Deep Blue

by Randy Wayne White

  Cashmere had no loyalty to Winslow Shepherd or Julian. He didn’t mind revealing what he knew, but shared it between bouts of obsessing about his shattered hand. Julian wasn’t in Mexico, he said. This was a setback that might require a change of plans.

  Okay. Ford would play it out but had one last question for the Jihadist assassin. “What did you mean when you said I’d be dead by tomorrow?”

  “Nothing, man. It was just talk. You know, like to scare you. Whoa”—he stumbled; Ford caught his good arm before he went down—“I feel like I’m gonna faint. How far’s your boat?”

  The man was evading.

  Ford said, “Tell me,” and applied pressure to the annular ligament of Cashmere’s elbow.

  “Hey . . . that hurts. Dude, you trying to break this arm, too?”

  The actor was acting. The instant his elbow was free, he tried to run, but Ford tripped him and took him to the ground. A footrace could not be risked, so he killed David Abdel Cashmere there, a shady spot, snapped his neck. The only sound was a grunt, then a rattling wheeze, and he hid the body under a bunch of palm fronds.

  Ford returned to the condo. Twenty minutes later, he came back with his Vertx gear bag, a tarp, and some other things from the pile he’d found under the tarp inside the building.

  Cashmere’s phone, room key, wallet, the ruby-handled knife, and executioner’s hood went into a waterproof bag, along with the keys to a rental car hidden somewhere. His body went onto the paddleboard, then into the miniature Blue Hole.

  In ten feet of water, Ford looped wire to a limestone boulder, gave it a push, and let the boulder’s weight drag the Chicagoan deeper. And that’s where he would stay, suspended among feeding moon jellies, in the shadow of drifting men-of-war, until they had consumed him or set him free.

  But the unexplained threat stuck with Ford as he paddled back to shore.

  You would be dead by tomorrow anyway.

  • • •

  Steal a dead man’s cell phone, you own his identity for as long as people believe he is alive. Steal his car, you own the contents.

  Ford was eager to see what Cashmere’s rental contained.

  It was a Toyota SUV, hidden beside the bulldozer’s bulk. Behind the backseat were three large suitcases and a steel lockbox. On the passenger’s seat was a computer bag. The floor was a bachelor’s heap of clothes, empty beer bottles, crumpled Marlboro packs, and one Hollywood Insider.

  Ford thought, A Jihadist on Christmas vacation.

  He took the Cancún road north toward Tulum and turned onto a shady tractor lane hidden from the road. He parked and took inventory.

  The computer bag contained an IBM laptop. He didn’t open it—Julian was out there somewhere monitoring everything. More importantly, this computer had been owned by a high-ranking terrorist operative. It might contain self-destruct software if a password wasn’t immediately entered. Deliver it to the U.S. Consulate at Mérida, however, or to Special Operations Command in Tampa, and experts might harvest information that would save lives.

  The Maximum Assassin’s laptop could turn out to be an intelligence coup.

  The suitcases were hard-shell Samsonites, but no problem. Ford removed one, used his knife to jimmy the hinges without breaking the locks, then stepped back.

  Cashmere hadn’t lied about having money. Inside were twenty vacuum-sealed plastic bags. A bag on the top was open. It contained blocks of U.S. hundred-dollar bills. They were neatly wrapped in stacks of $15,000; eight blocks in this bag alone, and it looked like two blocks were missing.

  Ford did the math: just under three million in cash . . . if it wasn’t counterfeit.

  The bags were rubberized plastic. He pierced one with the knife. The sound was similar to opening vacuum-sealed coffee. Inside were ten blocks of U.S. hundreds that looked and felt like the real deal.

  He inspected the outside of the bag. No markings that he could see, but his fingers found an embossed area on one of the corners. The sun was tilting westward but provided sufficient light to make out a tiny Chinese seal—a chop, it was called. Chop, as in bang a hammer or hit one’s hand on an embossing stamp. The word had been used for thousands of years by the Chinese and had sprouted many meanings.

  The tiny symbol told Ford the money was probably counterfeit, and there was no better counterfeiter in the world than the Chinese government.

