Swope's Ridge

by Ace Collins

  Typing in a dozen other known aliases spit out mainly blanks. The one exception was Hassam-al-Bakr. A man with that rather uncommon name had spent the last two days in a Gulf Coast resort hotel in Ciudad Madero.

  Jumping up, she hurried down the hall to Lije’s office. A quick look through the open door showed he wasn’t there. Reversing her course took her to the reception area. She found the lawyer studying a printout.

  “Lije.”

  “Yeah,” he replied without looking up.

  “I’m pretty sure that Arif is in Mexico. I think he knows the Brits are interested in him. He’s reverted to an earlier alias, Hassam al-Bakr. A man with that name is now staying in the city of Ciudad Madero.”

  “That’s strange,” Janie said. “The guest speaker at church yesterday—And where were you, Lije, and what was your excuse for playing hooky?”

  “I was—”

  “Didn’t think you had a good one,” Janie said. “Anyway, the guest speaker was a pastor from that same city in Mexico. Fascinating man. Told of his father, who’d been a poor fisherman, being killed by some strangers in 1946. He would’ve died too except another stranger led him to safety.”

  “Quite an adventure,” Curtis noted. She had little patience for Janie’s preacher story. It was time to move. “We need to get to Mexico as quickly as possible. Maybe Arif is hanging out there or we can at least get a line on where he went. I need to call Kent.”

  “There was a boat,” Janie added, her tone begging for attention. “Reverend Pedro Hernandez spoke of a large white boat that blew up that night his life was saved. It seems the old-timers in the village still tell of the fire on the water.”

  “In 1946?” Lije asked.

  “That’s what he said.”

  “You all thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked.

  If Lije was on the right track, Curtis thought, this might actually tie in. Wilshire knew Arif. Arif went to work at the archives because of his connection with Wilshire. If Wilshire trusted him and knew he had Mossad ties, he might have told Arif about his father. While working at the archives, Arif found out about Mueller and went to work in the nursing facility. He used Bleicher’s name to gain Mueller’s confidence. Then found out everything he could about the Ark of Death.

  “I need to check something on the web,” Curtis said.

  Jumping on Google, she began a search for Pedro Hernandez of Ciudad Madero. As expected, she found a website. What pastor or evangelist didn’t have one? Copyright information placed its launch date as 2004. Fortunately, Hernandez had thoughtfully mirrored each Spanish-language page with an English counterpart. She raced through the menu until she came to his testimony. Reading through it, she found the parts dealing with that February night in 1946. The area where Hernandez and his father had run into danger was remote, unpopulated. The men they’d run from had been in uniforms. Hernandez had first seen the men working on five unmarked airplanes parked on the beach. A large ship was anchored just off shore, but after the planes took off, the ship had blown up.

  If she hadn’t met Wilshire, this would have meant nothing. But now…

  Curtis next typed in a search for a Mexican legend based on fire on the water. Several entries came up, most dating back to Mayan and Aztec times. One from right after World War II was about a huge ship blowing up and covering the Gulf of Mexico in flames.

  So what did she know? Arif not only killed the Klassers, he’d probably shot Peter Wilshire and tried to kill her. Now he was in Mexico looking for the secret behind Hitler’s legendary killing machine. If that kind of power really existed and Bleicher hadn’t destroyed it, then it would be the ultimate weapon for Al-Qaeda or anyone else who wanted to bring the world to its knees.

  Did Smith and his boss now have company or were they all working together?

  She now knew Omar Jones had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  49

  LIJE EVANS SAT IN HIS LIVING ROOM WATCHING HIS guest munch on Janie’s homemade peanut-butter cookies. Normally Lije would’ve been digging in, but he and Diana Curtis were focused on pulling ancient information from the Reverend Pedro Hernandez’ memory. And all he seemed interested in was setting the record for cookie consumption in a single setting. Time was running out. They had a flight to catch.

  “Reverend Hernandez,” Janie said as the man reached for another warm treat, “could you tell us about the night your father was killed? As I explained, Lije and Diana were not at church last night and missed your talk.”

