It was a commuter plane.
***
Kepella edged quietly around the far side of the house, keeping close to the tall vegetation. He had spotted the car in the garage: Brandenburg was home. His shoulder hurt badly and was bleeding again.
Behind him, on the other side of the hedge and across the street, two agents listened to his heavy breathing, ready to signal the five others who were trimming trees in Pacific Bell workmen’s uniforms.
Kepella moved quickly. Galpin had told him that as far as they had determined, Rosie had nothing to do with Holst’s operation. Both John Chu and Donnie Mota had growing bank accounts. Rosie had a little over a hundred bucks to her name. All this while Kepella had assumed Rosie was being paid to keep an eye on him. Now he was forced to see it in a different light. She had hidden him. She had tried to stop him from drinking. She had cried real tears for him. Rosie was a gift from God, and if Roy Kepella got himself free of this, Rosie would be around more often. Maybe for good. But Brandenburg—he was another story.
Kepella slid the glass door open. He heard the television as he stepped inside. He passed through the dining room, stopping in the doorway to the small den. Brandenburg didn’t see him, his eyes glued to the tube. “They tried to kill me,” Kepella said dramatically.
Brandenburg jumped. He reached down and, using the remote control switch, shut off the television. He had a weapon upstairs, another in the liquor cabinet, and another hidden in the kitchen’s refrigerator.
“Jesus, Roy, you should have knocked. You scared the hell out of me.”
“You mind?” Kepella asked, pointing to the chair facing the couch.
“How about the dining room? More air out there,” Brandenburg said as he rose, and indicated for Kepella to lead the way. He saw the bulge. Kepella was carrying a gun. The closest gun for Brandenburg was in the liquor cabinet in the dining room. Fair was fair. If Kepella turned nasty, Brandenburg wanted to be prepared. As they sat at the table he asked, “So come again, Roy?”
“I delivered the SOSUS papers, as you and I agreed…” He paused, trying to lead Brandenburg into it.
“Right,” Brandenburg acknowledged.
Kepella thought, Step one accomplished. “But something was wrong. He had beaten the woman badly. She was damn near catatonic, and Holst started waving the gun around like a madman. I had to make one of those decisions… so I jumped him. I knew it was bad for our operation but what choice did I have? He could have killed us both.”
“He beat up Marlene?” Brandenburg asked incredulously.
“I hope I haven’t wrecked the operation,” Kepella tried again.
“No, no, Roy. Christ, I’d say it works perfectly. You acted like yourself. If you had just sat there, then he might have become curious. Maybe he was testing you.”
“It was no test. He’s lost a few screws. If you ask me, that woman has something to do with it. I thought you should know. I came here as quick as I could. They fixed me up at the hospital last night. I figured you’d know what to do.”
“You should probably go back to Fu’s in a few days, something like that.”
“I went by the marina… I thought that might be a good idea, but the boat is gone.” It had actually been Galpin who had explained the series of events to Kepella.
“Is that right?”
Kepella didn’t see the least bit of surprise in Brandenburg’s face. “So, what does that mean? Have we missed Wilhelm again, or what?”
“I’m gonna come clean with you, Roy. We have the whole thing under control. We’ve had the boat under surveillance for days. Right now it’s being sailed to the rendezvous. We’ve got Wilhelm in the bag. The director is going to be very impressed with your part in all of this. Very impressed indeed.”
“I’m glad you called me to Washington and set this all up. I’m proud to have been involved in this operation.”
“You’ve been a tremendous asset, Roy. Couldn’t have done it without you. How about a drink? Let’s celebrate.”
Now Kepella turned angry. “No booze. Not for me.” He watched Brandenburg kneel by the cabinet. Kepella grew more angry by the second. The lies. The booze. Being treated like dog shit. Brandenburg should pay for all of this, he decided. What would the law do? Slap a wrist? If he could only make him pull a gun, he could kill him in self-defense. Kepella slipped his weapon out, hidden below the table. Would Brandenburg allow himself to be provoked into using a weapon, or was he too calm an individual?
