Mark of the Devil (28 page)

Brandy looked at the photographs. “The markings?”

“The skull, crossbones, and swastika indicate the SS Death’s Head Units,” Park answered, “the ones who ran the death camps during World War Two. The
A
and
B
…” He pointed to the tiny letters. “They indicate Auschwitz Birkenau, the camp where the ingot was cast. The thumbprint—”

Brandy interrupted, “And the other photograph?”

“A very long story,” Matt said. “The main thing is that a German U-boat is down there. It’s a tomb for sailors and at least one Nazi SS officer. From all appearances, watertight since the time it disappeared until the AFI crowd opened the hatches and flooded the thing.”

“Sometime in the last week or two,” Park added. “With the exception of that one ingot, it’s probable that whatever gold or other items of value might have been on the sub are gone.”

Slipping the photographs in her purse, Brandy turned and took several steps before stopping. With hands on her hips, she stood for a moment as though allowing her thoughts to mix with the hum of conversation around the room. Suddenly, she turned back to Matt and Steve Park. Very softly, she said, “I’m sorry I blew up. I’ve tried to protect—” Brandy caught herself. “You’ve broken the law, both of you, but at least you’ve come to me with what you’ve found.”

“Too much respect for you not to, Brandy,” Matt said. “It’s AFI you and the Feds want to stomp on, not Steve and me. But you started to say something about protect. Protect what…or who?”

Brandy quickly shook her head. “Nothing. Freudian slip, I suppose. I’m always trying to protect the state’s past, but as for AFI, I can take care of that,” she responded. After a momentary pause, she asked, “Besides gold and, of course, the bodies of the men who died in there, and simply the historical and archeological significance of the submarine, do you think there’s anything else of value to be found?”

Matt studied Brandy’s face, trying to determine what she meant. At the same time, Hannah Richter’s words about an important document being picked up in Berlin kept running through his mind. “Why do you ask?”

Brandy shrugged. “Simple intellectual curiosity. Ship’s log, personal letters, et cetera, et cetera, that might have been preserved from the water?”

Before Matt could answer, Park said, “Supposedly, some kind of important papers affecting postwar efforts by the Nazis. A friend of Matt’s in Germany is checking that angle for us.”

“What kind of important papers?”

“We don’t know,” Matt said hurriedly, not wanting to divulge anything further. “If there were such papers, they’re probably pretty much ruined by now.”

“You’re right,” Brandy agreed. “First, no more entering the submarine. Promise, and I’ll make certain no charges will be brought against you.”

“If that was first, what’s second?” Matt asked.

“Second, I’m tied up the next day or so, but I want you in my office…” She paused a moment as though counting. “This is Monday…In my office, both of you, on Friday. No later than one p.m. And bring the ingot. Understand?”

“Understood.”

“And third, say nothing of our conversation or the ingot. If the Shoemakers and AFI know what you’ve found, it could ruin any case I’ll have against them.”

“Thought you were resigning,” Matt said. “Getting ready to grab life by the horns.”

“Until I leave office, AFI will be my primary concern. You can take that to the bank. Now go before you start a row with Eric, Senator Jameson, or both.”

“See you Friday,” Matt said. Taking Brandy’s hand, he added, “Be careful and be sure of who you contact on this. There’s not a doubt in my mind that AFI’s behind the death of my wife, and if they think you’re gonna stand in their way, they’ll kill you, too.”

Halfway along the hotel’s front lobby en route to the exit, Starla was surprised to hear “Eric, Mrs. Shoemaker, a word, please.” Turning, she saw Brandy Mason hurrying from an open elevator.

“Yes, Doctor?” Starla answered.

As Brandy joined them, she said, “If we could move to the side away from the main corridor.” They followed Brandy to an empty reading alcove as far from the front desk as possible. “I’m staying overnight. Returning to Tallahassee tomorrow, but I’ve a question.”

Starla eyed Brandy suspiciously. “What?”

“There’s something on that submarine you haven’t told me about, isn’t there?”

