Deep Blue (11 page)

Watts—if that was his name—remained relaxed. He had the easygoing confidence typical of insurance salesmen and federal agents. “Why is it I get the impression I'm not welcome?”

Ford wasn't wearing his glasses but stared as if the man's eyes
had come sharply into focus. “You aren't—until you tell me why you're here. You could be a con man or with a group that's offended because I sell marine specimens. Or pissed-off because I don't think manatee and snook should be on restaurant menus. Oh, don't laugh. I get my share of crazies. What's your first name?”

The man, still chuckling, let that go and opened his briefcase. “I've been retained by a company that lost one of these yesterday. We know it went down here, somewhere in the water. There's a reward if you can help.”

Ford accepted a color photo of the saucer-shaped drone. He studied it for a while, then handed it back. “I saw something that looked like this fly past yesterday afternoon. Propeller-driven—you could hear the propellers but no motor—so I remember thinking it must be fairly high-tech and expensive. Then, for no apparent reason, it crashed right out there.” He pointed vaguely. “I was surprised the owner didn't come charging out and try to get to it before it sank. So was everyone else. Now, a day later, here you are. How do you explain that, Mr. Watts?”

“Like I told you, it's owned by the company that hired me. It's a production company out of New York, but they have offices in Miami and Naples. They were shooting B-roll for a national ad campaign—Florida's sunny, sandy beaches, something like that. And you're right, it's an expensive piece of equipment. They want it back.”

Ford started to say, “If they launched the thing out of Naples or Miami . . .” which is when he saw the dog out there, in three feet of water, struggling with something heavy; a black, saucer-looking object he'd dragged halfway to the stilthouse, even though it sank whenever he stopped to get a better grip. Like now.

“Let's talk in the parking lot,” Ford said. He waved for Watts to follow him through the gate.

“Something wrong?”

“I was just pointing out there are plenty of scenic beaches around Naples, so why would they send a drone clear up here? But if they did, they did.” He pulled the gate wider. “Are you coming?”

Watts sensed Ford's uneasiness. “Where?”

“The guy who owns the marina, his name's Mack. Mack got a better look at the thing than I did, and he rents boats. If it's in the water”—he motioned again, getting impatient—“you need a boat, right?”

“Maybe they're shooting an ad about Sanibel,” Watts replied. He turned and looked where Ford had been looking and saw a furry butt sticking out of the water. But he did not yet see the missing drone, which the dog was battling to lift to the surface. “What the hell's that?”

“It's a dog.”

“I can see that.”

“He brings me all kinds of junk from the bottom. It's what retrievers do. Do you like dogs?”

When Watts turned away, saying, “Not really,” Ford released a long breath but didn't feel safe until they were in the parking lot, where he pointed to the marina office and said, “You'll find Mack in there.”

“We're not done.”

The temptation was to tell the guy,
The hell we aren't
, but he couldn't risk being followed back to the lab. Plus, he had some questions of his own for the man.

It didn't happen. After waiting fifteen minutes outside the office, Ford went in to find Mack alone at the cash register. “Where's Watts?”

“The guy in the suit?” Mack reached under the counter for something—a small brown envelope. “I don't know. He walked in, gave me this, and left. I told him you were around here someplace. Who is he?”

Inside the envelope, no writing anywhere, was a cheap memory stick.

Ford said, “I've got to go,” and jogged back to his house, where the dog was still battling the drone. But there was no sign of Watts—if that was his name.

•   •   •

A stopwatch icon
appeared on the screen, then a warning in red:
Time Terminated: 30 seconds. Do not pause or attempt to copy.

The stopwatch began ticking when Ford opened the file. A document appeared that typed itself as if being dictated:

If you killed the lying fool, I might have thanked you. Instead, I'm obligated. Your only option is to cooperate. Reparations, etcetera, to be decided pending the old man's death or recovery.

