The Bishop's Pawn--A Novel

by Steve Berry

  Which he did.

  A coil of yellow nylon landed atop the water.

  “The case is heavy,” I yelled. “I’ll tie it off and yank a signal, then you haul it up. I’ll be right behind.”

  I grabbed the end of the coil, stuffed the regulator in my mouth, and plunged back beneath the waves.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I clawed my way through the water, heading for the black case that lay beyond the wreck. On the way down, using some of my clear-thinking-in-a-crisis, I decided to wrap the rope around the exterior and not trust the handle. Its unexpected weight remained a puzzle. I was no stranger to working in the dark, as few people facing a court-martial ever leveled with their lawyer, especially someone who was an officer in the same Navy prosecuting them. So I was accustomed to half the story or, worse yet, total lies. Eventually, though, the truth always prevailed and I assumed that would shortly be the case here, too.

  What an idiot I was.

  I reached the bottom and saw I had plenty of slack in the rope, so I worked the yellow nylon beneath the case and wrapped it around a couple of times, forming a makeshift sling that should remain firmly attached. Overhead, I heard a new rumble of engines and saw the black outline of a second keel powering to a stop. Small, oval-shaped, like an inflatable or a dinghy. Out in this chop that had to be a rough ride.

  Two divers entered the water.

  Both carried spearguns, their fins kicking furiously as they headed toward me.

  A little extreme for park rangers.

  If I yanked the line, the divers would make it to the case long before Jansen could haul it to the surface. Knives were affixed to each of their legs—it would be an easy matter for them to cut the rope. So I abandoned the case and headed for the wreck. My pursuers were nearly to the bottom. I glided across the rear deck and into the main cabin just as a spear thudded into the wood behind me.

  I hadn’t heard it coming.

  Unlike in the movies, there were no whining sound effects signaling its path through the water. The thing just appeared.

  Definitely not park rangers.

  I rolled onto my back and watched through the cabin’s rear windows as one of the divers swam my way and the other headed for the black case. I’d never been trained to handle this kind of situation, but that didn’t mean I was in over my head.

  I spotted a short set of steps that led down into a bow berth. The gash I’d seen outside should be there. A diver with a still-loaded speargun arrived at the stern. I needed to slow him down, so I pushed the cabin’s rear door shut and latched the bolt. Not perfect, but it should buy a few moments. My eyes locked with the diver outside, who didn’t hesitate aiming his weapon. The wooden door was half glass, protected by a broken metal grille. I couldn’t assume that the spear would be stopped by any of that, so I kicked twice and dropped down into the forward berth. Behind me the spear burst through the glass in the door, thudding into wood across the cabin.

  I immediately saw that I was right and a bow gash opened outward. It would be tight, but possible. So I wedged myself through and came up behind the second diver, who was approaching the black case. He laid his reloaded speargun down on the sand and reached for his knife, surely about to cut the rope. I had maybe ten seconds to do something. So I kicked hard and reached around, yanking the regulator from his mouth and popping off his face mask. The assault caught the guy off guard and I used his confusion to wrench the knife away. Drifting back, I drove the heel of my right fin into his forehead, further dazing him.

  The other diver from the wreck had found his way to the hull gash. I knew there’d be a moment of awkwardness before he could maneuver himself through. I was running out of options, the first diver working to find his regulator and face mask. The man inside the wreck disappeared. Then I realized. He was reloading, readying himself for a shot out the gash.

  I heard an engine roar louder.

  The Isla Marie.

  Jansen was leaving?

  I yanked hard on the rope.

  Several times.

  The engines above revved and the slack in the rope began to recede. I snatched the other gun from the sand and sent its spear through the gash. Whether it hit anything didn’t matter. It would buy me time and give the guy in there pause. I grabbed hold as the rope went tight and both the case and I were dragged away from the wreck. I didn’t want the heavy case to strike anything, which might compromise its watertight seal, so I slipped down to the container, secure in its sling, and wrapped my arms around it. Jansen had throttled up the boat and I was now being propelled through the water, speed adding buoyancy.

