Submerged

by Thomas F Monteleone

  Ascending the small set of brick steps to the back door, Tommy slipped Augie’s spare key into the old lock, twisted it to the right. He made no attempt to quiet this maneuver, acting as if he were casually entering his home, expecting no trouble. As he stepped into the narrow galley kitchen, Dex inched in right behind him like they were wearing the same set of clothes.

  Dex pulled the mini maglite from his pocket and used its tight beam of light to guide them through the first floor of the house. He noticed a heavy security slide bolt on the door to the cellar—it was clicked solidly into place, which meant there was nobody down there waiting for them. Dex gestured they move on. While they maneuvered among the pieces of heavy, old furniture, Tommy tried to recall if anything looked disturbed. “Looks okay so far.” His voice was beneath a whisper.

  With his Sig-Sauer drawn, Dex pointed it past a newel post up toward the second floor, then set upon the first carpeted step. Slowly, they ascended the narrow staircase, pausing to listen for any sound not theirs. But the old house held on in total silence. As they reached the cramped little landing, Dex followed Tommy into his bedroom. The tiny room was practically filled by the bed, armoire, and a long, low dresser. There was no closet and no one waiting for them. After checking the bathroom, including the space behind the shower curtain, and the second bedroom in the rear of the house, Dex exhaled a breath he’d been holding way too long.

  Unless their adversaries were meticulous as surgeons and cloaked by invisibility, it appeared the house had not been breached.

  “So far, so good.” Dex moved to the stairs. “Let’s check that answering machine.”

  Moving back to the first floor, guided by the thin beam of the mini flashlight, Tommy pointed to the pre-Cambrian equivalent of home electronics—a Code-A-Phone that housed a standard audio cassette.

  “Check your messages,” said Dex.

  Tommy depressed a flat lever-key, followed by a series of clunks and the whirr of a rewinding tape, another clunk, and beeps preceding each message. The first six or seven were either hang-ups or automated ads for mortgage refinancing, donations to police benevolent associations, and a solicitation for a free trial subscription to the Baltimore Sun. The last message was from Jason Bruckner—simple and direct, with a phone number for contact.

  “Looks like we got lucky,” said Dex, punching the stop button, then lifting the cassette from the machine. “At least in the analog world.”

  “Huh? What’s that mean?”

  “Nobody else heard this tape. But there’s no way to tell if the bad guys had a wire on your phone line, or a way to trace every call that’s come in here.” Dex jammed the cassette deep in his pocket.

  “What’ll we do about that?”

  “Nothing we can do.”

  Tommy shook his head as though disgusted, then: “So…time for ‘phase two’? Looks like our luck’s holdin’ pretty good.”

  “Why not?” said Dex, aiming the beam toward front door which opened onto High Street. “But don’t kid yourself—we’re making our own luck.”

  Grinning, Tommy moved through the shadows, unlocked the deadbolt, and twisted the tumbler lock on the knob to the open position. “Okay, let’s go fishin’.”

  Dex checked the magazine on his weapon, nodded, and headed for the staircase which ran down the wall and opened facing the front door. “I’ll be waiting right here.”

  He gave Tommy the maglite, watched him weave through the furniture into the kitchen. He made only the softest sounds as he exited the back door and locked it behind him.

  As soon as Dex heard the solid slap of the deadbolt, he checked his watch. No more than a two minutes needed for Tommy to circumnavigate the block, walk up High Street past the valet parking attendants for Da Mimmo’s and ascend the steps to the house.

  While he waited, Dex thought about Tommy Chipiarelli and the other guys in the dive club. Up till now, he’d been ignoring the stark truth he’d never see Kevin or Donnie or Andy or Doc again. Just keep it out of your mind and it won’t haunt you so completely. The idea was to keep that kind of stuff from debilitating him from the basic job of survival. Same went for Tommy. He was a fireman, for Christ’s sake, and put his life on the line every day. No need for Dex to beat himself up about possibly getting the kid killed.