The document vanished, replaced by video. It showed a hospital bed, where Winslow Shepherd lay with his leg in a cast elevated in traction. Otherwise, he didn't look too bad when he turned to the camera and slurred, “Tell him he won't get away with this. Show
him.” Then attempted to yell, “You can't hide from . . .” but the words collapsed into a coughing fit.

Ford tried to do two things at once: note details that gave away the location and also capture a screenshot to study later. But too late—not for the screenshot but to correct his first mistake, which was opening the memory stick in the first place.

The screen went black; a fan inside the hard drive doubled its speed. Ford realized his system was being hijacked, or erased, or both. In a rush, he yanked cables and power cords free and threw the memory stick across the room. The hard drive went silent, but it took a while. If his files were still being downloaded, would throwing the hard drive in the bay halt the theft?

No . . . not if software mogul Julian Solo was behind the attack. Ford believed he was. The phrases
lying fool
and
old man's
were convincing.

Idiot.

He slid the computer under the steel dissecting table—as if that would help—banged open the door, and clomped down to the lower deck, where he tried to calm down by looking in a wooden fish tank there. He'd made it from a thousand-gallon rain cistern, added all necessary pumps, a sub-sand filter, and a hundred-gallon upper reservoir to improve water clarity. Pumps hummed a froth of fresh spray onto the surface. Pinfish and snappers and a little bonnethead shark darted for cover among a host of living, breath-filtering species. There were tunicates, scallops, and triangular pen shells.

The pen shells were the size and color of a turkey's wing. They produced iridescent black pearls, and their abductor muscles were
sweet with a mild cucumber flavor and good to eat. Colonies of thousands lay not far off the beach yet were unknown to most chefs, thus an unused resource.

It was calming to stand there and observe a lucent microcosm of the sea. But then the missing drone popped into his head and he turned. The dog was gone, but the drone was there, abandoned at the edge of the mangroves. He checked behind him, glanced at the sky, then went after it.

Beneath the house, next to his boat, was a hose. He washed the carbon fuselage clean and inspected both sides. Six of eight propellers were gone. Four mini-cameras protruded on spindles. There were dozens of sensors embedded in the skin but no identifying marks.

The aircraft wasn't heavy, once the water had drained. Fifteen pounds, approximately, and the circumference of a garbage can lid. He hid the thing on his boat next to the other UAV, then decided the bow cover, which was engineered for stealth, wasn't safe enough.

Maybe there was no safe place. Not with Julian and his network of Internet wizards in pursuit. They obviously had their orders, and Ford suspected what those orders were. Julian wanted his drones back. And wanted revenge.

But after rethinking it, Ford wasn't so sure. The document had been ambiguous.
If you killed the lying fool, I might have thanked you,
the text had read. Or was he wrong about the wording? Then something about reparations, etcetera, to be paid pending the old man's death or recovery.

I should make notes while it's fresh,
Ford thought, but, either way, he had to wonder if Julian had offered him a way out.

If you'd killed the old fool, I would've thanked you.

That wasn't quite right either, but close enough.

Ford stepped under the house and looked up at the floor. Stacked between joists were sheets of tin roofing he'd replaced after the hurricane of 2004. If he covered the drones with enough tin, maybe a satellite couldn't find them. That was easy enough but sloppy. There had to be a better way.

Somewhere he'd read about constructing a room that was immune to lightning strikes. A Faraday cage, the structure was called. The design was based on a theory regarding the flow of electromagnetic energy. The cage was equally effective at blocking electronic waves of all sorts. That's what had caught his attention—Ford, a man who loathed the intrusions of the Internet yet lacked the willpower to get rid of it.

These days, at least, he could rationalize his weakness because there was no place in the whole damn world where satellites could not be accessed.

Winslow Shepherd's voice had reminded him,
You can't hide.

Well . . . he could try.

