CHAPTER ONE

The ship floated on the clear azure water like a dark scab on fair skin. Rust covered every inch of her hull and superstructure as if maintenance and coats of paint belonged to another age. She redefined the term "tramp steamer" to a lower level, and even the lines holding her fast seemed ragged and worn. A sliver of retreating sunlight outlined the barely legible name on her hull, Chimera. She stood tied at the far side of the harbor, moored to a decrepit dock rarely used and serviced only by an unpaved dirt road ending at the edge of the old San Juan district.

Earlier in the day, a convoy of seven trucks had plodded their way up the dirt road and loaded their cargo into the hold. Emil Gomez thought that operation itself had been interesting, another discordant event added to the mass of contradictions this ship and its journey had turned out to be. Emil knew the inside of this seemingly worn-out freighter, having discovered and noted as much as he could since signing up as crew in the port of Athens. For instance, he thought, the engines were state of the art Hunnewell diesels, incorporating the latest propulsion technology and computer controls. The electronics on the ship were also the most up to date available. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to make Chimera appear as an insignificant rust bucket, plying the oceans on her last legs.

Emil sat on a vent-housing on the stern deck, amid a clutter of rusted machinery that he knew was nothing more than stage props. He took a puff on the tiny cigarillo without inhaling, blowing out the pungent cloud in the scented breezes wafting down from the hills surrounding San Juan harbor. The three-week trip from Athens down the Mediterranean through the Straits of Gibraltar to the open Atlantic and Puerto Rico, had unsettled him. The crew consisted of two distinct categories. First there were hired hands like him, less than a dozen, mostly able seamen, laborers performing the menial tasks the ship required. Then there were the officers and "passengers." The officers were composed of Russians and men from the Baltic States that had been part of the old Soviet Union. The passengers were a group he recognized well, former military, and Emil could feel cruel edges lurking beneath the surface of their abrupt movements and suspicious glances. On several occasions he had glimpsed the Spetznaz tattoos on their arms, the old symbol of former Soviet Special Forces. None of the camaraderie that developed among merchant marine crews existed on this ship. It felt to Emil as if they rode atop a developing storm that would suddenly rise and kill them all, and in the last few days, the tension had thickened like a noxious stew. As soon as they reached Puerto Rico, every member of the crew except Emil and two others had taken their pay, scurried away and disappeared.

Emil had taken shore leave just long enough to mail the CD he had stolen from the Captain's cabin, the CD that contained the Protocol. Now he only had one more task, and then he could leave this dangerous ship.

That afternoon, the ship's loading had added another dimension to the enigma of Chimera. The trucks had pulled up to the docks, disgorged a dozen men in unmarked uniforms who immediately cordoned off the loading area with automatic weapons at the ready. Two San Juan police cars blocked access to the road while the four officers smoked, chatted and studiously avoided glancing at the loading operation. The largest truck, a crane-carrying monstrosity, positioned itself alongside mid-ship. The crane extended its boom like a giant bird of prey's beak as the men uncovered the trucks one by one, revealing stainless steel boxes, six feet high and eight feet long, studded with hooks and loops for handling. Emil had noted the strange apertures running alongside the top of each crate, looking suspiciously like air holes. He had been one of four crewmen positioned alongside the cargo hatch to guide the metal containers into the dark cavern of the ship's hold. They had been closely watched by two of the passengers, this time making no efforts to conceal the short-barreled machine pistols slung around their necks. As Emil and his fellow crewmen guided the containers on their journey into the bowels of the ship, one of the crates swung close to him. He pushed the metal walls of the container with both hands, feeling the unyielding re-enforced steel, and something banged against the wall from inside, as if wanting to shred the human hands daring enough to touch its metal walls. The entire loading operation took less than two hours, and the trucks disappeared immediately as if anxious to leave the aura of the rust-bound ship and whatever had been deposited in its guts.

Now the sun had gone down and a shroud of tropical darkness enfolded the ship. Just a few lights remained around the docks, and a solitary lamppost threw a luminescent cone where the gangway met the ground. Beyond that, all remained dark. Still Emil could see about a mile or so, the lights marking the beginning of old San Juan harbor and the bright Cantina lights on its outskirts. Past that, the bustling new city of San Juan threw off a bright glow that failed to illuminate the dismal end of the docks where Chimera was moored.