  No need.

  Sure.

  Fact was—Dex had a very bad feeling about the whole mess. He hadn’t really figured out much to do about it other than react step-by-blind-step to each new development.

  A sound at the front door pulled him out of his thoughts.

  It was the scrape of metal against metal. Tommy going through the motions of inserting a key in a lock. Anybody watching him would have no idea his key could not open a door already unlocked. With a studied casualness, Tommy slowly pushed open the door and took a step into the darkened room.

  But that was it.

  A step.

  Before he could take the next one, a tall, wide-shouldered figure materialized behind him. He tapped Tommy on the base of his skull and he collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. Dex eased back deeper into the shadows of the stairwell as he watched the attacker ease Tommy to the carpet, then turn to lock the front door behind him.

  Despite the dim light, Dex’s eyes had adjusted well. He could see the guy was big and bald. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, a black turtleneck and dark pants. Towering over Tommy, some sort of slick handgun dangling from his left hand, the guy scanned the room coolly, then moved to the answering machine on the end table. When he discovered the cassette missing, he swept it off the table and sent it clattering against the wall. Then he straightened and paused as if deciding what would be his next target.

  Tommy stirred slightly and that got the guy’s attention for an instant, which was plenty long enough for Dex.

  His twenty years of deep sea rescue—both in training missions and the real thing—had taught him the utter necessity of acting on that single tick of the clock. That solitary notch on the ever-turning gear of time, when you do it. When all the accumulated wisdom and balls and stupidity combine in some kind of weirdly righteous alchemy to allow you to do exactly the right thing at exactly the right instant.

  Which is what happened next.

  “Right now,” he said in a low whisper.

  The sound of his voice so obviously startled the big guy, he hardly moved—other than slowly raising the weapon toward the still inert Tommy.

  “Right now you drop it.” Dex spoke in a loud voice now. “Or you will die.”

  The intruder’s arm stopped rising, and he gently dropped the handgun to the carpet. “Even though I’m not sure I believe you, dying wasn’t on my ‘to do’ list today. Advantage yours.”

  “Move back, palms open, knuckles against the wall.”

  The man did as instructed, said nothing.

  “We need to talk,” said Dex.

  “You’re the Navy guy.” It was not a question. “And I’m sure you’ve got a lot of questions. I know I would.”

  “Why’d you blow our boat? Try to kill us?”

  The big man shrugged. “No idea, really. Grapevine says it was a mistake. Somebody getting a little too zealous. We believed we had a serious situation.”

  “Who are you guys?” Dex had moved down the stairs to face the intruder, his weapon positioned for a headshot where there could be no chance of hitting Kevlar.

  The guy chuckled softly. “I was wondering when I’d get that one. Everybody always asks.”

  “So enlighten me.”

  “Too complicated. We’re not government, though. I can tell you that. And listen, I got no agenda here. Strictly a job, okay?”

  “What were you looking for? What do you want?”

  Before he could answer, Tommy stirred on the floor, slowly got to his knees, but neither Dex nor the other guy were distracted.

  “T
ommy, you okay?” Dex kept the Sig-Sauer trained on his target’s face. “Tommy, answer me.”

  “Jeezuz, what the…?” Tommy shook his head in an attempt to wake himself up. Obviously dazed and hurting, he forced himself to his knees.

  Dex waited until some clarity returned to his buddy. After an agonizing minute or so, Tommy stood up, pulled the heavy drapes tight over the front window before flipping on a dim table lamp. He regarded the bald guy, but said nothing.

  “You okay now?”

  “Better. That the fuck who hit me?”

  “Good guess. You got any duct tape?”

  “Huh?” Tommy looked at him dumbly for a second before getting Dex’s intention. “Oh, yeah, downstairs, I think.”

  “Hurry up.”

  Tommy moved as quickly as he dared to the cellar door, flipped on a light, and descended the old stairs.

