Deep Blue (21 page)

Cashmere hadn't lied about having money. Inside were twenty vacuum-sealed plastic bags. A bag on the top was open. It contained blocks of U.S. hundred-dollar bills. They were neatly wrapped in stacks of $15,000; eight blocks in this bag alone, and it looked like two blocks were missing.

Ford did the math: just under three million in cash . . . if it wasn't counterfeit.

The bags were rubberized plastic. He pierced one with the
knife. The sound was similar to opening vacuum-sealed coffee. Inside were ten blocks of U.S. hundreds that looked and felt like the real deal.

He inspected the outside of the bag. No markings that he could see, but his fingers found an embossed area on one of the corners. The sun was tilting westward but provided sufficient light to make out a tiny Chinese seal—a chop, it was called.
Chop
, as in bang a hammer or hit one's hand on an embossing stamp. The word had been used for thousands of years by the Chinese and had sprouted many meanings.

The tiny symbol told Ford the money was probably counterfeit, and there was no better counterfeiter in the world than the Chinese government.

He opened the other two Samsonites. They were packed with the same sealed bags. So make it nine million in cash.

Ingenious. A double-edged weapon: fund terrorism to fight the Western world while also damaging the U.S. economy. The cost? Only the price of paper, ink, and production.

Ford kept an unopened bag of cash, closed the suitcases, and was turning his attention to the lockbox, when Cashmere's phone buzzed.

A text message appeared:
Lost Clarence's phone 20km south Cancún. Find him.

Clarence—Ford's nickname. He had already skimmed through enough messages on the phone to know the text was from Julian. Julian and his father had been using Cashmere as a go-between to share updates. It had been a busy day for all three. Now Julian was
worried because Ford's cell phone had been deactivated somewhere midway between Cancún and the resort, an area near the little village of Tulum.

A reply was required. Ford hadn't had time to read all of the texts, so he did a quick review. Cashmere's writing style was more formal than the way he spoke and all of his texts ended with the abbreviation
SWT
or the word
Inshallah
.

Ford had no idea what SWT stood for, but he added it anyway after typing
Shall I detain? Or get rid of C?

Julian's reply:
Use your fucking brain.

That put an end to any hope of a dialogue that might reveal Julian's whereabouts.

He pocketed the phone and returned his attention to the lockbox, which was bulky, made of galvanized steel. He couldn't pry the thing open if he'd wanted, but no need. The key to the box was in Cashmere's billfold.

This was not something to unlock in a rush. There might be a trip wire or an alarm. Finally, he opened the lid to find a terrorist's workshop inside. Five components are required for improvising bombs—an explosive charge, a power source, a trigger, a detonator, and something to hold it all together, such as electrical tape. Everything needed was here in multiple variations. Enough to blow up a dozen day care centers—Cashmere's favorite target—or a sizable airport.

Ford checked his watch—less than three hours until sunset. He went through the contents faster than he should have, but
carefully
.

Emulex was the explosive of choice. He thought it was dynamite, at first, because it was packed in red cardboard tubes—two
dozen sticks of a composition far more powerful than TNT. There was a tool kit containing detonators, switches, and power sources of all types—from D cord and blasting caps to throwaway cell phones; a couple garage openers, too.

Among the detonators was a tiny microphone on what resembled a blasting cap. Ford lifted it with two delicate fingers and saw that it was labeled
High Decibel Activator
. He wasn't an explosives expert, but he'd been through enough schools to know this was something new.

Sound was a weapon. Prehistoric whales had exploded their prey with high- or low-decibel bombs. Sound could now explode modern prey as well.

The decibel activator caused him to picture the drones lying in the gloom of the Captiva Blue Hole. He fingered the bruise on his shoulder and thought about Julian Solo. Cashmere had claimed Solo wasn't in Mexico. Nothing on his phone suggested otherwise.

So . . . maybe Tomlinson was right. Maybe Julian was on a luxury yacht somewhere off Sanibel, poised to recover his expensive toys. If true, it was time to seriously consider other options.

He started the SUV, locked the doors, and went over it in his head. Julian couldn't be trusted, and his location remained an unknown. Ford couldn't kill a man he couldn't find, so why risk a fall from an eighth-story balcony?

