The rest of the house was more of the same, but Frank wanted to find a single item, which, on its face, would not be a target for Omega formula hunters. He looked in the hall closet. Nothing. He checked the other rooms’ closets and eventually came to a sparsely furnished upstairs room Frank thought might’ve once been a guest room. It was as austere as a monk’s quarters, and had been hardly molested by the wrecking crew. The closet door was open, but inside there were only a few metal coat hangers dangling from a sagging wooden dowel, and the stifling smell of mothballs.
A banging noise had Frank peeking out from the closet, his gun up and aimed into the room. Nothing there looked out of place, nothing stirred. The banging noise returned, louder than before. This time he caught a glimpse of a shutter swinging outside the room’s only window as is slammed into the frame and swung out of view. He took a deep breath and lowered the Browning.
Frank cursed at the possibility that the only clue to the whereabouts of Simon’s files had already been taken. He started to leave when he noticed the door to the room slowly closing as he trod on one of the creaking floorboards on his way out. When the pivoting door revealed its interior side, Frank found what he’d been looking for. There, hanging by itself on a coat hook, was a Detroit Tiger baseball cap. He took it down and looked inside the crown. In the lining was a small envelope. In the envelope were two things: A note from David and a crisp, one-dollar silver certificate. A long ago piece of William’s generosity had found its way home to his grandson.
* * * * *
David’s directions in the note were terse. Apparently he had rushed to compose it before he fled from the house, but there was enough there for Frank to decipher its intent.
The cab parked directly in front of Saint Mary’s church on Jefferson Avenue near Chalmers Street. Frank jumped out, hiked up the steps, and made his way into the main sanctuary of the cathedral. Inside, he looked for the stairway to the organ loft David had written was off the vestibule. He opened a door on the far side of the room and found the steeply ascending stairs and climbed them to the humid, musty room above. David’s note said the files would be in the organist’s bench where sheet music was kept, and would be at the bottom of everything else in the compartment. Frank pulled up on the heavy walnut seat and opened it fully. There were stacks of sheet music, mostly hymns and Christmas carols. He dug down deep to the bottom and found a large manila envelope and took it out. He opened its metal clasp and found a single, letter-size sheet inside. Frank removed the paper and read its brief message.
Late again, detective. Too late to save your reputation, and too late to save the world.
* * * * *
Heading south was a Learjet 24 carrying Cezar Nicolai, Vlad Torok and a manila file folder marked “Top Secret.” The plane was descending from ten thousand feet above I-95 when it zipped past West Palm Beach, powering back to under 200 knots on a final heading to Miami International.
“Please buckle up, gentlemen,” the pilot said over the plane’s intercom. “We’ll be on final approach to MIA in about two minutes.”
“What time are we scheduled to meet Cardoza?” Cezar said as he secured his seat belt.
“One this afternoon, at the church,” Vlad said. “He’s bringing pictures of the properties.”
“I hope they’re worth their reputed thousand words.”
“I’ll check the goods out in person if the photos pass your approval.”
“And vet the crew,” Cezar said.
“I’ll see to it, sir.”
“It’s only one mission, but I want it to go off without any problems.”
“Was the file of any use?” Vlad said and glanced at the manila folder between them.
“Perhaps in time,” Cezar said, staring out at the approaching signs of civilization on the ground. “Cryptic. It’s going to take work to unravel any meaning.”
The beaches of Miami came into view outside Cezar’s window. He took a notepad and a pen from the breast pocket of his Savile Row suit jacket and jotted a few lines.
“We’re going to need more of those yellow nitrile gloves,” Cezar said and handed Vlad a page from the notepad. “In both of our sizes.”
* * * * *
“He knows who I am, goddamnit.” Frank said. “And I don’t know anything about him.”
“Well, hell, you’ve sure been visible enough,” Roland said. “I bet people in Tasmania know who you are.”
“How did this Nicolai connect the dots with me and Hapburg?”
“Hapburg could’ve told him. You said he was scared skinny of the guy.”
“I doubt that Hapburg conceded that. He didn’t want to help the bastard with any information he didn’t have to.”
“You said Hapburg was afraid his phone was bugged.”
“I don’t remember ever saying who I was in our conversation,…oh, wait a sec. Yes, I did. At the first part of the conversation I said, ‘It’s Frank Dugan, David.’ Gave him all you’d need to find out the rest.”
“He doesn’t seem like your garden variety criminal, does he? Kinda smart.”
“Cunning,” Frank said and wandered over to the window and gazed outside. “Do I have any leave left.”
“Here we go,” Roland said. “Gonna leave us shorthanded again. It’s like you work somewhere else and only drop in to visit us from time to time when you need to make a few long distance calls.”
“Any comp time?”
“You’ve used your comp time up for the next decade. You’ve got a couple of vacation days left.”
“I may need to go to Miami.”
“Wonder why Hapburg didn’t bring the files with him when he came down here to see you.” Roland said.
“Well, unlike Mr. Nicolai, Hapburg’s not the quickest rabbit in the warren.”
“Speak English.”
“I may no longer be the lead dog in this race.”
