Red Tide (24 page)

43

“F
ifteen minutes,” the foreman bawled. “Right back here in fifteen minutes. Don’t be late.” He waited a minute and then yelled again. “Back here at nine-twenty. Fifteen minutes.”

Paul followed the others down the long corridor and out onto the deck. Once outside, everyone pulled off their breathing devices and feasted on the cold night air. Some even unlaced their hoods, pulling them from their heads, the men wiping sweat, the women shaking out their hair. Samuel stood leaning against the far end of the rail. Paul moved that way, careful to seem nonchalant and unhurried as he passed among the others.

“We’ve got to do something,” he whispered to Samuel. “We can’t be the only ones to fail.”

When he looked for agreement, he saw only doubt. Even fear perhaps.

“We have to try,” he insisted.

Samuel gave a tentative nod and a squawk.

“I don’t know how. We’ve got to get back to the car.”

He grabbed Samuel by the arm and led him down the deck, toward the midpoint of the ship where the elevators stood. The area was nearly deserted as Paul pushed the down button and waited. The door slid open with a muted whir. He shepherded Samuel into the car and breathed a silent sigh of relief as the door slid shut.

Less than a minute later, they stepped out onto Pier Forty-Seven. The air was colder and wetter than it was up on deck three. He tightened his grip on Samuel’s arm and led him across the tarmac toward where they’d parked the car. The pier was a blaze of activity. People moving in all directions at once. Vegetable trucks and forklifts and centipede baggage carriers skittered everywhere. Shouts from the longshoremen filled the air, as they hustled to cram last-minute deliveries into the yawning freight elevators. North, toward the bow, two dozen immaculately uniformed crew members engaged in knots of animated conversation at the foot of a gangway marked in bright white letters:
SHIP
’
S CREW ONLY
. A pair of beefy security officers stood ready to enforce the ban.

Paul skirted the tail end of a segmented baggage carrier as it came clattering by, only to find the little red car now buried three rows deep in the parking lot. The sight sent a shiver through Paul. He hesitated for a moment and then stopped altogether as he noticed the driver’s door standing wide open. Samuel squawked a question. Paul pointed.

“Did we leave the door open like that?” he asked.

Samuel reckoned he didn’t have any idea.

“Hey,” a voice called.

Paul followed the sound of the voice. The front steps of the trailer. The same man as before. “Come on over here, you two,” the man said, beckoning with his arm. Instead of complying, Paul walked quickly over to the car, bent at the waist and slipped the upper half of his body inside. When he reappeared, his face was blank. He looked at Samuel, who stood stiff and silent, and then back to the man on the steps.

“I took care of it for ya,” the guy said, coming unsteadily down the stairs. Once on solid ground, he steeled himself and started their way at a measured gait. “What you doin’ down here anyway? You on a break?”

Samuel nodded.

Up close, the man reeked of whiskey. His eyes were filigreed with red as he swept his gaze across the two young men. “I seen you forgot your equipment, so I run it back to supply for ya.” He squinted his eyes and waved a grimy finger in their direction. “Y’all come back next year y’all gonna have to be more careful how you handle the gear.” He grinned, showing a yellowed set of teeth, broken and irregular as fence posts. “You don’t want to be havin’ no company equipment in y’all’s backseat neither. Folks get to thinkin’ you was stealin’ or somethin’.” He chuckled. “’Course ain’t no reason at all anybody gonna be stealin’ a damn sprayer. Lest you got one hell of a case of roaches at home or somethin’.” He laughed at his own joke and then checked his watch. “Y’all best be getting back upstairs. Six more minutes and you got to be there. They’ll dock you for sure.”

Samuel made a noise even Paul couldn’t translate.

“I…I…” Paul stammered, “I left something.”

“In the car?”

“On the sprayer. My watch,” Paul said touching his wrist with his forefinger. “I fastened my watch around the…the…” He stopped, at a loss for words.

“Around the wand?”

“Yes, around the wand.”

The guy slapped his side disgustedly. “Well that was a dumb-ass thing to be doin’, now wasn’t it?” He beckoned to his right, out in front of the equipment trailer. “Come on with me. We’ll see if we cain’t find the damn thing and get you fellas back on the job before it costs you boys hard-earned money.”

Paul gestured with his head, telling Samuel to follow along as he started around the front of the trailer. When he looked back over his shoulder Samuel hadn’t moved an inch. From long experience, Paul knew the look. Samuel was close to panic. He wanted to remind Samuel what Holmes had said so many times. “You have to be prepared to improvise. Once the first battle starts all plans are out the window.” Instead, Paul turned and said to Samuel, “Just stay right there, I’ll be back in a minute.” Again, no response.

