Deeper Than Red (Red Returning Trilogy) (27 page)

Since Travis Noland’s televised admission of his half brother’s terrorist plot to sabotage American infrastructure, energy plants, communications networks, and national landmarks, the media had saturated too many airways and newspapers with Ivan’s photograph to risk recognition. Though the world believed he’d perished in flames high over the East River, the world also loved a resurrection story. Might he and Elvis share in that fascination? Would it take just one sighting by an observant dockhand at some remote Caribbean atoll to ignite a hunt for him? Or just a couple of messages sent by diplomatic pouch to the White House? Ivan chuckled to himself at the thought of Noland bearing down on those words, reading them from every angle, dissecting their meaning. It wouldn’t be hard. Ivan hadn’t wanted him to labor over them. Surely by now, the lord of the Oval Office had grasped the urgency of finding his resurrected kinsman with the
terrible swift sword.

A V-formation of pelicans off the starboard side caught Ivan’s attention. Migrating whites, he guessed, as he watched the two choreographed columns angle away from their leader, who was certain of their destination. Ivan’s own troops had once been so trusting, lining up behind him on their way to a glorious touchdown in the new Russia. But now? Did he dare look behind to see if anyone was still there?

He watched the great birds leave him in their wake, alone in a wheelchair, wiping spittle from his chin. He’d once been the point of the V, his wings sturdy and sure. He looked down at the limp and twitching arms and legs. No, no one followed now. He knew that.

He lifted the phone in his hand, swiped and tapped the screen a few times and listened as a series of beeps signaled contact with Russian air space. At ten o’clock that Tuesday morning off the south Florida coast, it was six
PM
in Moscow.
Glinka has enjoyed his first cognac of the evening
, Ivan mused.
Toasting himself for the victory to come. In less than three months, he will take the election and rule Russia
…
with no intention whatsoever of relinquishing his office to a dying man.
Though Glinka pretended not to know the diagnosis, Ivan was certain he did. That it was incurable and fatal. Ivan also was certain that Glinka wouldn’t wait long for the disease to take its natural course.

“Yes, comrade,” Arkady Glinka answered. “How are you feeling today?”

But surely your man on board has already reported that.
Ivan knew that one of his crew had been persuaded—handsomely, no doubt—to keep Glinka informed of Ivan’s condition, because if the roles were reversed, that’s exactly what Ivan would do. He just wasn’t sure which of his loyals had turned.

“Very well,” Ivan lied, then went straight to the point of the call. “The shipment is en route and on schedule.”

“Excellent. And Curt?”

“He will join me later tonight. We depart together in a few days. It will be a long journey back to Russia. I trust your campaign is going well.” Ivan knew there was little need for Glinka to campaign for the seat he already held, even if interim. He was a skilled politician and had amassed all the support he needed to overwhelm the polls. Ivan’s own youth movement had played a critical part in rallying the country in the wake of Gorev’s assassination. The secret core of that formidable collegiate force had long been in Ivan’s pocket. If anyone believed he was still at the point of the V-formation, it was the heady young subversives drunk on the promise of a Soviet resurrection. Ivan smiled at the thought of them. They would lead the revolution, the trusting flock. Not Glinka. Ivan would see to that.

He already had.

S
pencer Fremont had no choice but to leave his post at the store and hurry straight to the university. He’d never received orders from the FBI before. It felt strange to be intrinsic to national security, if that’s what this was. Agents Jakes and Thomlin weren’t telling, but two agents had suddenly become six that morning, the reinforcements newly arrived from the Miami bureau.

Spencer had just opened the store and turned on the lights when Jakes and a fellow agent, whose name Spencer didn’t catch, entered. Alone in the store, they had explained to Spencer that certain evidence had been gathered during the night and it was imperative that he proceed immediately to the university. He was to check the warehouse and gather as much intelligence as he could regarding the departure of the tractor-trailer rig just before daybreak that morning. All without drawing undue attention from Curt Vandoren, in particular.

