Deep Blue (7 page)

This was unusual for Ford.

Dogs, insects, fish, people, the old, the very young, died by the
billions each microsecond of every new day. Some men died with a stake in their brain; others, on patios after a fall. Death was as necessary as it was inevitable. It was a chemical process unsullied by sentiment.

Sometimes, death was also a tool.

But, damn it, this was Sanibel Island, not the back of beyond . . . the dog was, after all,
his
dog. He about-faced and plowed toward the canoe, which wasn't far.

Tomlinson had the animal in his arms, holding him nearly upside down, while the woman worked on the dog's abdomen. Massaging it, perhaps. Every few seconds, Figgy did that weird thing with his mouth as if trying to swallow the dog snout-first.

Geezus, this time when the Cuban pulled away, the dog's tail thumped the water a few times.

Had the tail really moved? Or was it just a weird spasm? Ford began to jog.

A moment later, when Figgy leaned to brave another breath, a long, sloppy tongue slapped his face, then his ear. Feeble paws tried to swim; the retriever's tail whacked the canoe. It made a wooden drumming sound that didn't stop until Figgy, trying to dodge the tongue, hollered, “Hey-y-y, man, stop that shit.”

“You're one lucky owner,” the woman was saying to Tomlinson when Ford came up. “Not many people know canine CPR; a large dog, especially. But it's basically the same for small animals. Your friend's obviously a dog lover.”

She shot a look at the Cuban, who was shirtless, all sinew and muscle, blue and red Santeria beads around his neck. “I'm Ava,” she said to him. “What's your name?” Then, because of Figgy's
blank response, she asked Tomlinson in confidence, “Is he hearing-impaired?”

“Figueroa? Dude's got impairments you would not believe.” Tomlinson was scratching the dog's back, his ears, grinning. “He doesn't speak English, but he's a hell of a shortstop. And he knows quite a bit about roosters, as it turns out.”

Figgy, not so confidentially, requested a translation, before explaining in Spanish, “I like her
chichis
and her ass. In Key West, a gringa once told me I was delicious. Think she'd like to smoke a
pitillo
?”

The woman liked the rhythms of his voice. “My Spanish is terrible, but I know he asked a question. Something about me in Key West?”

“He's concerned the dog might bite you because you're a stranger, uhh . . . which happens a lot in the Keys,” Tomlinson replied, then addressed the Cuban in Spanish: “You sick, twisted little pervert. Mind your manners. This woman's a freakin' veterinarian.”

“I like gringa soldiers. Of what army?”

“
A médico de animales
, you sex fiend.”

“Even better,” Figgy said while the dog squirmed in his arms, “tell her to take this crazy bastard.” He cringed, pulled away. “Stop your shit, doggy. I'll drown you myself.”

Ford stepped toward the canoe. “Give him to me.”

“I want to check him over first,” the doctor said to Tomlinson. “He's not the owner, you are, right?”

“No way, it's his”—he indicated Ford—“the damn dog won't listen to a word anyone else says. Hey, Doc. I think the big fella's gonna be okay. Isn't that great?”

The woman said, “I'm not so sure,” with an edge that offered a couple of meanings. She helped Figgy transfer the patient into the canoe; the dog, so woozy, couldn't stand when he tried. She checked his eyes, his gums, felt the pads of his feet, then waited in silence with three fingers on his chest, her growing concern visible.

She checked his eyes once again before saying, “He's not out of the woods by a long shot. His breathing's way off. We need to get him to a clinic. Do you have a vet? One of the guys I'm with, he owns a building complex, and a vet has an office there. This late, though . . .” She took out a phone in a waterproof case and used her thumbs to send a text.

Ford ran a hand over the retriever's head and started pushing the canoe toward shore. “He was underwater for a long time. Four or five minutes . . . But, yeah, a vet, of course. A couple of months ago, I had a vet check him out . . .” He lost the thread and spoke to Tomlinson. “Any idea how long before he started to respond? He had to have been under for at least five minutes. Hell, maybe more. It seemed longer.”

