Deep Blue

by Randy Wayne White

  Julian slapped the wall. “I want to hear this, goddamn it. We’ve got to surface.”

  “We can’t because of those helicopters,” Watts said, then his expression changed when he looked at his iPad. “Uh-oh . . . I was afraid of this. We’ve got a real problem here, Julie. Oh . . . shit.”

  Tomlinson couldn’t take his eyes off of the screen, where Ford was now walking toward Shepherd, the gun still aimed at the Australian’s chest; the biologist’s expression cold, unemotional, totally focused. Tomlinson’s fingers moved independently to search for the detonator hidden under his bandana. As he did, he thought, They’re not alone—why doesn’t he stop them?

  Meaning the cameraman—whoever it was—shooting the video.

  From the beach house stairs, minutes before he cornered Winslow Shepherd, Ford looked back and saw a van banging toward him on the sandy road, coming fast, windows black in the late-afternoon sunlight.

  He thought about hiding until the van took a hard right. That told him the driver had seen Cashmere’s SUV parked behind the dunes, which would have made no sense if the van contained Cashmere’s people, or bodyguards, or even financial backers.

  On the porch he looked through a window, and ducked under several others, until he got to the side door and entered through the kitchen. No holiday decorations here. The place had the vinyl odor of a newly decorated rental; a big, open space with a vaulted ceiling, all furnishings staged for photos, not people.

  For several beats, he stood and listened. A TV was on somewhere in the house . . . or was it two or more people talking?

  He shifted the gear bag and flicked the safety on the little Sig Sauer without unholstering the pistol. The kitchen spilled into a dining area, no walls to separate it from the great room, where there was a rock fireplace, built for effect rather than warmth. He stopped and listened but kept an eye on the front door. Whoever was in the van was busy with Cashmere’s SUV.

  Good.

  Again, he heard voices, then a phone’s ringtone, but he also heard what might have been CNN World News. No telling if the phone was in the house or on TV. It was unlikely that Shepherd was here unattended, but he waited until the voices stopped before he drew the pistol and went to a window near the front door.

  No sign of the van.

  He crossed to the seaward side of the house, checking rooms as he went, then through open sliding doors to a patio—and there he was. The math professor was in a wheelchair with his back to Ford, watching the news. His elegant silver hair was sprayed in place, and he wore a blue shirt with a starched collar. One leg of his gray business slacks had been slit to make room for a cast that went from ankle to thigh.

  Winslow was already dressed for their meeting on the concrete balcony. This implied a true bloodthirsty eagerness. The man still had an hour to make the twenty-minute ride.

  The van, Ford realized, had come as an escort, or to provide a driver for the handicapped van outside. Possibly both.

  Maybe Shepherd was alone.

  He took a quiet step and changed angles. The patio was more of a TV and reading area that accessed the porch through another set of sliding glass doors. The doors were open. Beyond, through breezy coconut fronds, was a panoramic view of the sea. To the left, inside the TV room, was a wooden door—a bathroom, perhaps. To the right were bookshelves.

  Ford lowered the pistol and stepped in. What he wanted to say was Aren’t you supposed to be dead? But said, simply, “Show me your hands, professor. I just want to talk.”

  Unlike the Chicago jihadist, Shepherd exhibited no surprise, but said almost the same damn thing. “I didn’t think you’d have the balls to show up. Brought a gun, did you? That’s typical. Your solution to everything, you Yank prick. Are you worried I’ll kick you to death with my cast?”

  “If it wasn’t for those high school kids you killed,” Ford replied, “I might ask how your leg’s doing. Put your hands behind your head. I want to see what you’re sitting on.”

  “My ass, you idiot.”

  Ford spun the wheelchair around and bulled Shepherd onto the porch, stopping just short of the railing. Ten feet below was a sandy ridge. “Do you want to go off another balcony? Keep it up.”

