5 - Choker: Ike Schwartz Mystery 5 (11 page)

Chapter 20

Tony Fugarelli had come in from the field to occupy a desk at Langley ten years previously. Once in a great while he missed the edginess of covert work, but since the Cold War’s end, the agency’s work had changed. Young kids, fluent in Arabic in its several dialects and God only knew how many in Chinese, did the job now. And then, there were his three grandchildren to think about. Field work had destroyed his marriage and permanently warped him for another. But he wasn’t about to lose the grandchildren.

He thought of himself as a plugger rather than a genius, and he’d risen up the ranks to a position where he believed he could finally do something. This latest flap he took as a needless distraction. Soviet Cold-War hardware went missing all the time. Big deal. Enough years had passed, and newer technology appeared to make most, if not all of it, obsolete. But he was bound to do his duty, and if the wonks on the top floor wanted to go hunting for a few bits of antique weaponry, he’d do it. He did wonder at the apparent urgency. Beyond the nuisance factor, there wouldn’t be much they could do.

His intercom buzzed. His secretary announced that Charlie Garland wanted to talk to him. He told her to tell Garland to call back, and settled in to read the Dailies.

“He’s pretty insistent,” she said. He could hear voices in the background. Fugarelli knew that Garland’s title and place in the organizational chart at the CIA put him outside the loop for any but trivial public relations tasks. He also knew that Garland had the highest security clearance and a budget that belied his job description.

The door burst open and Garland pushed in, with the secretary protesting and apologizing.

“Tony, I just got off the phone with someone, and he’s on to something that could tie in to the mess the basement turned up.”

“Who?”

“You remember Ike Schwartz?”

“Bailed out a few years back, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, with cause.”

“Yeah, right. So, what’s he got?” Fugarelli was always skeptical of input from exes—the drop-outs, the wash-outs, quitters, and burn-outs. He didn’t know Ike’s story—why he’d left— but he remembered what he’d been, and so he decided to accept “with cause” for the moment and listen.

Charlie filled him in on what he’d set Ike to do and what he’d found, or thought he’d found. Fugarelli’s eyebrows climbed a half inch when the possibility of a SAM was mentioned.

“I didn’t know Schwartz that well. How far do you think he can be trusted?”

Charlie dropped a thick file on Fugarelli’s desk. “This is his personnel file. Read it yourself. Oh, and note that even though he’s officially a civilian, the Director insisted we keep him active as if he were merely on an extended, unpaid, leave.”

Fugarelli’s eyebrows completed the full inch climb. He’d never heard of that with any former agent. “Schwartz knows this, I assume, and we can call him in?”

“No, not exactly. Read the file. Then call me or the Director or, if you’re satisfied, call Ike. I think you should touch base with me first, though. Ike can be a little prickly at times.”

“But he’ll talk to you? Why?”

“Long story…best left for another day. His cell number is on the overleaf. If he doesn’t answer there are a series of numbers following that in the order of likelihood he’ll pick up.”

Fugarelli scanned the list. “Sheriff’s Office, Picketsville? What the hell is that all about?”

“Read the file. I’ll be in my office. The Director flies to Burundi this afternoon, so if you want him, you’ll need to call before five.” Garland left abruptly, leaving the secretary agape and Fugarelli puzzled. He realized he needed to do some internal intel on the Agency’s employees, particularly Garland. PR flaks didn’t talk that way to an EX II. He put the sheaf of reports, surmises, and flat-out guesses that composed the daily intelligence briefing document, the Dailies, aside and opened Ike Schwartz’s folder. He was still reading an hour later. He no longer thought of the new crisis as a needless distraction. He called Charlie Garland.

“Go over it all again.”

“What part?”

“Okay, tell me about the plane and why you thought you could use Agency assets to look for it.”

Charlie started at the beginning. He had only the sketchiest knowledge about the details Ike had uncovered but he filled in as best he could.

“The thing is, Ike thinks the plane was shot down because Nick, that’s the pilot’s name, saw something. Ike thinks possibly an attempt to introduce personnel into the country.”

“But you think it’s part of this new thing?”

“Remember, it’s a moonless night. In the pitch black, someone in a plane, concentrating on navigating over water, even flying close to the water, isn’t going to see anything at the surface. If people were being dropped off a ship, there would be no need to turn on any lights. They’d just slip over the side on a cargo net and into a boat. You wouldn’t even need to come very close to shore. Hell, on the Fourth of July, you could motor into Annapolis’ harbor. It would be just one more party boat cruising up to the marina. I doubt anyone would notice.”

“Point taken. So your guess is?”

