Mark of the Devil (20 page)

“Damn!”

“My sentiments, exactly,” Park said. “I’m scared Ashley’s gonna get in over her head, and with that crowd, anything can happen. She’s starting to get nervous. I can tell from her voice.”

“Goddamn it, Steve, there’s not a thing you or I can do about it until I get there. What about the AFI ship? Has it been back out to the sub?”

“Been in Shoemaker’s shipyard on the St. Johns since you left, getting some fire damage repaired.” Park chuckled. “Wonder how that happened? Anyway, I was on the beach yesterday afternoon and this morning. I’ve got people watching with binoculars from what’s left of the old pier, but the weather’s been so bad—nor’easter for the last couple of days—doubt if they would’ve been able to get in much work with their divers.”

“Good. I’ll keep trying to reach Ashley. If I don’t, I’ll let you know when I’m coming in. If you see her or talk to her, tell her I’ll be there tomorrow and, if she can, to pick me up at the airport. I’ll try to make connections outta Newark for a direct flight, but it’ll be late.”

“If the weather clears,” Park said, “I might be taking a group down to the Keys. Long time commitment. Steve Jr. can relay the message.”

Matt ended, “That’s fine. Just keep telling Ashley I said get the hell away from AFI. I want my wife still living and breathing when I get home.”

First, Ashley needed to find out as much as she could about the AFI organization and the sunken submarine. That’s why she was there, wasn’t it? Second, if these people had already tried to kill Matt, she’d do whatever it took to bring them down.

Right?

Right.

But at the same time, if at all possible, she needed Starla Shoemaker to keep her hands to herself. Whether her embarrassment had been from knowing it was something she’d been taught was unnatural, or because she’d found herself enjoying the touch of a beautiful woman, she wasn’t sure. But damn it, if she refused the woman’s advances, what would she have accomplished? Like the receptionist, she would be on the street with nothing to show for her efforts. Too late for second thoughts. There could be no turning back. Matt needed her. That’s all she had to do: think of Matt.

With renewed determination, she watched the floor-level indicator blink its way to the twenty-sixth floor and stop as the elevator door slid open with a soft swooshing sound. No more than two steps through the opening and she stopped, stunned at what, at first glance, appeared to be a world of total opulence. The entrance was a rounded arch of stone. And beyond, across a floor of pearl-veined marble, alabaster busts of Roman emperors on onyx pedestals stared vacantly at a three-quarter life-sized statue of Botticelli’s Venus. As in the original, the sculptor’s work gave the impression of the goddess rising from the water of a reflecting pool on a giant gilded scallop shell. The soft trickle of water mixed with the muted sounds of violins that seemed to come from everywhere and, at the same time, nowhere, created an immediate aura of dreamy contentment that prompted Ashley to shake her head to make sure she was awake.

Farther on were severely tailored, bone-white furnishings and richly designed carpets, placed as though floating on air above wide vistas of the St. Johns River, its bridges, and the distant cityscape in the floor-to-ceiling windows.

This stuff damn well didn’t come from Rooms-to-Go or La-Z-Boy,
she thought. Paris, Rome, or New York, but certainly not anywhere Ashley Peake-Berkeley shopped. The Holiday Inn Sunday art auctions never displayed the likes of what graced the walls here. As she stepped from the elevator, her trained eyes picked out the works of Dali, Miro, Magritte, Delaunay, Chagall, Picasso. Surreal or cubist, each piece depicted a woman, or women, most of them strangely shaped in circular or triangular patterns, and each one naked! She picked out Picasso’s “Torse de Femme,” Toulouse-Lautrec’s “RedHeaded Nude Crouching,” Magritte’s “Lola de Valence.” Originals or copies, she didn’t know. Each frame alone had to be worth hundreds, if not thousands.

“Come in, Ashley, darling.” The voice floated across the room like a bodiless spirit as Ashley made her way past Venus and around the reflecting pool. The early evening sky outlined Starla’s silk pajama-clad body. The deep tan of her skin, as well as the golden flow of her hair, created a provocatively sensuous contrast against the white silk of her pajamas bearing an embroidered red and gold dragon across the front. Ashley couldn’t help herself. The words
God, she’s beautiful
flashed through her mind.