  Some kicks of my fins and the case and I rose.

  A quick glance back.

  The other diver in the wreck was free, aiming his speargun.

  But I was now out of range.

  * * *

  The boat stopped.

  We were beyond the reef in deep blue water, the bottom beneath me not visible. I was still bear-hugging the case, breathing harder than I should. So I told myself to calm down.

  I felt pressure on the rope.

  Jansen was pulling it in.

  I released my grip and kicked for the surface, breaking through into the rain. I stayed with the case as Jansen brought it closer to the boat.

  “Climb aboard,” he called out.

  I didn’t want to risk the case slipping free, so I stayed with it in the water until the container nestled the stern, then I slipped off my fins, tossed them onto the deck, and climbed the metal ladder. Jansen had a death grip on the rope, and I helped him bring the case up and over the gunnel.

  “Amazing how one gold coin can be so heavy,” I said.

  I saw that Jansen did not appreciate my sarcasm. Too bad. He hadn’t just been shot at with spearguns. I released my waist belt and slid the tank off. That dive had taken a lot out of me. I scanned the seam of sky and sea and noticed that we’d gone far enough out that the other boat could not be seen through the murky storm.

  “The third guy up here in that inflatable started to get frisky,” Jansen said. “I had to use this.” He reached behind and withdrew a semi-automatic from his waist. “I figured you were in trouble.”

  But I wondered.

  Jansen had powered up and moved before I yanked on the rope. Then there was that moment of surprise I’d caught on his face when he saw me on the surface.

  “The water was churned up,” Jansen said. “But clear enough for me to see those two guys after you. I decided it was time to go and was hoping you were hanging on.”

  “Who are they?”

  “I imagine they work for the coin’s owner. One of those boats we passed at anchor might have been his. He apparently arrived sooner than we thought. You did good getting this up here.”

  I’d had enough, so I grabbed Jansen by the arm. “It’s time to end this bullshit. You understand what I’m saying.”

  He glared at me. “Don’t get your panties in a wad. This is all par for the course. It goes with the job. You did good. You’ve got balls.”

  I released my grip.

  I neither believed nor appreciated any of what he was saying, but I was in no position to either argue or barter. I was the new kid on the block, and to make friends I had to play nice.

  “What now?” I asked.

  “I told you we have a guy in custody. But there’s another person, on Loggerhead Cay, who’s camped out waiting for him. She came yesterday afternoon to make a deal with the guy who brought the boat from Cuba. There is a 1933 Double Eagle involved, but it’s not in that case. It’s on Loggerhead. The woman who came yesterday was going to use it to buy what’s in this case.”

  “And what is that?”

  He shook his head. “That’s above my pay grade. Not for either of us to worry about. Since we have the case, why don’t you take the place of the guy we have in custody and make a deal for the coin.”

  “You’re going to give her what’s inside?”

  “Hell no. I’m going to help the FBI arr
est her. But first we need to know some things. Get her talking. Find out what you can. Can you handle that?”

  Sure.

  Sounded like a plan.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I hopped ashore on Loggerhead Cay.

  The rain had eased, the clouds separated, and a harsh sun was now streaming down soothing the sea and warming my body. Jansen had eased to a dock that extended out past a narrow beach to drop me off, then motored on toward the north point of the island where he’d be waiting. We hadn’t seen the inflatable with the divers on our return.

  Loggerhead sat three miles west from Fort Jefferson. The black-and-white conical tower of its signature brick lighthouse continued to flash, as did the one across the water, atop the fort, each winking to the other in the ever-brightening midday. The island’s landscape was flat and uninteresting, barely a few feet above sea level, covered in low scrub and thick stands of a short, squatty pine. A beautiful thin ring of white sand wrapped its edges, dissolving into the transparent water. The reef where I’d dived lay off the far side, toward the southwest. Here, on the east, a cluster of low-slung buildings guarded the lighthouse. Jansen had told me that only a few caretakers lived here. Birds seemed the main residents along with, I assumed, its namesake turtles, which surely used the beaches for nests.

