Deep Blue (23 page)

When the Brazilian, that weasel, shot Marion Ford off the balcony, Tomlinson was already dazed from the fast sequence of events that had played out on widescreen TV.

Winslow saying,
Your friends will burn in hell,
because of a package that had been sent. Then,
Too bad you can't wish them Merry Christmas.

Ford saying,
A bomb of some type,
the rest garbled, but the sound quality was improving as the submarine ascended toward the surface.

Then the close-up of blood spouting from the head of Winslow Shepherd, his former Harley companion. It was sickening, but worse was watching Vargas shoot his best friend.

The video continued only a few seconds longer when a
thunderclap
—Boom!—
shook the lens. Next came a rapid somersaulting shot of sky and sand as if the camera had followed Ford off the balcony. If the phone landed, it had landed facedown. The TV went dark.

Show's over.

As Julian watched, his milky face took on a reddish glow. First, as if speaking to his father during the bloody close-ups, “My god . . . the bastard did it. See what you made me do! I warned you, you pathetic old liar,” then, after Ford was shot, yelling, “Where's his body, goddamn it. That was part of our deal. Show me Clarence's goddamn body!”

In response to the thundering sound that ended the video, he said only, “Lightning . . . Do you believe this shit? Just my luck. It must have struck close by.”

Now Julian was pacing. “None of it went like I planned. Watts . . . Watts—get that idiot's agent on the screen. I'll put him out of business for this. Cashmere, too—where was that raghead bugger? He was supposed to use his knife.
The knife—
I told him how many times? I wanted to hear Winslow beg, that was the plan.
Crying
for my forgiveness.”

Watts, however, was pacing, too, fixated on his iPad. “Julian . . . Julian?
Julie
, you've got to listen to me. I stopped our ascent.”

Julian replied, “Can you believe such incompetence from—” then realized what he'd just heard. “You did . . . Without asking me?”

Watts thrust out the iPad and backed away. “Look for yourself. It's the helicopters. We just got satellite confirmation, and the system has triangulated their course. Less than a minute ago, both
made sharp turns. One is headed for
Evergreen
, the other is coming toward us, only fifteen miles out. We still have time—”

Julian yanked the iPad away and scowled into the screen. “What's the visibility?”

“From a chopper? We're at thirty feet now, almost periscope depth. They'll see us—or the wreckage up there. On the other hand, if we run too close to the bottom, we'll stir up a shit storm of sand and they'll see that, too.”

Tomlinson stood quietly while they bickered. He'd been calming himself with meditative breathing, expecting to die when the sub hit the surface. Pressure-activated detonators on the drones would see to that. Now he had to postpone the inevitable because he'd translated the conversation he'd heard: a package containing a bomb had been delivered to Dinkin's Bay.

It was the new sound system. Had to be.

Merry Christmas,
Winslow had said.

Less than an hour ago, Mack had radioed for advice on how to hook up the system. But there might still be time.

He reached under his bandana and removed the detonator. It was a rubberized cube with a flip-up cover. Nothing to it: flick a safety switch, hit power, then use the four numerical buttons to punch in a three-digit code.

The code was 6-4-3; easy to remember. In a baseball score book, it represented a double play. Shortstop to second, to first base.

Ford's idea.

Tomlinson stepped forward and raised his voice to be heard. “Boys . . . Boys . . . I'm not in the best of moods right now—what,
with seeing your hired gun shoot my best friend—so shut the hell up and just listen. Okay?”

Watts, then Julian, pivoted, their expressions asking
Are you crazy?

“We're not going anywhere,” Tomlinson told them. “And we're sure as hell not going to surface. What you
will
do is give me a working phone so I can call my marina. It's sort of a family emergency thing—or maybe you planned that, too.”

The look Watts flashed his boss promised
I'll handle this.
“I know you're upset,” he said, “but shit happens, right? The fact is, we can't let you make a phone call. Like the helicopters we're worried about, calls can be triangulated. Say”—Watts offered a condescending smile—“how about a nice, cold beer? Sound good? Then you can sit there like a good boy while we go about our work.”

“How about you stick some plastic explosives up your ass,” Tomlinson replied, “because that's what's about to happen.” He held the detonator out for them to see. “There's a pressure switch on those drones. They'll blow up if we surface. This is the remote. I can blow us all up from here, too.”

