Mark of the Devil (21 page)

Sea Rover’s
operations control center was dark except for the light given off by several closed-circuit television monitors showing the sunken submarine’s conning tower and the pale green glow of a radar repeater. Its sweep line searched the coastline to the west and seaward, out to and beyond the visual horizon. Tiny specks of red, green, yellow, and white lights pinpointed an array of other equipment in the compartment, but the monitors immediately drew Ashley’s attention.

The view on two of the monitors remained static, focused on the submarine’s conning tower at different angles from some distance away. On one of the monitors, a large sea turtle, its shell covered with moss-like growth, slipped past. On the second, a lone barracuda swam into view and angled its body so that its eyes seemed to peer directly into the control center, its teeth ready to snap at whatever moved. Apparently not seeing anything of dinner quality, the fish gave a swish of its tail and was gone.

The third monitor displayed slow movement around the tower, finally focusing on two divers, each with a full face mask. They maneuvered the end of a large, three-to-four-foot-diameter pipe toward what looked like the top of a door near the rear part of the tower. The door was below the gun turret Matt had told her about; the turret Ashley remembered from the photograph her friend at the Navy Historical Center had provided. The man in front of the monitor, with a miniature microphone extending from a harness on his head, worked a small joystick. With each movement of his hand, the view changed slightly.

Starla pointed to the monitors with stationary pictures. “Underwater cameras on tripods,” she explained. “They give us a continuous view of what’s happening.” Nodding toward the third monitor and the man operating the joystick, Starla continued, “Thomas is working with a camera mounted on a remotely operated submersible. We use the submersible whenever divers are down.”

Eric Bruder slipped silently into position next to Ashley, placing one hand firmly on her shoulder. A quick glance and frown at the hand and at Bruder’s face brought only increased pressure on her shoulder. Shrugging away and shaking her head in a hands-off gesture, Ashley asked, “What exactly are they doing? Can’t they get in from somewhere on top?” She pointed toward the top of the conning tower on one of the two stationary views.

“Yes,” Bruder answered. “One at a time, after removing the double air tanks they’re wearing. They’d have to push them in front of them, then put the tanks back on once inside. Unfortunately, the hatch is too small for some of the items we want to remove.

“In addition to double tanks to ensure enough air for the strenuous work they’re doing, they’re also breathing a Nitrox mixture, nitrogen and oxygen. At the depth they’re working, they can stay down almost twice as long with Nitrox. The same once they work inside.”

Reaching past Thomas toward the submersible’s monitor, Bruder’s finger traced the top of the doorway and down past sand and mud blocking the entrance. “Once we blow away all that stuff, we’ll be able to move through that door with relative ease. If not, we’ll simply have to clear the main deck to where we can get to the torpedo-loading hatch. All attack submarines have one, regardless of what class they might be. In fact, that might prove to be the most efficient way to remove what we want.”

Ashley’s eyebrows furrowed as she looked first at Bruder, then at Starla. “What would they remove? I thought—”

“Control, Stefan here,” broke over the loudspeaker mounted just above the submersible monitor. “In position. Low rpm’s at first until I tell you to increase.”

Touching a button near his throat beneath the microphone, Thomas answered, “Control, aye,” followed by, “Engine room, control. Port engine, indicate two-five revolutions, gradually increasing to five-zero and hold.”

Almost immediately, Ashley could feel a slight vibration beneath her feet, followed quickly by a swirl of water from the pipe on the screen. She watched the water’s power slowly increase as the divers maneuvered the pipe closer to the seams of the door. A thick cloud of silt rose from around the door, gradually obliterating everything but the divers from view as they pushed and pulled the pipe in one direction, then another, forcing bottom debris away from the side of the conning tower.

Ashley was amazed at how the two divers worked, moving the pipe to the side and allowing the silt to settle, revealing a little more of the door, then going back to work. She almost missed the sound of the door to the compartment opening behind her, but the voice caught her attention. It was the man named Striker, the man who helped her off the helicopter, the man who said she looked familiar.