He didn't remember enough about building a Faraday cage to start immediately, but metal sheeting was a key component. Later, assuming his computer was kaput, he'd borrow Tomlinson's laptop to do the research.

Ford stacked the tin at the edge of the deck, made notes in the lab, then went to find his dog.

On the wall separating the office from the fish market was a VHF radio that scanned three channels used by the fishing guides, plus emergency channels monitored by the Coast Guard. Mack, and sometimes Jeth, who filled in behind the counter, kept the volume low unless they heard something of interest.

Mack, chewing at a cigar, reached for the knob now when an unfamiliar voice called out, “Shark! . . . Shark! . . . You wouldn't believe the size of this bastard. It's gotta be twenty feet long.”

Seconds passed, then he heard: “A great white, I think. Yeah . . . gotta be. A great white shark. Oh my god . . . it's coming back and we've got two divers in the water. Anybody copy? Shit . . . Stand by.”

A burst of static followed. This suggested to Mack he was
eavesdropping on a vessel that was close enough to Sanibel to bang in loud and clear, but not far enough offshore to communicate with vessels in deeper water. On the roof was an illegal antenna that, on a good day, reached twenty-five miles into the Gulf. Ten miles, though, was typical. The captain in trouble wasn't far off the beach.

Static . . . more static, then the same voice yelled, “A freakin' great white shark! I gotta get our divers up. Anybody . . . do you copy? I could use some help out here, guys.”

Mack knew that Fast Eddie had left with a scuba charter at eight a.m., yet he looked to confirm Eddie's boat was gone. It was the man's first charter in weeks, but that wasn't Eddie's voice. New Jersey accents were unmistakable. Dive captains sometimes paired up offshore, so maybe Eddie's radio was the source of the static. A bad antenna, or too far out to be heard.

He reduced squelch and turned up the volume, then hurried to the door, which was always propped open. He wanted someone to witness this. Aside from tourists, all he saw was the big brown retriever and the little Cuban, Figuerito, who was in the parking lot throwing rocks for the dog to retrieve, pitching as if in a baseball game.

Mack hollered, “Hey, Figgy. Get in here. Hurry, man! Bring Tomlinson and Rhonda, too, if they're handy.”

The Cuban said something to an invisible umpire and came on the run. He didn't speak English, but he knew an emergency when he heard one.

Mack slid into his regular seat behind the counter and pointed to the VHF when the Cuban and dog appeared. “A dive captain
out in the Gulf, he spotted a great white shark and he's got divers in the water. It's gotta be her, the one they tagged. Dolly. Damn it, I knew I should've made Fast Eddie cancel that trip.”

Figuerito nodded as if he understood. The dog, panting, did a circle and collapsed on the linoleum floor.

“The captain, the poor bugger, he can't contact anyone. I'm thinking I should hail the Coast Guard and—” A burst of static caused Mack to hold up a warning hand:
Listen.

Offshore, the unknown captain spoke to a passenger but had the mic key open. “Goddamn thing's bigger than my boat, man. You see it? I don't know where it went. Keep your eyes open.” He clicked the mic key twice. “Hailing any vessel, any vessel off Lighthouse Point. We've got a big-ass great white circling us and we've got two divers down. I blasted the emergency recall until I'm deaf, but they haven't responded. Oh, shit . . . now what?” There was a pause. “I'm thinking about . . . Yeah, I'm gonna have to go in after them. Stand by.” A wailing horn made the last few words difficult to decipher.

Mack got to his feet. “Did he say he was going in the water? That's what I think he said. Or did he? Geezus, I hope I'm wrong. Figgy”—he pointed in the direction of Ford's lab—“go fetch Doc. Bring him back as fast as you can.”

The dog jumped to its feet and charged out the door. The Cuban, confused, followed.

Mack looked at the radio, saying, “You're a fool if you go in. Don't do it,” then realized he could talk to the guy himself by picking up the microphone. He tried.

