The Cubans reconvened in Díaz’s office, where he took a moment to admire the Aztec stone. “I received an interesting report from a contact in the United States,” he said to Summer. “Your friend, Perlmutter, is quite a fruitful historian.”
She glared at Díaz. “Did you hurt him?” she asked with fire on her tongue.
“He is perfectly fine, although short a few documents. Documents that indicated the other half of the stone was not destroyed on the Maine after all.”
“So the treasure is still in play?” Molina asked.
“Very much so.”
Summer held her temper. Her father had started to describe a link he had discovered in the office between the stone and a lost treasure. But the guards had forced him to sit silently.
“So where is the other stone?” Molina asked.
“If Perlmutter’s data is correct,” Díaz said, “the stone was stolen from the Maine during her sinking. It was presumably placed aboard a steam packet named San Antonio that immediately left Havana. The American Navy apprehended her off the East Coast, but the vessel sank before they could recover the stone.”
Díaz smiled. “According to the naval records, the San Antonio lies in fifty fathoms, some fourteen miles due east of Punta Maisí.”
“You can locate the wreck with the oil survey ship Kelowna,” Molina said. “She’s still under charter for another month.”
“Actually, I’m sending you to go find the wreck, Silvio, just as soon as the Algonquin leaves the dock.” He glared at Summer. “I will personally oversee the remaining excavations to ensure there are no more interruptions.”
“I will notify the crew of the Kelowna at once.”
Díaz passed a paper to Molina. “Here are the San Antonio’s presumed coordinates. Take the Kelowna and initiate survey operations until you locate the wreck. I’ll join you as soon as I am able.”
“If we find it first, we shall do nothing until your arrival.” Molina nodded toward Summer. “What about the girl?”
Díaz looked her up and down and smiled. “The girl shall be coming with me.”
56
The Army helicopter flew low over the water, hugging the northern coastline of Cuba a hundred yards offshore. Its thumping rotor caught the attention of those below, eliciting friendly waves from solitary fishermen in small boats and young children playing in the surf.
Pitt stared out the open cargo door, computing his odds of escape. The helicopter had a three-man flight crew, plus the two guards. He had little chance of overpowering all five. The open door gave a potential opportunity, though a plunge to his death wasn’t what he had in mind. He studied the helicopter more closely.
The aged Mi-8 was a classic military transport helicopter, capable of ferrying twenty-four soldiers in its long cabin. Pitt observed that this particular craft had been modified for search-and-rescue operations. A rescue basket, along with stacks of life preservers, was stowed in the aft fuselage, while a spooled-cable winch was mounted above the open cargo door. Pitt casually glanced at the Spanish-labeled controls on the winch, identifying a lever that raised and lowered the lifting hook.
Pitt found the rest of the interior of classic military design: bare-bones, with exposed bulkheads. An ex–Air Force pilot with a keen mechanical aptitude, Pitt tracked a myriad of cables and hydraulic lines that crisscrossed the interior. When his foot knocked against a small fire extinguisher beneath his seat, a crude plan came together. Foolhardy though it might be, it was better than facing a firing squad in Havana.
It would all come down to timing—and the men across from him. The guards were professional soldiers, but they had been on duty most of the prior day and night. One was already dozing, while the other regarded Pitt through tired eyes.
Pitt gave the soldier his best disinterested look and closed his eyes. Placing his hands in his lap, he pretended to sleep. He held the pose for several minutes before risking a peek. The second soldier was still awake but had shifted his body to gaze out the forward cockpit window.
With tiny, incremental movements, Pitt unclasped his seat belt, covering the act with one hand. He shifted in his seat, dropping the other hand beneath his knee until it grazed the fire extinguisher. The guard looked his way for a moment and Pitt froze. But then he resumed staring at the rushing water below.
Pitt slowly tightened his fingers around the fire extinguisher, took a deep breath, and sprang from his seat. He swung the steel canister in a wide arc. But rather than attacking the guards, he smashed the base of the extinguisher into a side bulkhead. It wasn’t just a random strike. He had targeted a pair of stainless steel lines that crimped under the heavy blow.
“Hey!” The open-eyed guard looked at Pitt like he was deranged. He reached for the rifle on his lap, but Pitt was quicker. He flipped the extinguisher around, yanked its safety pin, and squeezed the handle, shooting a stream of monoammonium phosphate into the faces of both guards. As the first guard blindly raised his gun, Pitt hurled the extinguisher at him for good measure.
“Adiós,” he said as he smacked the rescue hoist lever down. Pitt grasped a small ball hook that unraveled from the cable winch, took a quick step, and dove out the open cargo door.
It took a few moments for the guard to wipe his eyes clear and train his rifle on the prisoner. By then, Pitt was gone.
“Land the helicopter at once!” he shouted to the pilots.
The pilot ignored him as a ribbon of red lights flashed across the cockpit controls and the helicopter began bucking in the air.
“She’s not getting any fuel,” the copilot said. “Both engines.”