With the influx of camp visitors bound for the séance that night, Spencer found a good many of them in the university lobby that morning. Two of Vandoren’s front-desk personnel were busy answering questions about classes when Spencer slipped through the crowd and headed down the hallway to the library. He was grateful he’d avoided the usual small talk with one administrative assistant or another, since he’d be compelled to explain why he was here on an unscheduled day. He knew Vandoren didn’t care when he worked, though, as long as the work was done.

Once inside the library, Spencer hurried to the window and looked out. The tractor-trailer rig he’d seen on Sunday was, indeed, gone. He hadn’t noted anything about its markings or license plate. Now, he hurried back to the hallway and peered toward the lobby. With the convenient distraction of visitors milling about, he went straight to the warehouse and entered his code, already clear on his excuse for being there. Like before, he only wished to restock workbooks to the classrooms.

He opened the door and stopped to listen. There was no one there, and no crate. It didn’t take long to give the open space a thorough onceover, finding nothing unusual to report to the anxious agents waiting for him outside the camp gate. He was supposed to meet them there as soon as possible. They were nervous about something, Spencer knew. And it was clear they all didn’t agree on sending a civilian to do their investigative work. He’d overheard them discuss it, one of them insisting that the “least resistant path was best.” That meant sending someone who belonged there and would raise no suspicions, sound no alarms. Spencer had waited meekly for them to decide his fate. Mild-mannered store clerk to super spy in a single bound. A divine alignment of circumstances had brought him to this point. Just like the clear direction God had given him about his role in tonight’s séance. Not the tourist event on the commons, but the one deep in the woods.

He couldn’t fret about that now. He had to figure a way to get information about the truck, maybe from the receptionists, though he doubted anyone on staff would know about something as off-radar as Vandoren’s late-night activities. Still, he would try to gather whatever he could.

As he headed back to the door, he heard someone enter the code on the other side. He held his breath, prepared to deliver a practiced alibi when Danny Otis pushed open the door and hailed him with a bright, “Hey there, Mr. Fremont!”

The cringe inside Spencer must have traveled to his face. “What’s the matter?” Danny asked, his voice still booming.

“You just startled me, Danny. That’s all.”

“Whatcha doing here?”

As Spencer considered how best to answer that, Danny went to a closet on the other side and pulled out a telescoping pole with an oval brush on the end. He didn’t seem to be waiting for an answer, so Spencer kept quiet.

“Those high paddle fans are a bear to clean,” Danny said, closing the closet door and returning to Spencer. “But I rigged this old pool-cleaning pole with a loop brush. Pretty smart, huh?”

“Indeed! I’m impressed with the things you know.” This was his chance. “By the way, do you know what happened to the truck that was parked out back?”

“Naw. I heard it leave early this morning. Didn’t know they were going to ship that big thing out of here. I thought it was going to be something else for me to dust down at the house. Guess not. Don’t know where it went.”

Spencer was disappointed. “Well, uh, say, who’s truck was that anyway? I never saw it around here before.”

“Don’t know that either. None of my business.” He looked a bit sideways at Spencer as if maybe it wasn’t his either. “But now Mr. Vandoren, he’s my business, you know, since he pays me to keep his house. And now he tells me he’s leaving for a while and won’t be needing me. Heck of a note, I say. I need that money.”

“Where’s he going?” Spencer pressed.

“Don’t know.”

“Leaving by chopper again?”

“Not this time. By boat, after the séance tonight. Friends of his, he says.”

Tonight?
That was too soon. For what, he wasn’t sure, but he worried that news wouldn’t sit well with the FBI. “You don’t know how long he’ll be gone?”

“Nope,” Danny said as he steadied the long pole and reached for the door. “Now, I got to get back to work. Unless you need a hand with anything.” He looked expectantly at Spencer. “You come in here for something?”