“Break, break, this channel, this is Dinkin's Bay Marina. Skipper? We've got you loud and clear. Do you read? State your
location, we'll send out a boat now. Also suggest you switch to emergency channel sixteen. That's channel one-six. Do you copy?”

Static; more static, then a garbled mess when other vessels came on with offers to help—one off Vanderbilt Beach, another near Sanibel Causeway. The confusion went on for a while, which Mack tried to abate, saying, “Clear this channel. Do you read? There's a boat out there in trouble. He has two divers he can't locate. Someone hail the Coast Guard and tell them to switch over.”

The guy in trouble was too busy to respond, or maybe didn't hear the calls. No . . . his radio was screwed up. That was the problem. He could transmit but not receive, which is why, when he returned to the mic, he was frustrated. “If there's anybody out there who gives a damn, there's a twenty-foot great white shark circling us. Freakin' wide as a bus, and close enough to the beach that someone should warn those dumbasses to get out of the water.”

Ford came through the door in time to hear most of that. Mack shushed him and attempted to contact the vessel again. “We have you loud and clear at Dinkin's Bay. What's the status of your divers?”

Ford's forehead wrinkled. “
Divers?
Who is that?”

Mack, using the microphone, repeated the question about divers several times. No response.

“What's his location?” Ford asked. “If he's close enough to the beach to see swimmers, he can't be in more than twenty feet of water.”

Mack started to explain but was interrupted by the captain, who pressed the mic key while shouting to someone, “She's coming back . . . see it? Jesus Christ, look at the size of that dorsal. Billy . . .
Billy! Stop taking pictures and hang on to something, man. Bastard's coming right at us.” Then remembered why he'd picked up the microphone and hollered, “If anybody can hear me, we need help . . . A shark, a great white, has to weigh two tons. We're off Lighthouse Point about . . .” The man's voice softened to a whisper. “No . . . it's still coming . . . coming faster. Oh my god . . . we should've brought a bigger—”

Slam a hammer into a wall, that's the sound they heard next. Then silence, except for the sudden garble of many vessels transmitting at the same time. A lot of people had heard what just happened.

Mack rushed to the phone.

“Who are you calling?”

“Nine-one-one. I'll have them contact Coast Guard and scramble a chopper. Doc, we'll take your boat. I'll supply the fuel.”

Ford, standing at the counter, covered the phone with his hand. “It's a prank, I think.”

Mack grabbed the phone anyway and dialed.

“At the very least, say you're not sure it's an emergency,” Ford advised. “Just say what you heard. Think about it. That last line about needing a bigger boat. It's right out of
Jaws
.”

Ford listened to a one-sided conversation, Mack talking to the 911 operator, while the Cuban went out, followed by the dog, and returned with a bottle of orange pop.

When Mack was finished, he asked Figuerito in English, “Did you hear the captain say he needed a bigger boat? I didn't hear him say that, and anyone could tell he was scared shitless. Guys who take dive charters, they all have decent-sized boats.”

In Spanish, Figuerito asked Ford, “Is there a problem with the radio? Tell him I don't know anything about radios.”

“Mack,” Ford said, “who takes clients a mile or two off the beach to dive? There's nothing to see out there but sand. You told nine-one-one the guy didn't identify himself, so how do you know he was a charter captain?”

“His radio was screwed up. I know the difference between a guide and a bloody weekender by the way they bloody well talk. He had two divers in the water—I could hear his emergency horn in the background—but they didn't come up.” The marina owner thought for a moment. “Damn, I left that part out about the horn. Maybe I should call them back.”

“What channel are you on?” Ford leaned over the counter to look. “You're on seventy-two. If it was an emergency, why didn't he use channel sixteen? If I was going to try a stupid prank, I wouldn't risk pissing off the feds by tying up an emergency channel. They could arrest him for that.”

Mack's mind had already skipped ahead. “I need to contact Fast Eddie. He's out there with a party of four: three divers and one along for the ride. He said they'd do a checkout dive at Belton Reef, then head out to the Rock Pile, depending on the wind.”