“You really had me going for a while,” Kepella started. He wondered what the boys in the van would do once he got into this. Would they wait it out, or would they kick the door? He decided to make it quick, before they had time to rally.
“What’s that, Roy?” Brandenburg asked, slipping the gun into his pants pocket hidden by the open door of the cabinet.
“I should have caught on with the cash. When you paid me cash for the plane ticket. That should have alerted me.”
Brandenburg came over with two drinks in hand. He held them on a tray, the tray hiding the bulge in his pocket. He slipped into his chair expertly, Kepella never seeing the bulge. He passed a drink across to Kepella, who pushed it off the table onto the carpet.
“No thanks.”
“What’s going on here, Roy?”
“I said I should have caught on when you paid me cash for my airline tickets. That was a mistake.”
A noticeable shake filled Brandenburg’s hand as he sipped his drink. The ice rattled.
Kepella continued, enjoying it more. “Really the whole plan was quite brilliant. Who pays you, Holst or Wilhelm?”
“Now listen here…”
“No, mister. I’m done listening to you. It’s your turn to listen to me.” He knew this was not at all what Mark Galpin had in mind. Galpin would have strung Brandenburg along and tried to follow leads and tried to fit it all together. But this was personal. No matter how wrong to Mark Galpin, this is what Kepella had had in mind all along. He was thinking, Pull a gun on me, asshole. Give me the excuse.
“Wait just one minute,” Brandenburg objected.
“I know the whole damn thing, mister. How many other agents have you set up over the years? Five, ten? How many other lives have you wrecked? I figured it out the other day,” he lied, in order to keep Brandenburg thinking only he knew the secret, to draw him into a contest. “No help at all. You knew too much. You knew about Rosie before I barely did. You knew about Holst. I checked the files, shithead,” he said, improvising, “and no one knows about Holst’s connection to Wilhelm. Only you. What do you think about that?”
Brandenburg was stunned He tried to keep his cool as he reached for the gun in his pocket. “So what’s next, Roy?”
“This is.” Kepella raised his gun above the table.
Brandenburg fired from beneath the table, squeezing off two rounds and sending Kepella over in his chair. Kepella shot the ceiling, dropping the gun on his way over, throwing it out of reach. His knee was on fire. The second bullet had missed him completely. Brandenburg stood and fired again, but Kepella rolled toward his gun and the shot missed.
The picture window slid open and an agent dove through the door while another shouted, “FBI, put down the weapons!”
Brandenburg spun around. He looked at the agent aiming at him and then at Kepella scooting across the carpet, still going for the gun. Wilhelm had promised the wife would be taken care of if anything like this ever happened. Brandenburg had no intention of spending his life in an eight-by-eight cell.
“Put down your weapon!” the agent shouted.
Brandenburg stuck the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
***
Jay made American Camp at 7:45, exhausted. Night would arrive soon. The tide was shifting. He remained well offshore to allow for the outgoing tide.
He dropped anchor in a light fog and fought his fatigue until the frosty-pink rim of fading sun stung the horizon. He ate half a can of cold tuna and fell asleep in the forward cab
in, which he considered safest, as it had two exits—an overhead hatch in the forward compartment or through the galley and out the companionway. Beneath his pillow he had The Lady’s flare gun and a sizable kitchen knife. He had taped another knife to his calf. He closed his eyes.
When he opened them it was morning. He had slept like a log. The same red ray of sunlight now peeked out from the opposite horizon, turning the ominous clouds salmon-pink. Red sky at morning, sailor take warning. He winced at the pain in his fingers. A paramedic at the police station had splinted them for him. He had been told they would be fine in time. He wasn’t so sure.
But when he looked outside again, he realized that his order of business had changed. The Lady Fine was nowhere near American Camp. He hurried topside. The island was a tiny dot to starboard. He worked his way up to the bow and hauled in the morning line. It had been cleanly cut with a knife while he had slept. The strong outgoing tide had drawn him miles west of San Juan Island and probably into Canada.
