Deep Blue (22 page)

Watts had been with Solo long enough to be afraid, yet still function as his confidant and aide. “Julie, relax. I found it. A little kef box, and a couple of joints in a little leather bag. That's all. Plus, the regular stuff: his phone and wallet—a couple hundred bucks—his driver's license, a few phone numbers on a bar napkin. He's a drunk, too. I can search him again, but I think we ought to get going.”

“You're worried about those helos.”

Watts tapped the iPad. “So far, they're still on course to the vessel in distress.”

Solo looked for himself. “I want a satellite shot of that boat. It
could be a decoy, so get the numbers or the registry and run them. Link every piece of data through the field servoid, and put
Evergreen
on alert.”

Evergreen
was a Panamax tanker built by the Chinese to transit the Canal. Now it was his office and, sometimes, mobile home.

After another look at the iPad, he added, “The FBI couldn't organize a piss-up in a brewery, but the NSA . . .” He let that hang while he thought about it. “Just in case, send a reminder to our friend in D.C. Tell him I own Winslow as of today. If something's going on, have him stop it or the truth about him and Winslow might just leak into cyberland. Tell him—no, hint; make it subtle—that I already have the old man's confession, all legal and notarized, to back it up.”

Watts nodded toward their guest, who stood mesmerized by drifting amberjack and a veil of silver herring that parted as the sub descended. “He's not returning with us to—”

“No,” Julian said. “The famous Zen mystic was killed when his boat's fuel tank exploded. But we'll save that for later. How much time do I have?”

“Our guy's meeting Winslow at five, Central Standard. They'll be on whatever balcony he chooses by five-thirty—six-thirty, Florida time—and we've already got the satellite linked to—”

“Then I have more than an hour,” Julian said and went down three Plexiglas steps to the salon, where there was a lounge area that faced a bulkhead and a bank of widescreen displays that showed camera views forward and aft. Another screen provided a global view of the sub's location on a live feed satellite view of the
Earth. Sprinkled across Europe, the Middle East, the Americas, and Asia were hundreds of tiny red LED lights.

“Know what those represent?” he asked Tomlinson.

The skinny man jolted as if he'd been dozing. “Lights . . . ? I don't know. Cities? Doesn't seem like there're enough . . . or . . .” He lost interest and sniffed. “Let's grab those drones, then talk about how the hell I'm getting home, before you give me the tour. Okay?”

“Each light represents a cybercenter I control. Businesses. Name anything you want. Coffeemakers, eBooks, a mail-order bride. A team of mercenaries—anything, man. Prostitutes; hell, a block of fine hashish. Order today, our transport networks will have it at your door tomorrow. I created the software scaffolding for all that shit, now I'm developing drone delivery systems. In other words,
I
own
it all
.” Julian looked up at the taller man, thinking he would be impressed.

He wasn't. “Dude, I've got a date tonight. The kind that's not inflatable, so do you mind?” Tomlinson wandered away and pressed his nose to the glass as if he preferred the company of fish on the other side.

That would soon happen.

Julian tried again. “I expected you of all people to understand. Take another look at that screen. There are no bullshit outlines of countries—countries don't exist anymore. They're just parking lots with flags. Those lights represent the real power centers. You want social change? You want peace? Fuck the White House, contact Microsoft, or Amazon—or me.
That's
what I've accomplished.”

Tomlinson glanced back. “There's a quote from my book you might remember: ‘We are only passengers in a brain that's steered by the equivalent of a chimp—unless we banish his ass to the sex closet and aspire to a higher good.' Dude, that's your chimp talking.” He stopped and waited while the sub slowed with computer precision; a cloud of silver sand flooded toward them. “We're on the bottom,” he said. “Are we using scuba gear?”

Julian grimaced. “You're even dumber than I expected. Come on, show me that ledge—and you'd better not be lying.”

•   •   •

So far,
the old fraud's reaction to what had happened was a disappointment. There had been no whimper of protest when the boat exploded, and no begging to search for the dead mutt's body.

Zen Shyster—that nickname, at least, irritated the hell out of this worn-out string bean hipster. Julian fed off the pain he inflicted, so he used the nickname again before saying, “You should try reading a few books instead of writing that pabulum you write. Why would I use scuba gear when I've got this?”

They had moved aft through two pressurized doors into a conical space made of clear acrylic, just enough room for two men and a control panel. Drones could be deployed from the compartment, or recovered through an unpressurized closet below the deck.

“If I feel like diving,” Julian said, “I flood this area, the hatch slides back, and I'm gone. But I wouldn't bother with a spot that's so damn boring.”

The murk had settled to reveal a sandy desert where only sea
fans and one giant hermit crab clunked along in its shell hideaway. Beyond, a low limestone crest angled downward into a hole in the desert floor.

A thought popped into Tomlinson's mind. “You said the telemetry signal was weak. If it was weak, how'd you know to look in this area?”

“It would break your heart to know,” Julian chuckled while he punched in codes. “A neighbor of yours sold me the GPS numbers. He's due to make a big chunk more money if things go right. Can the ol' Zen Shyster handle that? Now shut up while I send out my recovery mule.”