“Whatever you’re thinking,” Starla said, “we’ve already agreed on the amount you’re to get for looking the other way. A rather extravagant sum, I might add. What we take that is not directly associated with the submarine itself is of no concern to you.”

“The gold,” Brandy said, at the same time producing Matt’s photograph of the gold ingot from her purse. “Knowing Eric and the senator, the above normal interest they’ve had in this thing, and the actions taken to scare Matt Berkeley off, I thought as much from the beginning. I now know the source of the gold and want nothing to do with it. But you, Eric, I’ve always known you were a self-centered, greedy little bastard.”

Bruder’s face turned red with anger. “You stupid black—”

Starla’s arm flew up against Eric’s chest, holding him back. “That’s enough, Eric. If not the gold, Dr. Mason,” Starla said, her face showing lines of impatience, but her voice and manner still very much in control, “what are you saying?”

“A document. On the submarine. Something of great value. Perhaps something to be used by those who escaped after the war?” Brandy waited for a response, but when none came, she continued, “Eric’s told me, only a few more dives. If you’ve already taken the gold, is that why? To find this supposedly valuable document?”

“Is that what you and Berkeley and that man Park were talking about?” Eric asked, his voice more malicious than angry.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Brandy said. “Matt will be in my office on Friday with the ingot he found on the submarine. I’ll see that you get it. I have no interest in the gold,” Brandy continued. “As long as you pay what you’ve promised, I’ll take care of Matt, but if there are papers on that submarine dealing with the war, papers that have survived the water, historically relevant papers, for example, plans for a Fourth Reich—”

Eric laughed. “And what would you do with them, Doctor?”

“They’d secure my place in the world of archaeology. They’d give me—”

“And if we say no?” Bruder interrupted. “If we say we’ll take what we want, what will you do, Dr. Brandy Mason? Send us to jail?” His laughter was as contemptuous as the smirk on his face. “I think not. You’re in as deep as we are.”

“Dr. Mason,” Starla said, “this discussion has gone far enough. The funds we agreed upon were deposited a week ago in an account established in your name. A bank in Georgetown, Grand Cayman. You will receive the name of the bank and the account number as soon as we conclude our business with the submarine.”

“But I—”

“Let me finish. Should you decide to take actions to disrupt our business, a state audit of your department’s books, already tentatively scheduled by dear Eric, will reflect certain irregularities, namely state funds embezzled by one Dr. Brandy Mason.”

“…along with information about your mysterious Grand Cayman account,” Bruder added, the smugness in his voice as irritating to Starla as it was to Brandy.

Ignoring Bruder, Starla said with finality, “If you have nothing more to say, Doctor, Eric and I have other business this evening, so we’ll bid you good night.”

After leaving the hotel, Bruder gave the valet the ticket to retrieve the BMW convertible. While waiting, Starla said, “On the ship the other night, I may have been a bit hasty in signing Mr. Berkeley’s death warrant.”

“Oh?”

“It’s evident he’s learned about the documents, apparently while in Germany. Whether or not he knows the subject matter and significance is debatable, but he does know something was or is down there.”

“I don’t think—”

“I’ll do the thinking, Eric, and I think it’s time for you to do whatever you have to do to lure Mr. Berkeley back to the submarine.”

“Why? What good’ll that do?”

A faint smile crossed Starla’s face as she remembered the way Matt looked at her in the Jacksonville Room earlier that evening. “Not only do I find our Mr. Berkeley attractive in an earthy kind of way, but more importantly he seems the total survivor, no matter what we do.”

Eric grunted a deep-throated,
“Harumph.
If it hadn’t been for Dr. Mason’s squeamishness, I would have killed him along with his wife and that muscle-bound Neanderthal, Striker.”

Starla ignored Eric’s outburst. “He seems to always be one step ahead of us, or certainly not far behind, so why not use him? Perhaps he can find the document where you and your divers failed.”

Eric shook his head and exhaled a deep sigh. “You’ve got to be more consistent, Starla. The clock is already running.” Eric looked at his watch. “Berkeley and Park left a good thirty minutes ago. It’s possible they’re already dead.”

