When The Devil Whistles

by Rick Acker

  They were out on the deck now, running hunched over through the chilly air. Still no one stopped them and no shots or yells came from behind. The only sounds Mitch heard were his rasping breath and the sounds of his and Ed’s feet slapping against the deck as they sprinted from the door to the cover provided by the winch machinery, and then on to the top of the stern ladder.

  Mitch took a quick look around, recognizing the Port of Oakland in an instant. There were the giant cranes that looked like the Imperial Walkers in the Star Wars movies, and there were the Deep Seven buildings. If he could just get past the North Koreans, he’d be practically home. It was so close!

  They started down the ladder, Ed first and Mitch following him. A cold gust caught Mitch and he shivered. It couldn’t be above forty, and the water wouldn’t be much warmer. How far were they going to be able to swim in that? They would need to get around the end of the dock and all the way down the next one over to have any chance of getting far enough away from the ship to avoid being seen. That would be at least a hundred yards. A long way in cold water. A very long way.

  59

  ALLIE CROUCHED BETWEEN TWO OIL DRUMS, LOOKING THROUGH A PAIR of expensive night vision binoculars she had picked up at a sporting goods store at the mall after work. She was in a dark corner of Deep Seven’s lot at the Port of Oakland, hiding in what seemed to be a junk storage area between the water and the wall of a warehouse.

  She saw five white housing trailers lined up on a parking lot next to a small administrative building and what looked like a garage or machine shop. A ship—the Grasp II she had remembered from the tax memo—lay tethered to the dock, rising and falling slightly with the waves. A large tractor-trailer waited on the shore next to the ship. A high fence surrounded the whole compound like a steel hedge.

  She’d been there for over an hour, and the initial adrenaline rush of sneaking into the dock had worn off. Petroleum fumes from the barrels gave her a headache. She was cold. Her legs and back were stiff, and the grime all around her had already stained her new jeans and the sleeve of her jacket.

  So far nothing interesting had happened. The ship had arrived and tied up at the big concrete dock. They set up a gangway. A bunch of Asian guys came off, some carrying boxes or bags on hand trucks. Maybe they were carrying nuclear bomb parts or smuggled diamonds, but she kind of doubted it.

  Other people went on the ship. Some other Asians wearing body armor and carrying assault rifles milled around, talking to each other and looking bored. Big deal. She saw that in the parking lot every morning at Deep Seven.

  She put down the binoculars and rubbed her eyes. At least she hadn’t called Connor or Julian to tell them about her new lead. That would have been painful. No one knew she made this little recon trip, and no one would unless and until she found something.

  She sighed. It would be a lot easier to find something if she had some idea what she was looking for.

  Oh, well. Back to work the next morning. Maybe she’d find something good before her assignment ended. She looked at her blackened knees. Maybe those stains would even come out. Miracles were possible.

  She took one last look at the ship, and a movement in the shadows at its back—stern?—caught her eye. She lifted the binoculars to her eyes and the world turned from night to green-tinged twilight.

  Two figures were climbing down to the water. They paused for a minute and then dropped into the dirty water of the harbor, making hardly a ripple.

  They didn’t swim directly for shore, but moved in a wide crescent that kept them in the shadows and out of view from the dock. She leaned forward, forgetting her dirty knees and aching back. “Now we’re talking.”

  The swimmers made slow progress, disappearing under water and then popping their heads up for a few seconds ten yards away for a breath and a quick look around before disappearing again. They turned toward shore, following a line of pilings that gave them some cover. With a start, Allie realized that they would reach the cement seawall just a few yards from her.

  Excitement and fear twisted her insides. Should she run? Stay put and see what happened? Go to meet them?

  Inertia won out. She moved back further into the shadows and watched as they came closer and closer. They seemed to be having some trouble—They came to the surface more often, staying up longer. Then they stopped going down at all. They swam with slow, uneven strokes. One of them lagged behind, and the other went back and began half-towing him.

  Allie looked around, but didn’t see anything resembling a life preserver. So there really wasn’t anything she could do to help, was there?

  The swimmers continued to make gradual progress. Eventually they disappeared from view beneath the edge of the wall. Long minutes ticked by. Allie looked at the glowing face of her watch and wondered how long the men had been out of sight.

  Finally, she decided to go over to the wall and look down. But as she started to rise, she heard grunting and a hand appeared over the top of the wall. She crouched back between the barrels and watched as a man pulled himself over and collapsed to the ground.

  He lurched to his feet and called down in a rough, shaking whisper. “Hold on, Ed!”

  He staggered toward the random piles of junk as if looking for something. His hands shivered badly as he fumbled among the trash. After half a minute, he found a heavy chain with a hook on one end and started dragging it over to the seawall. But the chain suddenly went taut, jerking the man to a halt. He yanked on it without result, then stumbled back and began shoving a large piece of scrap metal that was apparently pinning the chain down.

  Allie couldn’t bear it any longer. Against her better judgment, she pushed herself to her feet and ran over.