  He opened the other two Samsonites. They were packed with the same sealed bags. So make it nine million in cash.

  Ingenious. A double-edged weapon: fund terrorism to fight the Western world while also damaging the U.S. economy. The cost? Only the price of paper, ink, and production.

  Ford kept an unopened bag of cash, closed the suitcases, and was turning his attention to the lockbox, when Cashmere’s phone buzzed.

  A text message appeared: Lost Clarence’s phone 20km south Cancún. Find him.

  Clarence—Ford’s nickname. He had already skimmed through enough messages on the phone to know the text was from Julian. Julian and his father had been using Cashmere as a go-between to share updates. It had been a busy day for all three. Now Julian was worried because Ford’s cell phone had been deactivated somewhere midway between Cancún and the resort, an area near the little village of Tulum.

  A reply was required. Ford hadn’t had time to read all of the texts, so he did a quick review. Cashmere’s writing style was more formal than the way he spoke and all of his texts ended with the abbreviation SWT or the word Inshallah.

  Ford had no idea what SWT stood for, but he added it anyway after typing Shall I detain? Or get rid of C?

  Julian’s reply: Use your fucking brain.

  That put an end to any hope of a dialogue that might reveal Julian’s whereabouts.

  He pocketed the phone and returned his attention to the lockbox, which was bulky, made of galvanized steel. He couldn’t pry the thing open if he’d wanted, but no need. The key to the box was in Cashmere’s billfold.

  This was not something to unlock in a rush. There might be a trip wire or an alarm. Finally, he opened the lid to find a terrorist’s workshop inside. Five components are required for improvising bombs—an explosive charge, a power source, a trigger, a detonator, and something to hold it all together, such as electrical tape. Everything needed was here in multiple variations. Enough to blow up a dozen day care centers—Cashmere’s favorite target—or a sizable airport.

  Ford checked his watch—less than three hours until sunset. He went through the contents faster than he should have, but carefully.

  Emulex was the explosive of choice. He thought it was dynamite, at first, because it was packed in red cardboard tubes—two dozen sticks of a composition far more powerful than TNT. There was a tool kit containing detonators, switches, and power sources of all types—from D cord and blasting caps to throwaway cell phones; a couple garage openers, too.

  Among the detonators was a tiny microphone on what resembled a blasting cap. Ford lifted it with two delicate fingers and saw that it was labeled High Decibel Activator. He wasn’t an explosives expert, but he’d been through enough schools to know this was something new.

  Sound was a weapon. Prehistoric whales had exploded their prey with high- or low-decibel bombs. Sound could now explode modern prey as well.

  The decibel activator caused him to picture the drones lying in the gloom of the Captiva Blue Hole. He fingered the bruise on his shoulder and thought about Julian Solo. Cashmere had claimed Solo wasn’t in Mexico. Nothing on his phone suggested otherwise.

  So . . . maybe Tomlinson was right. Maybe Julian was on a luxury yacht somewhere off Sanibel, poised to recover his expensive toys. If true, it was time to seriously consider other options.

  He started the SUV, locked the doors, and went over it in his head. Julian couldn’t be trusted, and his location remained an unknown. Ford couldn’t kill a man he couldn’t find, so why ris
k a fall from an eighth-story balcony?

  It was different with Winslow Shepherd. Tomlinson had provided Shepherd’s address: a ritzy cosmetic surgery/rehab clinic near Tulum, midway between the resort and Playa del Carmen. It wasn’t the right address, but close enough. The actual location had been provided by the chatty Jihadist just before he died. He’d described a beach house, not far from the clinic’s gate, with an open view to the sea and a porch on three sides.

  This was an important detail. To a camera, an elevated porch might resemble a balcony.

  There were other variables to consider. Shepherd would have at least one bodyguard, probably more. His men would recognize Cashmere’s SUV, of course, and seize the contents if they found it. Ford couldn’t risk putting counterfeit money into circulation or the little bomb factory back in operation, so that had to be dealt with in advance.

  Another review of Cashmere’s phone was required. He found bits of useful information and also a puzzling text message. It was an automated update from a company named Port of Tampa Freight Hauling.

