Deep Blue

by Randy Wayne White

  “No, Winslow would have needed help. Why do you insist on—”

  “I’m explaining why the story is intimidating,” Ford said. “You’ve got an IQ off the chart, so it’s tough for someone like me to comprehend. A kid your age—what, you were in your late teens?—taking down a doctor without your father’s help. That’s pretty hard to—”

  “I was fourteen years old,” Julian interrupted. He said it in a way that warned See who you’re dealing with? “What’s even funnier, I planted a camera in the dude’s office. I wish you’d seen the look on his face when the cops kicked in his door.”

  Ford had been waiting for this opening. “No, you don’t, Julian.”

  “Why? You’re the one who said it was funny.”

  “Funny in a different way,” Ford said. “Because, if I were a cop in western Australia, I would have tracked down the patient most likely to be a pedophile before arresting the shrink. That’s you, Julian. Who else would have had child porn to plant in the guy’s hard drive? Your father had nothing to do with it. You said so yourself. That’s why I asked.”

  Julian’s porcelain face brightened. He battled for composure, then lost it. “Motherfucker,” he said. “No one talks to me that way.”

  The screen went dark.

  Ford sat there expecting the computer to reinitiate contact. It had to happen. The drones were a big deal, and Julian’s father was a bigger deal. The kid either wanted Winslow Shepherd dead or Shepherd had enough leverage to demand revenge on the man who had dropped him eight stories onto Mexican tile.

  On the printer was the incomplete dossier—a rap sheet, the kid had called it. He leafed through a few pages, then burned it all in the woodstove.

  If Julian believed he could blackmail him into submission, Julian was wrong.

  Ford went out the door, through the mangroves to the marina, hoping to find Vargas Diemer.

  Vargas was on the phone speaking with his agent in Portuguese when he saw the biologist pass the bait tanks and turn toward A dock.

  “Speak of the devil,” he said in English, “here he comes now.”

  The agent switched languages. “What devil is this?”

  “I’m not convinced he is,” Vargas replied and watched until the biologist disappeared from the porthole glass. “Let’s get back to money. There’s something special about those drones, or they wouldn’t have requested me. For a couple toy planes they could replace for a quarter a mil? Come on. There’s more to it.”

  “The client made discreet inquiries,” the agent replied, “and that’s the price the client named. My job is to pass it along.”

  “Did you confirm Julian Solo is involved?”

  “I can’t and I won’t. I took the liberty of saying you might know where the drones are. Nothing else was discussed. Is that true? You do know?”

  “Soon, very soon. But Julian doesn’t come up with a lot more money, screw him. I’m working an angle of my own.”

  “What is this screw them?” the agent asked. “Please—it’s better if we speak Portuguese.”

  They did while Vargas carried the phone outside to the aft balcony with its view of the marina. The biologist had stopped to speak to the old women who owned Tiger Lilly. At night, sometimes, the incense they burned was disgusting, but they brought the Brazilian homemade cookies or pies, which was nice. From a houseboat, the little Cuban girl, Sabina, joined in the conversation. She was a fireball, that girl; smart and funny, who could make even Vargas laugh.

  Vargas liked this little marina. It’s why he had stayed so long. Everyone here pleasant and harmless.

  Almost everyone.

  He watched the biologist turn. They made eye contact. Vargas held up the phone and flashed five fingers twice, meaning Give me ten minutes. At the same instant, Mack summoned Ford to the office with a wave. Standing nearby was the dwarf Cuban, who was mentally retarded in an entertaining way, and had a beautiful antique Harley-Davidson.

  Vargas continued speaking to his agent while his mind drifted. He wanted that motorcycle. It would be easy enough to trick the Cuban into selling it—and he might one day—but the deal would require an abrupt departure from the marina, and he wasn’t ready to leave.

  Not just yet.

  He enjoyed the people here—it was the closest thing to home since childhood. But there was another reason he prolonged his stay: a local girl, Hannah Smith. Hannah wasn’t his type, normally. She was tall and countrified, with a rough manner when offended, but, oh my god, what a body. Vargas had gotten a glimpse recently when he’d surprised her in the shower.