“Mrs. Shoemaker, a fax from your office.”

Starla turned toward the voice. “I’ll look at it later.”

“Think you should read it now,” Striker answered. “Something you need to know. Light’s better in the passageway.”

Starla breathed a sigh of annoyance. “All right.” She touched Ashley’s arm. “Back in a moment.” Spinning on the heel of one foot, she swept across the room, saying, “Let’s have it,” and took the fax from Striker’s hand.

Striker followed Starla through the doorway, shutting the door behind the two of them.

Her eyes again on the monitor and the divers clearing a way to the door, Ashley wondered about the fax.
What could be so important that
…The thought quickly faded as she acknowledged how little she really knew about Antiquity Finders and the number of other projects they might have going. As the door reopened behind her, she heard one of the divers order, “Control, take her up to seventy-five rpm,” followed immediately by Thomas, the operator, saying, “Engine room, increase port engine revolutions to seven-five.”

It was Starla’s voice, however, that sent icy waves up the back of her neck into the center of her brain. Reaching around and holding a sheet of paper before Ashley’s face, Starla said, “I believe this has to do with you, my dear.” Snatching the paper back, she continued, “On Striker’s recommendation, I had one of Henry’s people in South Carolina fast-forward the background check we were doing on you. First with the Columbia police and then in Charleston, where they said you’d gone after leaving the force in nineteen ninety-six.

Ashley wanted to turn and face Starla, but her body refused to move until Starla grabbed her arm and swung her around. “You’ve been lying to me, Ashley. You’re really a private detective, aren’t you…Mrs. Matthew Berkeley?”

Ashley jerked her arm free. “You’ve made a mistake, Starla, if you think—”

“You’re husband’s been in Germany,” Striker interrupted. “I was also there. Once I knew for sure who you were,” he nodded to the paper in Starla’s hand, “I contacted the airline he and I both used to fly over, assuming he’d use the same airline coming back.” Looking more at Starla than at Ashley, he said, “Berkeley’s due to arrive at Jacksonville International tomorrow afternoon.”

“You don’t know what—”

“Give it up, Mrs. Berkeley.” Striker moved closer as Starla stepped to the side. “I thought you looked familiar at the office yesterday, and when you got off the chopper, I knew it. You’re Berkeley’s wife, all right. Charleston, Berkeley House, the black woman in the nurse’s uniform, the cook who told me about Washington.”

Ashley blurted, “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh yes, you do,” Striker countered. “I saw you when you arrived at Berkeley House the night your husband got back from Washington, and I saw you and Berkeley leave together that same night.”

Quickly scanning the faces that surrounded her, Ashley realized she was fighting a losing battle. Shaking off the initial shock of being discovered, she shot back, “Then it was you who killed the…the people in Washington.”

Striker nodded. “Taking care of business; nothing more.”

“That’s enough,” Starla demanded. “Take her to my cabin and lock her in until I decide what to do with her.”

Striker reached for Ashley, but his movement wasn’t fast enough. Everything was suddenly on automatic; defense replaced by offense. The heel of Ashley’s right hand smashed upward, ramming into the base of Striker’s nose, crushing the infra-orbital nerve, and showering her own face with an explosion of blood.

“Goddamn it!” Striker yelped, grabbing his nose and falling back against a chart table in the middle of the compartment. Starla reached for Ashley, but Ashley swept Starla’s arm away in a single movement and shoved the woman back against the monitor operator. Ignoring the “Get her!” that someone shouted, she darted around the chart table and headed for the open door and passageway outside. Where she was going she didn’t know, but they weren’t going to take her without a fight.

She was almost to the door when she felt hands grab her from behind and spin her around. A fist crashed against the side of her head. In that split second, she saw a face filled with hatred.
Bruder!