“Someone at my marina?”

“You heard me.”

The Brazilian sold us out,
Tomlinson thought and watched a drone the diameter of a bowling ball jettison out onto the sand. The ball provided a cog for tank treads that powered the vehicle toward the ledge while the drone's body sprouted camera eyes, and piercing LED lights. A sand cloud traced its progress to the ledge, where the vehicle vanished into the Captiva Blue Hole.

Julian was having fun working buttons and a toggle stick. “Watch the monitor and talk me in,” he said. “They bugger well better be there. One, I don't care about, but the other one, an amphib, is a Penguin UAV that I retooled and fitted with miniature gelatin amplifiers. You wouldn't understand, but the technology is proprietary and I could lose a bundle if it got in the wrong hands. The military will pay close to fifty mil.”

On an iPad display, the mule's LED lights transformed gray
stone to pastels of green and blue. Tomlinson said, “There's a small chamber to the left as you enter. The exact depth is . . . Damn, I had it written down somewhere.”

“Got 'em,” Julian said, and there they were, both drones beneath a blanket of sand, each attached to an inflatable bag. “Why did your idiot pal use so much electrical tape? Sloppy bugger . . . but no problem. Watch this.”

The bowling ball deployed claspers that clamped onto the saucer-looking drone. It tilted, pivoted, and tractored the larger UAV back to the sub. The floor beneath them vibrated and made a clanking noise when the vehicle was stowed in a compartment under the deck. The bowling ball reappeared, its claspers raised like claws on a scorpion. The zeppelin drone came next.

Tomlinson had begun meditative breathing, prepared for what he was about to do. He touched a hand to the red bandana on his head as he asked, “Are you going to pressurize the area under the deck? Or are we surfacing first?”

Julian was about to answer when Watts rushed in and said, “Julie, our guy in Mexico has already started.”

“What?”

“I know, I know—an hour early, but the live feed is coming in through the surface scanners. You'd better hurry because it's happening fast.”

In the salon, on the center screen, was Marion Ford on an open porch or balcony, palm trees in the background. The image was crisp but unsteady, and the sound was poor. The lens swung to Winslow Shepherd, who had aged and was in a wheelchair, then back to the biologist, who—my god—had pulled a gun, his arms
extended, the gun dwarfed by two big hands. Shepherd was yelling, “I won't do . . .” the last part lost in garble.

Julian slapped the wall. “I want to hear this, goddamn it. We've got to surface.”

“We can't because of those helicopters,” Watts said, then his expression changed when he looked at his iPad. “Uh-oh . . . I was afraid of this. We've got a real problem here, Julie. Oh . . . shit.”

Tomlinson couldn't take his eyes off of the screen, where Ford was now walking toward Shepherd, the gun still aimed at the Australian's chest; the biologist's expression cold, unemotional, totally focused. Tomlinson's fingers moved independently to search for the detonator hidden under his bandana. As he did, he thought,
They're not alone—why doesn't he stop them?

Meaning the cameraman—whoever it was—shooting the video.

From the beach house stairs, minutes before he cornered Winslow Shepherd, Ford looked back and saw a van banging toward him on the sandy road, coming fast, windows black in the late-afternoon sunlight.

He thought about hiding until the van took a hard right. That told him the driver had seen Cashmere's SUV parked behind the dunes, which would have made no sense if the van contained Cashmere's people, or bodyguards, or even financial backers.

On the porch he looked through a window, and ducked under several others, until he got to the side door and entered through the kitchen. No holiday decorations here. The place had the vinyl odor of a newly decorated rental; a big, open space with a vaulted ceiling, all furnishings staged for photos, not people.

For several beats, he stood and listened. A TV was on somewhere in the house . . . or was it two or more people talking?

He shifted the gear bag and flicked the safety on the little Sig Sauer without unholstering the pistol. The kitchen spilled into a dining area, no walls to separate it from the great room, where there was a rock fireplace, built for effect rather than warmth. He stopped and listened but kept an eye on the front door. Whoever was in the van was busy with Cashmere's SUV.

Good.

Again, he heard voices, then a phone's ringtone, but he also heard what might have been CNN World News. No telling if the phone was in the house or on TV. It was unlikely that Shepherd was here unattended, but he waited until the voices stopped before he drew the pistol and went to a window near the front door.

No sign of the van.

He crossed to the seaward side of the house, checking rooms as he went, then through open sliding doors to a patio—and there he was. The math professor was in a wheelchair with his back to Ford, watching the news. His elegant silver hair was sprayed in place, and he wore a blue shirt with a starched collar. One leg of his gray business slacks had been slit to make room for a cast that went from ankle to thigh.

Winslow was already dressed for their meeting on the concrete balcony. This implied a true bloodthirsty eagerness. The man still had an hour to make the twenty-minute ride.

The van, Ford realized, had come as an escort, or to provide a driver for the handicapped van outside. Possibly both.

Maybe Shepherd
was
alone.