  A glimpse was enough.

  This was more than a week ago when Ford was in Mexico, as Vargas had confirmed. Hannah, after a rare second glass of champagne, had allowed him to kiss her, and undo the top two buttons of her blouse, before pulling away. But then gave him further encouragement by saying, “I should hop in the shower before I head home.”

  Vargas took that as an invitation. His mistake had ended their evening, and nearly bloodied his nose when he opened the shower door. But he’d seen enough.

  Oh my god.

  He wasn’t leaving until he had bedded Hannah Smith.

  Now the blond veterinarian was on his list, too.

  Vargas was still on the phone fifteen minutes later when the biologist exited the office and crossed the deck toward A dock. “I have to go,” he told his agent. “If the money’s right, we have a deal. If not, I’ll do the job on spec and take my chances.”

  He pocketed the phone, took the stairs to the main salon, and was lounging in a deck chair when the biologist appeared, saying, “Why do I think you were talking about me?”

  • • •

  Ford didn’t trust anyone with details about Mexico, not even friends in Tampa, but he shared some of it with the Brazilian. The bizarre exchange with Julian via computer would have made no sense if he hadn’t.

  “You’re certain it was him?”

  This was not the first time they had discussed the boy genius.

  “Even if I was, I know better than to believe everything I see on anything electronic. A computer-generated hologram—a projected likeness—would look and sound just like him. The technology’s there, so I accept it as a possibility, but—”

  “Disney World,” the Brazilian said. “I’ve seen them. Holograms; they’re convincing, but you wouldn’t confuse one with a real person. Too shimmery . . . no, translucent is the word.”

  “On an LED screen, I might. It has more to do with this guy’s behavior. I got him on the subject of his father, and walked him into a fairly harmless trap. A conversational trap meant to back him off a little. I didn’t expect him to shut down totally before he told me what he wanted. A hologram wouldn’t react like that. He threw a tantrum like a spoiled fourteen-year-old.”

  A champagne bucket of ice and drinks was on the table that separated their chairs. Ford opened a Corona. As he did, he looked through sliding doors into the yacht’s salon where there was a laptop open on a desk. “Is that thing on?” He pointed.

  “Always. I didn’t tell you about my security shutdown system? It’s safe.”

  After thinking about that for a moment, Ford got back to Julian. “Whatever he wants from me has to do with his father. If it was just the UAVs, he’d let some flunky handle it. Unless . . .” He looked at the Brazilian. “Any ideas?”

  Vargas had a very specific idea but replied, “Is this hypothetical or have you made up your mind about contract work? That’s where the money is, my friend.”

  They had talked about that the same night they had discussed Julian. Hiring private professionals to handle overseas security—or a particularly dirty job—was cheaper and safer, politically speaking, than putting a nation’s own military at risk.

  Small, privatized armies will control the future, according to the Brazilian.

  Maybe so.
Ford had friends, experienced operators, who were finally, finally, being paid what they were worth by top contract agencies such as Triple Canopy, Aegis, and Blackwater, which operated under several names.

  Ford replied, “Maybe down the road, but I’ve changed my mind on this one. Julian is trying to blackmail me, so I have to walk away.”

  Vargas didn’t like the way this was going. “When you say ‘walk away,’ you mean . . . ?”

  “I’ll either turn the drones over to people I trust or”—the biologist straightened his glasses—“I haven’t decided yet, but I’m not going to bargain with whoever’s behind this. Julian, I’m pretty sure. That’s the same as admitting I’m guilty of whatever he thinks he’s got on me.”

  “Admirable,” the Brazilian said. “A more practical man would put profit ahead of ethics. Experience tells me there might be millions in this if we play it right. You’re a noble man, Dr. Ford.”