“So glad you could come. Welcome to my private little place of refuge. Neither my husband nor dear, dear Eric are allowed up here, nor do they know about it.” Gesturing in different directions, she added. “A little here, a little there, and no one the wiser.”

Ashley smiled inwardly at
a little here, a little there,
realizing that Starla was the one with her fingers in the money pot, skimming AFI finances off the top.

“Wine?” Starla held up the bottle. “
Santa Margherita Pinot
Grigio.
Italian, my favorite.” She beckoned Ashley forward with her
other hand. “Come, we have much to talk about and much to do. Perhaps later, we’ll have dinner sent up.”

As Ashley walked past the reflecting pool, the flash of at least a dozen or so large orange, red, and white Koi darting after dark little pellets of food caught her eye. She wondered, was she like the tiny morsels, about to be devoured by the largest fish in the pond?

“I can only stay a few minutes, Starla. I’m supposed to meet my girl friend, the one I’m staying with, for dinner and movies at…” Ashley looked quickly at her watch. “…at seven.”

“Not to worry, dear,” Starla said. “A few minutes late never hurt anyone.”

Starla held out her hand, taking Ashley’s and gently pulling her forward before brushing Ashley’s cheek with her lips. “So nice to see you outside an office environment. Here, sit, relax, have wine. It’s delicious.” Starla poured the wine into a long-stemmed crystal goblet, then held her own glass out for a toast. “To much success and a warm friendship.”

Ashley lifted her goblet against Starla’s. “Success,” she toasted, not wanting to go further.

Without waiting for Ashley, Starla settled onto one end of the sofa, sinking into its cushions, at the same time motioning Ashley to the other end. Sipping her wine, Starla said, “You’re a diver and you told me you’ve made a number of dives on archeological sites.”

“Yes. My certification card is in my wallet if you’d like to see—”

“Not necessary, but come to think of it, there is one thing I am curious about. Striker, the man in the office today—”

“The man who came to see you this afternoon?”

“Yes, he said you looked familiar. Did you recognize him?”

“Uh, no.” Ashley shook her head, trying to ignore the stinging little chills that crept down the back of her skull into her spine. “Should I have?”

Starla stared hard at Ashley for a moment before saying, “No, my dear. Let’s forget it. What I was going to say was, how’d you like to go out with me tomorrow on our ship, the
Sea Rover?
Henry’s people finished with the repairs from that nasty little fire you mentioned. Rotten weather yesterday and today, but tomorrow’s forecast looks like it will be good for diving.”

Ashley’s brow furrowed as if Starla had said something she didn’t understand. “Henry?” she asked.

“My husband, Henry Shoemaker. Like everything else, he owns a shipyard just north of Blount Island on the St. Johns. Only a few miles from the ocean. He likes to think of me as one of his possessions, but then,” Starla continued without hesitation, “that could change if my efforts are as rewarding as I hope.”

Pocketing that bit of information and its implications in the back of her mind, Ashley said, “You’ve mentioned your husband, but I didn’t know his name. Not being from here, I didn’t realize how extensive Alliance Industries’ holdings are. Owning a shipyard must be useful. And, yes, I’d love to go out, but I’ve got so much work to do in the office, I—”

“Let me worry about the office, dear. You just might be more valuable on the
Sea Rover.
You see, I’m not a diver and I’d like someone to…shall we say, be my eyes and ears both above and below the water.”

“Is this for the submarine thing, the one I heard the ocean exploration people talking about?” Ashley asked, peripherally aware of Starla’s right foot moving from its fur-lined slipper, onto the sofa, and nestling warm against her thigh. She felt a shiver of what? Revulsion? Anticipation? What?

Through her smile, Starla answered, “Um-um. There might be some very valuable artifacts on board. It’s all very closely held, and you’ll have to sign a security statement before you go, but that shouldn’t be a problem, should it?” Starla turned her head slightly, looking almost sideways at Ashley, allowing a raised eyebrow to express only the inkling of doubt concerning Ashley’s response.

“Oh, no, no,” Ashley answered, hoping her enthusiasm wasn’t too obvious. “I mean, I’d love to go, and there’s no reason why I couldn’t sign.”

Starla laughed softly. “That’s what I like to hear. Part of the team, or perhaps in this context, the sisterhood. Right?”