It was different with Winslow Shepherd. Tomlinson had provided Shepherd's address: a ritzy cosmetic surgery/rehab clinic near Tulum, midway between the resort and Playa del Carmen. It wasn't the right address, but close enough. The actual location had been provided by the chatty Jihadist just before he died. He'd described
a beach house, not far from the clinic's gate, with an open view to the sea and a porch on three sides.

This was an important detail. To a camera, an elevated porch might resemble a balcony.

There were other variables to consider. Shepherd would have at least one bodyguard, probably more. His men would recognize Cashmere's SUV, of course, and seize the contents if they found it. Ford couldn't risk putting counterfeit money into circulation or the little bomb factory back in operation, so that had to be dealt with in advance.

Another review of Cashmere's phone was required. He found bits of useful information and also a puzzling text message. It was an automated update from a company named Port of Tampa Freight Hauling.

It read
Shipment labeled PRX600 Professional has arrived. Awaiting final delivery. Send address via telephone or email, which must include an electronic signature. Thanks for your business!

The message had been received two days ago.

The text seemed unrelated to what Ford was dealing with yet posed obvious questions. Why would David Cashmere, an international criminal, ship a package to Tampa, Florida? A package large enough to require a freight company to handle it—a PRX600, whatever the hell that was. The combination of elements set off alarm bells. Terrorist cells had been operating in Florida since before 9/11—two of the hijackers had learned to fly at a field south of Sarasota.

Explosives?

Could be. But, more likely, a Jet Ski with a name like PRX600 Professional.

Ford filed the puzzle away for later. There wasn't much time and he had a lot to do.

He spun the SUV around and returned to the concrete building—the stack of folding chairs he'd seen bothered him. Twenty minutes later, he was driving north toward Tulum on Mexico 307, a narrow macadam two-lane. Not much traffic. A few rental cars or a taxi bound for the resort and the occasional donkey cart loaded with bananas or piled high with yucca.

On an open stretch, he used Cashmere's phone to dial 001, then his own cell number. No service. He tried again a few miles south of Tulum on a gravel road that ran along the sea. Same thing.

Ahead was a sheltered spot to pull off. He parked among a strand of coco palms and spent several more uneasy minutes with his head buried in the terrorist's workshop before he pulled away.

A mile later, the road improved. The scenery became a tropical postcard of palms and Caribbean blue. When a billboard announced that the clinic—
Clínica Cirugía Estética—
was only a kilometer away, he turned right onto a sandy lane toward the sea. Down a hill and across a creek was the clinic's VIP beach house, where Winslow Shepherd was recuperating.

The chatty Jihadist had given accurate directions.

He turned cross-country and stopped where sea grapes provided cover and an elevated view of the house. It was built on stilts of rainforest timber; a Mayan-style château painted key lime green. A handicapped van was parked outside. No other vehicles, which
was a surprise. Steps and a ramp led up to glistening doors and a walk-around porch. The porch overlooked dunes and a beach, where glassy rollers broke.

Ford sat for a while, watching for activity inside the house. None. The same was true of a row of beach cabanas several hundred yards north. Weird. Where was the audience who would use the folding chairs stacked on the concrete balcony? On the other hand, maybe the cabanas were inhabited by patients who, after cosmetic surgery, had to avoid the sun.

His focus softened. His eyes moved to the sea, an expanse of gelatinous turquoise. Strange . . . he'd made that crossing only a few hours ago yet Florida felt so far away. At Dinkin's Bay, the sun would set soon—there was an hour time difference—and Jeth or Figgy, or someone, would be burying bottles of beer in ice while Mack amped up the party music loud. Too loud for the marina's corroded old sound system.

Sound
—that word again.

David Cashmere's threat nudged at the memory circuits:
You would be dead by tomorrow anyway.

Ford was not an emotional man. He didn't believe in intuition or other psychic fiction, yet the sudden feeling of dread he experienced was real. It jarred him.

He sat back, thinking,
Did I miss something?

It was possible. Julian Solo was a billionaire psycho who also happened to be a genius—just ask the man. Cashmere was no genius, but he enjoyed killing, and he'd recently shipped a large package to Tampa.

Was there a connection?

Sound . . .
the word spun around in his memory and finally attached itself to a tiny microphone detonator.

Shit.
Ford slapped the steering. The U.S. Special Operations Command was in Tampa, at MacDill, not far from the port. The freight company had received Cashmere's package, but the actual delivery address had been sent by email yesterday. Or today.