“They, someone, whoever, had to turn on their lights for some reason. Whatever they were up to, they had to be careful, and they were on long enough for the pilot, for Nick, to see what was being off-loaded. That, in my mind means some thing, not some body. You follow?”

“How would the pilot know what he was looking at? And why would he think to try to connect to you?”

“The first part is easy. He was a Naval Academy graduate and had four years in submarines.”

“The second part?”

“It’s hard for people not to guess the connections we have if they hang around long enough. He knew I worked over here. He didn’t know exactly what I did—”

“Shit, Garland, I don’t know exactly what you do.”

“Yes, well there you are. Anyway, he assumed I could at least get the information he had to the right people.”

Fugarelli frowned and wished he’d never quit smoking. It was moments like these that a jolt of nicotine to his system always used to help him think. “Anybody talked to the Director yet?”

“Waiting for you. It’s your call. If you think there’s something out there, tell me and I’ll put Ike on notice.”

“You said the boss is leaving the country—for…”

“Burundi, yes, at five. You have less than thirty minutes.”

“I’ll call him, you hold off on the call to Schwartz. I’ll need to clear a domestic covert operation with the boss. He’s the only one that can order an operation that circumvents the DIA, Homeland Security, and the FBI. Me, I’m too close to my pension to risk it on my own. He’s an appointee. Worst case for him is he has to leave and take a five-hundred-thousand-dollar a year job with some fancy Washington firm, selling influence and spreading campaign money around. But…”

“But?”

“I want something substantial, hard data. I need something that says what you suspect is more than just a maybe. I get that, and I’ll give it a green light and then, only if the Director says okay, and you can give Schwartz the bad news.”

“Bad news?”

“Yeah, that he’s one of us again.”

Chapter 21

Ike pulled off the road in front of Bunky Crispins’ house just as the dawn lost its golden tinge and grayed into early daylight. Crispins waited for him on the pier. He could hear the little diesel engine turning over in the
J. Millard Tawes
. He removed the box Charlie had messengered down the night before and carried it to the boat. From the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of the aluminum piece he suspected once belonged to Nick’s airplane.

“Did you remember to get yourself some boat shoes and warm clothes? It’ll be nippy out on the water this morning.”

“I’m layered like I’m going to climb Mont Blanc.”

“Climb on who?”

“Figure of speech, Bunky. I’m plenty warm.”

“Okay, climb aboard. There’s a thermos of coffee and some donuts in the little cabin for’ard. I hope you like your coffee sweet and creamy, ’cause that’s the way she’s made.”

“Sweet will be fine. What can I do?”

“First, you can tell me what’s in the box.”

“Depth-finder and a global positioning unit.”

“What’d you bring them for? I know where I’m at, and I know how deep the water is from here clear down to Smith Island.”

“If, and when, we get out over the area where I think the plane went in, I’ll turn it on. If I see a blip that shouldn’t be there, I’ll note the position on the GPU. Later, if I want to go back, I’ll be able to find the spot exactly.”

Crispins spat over the side to let Ike know what he thought of depth finders and GPUs.

“Whatever. Now, stay out the way ’til I clear that head over there, and then you need to tell me where you want to go. If you want to fish, by the way, there’s tackle in the cabin with the donuts, and bait in the cooler. We clear the headland and I’m putting over a line. Rock fish have been running here lately. I’m fixing to catch me some dinner.”

He cast off the stern line, pushed the tiller over, levered the engine in reverse, and eased the boat free from the dock. Shifting forward, he put the tiller hard to port and headed out into the chop. Ike stood unsteadily in the workboat’s stern as it began to pitch in the gentle swell and concentrated his gaze westward. He wanted a good look at the duck blind, and he wanted to do a grid search over the area where he thought he might have seen something he hoped was the crash point.

“I brought a map.”

“Don’t need no map. I reckon, man and boy, I been working these waters for thirty years. You just tell me where you want to go and I’m there.”

Ike doubted he could deliver on that, but tucked the map away in his windbreaker pocket anyway.

“I want to see that duck blind that sits off the shore down south of the southern mouth of this bay. Then I want to go about a quarter to a half mile west and a little north of it and cruise back and forth to see if I can get a glitch in the bottom with the depth gauge—something, anything that will help me get a fix on that plane.”

“That’d put you over some deep water, Mister. Chesapeake ain’t the Florida coast. You won’t see nothing out there.”

“I know, but I want to give it a go. I talked to somebody at the Chesapeake Bay Institute, and he said the bay bottom is mostly silt and mud with sea weed holding it together. With the tides, it should be pretty smooth. Anything as big as a single engine airplane should show a blip on the screen. Besides, it’ll give you some good trolling for your fish.”