  It read Shipment labeled PRX600 Professional has arrived. Awaiting final delivery. Send address via telephone or email, which must include an electronic signature. Thanks for your business!

  The message had been received two days ago.

  The text seemed unrelated to what Ford was dealing with yet posed obvious questions. Why would David Cashmere, an international criminal, ship a package to Tampa, Florida? A package large enough to require a freight company to handle it—a PRX600, whatever the hell that was. The combination of elements set off alarm bells. Terrorist cells had been operating in Florida since before 9/11—two of the hijackers had learned to fly at a field south of Sarasota.

  Explosives?

  Could be. But, more likely, a Jet Ski with a name like PRX600 Professional.

  Ford filed the puzzle away for later. There wasn’t much time and he had a lot to do.

  He spun the SUV around and returned to the concrete building—the stack of folding chairs he’d seen bothered him. Twenty minutes later, he was driving north toward Tulum on Mexico 307, a narrow macadam two-lane. Not much traffic. A few rental cars or a taxi bound for the resort and the occasional donkey cart loaded with bananas or piled high with yucca.

  On an open stretch, he used Cashmere’s phone to dial 001, then his own cell number. No service. He tried again a few miles south of Tulum on a gravel road that ran along the sea. Same thing.

  Ahead was a sheltered spot to pull off. He parked among a strand of coco palms and spent several more uneasy minutes with his head buried in the terrorist’s workshop before he pulled away.

  A mile later, the road improved. The scenery became a tropical postcard of palms and Caribbean blue. When a billboard announced that the clinic—Clínica Cirugía Estética—was only a kilometer away, he turned right onto a sandy lane toward the sea. Down a hill and across a creek was the clinic’s VIP beach house, where Winslow Shepherd was recuperating.

  The chatty Jihadist had given accurate directions.

  He turned cross-country and stopped where sea grapes provided cover and an elevated view of the house. It was built on stilts of rainforest timber; a Mayan-style château painted key lime green. A handicapped van was parked outside. No other vehicles, which was a surprise. Steps and a ramp led up to glistening doors and a walk-around porch. The porch overlooked dunes and a beach, where glassy rollers broke.

  Ford sat for a while, watching for activity inside the house. None. The same was true of a row of beach cabanas several hundred yards north. Weird. Where was the audience who would use the folding chairs stacked on the concrete balcony? On the other hand, maybe the cabanas were inhabited by patients who, after cosmetic surgery, had to avoid the sun.

  His focus softened. His eyes moved to the sea, an expanse of gelatinous turquoise. Strange . . . he’d made that crossing only a few hours ago yet Florida felt so far away. At Dinkin’s Bay, the sun would set soon—there was an hour time difference—and Jeth or Figgy, or someone, would be burying bottles of beer in ice while Mack amped up the party music loud. Too loud for the marina’s corroded old sound system.

  Sound—that word again.

  David Cashmere’s threat nudged at the memory circuits: You would be dead by tomorrow anyway.

  Ford was not an emotional man. He didn’t believe in intuition or other psychic fiction, yet the sudden feeling of dread he experienced was real. It jarred him.

  He sat back, thinking, Did I miss something?

  It was possible. Julian Solo was a billionaire psycho who also happened to be a genius—just ask the man. Cashmere was no genius, but he enjoyed killing, and he’d recently shipped a large package to Tampa.

  Was there a connection?

  Sound . . . the word spun around in his memory and finally attached itself to a tiny microphone detonator.

  Shit. Ford slapped the steering. The U.S. Special Operations Command was in Tampa, at MacDill, not far from the port. The freight company had received Cashmere’s package, but the actual delivery address had been sent by email yesterday. Or today.

  He grabbed the cell phone from the passenger seat and dialed 0, hoping to get a local operator. Instead, he got a recording, in Spanish, that suggested he try later. He dialed 001 and the number of a man he trusted. A computer prompted him to enter David Cashmere’s overseas code.

  No clue.

  Just for the hell of it, he tried Tomlinson—a Zen master psychic who might not require the help of satellites and passwords.