He thumbed opened the lid. “Watch closely. This is the power button—see? Yeah . . . a little red flashing light. Now all I have to do is enter a code. Three simple numbers and the plastic explosives go
Boom!
”

“You can't bluff us into giving you a phone,” Watts said. He slid past Julian, took the iPad, and began to tap at the display as if unconcerned.

Tomlinson held the detonator higher and extended the index
finger of his left hand. “The code is six-four-three. Does that ring a bell? No . . . I suppose not.” His finger punched 6 . . . 4 . . . then he waited with his finger poised over the final number.

“He's out of his mind,” Julian said to Watts, who had begun to work furiously on the iPad.

Tomlinson flashed his craziest look. “We'll compare paddle scars one day, dude, but right now you're going to give me a phone.”

“This can all be worked out,” Watts said, which gave him time to enter a few final commands. Then he turned to Julian and said,
“Listen.”

Clank-clank . . . Clank-clank.
They all heard metallic sounds coming from under the stern, then the thump of an underwater hatch.

“Now we
have
to surface,” Watts said and typed in new commands. “But not for long. We'll dive right away and pick them up later.”

Tomlinson's stomach fluttered with a sudden, rapid ascent and he knew what had happened. The drones had been jettisoned. Now the sub was fleeing upward at full speed.

No choice. He had to do it.

True. The sadness that descended upon Tomlinson was the sweetest pain he'd experienced, but he didn't cling or tarry. He entered the final digit—3—and, a millisecond later, he was only semiconscious when a hole in the fuselage sucked him, free and clear, into the deep blue sea.

Vargas exited through the front door of the beach house, down the steps to a large white van with a wheelchair lift, and scanned for the source of the explosion. Not a huge report; more like a couple of flash-bangs that shook the floors and caused him to fumble his phone.

Unexpected, but the timing was useful.

Not far away, black smoke boiled from behind sand dunes—Ford had booby-trapped his vehicle, but why? Cries for help and sirens were to be anticipated, but there were none. Instead, he heard distant laughter. On the ridge by the road, children had gathered beneath a slow-twirling cloud of confetti, but it wasn't confetti.

Vargas stowed his briefcase and ventured away from the van. Scattered in the sand were several U.S. hundred-dollar bills. Another drifted toward him. The bill was scorched.

He pocketed a few and returned to the van, amused. Marion Ford was a man who stuck to his routine at the expense of fun, but only a fool would assume the biologist was predictable.

It was a detail to be filed away.

Up a ramp, inside the van, was a dented Kawasaki motorcycle. He had learned from experience that a rental car was a liability if pursued in traffic, or anywhere else, in the third world. Rental cars stood out here. Poverty dominated in an area like Quintana Roo. Until now . . . Vargas glanced at the confetti still spiraling down—several million dollars in green bills, at least. Children and a few giddy mothers were there, dancing with their faces tilted upward. They resembled flowers trying to catch rain.

Ford wasn't the greedy type, but he wasn't a fool. He wouldn't have left that much money unguarded. The bills were either marked or they were counterfeit.

What did it matter? Even if it took only a few weeks for the nearest bank, or the
federalistas
, to figure it out, families here were guaranteed the most extravagant December in history. And those children . . . Well, Vargas knew nothing about children, but he knew people. A few would thrive. Most would fail.

It was the way the world worked.

He slammed the kick-starter, revved the engine, and bounced cross-country, using the dunes as a screen. A quick look at the blazing SUV told him the robbers had arrived in a black Toyota van.

Julian had said Winslow's bodyguards would be driving a black van. Three, all from the Middle East, even though he saw only two.

Their bodies would not be easy to identify.

•   •   •

In the touristy village
of Playa del Carmen, Vargas parked the motorcycle in an alley and left the key in the ignition. Only then did he remove the surgical gloves.

The private airport was a few miles west. He took a cab and cleared Customs by slipping the agent two hundred-dollar bills he'd found in the sand. He'd already filed the FAA's electronic EAPIS forms and a flight plan yesterday morning.

“You are early, señor,” the agent said with a slight bow.

The Brazilian was still ahead of schedule. It was five forty-five p.m., not dark, but soon would be.

“Is that a problem?”

“You are the only one here this late, and I would have been ready anyway. Come, I'll show you.”