  The short, dark-headed man paused, savoring the taste delivered with each slow thrust of his jaw. With his childlike enthusiasm, he seemed ageless. He had few wrinkles and no gray hair. His dark eyes sparkled. Only the age spots on the backs of his hands gave any indication this man had been alive over seven decades.

  He finished the last bite of cookie, picked up his glass, and washed the final crumbs down with a swig of milk. Finally he leaned back, ready to tell his story.

  “Papa was a fine man, a very fine man. He was just a poor fisherman. In that way he was like Jesus, and in other ways too. Never had anything, but how he loved us. Our home was always filled with love and laughter.”

  “Reverend Hernandez,” Lije said, “he must have been wonderful. Which must have made what happened to him on that night all the more shocking. Would you tell us about that night?”

  The visitor pushed back into the large leather couch, folded his arms, and cleared his throat. “On that cool winter evening he ran into our home after a day spent on the gulf fishing. He was so excited. He told my mother, my little sister, and me about this huge ship that was anchored just off the beach. It was almost dark. He wanted us to come look at it. Mama told him she was too busy cooking and Maria was too young.”

  The Mexican pastor smiled and looked over to Lije. “I’d never seen him so excited. I wanted to go. He usually walked very slowly, but that night he ran toward the beach. As if he was a child again. We came over a hill and there it was, a large ship, white, and it had a red cross painted on the side. I knew it was a long way from shore, but it was so big it seemed that if I reached out my arm, I could touch it.”

  “Sounds like a hospital or relief ship,” Curtis noted. “I remember reading that a lot of the vessels used during the war for military purposes and troop transport were converted for use by charity groups who were feeding and caring for refugees.”

  “Perhaps it was one of those.” Hernandez nodded. “But we didn’t know of such things. We barely knew of the war. Our village was small, we were poor. Most people didn’t read and we had no electricity. The war was just something that was far away. We were sure it would never touch us.”

  Lije nodded. He understood.

  “That night,” Hernandez continued, “my father was convinced that the red cross on the ship stood for the saving blood of Christ. He was sure these were Christian people who had come to our village to help us because of how poor we were. We had prayed for help, and this seemed like an answer to prayer.

  “We walked along the shore, our eyes too filled by the ship to notice anything else, and then we heard voices. We ran about a hundred yards and saw five silver airplanes on the beach. You cannot imagine how I felt. Only a few times I had seen planes in the sky, but never on the ground. I was almost breathless as I stared at these shiny wonders.”

  The wonder of that moment long ago seemed to transport the man back to his youth. He was not just seeing it, he was feeling it.

  “Reverend Hernandez,” Lije said, “were there any markings on the planes?”

  “No, not even numbers. They were just plain silver. A barge loaded with large tractor-like equipment was headed back to the white ship. When we got there, just the planes and five men were left on the beach.”

  “How were they dressed?” Curtis asked.

  “In dark-gray suits, like uniforms, and tall black boots. They had stuffed their pantlegs into the boots. My papa told me they were Christians and we needed to welcome them t
o our village. So we started walking toward the planes. Papa yelled out, ‘Buenas noches! Bienvendio!’”

  Suddenly Hernandez’ childlike expression was replaced with one of terror. He appeared old and tired. Tears pooled in his eyes, then slowly slid down his face.

  They all waited. Impatience had given way to respect as an uncomfortable stillness filled the room, marked only by the solitary ticks from an antique mantel clock.

  “They looked up at us,” he said. “The one closest, a large blond man with a scar over his right eye, yanked a rifle from beside one of the planes and took aim. Just before he pulled the trigger, Papa screamed, ‘Run, Pedro!’ I was running toward the hill when I heard the shot.

  “The man screamed something in a language I did not know. A second shot dug into the sand beside my left foot. He fired a third time, but I was over the hill. It was almost dark. I ran toward some small trees, but I fell. That’s when I saw him.”

  “Saw who?” his audience asked in unison.