Ashley shook her head, trying to clear the shock of the concussion. She planted her feet in a move to drive a knee upwards into Bruder’s crotch, but too late. A shadow loomed from the doorway, its massive arm in a downward swing. The blow on the back of her head felt like a thousand pounds crushing against a single pressure point. Multicolored stars swam before her eyes as she slumped forward into Bruder’s loose embrace. Her face slid down the front of his body, lips and nose snagging each button on the way. Her hair caught on the belt buckle and slowed her descent until the deck seemed to catapult upwards in her direction. Stars melted into fog; fog into darkness. Voices grew fainter and fainter until, in unison, each of her five senses registered
all stop.

Striker wiped the blood from his nose and lips with a handkerchief, revealing a half smile on his face. “Tough little cookie! My kind of woman.”

At the sound of his words, a grimace crossed Starla’s face. Shouting “Damn you,” she lashed out at Ashley’s body with her foot. “Just damn you!” Taking a deep breath, she looked up and ordered, “As I said, get her out of here. My cabin, and get that medical creep we’ve got on board to shoot her up with something to keep her quiet.”

“Why bother?” Bruder asked. “Wrap some chains around her and dump her over the side.”

Starla studied Ashley’s body, finally saying, “Not yet.” Raising an eyebrow in Striker’s direction, she said, “If you’d taken care of Berkeley in Germany, the good Dr. Mason in Tallahassee would have been none the wiser. As it is, until we get what we want, we still need Mason’s cooperation.”

Pointing to Ashley, she added, “She could very well be the key to getting rid of Berkeley once and for all.”

“Without killing him? How?” Eric asked.

“I have an idea. Get her below, Striker. She has to go, but let’s make good use of her while we can.”

Sunday, 28 October 2001

The glare from what seemed like a million fluorescent lights hit his eyes like a bolt of lightning as Matt stepped from the dimly lit walkway chute into Jacksonville International Airport’s Concourse C passenger arrival area. But where was Ashley? With the exception of those debarking and ticket holders waiting to board their flights, the concourse was empty. And then he remembered.
Security; 9-11.

Pushing his wheeled carryon case in front of him, Matt followed the rush of travelers down the long concourse and out into the main terminal. Jacksonville Sheriff’s deputies, chests expanded by Kevlar bulletproofing and hands resting on the butts of holstered Glock semiautomatic handguns, shared the terminal with Army National Guard and Reserve personnel in fatigues cradling lethal looking M16s. They were everywhere. In every corner, behind every pillar, walking in pairs, watching, waiting. It had been the same in Newark. Armed camps, waiting for the next terrorist, the next hijacker, the next suicide bomber. And to that extent, 9-11 had given the terrorists at least a partial victory over the American psyche.

Matt thought it interesting how the terminal was absent of the usual crowd chatter. Hordes coming and going, but few words, few calls to relatives and friends. Matt noted the usual smells of roasted coffee, cinnamon buns, and hamburger grease and the low hum of activity blending with the tinkling sounds of a Scott Joplin ragtime from the player grand piano in the center of the terminal. It was the sound of ragtime, fun-time, throw-your-cares-away music to help passengers forget their increased fear of flying since 9-11.

But where the hell was Ashley? Or Steve Park? Had he or Steve Jr. contacted Ashley? Somewhere in the back of his mind he remembered Park saying he might be taking a group of divers to the Keys if the weather improved. Would that have been today?
Damn!
He hated operating in the dark, and that’s where he’d been operating since the beginning of this entire mess.

Suddenly he heard his name on the public address system. “Mr. Matthew Berkeley, please come to the information booth, center court, main terminal.” The announcement boomed across the terminal for a second time as Matt angled his way through the moving river of travelers toward the big INFORMATION sign hanging from the ceiling.

“I’m Berkeley,” he said to the little old blue-haired lady standing behind the counter.

“May I see some identification, please?” she responded, staring suspiciously at the dark line of stitches still in Matt’s forehead.

Matt fished out his wallet and flipped it open to his South Carolina driver’s license. “It’s me, stitches and all.”

The woman’s narrow eyes devoured the photo on the license, squinted upwards and traced the contours of Matt’s face, then took another shot at the photo before finally handing him a folded piece of paper. “Thanks,” he said with a bemused smile on his face. Spreading the paper open on the counter, Matt read the neatly handprinted note.

