Deep Blue (12 page)

Contract murder was the more lucrative next step.

Ford knew it was true.

“The outside probes started thirty-two minutes ago,” the Brazilian said when he returned. He put a bottle of water on a table of oiled teak and sat with a glass of wine. “Who was it, sport?”

Ford opened the bottle. “This is where I'm supposed to play dumb or turn it around and ask you.” He drank, then shrugged. “Okay. You ever hear of a guy named Winslow Shepherd? A mathematics professor. An Aussie. He goes under the banner of ‘activist,' but he's more of a third-rate revolutionary. He got off for bombing a post office years ago because he's better connected than most. Three high school kids were killed.”

After a slow shake of the head, Vargas said, “I know the type. What did you do to piss him off? Write a paper endorsing whale hunting or killing seals, or something like that? That might attract a group with enough money and know-how to help him.”

“What about the name Julian Solo?”

Vargas, a man not easily impressed, dropped the shields for an instant. “I hope you're guessing.”

“I'm not.”

“In that case, the Pacific coast of Panama is nice this time of year. That would be my choice—as long as you go the opposite direction. But the shotgun approach—taking the whole marina off-grid—it makes no sense for a man with his resources. What's the connection?”

“Shepherd is Julian's father. He and I had a . . . falling-out recently.”

The Brazilian didn't miss much. “On your
lecture
tour, I assume. Your choice of words—to a commercial pilot anyway—tells me the math professor is no longer a problem. Now the son wants to even the score.”

“Not exactly,” Ford said. Mack was standing in the office door, ready to search for a boat that probably didn't exist. “I'll be back in a couple of hours. Or stop by the lab tonight—if you're interested.”

“A falling-out with the father of a cyberbillionaire,” Vargas mused. He sipped his wine. “Guess that explains the drones.”

Drones—
plural. It stopped Ford in his tracks. “How many have you seen?”

The Brazilian proved his interest by replying, “Counting the two last night?”

•   •   •

When they rounded
Lighthouse Point into the Gulf, which was choppy but not too bad, Ford didn't need to check the radar before saying, “There must be forty boats out there. They don't need us. Besides”—he indicated the water, which was marl green—“no one in their right mind would dive this close to shore. Offshore, the viz might be so-so, but not here.”

Mack was somewhere inside his head but snapped out of it when he saw the flotilla, plus a Coast Guard chopper approaching from the north. “They don't think it was a prank. My god, word spreads fast. Don't get me wrong—I hope nobody was hurt—but it's not a bad thing for business, if you know what I mean.”

Ford was more concerned about the pair of UAVs he'd hidden in the mangroves under a pile of tin sheet roofing. He was eager to turn around, but it wasn't his call. “What do you want to do?”

Mack's response:
Huh?
then shook his head, still not entirely there but enough to hold a conversation. “What I think is, we ought to come back with a barrel of chum and catch that sonuvabitch. To hell with people and their
sharks were here before we were
bullshit. Kill it or drive it off, I don't care. Or, if you're right, if it was some bastard playing a joke, well . . .”

He left that to Ford's imagination. The older man's attention shifted to the beach, where hotels, none over two stories, were lined up beyond a fringe of sea oats and palms. “The place I'm buying is just a couple miles up. I haven't seen it from the water. How about we take a look? By then, if we haven't heard something different on the VHF, we'll turn around.”

They ran along the beach past Sanibel Moorings, a bunch of other places, then turned in not far beyond Casa Ybel, where umbrellas bunched like wildflowers. Ford's impatience was mollified by women in two-piece suits, sunning themselves. Mack rambled on about the Grin N Bare It cottages, which they couldn't see from the water, but the narrow access path was there, lined with coconuts.

Mack talked about it being a good investment; a communal lifeboat for themselves and people they trusted. On and on like that. Easy enough to tune out until the man was several sentences into a different subject, the last fragment startling: “. . . a couple of surfers washed ashore. One, just his torso, the other missing a leg.”

Ford was suddenly interested. “Where was this?”

“I just told you, when I was a kid.”

“From a shark attack, you mean.”