He grabbed the cell phone from the passenger seat and dialed 0, hoping to get a local operator. Instead, he got a recording, in Spanish, that suggested he try later. He dialed 001 and the number of a man he trusted. A computer prompted him to enter David Cashmere's overseas code.

No clue.

Just for the hell of it, he tried Tomlinson—a Zen master psychic who might not require the help of satellites and passwords.

The Zen psychic failed to answer a phone that did not ring.

“Technology, my ass,” Ford muttered and dialed the operator several more times while his sense of dread gradually faded and gave way to reality. The reality was this: no one could sneak an explosive into the Special Ops center at MacDill. Security was too damn tight. Particularly if it was a box large enough to require a freight truck to deliver it.

Focus,
he told himself. After several slow breaths, he checked his watch, which was on Florida time. Less than an hour before sunset on Sanibel; only four-fifteen p.m. here.

He opened his gear stash, selected what he might need, including the 9mm Sig Sauer pistol, then took a last look before locking the SUV. The vehicle was still a mess, but two of the Samsonite suitcases were gone, as was Cashmere's laptop.

It was a safety precaution. On an assignment, nothing ever went as planned.

The pistol went into a Galco holster inside the back of his pants. His Vertx gear bag—lighter than before—went over his shoulder. Ford hiked through the sand dunes and down the hill to the VIP beach house as if he were expected.

Attitude counted. If the math professor wouldn't cut a deal, or if bodyguards tried to interfere, he would pull the Sig and insist they all return to the concrete balcony.

If they refused or agreed, either way, Julian—wherever he was—would pay a price for destroying the reputations of Ford's friends at Dinkin's Bay.

An hour before sunset, Tomlinson and the dog were still anchored over the Captiva Blue Hole when a vessel appeared on radar, twelve miles southwest. He zoomed in—it was big, an oil tanker, or one of those damn oceangoing cruise ships that liked to run down innocent sailboats.

It had happened to him before.

Nothing to worry about, though, because he was aboard Ford's high-tech monster boat, not his floating home,
No Más
. And the vessel, whatever it was, was moving slowly. Yeah . . . a tanker, probably, one of those oil-shitting stinkpots hauling black gold from one billionaire to another.

Billionaire.
Julian Solo came into his head. The albino bastard was out there somewhere. An hour of deep meditation and a couple
of Steinlagers had convinced him it was true. If it was Julian's super-yacht, he wouldn't make an appearance at that pace until well after dark.

The dog, Pete, who was asleep in the shade of the bow cover, thumped his tail a couple of times when Tomlinson shielded his eyes and looked into the sun. Nothing out there but terns dive-bombing a school of bait, the horizon a slow procession of waves, Mexico somewhere beyond. As he searched, static on the VHF broke through and he heard Mack hailing, “
No Más . . . No Más
 . . . do you copy?” The reception was so degraded by thirty miles of water, he had to guess at the last few words.

Tomlinson took the mic and sat at the console. “Got you, but transmission is broken. Do you read?”

Mack came back, saying, “I'm trying to hook up the new . . . Where the hell are . . .” and the rest was garbled.

They went back and forth like that until Tomlinson figured out Mack was trying to enlist his help connecting the fancy new sound system. There was some question about whether to solder the speakers; another about where the hell was Doc and his boat?

Frustrating. “I'll try your landline,” Tomlinson said finally and signed off.

His phone was on the console next to the ammo box and a remote detonator, which Ford had left behind. He folded the schematic he'd been reading and closed the box. There was no cell reception out here, but he opened his phone anyway and was surprised to see a missed call from a number he didn't recognize. There was a message and the message packed a punch. It was Marion Ford, saying, “Technology, my ass.”

The familiar voice caused Pete to look up with his ears perked, ready for action.

Understandable. Those three words contained a heavy hit of emotion; dread, anxiety, the whole ugly mix. He listened to it twice—definitely Ford, yet zero balls on the phone display.
Weird.
He hit
Redial
several times without result. It gave him something to do while his eyes wandered to the electronics suite, then did a double take.

Christ! Now there were two vessels to the southwest. The tanker, or mega-yacht, had halved the distance, and a much smaller boat was only two miles away and closing, not fast but steadily.

Tomlinson jumped to his feet and squinted into the sun. For a moment, he saw it; got a glimpse of the distant boat's flybridge and a bristling array of antennas. Then it was gone, lost behind distant waves. The vessel did not reappear.

