Twice a Spy dc-2

by Keith Thomson

  “How ’bout a cold beer, Steve?” Bream asked. “I got you the nonalcoholic stuff.”

  “Very kind, thank you.” A low, raspy voice with a strong Middle Eastern accent. “But let us get on please with the business?”

  “That’d be just fine,” said Bream, letting the door bang shut and tramping in the direction of the staircase. “All due respect.”

  Charlie considered the staterooms, distinctly lacking in places to hide. Ducking beneath the ironing board, he stuffed himself into the ten-inch gap between the rear of the washing machine and the wall. He would have tripped over the washing machine’s tattered orange power cord, stretched into a wall socket, but there was no room to fall.

  He sank to one knee. The space was dark and otherwise like the back of a clothes closet.

  “While I’m thinking of it, you should have these, just in case you need to move the boat for whatever reason,” Bream said, jangling something. His leather sandals came into view at the base of the stairs.

  Charlie held still, hoping the jackhammer that used to be his heart wouldn’t draw Bream’s attention.

  Stepping into the lower deck’s corridor, Bream handed a set of keys back to Steve, a swarthy boar of a man, probably twenty-five, with close-set, black eyes. His crisp Levi’s and shiny new Florida Marlins jersey and Converse All Star high-tops ironically accentuated his foreignness.

  “Thank you kindly,” Steve said, pocketing the keys. He looked around until his eyes settled on the washing machine. He stared.

  Charlie’s heart nearly leaped out of his mouth as Steve advanced for a closer look. Charlie used muscles he hadn’t realized he had in order to hold still.

  Steve pointed to the washer’s control panel. “So is this button actually the trigger?”

  Bream stepped up, so close Charlie could have reached out through the gap between the washer and dryer and touched his knee.

  “You mean the start button?” Bream leaned forward and clicked it.

  The blood drained from Steve’s face.

  The machine belched and the length of hose running past Charlie swelled, filling with water from the copper piping on the wall. Water splattered into the washer.

  Taking in Steve’s disquiet, Bream chuckled. “The water trickles in for about five minutes, then drains out and the machine turns back off. It’s a little special effect in case a customs inspector happens to turn the thing on, which they do sometimes.”

  Steve heaved a breath of relief. “I was not ready yet.”

  Steve is about to martyr himself, Charlie thought, and Bream is fucking with his head. Whatta guy.

  “Check this out.” Bream flipped open the lid.

  Steve looked in, surprised. “No water.”

  “The water goes into a special compartment in the back of the machine.”

  “Ah.”

  “Of course, if the inspector opened the lid, it’s game over. There’s no way of disguising the bomb.” Bream pointed into the washer. “See the three dials there?”

  “Yes. The progressive action links. I received thorough training with them from Doctor Zakir.”

  “Good. You’ll be glad to know that to save you the trouble, he dialed in the code to arm the device. Then he paused it, two seconds into a ten-minute countdown. Here …” Bream handed Steve a device that looked like a TV remote control. “The good doctor rigged this, too. At game time tonight, you simply click the big red button and the countdown resumes at nine minutes and fifty-eight seconds. If you need to pause for whatever reason, click the button again. It’s basically a play and a pause button in one. The batteries are fresh, and you’ve got more up on the kitchen counter. If for whatever reason the remote malfunctions and you need to use the PALs, the code’s here.” Bream pointed to the area of the control panel where, Charlie recalled, the serial number had been engraved onto a strip of metal.

  Steve nodded.

  “So you ought to be all set.” Lowering the lid, Bream turned to go. “The fridge is stocked with all your favorite stuff-don’t worry, all halal.”

  “And you will be where?” Steve asked.

  Bream turned toward the staircase. “Outside the blast radius.”

  “What if there’s a malfunction?”

  “If anything goes wrong, Cheb Qatada knows how to reach Zakir or me-I know you’ve got the boss on speed dial.” Bream inched toward the stairs.

  Charlie was eager for him to leave. It would mean contending with only Steve.

  “Well, good, then, Mr. Bream,” Steve said. “Thank you most kindly.”

