Snake Eye

by William C. Dietz

  Ten minutes later the ex-naval officer was in position. It would have been difficult to tread water without the extra buoyancy of the drysuit. But, with that to rely upon, Dexter was able to recheck his gear prior to biting down on the salty mouthpiece and pulling tank air into his lungs.

  The act of sliding down into the mysterious liquid atmosphere never failed to thrill the ex-SEAL. It was like entering another universe. The added pressure pushed the drysuit in against the polypropylene long Johns he wore, thereby making him aware of all the laces where the fabric had gathered, was wrinkled, or seamed. But the sensation wasn’t unpleasant and he quickly became used to it.

  And it was then, right at the point when he was about fifteen feet below the surface, that Dexter heard the unmistakable roar of a marine engine. He was already deep enough to escape small craft but instinct drove him deeper as the outboard crossed above his head. The C-Dory? Yes, he thought it was, and wondered if the person at the wheel knew that a diver was in the water.

  At twenty-five feet Dexter had just paused to look upwards when the boat returned. He could see the bottom of its hull and the turbulence produced by the big prop as the sixteen-foot fishing boat skidded into a tight turn. It was almost as if the boater or boaters knew he was there and were intent on throwing a scare into him. Of course that was preposterous, unless the Zhou Spring was being used as an underwater waystation for illegals—in which case it made perfect sense. The last thing the Chows would want was to have a diver poking around their carefully positioned wreck.

  The easiest way to test his theory was to swim laterally and see what happened. Dexter did so—and it wasn’t long before the C-Dory made the necessary adjustment. Whoever was at the controls was definitely aware of his presence and intent on chasing him off. But how? That was when the ex-SEAL remembered the fish finders that many fishermen mount on their boats—and felt sure that they were tracking his movements electronically.

  That left Dexter with two choices: Press ahead, which was to say down, or return to shore. Could the people on the C-Dory communicate with personnel aboard the now-submerged Zhou Spring? It seemed unlikely, given all of the technical problems involved, but there was no way to be absolutely sure. If they could communicate, a group of well-armed divers would be waiting for the ex-naval officer once he arrived over the wreck. And Dexter was under no illusions about who would win the subsequent battle. He could imagine the subhead in the PI: “Controversial businessman Jack Dexter drowns during solo-SCUBA dive off Whidbey Island.” The police would figure they had one less pervert to cope with, fellow divers would wonder how an ex-SEAL could be so stupid, and the smuggling operation would continue.

  Convinced that discretion was the better part of valor, Dexter turned toward the east, and the return trip began. He hadn’t traveled more than fifty feet before the C-Dory broke the circle, cut power by half, and cruised toward the west. A clear signal if there ever was one.

  Hank Stanton watched from the beach as Dexter paused to remove his fins, unlock his ankle, and return his foot to its normal position. Once he was back on his feet, the ex-SEAL made his way back up onto the beach. Petey dashed back and forth barking excitedly. “So son,” the old man said, “did you have a nice swim?”

  There was something about the way he said it, and the glint in the old man’s eye, that suggested Stanton knew about the C-Dory. “Here,” Dexter said, as he paused to release the tank harness. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to carry that for me. Thank you, Mr. Stanton. I appreciate it.”

  “Friends call me, Hank.”

  “Thanks, Hank. No offense, but if I didn’t know better, I’d think you had been watching me. More than that, I might even come to the conclusion that you know something about that C-Dory and the folks who own it. So, supposing that I’m right, what would it take to get a download?”

  The gravel made a crunching sound and gear clinked as the two men continued to make their way up the gently sloping beach. “That depends,” Stanton countered cautiously. “Are you a cop?”

  “Nope,” the businessman answered simply.

  “But you came looking for some sort of underwater installation?”

  Dexter nodded. “Yes, I did. And assuming that you have some actionable intelligence, I can put it into the right hands.”

  “Good,” Stanton replied. “In that case the price of a complete download consists of a steak dinner and a cold beer.”