“Oh, uh, yeah. A box of those séance manuals for tonight, but I can get them. We’re going to display them in the store for Mr. Vandoren.” He thought again about the man leaving by boat. “Uh, Danny, just curious. Where would Mr. Vandoren meet that boat?”
Better give him a good reason for asking.
“I might need to catch up with him after the séance. You know, take him something for his trip.” He winced inside at such a weak excuse. But Danny didn’t seem to notice.

“The marina,” he called over his shoulder as he left, closing the door behind him.

Spencer grabbed a small box of the manuals and closed up the warehouse. Minutes later, he left the university, choosing not to engage anyone else in questioning. He feared he’d pushed the limit with Danny. After the FBI cleared out of Anhinga Bay, Spencer would have to remain. This was his home and Curt Vandoren his employer and neighbor. Spencer didn’t know if the man had done anything wrong or not. Maybe the agents were on the wrong trail. Still, he hurried to meet them with his news.

The cabin of
Exodus II
was too crowded for Ian’s comfort. Agent Jakes was decent company, but his fellow agent, Jim Stetz, was wound so tight he moved and talked in squeaks, Ian observed to Henry. They’d been camped with the two agents since Spencer Fremont had returned from his mission that morning and reported Vandoren would leave by boat that night.

Besides Jakes and Stetz, Ian had occasionally entertained a few more federal agents who’d wandered into the marina dressed like fishermen with nothing else to do but observe the catch coming in from some of the half-day charters—all the while, watching for Curt Vandoren’s ride out of there. It would be after the séance, Spencer Fremont had reported, but the agents couldn’t be sure Vandoren wouldn’t slip out sooner.

“And you’re sure he’s going to meet Volynski?” Ian asked those assembled in his boat’s cabin.

Agent Stetz sprang at him. “Mr. O’Brien, I must ask you to refrain from speaking that name too loosely or loudly. These windows are open and nobody else on these docks needs to know our business.”

Ian studied him calmly. “Well, that’s a reasonable request. Now, I’ve got one for you. Finish that tuna sandwich I made for you and down some of those Twinkies. They’ll sweeten you up a bit.” He smiled kindly at the middle-aged man and turned to wipe down the galley counter.

A few moments later, Agent Jakes was at his side. “You’re right, Mr. O’Brien,” he said in a hushed voice. “We suspect Volynski is in the Keys somewhere, and that Vandoren might be meeting him tonight. If that bomb is on its way, we think the two of them will be, as well.”

Ian nodded, thinking ahead. “So you’ll need to plant a GPS tracker on his boat, won’t you?”

Agent Jakes looked pleasantly surprised. “That’s exactly right, Mr. O’Brien.”

“But how will you know which boat it is? By the time you watch him board, it’ll be too late.”

“That’s why we’re here, sir. To watch for the most likely vessel.”

Ian shook his head. “Wrong. It’ll be the
unlikely
one.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, by
likely
, you probably mean something high-end like Vandoren’s house and that fancy university with its own airstrip, right?”

Jakes answered hesitantly. “Yeah.”

“It’s obvious that Vandoren has money. But if he’s looking to slip out of here unnoticed, he won’t do the obvious.” Ian pulled a curtain back over the galley window. “You look out there. See anything high-end?”

Agent Jakes obliged, scanning the nearby slips lining the main dock. “No, sir,” he admitted.

“Right. Just a bunch of workhorse tubs and a sprinkling of cruisers and sailboats not much spryer than I am. This isn’t resort country. Never has been.” He pulled the curtain back over the window. “Now, if it’s okay with you and your friend, I’m going to find Henry and see what we can come up with.”

But Ian didn’t wait for approval. Seconds later, he was on the dock and hailing Henry, who’d just stepped from the marina store carrying a small grocery bag. Chet Blanchard followed him out.

As Ian approached, Henry drilled him with a warning glare, which Ian took to mean,
don’t say too much.