  Dex continued staring at the big guy. “Let’s talk while we wait, whaddya say?”

  “If you insist.”

  “What do you guys want?”

  “Information.”

  “What kind?”

  The guy considered how he might answer. “The bomb, for starters. They want to know what you did with it.”

  Dex nodded, paused himself. Whoever they were, they knew about the 5001 and its mission. “The bomb wasn’t there. No shit.”

  “Well, yeah, at least when we got there. We know that much. What happened to it remains an interesting question, don’t you think?”

  He was right about that. “Can’t help you. Is that it? You kill my friends because you thought we had the bomb—a very old bomb?”

  “Like I said—this is just a job for me. If my people want me to find something, I try to do it.”

  Dex had trouble not believing this guy—he contained just the right mixture of ennui with his assignment and fear for his life to make him very convincing.

  “What else?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “What else are you looking for?”

  Before he could answer, Tommy reappeared with a fat roll of silver-gray tape. “Got plenty,” he said.

  Dex nodded, stared at the big guy. “Don’t move. I really don’t want to shoot you.”

  “But you will, right?” The big bald guy grinned.

  Dex had Tommy empty the guy’s pockets—revealing a cell phone, wallet, money clip with cash, and a small Spyderco knife.

  “Check everywhere,” said Dex. “And take off his shoes and throw ’em over here.”

  A more thorough pat-down revealed a compact Taurus Millennium Pro in an ankle holster, which Tommy appropriated for himself. After removing the guy’s size fourteen shoes, Tommy taped his ankles together. Then his hands behind his back with enough tape to keep a couple of I-beams together.

  “If you’re as good as you should be,” said Dex. “You’ll be free sooner or later.”

  “Thanks.” The hulking figure lay on the floor with additional tape stringing ankles to wrist in a kind of modified hog-tie.

  Dex gathered up the intruder’s primary handgun, a Glock G18, which could do plenty of damage in a hurry, plus all the pocket stuff. Then he ripped the phone cord out of the wall just to make things a little more inconvenient.

  He looked at the big guy, who seemed more than content to just lay there quietly. “I keep getting interrupted, but I need to know a few more things.”

  “Yeah, don’t we all…”

  “I believe I was asking you—what other info are you looking for, and how do you know we have it?”

  The guy inhaled slowly, then let it out as though bothered by the effort. “I’m just an errand-boy.”

  “You gotta know more than us.” Dex sat down on the couch, leaned close to the guy and admired Tommy’s creative use of duct tape.

  “My people know the history of that sub you found. They know it visited a secret Nazi base, and every government in the world has wanted those coordinates for a long time now.” The agent paused, uttered another of his low, guttural laughs. “And I have no fucking clue why—they don’t bother to tell me that much.”

  Dex grinned. “And what makes you think we know?”

  “We don’t. We’re just playing the odds.”

  “How many of your people involved?”

  “No idea. Truth.”

  “How about telling me who writes your paycheck.”

  “Some cover corporation you’ve probably never heard of.”

  Tommy stood over him, kicked him in the knee. Hard. “I owed you that one, you fuck!”

  The guy winced but said nothing.

  “Make it a little easier. Who are you guys?” Dex leaned closer, lightly placed his handgun behind the bald guy’s ear. But as he did it, he felt awkward and stupid. No way he could kill somebody like this. If it was a self-defense thing, probably, but Dex had too many controls in place.

  “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. And since you both seem way too civilized for torture or execution, why don’t we just leave it at that?”

  “Who the goddamn sent you, Disney World?” Tommy stood up, prepared to kick him again. “Cuz you’re right, I wouldn’t believe that one.”

  The guy broke into a mocking grin. “How’d you guess?”

  Tommy wound up for another one, and Dex stopped him with a gesture. Then: “Why do you care whether or not we know? Is it going to change anything?”

  “Probably not. If they want you and whatever info you’ve got, they’re going to get you sooner or later. If they don’t, it’s because they lost interest.”