“What?”

Eric spread his hands in a show of helplessness. “You said kill him. Doing what you wanted, I had them followed. When I left the meeting, I made a phone call. My orders were your orders. Kill him and the Park man.”

“Damn!”

As the convertible pulled to the curb beneath the porte cochere, Starla shoved Eric toward the valet stepping from the car and commanded, “Stop them, Eric. Whoever it is, whatever you have to do, stop them.”

Eric pushed the valet out of the way and reached through the doorway for the cell phone mounted on the car’s dash. “I’ll try, Starla. I’ll try, but it could be too late.”

“Hey, Race, your cell phone’s ringin’,” Peanut said out of the side of his mouth. His eyes were playing tag with the high-speed swish of the windshield wipers while trying to keep the white Jeep Grand Cherokee in sight.

“Yeah, I know,” Race growled, his concentration also on the SUV in front of them. “Only person’s got this number’s that fucking Kraut-head Bruder. Jes keep your eyes on the friggin’ Jeep. I’ll call Bruder when the job’s done.”

If anything, the rain was heavier since Matt had turned off I-95 onto the Butler Boulevard expressway. Surprisingly there was little traffic for so early in the evening, except for the headlights that had been with him since his exit from the interstate. “Wish this guy would go ahead and pass,” he said to Park, who had his eyes closed and was keeping time with Billy Joel on soft rock FM-96. “Either a helluva big SUV or pickup, or he’s got his high beams on.”

“Slow down, why don’t you?” Park answered, his voice distorted by a hand-covered yawn. “Make him pass.”

“I have, twice. Slow down, he slows. Speed up, he speeds up.”

Park straightened in his seat and twisted around to look out the rear window. “You’re almost to the bridge over the Intracoastal Waterway. Up ahead. Lots of lights. Drop down to forty-five. He’ll get so pissed, he’ll have to pass. If not—”

“If not, he might be some road freak looking for the kind of fun I don’t appreciate.”

The brilliance of the several dozen bridge lights ahead cast a fluorescent glow on the low-flying clouds. As the Jeep neared the approach to the bridge, however, the glow quickly gave way to sheets of rain caught in the glare of each light and driven by the wind. “Okay, mister,” Matt muttered to the driver behind him, “let’s see what kinda game you’re really playing.”

Already on the upgrade, Matt lifted his foot off the accelerator and allowed the Jeep to slow to—60, 55, 50. By the time the Jeep approached the top of the span, some 60 feet above the Waterway and tidal marsh, the speedometer read 45. Suddenly, the vehicle—a monster-sized, black Ford F-350 pickup with extended cab, oversized wheels, and wraparound, heavy-gauge, steel-framed brush bars across the front—whipped into the inside lane and pulled even.

“About time,” Matt said with a sigh and a quick glance to his left toward the pickup. A familiar bearded face leered at him through the rain. “Aw, Christ!”

“What’s wrong?” Park asked, immediately leaning forward in an attempt to see what Matt had seen.

All Matt could manage in response was “The bearded guy in Tallahassee! At the airport!”

At that moment, the pickup swung against the side of the Grand Cherokee, the wraparound brush bars catching the Jeep in the front left fender and forcing it against the concrete safety abutment. The Jeep’s right side screeched against the concrete as Matt fought the steering wheel, trying to keep the tires from riding up the curved abutment and over the side. Like an unexpected bolt of lightning, something sheared across the windshield and ripped away the driver-side wiper. Simultaneously, the forward part of Matt’s side window splintered. A bullet ricocheted off the top of the steering wheel, smashed through the right-hand sun visor and out through the ceiling.

Jerking back in his seat, Park shouted, “He’s shooting at us!”

“No shit!” Matt yelled above the deafening grind of metal against metal on one side of the Jeep and metal against concrete on the other. Working on automatic, Matt pumped the brake pedal and downshifted to third, then second gear, forcing the Jeep to fall behind the pickup’s cab and the bearded man trying to kill him. The rain-slick road and down-slope of the bridge, however, refused to allow the tires sufficient traction, putting the Jeep into a roller-coaster ride, keeping it pinned between the bed of the black pickup and the side of the bridge.