“I was there—my folks ran a little beach takeaway. A carryout, you'd call it. Burgers and snacks and chips—French fries. You know the sort of place. A woman started screaming. By the time I got there, I had to jockey my way through a crowd. I'll never forget it. Some bloke's innards hanging out. At first, I thought it was a pig with a bunch of jellyfish floating around the rib cage. A white pointer had gotten them both. Great whites, you call them.”

Ford said, “You're from western New Zealand. I forget the name of the town. Hard to pronounce anyway.”

Mack only nodded. “My point is, folks there didn't sit around wringing their hands about what to do. Over the next few days, fishermen brought in three of those bastards. Strung 'em up like the killers they are and took pictures. After that, no more dead
surfers and no more nervous tourists. Selling burgers and snass got back to normal.”

“You've never told that story before,” Ford said, “or someone would've passed it on. How old were you?”

Mack was a large man with a gravelly laugh. “There're a lot of stories I haven't told folks around here.”

Something about the way he said it put Ford on alert. “Are you from near Auckland or the South Island?”

“It was a different lifetime,” Mack replied, either evading or he didn't hear. He checked on the distant flotilla, which had moved a mile or two closer to Fort Myers Beach. “Hope they find the poor bastards . . . or I hope you're right. Guess we ought to be getting back, Doc. You ready?”

Tomlinson's shower was a bag suspended from the mast of his sailboat,
No Más
, a 38-foot Morgan bleached to bone by the tropics. Not just any bag, a catheter bag he associated with a painful incident that involved a urinary blockage and a parasitic fish.

“Would you believe a fish once swam up my dick?”

This was an opening line he could not use with just any woman, but, with the right one, it was guaranteed fun. His explanation, which made the impossible plausible, usually sealed the deal. A candiru, a South American catfish only a few millimeters long, sought refuge in the urinary tracts of certain animals, including men, if one was dumb enough to piss while up to his belly in a candiru habitat.

Painful. But wasn't pain the keystone of enlightenment?

He put on shorts, no underwear, a long-sleeved pullover, tied his
hair back with a red wind scarf, and rowed ashore rather than use the engine. Didn't want to drown out the silence of stars and water on this perfect winter's eve.

Ahead was the marina: palm trees draped in Christmas lights, boats decorated, the docks weighted with shadow people carrying drinks amid snippets of laughter. Yeah . . . a whiff of good ganja, too. This was a promising step into the marina's Twenty-six Days of Christmas.

Tonight was Day 14, a Monday. Secret Santa names would be picked from a hat. For snacks: smoked mullet, mango chutney; fried gator tail for hors d'oeuvres.

Water amplified sound. He rowed and eavesdropped between each stroke. His ears were calibrated by experience to filter out men's voices because he preferred what women had to say. True, it was a method of gauging age and availability, but his affection for women transcended base need despite the fact his base needs were legendary. He liked women as people. Really, he did. Eons of subjugation and general male assholishness had made females more sensitive and perceptive. They possessed heightened paranormal powers, if they chose to tap into them.

The female mind was fascinating. And if a woman's mind was also in a lusty mood, then her breasts and warm thighs were a welcome bonus—all shapes, all sizes, it didn't matter as long as their hearts were in the right place.

Tomlinson loved women. Well . . . except for the Chinese dragon lady he'd married and that had lasted only long enough to conceive a daughter. Which is why, by choice, he lived alone on a boat with
a forward V-berth big enough for three, even though it had slept as many as five.

Last night, with the veterinarian, one woman had been more than enough.

Gonna get chilly tonight,
he thought.
Sure hope Ava doesn't start beating herself over the head with guilt. What'll I do if she cancels?

He cupped a hand to test a whiff of his own breath. He tugged his hair straight and straightened the red bandana he often wore pirate-style. A man never wanted to count on good fortune, but to dismiss hope invited negative karma and only twice in his life had negative karma gotten him laid, so the less said or thought about that, the better.

I bet I look pretty good,
he thought.
Next trip to town, I'll buy a couple more bandanas, different colors.

Women's laughter, a youthful bell chime amid a familiar chorus, demanded his attention. Tomlinson spun around so fast, he dropped an oar. Moored along A dock, between the Brazilian's yacht and a houseboat patched with duct tape, was a stodgy old Chris-Craft brightened by Japanese lanterns and several busty silhouettes.
Tiger Lilly
was painted on the stern. The owners, Rhonda and JoAnn, were aboard with guests—all female, thus far, and at least two of them new to the marina.