  Dex was getting tired of this. Plus he had a feeling this guy was just the first of many converging on this place. He was wasting time. One more try, with some humor. “Just tell me this—are you the good guys or the bad guys?”

  Bald Guy smiled. “I like you, Navy. Tell you what—I don’t think we’re either bad or good. We kind of reside outside that whole arena.”

  “What’re you—a bunch of aliens?”

  “That’s a good one. Haven’t heard that one before. Look, let’s just say my bosses are ‘business people,’ okay?”

  Dex shook his head slowly, then looked at Tommy. “We have a train to catch.”

  Tommy nodded and headed toward the kitchen and the back door. Turning off the table lamp, Dex blinked as the room fell into shadow, limned only from the nearby neon of High Street restaurants seeping along the edge of the drapes. He stood over the intruder. “Good luck with that tape.”

  He followed Tommy to the kitchen when he heard Bald Guy’s voice.

  “Hey, Navy…”

  Pausing, Dex answered. “Yeah?”

  “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  There was a pause, then: “For being better than me. I would’ve killed you both.”

  Five minutes later, from Augie’s cluttered basement, they’d gathered up Dex’s backpack which held the laptop, Bruckner’s log and papers, and the translation. It would have still held that weird metal bar if Dex hadn’t thought its extra weight would be the reason he drowned.

  He shook his head. No sense going there. Forget it. As they headed for the back door, Augie grabbed his sleeve.

  “What’s up, my friend?”

  “C’mon, Chief, you can’t leave me here.”

  Tommy looked at his leather-faced neighbor. “Huh? What’re you talkin’ about?”

  “What am I gonna do if I get a visit from the bad guys?”

  Dex had already thought about this, but had pushed it to the side of his concerns as they’d prepared to get on the road. But the old guy had posed a very good question.

  “Jeez, Augs…” Tommy raked his fingers through his thick dark hair. He looked deeply distressed. “What’s a matter?”

  Augie adjusted his Orioles cap, winked. “I wouldn’t tell ’em where to find
their own ass, you know? But they might wanna hurt me—then what? I wouldn’t wanna let you guys down.”

  Dex looked at the little old man with the impish grin. He looked like a weathered lawn gnome. “You have any relatives nearby? Any place you can go?”

  “My niece lives around the corner. My son’s out in Harford County.”

  “Your niece is too close. You got a way to get to your son’s?”

  Augie pretended to think about this, then: “I guess I could, but I was thinkin’-a somethin’ easier.”

  “What’s that?” said Tommy.

  Augie grinned. “Take me with you.”

  Dex considered it. “It might be very dangerous. Our friend next door was already kind enough to tell us he’d have killed us if necessary.”

  “Mr. McCauley,” said Augie. “Look at me—I’m-a eighty four years old and I need somethin’ to keep me goin’. If they get me, at least they did when I was trying to be useful.”

  “You sure about this?” said Tommy. “Things could get rough.”

  Augie cocked his head. “I was a teenager when they sent me to New Guinea to kill Japs. How rough could this be?”

  Dex smiled. The old guy had a point.

  “Okay, get whatever you think you might need, and let’s get out of here.”

  Augie nodded, opened the back door on the mini-jungle of his back yard. “I got false-a teeth. I don’t even need a toothbrush. Let’s go.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Sinclair

  Baltimore

  His estimate of time and traffic proved less than accurate. The pleasant spring weather had tourists and locals out in force along many of the downtown area’s major streets. They didn’t reach Little Italy for an hour, and that, combined with Spruill’s silence concerned him.

  Following the always-on homing beacon of Spruill’s Escalade, Entwhistle located it on the corner of Albemarle just off Eastern Avenue. The hulking black vehicle was vacant and had acquired a citation from the police for parking longer than the posted signs allowed. Bad sign, that. Combined with his failure to check in on schedule, the odds were increasing he’d been removed from the gameboard.