The Bishop's Pawn

by Steve Berry

  “You no-good piece of crap,” she yelled. “You shot me.”

  “You’re lucky I didn’t kill you.”

  “You’re going to wish you did.”

  I shook my head in disbelief.

  Wounded and bleeding, but still venomous.

  Three Duval County Sheriff’s cars with flashing lights and screaming sirens entered the complex and closed in fast. Uniformed officers poured out, ordering me to drop my gun. All of their weapons were pointed my way, so I decided not to tempt fate and did as they asked.

  “This bastard shot me,” Sue screamed.

  “On the ground,” one of the cops said to me. “Now.”

  Slowly I dropped to my knees, then lay belly-first on the damp parking lot. Immediately my arms were twisted behind my back, a knee pressed firm to my spine, and cuffs snapped onto my wrists.

  So much for favor number one.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I sat in a white, windowless space made of concrete block. Interestingly, no one had read me a single constitutional right, nor taken a fingerprint, snapped a mug shot, or made me change into an orange jumpsuit. Instead, I’d been led into the Duval County jail and locked in a holding cell all by myself. I stared up at the walls and ceiling, wondering where the microphones and cameras might be hidden. The trip into town from the apartment complex had taken half an hour in the patrol car, my hands cuffed behind my back. Taking advice that every arrestee should heed, I kept my mouth shut, only providing a name and phone number for my commanding officer.

  Sue Weiler had been taken away in an ambulance and, if the level of her shouts was any indication, her wounds were not life threatening. Bob Weiler died before his body hit the ground. There’d been a slew of witnesses, so trying to find out what happened would be a mess. What was the old Russian saying? He lies like an eyewitness? The deputies had not appreciated my staunch support of the constitutional right to remain silent. But too bad. I was still processing. Never once had I even struck someone in anger. Instead, I’d bypassed all of the various and sundry misdemeanors and gone straight to felony aggravated assault, shooting another person.

  And I felt no remorse.

  I’d also witnessed someone die.

  Another first, which tore at my gut.

  Bob Weiler was a friend.

  The silence around me was broken by an occasional disembodied voice, the hollow echo of footsteps, and the soft whine of machinery. The jail was not unlike the many I’d visited before, each in their own way forlorn and depressing. My cell was about six by eight with a metal bench and a toilet with no seat. A single opaque window, recessed into the block wall at shoulder height, was protected by a steel grating. I’d never been a guest in a jail before, always a visitor. Being locked behind bars was definitely different. No freedom. No choices. Your autonomy surrendered to strangers. Certainly all of the powerlessness and petty humiliations designed into the building were intentional, there to sap away courage and strength, the idea being to replace any positives with a docile helplessness.

  I knew I should call Pam, but I wasn’t in the mood to hear her moralizing. She’d told me more than once to stay out of the Weilers’ business, but you didn’t turn your back on a buddy in trouble.

  At least I didn’t.

  My own marriage hung in jeopardy, the warning signs all there. Short tempers, quick judgments, zero patience, lack of interest. Something Clark Gable once said had come to mind of late. Love is heading toward your house, knowing that on the other side of the front door is a woman listening for your footsteps. Pam quit listening two years back when I did something stupid and forgot that marriage was suppose to be monogamous. I’d violated her trust and hurt her deeply. I’d apologized profusely, and she’d supposedly forgiven me. But that was not the case. And we both knew it.

  I’d screwed up.

  Big time.

  And changed a wife into a roommate.

  A clang disturbed my thoughts, then one of the corrections officers appeared and opened the cell door. I took the cue and rose, following the woman down a sterile tile corridor. Her rhythmic stride, slow and steady, would have pleased any drill sergeant. Cameras bristled like gun emplacements over every door. A strong chlorine odor tickled my nose.

  I was led to another brightly lit, windowless space, this one not a cell but an interrogation room, equipped with a long metal table and six chairs. Most likely for lawyers and clients. A woman waited. Middle-aged, thin, attractive, with short, light-colored hair and a confident face. She wore a smart-looking wool-skirted suit. She would eventually become one of my closest friends, but on this day we were perfect strangers.

