Key West Connection (22 page)

The trick was to set up my secondary diversion so that I could get to my primary target—the big sportfisherman that was being loaded and outfitted to take Ellsworth and his crew away.

The old man sat with his face to the wall, relaxed and ready to talk as I tied him. The wall was a peeling green, and there was a service-station calendar—big redhead with improbable bosoms—three years behind the times.

“Ropes too tight, Pop?”

“Nope. Jes' right. Don't really have to tie me anyway, mister. Got a sneakin' suspicion you're the law. Be glad to he'p ya. Frankly, I wouldn't mind givin' that bastard Ellsworth a slap or two myself.”

I allowed myself a short laugh. “Pop, I need your help—but in a different way. Where did the Senator keep his important papers?”

“Couldn't tell ya. He'd never let me near that study o' his.”

“That tells me quite a bit right there. Now, what about that small wooden building on the other side of the big house? Anybody live in it?”

“Nope—that's the toolshed. Nothin' in there but rats and some machinery.”

I finished the last knot. “Pop, I'm not going to gag you. And you better not let me down. If Ellsworth or one of his boys shows up, you tell them three federal agents came in here and overpowered you. Got it? And don't mention me, no matter what.”

The old man nodded complacently. It was as if being tied up was an everyday occurrence.

I slipped back outside. The storm pod was full above us now, and I took special care not to be seen in the white peal of lightning. The rain was warm on my face, and trees on the island, writhing in the wind, looked like huge living creatures, anchored in their agony.

I wanted to go to the house first. I kept thinking about the brave and beautiful woman, Bimini, who had saved my life. I kept wondering what they had done to her.

But I could afford no concessions to emotion. Not now. Not then. Not on any mission—ever. I had to follow my game plan.

Reluctantly I went in stealth, away from the house, down toward the boat docks. The men worked on; their monotonous lifting and passing, lifting and passing, captured in the yellow glow of a huge yard light. They carried smaller boxes now, wrapped in plastic against the rain. Drugs? Possibly. Ellsworth and the Senator probably wanted to make one last big score.

The docks consisted of a cement seawall, two long fingers of wooden pier, and roofed boathouse, beneath which was the racing boat. The big sportfisherman was secured between the two lengths of pier, well bumpered against the roll of sea. The men used the pier between the sportfisherman and the cigarette hull, loading via the starboard planking. There was no cover between the bushes near the cottage and where the swampy mangrove line started to the left of the second pier.

So I made a run for it. I had no choice. I tried to time the lightning; tried to time it just right. And then I made my move, running low with long, smooth strides. And when I reached the pier, I swung down beneath it and waited. Waited for some hue and cry. Or a gunshot. Or for the sound of Ellsworth's voice.

But there was nothing. Only the low laughter and conversation of the working men. They marched along, only fifteen or twenty yards from my new hiding spot, snatches of their voices coming to me only vaguely in the roar of storm.

“Ain't fit weather for man nor . . . ”

“ . . . ought to about do it, huh, Gibson?”

“Hope so, man, hope so.”

“ . . . an' what about that black bitch, huh?”

“Stick to them white girls, Ace. Stay on you own side o' da fence.”

I strained to hear what they might have to say about Bimini. But I could make out nothing more. And when I was sure that they had not seen me, that none of them had caught even a glimpse of me, I reached into the knapsack and began putting on my mask and fins.

The area around the sportfisherman was well lighted. Very well lighted. There was a big floodlight above it, and it illuminated the water beneath it. The waves rolled and receded, jadelike and glistening. In its huge bulk, the sportfish erman barely moved.

I slid into the water, taking care not to let the sea crest knock me back into the barnacled pilings. In the flash of lightning, the mangroves that curved away from the pier threw weird shadows. I stayed close to the mangroves, pulling myself along in their cover. And when they reached a point, out and away from the pier where I knew the water deepened, I stopped and took ten good deep breaths, hyperventilating.

And that's when I saw it. Hidden back in a little cove, looking a fluorescent blue in the bright burst of lightning—my little Boston Whaler.

It was a good sign. A good omen. I had bought that solid little skiff for Ernest and Honor. It was the boat I wanted them to learn about the sea on. And now its discovery became not only a faster means of getting back to the
Sniper
when I needed to, it also offered fair augury for the approaching mission.

I almost smiled. It bounced and jerked above the spent waves like a toy duck. Fair sea, foul sea—a dependable little boat. It was almost like seeing an old friend.

It was a short sixty-yard swim to the Senator's sportfisherman. I got the RDX I needed from the knapsack and dove.

The lights of the boathouse guided me. They shimmered strangely on the pier, beneath the water, revealing silvered baitfish and the long, black stiletto forms of barracuda. I pulled myself through the water, using long, solid strokes of fin, my arms at my sides. There was no hurry. I had them now.

I surfaced beneath the dock at the stern of the boat. I could hear the loud creak of footsteps above me. Heavy men, heavy loads. The name of the sportfisherman, in golden letters a foot and a half high, blared out the boat's name:
Independence
.

So typical of the political hypocrite mentality—cover the vehicle of dirty deeds with glorious nomenclature.

It made me want to vomit.

I knew where I wanted to place the block of RDX. Under the skeg, beneath the engines. When the boat went, I wanted it to be useless for ever and ever; a wasted hulk to remind the Senator—and bastards like the Senator—that there are still some people you can't walk over. There are people who will fight back.