The woman said, “You're exaggerating, I hope.”

Ford's expression:
Why would I?

“That's bad; very bad.” She sent another text, or read one, in a real hurry now. “We've gotta move, guys. My friend will open the clinic. We had a taxi waiting, so our bikes are already loaded.” She splashed up beside Ford. “Get out of the way. It'll be faster if I do it.”

“Do what?”

“Move.”

He did.

They watched her take off running, pushing the canoe, the dog's head visible amid geysers of water, his expression a look of addled surprise. Over her shoulder, she yelled, “At least one of you try and keep up. I'll call the marina with . . .”

They couldn't make out the rest.

Ford arrived onshore ahead of Tomlinson, who'd stopped when the Cuban fell into a hole, but the woman and her friends were already buckled into a van—a Sanibel Taxi—that was leaving the parking lot.

It was a while later that Ford remembered the drone. He had dropped it out there in the bay when he'd seen the dog's tail move.

After sunset, which was early, only six p.m., the man Ford trusted called and said immediately, “You dropped the ball, but I don't want to hear details. Not here. Understand what I mean?”

In all his years of clandestine work, this was the first Ford had been warned not to trust their supposedly high-tech, cutting-edge, “impenetrable” communications system.

I'm screwed—
that's what he thought, but said, “Then why did you call?”

“It's a sports metaphor. Dropped the ball. Instead of going one-for-one—which is what you were
supposed
to do—you went one-for-goddamn-three. Baseball. Are you with me so far?” There was silence, the man controlling his anger.

Ford's take on this gibberish: David Cashmere had not survived
his parasailing adventure. Great. KAT and Winslow Shepherd were still alive and that was okay, too. But then he realized that “one-for-one” might not refer to Cashmere, his actual target. If so, no telling who was dead.

“I haven't slept in a bed for quite a while,” he told the man, “and I haven't slept at all going on thirty-six hours. So I'm going to take a chance here—” He was about to just say it, come out and ask,
Did I kill
the right guy?
but his eyes moved to the kitchen window, the dark bay beyond. The UAV was still out there somewhere. Its owner had yet to appear. Ford, staring out the window, asked, “How did you know I was home?”

“You'll recognize the sound of me hanging up when you check your messages. You were overdue, so I called. Tell you the truth? You ever make a call and hope someone doesn't answer? That's me calling you. One-for-three,” the man said again. Then he lost it. “Where the hell do you get off going rogue? Engaging our own assets when you knew—”

“
Our
assets?” Ford interrupted. “Look up an Aussie named Shepherd. While you're at it, find out KAT's real name and who's—”

“No details,” the man warned. “Jesus Christ. There's a word for what you did. In fact, whole books on protocols and laws, but the word I'm thinking of begins with you have-screwed-the-pooch, buddy. I didn't okay any of this shit, not a single directive from me. And you didn't bother asking. That's the truth, isn't it? I want to hear you say it.”

The conversation was being recorded, Ford realized. Months from now, it might be played at a hearing if Congress ever figured out who to subpoena.

“I understand,” he said.

“That's not what I wanted to hear.”

“Hang on,” Ford replied and put down the phone before he lost his temper. He'd been making ceviche because Mack had invited him and some others to discuss a real estate deal—some old cottages off West Gulf Drive. On the counter were limes, an onion he'd been slicing, and a superb chunk of mangrove snapper. He placed the knife in the sink, opened a beer, then returned to the phone. “My dog almost drowned today,” he said.

After a long silence, the man replied, “Who?”

“The vet's keeping him overnight for observation.”

“So what?”

“That was my reaction, too. At first anyway. Weird, huh? I think back, I see the last ten, fifteen years of my life in double vision. Separate jobs, memories. In fact, separate personalities, but just one guy: me. That's what I'm getting at. No complaints—I signed on the dotted line and I'm proud of some of our work. But one of those personalities I mentioned is a cold-blooded asshole.”

“No shit,” the man said. He was loosening a little.

“I'm talking about myself, not you.”