  My first impression of her was never in doubt.

  Law enforcement.

  And not local.

  “My name is Stephanie Nelle,” she said.

  The corrections officer left, closing the door behind her.

  “What are you? FBI?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “I was told you were intuitive. Give it another shot.”

  I tried to think of a clever retort, but couldn’t, so I simply said, “Justice Department.”

  She nodded. “I came down from DC to meet with you. But an hour ago, when I showed up at the naval station, your commanding officer told me you were here.”

  I was in my second year of a three-year tour at Mayport. The base sat a few miles east of Jacksonville beside a protected harbor that accommodated aircraft-carrier-sized vessels. Thousands of sailors and even more support personnel worked within its fences.

  “I’m sure he had nothing good to say about me.”

  “He told me you could rot here. It seems he considers you nothing but a problem.”

  Which, believe me, I’d tried hard not to be. I’d served at bases in Scotland, Connecticut, and Virginia. I knew the word was out I was a maverick, tagged with stubbornness, arrogance, even a little recklessness, with an occasional confrontation with authority. But by and large I toed the Navy line, and my service record was exemplary. Next up for me was sea duty, which I wasn’t looking forward to. At least three years’ worth, if I ever wanted to advance to commander. Pam, God bless her, followed me to each duty station, finding a job, making a home. Which made my past idiocy even worse. We’d talked about her going to law school. She had an interest and I liked the idea. Or having a baby? Maybe one of those, or both, might save us. Bob Weiler’s death had brought into sharp focus the horror of divorce.

  I slid one of the chairs away from the table and sat. The sleepless night was catching up to me. My visitor remained standing.

  “Nice aiming out there,” she said. “You could have killed her, but you didn’t.”

  I shrugged. “She didn’t appreciate the favor.”

  “Your first time shooting someone?”

  “Does it show?”

  “You look a little rattled.”

  “I watched a friend die.”

  “That would do it to anyone. Sue Weiler wants to press charges against you.”

  “Yeah. Good luck with that one.”

  She chuckled. “My thought, too. I was told you can handle yourself under pressure. It’s good to see the intel was correct. You flew fighters, right?”

  That I had. For a while, at least. Until I was talked into a career shift by friends of my late father. Two admirals and a captain who seemed to have made it their life’s mission to look after me. My father would have been flag-rank-eligible by now, too, if not for his submarine sinking with all hands lost. No bodies had ever been recovered, little known about the mission. In fact, the whole thing was stamped classified. I knew that because I’d tried, without success, to access the court of inquiry’s investigative report. I’d been ten when the men in uniforms came to the house and told my mother the bad news. Nothing about it made sense then, and it would be many more years before I learned the truth.

  “I read your personnel file,” she said. “You specifically requested flight training, and your skills were top-notch. Mind telling me why the shi
ft to law?”

  I trained my eyes on her like gun barrels. “You already know the answer to that question.”

  She smiled. “I apologize. I won’t insult you like that again.”

  “How about you get to the point.”

  “I have a job for you.”

  “The Navy has first dibs on my time.”

  “That’s the great thing about working for the attorney general of the United States, who works for the president of the United States, the commander in chief. Jobs like yours can be changed.”

  Okay. I got the message. This was important.

  “The job I have in mind for you requires skill and discretion. I’m told you possess both qualities.”

  I decided to do a little testing on my own. “Was it the two admirals or the captain who told you about me?”

  “All three, actually. One led me to another to another. They sang your praises. But the question is, do you live up to that advance billing? Your CO doesn’t think so.”

  Screw that idiot. He was an ass-kissing paper pusher and always would be. A career officer focused on doing his twenty years, then retiring out with a pension while he was young enough to double-dip in private practice.

  That path had never interested me.