  Shepherd’s face reddened, but he submitted to a search. Ford stepped back. “In a few minutes, your people are going to show up in a van—if they don’t get greedy. Either way, I’ve got a proposition, and we don’t have much time.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to—”

  Ford cut him off. “I know about the deal you have with your son—or Julian—I don’t care what you call him. You’re supposed to deliver some documents to David Cashmere after he kills me. Notarized documents. Or after you watch me fall eight stories onto those rocks—I saw the place. Julian will be at a computer someplace, enjoying himself while he watches it happen. What you don’t know is, once you deliver the papers, Cashmere is supposed to kill you. That’s the deal they made. That’s what Julian really wants to see—Cashmere cut off your head . . . with this.”

  From the gear bag, Ford produced the ruby-handled knife.

  Shepherd backed his wheelchair to create space while his eyes moved to the TV room as if searching for help. “How did you get that?”

  “Cashmere won’t bother you, if that’s what you’re worried about. That’s some boy you raised, professor. Julian’s blackmailing me, but he’ll back off if I have something he wants. That’s my offer: give me those documents, you’ll live. If you don’t, I’ll find them anyway and kill you myself. I wouldn’t mind, after what you did to that woman. Did you even know her name?”

  Shepherd’s breathing changed. “Liar!” he yelled, then gritted his teeth. “A bloody mongrel liar, that’s what you are. You. You’re the one who killed her. Julian, we’ve had our problems, but cut my head off? My own son? That’s bugger-all bullshit. You should have stayed in Florida—you’d be dead anyway in a couple of days.”

  He continued to rage while Ford pulled the pistol and started toward him. “What’s that mean? A couple of days—tell me.”

  Shepherd taunted him with laugher. “You won’t live long enough to find out.”

  “Cashmere did something. What? I know he sent a package to Florida, maybe my marina. Tell me what’s in it.”

  “Burn in hell—that’s what’s going to happen to your friends. Too bad you can’t wish them a Merry Christmas.”

  Explosives, Ford realized. But detonated how? He cocked the hammer and focused the TruGlo sights while Shepherd’s face blurred. “A bomb of some type. I get it. Now, the papers—your last chance, Winslow. Where are they?”

  From the TV room, a voice called, “Got ’em right here, Marion. Aren’t you a little ahead of schedule?”

  Ford turned to see a sound suppressor aimed at him from inside the sliding doors, the shooter screened by a curtain. “Toss your weapon over the railing. Nice and easy . . . Or just place it on the deck. If I can’t trust you, who can I trust?”

  Shepherd bellowed, “It’s about bloody damn time!” while Vargas Diemer stepped onto the porch in crisp slacks and a white blazer, wearing surgical gloves. He was taking video with a phone from the point of view of the little pistol leveled at Ford.

  “I’ll holster it instead,” Ford said. He did, adding, “Now you.”

  Vargas made a clicking sound of disapproval. “Sorry, sport. For me, this is strictly business. Isn’t it a bitch if you get emotionally involved? I’m surprised at you, Doc.”

  Shepherd was yelling, “Do it! Kill him. No . . . give me the gun,” which only caused the Brazilian to grimace as if amused. “What do you think, Doc? He doesn’t look like much of a marksman to me.”

  Ford said, “I know what you’re doing—sending video to Julian. What kind of deal did you make?”

  “A good one, I hope. Let’s find out.” Vargas held the phone at arm’s length and filmed himself, saying
, “I don’t have you on speaker, Julian, so just do what I say. The instant you transfer those funds, my phone will ding—you know how bank alerts work. A Swiss bank, in my case. I’ve already sent photos of the old man’s documents. Check your email, you’ll see the attachments, but they can’t be opened until my bank sends the alert. When that happens, we’re good to go, and you’ll watch what happens next, all live.”

  Thirty seconds later: Ding.

  Vargas braced the phone against the pistol’s suppressor, swung the pistol, and shot the former math professor twice, once in the face, and a second round that pierced the man’s temple from a foot away. A gusher of blood and Shepherd’s twitching hands provided a video close-up. Vargas held the angle for several seconds, then looked over and said, “Sorry, sport, but I’ve got to earn my pay.”

  Before the Brazilian fired, Ford said, “You don’t really expect me to go over the railing?”