I submerged quietly and checked out the bottom. I wanted to do the job perfectly and with care—RDX is nothing to play around with. Cyclonite, military variety—one of the most powerful explosives of all. A partial block would do the trick and still leave the little Whaler, 150 yards or more away, high and dry. It would take the boathouse and probably damage the sleek blue death boat secured on the next pier—but nothing else.

I was concentrating so intently on fastening the RDX just right that it wasn't until too late that I realized I wasn't in the water alone.

Ellsworth was taking precautions, all right. Guards above the water. And below. And when the diver, complete with tanks and wet suit, grabbed me from behind, I suddenly understood what all the light was for. They had posted a night underwater patrol. Ellsworth hadn't been much of a SEAL—but he had worked with plenty of good ones. And he knew how to secure an area. I had to give him that.

The diver took me down, his arms locked around my throat. His plan was simple. He wanted to drown me.

I forced myself to be calm; to think. It was certainly not the first time I had been attacked underwater—in training or in actual combat. He would have a knife, of course. And I couldn't afford to make him use it. Even a lucky stab with my Gerber would only condemn him to a slow, bleeding death—long after he had cut my throat. He wanted to drown me? Fine. I would let him drown me.

I pawed at his arms frantically. I jerked and squirmed—but not hard enough to break free. And, after a half minute of that, I gave a final, convulsive heave and then went slack, letting a little, precious air bubble from my lips.

I was either some actor, or he was no critic—because he released his grip and began to pull me upward. And we had nearly reached the surface when I slid my Gerber out of its holster and jammed, with one smooth thrust, all eight inches of blade up through his throat, into his brain.

There was no violent death struggle from that diver. He folded as if anesthetized, and I carried him back down to the bottom, a black curl of blood following us. After a long, welcomed exchange of air from his regulator, I pulled him to a piling beneath the dock and tied him down with quick hitches, neck and legs. I took a few more deep breaths from his regulator, and then screwed off his air.

I didn't want anyone to notice that his telltale bubbles stayed, now, in one place.

The RDX was still in position. It hadn't been knocked loose by his attack. I secured it with a length of wire, considered adding another partial block for good measure, and then decided against it.

I surfaced once more beneath the dock for air, and then swam the sixty yards back to the mangroves underwater. The rain hit my face with an angular velocity when I surfaced. Stormy August night: sea and rain both as warm as blood.

It would be best to get Bimini out of the house—if that's where she was—before I started Diversion One. That I knew. In the dirty business of drug running, all witnesses, all competitors, all unwanted baggage, are disposed of as readily as picnic paperware. And, besides, entering the house now might give me a few minutes alone with Ellsworth. The few precious minutes it would take to rip his throat out with my bare hands.

I put the mask and fins back in the knapsack and took a short breather. The underwater struggle had brought my head injury to bear. There was a throbbing pain at the base of my neck, and I felt a little dizzy. My wrist, where the dog had bitten me, ached with every pulse of heartbeat. I checked my Rolex. They still didn't know I was on the island. And my mission wouldn't take long to complete now. I could take it. I was in pain—but a sweet, sweet pain it was.

I stuck the detonator to the RDX into my left thigh pocket and buttoned it securely. And in the momentary darkness, I scampered back toward the cover near the little cottage. A bright explosion of lightning sent the limb of a huge gumbo limbo crashing to the earth, not far from the boathouse. I saw the men duck reflexively.

“Why'nt we call it quits for tonight?” I heard one of them yell.

“Can't, brother. Can't.”

“I say screw Ellsworth.”

“Keep it down, man. He'll be coming down from the house soon. Might hear you.”

“I don't give a shit if he does. Tired of this crap, man.”

So, he was in the house.

The Senator's hulking fortress sat huge and well lighted in the pouring rain on the mound above me. The yellow rectangles of windows looked like peering eyes from my vantage point. I wanted to gain entrance to the house unseen, get Bimini, and get her to safety. And once that was done, I could go ahead with the operation—which would mean that, for a few minutes, I would have free access to the sportfisherman and then, later, be able to roam the house at will.

If everything went as planned.

And it would. I had plenty of time, now. Things were going smoothly. Very smoothly indeed.

I wouldn't have seen the guard on the porch had it not been for the lightning. Big man, dressed in black, with a full black beard. He held some kind of automatic weapon, cradled in his arms. The guard, in the strange light, looked oddly like a wax figure.

I readied the Cobra crossbow, stuck a shaft in it, and cocked it. And then I leveled the weapon, poised on the dark space of side porch where I knew he stood. And with the next white crack of lightning, I fired. I didn't see him go down. But I heard him.

All clear.

I hustled up the mound, hugging the jungle of wet foliage. Little rivulets of rainwater swirled down the ancient shells, heading for the timeless rendezvous of sea. Before I reached the door, I stopped and looked in the window of the master bedroom. The Bach played on in evidence of the island girl who loved the classics. But she wasn't there. No one was in the room. The covers of the bed were thrown back, revealing silk sheets. There was a half-finished bourbon on the hatchcover table.

She was up and awake. But where?

I went to the fallen heap which was the guard. I pulled him down off the porch and hid him in the bushes, binding and gagging him. I took his weapon and jammed a solid length of jasmine twig down the barrel and broke it off.

The person who tried to use that rifle again would be awfully, awfully sorry.

Carefully, I opened the door. Just cracked it enough so that I could look in. The cold force of air conditioning hit me full in the face. I was at the side hallway. Beyond was the entrance to the master bedroom, the ornate bathroom and sauna bath, and the Senator's study. A huge dark figure stood outside the study door, and I could hear muffled voices coming from within—muted laughter; something that sounded like a groan.