  Jansen also told me that a handful of campgrounds were scattered across the forty or so acres, concentrated at the south and north extremes. No food, fresh water, electricity, or medical assistance existed. Each person had to bring everything they needed and take everything away. The remote sites were first come, first served. The contact I sought waited at the north point.

  I wore a Jacksonville Jaguars T-shirt, a pair of Nike shorts, and tennis shoes, projecting an image of island simplicity. But a clean-shaven face and a regulation haircut might give away my military status. I was in good shape, the dive had just proven that. My waist remained thin, my hair a sandy blond. Middle age was years off, and thankfully my metabolism burned more calories than I took in.

  Weather here seemed to change in a blink of an eye. The storms from earlier were vanishing, replaced by clear skies and sunshine. But it was also hurricane season, and I imagined that this was the last place you’d want to be if one of those paid a visit.

  A concrete walk led from the dock to the lighthouse, which sat roughly at the island’s center. I avoided that path and headed north, up the beach, following the wet sand. Thunder continued to rumble in the distance as the storm moved eastward. The only other sounds were the wind, a gentle lap of tiny waves, and the shrill cries from birds overhead.

  I felt like a castaway.

  The whole cay was only about two hundred yards wide. If not for the thick stands of pine, you would have been able to see from side to side and end to end. At the north point I spotted a green Sundome tent, its rain fly unzipped, set among what looked like foundation ruins. A weathered placard identified the site as the former Tortugas Marine Biological Laboratory, established by the Carnegie Institution in 1904. I had no idea what I was walking into, but since there was no choice I left the beach and followed a narrow trail through prickly pear cactus.

  “Are you the person who made the dive on the wreck?”

  The words were delivered in Spanish, and hearing a disembodied female voice where there’d just been nothing startled me. Thankfully, languages were familiar to me. It was a side effect of an eidetic memory that came courtesy of my mother’s side of the family. Not photographic. Just a mind that retained facts like a magnet, which had made it easy for me to learn Spanish, French, and some passable Italian. My hope had been that the skills might come in handy one day.

  A woman emerged from the tent.

  She was a little over five feet tall with shoulder-length dark hair and smooth brown skin. No makeup marred her attractive face. Her almond-shaped eyes sized me up with a tight, almost uncomfortable gaze. She was trim and fit with healthy curves concealed by jeans at the limit of their embrace and a loose-fitting blouse. Being a lawyer and asking a million questions had taught me that conversations hated a vacuum. If the questioner didn’t rush in to fill the silence, the subject usually would do it for you, often to their regret.

  So I stayed quiet.

  “Can you understand me?” she asked in Spanish.

  The accent was American, with a touch of the South. Like my own. I said, “No Spanish.”

  Better to keep my linguistic abilities to myself.

  “Is this better?” she said in English.

  “Works for me.”

  “You can’t be Valdez. He sounded older on the phone.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Are you the fellow who dove the reef?”

  I nodded. “You watched?”

  “From the beach. I was wondering if anyone would come. I heard about the wreck yesterday when I arrived. But since I’m stuck here till later today, I had no choice but to wait and watch.”

  “Do you have a name?”

  “Coleen Perry.”

  “I’m Cotton Malone. I came for the coin.”

  “You work for Valdez?”

  There was that name again. New in the mix. But I knew the correct answer. “I do.” I had to tread carefully since I had no idea where this was headed. So I stuck with the facts. “I have what you want.” I pointed off toward the water. “It’s on that boat, anchored out there.”

