Juan said nothing for a moment, his blue eyes cast toward the ceiling as he thought through his next moves. He suddenly got to his feet and started for the door. “Would you excuse me a moment,” he said to Sloane, then addressed the hidden microphones. “Max, meet me at my cabin.” He meant the faux cabin they used for Customs inspectors. It was the midway point between the elevator up from the op center and the mess hall.

Hanley was waiting outside the filthy cabin when Juan rounded the corner. He was leaning against a bulkhead tapping his pipe stem against his teeth, a sure sign something was on his mind. He straightened when the Chairman approached. Even with the door closed Juan’s nose wrinkled at the stale smoke smell emanating from the cabin.

“What do you think?” Juan asked without preamble.

“I think we need to stop messing around and get to Cape Town to pick up the equipment we’re going to need if we want to rescue Merrick before he dies of old age.”

“Besides that.”

“The whole thing sounds like a crock to me.”

“I’d agree totally if we hadn’t seen the attack on the Pinguin for ourselves.” Juan paused, marshaling his thoughts.

“You think we’ve stumbled onto something?” Max asked to prod his friend.

“Guys on million-dollar yachts don’t go blasting away at someone without a damned good reason. In this case, I believe they’re protecting something. Sloane says no one knew what vessel they were looking for so it’s possible they’re guarding something other than a purported treasure ship.”

“You don’t seriously believe in Papa Heinrick’s giant metal snakes?”

“Max, there’s something here. I can feel it.” Juan turned to his friend, catching his eye so there would be no misunderstanding. “Do you remember what I told you just before we took on those two guys from NUMA headed for Hong Kong harbor?”

“They were checking out the old SS United States. That was the mission you lost your leg,” Max said, his voice matching Cabrillo’s introspective tone.

Juan unconsciously shifted, placing his weight on the limb made of carbon fiber and titanium. “The mission that cost me my leg,” he echoed.

Max stuck his pipe in his mouth. “It’s been a couple of years but I believe your exact words were ‘Max, I hate to quote an overused cliché, but I’ve got a bad feeling about this.’ ”

Juan didn’t blink and held Hanley’s appraising stare. “Max, I’ve got the same damn feeling.”

Max held the gaze a second longer, and then nodded. A decade together had taught him to trust the chairman no matter how irrational the request and no matter how long the odds. “What’s your play?”