Finally, after what seemed a lifetime, the roadway leveled out and there was no more bridge abutment, no more metal tearing against concrete. The pickup veered away from the Jeep, then just as quickly slammed hard to the right. This time the brush bars across the pickup’s front crushed the Jeep’s left front fender into the tire well, blew out the left front headlights, and forced the vehicle’s passenger-side front tire off the pavement.

The last thing Matt saw was a thick line of wax myrtles bordering the marsh to his right and a 10-foot-tall highway sign caught in the sweep of his one remaining headlight. Its words glared a luminescent white-on-green “SOUTH BEACH PARKWAY…MARSH LANDING PKWY…3/4 MILE.” Matt tried to angle away from the sign but caught another jarring ram from the pickup, this time into the door at his elbow, and he lost control.

“We’re gonna hit it,” Park cried, nanoseconds before the Jeep tore through the sign’s metal stanchions, automatically deploying both driver and passenger airbags in an explosion of eye-blinding material, instantly deflating in a rush of white powder. The huge sign clanged down against the roof and ripped away the Jeep’s luggage carrier as the vehicle went airborne through a line of tall wax myrtles.

“Hold on,” Matt shouted, his hands squeezing the steering wheel in a death grip to keep him from being thrown forward. Even in that split second, he sensed the SUV’s heavier front end tilting downward through the air, its single headlight illuminating the waters of one of the marsh’s tidal creeks. The weight of the Jeep drove its front end into the water and mud, snapping his head forward and tearing at every bone in his body.

While the engine still sputtered and rear wheels spun, Matt took a deep breath and sat very still, eyes closed, allowing the reality of what just happened to sink in. As the engine sucked its final intake of air-starved fuel and lapsed into silence, he felt the strain of safety belts against his abdomen and chest holding him in place. From the pull of gravity, he knew the Jeep was nose-down at a near 45-degree angle, its front end buried in the marsh. The glare of lights from the bridge told him the water level was just inches below the windshield.

Though he couldn’t see the remaining headlight, underwater and deep in the mud, the dash lights were still on, bright enough for him to see across the seat. “Steve, you okay?” he asked. “We gotta get out. I can already feel water coming in from the engine compartment.”

Park was slumped forward, literally hanging by his seat and shoulder restraints. Very slowly his head swiveled in Matt’s direction and he said, “My ankle, twisted to hell and back, but I gotta ask.”

“Yeah?”

“All the survival training they gave you in the Navy, how come they never taught you defensive driving? Your driving sucks. You know that?”

“At least we didn’t go off the top of the bridge. Then you’d really complain.” Pointing to the right side of the dash, Matt said, “Open the glove compartment and get me the Beretta. I think we’re gonna need it. If they’ve gone this far, the bad guys aren’t gonna stop until they’re sure we’re dead.”

Clicking open the glove compartment door and handing Matt the pistol, Park asked, “How do we get out of this thing?”

“Your side,” Matt said. “My door’s crushed in.” Wedging both feet against the dash, one foot on either side of the steering column, he hit the safety release for his lap and shoulder straps.

With the dash lights growing dim, then out altogether, Park grunted against the weight of the door, pushing it open inch by inch as water rushed in from the lower half of the opening. Suddenly, a hail of gunshots exploded on the air; bullets pounded against the bottom rear section of the Jeep.

“Move it, Steve,” Matt shouted. “They hit the gas tank, we’re toast.”

Grunting against the weight of the door and incoming flow of water, Park slipped out into the creek. With the Jeep as a shield between himself and the shooter, he worked his way forward onto the creek bank and into the windswept marsh grass. “How deep?” Matt called.

“Creek’s knee deep, but the mud sucks you down another foot, at least,” Park answered. “Almost as bad in the grass.”