  “The kind thanks are for you, Steve.” Bream bounded toward the stairs.

  He stopped just shy of the first step and spun back around, eyes on the laundry door. “That folding door was open when we came down here, wasn’t it?”

  Steve nodded.

  Charlie’s blood froze. He needed an exit strategy. It was right up there with a weapon on the list of omissions in his planning.

  Bream knelt, studying the floor.

  Could he detect Charlie’s footprints on the linoleum?

  He sprang into the master bedroom, refreshing Charlie’s hope. Because the laundry alcove looked prohibitively small, Bream and Steve might not think to look behind the appliances.

  A moment later Bream returned from the bedroom with a Glock capped by a silencer. He faced the washing machine. He couldn’t possibly see Charlie, but the barrel of his gun was on a direct line with Charlie’s face.

  “Please come out now and save me from putting a bullet hole in my nice dryer,” he said.

  17

  Charlie rose, his legs burning with pins and needles. And fear. “I owe you a big thank you, J. T.,” he said.

  “This is who?” Steve demanded of Bream.

  “Nobody.” Bream was extraordinarily unflappable.

  “Nobody in the grand scheme of things,” Charlie said. “But for our purposes today, a CIA asset.”

  Steve muttered something in Arabic.

  “He’s lying,” Bream said. “He’s just a gambler.” He beckoned Charlie with a wave of the gun.

  Charlie held his ground. “A gambler who attended a debrief at Langley the other day, and recalled your saying that you were going to celebrate the consummation of your arms deal with a rack of ribs. It took an analyst about a second to figure out that you were targeting the G-20.”

  “Don’t worry, he’s not CIA,” Bream said to Steve. “Even the lousiest gamblers get lucky now and then. This is just some sort of cash grab.”

  Steve’s eyes widened with panic. “What if he is not alone?”

  “He’s alone.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “He plays the horses for a living; CIA wouldn’t let him near an op. And if he did have someone with him, they would’ve tipped him off that we were on our way here, or at least tried to waylay us, to give him time to get out.”

  Steve paused for a moment. “Mr. Bream, the plan is to detonate ahead of schedule should anything go wrong. This was part of the deal, yes? Already very many people of consequence have arrived at the Grand Hotel, including almost all of the members of the French delegation-”

  Bream extended his palms. “Whoa, we’re getting way ahead of ourselves. Trust me, Chuckles here is a lone mutt.”

  “With all respect due, sir, it is not an issue of trust.”

  “Good point. Let me prove it to you.”

  “How?”

  “If he had any backup, they would be here by now.” Bream leveled his gun at Charlie and pulled the trigger.

  Charlie dropped behind the washing machine. The bullet tore the air above his hair, clanking into the dryer. An odd hiss came from within the dark maze of ducts and hoses. Suddenly his shirtfront felt wet. Blood? A chill encased him. He noticed a spray of cold water from a rupture in the length of hose running into the washing machine.

  He slid behind the washer, hoping Bream would be reluctant to shoot through the bomb.

  Steve waved in horror at the water po
oling in the alcove and slicking the corridor. “What about all this?”

  “Water won’t hurt anything.” Bream advanced to the gap between the washer and dryer, sidestepping the pool of water forming on the floor. “This device is designed so it could sink to the bottom of Mobile Bay and still detonate.”

  His gun was close enough that Charlie smelled the spent cordite.

  Times like this, his father usually came to the rescue. Or Alice.

  But neither even knew he was here. No one did.

  “I am still not confident,” Steve said. “If I am with your CIA, I would let him die, so that we believe they do not know about us.”

  Bream sighed. “They don’t know, okay. Sure, it makes strategic sense to sacrifice a man. They’d never do it, though, for fear of the Senate investigation alone.”

  “Maybe so.” Steve aimed the remote at the washer. “But why take the chance?”

  Bream bristled. “You really need to hold up there.”

  Steve held the remote at the washing machine like a fixed bayonet.