Emil could hear distant wisps of noises from the city, floating like butterflies of sound, and he had a sudden urge to be there, in the company of merchants, tourists and residents, away from the oppressive air of the ship. He wondered for a moment what it would be like, to just run down the gangway and disappear in the darkness, to find himself on Calle Ocho in old San Juan, losing himself in the city without ever having to do what he was there for. He smiled in the darkness, stood and pitched the glowing remains of the cigarillo overboard and watched it twinkle out in the dark waters below. No, there was no way out. He had to get that final proof.

It was fully dark now as he made his way to the door below the bridge that led to the crew's quarters. He made no attempt to hide himself as he walked past two of the passengers and nodded. None returned his gesture, and he felt their eyes bore into his back as he closed the door behind him.

This was it. This was where he would earn his keep. He went down to the mess hall, just a few yards into the corridor from his own tiny crew cabin. He ate a meal of fried chicken and mashed potatoes. The condemned's last meal, he thought. Afterward he cleaned the last of the potatoes off his plate, leaving only forlorn, used-up chicken bones, stood and stretched, mumbled some words to the two crewmen sitting at his table and went out the door.

He went straight to his room, donned a tight, black sweat suit, grabbed a towel and toilet kit, stepped out and headed for the showers. A few yards down the hall he looked around, saw no one and dodged into the empty utility closet.

Emil had not wasted the last three weeks at sea. It had been an extended reconnoitering mission. He probably knew more about this ship than the people who built it, at least his end of it anyway. Inside the utility closet he pushed away the stacks of repair plates, welding rods and various supplies until he reached the lower wall where the ventilation grate rested just one inch from the floor. Working smoothly and rapidly, he removed the four large screws holding the grate in place. Over the course of many hours at sea, he had removed each screw after dousing it with liberal doses of rust solvent and reset them loosely so that they practically came out by themselves. Reaching through the grate with one hand, he pushed each screw back in and twisted them from the inside, finally breaking off the ends with small pliers so he could not be followed easily. He shimmied downward into the vent until it emerged into a passageway about fifty yards away. He crawled out, looked around and sniffed like a prairie dog leaving its burrow. This was a dangerous time. He didn't doubt for a moment that if they caught him now, what remained of his carcass would be dumped miles out in the Atlantic to be devoured by sea creatures and never seen again. He thought for a moment with a rapier-like pang of guilt about his sister Essie, just a couple of years older than him, waiting in Everglades City. He was all she had; he just had to be sure and return in one piece for her. This would be the last job and should get him enough for that little condo in Naples they so often spoke about. He shook his head and moved to the end of the deserted hallway. He had to concentrate, continue with his plan. That was the only key to survival.

Moving swiftly with quick and practiced steps, he advanced like a silent shadow on the steel deck floor. He opened three more doors and emerged into the hushed cavern of the cargo hold. He crept along, blending into the steel wall, hand over hand, feeling for obstructions. Thin-soled canvas shoes allowed him to sense the floor beneath each step. Quickly he reached the edge of one of the crates, lashed tight with chains fastened to hooks in the floor. Twenty yards across and to the side of the lines of steel containers he could see the glow of the cargo hold side door and the catwalk where the shadow of a machine pistol-toting guard stood outlined by the backlight of the entrance hallway.

Emil jumped up, grasped the edge of the far container, smoothly hoisted himself to the top and paused silently. When he was satisfied that he had not attracted attention, he moved whisper-quiet to the edge of the steel box and looked into the apertures at the top. He sensed something stirring inside, heard low clicking noises as if sharp ivory claws slid across the surface. A deep, musky fetid smell arose from the small openings and he turned his head away for a moment before looking in again, and this time he clicked on a small Maglite and aimed it into the opening.