“It would do that, for sure. Hey, it’s your charter. If’n you want to run in circles or sit and drink, it’s all the same with me. I’d like to have me a look-see at that dinged duck blind my own self. Like to blow it to Kingdom Come, I would.”

“Why’s that?”

“Them people who bought that place got a dredging permit to allow for them to build a dock and bring in a sailboat. Told folks it had a deep keel and needed a twelve-foot deep trench to handle it. Built a bulkhead to hold the spoil and dumped, jiminy, I don’t know how many tons behind it. I still ain’t yet seen a sign of a boat, or a pier to tie it to, either. All they did was put up that humongous blind. Ruined a perfectly good piece of wetland, they did.”

“And that is bad? How?”

“Crabs feed and do their thing in the sea grass. That’s where the little ones go to get bigger. That’s where they peel, you know, shed their shells so’s they can grow. That’s where Jimmy crab gets to fertilize the eggs on the sook. A sook is the lady and Jimmy is the gentleman, if you follow me.” Ike allowed as how he did. “Trouble with the dinged government is they let all that developer money dazzle their eyes and then let’em kill the bay. Fill in the wetlands, mud from stripping the land to build houses and all. Where you think all them new septic systems are draining to? And then there’s all kinds of other run-off, fertilizers, garbage—you name it and them city folks will dump it. Crabs’ll be all gone in another couple of years. First it were the arsters, now the blue crabs. It’s a sin, what they done.”

Ike had researched the bay the night before. Bunky, it seemed, had most of it right. Polluted water, warming temperatures, and overfishing had reduced the crab population to levels many believed to be well below the critical mass needed to survive. The bay’s blue crab stock had dropped 70 percent since the 90s, probably due to overfishing and increasing water pollution. Both Virginia and Maryland had imposed steep cuts in the year’s harvest of female crabs and hoped to reduce the number of crabs taken by more than a third. That put people like Bunky off the water and even then, it might well be a case of too little, too late.

Bunky swung the boat around Rich Neck and pointed it southwest. The wind picked up. The air, whipped by a steady breeze, seemed fresh and clean with just a hint of damp seaweed from offshore.

“There’s beer in the cooler with the bait if you get a thirst,” he shouted over his shoulder.

“A little early and a little too chilly for beer just now.”

“Suit yourself, but you can hand me up one.”

“Thought you were hard-shell.”

“Out here I’m whatever the mood strikes me. Back there,” he jerked his thumb landward, “I’m as true-blue teetotaler as they come. Yessir.”

Ike pulled a can from the cooler, popped the cap, and handed it off to Crispins. The boat chugged southwest. The bay seemed rougher out from the protective headland. Ike caught sight of the blind. On the water it looked considerably larger than it had from the air.

“Slow it down a bit, Bunky, I want to rig this depth-finder.”

“What for?”

“You know the depths along here. I want to try it out in this shallow stretch to see if it works before we head for deep water.” He set the screen on the motor housing and switched the unit on.

“Okay, I’m all set. That duck blind is a lot farther from the shore than I thought. How about you steer a course behind it.”

“You mean between it and the shore?”

“Is the water deep enough here?”

“Shoot, I used to run a trot line along here before they killed off this patch of bottom.” Bunky eased the craft toward shore, then bore off and let it run parallel. Ike studied the screen. The bottom looked smooth and undisturbed. He consulted his map and calibrated the findings. Bunky moved behind him and looked over his shoulder. The duck blind passed by on their starboard side. Ike glanced at the structure as it slid by.

“It’s really big, isn’t it? I don’t know anything about hunting waterfowl, but that thing looks like if could hold a football team. Do they make them that big?”

“Never seen one like that, no sir. And it ain’t got no floor. Hard to see how them city slicker hunters are going to shoot out of that thing if they ain’t got no place to stand.”

“Do you suppose they sit in boats?”

“Don’t rightly know, but even with a flood tide and standing straight up, they’d be hard put to get a gun over the top of that thing. Probably fixin’ to floor it over later.” The blind fell off to the stern.

“Swing around and go by again.”

Bunky pulled the tiller over and the boat made an easy three-sixty. They cruised by again with the blind on their port side. Bunky concentrated on the tiller and the depth finder. Ike unslung his camera and quick-shot twenty pictures.

“Whoa, up there. You got that dingus plugged in?”

“Yes. It’s on and seems to be working okay.”

“Well, something’s not right.” He swung the craft around again and throttled the engine back to slow trolling speed. “Look at the bottom there.”

Ike looked. What am I supposed to see?”

“A twelve-foot deep trench for a sailboat. It ain’t there at all. If they didn’t dredge a trench, where’d all that spoil come from?”

Ike looked to the shore and the new bulkhead. It had been partially decked over but appeared to be completely backfilled with dredged bottom.

Where indeed?