The Fourth Gunman

by John Lansing

  Cruz’s thought was if the numbers were listed in a specific configuration, they might’ve been maritime coordinates.

  Jack went back through the photographs he’d taken when he broke-and-entered Roxy’s boat. He’d snapped shots of different nautical charts stored in their cabin, and wanted to see if one of them referenced the Farallones.

  Cruz forwarded the research and let Jack know that Roxy and Trent were lounging on their catamaran, and if they were planning a terrorist attack, they had ice water running through their veins.

  Jack told him to stay put, knowing it might be the calm before the storm, and transferred the intel to his computer. He went to Luke’s doodles, and if what looked to be a period was in fact a degree icon, then the coordinates did take them in the general area of the Farallones.

  One of Roxy and Trent’s nautical charts had the Farallones in a hundred-mile radius outside of San Francisco, but there were no markings to show intent or desired destination.

  If the radioactive material had come from the Farallones, it could be responsible for the school of herring washing up on shore.

  Jack decided to call in a favor from his friend Coast Guard Captain Deak Montrose. Pick his brain and see if there was any traction, or whether this was an exercise in coincidence and wishful thinking.

  * * *

  Captain Deak was in his early thirties, with a trim muscled physique, clear eyes, a square jaw, brown brush-cut hair, thick eyebrows, and an easygoing military bearing.

  “Jack, you made the news again,” Captain Deak said, sitting down behind his desk at the Coast Guard station in Marina del Rey. He gestured for Jack to grab the visitor’s chair. “That was one cherry Mustang. Burned to the ground. Would’ve pissed me off.”

  “Trouble seems to be a close companion. You, my friend, look like life’s treating you well.”

  “Life’s been dull. I haven’t seen any serious action since our last go-round.” Their friendship, based on mutual respect, was battle-tested. It was the captain who’d first come to his aid in the waters off the Terranea Resort, in Rancho Palos Verdes, where Jack and Angelica Cardona had been locked in a heated boat-to-boat gun battle with an Iraqi gangster. Jack’s Cutwater 28 had been blown to pieces, but because of Deak’s timely arrival and decisive action, the pair came out of the water with mild hypothermia but alive to tell the story.

  “What’s your interest in the Farallones Marine Sanctuary?” Captain Deak asked, his tone thoughtful.

  “I’m working a case, and here’s the thing. There’s only so much I can disclose without violating my client privilege. So, if we could talk in general terms, and if anything comes of it, I can protect you and my client.”

  “It’s never easy, huh? Let ’er rip. If it gets too dicey, I’ll shut you down.”

  That worked for Jack. “The case is a missing persons turned into body reclamation. A young man disappeared along with a half a million in cash. I was hired to find him, dead or alive. And, if dead, to run his killer to ground.”

  “Sounds reasonable.”

  “The trail took me from Baja to Oakland and a scuttled fishing trawler.” From Deak’s change in demeanor, Jack knew his friend was aware of the story. “The boat had been scrubbed clean. The captain turned up in a fisherman’s net a few days later.”

  Deak finished the story. “He would have died of radiation poisoning if a knife hadn’t done the job.”

  “There you go. And by the time I showed up, Homeland Security, the feds—”

  “And my brothers in the Coast Guard were already on scene.”

  “Okay, so give it to me.”

  “We have to stop right here, Jack. I was briefed on their findings, and the information is protected. What I can do, since you asked a general question about a nature preserve, is fill you in on what is now a matter of public record under the Freedom of Information Act.”

  “Works for me.”

  “The Farallones were one of our government’s dirty little secrets. The island chain is also known as the Farallon Islands Radioactive Waste Dump.”

  Deak had his attention. He was clearly in the hunt. Jack leaned forward and sat taller.

  “Before you get ahead of yourself, the site was looked at and passed over. Between the late forties and early seventies, the government dumped thousands of metal drums containing radioactive waste in the Gulf of the Farallones. The drums were dropped at depths of three thousand and six thousand feet, respectively.

  “There’s no way a civilian could extract the drums at that depth, and whether the nuclear material was still viable is a debatable point. My opinion? No one has the answer.”