  “You’re on,” Dexter replied, as he took another hop forward. “And let’s make that two beers.”

  Rossi pushed the unmarked Crown Vic up to fifty-miles per hour. Not all that fast for the freeway—but the equivalent of light speed on old Highway 99. Even though it was just past one in the morning there was still plenty of traffic on the road and it had to be dealt with. The flashing blue light on the dashboard certainly helped, as did the occasional burp of sound from the car’s siren, but some of the drivers were slow to pull over. That forced the FBI agent to weave her way between them. She kept both hands on the wheel and was ready to brake.

  Seedy car lots, second-class strip malls, and fast food joints blipped past, their lights smearing into a continuous blur as Rossi left them behind. Although the press was still tracking the case, the Pasco murder had slipped down to page six in the PI, and rarely came in for mention by the local TV stations. That had enabled Rossi to reoccupy her previously besieged home, which was where the agent had been when the phone rang, and she’d been forced to roll out of bed. Hawkins had gone to D.C. to attend a meeting of the Undercover Review Committee, and since Rossi was the principal relief supervisor, that put her in the proverbial hot seat.

  According to what she’d been told, Joe Chow had been stupid enough to go on-line via a dial-up connection. The call had been traced to a motel called the Prospector’s Palace. So, assuming the snakehead was still there, it was a wonderful opportunity to put the cuffs on him. There were two cars in front of Rossi, both traveling side-by-side while communicating window-to-window. Neither one seemed to be aware of the Crown Vic or the blue beacon. The FBI agent swore, tapped on the brakes, and goosed the siren. She was gratified to see the vehicle in front of her pull away, then surprised to see it accelerate, and swerve into the right-hand lane. The driver was trying to escape! A stolen car? Probably, or a fugitive who was on the run from something.

  But the FBI agent didn’t have time to follow as tires squealed and the badly spooked driver made a poorly executed right-hand turn. She continued north instead, killed the siren two blocks prior to arriving at her destination, and pulled over behind a pair of marked SPD patrol cars. Detective George Tolley was waiting for Rossi as she got out of her car. The federal agent wore an FBI ball cap, a raid jacket over a bulletproof vest, and a pair of blue jeans. Her Glock, plus two extra magazines, rode high on her hip. “Welcome to the party,” Tolley said. “We have the entire dump sealed off.”

  “The dump,” as Tolley referred to it, was marked by an ancient neon sign. It was yellow and consisted of a grizzled prospector leaning on a shovel. “Good,” Rossi answered. “Have we got some sort of diagram?”

  “Right here,” a uniformed sergeant said, as he slapped a sheet of graph paper on the hood of her car. The map was hand-drawn but clear. A blob of light from a flashlight was sufficient to illuminate it. The motel was shaped like a capital “L.” The rooms lay along the long axis with the office down at the end. Someone had marked the box labeled “Unit 3” with a large “X.” “We have an officer with the owners,” the policeman continued. “They say the room in question is registered to a man named Martinez. But they did see a male matching Chow’s description enter the unit earlier today. An Asian female and two other men were with him.”

  “That sounds like our favorite snakehead alright,” the FBI agent agreed. “Have we got the search warrant?”

  “Right here.”

  “Good. What about the other guests? Have they been secured?”

  “There are four of them,” Tolley replied. “One w
orks nights and the rest have been evacuated by plainclothes personnel. There’s lots of action around here at night—so we’re hoping that the evacuation went unnoticed.”

  “That would be nice,” Rossi agreed. “Okay, let’s get this done.”

  Thanks to the fact that a perimeter had been established, and the rest of the units had been secured, it was relatively easy to move in on unit three. Once Rossi had received confirmation that the bathroom window had been covered by the SPD she edged up to the door. Tolley took his position on the opposite side of the entryway. Like the FBI agent, his weapon was up and ready.