  “Listen, there’s a girl I want to get out of the red zone, not to mention myself,” Bream went on. “Half an hour of lead time was part of the deal.”

  Steve slid a thumb onto the big red button. “Clearly and irrevocably, the will of Allah has changed.” He clicked the remote. The conic bulb on the gadget’s head glowed red.

  The bomb mechanism whirred to life, the washing machine housing vibrating against Charlie’s rib cage.

  Bream fired the silenced Glock.

  An image came to Charlie. A memory of the living room in the chalet. He and Alice on the comfortable sofa and Drummond in the armchair. The three were engrossed in one of their games of Scrabble. An interesting piece of information: Even Alzheimer’s couldn’t prevent Drummond from laying out seven-letter word after seven-letter word.

  Now, feeling nothing save the spray of cold water, Charlie peeked around the washing machine.

  Steve’s forehead had a red hole at its center. He collapsed, revealing a splash of gore at head level on the wall behind him.

  “He was planning to die here anyway,” Bream said, as if seeking absolution.

  “Let me convince you not to use the bomb,” Charlie said.

  “Among other reasons that you won’t be able to convince me is I don’t get a red cent if there’s no explosion here.”

  “Suppose I told you that you won’t get the explosion you have in mind. The penthrite and trinitrotoluene in the bomb are the genuine article, but the U-235 is fake.” Charlie decided not to mention that the device, designed to trick customers into initially believing they had achieved a nuclear detonation, would still yield an explosion sufficient to kill the children in the playground, all of the security agents, and a high percentage of the hotel guests and staff.

  “Not true. Just this morning, Vivek Zakir, a Nobel-caliber nuclear physicist, confirmed the enriched uranium was grade-A.”

  “This device was designed to fool even Nobel Prize-winning nuclear physicists. This is what my old man did for the CIA. His team replicated the old Russian ADMs because the uranium pits are fixed so deep, you can’t adequately test-”

  “Good story.” Bream advanced to the appliance alcove. “Even if it were true, a hundred pounds of plastic explosive still yields a big enough bang to suit my purposes.”

  “Fine. Sell me the bomb instead. I can pay you more than you’ll ever need.”

  “Sounds like I’m about to hear another whopper.”

  “You know about the treasure of San Isidro?”

  “Yeah.”

  “My father found it. It was on one of those little islets off Martinique.”

  Bream lowered his gun. “You’ve seen it?”

  “Yeah. An entire roof made of gold, taken in panels off a Venezuelan church.”

  “If that were true, why the hell would you come here?”

  Charlie tapped the washing machine.

  “Then you’re a fool. And even if you found El Dorado, I’d be a fool to trust you.” Splashing into the alcove, Bream aimed his gun at Charlie. “In fact, I’m a fool to be talking to you at all.”

  “Thank you.” Charlie plunged the washing machine’s tattered power cord into the water.

  With a bestial wail, Bream flew up in the air. As Charlie had hoped, Bream’s sandals had made him vulnerable to the current; Charlie was protected by his rubber-soled running shoes.

  Bream landed in a heap over the washer and lost his hold on the gun. Charlie caught the weapon, spun, and pointed it at him.

  The pilot’s muscles quivered. His breathing, however, appeared to have ceased, and the color drained from his skin.

  Charlie turned sideways, slipping through the gap between the appliances. He knelt by Steve’s body and pried the remote control from the terrorist’s hand. He aimed the device at the washing machine and clicked. The conic bulb illuminated.

  But the detonation mechanism within the washing machine continued to whir.

  Gun still trained on Bream, Charlie stepped closer to the washer and tried again.

  No change. Maybe the water had shorted the remote control? In any case, he could enter the code by hand. If enough time remained. 07:55, according to the LED adhered to the inside of the washing machine’s lid.

  Plenty of time.

  Charlie looked at the serial number atop the control panel. The metal band he’d used in the Caribbean had been removed, replaced by a strip of tape with different numbers. He realized why with harrowing clarity: There was nothing wrong with the remote control. The Nobel-caliber scientist, Dr. Vivek Zakir, had been clever enough to build a remote control to be used to initiate detonation only. He had removed the real serial number for the same reason, as a fail-safe in case the martyr developed cold feet in the 9:58 between pressing the button and the hereafter.