  “Huh,” Jack said.

  “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

  “And the dead fish that washed ashore?”

  “The herring? Could’ve been red tide, algae, El Niño effect. The marine biologists will run tests, but no one is fast-tracking a school of herring.”

  “Shit.”

  “But so much better than the alternative.”

  “Right,” Jack said without enthusiasm.

  “If you need anything, I’m set up and ready to lend a hand. On the water, in the air, you call me, text me, I’m there for you.”

  “As always, greatly appreciated.”

  * * *

  The fast-food boxes had changed, but that was about it. Agent Hunter was in the same sweats, on the same couch, fighting for resolve. She took those fears, compartmentalized them, pulled up a number on her cell, and hit Dial, hoping she wasn’t committing agency suicide.

  “Jerry, Liz here, I need a favor.”

  “How’s life treating you, Agent?”

  “Full of surprises.”

  “You can say that again. Lay it on me. It’s good to hear your voice.”

  “I’m working a murder investigation, and one of the persons of interest worked at JPL. He left under suspicious circumstances a few years back. Name’s Trent Peters.”

  “Hold a second. Let me pull him up.”

  Hunter knew she was going to miss the badge, but the universe had given her a pass for a few days. She’d maximize her new reality and get to the bottom of her brother’s disappearance if it took every ounce of blood and her reputation.

  “Okay, got it, he was a class-two engineer with B-three clearance.”

  “We got word that some classifieds went missing, and I was wondering what that entailed.”

  “It’ll take a few minutes to access the file. You want me to call you at the office?”

  “I’m in the field.” Hunter gave him the number of her safe phone. “I’ll owe you one.”

  “Good. I love to have beautiful women in my debt.”

  “You’re a hound dog, Jerry, but I love you, thanks.”

  Hunter thought it was time to shower and greet the world. She finished her Diet Coke and her buttered Eggo, walked the phone into the bathroom while the shower water warmed. She wrapped her hair in a towel, and as soon as the spray hit her back, the phone rang.

  “Shit!” she said as she dried her hands and picked up the phone. “That was quick.”

  Jerry was all business. “It was considered strange because it didn’t have anything to do with Trent’s area of expertise. We partnered with the U.S. Geological Survey and began a cooperative survey of part of the Farallon Island Radioactive Waste Dump using sonar imaging. The government dropped forty-six thousand drums onto deep-water shelves, but it was an inexact science. The government wanted to know how many broke loose and landed in the shallows. It was too expensive for a hunt-and-peck, so we designed the side-scan sonar imaging system. They were able to detect waste drums more easily and to distinguish them from other targets with a high level of confidence.”

  “Did they find any in the shallows?”

  “They retrieved a single fifty-five-gallon drum at a depth of about two hundred and fifty feet using a manned submersible. The lion’s share was down in the six-thousand-foot range. I’m not sure what came of the study.”


  “And Trent Peters?”

  “We couldn’t make a case. He was questioned and released without prosecution. As I said, it had nothing to do with his specialty, and they gave him a pass. His career would have stalled because of the asterisk next to his name in his personnel file, and they let him go a few months later.”

  “Huh, thanks, Jerry. Not sure if it helps, but I’ll run it up the pole.”

  “If you’re in the area, give me a call, and lunch is on me.”

  “Will do, but I’ll take you to lunch,” and Hunter clicked off and jumped back in the shower. The case was starting to coalesce, and she felt her pulse tick up a notch. It was the juice that motivated her career and a feeling she would dearly miss if forced to go into the private sector.

  * * *

  Jack gathered his team on board his Cutwater 28. It was time to share intel and see where the case stood. Mateo was pouring a cup of coffee while Cruz pulled up his files on his computer, and Jack grabbed the notes he’d penned on his yellow pad.

  “FBI!” Agent Hunter shouted. “Down on the ground!”

  Three heads pivoted as a grinning Hunter walked into the cabin carrying a large pepperoni pizza. “I hate to arrive empty-handed.”

  “You had me going there for—No, you didn’t,” Cruz said, smiling.