  The Zen psychic failed to answer a phone that did not ring.

  “Technology, my ass,” Ford muttered and dialed the operator several more times while his sense of dread gradually faded and gave way to reality. The reality was this: no one could sneak an explosive into the Special Ops center at MacDill. Security was too damn tight. Particularly if it was a box large enough to require a freight truck to deliver it.

  Focus, he told himself. After several slow breaths, he checked his watch, which was on Florida time. Less than an hour before sunset on Sanibel; only four-fifteen p.m. here.

  He opened his gear stash, selected what he might need, including the 9mm Sig Sauer pistol, then took a last look before locking the SUV. The vehicle was still a mess, but two of the Samsonite suitcases were gone, as was Cashmere’s laptop.

  It was a safety precaution. On an assignment, nothing ever went as planned.

  The pistol went into a Galco holster inside the back of his pants. His Vertx gear bag—lighter than before—went over his shoulder. Ford hiked through the sand dunes and down the hill to the VIP beach house as if he were expected.

  Attitude counted. If the math professor wouldn’t cut a deal, or if bodyguards tried to interfere, he would pull the Sig and insist they all return to the concrete balcony.

  If they refused or agreed, either way, Julian—wherever he was—would pay a price for destroying the reputations of Ford’s friends at Dinkin’s Bay.

  An hour before sunset, Tomlinson and the dog were still anchored over the Captiva Blue Hole when a vessel appeared on radar, twelve miles southwest. He zoomed in—it was big, an oil tanker, or one of those damn oceangoing cruise ships that liked to run down innocent sailboats.

  It had happened to him before.

  Nothing to worry about, though, because he was aboard Ford’s high-tech monster boat, not his floating home, No Más. And the vessel, whatever it was, was moving slowly. Yeah . . . a tanker, probably, one of those oil-shitting stinkpots hauling black gold from one billionaire to another.

  Billionaire. Julian Solo came into his head. The albino bastard was out there somewhere. An hour of deep meditation and a couple of Steinlagers had convinced him it was true. If it was Julian’s super-yacht, he wouldn’t make an appearance at that pace until well after dark.

  The dog, Pete, who was asleep in the shade of the bow cover, thumped his tail a
couple of times when Tomlinson shielded his eyes and looked into the sun. Nothing out there but terns dive-bombing a school of bait, the horizon a slow procession of waves, Mexico somewhere beyond. As he searched, static on the VHF broke through and he heard Mack hailing, “No Más . . . No Más . . . do you copy?” The reception was so degraded by thirty miles of water, he had to guess at the last few words.

  Tomlinson took the mic and sat at the console. “Got you, but transmission is broken. Do you read?”

  Mack came back, saying, “I’m trying to hook up the new . . . Where the hell are . . .” and the rest was garbled.

  They went back and forth like that until Tomlinson figured out Mack was trying to enlist his help connecting the fancy new sound system. There was some question about whether to solder the speakers; another about where the hell was Doc and his boat?

  Frustrating. “I’ll try your landline,” Tomlinson said finally and signed off.

  His phone was on the console next to the ammo box and a remote detonator, which Ford had left behind. He folded the schematic he’d been reading and closed the box. There was no cell reception out here, but he opened his phone anyway and was surprised to see a missed call from a number he didn’t recognize. There was a message and the message packed a punch. It was Marion Ford, saying, “Technology, my ass.”

  The familiar voice caused Pete to look up with his ears perked, ready for action.

  Understandable. Those three words contained a heavy hit of emotion; dread, anxiety, the whole ugly mix. He listened to it twice—definitely Ford, yet zero balls on the phone display. Weird. He hit Redial several times without result. It gave him something to do while his eyes wandered to the electronics suite, then did a double take.

  Christ! Now there were two vessels to the southwest. The tanker, or mega-yacht, had halved the distance, and a much smaller boat was only two miles away and closing, not fast but steadily.

  Tomlinson jumped to his feet and squinted into the sun. For a moment, he saw it; got a glimpse of the distant boat’s flybridge and a bristling array of antennas. Then it was gone, lost behind distant waves. The vessel did not reappear.