  When the Brazilian, that weasel, shot Marion Ford off the balcony, Tomlinson was already dazed from the fast sequence of events that had played out on widescreen TV.

  Winslow saying, Your friends will burn in hell, because of a package that had been sent. Then, Too bad you can’t wish them Merry Christmas.

  Ford saying, A bomb of some type, the rest garbled, but the sound quality was improving as the submarine ascended toward the surface.

  Then the close-up of blood spouting from the head of Winslow Shepherd, his former Harley companion. It was sickening, but worse was watching Vargas shoot his best friend.

  The video continued only a few seconds longer when a thunderclap—Boom!—shook the lens. Next came a rapid somersaulting shot of sky and sand as if the camera had followed Ford off the balcony. If the phone landed, it had landed facedown. The TV went dark.

  Show’s over.

  As Julian watched, his milky face took on a reddish glow. First, as if speaking to his father during the bloody close-ups, “My god . . . the bastard did it. See what you made me do! I warned you, you pathetic old liar,” then, after Ford was shot, yelling, “Where’s his body, goddamn it. That was part of our deal. Show me Clarence’s goddamn body!”

  In response to the thundering sound that ended the video, he said only, “Lightning . . . Do you believe this shit? Just my luck. It must have struck close by.”

  Now Julian was pacing. “None of it went like I planned. Watts . . . Watts—get that idiot’s agent on the screen. I’ll put him out of business for this. Cashmere, too—where was that raghead bugger? He was supposed to use his knife. The knife—I told him how many times? I wanted to hear Winslow beg, that was the plan. Crying for my forgiveness.”

  Watts, however, was pacing, too, fixated on his iPad. “Julian . . . Julian? Julie, you’ve got to listen to me. I stopped our ascent.”

  Julian replied, “Can you believe such incompetence from—” then realized what he’d just heard. “You did . . . Without asking me?”

  Watts thrust out the iPad and backed away. “Look for yourself. It’s the helicopters. We just got satellite confirmation, and the system has triangulated their course. Less than a minute ago, both made sharp turns. One is headed for Evergreen, the other is coming toward us, only fifteen miles out. We still have time—”

  Julian yanked the iPad away and scowled into the screen. “What’s the visibility?”

  “From a chopper? We’re at thirty feet now, almost periscope depth. They’ll see us—or the wreckage up there. On the other hand, if we run too close to the bottom, we’ll stir up a shit storm of sand and they’ll see that, too.”

  Tomlinson stood quietly while they bickered. He’d been calming himself with meditative breathing, expecting to die when the sub hit the surface. Pressure-activated detonators on the drones would see to that. Now he had to postpone the inevitable because he’d translated the conversation he’d heard: a package containing a bomb had been delivered to Dinkin’s Bay.

  It was the new sound system. Had to be.

  Merry Christmas, Winslow had said.

  Less than an hour ago, Mack had radioed for advice on how to hook up the system. But there might still be time.

  He reached under his bandana and removed the detonator. It was a rubberized cube with a flip-up cover. Nothing to it: flick a safety switch, hit power, then use the four numerical buttons to punch in a three-digit code.

  The code was 6-4-3; easy to remember. In a baseball score book, it represented a double play. Shortstop to second, to first base.

  Ford’s idea.

  Tomlinson stepped forward and raised his voice to be heard. “Boys . . . Boys . . . I’m not in the best of moods right now—what, with seeing your hired gun shoot my best friend—so shut the hell up and just listen. Okay?”

  Watts, then Julian, pivoted, their expressions asking Are you crazy?

  “We’re not going anywhere,” Tomlinson told them. “And we’re sure as hell not going to surface. What you will do is give me a working phone so I can call my marina. It’s sort of a family emergency thing—or maybe you planned that, too.”

  The look Watts flashed his boss promised I’ll handle this. “I know you’re upset,” he said, “but shit happens, right? The fact is, we can’t let you make a phone call. Like the helicopters we’re worried about, calls can be triangulated. Say”—Watts offered a condescending smile—“how about a nice, cold beer? Sound good? Then you can sit there like a good boy while we go about our work.”