He ran a couple of steps and caught up with the man, following along silently as they wove their way among a maze of containers and equipment, finally coming to a stop beside an oversized wooden crate.
RECHARGE

was stenciled on the side in black.

The man stopped at the box, looked down and then ran a hand through his greasy hair. “I’ll be damned,” he said to himself. A smile eased itself across his face. “Coupla hours ago,” he said, “the damn thing was empty.”

Paul hustled forward. The bin was filled with an army of backpack sprayers. Seventy or eighty, something like that. Identical. A great big giant pile of them, all thrown together in a great jumbled mess waiting to be carted off.

Paul must have made a noise. “Take it easy now,” the guy said. “It’s just a watch.” His eyes nearly closed when he smiled. “Weren’t no diamond-crusted Rolodex or nothing was it?”

Out in the reaches of his vision, Paul caught a movement. Samuel was walking away. North toward the entry gate. “I…I’ve got to…” Paul stuttered, moving that way.

“Hey now,” the guy said. “Y’all can…”

The sound of his feet hissing on the tarmac prevented Paul from hearing whatever the guy said next. He skipped twice, broke into a jog for a few feet and then began to run headlong after the rapidly retreating Samuel.

“So what if…” Corso began. “What if you wanted to pull off a terrorist act in a major city.” He waved a hand. “You gotta know that when it comes to terrorism, as far as Americans are concerned anyway, what we’re talkin’ about is Arabs and nothing but Arabs. You can pretty much figure for sure they’re not even gonna go looking for anybody else until they run out of Arabs.” Charly Hart sat on the front seat of a patrol car with his feet hanging out the door.

Corso looked down for agreement, but got nothing more than a grimace. “So the first thing you do is get yourself a crew together. Something other than Arabs. People with an ax to grind against the United States. People with nothing to lose. People who’ve already lost everything they had because an American corporation was more interested in profits than it was in human misery.”

The look on Charly Hart’s face said he thought Corso’s assessment was a bit harsh. “What?” Corso said. “That seems out of line to you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Remember the heads of the major tobacco companies? Remember those guys? Standing up there in front of God and Congress, raising their hands, swearing they had no idea that cigarette smoke was habit-forming. Remember those turkeys?” Corso’s tone was bitter. “A real high point in American history,” he said.

Charly fiddled with his watch. Corso went on. “Problem is, though, you gotta come up with people who are all the way under the radar screen. People who have no connection whatsoever with any kind of terrorist organization.” A small twisted smile appeared on his lips. “Which pretty much limits you to amateurs.”

Charly Hart glared up. “This whole thing stinks of amateurs,” he snapped. “It’s what keeps me wondering if we don’t have our heads up our collective asses, if maybe we’re not making something out of nothing.”

“Coupla carved-up bodies isn’t nothing.”

“Isn’t international terrorism neither,” the detective countered.

The radio began to squawk. Charly Hart leaned farther inside the car and listened. From where he stood in the street, Corso couldn’t make out the words. He waited until the noise stopped and Charly Hart sat up in the seat. “Units have completed a sweep of lower downtown,” Hart said. “Nada. No East Indians. No beat-up Mercedes. No nothing.”

Jim Sexton leaned back against the hood of the van. A sticky valve ticked rhythmically in the night air as he surveyed the scene inside the enclosure. He watched the small army of green-clad bodies lining up by the side of the cruise liner, primed and ready for work, and thought how it looked like one of those old science fiction movies where uniformity was the order of the day and everybody dressed the same.

He’d lost track of the wet guys when they’d stepped into the equipment shed. Everyone who exited the shed was masked and dressed and ready to go, so there was no telling one from another.

They were going on board now. Crowding into the freight elevators, waiting to be lifted to their respective decks. Jim’s scalp tingled at the sight. He knew what he had to do. He reached into his pants pocket, pulled out the phone and flipped it open. Silence. He pushed the
SEND
and
RECEIVE
button.

“Hello,” he said tentatively.

Two responses came at once. “Dobson here.” And “Hart.”

Jim opened his mouth but nothing came out.

“You rang?” said the chief.

“Not me, sir,” said Charly Hart.

“Had to be one of us,” the chief said. “Only people on this channel are you, me and Gutierrez.”

“I…” Charly Hart began. He looked over at Corso and scowled. “Hang on a second, Chief,” he said.