Matt was halfway through the door when more bullets slammed into the Jeep’s undercarriage. Pushing against the edge of the seat with his feet, the Beretta tucked beneath his belt, Matt dove forward. At the same time, an explosion tore apart the rear end of the Jeep. Shards of metal and tires cascaded through the air like shrapnel from some gigantic grenade. As Matt hit the water, he could feel the shockwave and see the world turn red from the resulting fireball rising above the marsh. Following the initial blast, the Jeep looked like a giant Roman candle sticking out of the creek, flames shooting skyward and lighting up the surrounding water and sea of waving grass.

The water was no more than knee deep, as Park had said, but the mud and wind whipping across the marsh alternately pushed and pulled at Matt. He floundered for a moment, paddling furiously with both hands, fighting to remain upright, his feet sinking into the slime-encrusted mud below the water’s surface. Struggling against wind, rain, water, and mud to regain some semblance of balance, he saw them: two men, outlined by the fire. One was much larger than the other. They stood on the bank, less than 50 feet away, just below the opening the Jeep had made through the wax myrtles.

The smaller man pointed in his direction and cried, “There he is, Race. Shoot the muthafucker!”

Realizing he was a perfect target in the firelight, Matt tugged the Beretta from beneath his belt and sank low in the water. He grasped the weapon with both hands, swung his arms into firing position, and pulled the trigger. Four times. The explosion of gunpowder in each cartridge echoed across the marsh. Almost simultaneously, a sharp cry caught on the wind. And then only one was left—the larger man, the one with the beard, the man called Race, who had vowed to kill him.

“You got ‘em, Matt,” Park shouted from somewhere back in the waist-high marsh grass.

“One of ‘em, but where’s the other one?” Matt asked as the second and much larger man disappeared into the marsh grass. “It’s the one that beat the hell out of me in Tallahassee, and a sawbuck says he’s heading this way.”

Already Matt could see car lights through the wax myrtles. Drawn by the fire, drivers had stopped and parked along the expressway. Would somebody call 9-1-1? That’s all he needed. Out on bond, and already he’d shot a man. “Sheeeit!”

“Where the hell are you going?” Park yelled through the rain and wind.

“If you’ve got a bad ankle, stay where you are. It’s me he wants, and it’s me he’s gonna get, but not like he thinks.”
If I’m lucky,
Matt added to himself.

As Matt made his way around what was left of the exposed part of the Jeep, a sudden swishing sound followed by a muffled explosion in the Jeep’s submerged engine compartment caught him by surprise. Diving toward the creek bank and cover of the marsh grass, he lost his grip on the Beretta. “Damn it!” His hands darted frantically through the mud and water, but no Beretta. Facing in the direction from which he’d last heard Park, he shouted, “Steve, we gotta—”

His words were cut off by a deep growl that rose in pitch as Matt turned in time to see the massive figure of a man charge across the narrow creek and the butt of a pistol swing in his direction. Matt dodged, but the pistol caught him squarely on the left shoulder, just above his bullet wound. An involuntary cry escaped his throat as he grabbed for his shoulder.

“Gotcha!” With one hand Race forced Matt down against the creek bank. In a straddling position, with the butt of his gun ready to strike again, Race shoved Matt’s head into the mud and marsh grass, pushing harder and harder until Matt could feel the mud creep into his ears.
His ears!
The thought stabbed at his memory cells. SpecWar training! Hand-to-hand combat!

As the gun came down, Matt twisted his head to the side. He felt the splatter of mud against his face as the weapon missed. With the huge man momentarily off balance, Matt reached up and slapped both hands, palms flat, as hard as he could against the man’s ears. Race yelped in pain, reared backwards, and grabbed the sides of his head. That was all Matt needed.

His left arm straight out and hand flat against Race’s chest, holding him upright, Matt shot his right hand forward. With hand and fingers knotted like the claw of a tiger, he dug into and penetrated the skin of Race’s throat with his fingernails. He felt and closed tight on the Adam’s apple, then ripped downward. Once, twice! The third time, he felt the skin tear away; felt flesh and cartilage between his fingers; felt a spray of hot liquid on his face.