Marta Estéban was there, too.

On the other hand,
he thought,
I totally respect Ava's concerns about morality. If she doesn't show, I'll just have to muddle through
.

He recovered the oar and continued to eavesdrop while he rowed. There were many familiar voices, but only two popular topics:
computer crashes and a great white shark that had supposedly attacked a boat.

This was of interest. Before and after his own MacBook had crashed, he had done research on both subjects for his pal Ford. He had information to share.

Separating the marina from the lab was a stretch of mangrove murkiness. The biologist was up there in a lighted window. He wore a lab apron and gloves for some reason, still hard at work. Seeing his pal, combined with the research he'd done, sapped some of the joy from his holiday mood.

Shit-oh-dear. What to do?

Work before pleasure,
he decided.

Tomlinson spun an oar and aimed the dinghy at Ford's house.

•   •   •

Tomlinson's research
was on a 32-gig memory card, which the biologist accepted but said, “Tell me the important stuff. The last time I used one of these, it wiped out my computer and backups. In a way, it's a relief not to have the damn thing available, but I'm off the grid for now.”

“No firewalls? Oh hell”—Tomlinson snapped his fingers—“I forgot who we're dealing with. Julian, the Black Knight of the Internet. There's a rumor he's hiding out in an embassy in South America, but it's bullshit. I called an old buddy of mine. Remember Ken Kern?”

“Vaguely. He's a scientist of some type. You both attended Harvard.”

“Ken was big in the movement, a founder of Students for a
Democratic Society—SDS. Back then, he had hair to the middle of his back; a very hip guy who wore a silver infinity necklace along with the Star of David and smoked nothing but unfiltereds. Cigarettes, I'm talking about. A purist, you know? Now he's bald and has a Sigmund Freud goatee. He's senior geneticist at Mass Labs—but still a purist.”

At the mention of “geneticist,” Ford walked to the screen door. “Did you happen to see the dog out there?”

“Probably swimming, but stay with me for a sec. Ken and Winslow Shepherd were tight until eight years ago.”

Ford moved to the south window. “What happened?”

“The U.S. had a national election. Maybe you heard about it.”

The biologist didn't bother to respond.

“Actually, this was during the campaign. Ken and Shepherd were part of a candidate's think tank. I'm not going to say what office, but it was national. They were policy types, low-profile geniuses, who chipped in whenever they were needed. The fact they'd both been arrested for blowing shit up and inciting riots required what politicos call a cushioning wall, so it's not like they hung with the candidate—but they did. Quite a few times, in fact.”

Ford focused in. “You're telling me they had access to the White House?”

Tomlinson stared for a moment. Inside his head, at the core, was a master entity, a serious, sober being who seldom appeared but who appeared now. “I'm telling you why I'm here. Why I'm narcing out a man who did what he did for all the right reasons but who couldn't handle the power.”

“Shepherd or the candidate?”

Tomlinson kept going. “My convictions about this world haven't changed. Same with Ken. He bugged out—or was kicked down the stairs. He wasn't clear about that. Mostly, he spoke generally about Shepherd and some others in the movement. Julian included. Now that they've got power—real power—some have drifted over to the dark side. They use any means available to destroy governments that make war.”

Tomlinson twisted a lock of hair and chewed on it. “Ken says they're funding what he considers to be terrorists. They've aligned with someone—Chinese, maybe—to dismantle the whole sick scaffolding.”

“Scaffolding of
this
government,” Ford said.

“Anyone who gets in the way, they replace or publicly discredit or serve them up to guys with knives. I told him, ‘Hey, at least they can't touch you now.' Know what he said? He said, ‘I wish that was true, but I won't be bullied.' A good man, Ken Kern.”

“I'm sorry to put either one of you in this position.” Ford took off his lab apron and sat. “What about finding Shepherd and Julian?”

Tomlinson checked the pocket of his shorts, then the other pocket, and took out a piece of paper. “He gave me the number of another acquaintance. There are people still inside the movement who hate what's going on. China isn't a communal society, it's a freakin' military dictatorship. Ever think you'd see the day?” He unfolded the paper and extended his arm. “I cashed in a whole bunch of favors for this, Doc. Before you take a look, I want you to promise something.”