“Why not?”

“I think you’ll find it both exciting and, if you take the plunge, a bit unnerving, much the way you feel right now.” Starla’s smile broadened as her foot moved slowly against Ashley’s thigh, the toe catching the edge of Ashley’s skirt and tugging it back, inch by inch, until the weight of Ashley’s body against the sofa stopped the movement. “But from what we both experienced this afternoon, I’m sure you’ll relish every moment of it.”

“Starla, I’m—” Ashley caught herself before blurting,
I’m married and I love my husband.
Instead, she said, “This afternoon, I’m not sure what happened.” She shook her head. “I’ve never—”

“I know exactly how you feel. My first time, I…” Starla laughed, pulled her foot back, set her wine goblet on the table in front of the sofa and levered herself forward, moving closer to Ashley. “I thought, ‘This isn’t right. I’m not like this.’ But I found a pleasure I’ve never felt with a man.” Starla laughed again, waving off the implication. “Oh, no, my dear, I still adore and absolutely crave men, but with a woman, it’s so much more intimate, so much more loving and tender. And the things I can tell you and do for you…share with you.” She let her words linger on the air.

As Starla took Ashley’s hand and pulled her closer, the words,
It’s for you, Matt
, kept running through her mind, but also, the questions,
What will she tell me? Share with me? The information I need? What if I say no?
The receptionist’s words echoed in her memory.
“Like me, you might as well start looking for another job.”

Even so, Ashley tried to get up, but Starla pulled her back.

“No, Ashley, you want this as much as I do. I know it. I sensed it this afternoon.”

Ashley felt Starla’s hand behind her head, turning it slightly until she felt Starla’s lips, the pressure of her tongue and the taste of the now familiar flavor of wine and lipstick. Starla brought Ashley’s hand forward until Ashley felt the silk pajamas and the breast that lay beneath, the immediate hardening of the nipple as, slowly, under Starla’s guidance, she began to massage.

Suddenly, Starla’s hands moved to Ashley’s blouse, expertly releasing each button from its tiny holding place, the front clasp to Ashley’s bra, the zipper along the side of the skirt. All the while, her hands caressed Ashley’s body with each fluid motion.

“Don’t be afraid, Ashley,” Starla whispered. “Touch me. Explore me. I won’t break.” With a soft laugh, Starla added, “I promise.”

Knowing she was past the point of no return, Ashley did as she was told. Through the movement of her hands, Ashley sensed the silkiness of Starla’s body, the surprising firmness of the woman’s buttocks and the softness between her thighs. Trying to concentrate on what she had to do and why, Ashley felt, then heard, the moan that worked its way up her throat as both body and mind finally surrendered to Starla’s desires and to what, unbelievably, had suddenly become her own.

Saturday, 27 October 2001

When Ashley first saw it sitting on the landing pad on Blount Island, its five-bladed rotors turning slowly in anticipation of lifting into the blue, she was astounded at the helicopter’s sheer size. The blue and white fuselage, with “ALLIANCE INDUSTRIES” painted along its after section, stretched for at least sixty to seventy feet, not including the tail and its rotors. As with everything else on Blount Island, especially Henry Shoemaker’s Alliance Industries and its three roll-on, roll-off ships currently loading and off-loading cargo at the piers, it all seemed bigger than life.

With the scream of rotors in her ears and the sensation of being slowly pushed down into her seat as the huge Westland EH-101 helicopter rose from the ground, Ashley was still mentally sifting through the facts Starla had told her the evening before. Though there were many unanswered questions, as even Starla admitted, Ashley knew what she’d learned was information Matt was after. The disappearance of a mysterious German U-boat off the East Coast and the near certainty of treasure on board. There had been, however, the hint of something else Starla believed to be onboard, something even more valuable to her than gold, but a hint was all she’d given. And finally, the statement Ashley herself had signed in Henry Shoemaker’s office that morning. The secretiveness of it all.

My God,
she thought.
How did I get myself into this?