  Jansen had assumed a position about a hundred yards off the north point, near where the water transitioned from turquoise to blue. Once I’d learned what I could, a signal from me would bring him back around to the dock where we would take this woman into custody. Since there was literally nowhere for her to run, that task should be easy. Interestingly, Coleen Perry did not appear anxious in any way and I surmised that this might not be her first rodeo.

  “Who were the other guys that went down with you?” she asked.

  “Some additional help that I didn’t need.”

  “I noticed your boat left in a hurry.”

  “You want to deal or talk?”

  She reached into her pocket and found something, which she tossed across to me. I caught the offering and saw that it was a plastic sleeve protecting a shiny gold coin a little over an inch in diameter. One side showed Lady Liberty holding a torch and an olive branch backed by lines of glory. The other depicted a bald eagle in flight, with more glory lines and the familiar motto IN GOD WE TRUST. Above the eagle the face value read $20.

  “It’s still illegal to own it,” she said.

  “Yet you have it.”

  “Not anymore. Where is Valdez?”

  “He doesn’t get out much.”

  “We were supposed to talk.”

  I glanced back at the coin in my hand and something occurred to me. If this Valdez was in fact from Cuba, getting paid in cash would not be the smartest move. True, U.S. dollars were used there, but not in the quantities this coin commanded. So what was in the case that was worth millions of dollars?

  Time to see what I could learn.

  “I’m not in the loop here,” I said. “Just hired help. But I am curious.”

  “That’s what got the cat killed.”

  “But satisfaction brought it back.”

  She smiled. “Okay, what do you want to know?”

  I motioned with the coin. “How did you get this?”

  “I didn’t. My father did.”

  “And it’s too nosy of me to ask where he got it?”

  She shook her head. “If Valdez isn’t here, I just want my documents.”

  Another new piece to the puzzle. Documents. Now I knew what had made the waterproof case so heavy.

  “Like I said, they’re on the boat. I’ll signal and it will meet us at the dock.”

  “Do it.”

  The sound of propellers biting air disturbed our tranquility. I glanced up and saw a single-engine Cessna seaplane dropping from the eastern sky, descending rapidly, skimming the choppy surface, and making a landing not far from Jansen’s boat. />
  “Are you expecting somebody?” she asked.

  I watched as the blue-and-white plane taxied toward the Isla Marie, killed its engine, then nestled close. I caught the tail ID numbers: 1180206. Was Jansen in trouble? Movement on the rear deck drew my attention. The plane blocked a clear view, but I could see someone hoisting something from the boat. Then people hopped into the plane, which drifted away, its engine restarted. There was nothing I could do but watch as the plane gathered speed, then lifted off into the midday sky.

  I turned back to face Coleen.

  Who held a gun in her hand.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I debated whether to keep to lies.

  Frankly, I wasn’t sure what was what at this point.

  “I want my coin back,” she said. “It seems you don’t have the documents anymore.”

  Fair enough. I tossed the packet over. “You may not believe this, but that plane was as much a surprise to me as it was to you.”

  “I don’t believe anything, except that Valdez is apparently a double-crossing crook. What was the plan? You get the coin. He gets back his documents? I get screwed.”

  I needed to see about Jansen. Hard to tell exactly what had just happened on the boat. He might be hurt.

  “I have a friend out there who could need help.”

  She lowered the gun and shrugged. “I don’t care. I have my coin. Get the hell out of here.”

  I ran toward the water and plunged in, shoes and all. The sea remained churned, surging around the flat spit of island. Jansen had been right about the local currents. They were formidable. But thankfully they were headed out to open ocean, which allowed me to negotiate the hundred yards quickly.

  “Jansen. Jansen.”

  No reply.

  The Isla Marie twisted around its anchor line. I heard a plane in the distance and saw another making a water landing near Fort Jefferson. A bad morning was turning into an okay afternoon and tour operators out of Key West had to make a living. I grabbed hold of the stern ladder and climbed up onto the deck beneath the sheltered roof. The dive equipment still lay where I’d left it. Water dripped from my wet clothes.