  Rossi could feel her heart try to pound its way through her chest wall as she prepared to knock on the door. Would Chow put up a fight? Not if he was asleep—and they could enter quickly enough. The FBI agent took a deep breath as she rapped on the door. “This is the manager. Did you report a plumbing problem?” There was silence as Rossi counted off the seconds in her head. “Okay,” she said loud enough for those around her to hear, “hit it!”

  Two heavily armored members of the SPD stepped around the agent and positioned themselves in front of the door. Once they had their boots planted they pulled their tubular battering ram back before swinging it toward the door. There was a loud bang, followed by the sound of splintering wood, and a thud as what remained of the obstacle slammed into one of the walls.

  It was dark inside. Rossi went through the opening first, weapon at the ready, with Tolley close behind. He hit the lights, and although both were prepared to fire, there was no one to shoot at, just a shabby room, a bed with clothes piled on it, and a laptop computer. A quick check confirmed that the bathroom and closet were empty, too. “So,” Tolley said, as he returned from the bathroom. “What do you think?”

  “I think we missed the bastard,” Rossi said, as she made use of a ballpoint pen to touch the computer’s mouse pad. “But not by much.”

  The computer, which had long since gone to standby, came back to life. The FBI agent watched as the picture of a young Asian woman reassembled itself on the screen. “Don’t let anyone mess with the laptop until we get a warrant and the techies have a chance to examine it,” Rossi instructed as she stared at the screen. “Odds are that Chow was just surfing porn sites but you never know. Maybe he’s connected to this girl somehow. And let’s get the forensics folks in here. Who knows what they left behind.”

  It was more than an hour later when Little Chow, plus three of his bodyguards, left the strip club they had spent the evening in, and cruised north along 99. They were a block away form the motel when Paco spotted the police cars. “Holy shit, boss! Look at that! The cops are all over the place.”

  “Keep it cool,” the snakehead advised. “And slow down. That’s what most people would do.”

  The order made sense, even if it was counter intuitive, and Paco complied. Chow, who was seated in the rear on the passenger’s side, had an excellent view of the sidewalk as the newly acquired car slowed to fifteen mph. He could see the cop cars, followed by an official-looking van, and two people standing directly below the motel’s yellow neon sign. One was a black male and the other was a white female—an FBI agent judging from the letters on the back of her jacket. And not just any agent, but the one he’d seen on TV. The one who had been sleeping with Dexter.

  The snakehead felt a rising sense of anger as he stared out through the glass. It was starting to look like the FBI bitch was determined to get up his ass. Well, two could play that game. “Hey, Paco,” Chow said as the black caddy pulled away.

  “Yeah, boss?”

  “Have someone get me the down-low on that FBI bitch. You know the one. Ross, Rosso, or something like that. I want to know where she lives, who she hangs with, and what she had for dinner last night.”

  “Sure, boss,” Paco said, as he eyed the rearview mirror for any sign of pursuit. “I’ll put my cousin Tony on it. He’s into computers and shit like that.”

  “Good,” Chow said. “And one more thing. I figure they have Ling. But what if she got away? See what you can pick up from the media. If she’s out there we need to find her before the cops do.”

  “I’ll put the word out,” Paco assured him. “So what about Big Chow? Are you going to tell him?”

  “Hell no,” the snakehead replied dismissively. “They have taps on his phone by now. No, we’re on our own until that ship comes in. Shanghai could be a drag—but you’ll like Hong Kong. That’s where Jackie Chan hangs out.”

  Paco, who wasn’t of Chinese ancestry, and didn’t speak Spanish much less Mandarin, wasn’t all that eager to live in Hong Kong. But the train had left the station, he was on it, and there was no way off. “Yeah, boss. That sounds good.”

  Meanwhile, back at the Prospector’s Palace, Rossi was getting into her car and pulling away. The raid had been a disappointment, but not a disaster, since it was bound to turn the heat up on the Chow family. So why did she feel such a sense of impending doom? As if something really bad was about to happen? There was no logical reason for it—and logic is what counted. “Merry Christmas!” the sign on a store front read, but she had her doubts.