He blinked and looked again. Seabirds . . . Waxen waves; a few white breakers. Wind was freshening. In the sun's copper glare a hundred yards away, a plume of spray rained upward, then another geyser misted the sky. It was a school of porpoise. No—off the stern, a huge gray fin pierced the surface and cast a gliding shadow that sounded beneath the monster boat's hull.

The killer whale's dorsal looked different in the afternoon light.

“Stay,” he told the dog. “I'm not going in after you if you turn stupid again.”

The western horizon lifted and descended. The vessel he'd spotted had vanished. He checked the radar. It was true. Only the big tanker pinged the screen from eight miles away.

Impossible.

Fifteen minutes later, he was still puzzled when then the sea began to boil, and a conning tower breached the surface.

“Your radio has been jammed,” a booming voice warned. “Prepare to be boarded.”

The conning tower levitated above a streaming waterfall. Beneath the falls, a fuselage the size of a private jet bubbled to the surface. The craft resembled a beluga whale with dwarf wings and a four-bladed tail. Camouflage colors of blue, gray, and green created a seamless skin until a hatch opened. A man with porcelain hair appeared and called over, “I'd like to show you around, Dr. Tomlinson.”

Julian Solo. Tomlinson had been right the first time—the crazy bastard
did
have a submarine.

•   •   •

Julian's head was oversized,
his shoulders narrow. He smelled of electrical conduit and lavender. Tomlinson couldn't look into the man's eyes, which were a dark, vitreous blue, without seeing Ava's bloody wrists. Years of dealing with pissed-off cops, however, had schooled him in the art of pretending to be amiable and attentive.

“How much did this thing set you back?” he asked—another inane question to mask what he was really thinking, which was
I've got to kill this man. But can I do it?

Hydraulic steps had led them to the flybridge, where the only crewman—Watts was his name—left them while his boss gloated over the spaceship control panel. There was a pressure compensated radar dome, anti-roll stabilizers, and a Bluetooth-linked
redundancy system that, from a distant laptop, could turn this 40-foot vessel into an unmanned drone.

“I stay too busy moving to keep track of expenses,” the billionaire replied with a slight Aussie accent. “In Dubai—have you ever been to the Jebel Ali Free Zone there? Man, it is truly awesome. Anyway, Exomos—that's the company's name—they have a showroom there. By appointment only, of course—some of the world's top security people check you out first. Exomos builds luxury submersibles; totally top secret, so people like me don't have to sweat publicity. You ever hear of them?”

Tomlinson looked down at Ford's boat, anchored alongside where the dog, Pete, stared up with blazing yellow eyes. “Wow, you could have one heck of a party on this thing. I had no idea, man.”

“About Exomos? In Dubai, you can choose from a dozen models. Actually tour through them—picture small subs on the showroom floor instead of RVs or Lear jets.” Solo, dressed like an Apple nerd in a black crewneck, chuckled at that. “Base price for this one—she could sleep ten, but I only wanted two staterooms—the price starts at around twelve mil, U.S. There's a company out of Portland, too. U.S. Submarines. They built my big submersible. This one I like because I can carry it around port to port and drop off anytime I want. More of a recreational thing, really.”

Tomlinson looked to the southwest. From the tower, he could see a distant silhouette that was familiar. “You use an oil tanker as a mother ship?”

Solo stared at him. “Don't ask stupid questions. I was telling you about my primary submersible—a Phoenix 1000 is the standard
model. She's sixty-five meters, and has an indoor gym and a pool, but”—now he was hoping for a reaction—“everything I own is built for me. No one else. I am nobody's puppet. Get it? Man, I cut the strings.”

Geezus. Tomlinson felt momentarily dizzy because he recognized the line he'd written long ago. “Are you saying, uhh . . . or maybe—”

“When I was in school,” Julian said, “this prick of a shrink had me institutionalized. Shock treatments, the whole nightmare protocol. Yeah, I could really relate to your book. A lot of the writing was fuzzy-wuzzy mystic crap—hey, we all have to make a buck, right?—but some of it helped pull me through. I admit it. I don't want to give you too much credit, though. I've never met anyone—movie stars, kings, politicians, you name it—they all disappointed me when I finally met them. So let's put it this way”—he smiled—“why do you think you're still alive?”

