Dead of Night (43 page)

The chopper descended, touched earth tentatively, then settled. It was then I realized why the aircraft was operating clean, no ID. In the doorway, Hal Harrington appeared looking like a corporate executive, in gray suit, gray tie.

How the hell did he know I was on the island?

 

 

The intelligence chief swung out of the fuselage, a black SIG-Sauer held vertical to his leg, concealing it. He stayed low, taking long strides, then stood. At the same time, he pointed the handgun at Dasha.

The Little Bird was maintaining rpms. Harrington had to yell over the noise. “Ford! You okay?”

I nodded, aware that he was assessing my condition. Not good.

“Do you have more business here?” Harrington was looking at Dasha, weapon still aimed. The two had locked eyes. I got the impression the woman saw something in the man that scared her. Her cheek, I noticed, had begun to twitch. She
was
capable of emotion.

I yelled, “I’m clear. Let’s load up and move. Get our feet wet.” Meaning, let’s get over the water.

When we were airborne, I’d tell him about the barge carrying the drone helicopters. Harrington’s decision. Order Little Bird to sink them or let the FBI deal with it.

I walked toward the chopper, but stopped when I realized Harrington wasn’t following me. The fire team wasn’t going to budge until their boss was safely aboard.

“Hal? Do we have a problem?”

He still had the weapon aimed at the blonde. “Who is this woman? Are you sure you don’t need more ground time?” The man had great instincts. And he probably already knew who she was.

I said, “It’s the woman who owns this island, Hal. We’re leaving. My call.”

Slowly, the man lowered the SIG-Sauer. Turned, gave me a bitter glance—
You owe me, pal
—and ducked toward the chopper, done with her.

Dasha moved her eyes to mine. I shrugged:
We have a deal.
Then climbed aboard, determined not to look back.

The troop seating in the Little Bird helicopter was cramped, the interior dark except for red tactical lighting, and the green sweep of radar screens. I slid into the nearest seat, aware of an odd odor among the familiar smells of diesel, graphite, and webbing.

The four members of the fire team were boarding, and I heard one of them mutter, “I swear to God, skipper, I’d rather stay here with the bandits. That fucking hippie’s perfume makes me gag.”

A familiar, indignant voice replied, “For your information, officer, it’s not perfume. It
’s fragrance.
I’d explain the difference, but I’m not allowed to speak.”

“Officer?
The guy still thinks we’re fucking cops. What planet’s he from?”

The familiar voice said,
“Exactly.
There’s an interesting topic for the flight home. Regression to previous lives—don’t let your hostile cop natures fool you. It’s
waiting
out there.”

My eyes were still adjusting, which is why I recognized the voice before I recognized the familiar man across from me: goatee, stringy surfer’s hair, and still wearing hospital scrubs.

We both banged our heads on the low ceiling when we stood.
“Tomlinson?
What the hell are you doing here?” “With Harrington,” I didn’t add.

He replied, “Sorry, can’t answer. Your friends have rebuked me, Marion. On the flight over, Hal told me I wasn’t allowed to talk until we got back to Florida.” Laughing, we pounded each other on the back, then I listened to a rushed explanation: The note I’d left at hospital reception said to call Harrington if I didn’t return. Jason Reynolds, the Tropicane biologist, had escaped his kidnapper, telephoned Tomlinson, and provided key information—a hero. The fish died ...

“And so did you, Doc. Your heart stopped. Dead for ten or twenty minutes. Ask that pretty Indian doctor! I had to take a brief leave of absence myself. Did a deep-space intercept—which is a damn dangerous thing to do when you’re all screwed up on sevoflurane. Morphine, on the other hand, is the drug of choice under those circumstances. I’m perfectly capable of operating at full capacity with a snoot full of morphine—”

“Enough! Not another word!” The helicopter’s shocks adjusted to Harrington’s weight as he slid into the copilot’s seat, then closed the door. “Ford, I am holding you personally responsible. I just did you a favor, damn it. Now it’s your turn.”

