone and Googled Matt Hawkins. At least a dozen articles popped up having to do with Hawkins’s robotics work at Woods Hole.

  He learned that the man’s first name was Matinicus. He was born in Maine and named after Matinicus Island. His father was a lobster fisherman and his mother an ornithologist who worked for the state. He read deeper into the biography and discovered that Hawkins was not an ordinary ocean engineer.

  Hawkins had been a Navy SEAL. That explained his resilience. Like Leonidas, Hawkins had been injured by an IED. There was a big difference, however. The photos showed that Hawkins still had his handsome features.

  Leonidas heard someone stirring. A moment later, Isabel appeared in the living room. She was wearing his Malibu T-shirt. Her long hair was straggling over her face. She stared at the glass in his hand, and croaked, “I need a drink.”

  Yessiree, Leonidas thought. Life with Isabel would never be dull.

  He poured her half a glass of whiskey, and said, “I stink like a monkey. Want to take a shower with me?”

  She sipped her whiskey and gave him a lazy smile. “You go ahead. I’ll come in after I finish my breakfast.”

  Leonidas gave her kiss. “I’m expecting an important delivery. Call me if someone comes.”

  She waved her hand, then settled into a chair with her drink. Leonidas let his eyes linger on her face. As debauched as Isabel appeared, she was still beautiful. He went into the bathroom to shower, not knowing that it was the last time he would ever see her alive. If he’d not been so wasted, he would have seen through Salazar’s fake charm.

  As he washed away the sweat and grit, his mind regained some of its sharpness and he began to lay out plans on what to do with his money. It wouldn’t be as much as he wanted, but still a substantial sum. He might have to give up the luxury hotel suites until he got more work. Hell, maybe he’d even retire from the killing business altogether. Since he knew all the tricks, he might be able to make a living protecting people from assassins like himself.

  He got out of the shower, thinking that a cottage by the sea in Majorca might be a nice place to set up a business. He was toweling off his body when he heard a strange noise, through the half-open door, that set off alarms in his head. It was a distinct thut, and he knew exactly what it was. The muffled shot made by a pistol armed with a silencer.

  He edged to one side and peered through the crack between the doorjamb. Two men were standing in the room. They were big guys, both dressed in dark sport jackets over black T-shirts. Sunglasses hid their eyes but their mouths had the cold-blooded hardness of the men he’d worked with in Special Ops.

  They both held pistols with extended barrels. One man had his weapon pointed down at Isabel’s bloody body lying on the floor. Leonidas reconstructed what had happened. Isabel had gone to the door so she could proudly present him with the delivery. She wanted to please him. That’s all she wanted to do. The strangers had stepped inside, closed the door behind them, and taken care of Isabel with a single shot.

  He picked up the sock holster hanging on a chair with his slacks, eased the gun out, turned the shower back on, and called, “Be out in a minute, darling.” The bathroom began to fill with steam. T
he man stepped through the door and aimed his gun at the shower curtain. Standing with his shoulders against the wall, Leonidas placed the .22 caliber muzzle on the back of the man’s head, and kept it there for a second. He wanted the stranger to know exactly how he was going to die.

  The shower noise drowned out the snap of the gunshot. The man crumpled to the floor. Still wearing the towel wrapped around his waist, Leonidas stepped over the body and into the living room, pistol raised. The other man saw him and could have gotten off a shot with the gun in his hand, but he became locked as he stared at the monstrous ruin of Leonidas’s face. His hesitation was fatal. Leonidas aimed for the man’s Adam’s apple and squeezed the trigger.

  The man grabbed at his throat with both hands and crashed to the floor. Leonidas let Isabel’s killer choke on the bloody froth for a minute before he shot him in the heart. Walking over to Isabel, who lay face down, he turned her onto her back. She’d been shot in the forehead. The T-shirt was so drenched with blood the word “Malibu” was now unreadable.

  Leonidas felt something akin to sorrow, but that was quickly replaced by an icy anger. Salazar had set this up. The bastard intended to pay him, but not with money. He thought about Hawkins again. Salazar had wanted the man dead and would try again. If he stuck close to Hawkins, he might get to Salazar. The woman, who he now knew was named Kalliste, had been required to submit every detail of her project to the Spanish government, including hotel arrangements made for her and Hawkins. Salazar’s government informant had sent Leonidas the information. Digging it out, he called the same hotel to reserve a room, using a phony credit card he’d bought on the black market. The name on the card was Fred Healy.

  “A friend of mine is staying at the hotel,” he told the clerk. “His name is Matt Hawkins. I wondered if you had a room close to his.”