Outside in the fading light, his plane had been washed, waxed, and was waiting on the tarmac. It was a six-seat Cessna Citation, with twin turbofan engines, that, on paper, was owned by a sham LLC in Lauderdale. Cruising speed, 550 mph; max range, 1,200 nautical miles. A fun little jet to fly on short hops, and it was only an hour to Naples, where he'd moored his yacht. There was an area of docks and restaurants there called Tin City. He would arrive in time for a fine dinner and, hopefully, find one of those attractive Naples beach
condesas
to help him celebrate his recent windfall.

It was quite a haul for one day's work, as his bank had confirmed by email. Julian had paid him $1.5 million for the location of the drones, and to orchestrate the murder of his father, Winslow Shepherd.

Events hadn't gone precisely as planned, but they never did. It wasn't his fault the schedule had been moved up, or that a terrorist freak named Cashmere hadn't appeared.

Shooting the biologist, a last-minute bargain, had been billed to Shepherd. Julian, of course, had provided the money—another $500,000.

Total: Two million U.S. dollars, transferred as euros. He had asked for four, but not bad.

Vargas set his watch—a Breitling Aerospace—to Florida time, but he couldn't leave yet. He strolled out on the tarmac. No one around. He noted a blue-and-white Maule not far from his Cessna, the little amphib moored with wheels down.

Twenty minutes later, he was in the private lounge, filling out his preflight checklist, when the agent reappeared. “You asked to be notified, señor, if a taxi arrived. The car is waiting out front.”

“How many passengers?”

“The windows are tinted and it's nearly dark, señor. It is a very nice taxi.”

The Brazilian nodded at his briefcase in a meaningful way.

The agent said, “Your belongings are safe,” and tapped his breast pocket. The folded hundreds were stashed there, yet the bulge suggested a wad of bills had been recently added.

Vargas followed the man through a hall to the office, where glass doors were also tinted, the gated
calle
beyond. Outside was a yellow taxi with black windows. A lighted Virgin Mary statuette provided a hood ornament. A decal reading
Me Paseo Con Dios
covered the upper windshield with translucent blue.

Translation: I Ride With God.

“Yes, the car, very nice,” Vargas said and went out the door as the driver cranked the window down and called out in Spanish, “Do you desire a taxi,
patrón
?”

Patrón
is a term of respect that means
boss
.

“I'd like to speak with your passenger.” Vargas leaned to the window and looked in the backseat. There was no one there. “Where is he? How many people did you bring?”

The driver shrugged the way men do when they have been bribed not to talk.

“I'm an
idiota
,” the Brazilian muttered and ran past the agent, through the office and down the hall, where the lounge door had not been closed, as he'd feared. He slowed and looked in. As he did, the door burst inward. The impact stumbled him forward, then two big hands latched on from behind, spun him, and slammed him hard against the wall.

Vargas was looking into the puzzled eyes of the biologist, who said, “I could have broken an ankle, dumbass.”

Vargas didn't fight back. “And I could have shot you. It's not like you gave me any advance warning. Get your hands off me.
Now.
”

Ford applied a slight pressure to his throat. “Are you sure you missed intentionally?”

Vargas glared and waited.

“I need my phone,” Ford said. “Where is it? Or tell me the combination to your briefcase.” He released his grip and stepped away. “You didn't hear what Shepherd said about a package delivered to Dinkin's Bay? Explosives; some sort of improvised bomb. That's what pisses me off more than anything. We should have warned them half an hour ago. Instead—”

“I already did,” Vargas interrupted while straightening his collar.

“You spoke to Mack?”

“No one answered at the marina, so I called Sanibel police. Doc”—they stood nose to nose—“don't ever touch me again.”

Ford allowed the man some room. “How long ago?”

“Just before your surprise appearance at the beach house. I'd been talking with Winslow. Do you understand the risk I was taking? I used a throwaway phone to call Sanibel, but, even so . . .” He looked around for his briefcase. “What did you do with it?”

The case was beside a vinyl chair, an ashtray nearby, snacks and mini-bottles of liquor on the bar behind. Vargas inspected the leather for scratches, opened it, tossed Ford's cell on the chair, and locked it again, his manner aloof.

“What did Sanibel police say?”

“What they always say. They'll look into it.”

Ford was tempted to slam him into another wall but said, “Come on, I'm sorry I roughed you up, but it's been a tough day.”