When the detective tried to rock himself upright and failed, Corso stuck out a hand and gently pulled him to his feet. Hart walked to the rear door of the cruiser and pulled it open. The black plastic tray rested in the middle of the backseat. He bent at the waist and used his good hand to rifle through the contents. Notebook, wallet and badge, watch, gun, the car keys and eighty-seven cents in change. He patted around the area for a moment, then straightened up and held the phone to his mouth. “Reuben’s radio is gone, sir,” he said.

“Gone?”

“Last time I looked, it was with the rest of his stuff,” Charly Hart said.

A strained silence ensued. “You out there,” the chief said after a moment. “You with the stolen radio. Do you hear me?”

Jim Sexton’s fingers trembled as he turned the volume knob all the way down and put the phone back in his pocket.

44

H
arris pulled the spraying wand from the clips on the side of his backpack. He pushed the brass lever and sent a thin spray of disinfectant arcing out into the air. Satisfied, he directed his attention to Wesley and Nathan.

“We gonna do the rails all the way down this side,” he said. “Then we gonna come back and we gonna do the staterooms along this side all the way to the middle of the ship. Damn near two hundred rooms. Gonna take us all night long.” Nathan answered with a grunt. Wesley was staring out over the water, toward Bainbridge Island and the Olympic Mountains beyond. “You hear me?” Harris asked.

Wesley brought his eyes around and nodded. Nathan pulled his mask into place.

Harris ran the sprayer along the top of the rail, sending a narrow mist down onto the metal. “Just like this,” he said. “Not too much, not too little.” He released the lever. “You’ll get the hang of it. You ready?”

Wesley nodded again but didn’t move.

“Let’s go, man,” Harris prodded. “Put your mask on.”

Wesley used his left hand to slide the mask down over his face, then reached for his wand. He fumbled and failed to remove it from the trio of metal clips holding it fast to the side of the canister. A disgusted noise escaped from beneath Harris’s mask.

McGruder, who’d been using the bathroom, strode around the corner and crossed the rear deck to join them. He retrieved his backback from the deck and shouldered it on.

Harris watched as Wesley made another feeble attempt and then pushed the mask back up on his forehead. “Come on, man,” he mumbled. “Come on, man, what’s the matter wid you, man? What you got in your hand there?”

Wesley pulled the hand behind his back. Harris looked at McGruder, who likewise removed his mask for a better view. “You see what he’s got there?” Harris asked again.

“Lemme see,” McGruder said.

Wesley pushed the hand even further behind his back. He had begun to shake his head when McGruder reached out and grabbed him by the arm.

Behind his mask, Nathan’s breath caught in his throat. Wesley’s eyes were taking on that steely sheen they always got before he went crazy. Nathan shouted an admonition into his mask, but no one heard.

Wesley growled and jerked his arm free. The violent movement sent McGruder’s arm reeling into space, where it banged against the bulkhead before flopping back to his side. Harris pointed. “Fucker’s got him a knife there,” he said.

McGruder stepped forward. “What the hell’s the matter with you, man? You got no call to be walking around here with a shank.” He stuck out his hand. “Gimme that damn thing,” he demanded. When Wesley failed to move, he reached for his arm again.

The movement was swift and nearly gentle. Looked like Wesley tapped him on the chest as a way of telling him to stand back. Like he had magic powers or something, because the tap stopped McGruder in his tracks, left him standing there feeling around on his chest with a look of astonishment etched on his face. And then the flower came in season.

A red gardenia bloomed on the front of McGruder’s coveralls, small and wet in the center, before the circle widened and color began to spread across his narrow chest. He reached for Wesley again; his eyes were wide and his hands were red, as he pawed the air. Wesley stepped to the side and tapped him twice more. And then a third time as McGruder began to sink to his knees.

Harris was quicker than he looked. Before McGruder hit the deck, he lifted his wand and sprayed Wesley full in the face keeping his fingers clutched around the brass lever…keeping the flow coming…filling Wesley’s eyes…soaking his hair with pine-scented disinfectant. Wesley staggered backward, rubbing his eyes, slashing at the air with the knife. Harris began to scream. “Help,” he cried. “Somebody help me.”

“So you bring this crew of anything but Arabs across the Canadian border,” Corso was saying. “Lord knows they got their share of East Indians in B.C. so nobody ought to bat an eye. You make ’em out to be grad students at the U. You put ’em up in one of those perpetual rentals in the U District. Someplace where the residents change with the semesters. Someplace where unless they’ve got two heads, nobody’s gonna notice their comings and goings. You bring Bohannon along because he knows the area and because he’s got his own ax to grind.” Charly Hart gave a grudging nod.