“Do I sound confused? Asshole; of course you are. With the personality of an ice pick. Like going rogue without any input from—”

Ford decided to get it over with. “I take full responsibility for doing what I felt was necessary. At no time did I receive a directive or instructions or advice from—wait. Should I say your name?”

“Take it easy, Doc. Jesus Christ. We've been at this a long time together.”

This was true. They could bicker and bluster and sometimes
draw blood, but the rock-bottom measure of trust was this: who would run toward the gunfire to save your ass if your ass was on the line?

Ford sensed his ass was. “I'm not going anywhere.”

“Oh?” The man was suddenly paying attention.

“I'm trying to make this work. It would be easier if I had more details. That name I mentioned. Shepherd. You recognize it?”

“We're not getting into that. The best I can do is”—the man had to think about what he could or couldn't say—“Well, put it this way. I wish you'd gone three-for-three. But, Jesus Christ, not without . . . you know . . .”

This was a surprising admission. “Then you understand.”

“About the thing we're not discussing? Or the overall situation?”

“The keyhole view,” Ford said. “Something has changed, a serious breach . . . I can't say here. I don't read newspapers. Maybe you remember I avoid them for a reason.”

“That's almost funny. There are no newspapers. Not really. Just the Internet. Fewer and fewer countries, too. Cybernations instead. The last guy in charge almost brought the house down. Still might. Some think intentionally, but I don't buy into the conspiracy crap. You really don't know any of this?”

“I was talking about the business.”

“Ah, that. What's left of it. The pros are suddenly scared of politicians. Some are even choosing sides. That's a first; unprecedented, in my experience. As long as the wings don't fall off, the ship's supposed to stay in the air, right? That's all changed. And you, ol' buddy, are up to your ass in something I don't even want to think about.” The man let that sink in. “The cavalry's not coming if you
call, Doc. I'm not even sure who controls the cavalry anymore. The major players change every four—”

“Whoa, back up. You honestly don't know—”

“I said it, didn't I?”

“Geezus.” Ford took a moment to process this. “I'm surprised you bothered to call.”

“Don't change the subject.” The man cleared his throat, which was a signal to listen up. “You're not quite a movie star, but close enough, and no one wants to be in the movies. With me so far?”

“Keep going,” Ford said.

“You're not the autograph type, so I'd think about closing shop, if I were you; a nice vacation, maybe. But don't stray too far from home. About that other matter . . . Are you listening?”

“Yep.”

“It's about their head guy, not ours. Their boss, if you want to call him that. He can have his backers cut you out of the deal. Or do it himself, if he wants. Not now, but a week or two down the road. It's possible—depending on how fast he recovers.”

A lot of information was cloaked between those lines. Some obvious; the rest had to be extrapolated. Ford had been photographed or videoed, presumably at the resort, and identified. The religious crazies and another party—the Chinese, most likely—were looking for him, probably building a case for extradition. He should leave the country, but don't choose a place that had ties with China, or Mexico.

The bad news: the “head guy,” David Abdel Cashmere, was alive and well enough, or still sufficiently in control, to have Ford killed. Or to use his ruby-handled knife up close and personal.

During three days of hard travel, he'd had time to anticipate variables, some of these included. He sniffed to signal subtext. “Sanibel's nice this time of year, plus it's the holidays. Like I said, I'm staying right here. I've got research projects—”

The man interrupted, then went silent. If Ford wanted to give away his location, there had to be a good reason.

“Too much work to do,” Ford continued, “and I hate quitting a project before it's done.”

The man knew what that meant. “Tell me about it.”

“In the Gulf, there are what geologists call blue holes. Well, actually, they call them remnant archaic springs. So, most days, I'll be offshore in my boat. Diving spots as far north as Tampa, maybe Crystal River.”

He added details; islands, towns where he might put in for the night. Then went on for a while about blue holes and jellyfish to camouflage what came next. “I don't know if you're interested in any of this.”

“I figured you were intentionally trying to piss me off,” the man said. “Scuba diving in December—we've got three feet of snow up here.”

Yes, he was interested.