  Unable to recall the actual code, Charlie knew of no way to stop the detonation.

  18

  07:34.

  Charlie could call 911, explain that he was aboard a yacht with two dead bodies and a nuclear bomb, although it wasn’t really nuclear-part of a secret CIA program-yet it still packed enough high-grade plastic explosive to take out a good percentage of the people in the vicinity, and it had been triggered, so you really ought to hurry.

  If he succeeded, the bomb squad would then have 00:04 to arrive and do its job.

  Discarding that idea, he dug the boat keys from Steve’s pocket and raced up the stairs. He intended to untie the yacht and drive it as far from shore as he could. A mile or two out, the device might detonate causing relatively little harm-the fog and general gloom had kept most boaters home.

  Needing first to untie the heavy ropes tethering the yacht to the dock, he charged through the cabin door and onto the deck at the stern, where he found himself staring into the barrel of a shotgun.

  Time seemed to slow, adrenaline again shifting his senses and thinking into higher gears. He had anticipated myriad obstacles and plotted countermaneuvers. Still the sight of Glenny made him jump.

  “Stop right there, Mr. Pulitzer. Hands up where I can see them.”

  He raised both arms above his head. “Just listen for a second.”

  “No, sir.” Squinting through the sights, she tightened her finger around the trigger.

  “Just one second, please.”

  “One second.” She eyed the pale sky. “Time’s up.”

  “The man you know as Tom the Campodonicos’ nephew is actually a very bad bad guy.” Glenny’s finger didn’t move. “This boat currently has a bomb with a hundred pounds of plastic explosive, enough to take out the marina and everything within a quarter mile. It’s going to detonate in seven minutes. I have no way to turn it off, so I need to get it out of harm’s way.”

  Glenny paused to reflect. “Bullshit. You’re a yacht thief.”

  Glancing at the parking lot, Charlie sighed in relief. “Here’s the Secret Service. They’ll straighten this out.”

  She turned to l
ook and saw only a deserted marina. When she looked back, readying a curse, she found Bream’s Glock leveled at her by Charlie. She blanched.

  “If I were the bad guy, you’d be in some trouble now,” he said.

  She acknowledged this with a grunt. And fired the shotgun.

  Having anticipated that she would, he dropped to the deck. Through a scupper, he saw the thick bowline split in two, freeing the yacht’s bow from the cleat on the dock.

  Swinging the barrel toward the stern, Glenny said, “I saw Tom this morning passing my office two different times with Arab guys who kinda kept looking over their shoulders.” She blasted the stern line free, destroying the bulky metal cleat in the process. “You’d best shove off, shipmate.”

  “Thanks,” Charlie said, barging into the wheelhouse.

  He glanced at the LED he’d ripped from the washer. 04:58.

  He inserted Steve’s key into the ignition, weighing the odds that this key, like the remote, was a dud. The engines roared, churning the surrounding water.

  On the dock, Glenny shouted into her cell phone and waved Charlie on.

  The yacht’s controls were similar to the Riva Aquarama’s, a good thing as Charlie would have thrust the throttle in the direction common sense dictated was reverse and accidentally sent the yacht into the parking lot. He managed to back away from the dock, clocking the wheel. Shifting into forward, he launched the yacht toward what he thought was the middle of the bay. The fog, essentially low-lying cloud banks, made it impossible to tell that he wasn’t simply hugging the coast. Or about to crash into it.

  The twin-tiered, state-of-the-art navigational equipment was of no more use to him than it would be to a caveman, with the exception of the hot-pink ball compass, a novelty item held by a rubber suction cup to the windshield. If the compass was working, the boat was headed due west. Toward the center of the bay.

  He stood at the wheel, using all of his weight to absorb blows from oncoming waves.

  When the clock flashed 3:00, he had put more than a mile between him and the marina. Or far enough.

  Now to get overboard with the life raft.