Chapter 46
“No murders again today,” Carl Rumbaugh said across the desk from Frank.
“You want murders?” Frank said. “Move to Chicago.”
“Shift’s not over for six more hours. Still time,” Rumbaugh said and yawned.
Frank needed to talk to someone, and it wasn’t Carl Rumbaugh. He needed to talk to someone he could trust about the latest findings on the Omega formula. Alasdair was out. Maybe it was time to reveal things to Braewyn Joyce. He’d promised her he’d convey any new information about Omega, but he hadn’t intended to follow through on that. But now might be the time to at least toss her something. He needed advice from someone who wasn’t part of the Dugan history, someone who could offer him an impartial opinion. He regarded the agent as a person posing a lot of negatives for his life, but he never thought of her as anything but honest. It was time for him to call the FBI for help, as strange as that would feel.
At noon Frank called Braewyn’s cell.
“Special Agent Joyce,” the familiar voice said.
“We need to talk,” Frank said.
“Detective Dugan, what a nice surprise.”
“I went to see Alasdair in Vero Beach and showed him the picture of Celine with Chernac. Didn’t go so well.”
“Alasdair is in Florida?”
“He’s treasure diving in Vero Beach.”
“You sure you want to talk to me?” Braewyn said. “I think you need a friend, not an FBI agent who’s investigating you.”
“I want to talk about Alasdair and Celine, and the Omega files. Can I meet with you somewhere?”
“I’ve got to stick around Miami. Know any place down here?”
“There’s a bar on Biscayne in Lemon City. Blarney’s.”
“I’ll find it. When?”
“Anytime after two hours from now.”
“I’ve got an appointment around lunchtime this afternoon, but—“
“Afterward then. Two o’clock work?”
“See you there,” Braewyn said and hung up.
Frank pulled himself together and prepared to seize w
hat was left of the day. As soon as the cruiser was loaded and gassed up, Frank headed south on the Ronald Reagan Turnpike to Miami almost two hours away. His anticipation of talking with Braewyn was mixed. And that stone-faced Tom Gardner was likely going to be there, which added to his apprehension.
* * * * *
The small Catholic church was nearly empty of parishioners, and library-quiet, except for the occasional creaking of the few occupied ancient pews. Cezar and Vlad took seats in the back row of the left section near the center aisle and studied their surroundings. A couple of women prayed in the front rows in the right half of the sanctuary; a woman in black emerged from one of the two confessionals on the far right wall. A waiting woman on the right aisle rose from her pew and entered the vacated confessional. The place smelled of melted candle wax, and dust motes drifted weightlessly in the rays of sunlight penetrating stained glass panels depicting the Stations of the Cross.
“Where are they?” Cezar said, barely moving his lips. “It’s one o’clock.”
“I’m sure they’ll be here, sir,” Vlad said. “They were enthusiastic about the deal.”
“I like people who keep their commitments. Like being punctual for appointments.”
Cezar waved a finger at the disorganized missals and hymnals in the holders attached to the pew in front of him. Vlad immediately neated them up and glanced back toward the church entrance. Ten more minutes passed. Cezar looked sternly at Vlad, who rose and marched into the vestibule of the church. A few seconds later he returned, followed by three men dressed like extras from Al Pacino’s version of Scarface. One of the men held a Panama hat in his hand and wore a tan sport coat with a loud floral shirt underneath. He carried an envelope tucked under his sweat-stained armpit. The other two men tagged along behind and carried baseball caps. Vlad led the trio to Cezar, who remained seated in the pew, staring ahead at the Corpus Christi above the altar.
“I’m sorry we’re late,” Panama hat said to the profile of Czar’s head, and sat down in the pew. “The midday traffic is brutal out there today. Must be the heat.”
“Interesting. We had no trouble getting here at all,” Cezar said and glanced at his Rolex.
Panama hat looked at Cezar and shrugged.
“You have photographs for me?” Cezar said.
“Si, uh, yes, right here in this envelope,” Panama hat said and opened the clasp envelope and handed it to Cezar.
Cezar looked through the 8x10 photos and stopped at one.
“This is the item from Cuba?” Cezar said.
“Yes,” Panama hat said. “It’s right off our coast as we speak”
“And the Viking yacht?”
“In the marina where I first talked with your man, Mr. T, here,” Panama hat said. “Your Mr. T, the one here with you, not the man on the television show. The slip number is written on the picture.”
“And the papers?” Cezar said.
“On the boat in the marina.” Panama hat said.
“We’ll meet you at the boat later today, say five P. M.,” Cezar said. “Will that time be convenient for you with all that pesky traffic?”
“We’ll be there, sir,” Panama said rising and backing out of the pew. “Five o’clock sharp.”
Panama hat turned to his two associates.
“Cinco anoche, y en punto,” Panama hat said with glaring eyes.
“If everything looks all right, we’ll trade you bills for your boats,” Cezar said. “A lot of bills.”
“I’m sure you’ll be happy, sir. You have the word of Miguel Cardoza,” Panama hat said. “I selected these items myself. Top quality, I guarantee it.”
Cardoza gave final bows and nods to Cezar and Vlad, and ushered his men out of the church.