  “I hope I’m not spoiling the party?”

  “Perfect timing,” Jack said, “we’re about to share notes. Bring everybody up to speed.” He pulled plates out of the galley, and the team descended on the pizza.

  Mateo went first and filled them in on Security Storage, Sukarno’s alias, the security cameras spray-painted out of commission, and the fact that the unit had been cleaned, disinfected, and painted.

  Hunter jumped in. “You said you rattled Roxy’s and Trent’s cages yesterday. It looks like you hit a nerve, and Sukarno cleaned house.”

  “The question being, what was he storing that could come back to bite him?” Jack asked. “Let’s put a pin in that. Cruz?”

  “I’ve got nothing. They looked like two lovebirds, getting some sun, grilling burgers, living the life. And then they showed up here, and it was business as usual. Roxy dealing with liquor vendors, and Trent doing some underwater work, and then he disappeared on board.”

  “I struck out,” Jack said. “Worked up a head of steam, went to visit Captain Deak—my friend in the Coast Guard,” he added for Hunter’s benefit. “I went back over Luke’s inked doodles in the margins of the magazines I got from his girlfriend. If you looked at them a certain way, they could be interpreted as nautical coordinates. I pulled up the charts from Roxy and Trent’s cabin, and they encompassed an island chain called the Farallones, but not directly. And the kicker was a story I pulled off the computer today about a school of dead herring washing up on the shores of the Farallones. I put two and two and two together, got six. I ran my theory past Deak, and he filled me in on what he called the Farallon Island Radioactive Waste Dump, and I thought we’d hit pay dirt.”

  “So, what happened?” Mateo asked.

  “Deak couldn’t go into specifics but said the depth of the water precluded a civilian being able to access the steel drums that contained radioactive waste.”

  “Did you like the pizza?” Hunter asked, leading the men on.

  No one smiled.

  “Because I brought dessert. I spoke to a friend over at JPL. Where Trent Peters worked until they fired his butt.”

  “What do you have, Liz?” Jack said, knowing she was enjoying herself too much.

  “I got a similar story. Where it veered off was the depth of the fifty-five-gallon drums. JPL did a joint venture with the USGS, the U.S. Geological Survey, and came up with a side-scan sonar-imaging device to track where the drums were dispersed. Forty-six thousand had been dropped in three areas of deep water, but a small number landed on a shelf that bottomed out at only two hundred and fifty feet. They pulled one of them out with a manned submersible. And so . . .”

  Jack picked up the narrative. “It’s possible Roxy and Trent, who’s a scuba diver and had his scuba gear in Oakland when the boat went missing and the captain was killed, are now in possession of nuclear waste.”

  “And responsible for the deaths of two men,” Hunter said, quieting the building excitement in the room.

  “And responsible for the deaths of two men,” Jack repeated in deference to Liz Hunter’s brother, Luke, bringing a personal face to the forefront of their case.

  “And Jack just put the fear of God into at least two of the principals and caused the third to react,” Mateo said.

  “The clock’s ticking,” Jack said. “I feel it in the muscle.”

  “I agree,” Agent Hunter said. “I received the ViCAP report on Sukarno’s lunch partner. He goes by the name Gregory, no last name, like Prince or Madonna.” She pulled up Mateo’s photograph on her cell.

  “What’s his story?” Jack asked.

  “He’s what they’re calling a shadow broker. He’s a fixer. An agent who operates in the underground economy. Never been arrested, but a person of interest in illegal oil deals in the Congo, arms deals in Syria, and blood diamonds in Angola. He also trades information to the highest bidder. This is the best photograph of him to date. Good work, Mateo. Gregory’s a big question mark.”

  “So, why here, and why now, and what’s the target? Where does he fit in?” Jack tossed out to the group.

  “Unless it’s all about the bottom line and he’s brokering the deal. It goes with his résumé,” Mateo said. “How much could you get on the black market for a dirty bomb?”

  “Ten million, easy,” Hunter said. “But that’s not enough to change Sukarno’s life.”