Holst was taking no chances. But why had they let him live? he wondered. If they had been this close to him, why not kill him and take the boat themselves. The answer hit him: Holst wanted someone else to sail whatever was aboard The Lady into Canada.
By law Jay was required to register The Lady with Canadian customs at either Friday Harbor or Bedwell Harbor. Since Friday Harbor was well behind him now, it would have to be Bedwell. There was a twenty-five-percent chance the boat would be searched by Canadian authorities at the Customs dock. If, however, Jay decided to bypass Customs, counting on the heavy holiday boat traffic, and was spotted by a patrol, the boat would definitely be searched. He’d seen that often enough. The Canadians were thorough. They waited until just before sunset and then patrolled most of the favorable coves and bays along the border. On a weekend like this the job would be formidable; but it would also be a weekend with extra law enforcement manpower. Jay decided to find out what was on the boat, and where it had been stored. There was no use in being surprised.
He searched forward first, tearing apart the floorboards and ransacking the storage areas that held the sails and skin diving gear. Nothing. He searched methodically through the galley. When he reached the television, he got an idea. He attached the twelve-volt adaptor and plugged in the television. It didn’t work. He checked his connections twice. It didn’t work. So, he figured Holst had hidden something inside the television. He continued through the galley area frantically, unable to find anything new.
Once inside Marlene’s cabin, he searched every drawer, including the area where he had found the videotape of Roy. Then he noticed that the storage area below Marlene’s bunk was locked with a new padlock and clasp. He ran into the cockpit and got the tool box. After bending two screwdrivers, he finally broke the clasp off by tearing loose the screws. Inside were four unopened cardboard boxes, each with the name Zycorps printed on the side. Computers.
He heard the voice faintly—a marine operator. He raced out of Marlene’s cabin, through the cockpit, and jumped down into the galley. He answered out of breath.
A moment later Holst said, “You recall the night you sat with Marlene and me at the Blue Sands? Over.”
“Yes. Over.”
“Check your charts. Go to the buoy whose number corresponds with the date of that meeting. Your final instructions are there. Out.”
Jay racked his brain. Had it been a Wednesday or Thursday? He checked a calendar he carried in his wallet. A Wednesday. Wednesday the 17th. Buoy #17.
He checked the charts, his fingers racing from marker to marker, icon to icon. Number 17 was just south of Saltspring Island, British Columbia.
He was right. He was being used to ferry the computers into Canada. Holst had been careful, in case someone was listening in—which they were.
He ate a quick breakfast, spent a few minutes on the head, and set a course for buoy #17. Running a fine craft like The Lady under power instead of sail was a sin. Jay hated it, but his schedule demanded it.
An hour later, a lightning storm began.
***
Mark Galpin couldn’t believe his ears. His assistant moved nervously in the chair across from him. “Two hours ago, you came in here and told me that The Lady Fine disappeared during the night. And now you’re telling me that not only have we lost his signal, but even our Air Force can’t pick it up. You expect me to believe that?”
“We can’t control the weather, sir. That transmitter doesn’t behave well in electrical storms. If the storm abates, I’m confident we can locate him again. We have someone now trying to raise a member of his band who might know what night that was. If we can find that out, we’ll know which buoy he’s heading to. That’s the best we can do until the weather cooperates.”
“That kid is counting on us. Do you understand that? He knows damn well they intend to kill him, and he’s counting on us to stop it. Now, I don’t care who you have to involve. I want that transmitter signal located. Get a Coast Guard cutter out there, something, anything. Just find that boat!”
The assistant leaned forward. “I’m not trying to beat a dead horse, sir, but the technology does not work in that kind of storm. Even if a Coast Guard cutter could locate the signal—which is unlikely—they would have no means of triangulating the position without the storm clearing. They would still be chasing what’s known as a ghost signal. That can take days—like searching for an airline’s black box on the bottom of the ocean floor. It’s a needle in a haystack.”
“What are you telling me?”
“That we have to wait out the storm.”
“And what’s the forecast?”
The assistant frowned. “Not good. There are embedded cells all over the area. They’re strung out in a line sixty-miles long in a storm moving at ten miles an hour.”