“Like what you saw, sir?” Vlad asked.
“I did,” Cezar said and shuffled the photos to one in particular. “Especially this one.”
He displayed the photo to Vlad.
“If it sails as well as it looks, it’ll be perfect, sir.”
“I’ll teach the crew how to man it, but they are only to know me as…let’s use Grainger. My man in Amsterdam did such a lovely passport for me as a Mr. Leonard Grainger. After their lesson, I’ll go over the offshore plan. Are all these men qualified divers?”
“Every one. I’ll assemble the crews tomorrow if all goes well tonight.”
“I sometimes wonder why I go in for these bizarre and expensive pastimes, but, then again, what’s money for except to enjoy it. And right now I’d like to enjoy a Patron margarita.”
“I know the perfect place,” Vlad said.
“I knew you would, my friend,” Cezar said sliding to the end of the pew and rising. “Afterward, we have to decide how we want to deal with the United States Coast Guard.”
* * * * *
Moments after Cezar and Vlad left the church, a woman in sunglasses, with a black scarf covering her head and most of her face, stepped out of a confessional on the right aisle. She checked her cell phone, pressed a few buttons, and placed it in her purse. She removed her scarf and sunglasses, and revealed her face. It was the face of Braewyn Joyce.
Braewyn left the church by the large double doors facing the street and descended the granite steps. She reached her Chevy Traverse parked a few yards down the street and bent slightly to retrieve her car keys from her purse. She opened the door with the keyless entry remote and felt something hard being jammed against the small of her back.
“Get in the car,” the masculine voice said.
Braewyn slid behind the wheel. The man got into the back seat.
“Hand me your purse and gun,” the man said. “Carefully.”
Braewyn complied and swung her arm slowly into the back of the car and handed the man her purse and her Glock.
“Drive where I tell you and you’ll be okay,” the man said. “You need to talk to someone. Remember I have my gun at your back, and I also have your gun and cell phone. I’m not afraid of being in an accident, should you attempt that silly ploy. If you do, you’ll die and I’ll walk away. Not a smart strategy for a bright lady from the FBI.”
“I’m doing whatever you say, mister,” Braewyn said with robotic calm and started the car.
The man said, “Do you know how to get to the Fontainebleau?”
Chapter 47
Blarney’s Irish Pub had a large rectangular bar with turned, dark wood posts at each of its corners running from the top surface of the bar to the ceiling. Numerous beer and ale taps ran in a line at one end of the bar, and a center island of liquor bottles displayed an assortment of libations set on three levels of shelves. Posters were framed and mounted on the walls all around the room’s pub-height tables which boldly announced Guinness, Harp, and Jameson brands in colorful artwork. The place smelled of many mop-ups of spilled brews, with an occasional whiff of more pleasant aromas drifting out from the kitchen. Whenever Frank thought of his perfect setting for a bar, Blarney’s always came to mind.
It was a minute before two and the pub was nearly full of late-lunchers, drinkers, and tourists, but Braewyn was nowhere to be seen. He allowed that he had arrived early and forgave her for being fashionably late. A pretty woman popping in early and alone at a touristy bar was often looked upon with wishful possibilities among men already there, lying in wait, and on their third drink. A smart woman who planned her lateness was an aware woman deserving of Frank’s respect.
Forty minutes passed.
“Another Guinness,” Frank said to the auburn-bearded bartender.
Frank took a Prince Albert tobacco tin from his jacket pocket and opened it. Inside was a folded piece of paper. He spread it out on the bar and stared at the strange mathematic symbols written on it. It was the equation Doctor Dekler had written on the college blackboard. Understandably, Frank could make no sense of it, and returned it to the tin box and put it back in his pocket.
As he had every day, Frank recited, in his head, the four-stanza poem from William.
Men wish to swing
in their seventies and fly with eagles,
like boys who dream of playing on the moon.
Find someone to recount the sheep, avoid the deep six
that rusts plain iron, and keep a tool as a rune.
If need be loosed this awful power,
it lies asleep until that hour.
Sealed in a pipe all eyes can see,
but blind to all, save you and me.
He conjured over it every day. And he was sure he understood what part of it meant. He knew time was running short and struggled to grasp its larger meaning, the full solution to the Omega formula puzzle.
Frank’s cell rang. He brought it straight to his ear.
“Well, it’s about time,” Frank said into the phone.
“Detective Dugan? It’s Special Agent Tom Gardner.”
“Agent Gardner. What’s up?”
“Agent Joyce was supposed to pick me up at the office and take us to meet with you. That was over an hour ago. I’ve tried several times to get her on her cell, but it goes immediately to voice mail.”
“She was supposed to meet me at two,” Frank said. “I was about to call her myself.”
“I had to work at the North Miami field office today. She told me she planned to follow a tip she got about some people we’ve been watching. I didn’t want her to go without me, but I was needed here at the office, so she went by herself. That was around twelve-thirty. She sent me pictures from her cell phone at 1:18. That’s the last I heard from her.”
“How about I come get you and we devise a plan?”
The Omega Formula: Power to Die For (Detective Frank Dugan) Page 21