He glanced over his shoulder to make certain he had my attention. “You hired this man, I’ll pay him. I’ll even read his product, if you think it’s good. But, commander, if he begins another talking jag about soul travel, or the earth as a single-celled organism, or a catfish he says swam up his penis, I swear to Christ I will open the door, jump out of this helicopter, and take that irritating son of a bitch with me.”

I’d never heard Harrington so flummoxed.

“The only time he wouldn’t talk is when he refused to tell me your location. Not unless he could tag along. So that’s why he’s here. But never again, Ford. Never again.”

Harrington fixed me with a fierce look.

“Don’t think this changes anything.”

I didn’t.

The helicopter lifted skyward, rotated, then banked. Tomlinson looked at me, grinning. Closed his lips tight, locked them with an imaginary key, and threw the key away. He didn’t realize it, but he had no reason to be happy.

I’d accepted a truce that was only temporary. Maybe I could leverage it into something. A bargain with Harrington down the road. Maybe ...

I looked through the window. Below, the Russian woman grew smaller, as her islands filled the glass, green mountain peaks anchored in deep ocean.

I expected her to wave farewell. Told myself I would ignore her if she did.

She didn’t.

On a balmy, tropic-scented January evening, fifty miles off the coast of Cuba, aboard the
Queen Mary
2—the world’s fastest, most luxurious ocean liner, according to its own literature—I hugged the woman as she entered our state-room, and kissed her cocoa brown cheek.

I said to her, “You gave him the message?” I was wearing a white tuxedo; had been fitted that morning by the ship’s tailor. It was the first tux I’d ever owned. Maybe the first tux I’d ever worn. I wondered about that as I used a full-length mirror to straighten my red bow tie.

She laced her arm through mine affectionately. “He’s below on second deck, gambling. Playing blackjack at the hundred-dollar-minimum table. A big crowd.”

“He’s winning tonight?”

She answered, “Yeah. But he hasn’t met you yet.”

I smiled.

“Does he cheat?”

The woman had told me she knew what to watch for.

“At cards,
probably
—if security wasn’t so good. Does he cheat on his mistress? Definitely. He said he’d meet me on the promenade deck. Forward, where the ship’s superstructure will provide some cover. At the outboard railing.”

Just as I’d instructed.

The woman was dressed in gold: a glittering, full-length gown that clung to incremental curves, long legs, narrow waist, breasts. The gown accented her height, and her beauty. Added a regal countenance.

The
QM2
does that. Its own regal history elevates passengers through association.

Prior to the voyage, I’d only seen the woman in the common informal dress of the tropics. I realized that she was stunning.

I said, “My guess is, he’ll show.”

She began unbuttoning her gown. I turned my back as a courtesy, even though she’d already told me it wasn’t necessary. Ten days spent island-hopping, Lauderdale to Panama, is a long time to preserve modesty, even if we were sharing a plush suite. “That man’s the touchy-feely type. Fingers on my butt, feeling for my bra strap, letting me know he knows where things are. Sweet talker. He told me every woman in the islands should look like me. He’ll be there. Midnight sharp.”

I checked my watch: 11:25 P.M.

I nodded, looking into her unusual eyes. “Things seem to be going as planned. Thanks to you.”

She stepped closer, and rested both hands on my shoulders. “Be careful; come back quick. I know you’re good at what you do, but he’s big. Got that nasty ‘screw you’ look about him.” Something was hidden in her hand, and she pressed it into mine.

A gold coin.

I looked at it. Looked at her, amused by her craftiness.

“For luck,” the woman said.

I went out the door.

 

 

I felt nervous. I’d done this sort of thing once before, but never aboard a ship as well appointed as the
Queen Mary
2. She is the length of three football fields, as tall as a Lauderdale condo, and packed with every high-tech amenity—including electronic surveillance on each deck.

If that wasn’t sufficiently daunting, I’d learned at the Captain’s Ball (by personal invitation only) that ship’s security was maintained by the
Queen’s
own Gurkhas—Nepalese mercenaries who are among the most feared commandos on Earth.