  The man was intent on his task and didn’t see her until she set her shoulder beside his. He looked up, surprise on his dripping face. He grunted his thanks and pushed harder.

  The metal groaned and scraped forward, releasing the chain. The man grabbed it and ran back to the low wall, Allie a step behind him.

  She looked down and saw dark waves rolling up against slimy green cement ten feet below. Rusty D-shaped loops of rebar stuck out from the wall, forming a rough ladder. A semiconscious man hung from the bottom, his right arm wedged through a rung to keep him from slipping under.

  The man beside Allie let the hook down. It thumped against the wall with a dull clank. The man at the bottom lifted his head and reached for the chain with his left hand, but he couldn’t seem to catch it. His other arm slipped out of the rung and he flailed wildly for a few seconds before grabbing the rung again. He clung to it with both hands.

  “I’ll go down.” Allie’s voice surprised her, but she found herself stepping over the top of the seawall and gripping the top rung. It was rough and very cold in her hand. Then she was climbing down, and a few seconds later she had almost reached the bottom.

  A shockingly cold wave rose out of the dark and slapped her. Her foot slipped off a slimy rung, and she barely avoided falling. Wet and shivering, she cowered against the hard wall, wondering what she was doing. She should be in her apartment right now, or at Tang Dynasty or Starbucks with Trudi, or planning her next move at Deep Seven. Somewhere—anywhere—other than hanging from a cold and unforgiving cement slab over inky waters, trying to save some man she’d never met.

  She looked down. The man was looking at her. He shook uncontrollably. His face was pale and slack, his eyes half-glazed.

  Another wave rolled toward her and she tensed as it splashed against the wall, soaking her a second time. The man below her hardly seemed to notice.

  She climbed down the final few rungs and grabbed the chain that hung beside her. She tried to hand it to the man, but he shook his head. “B-belt.”

  “What? Oh, the hook.”

  He nodded.

  Allie stepped down into the frigid water and felt the man’s waist. There it was. It felt thick—hopefully thick enough to support him. She attached the hook and gave the chain a jerk.

  The man a
t the top of the wall pulled and the chain went taut. With Allie pushing the second man’s dripping and copious backside, he rose out of the water, pawing weakly at the ladder as he went up.

  His legs disappeared over the top, and Allie heaved herself over right behind him. He had curled into a shivering ball, but he nodded to her with a quick jerk of his head. “Th -thanks.”

  Allie nodded back. She was wet and freezing, but a sunny glow spread through her. She knew she didn’t look her best, but she wished Connor could see her now.

  The man she had just saved grunted something.

  “What was that?”

  “Phone,” he repeated, his voice slurred and shaking. “You gotta phone?”

  Fortunately, it was in her purse, which was still back by the oil barrels. She retrieved it and returned a few seconds later. “I’ll call you an ambulance.”

  She started to dial 911, but he shook his head. “No! Cops first. There’s n-nukes on that ship. Buncha North Korean commandos too.”

  60

  CHO STOOD ON THE FORWARD DECK, WATCHING AND WAITING. IT WAS a starless and peaceful night. The only sounds were the soft rhythmic splash of the waves and indistinct murmur of conversation on shore. But he doubted the quiet would last. His turn on guard duty was scheduled to last until midnight, though he suspected there would be no need for a watchman by that time.

  His eyes swept back and forth over the dock, the warehouses, the bright white trailers for the American security guards. While he helped unload trash and restock provisions, he had heard the Americans complain about their quarters, comparing them to prison cells. Curious, he had looked inside one of the trailers. It was warm, well lit, had six soft-looking beds with blankets and pillows, a bathroom, and even a small kitchen with a coffeemaker and a basket of plastic-wrapped snacks. If American prisons were really like that, they were more comfortable than most apartments he had been in. No wonder so many poor Americans chose to go to jail.

  Then he heard it—the high ululating sound he had listened for ever since he freed Granger and Daniels. The American police car siren sounded exactly like the ones in the grainy black-market movies he watched to practice his English.

  He stared at a dark stretch of pavement about a kilometer away: the spot where the entrance road appeared between two low buildings and turned toward the dock. The siren grew louder. The dark pavement suddenly glowed. Then a car with flashing blue and red lights burst into view and turned toward the dock.

  Only one police car. No military. Odd. The information on the drive he had given to Daniels should have called for a much stronger response.

  He turned and ran for the bridge. He yanked open the door and jumped down a narrow flight of stairs. He raced down the corridor to Mr. Lee’s quarters and jerked open the door without knocking. The room was dark, so he pulled to a halt and stood at attention in the doorway. “Apologies, sir! A police car approaches!”

  He saw a stir by Mr. Lee’s bed, but kept his eyes straight ahead. A few heartbeats later, Mr. Lee appeared in the light. He was still pulling on an undershirt and jeans. Red lines from pillow creases marked the left side of his face, but his eyes were bright and fully alert. “Have you spoken to the Americans?”