  “What if it was the beginning of a black-market pipeline? If this deal goes through, they’ve got a ready supply.” But Jack didn’t buy his own reasoning. He grabbed a slice of pizza and took a frustrated bite. “Liz, could you go back into Sukarno’s file? See what I missed. There’s got to be something.

  “With Trent, maybe it is bottom line,” Jack went on. “He likes the good life. I don’t know how much he’s making on the yacht, but I doubt it pays for the resort in Baja he frequents. And I’m not getting a political or radical bent from the guy.”

  “I’ll get on Sukarno,” Hunter said.

  Mateo grabbed some pizza. “And I can get the pay grade on Trent. I’ll talk to Caroline when we’re done here.”

  “Well, that’s it,” Jack said. “Cruz, you stay on Roxy and Trent?”

  “No problem.”

  “We have to be locked and loaded if they make a move tonight, tomorrow. I’m not going anywhere. I’m on my burner. I’m going to pick apart my case notes from the beginning and see if anything pops. Let’s get this done.”

  * * *

  Jack grilled a steak on the deck of his boat while two V-formations of pelicans flew silently past, looking like fighter jets on a bombing sortie. Jack cobbled together a chunk salad of Persian cucumbers, tomatoes, onion, and basil, poured a glass of red wine, and let the slight movement of his craft and the thick salt-laden breeze slow his heartbeat. But he couldn’t silence his mind. He tented the steak with foil to let it rest, pulled a card from his wallet, and dialed a number.

  Vasily Barinov sat hunched, inhaling a dish of blinis with caviar and sour cream, as a waiter set a pork kebab dinner and a fresh shot of chilled vodka in front of the hungry man. He was dining at Maxim on Fairfax, and the flashy room seemed the correct setting for the bearish Russian, who quickly dispelled that notion by wiping his greasy fingers on the edge of the pristine white tablecloth before answering his phone.

  “Mr. Jack Bertolino. What can I do for you?” came out in a low growl.

  “I need a moment of your time.”

  “I’m staring at a plate of food, so time is short.”

  Jack let that slide. “What’s your take on Sukarno Lei?”

  Barinov belted back the vodka and gave it some thought, signaling his waiter for another shot. “I took enough mone
y off the man that I became curious and made a few calls. He’s a rich man who hates to lose and so can’t enjoy what wealth he’s got. He hates the Chinese who were his business partners. This I know.”

  “How?”

  “You know Dr. Chen? Silver hair, fair player. When he walked away from the table, well, I couldn’t do the translation, but Sukarno’s clucking and vengeful eyes told a story of animus.

  “I took him for fifty grand later that night, and he left the table in a huff.”

  Jack wanted him to stay on message. “What did your friend have to say?”

  “Sukarno lost a fortune on a stock-option deal. He’s rich but not rich enough. It’s understandable. He’s also a man who holds a grudge. My pork is getting cold; call me again if there’s anything I can help you with. I myself don’t hold grudges, it’s bad for the heart, and as you can see, I pay my debts.”

  “All right, Vasily.” Jack clicked off, sliced his New York steak on the bias, served himself some salad, and dug in.

  Tomorrow was the day. Jack felt it in his bones.

  Thirty-two

  Day Seventeen

  Rusty Mannuzza was being wheeled out of the urgent-care facility in Playa del Rey. His girlfriend pulled to a chirping stop in his Jag, threw the car into park, jumped out, and opened the door for her wounded warrior, who scowled dangerously as he limped to the car and eased himself in.

  “Whatever you do, don’t say thank you for getting out of bed at seven to pick your sorry ass up and take you to court,” Cory said, twisting the emotional knife.

  “Shut up. Make a right. Let’s do the drive-through at Mickey D’s. I’ll need some protein before I kiss the judge’s ass.”

  Cory slammed the door shut. If looks could kill, Rusty’s bullet would’ve pierced her heart. The nurse enjoyed the schadenfreude moment and wheeled the chair back into the lobby. Rusty hadn’t left a trail of fans at the clinic.

  Cory snapped on Jack FM, turned up the volume on the rock station so she wouldn’t have to listen to Rusty’s sharp tongue, and headed for the exit.