  “How about you stick some plastic explosives up your ass,” Tomlinson replied, “because that’s what’s about to happen.” He held the detonator out for them to see. “There’s a pressure switch on those drones. They’ll blow up if we surface. This is the remote. I can blow us all up from here, too.”

  He thumbed opened the lid. “Watch closely. This is the power button—see? Yeah . . . a little red flashing light. Now all I have to do is enter a code. Three simple numbers and the plastic explosives go Boom!”

  “You can’t bluff us into giving you a phone,” Watts said. He slid past Julian, took the iPad, and began to tap at the display as if unconcerned.

  Tomlinson held the detonator higher and extended the index finger of his left hand. “The code is six-four-three. Does that ring a bell? No . . . I suppose not.” His finger punched 6 . . . 4 . . . then he waited with his finger poised over the final number.

  “He’s out of his mind,” Julian said to Watts, who had begun to work furiously on the iPad.

  Tomlinson flashed his craziest look. “We’ll compare paddle scars one day, dude, but right now you’re going to give me a phone.”

  “This can all be worked out,” Watts said, which gave him time to enter a few final commands. Then he turned to Julian and said, “Listen.”

  Clank-clank . . . Clank-clank. They all heard metallic sounds coming from under the stern, then the thump of an underwater hatch.

  “Now we have to surface,” Watts said and typed in new commands. “But not for long. We’ll dive right away and pick them up later.”

  Tomlinson’s stomach fluttered with a sudden, rapid ascent and he knew what had happened. The drones had been jettisoned. Now the sub was fleeing upward at full speed.

  No choice. He had to do it.

  True. The sadness that descended upon Tomlinson was the sweetest pain he’d experienced, but he didn’t cling or tarry. He entered the final digit—3—and, a millisecond later, he was only semiconscious when a hole in the fuselage sucked him, free and clear, into the deep blue sea.

  Vargas exited through the front door of the beach house, down the steps to a large white van with a wheelchair lift, and scanned for the source of the explosion. Not a huge report; more like a couple of flash-bangs that shook the floors and caused him to fumble his phone.

  Unexpected, but the timing was useful.

  Not far away, black smoke boiled from behind sand dunes—Ford had booby-trapped his vehicle, but why? Cries for help a
nd sirens were to be anticipated, but there were none. Instead, he heard distant laughter. On the ridge by the road, children had gathered beneath a slow-twirling cloud of confetti, but it wasn’t confetti.

  Vargas stowed his briefcase and ventured away from the van. Scattered in the sand were several U.S. hundred-dollar bills. Another drifted toward him. The bill was scorched.

  He pocketed a few and returned to the van, amused. Marion Ford was a man who stuck to his routine at the expense of fun, but only a fool would assume the biologist was predictable.

  It was a detail to be filed away.

  Up a ramp, inside the van, was a dented Kawasaki motorcycle. He had learned from experience that a rental car was a liability if pursued in traffic, or anywhere else, in the third world. Rental cars stood out here. Poverty dominated in an area like Quintana Roo. Until now . . . Vargas glanced at the confetti still spiraling down—several million dollars in green bills, at least. Children and a few giddy mothers were there, dancing with their faces tilted upward. They resembled flowers trying to catch rain.

  Ford wasn’t the greedy type, but he wasn’t a fool. He wouldn’t have left that much money unguarded. The bills were either marked or they were counterfeit.

  What did it matter? Even if it took only a few weeks for the nearest bank, or the federalistas, to figure it out, families here were guaranteed the most extravagant December in history. And those children . . . Well, Vargas knew nothing about children, but he knew people. A few would thrive. Most would fail.

  It was the way the world worked.

  He slammed the kick-starter, revved the engine, and bounced cross-country, using the dunes as a screen. A quick look at the blazing SUV told him the robbers had arrived in a black Toyota van.

  Julian had said Winslow’s bodyguards would be driving a black van. Three, all from the Middle East, even though he saw only two.

  Their bodies would not be easy to identify.

  • • •