  Chapter Nine

  The Toyotas headlights bored twin tunnels into the night as Dexter guided the four-by-four down Ebey Road to the visitor’s area where Stanton’s truck was parked. The businessman heard the boat trailer rattle as he turned into the parking lot, brought the rig to a halt, and killed the engine. A rectangle of buttery light appeared then vanished as Stanton peeked through a window before leaving the comparative warmth of his camper for the cold night air. Petey raced ahead and barked a greeting as Dexter made his way back to the boat trailer. “Well, it looks like you found one,” the ex-trucker commented, as he played the beam from his flashlight across the old aluminum boat. A pair of wooden oars lay lengthwise on the seats.

  “Yeah,” Dexter replied. “It belongs to the cook at the restaurant where we had dinner. I paid him fifty bucks to let me use it.”

  “He should have paid you,” Stanton observed, as he eyed the much-abused hull. “It looks heavy. How are we going to get this monster down to the water?”

  “With this,” the businessman replied, and hoisted a metal contraption out of the boat’s stern. The device consisted of a U-shaped tubular framework, a pair of set screws, and two wheels. “It clamps onto the stern right where an outboard would go,” Dexter explained. “Once it’s in position you flip the boat over, grab onto the bow, and tow it down to the water.”

  “I can hardly wait,” the older man said dryly. “Why did I let you talk me into this insanity anyway?”

  “Because you have a weakness for steak dinners,” Dexter replied lightly. “Come on. You aim the flashlight while I release the tie-downs.”

  Ten minutes later the boat had been freed, the wheels had been attached, and Dexter was ready to go. The idea for the excursion had come to him shortly after Stanton had described the mysterious doings at Ebey’s Landing. Had illegals been brought ashore that night? And if so, had they been warehoused aboard the Zhou Spring. Dexter felt sure that the answer to both questions was yes.

  But given the fact that his credibility was at an all-time low, and having failed to view the wreck first hand, the ex-SEAL needed some tangible proof before taking his theory to the authorities. The most obvious thing to do was to attempt another dive, and the businessman had been toying with that idea when an alternative came to mind. The subsurface habitat was similar to a submarine in many respects, and having been trained to operate from submarines, Dexter knew that a good air supply would be critical. And that raised an interesting question. How did the underwater facility renew its air supply? Could the bad guys manufacture oxygen? The way modern subs did? Or were they reliant on something low-tech? Something they could release during the hours of darkness? His guess was yes, and pictures of such a device would go a long way toward supporting his story. And Stanton, bless his soul, had volunteered to help.

  All of which explained why the two men swore and P
etey barked excitedly as they struggled to drag the twelve-foot aluminum boat through a maze of driftwood and onto the rocky beach. Once they reached the edge of the water there was a pause while Stanton took Petey back to the camper. When the ex-trucker returned he found a pair of tall rubber boots and an orange life jacket waiting for him. The price tags were still on them. “Put those on,” the ex-naval officer instructed. “But, if the boat tips over, kick the boots off. Otherwise they will fill with water and take you down.”

  Stanton nodded as he sat on a corner of the boat’s stern and pulled his hiking boots off. “But maybe he was wrong. it’s dark out there. How are we going to find our way back?”

  “This will act as our beacon,” Dexter explained, as he thumbed the switch on a portable spotlight. “I’ll place both it and the transporter above the tide-line. And, if that fails, I have a compass.”

  “Good thinking,” the older man replied. “Here, put my boots next to the other stuff. I’ll be able to find them again that way.”

  Dexter did and ten minutes later metal scraped on gravel as the men pushed the rowboat out into the low waves. The surf was light but made regular smacking sounds when it hit the bow and threw droplets of cold water back over the gunwales. Dexter entered the boat first, grabbed hold of the pre-positioned oars, and pulled as Stanton came in over the stern.