  But over the past few years I’d started to wonder if that might be my fate, too. Those friends of my father always liked to tell me they had a plan. Just go to law school, get the degree, then opt for JAG. Which I’d done. But I’d been beginning to wonder if they’d forgotten about me.

  Now here was an opportunity.

  Sent by them.

  What did I have to lose?

  Most likely my CO was going to strap me to a desk for at least the next month as punishment for drawing attention to his command. Forget about the fact that a friend died and the other person fired first.

  “Am I off the hook for Sue Weiler?”

  She nodded. “I had a talk with the sheriff. No charges will be filed.”

  I was impressed. “The sheriff himself?”

  “I saw no reason to start any lower.”

  That was my first of many later moments appreciating Stephanie Nelle. She was a person who could make things happen. On that day, though, I only saw her as a way to make an end run around the asshole waiting for me back at Mayport.

  “Okay,” I said. “You did me a favor. I’ll do you one.”

  My second in twenty-four hours.

  And nothing was ever the same.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I slid into a booth across from Stephanie Nelle. We’d left the jail and driven east in a rental car out Atlantic Boulevard toward the naval station, bypassing the road for the base and ending up in Neptune Beach. Pam and I lived nearby, and being the curious sort that I am, I’d learned that the name dated back to 1922 when an enterprising resident built a train stop next to his home and christened it Neptune. He’d been told that if he built a station the train would be required to stop, which would eliminate his walking two miles to Mayport every day in order to catch a ride to work into Jacksonville.

  Smart guy.

  It worked.

  Now Neptune Beach was a lovely seaside community lined with brick-paved streets and lots of artsy shops and crowded bars and restaurants. A happening place year-round, but especially from Memorial to Labor Day.

  The Sun Dog Diner was one of my favorites. It had the metallic, tinny look of an old-time roadside café decorated with the obligatory slick vinyl and shiny linoleum. Friendly, too. The people treated you like a neighbor, the kind of place where if they hadn’t seen you lately they’d pour you a free drink, offer a seat, and chat awhile. It sat on the main drag, across from another of my favorite places, The Bookmark, a local independent haunt. Its owners, Rona and Buford Brinlee, had become friends. I loved books, and always had. Eventually they would become a livelihood, but back then my collection was only beginning.

  “Have you ever heard of a 1933 Double Eagle?” Stephanie asked.

  I shook my head.

  “It’s the rarest coin in the world. Ninety percent gold, ten percent copper. Millions of Double Eagles were struck from 1850 to 1932. They were America’s gold pieces, and they’re still prevalent in the coin market. But in 1933 something different happened. 445,500 Double Eagles were struck that year, but none of those were ever issued to the public. FDR banned the private holding of gold in April 1933. Since the coins had already been produced when that happened, they were simply held at the Philadelphia mint and eventually melted down.”

  A waitress sauntered over.

  “What’s good to eat?” Stephanie asked me.

  “The meat loaf is top-notch.”

  “Then we’ll have two,” she told the server. “I’ll drink water.”

  “Iced tea for me.”

  I could tell Stephanie Nelle was comfortable being in charge, so I let her be in charge.

  The young girl left.

  Out through the front window I watched as people walked in and out of The Bookmark. I could already see her problem, so I asked, “How many of the 1933 coins managed to escape the smelter?”

  “That’s been a mystery for a long time.”

  I listened as she explained how the 1933 Double Eagles had evolved into the Holy Grail of numismatists. Only two of the coins were intentionally kept back at the mint, both given to the Smithsonian. They should have been the only two in existence anywhere.

  “But more surfaced,” she said. “Twenty that we know of. Best guess is they were stolen by an employee at the Philadelphia mint who sold them to a local jeweler, who sold them to collectors, until the Secret Service got wind of it in 1944. Eventually nineteen of the coins were reclaimed.”

  “And the last one?”

  “That’s where you come in.”

  I liked the sound of that.