“Thanks to me, a profitable day as well,” Vargas countered. “Are you sure something else isn't bothering you?”

“Like what?”

“I'll take a wild guess. Hannah, maybe?”

“Only if you did something really stupid,” Ford replied.

“Then I'm right.”

“You'd better hope you're wrong. Julian got ahold of a photo, a voyeur shot of her in the shower. I happen to know Hannah was aboard your boat one night while I was away. I swear to god, if you—”

Vargas, unconcerned, said, “My computer system was never
breached—remember?” He was scanning a weather report on his phone. “Ask Julian who the sick bastard was, but it wasn't me. By the way”—he made eye contact—“the percentages have changed as of this instant. Instead of a sixty-forty split, it's seventy-thirty, with my agent's fee coming off your end. If you don't like it,
live
with it. In this business, it's not smart to accept money you haven't earned.”

The Brazilian checked his watch and hefted the briefcase, all packed and ready to go—until he saw Ford trying to use his phone. “I wouldn't do that. The signal will ping the nearest tower. If someone checks, there are three good reasons back in Tulum you don't want to be tied to Mexico. Maybe four. As I left, I noticed you had some car problems. Did you happen to run into a freak named Cashmere?”

Ford motioned to the runway where the Cessna Citation sat, sleek and ready. “You don't think that's evidence enough?”

“The flight plan I filed is perfectly legit. I'm here for two days of Christmas shopping. The Customs agent was kind enough to act as my surrogate buyer while I explored the local sights. No telling what he came back with, but I'm sure the gifts are tasteful. And
legal
. I didn't sneak in under the radar. What about you . . . Doc?”

Ford pocketed his phone for now. “Tell me how it went with Sanibel police.”

The Brazilian went out the door onto the tarmac, then looked back. “Are you coming or not? I'll give you a ride—that's up to you—but I'm having dinner in Naples. I want time to clean up after we land.”

Vargas didn't say anything about Sanibel again until they were almost to the plane. “The woman I spoke to assumed I was the bomber—or a crank—so I didn't hear all she had to say before I splashed the phone.”

“When you called the—”

“Yes, the cops. I told her a package had been sent to the marina, general delivery, and I was certain it contained explosives. Enough to blow up a couple of buildings, but that was a guess— I didn't say it was a guess, of course, or where I got the information. Winslow didn't share many specifics, but he told me enough. He got on the subject by mentioning how lucky I was to have moved my boat because—”

“What was in the package? If it was a simple mail bomb, it would have gone off the moment—”

“I couldn't ask, he'd have been suspicious,” Vargas said. “But he finally got around to it and said a music box of some type with a volume-sensitive detonator. A small package, I suppose, wrapped like a Christmas gift—it's another guess I couldn't admit. The woman cop seemed dubious, but I did hear a dispatcher in the background scramble a squad car or two. If there was a problem, I'm sure they've cleared the place by now.”

Ford pictured the blasting cap with a mini-microphone attached—that damn ex-Chicagoan. He and Shepherd, both experienced bombers, had joined forces. “If the marina was still standing when the cops got there. Did she say anything else? Or don't you give a damn?”

Vargas remained aloof while he touched an electronic key. Lighting LEDs inside the Cessna flared on. The boarding door
opened; steps descended with a hydraulic whine. “You're going to use that phone anyway, aren't you?”

“I can't take a chance Mack and the others don't realize this isn't just a bomb scare. Plus, my pilot pal's not far from here and I have to let him know.”

“The explosives are real,” the Brazilian said. “The music box was sent with a card signed
Your Mysterious
Santa
or something similar. Cute, huh? Only Julian could have provided information that detailed. I didn't mention Julian to the woman cop, of course. Julian Solo, the international criminal? She would have been convinced I'm nuts. But the card, yes. That's what convinced me the explosives were real.”

Ford suddenly felt optimistic. “If Tomlinson reads the card, he'll know something's wrong. It was the stupidest mistake they could have made. Julian, with all his high-tech bullshit, never figured it out—the Secret Santa thing. Tomlinson's the one who's been giving those hundred-dollar bills away. I'm sure of it. He'll know it's a setup.”

Vargas, from inside the plane, looked down with an odd expression as the boarding steps retracted. “You think so, huh? Doc . . . Tomlinson didn't give those hundred-dollar bills away. It was me,” he said, then pulled the hatch closed and sealed it.