  “No, sir. I came directly to you.”

  Mr. Lee nodded crisply and walked out.

  They met Captain Wither in the hallway. He was still fully dressed, but his shirt was half unbuttoned. His face was flushed and his eyes were wide and bloodshot. “The cops are coming!” A pungent scent of alcohol wafted over them as he spoke.

  Mr. Lee drew his brows together in a disapproving frown. “Yes, we know. Mr. Park will talk to them, yes? We paid extra for him for just this reason.”

  The captain looked away. “Yeah, I’m sure he will.” He returned his gaze to them and pulled the corners of his mouth up in a smile. “Nothing to worry about.”

  Mr. Lee regarded him silently for several seconds, then nodded. “Very good.”

  They left the captain and continued down the corridor toward the bridge. Without turning his head, the general spoke softly in Korean. “Assemble the men around the MIRV housing. Kill anyone who enters. I will stay with the captain to make sure he does not betray us.”

  Cho nodded and turned to the men’s quarters.

  Three minutes later, they were all awake and in the large storage room with the MIRV housing. Two men aimed pistols at the door while the others took positions around the door and waited and listened.

  Unidentified creakings and grumblings from the depths of the ship. Footsteps on the deck above grew louder, then fainter, and then disappeared. More footsteps—clanging on the metal stairs this time.

  The men tensed and readied themselves. The electricity of imminent violence charged the air.

  Footsteps outside and faint conversation. The voices were indistinct but sounded jovial and relaxed.

  The footsteps stopped at the door. It opened. The captain and First Mate Jenkins began to step in but jerked back at the sight of the men ready in ambush.

  The captain put a hand to his chest.

  The first mate swore, then guffawed. “I almost peed my pants!”

  No one else laughed.

  Jenkins’s smile faded. “Anyway, you’ll be happy to hear that the cops are gone. So you can all relax and go back to bed.”

  The captain looked at Cho. “Except you. Mr. Lee would like to talk to you in his stateroom.”

  Cho nodded and followed the captain upstairs.

  Mr. Lee sat facing the door. He did not look happy. “The police said someone rang them and said there were nuclear weapons on this ship—nuclear weapons from a sunken Soviet submarine. Fortunately, Mr. Park was able to persuade them that this was a misunderstanding.”

  Cho gasped and widened his eyes in what he hoped looked like shock. “Who rang the police?”

  The captain cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his back. “First Mate Jenkins discovered that Granger and Daniels managed to escape.”

  Cho stared at the man. “Escaped? How?”

  The captain shifted his weight from foot to foot. “We’re not sure. Jenkins found the door unlocked.”

  Cho continued to hold the captain with his gaze. “Jenkins and Granger were friends, yes?”

  The captain looked down. “They did drink together sometimes.”

  Cho turned back to Mr. Lee. “Sir, may I suggest that Mr. Jenkins stay in a locked room until we are done. May I also suggest that,” he glanced at the captain for a split-second, “that he be guarded by one of our men.”

  The alcohol-fueled flush on the captain’s face deepened, but he did not speak.

  Mr. Lee nodded. “Yes, I thought the same. It is being done.”

  “Sir, do you wish for me to arrange a search for Granger and Daniels? Perhaps they are still nearby.”

  “They will have difficulty escaping now. There is a fence around the docks, and it was lit and electrified as soon as the escape was discovered. Mr. Kang is already leading a search squad. If Granger and Daniels are still there, he will find them. I need you to supervise removing the warheads from the MIRV housing and loading them onto the truck on shore. We need to move them as quickly as possible. This place is not safe.”

  “Yes, sir. Anything else?”

  Mr. Lee pursed his lips and folded his arms, as he often did when he was about to speak of something he found distasteful. “I am told there is a well-equipped interrogation room on shore. Go inspect it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And please do supervise Kang,” Mr. Lee continued in Korean. “He is a good interrogator, but he enjoys it a bit too much. It impairs his results.”

  61

  CONNOR’S CELL PHONE BUZZED AGAIN. HE DISCREETLY SLIPPED IT OUT OF his pocket and glanced at the screen. Allie. Again.

  He suppressed his irritation and returned it to his pocket. Even if he wanted to talk to Allie, this was a particularly bad time. He was sitting next to Tom Concannon on one side of a table at Slan
ted Door, a fashionable Vietnamese restaurant on San Francisco’s waterfront. On the other side sat Bill Fisher, head of D&B’s litigation department. And next to Bill was Frank Garibaldi, general counsel of Phoebus Partners—a wealthy and highly litigious investment group in San Francisco.

  Years ago, Frank had worked on the staff of a congressional committee headed by Connor’s father. A couple of weeks ago, Frank and Connor had sat at the same table at a black-tie charity dinner. Frank had mentioned that Phoebus wasn’t happy with their current outside counsel. Connor had suggested that Doyle & Brown might be a good fit and had offered to arrange dinner with some D&B partners. Frank had accepted, and here they were.