The big helicopter—awkward when earthbound, streamlined in flight—quickly gained altitude and sped along the north bank of the St. Johns River. On the opposite shore, Ashley could see the Mayport Naval Station and its gray-on-gray aircraft carrier, the designation CV-67 painted in large, black lettering on its superstructure island. A number of cruisers and destroyers were berthed alongside other piers that hummed with human and mechanical activity. Once past the boulder-stacked jetties that marked the mouth of the St. Johns and over the Atlantic, the helicopter swung sharply to starboard on a southerly course.

It was Ashley’s first ride in a helicopter. With her right shoulder forced heavily against the window during the turn, the churning riptide of water where the river’s brown met the ocean’s blue seemed to rise up to meet her. She gripped the armrests as tightly as she could, conscious that both Starla and Eric Bruder were staring at her from across the table.

“First time in a helo?” Bruder asked over the sound of the main rotors slightly forward of where they were seated.

Ashley relaxed, exhaled her relief, and laughed softly at herself as the helicopter leveled off a good 3000 feet above the water. “Yes. Afraid I wasn’t prepared to stand on my head during that turn. How far to the ship?”

“About eight miles south from the river’s entrance,” Starla answered. “Off Jacksonville Beach. We’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Ashley looked around, taking in the interior of the cabin. She was surprised at its spaciousness—reclining chairs of soft lamb’s leather that could swivel 180 degrees, mahogany tables with beveled glass and cup holders, and a fully stocked bar near the front of the cabin. Sea island vistas swam across vinyl-padded walls and overhead. The padding, she decided, was to reduce engine and rotor noises. “I have to admit, if you’re going somewhere in a helicopter, this is certainly the way to go.”

Bruder laughed. “This sweet little machine was built to seat thirty plus an attendant, not including pilot and co-pilot, but Henry had it redesigned to very comfortably accommodate only ten. Our flight’s so short today, no need for the attendant.”

Ashley felt the helicopter begin a turn toward the building-packed shore, then back to port and the open sea, all the while gradually losing altitude. Through one of the portside windows, she caught her first glimpse of the 250-foot
Sea Rover
in a four-point anchorage—its twin hulls, its squared-off superstructure with the strange looking movable crane immediately aft, and the stern helicopter landing platform.

“My God,” Ashley breathed. “It’s a giant catamaran.”

Both Bruder and Starla laughed, and Starla answered, “A former U. S. Navy ship. Henry bought it from the Navy when it was decommissioned, and had it refitted for AFI requirements.”

“And we’re going to land on that?” Ashley asked, not believing the helicopter could land on what still appeared to be such a small platform. “It’s a postage stamp.”

With the hint of a smile on her face, Starla reached across the table and laid her hand on Ashley’s, her fingertips gently stroking the back of Ashley’s hand. The familiarity of the touch sent shivers along the back of Ashley’s neck. “Not to worry, my dear,” Starla assured her. “I look forward to the two of us doing things like this together many times in the future.”

Was that a chuckle Ashley heard coming from Bruder’s direction? She watched the man’s raised eyebrow and his upturned lip working its way into a smirk as he re-buckled himself into the seat and faced toward the window.
She told him, goddamn it!
flashed across Ashley’s mind.
She told him, and he knows what happened last night!

Moments later, Ashley felt the helicopter’s tires touch the landing platform. From her window, she watched two men scurry up hidden ladders with equipment to secure the helicopter to the deck. A third man pushed a set of rolling metal steps toward the helicopter, disappearing to the other side of the craft as the whir of the rotors slowed, gradually winding down to a halt. Almost immediately, the portside cabin door swung open in the forward part of the compartment and a head popped in. Ashley saw the face and tensed.
Yesterday, Starla’s office. Oh God, it’s him!

“Mrs. Shoemaker,” the man said, “steps in place. Anything we can help you with?”

Starla moved quickly to the door and took the man’s offered hand. “We’re traveling light today, but the other lady can use a hand.”

With Bruder behind her, Ashley took the hand and allowed the man to guide her down six short steps to the landing platform, immediately feeling the slight roll of the ship beneath her feet.

Trying to hide her nervousness, Ashley thanked him, adding, “Now all I need are my sea legs.”

The man, stockily built with a swarthy complexion and hands twice the size of Ashley’s, looked at her for a moment, studying her face as though there was something familiar, before replying, “Won’t take long. Name’s Striker. Need anything, yell.”