For a panicked instant he thought he had looked into the face of hell. A quick impression of deep yellow orbs surrounded by blood red capillaries inside a deep convex eye socket that he knew instantly belonged in a nightmare. He jerked his head away violently as something smashed inside the container, and for a desperate moment he thought whatever was inside would just break through the steel barriers as if they were smoke. The rush of a heavy body smashing into the roof of the container resounded throughout the cargo hold, punctuated by the clatter of his dropped Maglite. Emil jumped to the floor just as the guard turned on the floodlights inside the hold. The clanking metal noise told him the guard had chambered a round with the quick and easy familiarity of one accustomed to such things. He heard the man calling on his radio that he was checking a possible disturbance as he made his way toward Emil.

**

Dr. Pavel Immirov believed his prime quality was focus, concentrating on the subject at hand to the exclusion of all else. He exercised that quality on the genetic chart laid out on the table of his spacious cabin when the knock on the door brought him out of his concentration. He suppressed his irritation and yelled "come in."

Anton Ishgayev opened the door and stepped into the room. Even though the door to Dr. Immirov's cabin was standard size, Anton had to slightly bow his head to avoid hitting the top of the hatchway. His shoulders seemed to barely clear the sides as his bulk filled the doorway. Dr. Immirov knew the big man, in spite of his size, could move with impossible speed and agility when the situation demanded it. But it wasn't Anton Ishgayev's strength and bulk that impressed Dr. Immirov, it was the complete ruthlessness of the man, his total lack of emotional attachment to anything or anyone. Looking into his eyes, Dr. Immirov always had known that his chief of security was a true sociopath, able to kill or torture to death another human being with no second thought. In point of fact, Anton Ishgayev had done just that very thing many times in his fifty-one years.

"The guard reported a disturbance in the cargo hold. I will investigate, and I believe you may want to check on the Shutkas."

As he followed his chief of security, Dr. Pavel Immirov smiled a little at the irony. In just about two weeks, none of this would matter, because the world would bear the disturbance to end all disturbances.

**

Flat against the wall of the steel crate, Emil felt a malevolent presence somehow stalking him within the confines of the metal container. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the footsteps of the approaching guard as whatever it was snorted softly inside.

Interminable moments passed as Emil exercised the attribute that had kept him alive in other difficult situations: Stillness. The guard's soft approaching footsteps, and the silent beat of his heart in his throat became Emil's total sensory universe. As the barrel of the stalking guard's weapon poked around the edge of the crate, Emil launched himself into an arc, his right foot lashing out in a vertical strike, passing below the gun, and smashing full strength into the guard's solar plexus. The man doubled over, finger convulsing on the trigger, discharging three rounds into the steel plates of the floor before Emil could finish the guard with a two handed blow to the neck and grab the weapon.

He heard shouts and two men appeared at the cargo entrance door. He stood, fired a long burst in their direction, dodged behind the crates and ran crouching until he reached the open air vent and dove inside. He crawled for less than ten yards before coming to another vent connecting at a ninety-degree angle. Like a practiced rat in its hole, he dove through the opening, turned through two more connecting vents until the noise behind him faded and the vent ended at a narrow grille facing a murky corridor lit by a single dim and caged bulb.

Emil twisted the screw, pushed out the grille and emerged into the corridor. Outside he heard a piercing whine, similar to a car alarm, rising and falling in pitch. Definitely time to pull the vanishing act, he thought. He reached the end of the corridor, twisted open the metal latch, stepped inside, and bolted the door closed. He paused a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. The room held the rusty metallic smell of decay as bleak smatterings of light from a large oval opening on the far wall outlined what seemed like a giant python coiled around a massive donut. He was in the hawser room, the chamber that held the huge chain fastened to the anchor right outside the oval opening. He felt his way in the gloom until his hand reached the alcove formed by the ship's structural beam and attached wall plate. He pulled out the rope he had secreted days before, sturdy, smooth nylon rope wrapped in greased leather at its middle with a lead "monkey fist" at one end. Now he reached the anchor chain with each link wide as a lawn chair and thick as an automobile tire. He climbed the chain until he reached the opening that curved down where it was fastened to the truck-sized anchor tethered to the side of the ship. He reached the aperture and stuck his head and shoulders out as he stood on the anchor. He was in a pool of darkness beneath the rake of the bow, some thirty foot above the dock. He saw a trio of guards around the gangway and heard shouted orders on the deck. He had to move fast before they closed off his only escape.