Solo waited for an answer while Tomlinson thought,
This kid's as crazy as Ming the Merciless.

“I'll tell you why,” the kid billionaire said, “but first we're going to recover those drones your asshole pal stole from me. I know they're here, but the telemetry signal is weak, like it's being blocked by something. So you're going to help me.
Right?
”

Tomlinson played along, saying, “Hey, man, what's yours is yours. They're on the bottom, inside a sort of limestone crevice. That could be the problem.”

Watts reappeared in his naval whites, carrying an iPad. “Security is tracking two helicopters, probably Coast Guard. One out of Key West, the other out of Tampa. Do you want to sit out here in
the open, Julie, or do you want to dive?” An informal formality was acceptable on this recreational sub.

“Were they scrambled? What's their heading?” Solo's wide, pale face pivoted to the sky.

“There was a distress call a few minutes ago. It's not routine. A vessel seventy miles off Marco Island is taking on water, so that's probably it. Here”—Watts showed him something on the iPad—“this is their projected course. The system will alert us if—”

“Yeah, play it safe. Let's get moving.”

“Whoa,” Tomlinson said, “I need to hop down and make sure my dog hasn't turned over his water bucket. Or bring him aboard—he's nuts when it comes to retrieving. I'm afraid he'll follow us. Seriously, even underwater, which he—”

“He belongs to your asshole pal,” Julian cut in, “not you. Just because I didn't send your rap sheet along with the others doesn't mean I don't know every detail about your life.” He turned to Watts and gestured toward Ford's boat. “We're going to sink that piece of junk, so take us down and float the scanners. Then I have a real treat for you, doctor—or can I call you Tomlinson? You understand why I don't use bullshit titles.”

“Sink my . . . but
why
?”

“It's not your boat and that's not your dog,” Julian replied in a nettling manner that probed for weakness. “Or how about Zen Shyster? I'll never get to know you well enough to call you Tom, let's be honest.”

Tomlinson's amiable mask vanished. “Dude, if you read my book, you know all about karma. Hurt that dog, you'll burn for it. Hear me? Burn.”

Julian liked that. “Good. You're not the pussy I thought you'd be. Come on . . .” He started toward the steps. “Below, in the salon, I've got a high-def big screen. Thanks to you—well, your book helped a little—I cut the strings. Now I'm finally going to kill the puppeteer. Get it? That lying old man you had so much fun doing drugs with in San Francisco, or wherever it was. I want you to be there when he dies.”

Tomlinson said, “Kill your
father
. What's that have to do with Marion Ford? Unless he was somehow involved in . . .” He shifted to a safer approach. “Listen to me. Karma is the wrong way to destroy yourself, if that's what you're trying to do. It's not too late to turn this around.”

Julian rolled his eyes while Tomlinson continued, “Take your drones and go home. I don't give a shit where you live. Dude, you don't have to stop the momentum. You understand? Just change the polarity. I can show you how. But killing your own father is just flat out balls-to-the-wall nuts.”

“His name is Winslow Shepherd.
Okay?
Please stop with the lectures. This is business. You'll watch it all happen in real time. After I don't know how many millions in lawsuits, poor old Winslow will finally hand over documents that confirm he's been lying all these years and . . . Well, the details aren't important. You're worried about a dog? Just wait until you see what happens to your asshole pal—that's Winslow's final payoff before I get what
I
want.”

Julian did it. From below the surface, from a football field away, he touched a button on a periscope and exploded Ford's boat with what Watts, the slinky first mate, referred to as a sonic grenade.

Tomlinson felt the percussion but refused to look at the screen
until it was over. Inflated Kevlar tubes floated upside down among debris that did not include a swimming dog.

•   •   •

Julian had to ask himself,
Why is this famous Zen master fraud so damn eager, suddenly, to help recover the drones?

He took Watts aside. “You searched him?”

“Always. I'm surprised you brought him aboard.”

“And used the scanner?”

“Look at him,” Watts said. “What's to search?”

Their guest was in the salon, where transparent acrylic panels transformed the walls into an open-sea aquarium. The man was barefoot, wearing baggy shorts, a purple tank top, and a red bandana to tie back his hair.

“He's a druggy,” Julian said. “I grew up around freaks like him and they're good at hiding their stash. That's why you should have used the scanner. Instead of a stash, he might have something else.”