Before she could respond, she felt Bruder’s hand in the small of her back, urging her forward. “Forget it, Striker. She’s spoken for.”

Both surprised and angry, Ashley jerked around at Bruder’s remark, ready to tell him to mind his own business. Before she could speak, even more surprising was the scowl that darkened Striker’s face and the low growl in his voice. “Up yours, Bruder, you and that high-nosed attitude of yours.”

Bruder, several inches taller than Striker, stared down at the man. “Careful, Striker.” The harshness of his half-whisper carried across the deck. “Your Polack obnoxiousness could well be the end of you. One word. That’s all I have to say, and—”

“Ashley,” Starla called from the ladder leading down to the main deck and forward. “Come meet the ship’s captain, and then we’ll have lunch before taking a look at what lies on the bottom.”

Turning away from the two men and without looking back, Ashley hurried to the ladder. She was determined to follow Starla, not only to lunch and the bottom of the sea, but wherever she had to go to learn as much as she could as quickly as she could. If only she knew when Matt was getting home. With her new cell phone, which seemed to work at its choosing and not hers, and no opportunity to call Steve Park since noon yesterday, she had no idea. Maybe after lunch, she’d try to call if she got a chance. But she had to be careful. In the back of her mind was a constant buzz that kept saying,
Watch it, lady. For all you know, they don’t take prisoners.

But with what she’d just witnessed and heard, could the man Striker be an ally if worse came to worse? Still, she was anxious over the way he had looked at her, both in Starla’s office and just then. She couldn’t remember ever seeing the man before, so why had he told Starla she looked familiar? She felt a sudden, involuntary shudder in her shoulders as though the proverbial rabbit had just run across her grave.

Newark, New Jersey

Suspended from the ceiling above lines of irritable and unhappy travelers moving forward at glacier speed, the old fashioned, moon-shaped clock read 12:37 p.m.

The crowds were almost suffocating, and the noise? Matt had made connections in Newark before, but this was a nightmare in Technicolor. Following the World Trade Center and Pentagon attacks, security was such that someone was constantly there, inspecting luggage with or without sniffing dogs, running it through an X-ray machine and waving across his body an extremely sensitive metal-detecting wand that gave loud beeps each time it passed his belt buckle. Off with the belt, watch, keys, and coins, but it was the metal rod in his thigh, a souvenir from two tours in the Mekong Delta as commander of Riverine squadrons that gave them fits.

Finally, Matt reached the counter and a line of ticket agents harried to the point of utter frustration. They eyed each traveler as though he or she were the next suicide bomber. “Long day, huh?” he asked, trying to smooth the way for his own needs.

“You kidding?” the woman said, automatically reaching for his ticket pouch and extracting the ticket information. “Oh, God, another one.”

“Another what?”

“The flight from Frankfurt that laid over in St. John’s. I think I’m the only one today that’s worked you people.” She scanned his ticket. “Jacksonville. That’s better than Washington, D.C.”

“Why’s that?”

“They all want to go to Reagan International. It’s like they’ve been underground for the past month and a half. Reagan’s still closed.” Pecking at the keyboard in front of the computer monitor, the woman—Alicia on her nametag—shook her head, pecked some more and shook her head again.

Matt leaned over the counter and asked, “Problem?”

“Hate to tell you, but our flights this afternoon and evening to Jacksonville are completely booked. Actually overbooked. I’ve tried Northwest, United, Delta, and American, but with companies still trying to get their schedules on track after nine-eleven, nothing. Everything’s booked solid.”

“Damn!” Matt cursed, turning in place, only to find the face of another weary traveler, a whole line of faces stretching for what he judged to be the length of one and a half football fields. Turning back, he asked, “What’s the first flight you can get me on?”

More pecking, more head shaking, and then a sigh. “There’s a direct flight to Jacksonville, would you believe tomorrow afternoon? She turned the monitor so Matt could see. The entry indicated departure at 3:30, arriving in Jacksonville at 5:53. She paused a moment before adding, “If it’ll make you feel any better, you’re welcome to call me a dirty name. It won’t be the first time today.”

Matt laughed. “Just give me the direct-to-Jacksonville flight, and I’ll leave you to your misery while I go nurse a good cold beer, try to call a friend, and find a place to lay my head for the night.”