  Ford, chuckling, said, “Kiss my ass. He’s not getting those drones back. I figure they contain some kind of new technology that hasn’t been patented, so he can’t risk them being reverse engineered. Either that or it’s pirated military technology he’s not supposed to have. No one, even Julian, wants to screw with the big-time military powers.”

  “Military,” Vargas said as if surprised. “I guess that’s possible—if you’ve got a good imagination.”

  “He’s hacked enough of their systems. That’s not imaginary. And he’s got the money . . . probably enough backdoor contacts by now to steal the actual hardware. Or just the plans, that would be enough.”

  “Don’t you think it’s more likely he’s trying to protect his own little inventions?”

  Ford affected a smile. “Until now, I wasn’t convinced it was military. Tell me something—do you have proof, or are you guessing?”

  The Brazilian’s expression transitioned from Who? Me? to Okay . . . I admit it. “Mostly, it’s a guess that’s supported by what a source told me . . . but only because I asked.” He gestured to his phone on the table. “We just hung up.”

  “You figured it out for yourself, but you’re still in the confirmation process. Smart. How solid is your source?”

  “Oh . . . I don’t know him well, but his credentials are good. Think about it. Julian’s been on the run for more than a year, yet three or four major intelligence agencies haven’t managed to find him. Do you actually believe that?”

  Ford, looking at the Brazilian, sipped his beer and waited.

  “Me neither. It only makes sense if they don’t want to find him. They can’t risk giving him a public platform—and that’s what jail and a team of international attorneys would do. I’d bet that one or all three of those UAVs contain something big, something black ops military. A guidance system maybe, or a new weapon the international community would pretend to abhor, but, in fact, wants for its own arsenal.”

  “Two drones,” Ford corrected and reached to massage his shoulder. The marina fuel pumps were to his left, where a 21-foot Maverick flats skiff was just pulling in. He’d sold the boat a while back to Hannah, who was at the helm. Her fly-fishing clients—two burly men—sat forward. She glanced over at the Brazilian’s yacht, did a double take, then frowned and turned away.

  “I wonder what I did to piss her off now,” Ford mused.

  Vargas, suddenly uneasy, got to his feet and began putting things away. “I’ve got an agent who handles these matters. I haven’t spoken to him for a while, but it wouldn’t hurt to throw out some numbers and see if Julian bites. Doc—”

  “Yeah?” The biologist was watching Hannah glide around the boat while she secured lines.

  “What would you say to a million dollars, clean?”

  “She knows I’m looking, that’s what galls me.” Ford started to say something else, then realized what he’d just heard. “How much?”

  “I’ll ask for four million, but settle for three-point-five, and we’ll split it. You can buy a lot of good deeds down the road by telling your ethics to go to hell for a week. That’s one-point-seven-five mil apiece.”

  Ford turned to the salon doors, which were open, the salon all dark wood and brass inside, where the laptop looked as misplaced as a sextant in an Apple store.

  The Brazilian interpreted silence as indecision. “Good. We can at least discuss it. Why not show me the . . . items so, when I speak with my agent, I’ll have some hard intel to prove I’m serious?”

  “Show you the drones, you mean,” Ford said. He thought about that, but not for long. “We’ll take my truck.”

  • • •

  When they pulled onto Mack’s new property, the Brazilian, after reading the Grin N Bare It cottages sign, said, “If this is where they’re hidden, I’d wager they’re gone by now.”

  “I want to check something.” Ford got out and walked to the concrete clubhouse, where the double doors were open, garbage bags stacked outside. Inside, on the cool linoleum floor, lay the retriever. Figueroa was working on what looked like an intercom conduit, but didn’t hear the truck arrive because the radio was so damn loud. Cuban salsa.

  Ford found the volume, and made it tolerable, before saying, “I’ve come to get my dog. Who else is here?”

  “Take the bastard, thanks be to God. I am so sick of being followed. Even when I stop to piss, he is next to me, which I hate because of what he does.”

  The dog’s ears perked at the sound of snapping fingers, but he got up slowly at Ford’s command: “Come.”

  With a broom, the little Cuban swatted at the dog. “Move your ass, you dirty beast.”