  “The Secret Service has been tracking that coin for decades. It’s at the top of their most-wanted list. I know. I know. It seems silly. A sixty-plus-year-old gold piece. But they take their job as protector of the nation’s currency seriously. They hunted the others for decades.”

  “What’s it worth?”

  “That’s hard to say. Best guess is around $10 million. But remember, it would still be illegal to own it, as it’s stolen government property. So any buyers would be limited to rich collectors content never to show it to anyone. Right now, that last 1933 Double Eagle, that we know of, is in south Florida.”

  She explained that it had been brought north by boat from the Caribbean two days ago. But the boat broke anchor and foundered on a reef, settling in about forty feet of water. The coin’s owner had learned of the sinking and was en route to try to retrieve his property.

  “I want you to get it first,” she said.

  I wasn’t quite sure if she thought me stupid, gullible, or just ambitious. I discounted the first one, since no one wanted to be considered an idiot. Gullible? I’d never been accused of that. My inclinations actually tended more toward highly suspicious to paranoid. Ambitious? That’s possible. I was young and hungry and eager for a change. I’d pondered for a long time what life had in store, hoping to God it wasn’t handling court-martials and kissing the asses of higher-ranking officers. Truth be told, I’d already had my fill of the Navy, and the prospect of working for some civilian law firm was simply not appealing. This woman, who’d come from DC just to see me, had obviously pegged me right. I wanted out. That meant, for the moment, I’d allow her the luxury of thinking that I didn’t realize she was playing me. What had Kenny Rogers said? There’ll be time enough for counting, when the dealin’s done.

  So I kept listening as she dealt away.

  “Your personnel file says you’re a certified diver. This one’s simple. Forty feet of clear, warm water down to that wreck.”

  “And what am I after?”

  “A black waterproof case, about eighteen inches square. I want it brought up intact.”

  The waitress arrived with the food, which looked delicious. I hadn’t eaten si
nce yesterday afternoon.

  I dug in.

  “We’re confident the Double Eagle is inside, but that will be for me to determine. The case should not be opened. Those friends of your father’s told me that I could count on you to follow instructions.”

  I enjoyed the meat loaf and noticed that she was ignoring hers. “Why me? You must have plenty of other agents at your disposal.”

  “This job requires an element of independence, outside normal channels. It’s a sensitive, internal matter within the Justice Department. One I’m handling. So I need a fresh face. One nobody knows.”

  Which tickled my lawyer bell big time. Three years of law school and six years at JAG hadn’t taught me much, but they both ingrained a healthy curiosity. A host of questions popped into my brain, none of which, I realized, this woman was going to answer. Not now, anyway. So I kept my inquiries to myself. Besides, I wanted the job. So why antagonize the new boss?

  Still, I couldn’t resist. “What if I say no?”

  “Now who’s underestimating who?”

  I grinned. “Is it that obvious?”

  “You’ve been waiting for an opportunity like this a long time.”

  She knew me. Which was scary.

  “You just didn’t know when it was coming. Guess what. Moving day is here. Lieutenant Commander Harold Earl ‘Cotton’ Malone, your time has finally arrived.”

  “What about my command at Mayport?”

  “Your CO told me I could have you. Apparently, you don’t play well with others and you like to improvise far too much for his taste. For him, that’s an impediment. Lucky for you, both of those qualities appeal to me.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I parked near the docks, the time just before 7:00 A.M. The drive south down I-95, from Jacksonville to Key West, had been a long one, which I’d endured yesterday after leaving Stephanie Nelle. I’d been able to get my car back from the Duval County impound lot without even having to pay a fee. Good to have friends in high places. My first stop after we parted had been home, where I packed a bag, telling Pam that I’d been dispatched on a special assignment. I was unsure how long I’d be gone, but would call when I knew more. She wasn’t happy, to say the least, which I added to the growing list of our woes. I told her about Bob Wieler, shooting Sue, and going to jail, which elicited only the obligatory I told you so. I accepted her rebuke, not wanting to argue, and conceded that she’d been right all along.