Ford was about to point out it was too windy to be offshore, that he and Tomlinson had postponed their dive. Eddie's decision had nullified the argument, but he was still convinced what he'd heard was some drunk or smartass who was a pretty good actor.

Sharks seldom attack boats. Even great whites. When they do, they chomp a propeller or some dangling appendage. Only in movies do they use their heads as battering rams.

Mack switched to channel 68 and began hailing Fast Eddie but made time to say, “Maybe you're right, Doc. But what if you're wrong?”

Ford couldn't disagree with that. “We'll take my boat, but see what Eddie has to say first.”

He waited at the door. Outside, near the fuel pumps, the owners of
Tiger Lilly
, Rhonda and JoAnn, were in animated conversation with a couple of others who lived on A dock. Observing from the flybridge of his yacht was Vargas Diemer, pressed and pleated in gray slacks and a collared shirt. The Brazilian appeared interested, which was unusual for a man who wore aloofness like a mask.

Mack noticed the ladies and covered the mic while he explained, “Rhonda's computer crashed.”

“Just now?” Ford asked.

“JoAnn's computer, too, or they both got a virus, something that makes them think the world is about to end. Rhonda texted me not twenty minutes ago.”

Ford was thinking,
Julian?
but said, “It's probably a coincidence.”

Mack, with an
I guess so
shrug, continued hailing
Jersey Girl
, which was Fast Eddie's boat.

•   •   •

Vargas waved Ford aboard
and met him aft, where the railings were stained mahogany red and brightwork glistened. There were no corny nautical icons on this vessel. It was 55 feet of oceangoing craftsmanship that meshed with what Ford knew about the Brazilian. It wasn't much, but a lot more than anyone else outside a few embassies and enclaves of power around the world.

That's why Vargas didn't bother with a phony accent when they were alone.

“They think the Internet is down, but that's not the problem,” Vargas said. He glanced at Rhonda and the others. “My system's designed to go off-line if it senses certain probes. That's how I know. No point telling them, but we've been attacked. At least six computers here at the marina.”

Ford thought,
Shit—this is because of me.
“Are you sure? Could have been a power surge or—”

“The way my system works, there's a visual alarm; nothing audible. I wasn't at the computer when it happened, but the alarm's been tripped. Definitely a hacker tried but couldn't break through.”

“If you're right,” Ford said, “I did something so stupid that . . . Anyway, my hard drive was compromised before whoever it was went after the marina. At least, I think so. That bothers me. Why would anybody go after the marina?”

Vargas touched the back of a chair, meaning
Take a seat
. “I'll save the obvious question. This early in the day, I know it's bottled water for you.” He crossed into the main salon with a leading man fluidity that Ford ignored but, in truth, envied.

The obvious question Vargas would ask was
Who was the attacker?

Should he confide? He'd already admitted the truth about the fallen drone. Part of the truth anyway. Ford debated the pros and cons while he waited. When one is pursued by a powerful enemy, a savvy ally is an asset, and the Brazilian was an unusually savvy man.

If asked, the Brazilian would say he was a commercial pilot for
Swissair. Or he'd offer a business card that said he was CEO of an import-export company that had offices in Rio, Luxembourg, and Dubai. Solid stories that impressed the ladies, but misleading. Swissair had changed its name to Lufthansa several years back, which is probably when Vargas had gone to work for himself. His import-export business existed, but its office was a P.O. box in Lauderdale.

Even a third-level background check had required some guesswork.

Ford's summary: Vargas was a big-time freelancer and very good at what he did. He could be trusted—if the fee was right—and had contacts that opened doors to money. He specialized in “threat management,” which meant recovering items that owners could not report as stolen—letters to a mistress, photos of a secret lover, videos or text messages that compromised men and women too powerful to tolerate blackmail.