He took a quiet step and changed angles. The patio was more of a TV and reading area that accessed the porch through another set of sliding glass doors. The doors were open. Beyond, through breezy coconut fronds, was a panoramic view of the sea. To the left, inside the TV room, was a wooden door—a bathroom, perhaps. To the right were bookshelves.

Ford lowered the pistol and stepped in. What he wanted to say was
Aren't you supposed to be dead?
But said, simply, “Show me your hands, professor. I just want to talk.”

Unlike the Chicago jihadist, Shepherd exhibited no surprise, but said almost the same damn thing. “I didn't think you'd have the balls to show up. Brought a gun, did you? That's typical. Your solution to everything, you Yank prick. Are you worried I'll kick you to death with my cast?”

“If it wasn't for those high school kids you killed,” Ford replied, “I might ask how your leg's doing. Put your hands behind your head. I want to see what you're sitting on.”

“My ass, you idiot.”

Ford spun the wheelchair around and bulled Shepherd onto the porch, stopping just short of the railing. Ten feet below was a sandy ridge. “Do you want to go off another balcony? Keep it up.”

Shepherd's face reddened, but he submitted to a search. Ford stepped back. “In a few minutes, your people are going to show up in a van—if they don't get greedy. Either way, I've got a proposition, and we don't have much time.”

“What the hell is that supposed to—”

Ford cut him off. “I know about the deal you have with your son—or Julian—I don't care what you call him. You're supposed to
deliver some documents to David Cashmere after he kills me. Notarized documents. Or after you watch me fall eight stories onto those rocks—I
saw
the place. Julian will be at a computer someplace, enjoying himself while he watches it happen. What you don't know is, once you deliver the papers, Cashmere is supposed to kill
you.
That's the deal they made. That's what Julian really wants to see—Cashmere cut off your head . . . with this.”

From the gear bag, Ford produced the ruby-handled knife.

Shepherd backed his wheelchair to create space while his eyes moved to the TV room as if searching for help. “How did you get that?”

“Cashmere won't bother you, if that's what you're worried about. That's some boy you raised, professor. Julian's blackmailing me, but he'll back off if I have something he wants. That's my offer: give me those documents, you'll live. If you don't, I'll find them anyway and kill you myself. I wouldn't mind, after what you did to that woman. Did you even know her name?”

Shepherd's breathing changed. “Liar!” he yelled, then gritted his teeth. “A bloody mongrel liar, that's what you are.
You.
You're the one who killed her. Julian, we've had our problems, but cut my head off? My own son? That's bugger-all bullshit. You should have stayed in Florida—you'd be dead anyway in a couple of days.”

He continued to rage while Ford pulled the pistol and started toward him. “What's that mean? A couple of days—tell me.”

Shepherd taunted him with laugher. “You won't live long enough to find out.”

“Cashmere did something. What? I know he sent a package to Florida, maybe my marina. Tell me what's in it.”

“Burn in hell—that's what's going to happen to your friends. Too bad you can't wish them a Merry Christmas.”

Explosives,
Ford realized. But detonated how? He cocked the hammer and focused the TruGlo sights while Shepherd's face blurred. “A bomb of some type. I get it. Now, the papers—your last chance, Winslow. Where are they?”

From the TV room, a voice called, “Got 'em right here, Marion. Aren't you a little ahead of schedule?”

Ford turned to see a sound suppressor aimed at him from inside the sliding doors, the shooter screened by a curtain. “Toss your weapon over the railing. Nice and easy . . . Or just place it on the deck. If I can't trust you, who can I trust?”

Shepherd bellowed, “It's about bloody damn time!” while Vargas Diemer stepped onto the porch in crisp slacks and a white blazer, wearing surgical gloves. He was taking video with a phone from the point of view of the little pistol leveled at Ford.

“I'll holster it instead,” Ford said. He did, adding, “Now you.”

Vargas made a clicking sound of disapproval. “Sorry, sport. For me, this is strictly business. Isn't it a bitch if you get emotionally involved? I'm surprised at you, Doc.”

Shepherd was yelling, “Do it! Kill him. No . . . give me the gun,” which only caused the Brazilian to grimace as if amused. “What do you think, Doc? He doesn't look like much of a marksman to me.”

Ford said, “I know what you're doing—sending video to Julian. What kind of deal did
you
make?”

“A good one, I hope. Let's find out.” Vargas held the phone at arm's length and filmed himself, saying, “I don't have you on speaker, Julian, so just do what I say. The instant you transfer those
funds, my phone will ding—you know how bank alerts work. A Swiss bank, in my case. I've already sent photos of the old man's documents. Check your email, you'll see the attachments, but they can't be opened until my bank sends the alert. When that happens, we're good to go, and you'll watch what happens next, all live.”

Thirty seconds later:
Ding.

Vargas braced the phone against the pistol's suppressor, swung the pistol, and shot the former math professor twice, once in the face, and a second round that pierced the man's temple from a foot away. A gusher of blood and Shepherd's twitching hands provided a video close-up. Vargas held the angle for several seconds, then looked over and said, “Sorry, sport, but I've got to earn my pay.”

Before the Brazilian fired, Ford said, “You don't really expect me to go over the railing?”