  “A man. He ran past me and tackled the man with the gun just as he came over the hill. They wrestled. He hit the man who had killed Papa and he took his gun.”

  “Was the man who saved you one of your people?” Janie asked.

  “No, no, he was a gringo or Anglo,” Hernandez said. “He had fair skin. He picked me up and carried me to the woods. I led him to my house. Then we heard the planes start up. We looked up as they flew over real low. They were heading north. Mama told the men in the village about Papa. They grabbed the few guns they had and all of us went back to the shore. Papa was lying face down in the sand. He was dead.

  “The big white ship was heading out to sea. It must’ve been about two miles out, maybe more, and it blew up. The sky and water were full of flames. Some started running away. We were all scared. Except the stranger. He stood there staring out into the Gulf. It was as if he had expected the explosion.”

  “Reverend Hernandez,” Lije said, “who did the villagers say the strangers were?”

  “Smugglers. Who else could they have been?”

  “What happened to the man who saved you?” Curtis asked.

  “He left. He got a ride with the only man who had a car. Before he left, he gave my mother a hundred dollars. That was more money than we had ever seen.”

  “What was his name?” Janie asked.

  “Ricardo,” Hernandez said. “We later found out he bought a ticket on a bus headed to America.”

  Lije got up and walked over to the windows overlooking the pond. “Ricardo” might be what a small Mexican boy would remember about a name with “Rick” in it. Was it Henrick Bleicher who had saved Hernandez’ life? Was it that act that allowed five pilots and their planes to take off? Where had they gone when they headed north? What were they carrying? Was Arif looking for the planes and their cargo or was what he wanted still on the ship?

  Curtis joined Lije at the window. “Mexico! “

  “We’re leaving tonight,” he whispered. “McGee arranged it—a private plane that can spirit us down there so no one will find out where we’ve gone.”

  Lije walked back over to the couch and took a seat beside his guest. As he did, the Mexican took a silver chain from around his neck and handed it to his host. “You see them?”

  Lije and Curtis both stared at two seemingly unrelated pieces of metal. “I see them,” Lije answered. “One is a cross, the other’s a bullet.”

  “The cross was Papa’s. He lived each day for what that cross stood for. He was a good man. That bullet killed him. I wear these two things to remind me of how he lived and how he died.”

  “Lije,” Curtis whispered, “this bullet looks like the right vintage. It was likely fired from the same type of gun that was used to kill Bleicher.”

  “Reverend Hernandez, please wait here for just a moment.” Lije went to his office and wrote out a check for one thousand dollars, then returned to the living room and handed the check to his guest. “We greatly appreciate your time and have been deeply moved by your story. Please use this for your ministry.”

  The man’s eyes lit up. “Gracias! “ He quickly stood up and shook Lije’s hand.

  Guiding the man toward the front door, Lije said, “You must be tired. Diana will take you back to your host family. We wouldn’t want to keep the Perrymans up too late. I know they’re early-tobed and early-to-rise folks. And thank you so much for giving us your time.”

  “You’re welcome,” the man answered, looking down at the check. “God bless you.”

  As Curtis walked Hernandez to her car, Lije mumbled, “What are the odds this guy would be here, in the Ozarks, now?”

  He should have known the woman with the super ears would pick up on it. “God puts people where you need them,” Janie called out from across the room.

  Two different threads, two different stories, had now merged into one. Saving the life of Omar Jones might well mean finding the answer to the mystery on Swope’s Ridge. Were they getting close? Or was he reading too much into a legend?

  50

  KENT MCGEE HAD AMAZING CONTACTS. EVEN NOW, despite being the most hated man in America because of his defense of a convicted terrorist, the attorney could work miracles. A private jet had taken Lije Evans and Diana Curtis from the Ozarks to Tampico, Mexico. McGee had put the deal together in minutes with just two phone calls.