Emil straddled the chain, his body leaning out, and threw the weighted end of the rope high overhead. The thin rope arced over the foot-thick line holding the bow of the ship to the dock. The line came down on the other side, swinging back and forth until he grabbed it. Now he had both ends of the rope looped on the overhead line, and he kicked out, launching his body from the hull, riding the bowline down to the ground on the improvised sling. Just before he hit the ground he heard voices shouting, and someone turned on the bridge spotlight, but by then it was too late. He hit the ground running, sprinted the thirty or so yards to the tropical vegetation surrounding the dock and disappeared into the blackness of a footpath he had noted earlier.

Emil was in familiar territory, for this end of Puerto Rico was his native soil. He had grown up in this boisterous pocket of poverty. The sliver of moon and dusting of stars emitted enough light, and he felt like the wind as he ran toward the glow of the old city and Calle Ocho, steadily increasing the distance from Chimera.

**

The remote controlled lock released both magnetic latches and the steel door fell away, hitting the deck with a clapping sound that instantly woke her. She extended her front limbs, poured out of the crate and saw him outlined against stars in the opening of the cargo hatch. In one effortless bound she reached the top rail of the hatch, grasping the rail with enough force to kink the steel tubing. He was so close, standing by the rail, and she accepted his touch. He held out something made of cloth like he wore, but bearing another scent. He whispered a command, soft as a caress and she shuddered with pleasure as she bounded from the railing into the night air.

**

Emil paused in the soft moss and dirt of the dark footpath. He thought he had heard something, but the dozen or so yards of forest separating him from the beginning of Calle Ocho was still, very still. Even the coquis, the little tree frogs, had ceased their high pitch whistling. He turned his head as something seemed to blot out a section of night sky and branches stirred in the trees towering above him. More shaking of tree limbs followed, but there's no wind, he thought for a fleeting moment

Emil sensed a presence, something that stirred the tiny hairs on the back of his neck and made the pit of his stomach fall away. He heard a snorting, snuffling noise that he recognized from the cargo hold. Icy fingers twisted his gut and he heard the pounding of his heart, so loud they must be able to hear it clear to the market square a quarter mile away. He sprinted through the stubby grass, his system flooded with adrenalin; he felt the primitive terror of the hunted as he closed the gap.

He had reached a point just a few feet away from the pool of light that marked the beginning of the old city when his feet caught a tree limb and he fell, his body hitting the ground flat with a soggy grunt. He leapt in a flash, refusing to feel the pain in his limbs and looked into the darkness behind him. Nothing. The night filled his senses, black as squid-ink, but he sensed the shifting of shadows and a steadily approaching presence.

Emil turned to run the last few feet ahead to the safety of the lighted street when he heard the snorting again, this time from directly in front. He felt a fetid gust of air as something blotted out the light ahead, and moved toward him at an impossible speed. He tried to turn away, tried to run, but there was no time as the shadow closed in and the scant light made its features visible for a moment. In that instant, he lost all control as his bowels turned to liquid and he knew that all the old tales, the terrors told around the campfires of the campesinos, were true. His last thought coursed through him before the mind-numbing pain snuffed out his life.

Chupacabras.

**

The guard pressed his shoulder against the railing as he gripped the twelve-gauge short barrel automatic shotgun. Even the fearsome close-in weapon gave him no comfort. For the first time he felt truly frightened, a deep ancestral fright that his four years hunting the murderous bandits in the mountains of Chechnya had failed to produce. He gripped the weapon tighter as the shape blotted out the stars, landed on the railing ten yards from him, jumped again, and with a lazy graceful arc, descended into the open cargo hold. He thought he recognized Dr. Immirov's voice speaking soothing tones as the hydraulically activated cargo doors slid tightly together.

The guard moved along the rail, one hand on the weapon the other sliding along the steel as if for protection. When he reached the spot where the creature had landed, he felt a syrupy wetness and pulled his hand away with a start. He held his hand out to the reflected mast light, knowing by the coppery rank smell what he would see. His body moved with an involuntary shudder as he wiped the blood from his hand.