Matt, sorry I couldn’t meet you. Problems, but lots of great information. Can’t reach Steve. Meet you at the house. Please hurry.

Love much,

Ashley

Matt looked at the paper, then stared at the ceiling, biting his lip in thought.
What kind of problems?
he wondered. Steve hadn’t mentioned anything about problems other than, of course, Ashley getting tangled up with AFI.
Damn it!
The words “Where the hell are you, Steve?” slipped out of his mouth.

“Sir?” the woman asked.

Matt smiled and shook his head. “Nothing. Thanks for your help.”

With his “thank you” smile shifting quickly to a frown, Matt cut back across the terminal and through the crowd. Still hoping to see Steve Park, he stepped onto the raised platform beside the player piano and searched for Park among the sea of faces until two National Guardsmen approached with their gunmetal gray, 30-round M16 rifles at the ready. One of them ordered, “Step down, please.”

When Matt looked at the men with surprise, the second Guardsman said, “Now!” Pointing to Matt’s carryon luggage sitting at the edge of the platform, he demanded, “That yours?”

“Yes.”

“No luggage left unattended.”

Even though intimately familiar with the M16, Matt couldn’t tell whether the rifles’ selector levers were set for single shot or a three-round burst. On second thought, with the magazine of each rifle full of 5.56-millimeter rounds, it really didn’t make a hell of a lot of difference whether each man fired one or three shots. Either way, he would be chopped liver.

“Sorry ‘bout that, guys. Looking for a friend. Just leaving.” The two guardsmen watched, silently, fingers poised just outside their respective weapon’s trigger guards, until Matt stepped down. Taking hold of the handle of his hand luggage, he shuffled his way to the escalator leading down to the baggage pickup area.

At the bottom of the escalator, Matt noticed a large man nearly a foot taller than himself, broad shouldered with upper thigh-sized arms hanging from a cutoff Harley Davidson T-shirt. He was heavily whiskered, his hair pulled into a tight braid at the back of his head.

Holding a cell phone to the side of his face, the man turned away and disappeared behind one of the floor-to-ceiling telephone kiosks. The parking lot in Tallahassee raced through Matt’s mind: the bearded giant of a man, the sudden punch in his gut, the feeling that every organ in his body was exploding up through his throat. The only difference between then and now was that both of the man’s eyes were badly bloodshot and encircled with bluish rings.

“Hey!” he called, rushing forward to stop the man. But the man was already on his way out the first set of glass doors leading to the open door of a late-model black pickup truck with wraparound, heavy-gauge, steel-framed brush bars across the front.

“Damn it!” Matt cursed as a flashing, overhead red light and a piercing
beep-beep-beep
from the baggage carousel behind him announced the arrival of luggage from his flight.

As the scrawny little man named Peanut turned the pickup truck in to traffic, the bearded man punched in several numbers on a cell phone. A moment later, he said, “It’s Race again. Had to break off. He saw me.”

Race listened for a moment, then said, “Nobody met him, so he’ll prob’ly grab a cab. He read the note. My guess he’ll head straight to the house ‘stead of Park’s dive shop. You need me?” Another pause was followed by “I was hopin’ to get a little payback time with that bitch after what she done to my eyes the other night. Wish I’d known it was his wife. You have any trouble, you let me know and I’ll ram it to her so hard, she’ll think she got fucked by a goddamn jackhammer. An’ then I’ll—” Race pulled the cell phone away from his ear and slammed the cover shut. “Goddamn, fuckin’ asshole Kraut. Son’bitch hung up on me.”

“Whad’ja expect?” Peanut threw out the side of his mouth as he aimed for the four-lane expressway leading from the airport.

“Freakin’ pretty-boy German bastard. He does that Striker guy the same way. We do the work an’ he screws us over every goddamn time. Screw him!”

“Yeah,” Race grumbled, settling back in his seat and staring ahead at the oncoming traffic. “One of these fuckin’ days. You’ll see. Jes one of these fuckin’ days…”