  The flight was uneventful. Lije and Curtis slept for most of the trip. The sun was just rising when they landed at a private field outside of Tampico and were greeted by a well-dressed local who led them to his Mercedes. Within half an hour, Lije and Curtis found themselves at a dock where a Donzi excursion boat awaited them. On the rig was the very latest in underwater sonar and imaging equipment as well as scuba gear. As they motored away from the dock, it truly seemed nothing had been forgotten.

  They headed north along the coast for thirty minutes until a text message gave them directions to a beach southeast of the city of Aldama. There, waiting on the sandy shore, was Ivy Beals. The detective waved as Curtis guided the boat to shallow water.

  “Good to have you all in Mexico,” Beals said as he stepped into the Donzi. “I’ll give you an update as we head out to the wreck.”

  Pointing over his shoulder, the detective said, “Best that I can figure, this is where the ship dropped the planes. It matches elements of Hernandez’ story. This morning a few old-timers from a village just up the way confirmed this is where they found Manuel Hernandez’ body.”

  Lije glanced over to the treeless spot. If the preacher was right, that meant the white ship would’ve gone down a mile or two to the east. The water was clear, the sun was bright. If Beals knew how to use the equipment, they just might get lucky.

  “Let’s get rolling,” the detective suggested. “By the way, Miss Curtis, we’ve never formally been introduced. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “And you, sir.”

  “Take this thing due east, right into the morning sun,” Beals said, “and I’ll watch the imaging on the screen. If I see anything, I’ll let you know.”

  With Curtis at the helm and Beals parked in front of the screens, studying the images produced by the ocean floor, Lije relaxed. He leaned back in the seat and took in the unspoiled beauty of this overlooked section of the Gulf of Mexico.

  “What did you find out on Arif?” Curtis asked Beals.

  “We were a day late. He checked out of the resort yesterday. He left no forwarding address and the name he used is on no flight reservations list. And, before you ask, he didn’t use any of his other aliases either. So where he’s going and how he’s getting there is an unknown.”

  “So your getting here twelve hours before us didn’t get us anything of value?” Lije said.

  “He did hire someone to drive him up the coast to where we are now. He also spent two days out here on the water. I talked to the boat crew. They said he found a wreck, dropped a camera down, took some photographs, and had them head back to the dock. Then took off.”

  “Anything el
se?” Lije asked.

  Beals grinned. “Something real interesting. I showed a photo to everyone who came in contact with him. The people at the hotel, the men on the boat, and those at the dock all identified him from that picture.”

  “Didn’t think Mossad had any photos of Arif,” Curtis said. “Thought you came up dry. Did you find a passport or something?”

  “Nope, I was showing them a picture of Omar Jones.”

  That seemed to confirm what they believed, that Arif and Jones were twins. But with Arif gone, they were still working just a theory. They had to have the man in order to spring Jones. And the world offered a lot of hiding places.

  “Shouldn’t we hold off on looking for the Ark of Death,” Lije shouted into the wind, “and go after Arif?”

  “Don’t think so,” Beals replied. “He was here to view this wreck. That’s the only clue we have. To get an idea of where he went, we need to know what he learned, if anything.”

  “Any idea where the spot is?” Curtis yelled, her long hair blowing in the wind. “There’s a lot of wide open sea out here.”

  “I had the captain Arif hired come out this morning and mark it for me. If you look about a mile ahead, you’ll see a red buoy.”

  Beals had done his homework, greased the right wheels. Arif’s head start was not as big as Lije had feared.

  “Get your gear on, Lije,” the detective shouted. “We’re almost at the dive site.”

  It had been a few years since Lije had donned a wetsuit, but he was well trained. He’d made several salt-water dives in the Caribbean and had spent time under the surface in North Fork and several other American lakes. Opening each of the large canvas bags, he made a quick inspection of the almost new Aeris equipment. The tanks were charged and the regulators appeared to be in good order. The fins and suits looked factory fresh. He was adjusting his mask when Curtis slowed the boat and coasted to the floating marker.

  “Look at the sonar image,” Beals said. “We’re right on top of something big. I’ll get my stuff on and let’s go see what it is. Diana, keep an eye on the horizon and make sure no one knows why we’re here.”