It was not an exaggeration, as I knew. I’d worked with them long ago in Southeast Asia, Hong Kong, and Belize. Small, dark men who never unsheathe their oddly shaped knives—kukris—without drawing blood. If Great Britain ever withdraws the Gurkhas from Belize, Guatemala will take control of that marijuana-dazed country within a week.

Yes, daunting. Which is why I’d spent the previous three days doing reconnaissance of my own, scouting for the right spot, calculating the right time.

I was now as ready as I would ever be. Thanks to the woman. But also nervous.

I had half an hour to burn. I considered going below to watch the man gamble, but decided it was unnecessarily risky to let security video capture me in the same room with him so close to midnight.

Instead, I jogged up a carpeted staircase a few decks to the ship’s library. I walked among burled maple stacks, an articulate place for books, into a room appointed with brass and polished mahogany. I sat at a computer, signed onto the Internet.

Among the many e-mails was one from my son. The subject heading was: “You should have told me.”

For the first time in days, I wasn’t fixated on this midnight rendezvous.

I opened Lake’s letter. Leaned and scanned it for what I’d been waiting to receive: the results of the paternity test he’d ordered. I read the letter again, then a third time much more slowly. It touched on two important topics, including the test results.

The first few graphs explained a document that was attached. My son had cracked Jobe Applebee’s code. It wasn’t difficult, he said, once he deciphered the pattern Applebee used to avoid repetition.

“Number 4 is the key,” Lake wrote. “His documents were a confusing pain in the butt until I remembered Dr. Matthews’s e-mail. She said Dr. Applebee considered 4 to be the only true number because it has four letters. That was a start. I tried shifting the numbers 1 through 26 four letters to the right of the alphabet. 1 was D, 2 became E. It worked! But only for the first paragraph—and every fourth paragraph after that.”

Lake soon figured out that after each paragraph, Applebee shifted the numerical key four more letters. After four paragraphs, though, he returned to the original pattern: 1 represented
D,
2 became
E.

One of the attachments was labeled: “Selecting Copepod Hybrids to Control Guinea Worms.”

I could heard the voice of my much-missed friend, Frieda Matthews, telling me that her brother and I had more in common than I realized.

An amazing little man. I regretted never meeting him.

As interesting as that was, though, I was far more concerned with what Lake had written about the paternity test.

I lingered on his last few sentences.

I had a great big grin on my face as I read it over and over.

The news from Lake was especially welcome because I’d spent Christmas in Iowa. The visit could have gone worse, but not much worse.

Three adults in a two-bedroom farmhouse, snowdrifts, wind and freezing weather outside. The first night, huddled near the fire, Dewey’s Romanian girlfriend, Bets, had made it clear that they’d renewed their relationship, and that she planned to be at the bedside when Dewey’s child was born.

“Our child,” I’d corrected her, looking to my old friend, workout partner, and former lover for reassurance.

It wasn’t offered.

Bets was in a mood to argue. I didn’t press it.

Anyone who invites emotional meltdowns is a fool. The same is true of a man or woman who bums a bridge and forever separates from the partner they once treasured.

I assumed a role: supportive friend of two old friends who were embarking on a new, exciting chapter in their lives. Each afternoon near sunset, I found relief from the tension that filled the house by walking along the Mississippi River. Frozen paths, black trees.

I was envious of the direction that water flowed beneath its mask of ice.

“You’ll always be the girl’s father,” Dewey told me before I drove away in my rental. Walda had nodded her head in agreement. I gave each woman a hug, and touched my fingers to Dewey’s belly, wondering if I would ever see any of them again.

Thinking of Christmas changed my mood.

I checked my watch: 11:51 P.M.

 

 

At midnight, I was standing on the promenade deck, in shadows near the bow, my tuxedo jacket flapping in gale winds created by a ship traveling at thirty-plus miles an hour through Caribbean darkness.