“Six hours?”
“At the very least, sir. With the summer heat off the Olympic Peninsula, it could go on all night.”
“Damn.” Galpin rubbed his temples. “And how about Roy Kepella?”
“He won’t walk for a few months. The bullet shattered his kneecap. He’ll be in the hospital a few days.”
“Did you mention the Washington transfer to him?”
“Yes, sir, just as you asked.”
“And what did he say to that?”
“He said he wouldn’t transfer there for all the money in the world. He said something about retiring. He was joking with a Chinese woman about starting a restaurant in Palo Alto. I couldn’t tell if he was serious or not.”
Galpin grinned.
“He said he was going to call it Rosie and Roy’s.”
Galpin laughed. The assistant had never heard him laugh. Galpin sobered quickly. “Put as many men as needed on locating these band members. And arrange a helicopter for me out to San Juan Island. And on your way out, tell Emily to connect me with the RCMP, British Columbia. We’re going to need a little cooperation here.”
The assistant hurried out the door. As it shut, Galpin laughed again. Rosie and Roy’s. He could just picture it.
***
Jay took his chances and didn’t check in with the Canadian Coast Guard. The message on buoy #17 instructed Jay to sail farther north, to a cove on the southern point of Saltspring Island and wait for dusk. He was to await a flare that would signal him to row into shore. Marlene would be there.
Marlene.
The trip took him longer than expected due to the furious storm. The seas weren’t terribly rough, but the lightning was constant and intense. Every few seconds the thunder would sound like a cannon.
As he motored narrowly between two rock outcroppings, he switched off the running lights. Sunset was still an hour off, but the storm had darkened the sky considerably. He knew they would be looking for The Lady. Any element of surprise would work to his advantage. And if he could stall, it would only give the FBI more time. He wondered if they were landing a few men on the island right now, setting the trap they had promised him. He had seen a sea plane flying low an ho
ur before, weaving dangerously low through the lightning. Perhaps it was them.
It was so difficult to see in the available light that Jay fixed his attention on the point of land opposite the cove. He knew they couldn’t see The Lady from shore, and if he could motor it across to the opposite shore before dark, he might be able to make shore and sneak up on them.
With his attention on the point of land, the noise of the engine droning in his ears, and the rattle of booming thunder and pelting rain, he never saw the small Zodiac raft appear from behind the outcropping of rock. Its silent, electric outboard engine gained steadily on the cumbersome Lady.
Jay planned his sneak attack, picturing the FBI or the Mounties on the far side of the island and closing in. He squinted to see the far away shoulder of land.
The Zodiac continued to gain on him.
Something pulled his attention from shore. He glanced over his shoulder, his eyesight partially blocked by the hood of the foul-weather gear. He looked right at the approaching Zodiac and didn’t see it.
And then, all at once, the sky cleared. The sun beat through from the west. Rain continued for another minute, as an arching rainbow created a bridge of color between Saltspring and the east. And except for the fading fireflies of the flashing lightning to starboard, one would never have known it had stormed at all.
He pulled off the foul-weather gear. And when he looked up, he was face-to-face with John Chu.
The Chinaman was standing on the stem.
Jay yelled. Chu attacked, springing toward Jay.
Instinctively, Jay leaned to his left and swung from the boom, his fingers in pain, dropping onto the far side of the cockpit. He turned. Chu seemed confused. Jay saw his advantage: he was comfortable on a boat; Chu was not. Jay kicked the gear lever forward, keeping his balance. Chu slipped on the slick deck but quickly regained his stance. The Lady Fine motored ahead, its wheel unmanned. Jay hurried forward—he needed a weapon. The flaregun! Chu pulled a long hunting knife and brandished it in the air, following Jay up toward the bow on the opposite side. Jay moved easily, beating the cautious Chu by several paces. He lifted the forward hatch and dropped into the forward cabin, quickly grabbing the flaregun where he had left it. He squatted and turned to fire. Chu’s face appeared over the hatch. Jay squeezed the trigger.
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