  “Don’t do that,” Ford said, “never hit him,” as he canceled the command with a hand signal. “I’ll let him rest here for a while.”

  He went to the door. Parked in the shade of a palm was a white compact, probably a rental. Tomlinson’s bicycle with Key West stickers and a Fausto’s basket leaned against cottage number 3. The door there was closed. “Who’s he with? I know him too well to believe he’s in there working.”

  “Some might call it work,” the Cuban replied, “but, in Cuba, we call it making hot oil. He’s with the gringa doctor, the blonde with the nice chichis. Do you like avocado pears? I get hungry when I think of her. Other women, it’s mangoes.”

  Ford, shaking his head, took out his cell while Figueroa explained, “I didn’t peek.”

  “I didn’t say you did.”

  “I would’ve if I was taller, but the windows are too high. Certain sounds tell me things, which is why I turned the music up. All I can think about is food.” He pointed to the wall conduit while Ford dialed. “Mack wants to put in flat screen TVs and a large stereo system. I might live here.”

  Tomlinson answered on the fourth ring, saying, “I’m a little tied up right now, so unless my boat’s on fire—”

  Ford cut him off. “What’s the address of that property you bought?”

  “The farm? It doesn’t have an address. Well . . . not one I can remember. In a couple of hours, I can—”

  “If you look out the window, you’ll see me. Would you rather I knock on the door?”

  Tomlinson provided directions, then added, “You’ll love the place, but try not to step on the vegetables. The garden’s near an old rain cistern—you’ll see it. Thing’s twice the size of the swimming pool here, palms all around for shade. If I ever get it pumped out and cleaned, we’ll have a skinny-dipping party.”

  This last part, Ford realized, was said for the benefit of Ava, the enigmatic veterinarian. He was mildly disappointed, but also fascinated by the unpredictability of women who, aside from decisions regarding men, were otherwise rational in their behavior.

  In the truck, he told the Brazilian, “The place we’re going’s only about five minutes from here.”

  Fifteen minutes later, just before the Blind Pass Bridge, they turned right onto a shell drive that was more like a fire
lane; rough-cut and rutted beneath coconut palms. Ford noticed Vargas slip a hand into the white shirt he wore unbuttoned with the shirttails out, a black crewneck beneath.

  “You can leave your gun in the truck,” Ford said. “The only thing to worry about around here is maybe poison ivy and a snake or two.”

  Vargas settled back, but didn’t move his hand. “I hate those things. In Brazil, we have an island where it’s illegal to go ashore, there are so many poison snakes. Tens of thousands, I’ve heard.”

  “Venomous snakes,” Ford corrected. “In the Amazon?”

  “Off São Paulo. You’d need a boat or floatplane. Scientists say there are five hundred snakes per hectare. They hang from trees like vines—golden-headed vipers, among the deadliest in the world. If you’re bitten, the flesh melts from your bones.” Vargas said the name in Portuguese, then translated: “Island of Nightmares. Small, this island, only forty hectares or so.”

  Ford did the conversion in his head. “Approximately a hundred acres. Tomlinson calls this place the farm even though it’s less than four. He doesn’t know, by the way.”

  “Doesn’t know I’m with you? Or that you hid the drones here?”

  “I don’t want him involved,” Ford replied.

  Ahead was the palm oasis as described, a lip of pitted concrete visible among wild coffee plants and pink blossoms of frangipani.

  “I don’t see any buildings,” Vargas said.

  Ford put the truck in park. “Let’s have a look.”

  It was true the cistern was the size of a backyard pool and made of old-timey shell concrete that still held water to the brim. The surface was green with duckweed about five feet deep, when Ford used a limb to check. Until then, he wasn’t sure how to play it, but the size and depth of the cistern made for a workable story.

  “I took a chance stashing them underwater, because their telemetry systems are solar-powered. See how the surface is covered? That green stuff is made up of free-floating plants, millions of them. Sunlight can’t make it through. Without power, the drones can’t be tracked.”