“Problem is…no matter how slick you set it up, you’re still working with amateurs.” The detective started to say something, but Corso waved him off. “Let’s face it, Hart, the world is not chock-full of people who’re willing to strap their asses to five hundred pounds of dynamite and then push the button. You gotta find some nut who thinks he’s going directly to heaven after the explosion.” Corso waved a disgusted hand. “You know, up there in the clouds with the seventy virgins and all that crap.”

“Didn’t know you could still find that many virgins,” Charly Hart groused.

“So you get your people in place,” Corso continued. “You pick a weekend when all the germ doctors in the world are in town for their annual symposium…exactly the kind of people you could reasonably blame for the kind of thing that happened in Bhopal, except they’re not the target. You’ve got something else in mind ’cause you know they’re gonna have the germ doctors guarded like the mint and you figure that while they’re expending their resources in one area you can wreak havoc with a bunch of amateurs in another.”

“Under the radar.”

“Exactly.”

“Except.”

“Except Bohannon gets antsy and wants to create a little havoc of his own.” The radio began to squawk again. Charly Hart leaned into the car and listened. Corso watched his expression change from boredom to confusion to concern.

“Got some kind of disturbance down on Pier Thirty. Some maniac with a knife,” Hart said.

“What’s on Pier Thirty?”

“Cruise ships.”

Charly Hart propelled himself off the seat. Banged his head hard on the doorframe. He rubbed his head as he scanned the street, looking for a driver. Corso read his mind. “I’ll drive,” he said.

Hart shook his head. “Against regulations.”

“You got a better idea?”

Charly Hart was still massaging the top of his head when he threw himself back into the passenger seat. “For god’s sake don’t hit anything.”

“Hey, hey,” the guy yelled. “Where in hell do you think you’re going?” Samuel stopped and looked around. He pointed out to the deserted street.

Guy shook his head. “That suit’s company property,” he said. “Ain’t no way you’re leaving with the damn thing.”

Samuel began pulling wildly at the Velcro, trying to extricate himself from the coveralls. Before he was sufficiently unfastened to free his shoulders, Paul jogged up to his side and put his lips close to Samuel’s ear. “We’ll leave quietly,” he said. “We’ll get back to the border.” The words seemed to have a calming effect. Samuel’s motions became more deliberate, his fingers less frenzied as he pulled the suit from his body, lifting his feet one at a time to pull the coveralls over his shoes. The guy sauntered out of his kiosk. “We don’t pay no partials,” he said. “You don’t finish your shift, you don’t see a dime.”

“That’s all right,” said Paul, holding his coveralls out at arm’s length.

The guy shook his head. “What?” he sneered. “You think I’m gonna return those to supply for ya?” He emitted a dirty laugh. “You wanna take them back…you get your own asses over there, and I’m not gonna…”

Paul opened his hand and dropped the coveralls on the ground. Samuel followed suit. Together they turned and walked out through the gate.

“Hey,” the guy was yelling, “you get your asses back here and…” The rest of his words were lost in the sounds of their own breathing and the scuff of their heavy shoes on the street as they picked up the pace, trying to put as much distance between themselves and the voice as they could. Alaskan Way was a half-erased pencil drawing, the buildings ghostly apparitions, as an offshore flow had carried a light fog in over the city, leaving the rose-colored streetlights to shed lonely cones of light along the darkened street. They walked half a block before another set of lights bounced down onto the street. At the sight of a Seattle police cruiser, Samuel emitted a harsh croak. Paul reached out and touched his arm. “Just keep walking,” he said. “They have no business with us.” As if to argue, the cruiser’s engine roared as the driver cut directly across both lanes and jerked to a halt ten yards in front of them. In little more than a second, the cop was out of the car with his gun drawn, resting his arm along the roof of the car as he took aim.

“Down,” he screamed. “Get down in the street.”

Before Paul’s mind could process the situation, Samuel took off running. “Stop,” rolled through the silvery air, and then again, “Stop.” Paul stood open-mouthed as the cop stepped out from behind the car, dropped to one knee and again took aim. Paul opened his mouth to shout, but any sound he might have made was lost in the
boom
of the pistol. He turned. Samuel was still running in that awkward gait of his. The gun boomed again and Paul watched in horror as Samuel was thrown forward onto his face, finally sliding to a stop in the street with his limbs still twitching. Without willing it so, Paul began to run toward the cop, shaking his arms and shouting Samuel’s name. His real name. “Suprava.” He heard a shout. “Stop.” And then the pistol roared again, sending a bright white flame out into the night. The bullet entered just beneath Paul’s right eye, deflected off his sinus cavity and exited the skull slightly behind his left ear. He was dead before he hit the asphalt.