“You have an address?”

“It's the name of a plastic surgery clinic, but not until you promise.”

“I can't.”

“You haven't even heard what I want.”

“I already know. A promise Shepherd won't be killed and I can't do that. There's too much at stake. Plastic surgery, yeah, that makes sense if he wants to disappear.”

“Dude . . . you're not even going to peek at the address? It's right
here
. You don't think it bothers me he killed those three kids?”

“How about this,” Ford said. “If I get in a tight spot, you give me another shot. Same with what you know about Julian. Until then, let's not change the rules. They've worked for us so far.”

“But you asked me, man.”

“Yeah, and I don't know what disappoints me most. Me asking or you narcing out your pals. Why do you call it narcing when narcotics aren't involved? Why not ‘providing evidence' or . . . No, that's too formal. And ‘squealing' went out with Prohibition.”

Ford was trying to lighten the mood. Tomlinson had to smile when the man showed his human side. “Good ol' Doc,” he said and stuffed the paper in his pocket.

End of subject.

They returned to the reality of the moment. “I saw you through the window, coming in. You were wearing gloves. Why the hell?”

“You ever hear of something called a Faraday cage? Come on, I'll show you.”

Ford started toward the door, Tomlinson saying, “A cage—
perfect
—we'll need one. I have a whole new theory about that great
white shark. Megalodon—a true prehistoric giant—I'm not the only one who thinks they're still out there.”

The biologist only laughed at that.

•   •   •

At tonight's party,
Dr. Ava Lindstrom, from Sarasota, felt out of place among people who, while gracious enough, were a tight little group unto themselves. More like a family than friends, even though their ages and backgrounds varied.

Tomlinson had offered to meet her around six, but still no sign of the man, and it was almost seven. A small part of her hoped he wouldn't show. He didn't scare her, but his lifestyle did. Chaos and chemical indulgence had nearly destroyed her as a teen, and a nagging voice still warned that passion was dangerous, and pleasure was the enemy of success.

On the other hand, she'd had a hell of a good time last night. Where was that stringy scarecrow man?

Wearing jeans, boots, and a red collared blouse, she helped herself to an NA beer from a tub filled with ice and roamed for a while. The only person she recognized was Figuerito, a small, fit guy with muscles, who, instead of mingling, was playing with the dog near a boat ramp far removed from the others.

A Cuban, she remembered, who didn't speak English. He'd been in the U.S. only for a month or two.

She strolled closer and watched him hurl something heavy toward the bay—a coconut, it looked like. After what seemed several seconds, the coconut made a hollow thunk when it hit water. The dog charged after it.

Over and over, they did this. Still no Tomlinson, so she tried out her high school Spanish.

“Hello. My name is Ava. Your dog is rapid.”

Figuerito stopped, turned, and stared. Arm cocked, he held a coconut like a football.
“¿Rápido?”

“
Sí,
very rapid. He is also intelligent,” the woman responded.

The Cuban laughed at that. “This dog is a dumbass and a pain in my head. I hope there is an alligator out there who eats him.” He crow-hopped and threw the coconut from what he imagined to be centerfield to an invisible cutoff man. “No matter how many times I do this, the dumb bastard keeps coming back.”

To Ava's ears, the man's Spanish blurred, he talked so fast, but she did catch a few words. “
Sí.
The dog had pain. The dog has no pain now. What is your name?”

“Fig-u-RI-tow,” he said phonetically, while the woman strained to see the retriever, out there in the night, swimming his ass off. “I'm glad you speak Cuban,” he added. “I have no one to talk to but that goddamn dog. He follows me everywhere and stinks like fish. I was told an alligator sometimes lives under the mangroves. If the alligator eats him, I would appreciate it if you don't bring him back to life again. On the other hand”—he looked at her and shrugged—“I have only myself to blame.”

The doctor woman didn't understand any of that. Figuerito could tell, but she was tall and blond, slim in her cowboy jeans, with a stretchy white band in her hair. And very nice
chichis
, which he remembered from yesterday when she'd waded out in her wet blouse. Her
chichis
were the size of firm avocado pears and he loved avocadoes.