“Tomorrow,” Ford replied, “the weatherman says low eighties, but a little too windy to dive. A friend and I were supposed to go out, but we postponed. Next week, there's a nice four-day window; calm, mid-eighties.”

“Why I put up with this shit, year after year,” the man said. “This morning, way below zero, I sat on the Beltway for an hour, traffic all backed up because of sleet. That's what I thought anyway,
but turned out some third-world dignitary needed extra security. It's always either them or the White House screwing things up.” He gave that a beat. “Then almost fell on my ass when I hit a sheet of ice on the steps.”

The White House?

Ford played it straight. “Sounds like you're the one who needs a vacation. Why not come down for a few days of fishing while I work? Pick a place, I'll meet you.”

“Did you say as far north as Tampa?” the man asked. “I still have friends there. We went to a couple of Rays games; some of the women in the stands, they were worth the price of a ticket alone.”

Rays stadium was in St. Pete, not Tampa, but Ford replied, “Send me a couple a dates.”

•   •   •

On the Internet,
he checked news summaries, dateline: Washington, D.C. What dignitaries had been to the White House recently? He had already started a file on KAT and Winslow Shepherd, but he would do more on that later.

Next, a cursory search on unmanned aerial vehicles. He'd heard rumors that the Special Ops base at MacDill could pilot a UAV from Tampa to the Mediterranean, carry out a mission, then land it safely again at the little runway near Raccoon Creek—more than ten thousand miles fueled by solar energy.

The missing drone had solar panels but didn't seem stout enough to weather a squall, let alone the Atlantic Ocean. What was a more reasonable operating distance?

Ford preferred books or charts to Google Earth, so he got out
the atlas. Using a draftsman's compass, he drew radii of fifty, one hundred, and two hundred miles, then focused on possible launch sites. Due east, two hundred miles away was Freeport, Bahamas. Cuba was 210 miles south. The Yucatán was nearly four hundred miles southwest. A hell of a lot of water and unstable weather separated those spots from Sanibel. Ford had to admit it was possible, but it was more likely the aircraft had been launched from somewhere in Florida.

Twenty minutes later, he put the atlas and compass away and was back in the little galley, working on the ceviche, despite a hundred other things that demanded his time. What he had told the man about living dual lives was true and never more evident than when he had just returned from an assignment overseas.

Like now: there were stacks of mail and phone messages to answer, a dozen email inquiries from school biology departments regarding specimens they needed.

All would have to wait. He'd been through this transition too many times not to consciously reboot by focusing on some small, pleasurable task.

It was a process: jettison recent events by reminding himself he was
here
, not
there
. He was no longer paddling his ass off to put distance between himself and what had happened at the resort. There had been bribes and boats and jungle roads, then more bribes to slip across the border into Guatemala. Outwit the hunters; a fight-or-die mentality that required behavior not acceptable in the gentler enclaves of Florida.

The islands of the Gulf Coast, among them.

He was
here
, not
there
. Sanibel's weekly shopper's guide provided confirmation. On the front page was a list of holiday activities. Tonight was Luminary. The bike path would be lined with candles in paper bags. Next came the Marching Mullet Band Parade, with Junkanoo dancers, then the Lighted Boat Parade, and a whole long list of church activities and potlucks. Next week, South Seas Resort would host its annual Holiday Stroll. At Dinkin's Bay, a community known for excess, the Twenty-six Days of Christmas were already under way. Tonight was Day 13. At the marina, they were roasting oysters near a keg of beer, awaiting Ford's arrival with ceviche.

In contrast, two days ago . . . no, three, he had been confronted by a couple of teenage thieves carrying machetes. This was Belize, south of Placencia, near some mud-and-junkyard village off the Monkey River. A defenseless ecotourist, they'd assumed. No idea who he was.

Not true of the border patrol cop who had motioned him into a room later that evening. Both were
What to do?
moments; sources of an adrenaline rush that even now, thinking back, caused his stomach to knot, but also sparked in his brain a sensation of purest clarity and purpose. Soaring but in control. It was a little like that.