Key West Connection (9 page)

He stood, removed his dishes from the table, washed them carefully in the sink, and stacked them neatly to dry.

“Come with me.”

I followed him through the kitchen, past the Jelloblue swimming pool on the patio, down the hallway to a padlocked fire door. He unlocked it and swung it open, revealing his workshop. Except for one wall lined with a marble workbench, there were locked gun cabinets everywhere. Every kind of handgun and military rifle. There were mementos of the Second World War, his many decorations framed and pinned to blue velvet; and American and British, Nazi and Russian uniforms on racks.

“We're similar end products from two different wars, captain. There's an interesting story behind the Nazi combat helmet with the bullet hole in it—but I won't bore you with my recollections. That's what happens to most old soldiers, you know. Like the warriors of all time, we become very, very boring.” He studied me for a moment. “What have you gained? Ten, twelve pounds?”

“About seven.”

“Hmm . . . I would have thought more. You'll need to lose the excess. At your age—thirty-five?—it can make a great deal of difference. Still using the snuff, I see. The stain on your index finger tells me so. Good. You never did use cigarettes—such a childish habit. I never could understand how people could obtain pleasure by slowly killing themselves. Sucking and exhaling smoke.” He shook his head. “So! You'll want to work in stealth, I assume.”

“That's right, colonel.”

“There are many ways to create the illusion of accidental death. But it can take more time, and you sometimes forfeit efficiency.”

“I have plenty of time. All the time in the world, colonel.”

He studied me for a moment. “Yes. Yes, I see that you do.” He walked to the wall, pushed an unseen button, and a small patch of workshop floor slid open to reveal a large gunmetal-colored floor safe. He twisted the dial, pulled the door open. “I have been working on a few things which might interest you. But before we get to them, is there anything . . . more obvious . . . that you might need?”

I handed him my list. He went over it quickly. “The RDX explosives are excellent—but a little obvious. If they are detected, they would, of course, implicate a military man, or a former military man.”

“I'm dealing with a mob, and wars between mobs are not all that uncommon. At any rate, I will use the explosives only when and if I have to.”

He nodded, still studying the list. “Of course. The smoke bombs will be perfect for diverting attention. And you need more clips for that AK-47 of yours. A beautifully efficient weapon, but . . . ”

“I have no permit for it, colonel. It can't be traced. And the Cuban army uses them.”

The slightest smile crossed his face. “Forgive me, captain. You see, I am so used to command. I'm not questioning your judgment.”

“I would be proud to serve under you anyplace, anytime, colonel. And I welcome your suggestions.”

He nodded, reflecting for a moment. “So!” He glanced at the rest of the list. “I have all these things. You are welcome to them.” He walked to his marble workbench, lighted the paper with a match, and washed the ashes down the sink. “But I have some other things I want you to look at.” He reached into the floor safe and pulled out a Webber 4-B dart pistol. I recognized it from Vietnam.

“You are familiar with this, I see.”

I nodded.

“Well, this one is just a little different. The one you used had twenty-six steel darts, all armed with saxitoxin. Saxitoxin is—”

“—made from the sex glands of the southern puffer—or blowfish. A deadly poison,” I finished.

“Yes! But the problem with the saxitoxin is that when a medical examiner finds traces of it—especially in concert with the dart wound, which he may or may not discover—he must immediately suspect foul play. It's fine for wartime, but not ideal, I'm afraid, for these ostensibly peaceful times when an enemy's death must look . . . ”

“Accidental?”

“Yes. So I have devised a new dart, a better poison. The dart is made with lignum vitae—one of the strongest woods in the world. The needle is made of superhardened glucose. The poison is from pelvic and anal spines of the scorpionfish, which, like the southern puffer, is a tropical species. But unlike the southern puffer—which can poison a person only through ingestion—the scorpionfish can sting anyone unlucky enough to pick it up, or step on it, or swim over it. The dart's needle dissolves upon the release of the poison; the dart becomes just another stub of sunken wood. And the victim immediately feels a shocking wave of pain over his entire extremity. He begins to swell, goes into convulsions, and then dies a very ugly death. Did you read about the KGB agent who had the misfortune of stepping on a scorpionfish while wading in the shallows off the Isla de Pinos in Cuba? No? Very sad. He was one of their best men—the one behind all of the problems they're now having in Haiti, I understand.”

He didn't break a smile as he said it. I had always respected him, but now I felt slightly in awe of this methodical inventive genius.

“I assume it is best if the victim is stung on the feet, hands, or stomach?”

“Yes. And it is imperative they be in or near the water when they are found.”

He reached into the floor safe and brought out something else. It looked like a thirteen-inch bear trap, only there were several rows of teeth. It was colored in a green-and-black camouflage design, and there were handgrips on two stocky aluminum handles.

“My God, what's . . . ”

“What's this? Think back, captain. What was always the toughest strategic problem of any underwater reconnaissance? The X-factor: if your man was challenged and forced to kill, how many seconds or minutes would he have to complete his mission before the enemy challenger was found or missed?” He lifted the tooth contraption. “But this can eliminate the X-factor. Accidental death—by shark attack.” Again there was the wry sharp smile. “You, above all others, should be able to appreciate this weapon, captain. You with that awful shark scar of yours. The first time I saw it, I remember thinking it was phenomenal that you survived.”

Carefully, he explained the weapon to me. Hydraulic cocking device, safety, and trigger release. Made of a combination of Kevlar and aluminum—both superstrong and superlight. Teeth honed razor-sharp. It could snap an arm off or partially sever a leg.

“Death is not instantaneous,” D. Harold Westervelt warned. “But if properly effected, even the victim won't know that he has been attacked by something other than a shark. I have not quite perfected it yet. I need to find a way to ‘load' it with one or two actual shark's teeth so that they may be left behind in the victim's body. A small thing, but the small things often make all the difference.”

He handed it to me. Very light, very strong, and very, very wicked. The ragged jumble of teeth I had seen a hundred times in the big open-water makos.

“Notice the clip, captain. It attaches easily to a weight belt. I have a couple more things you might be able to use. How about a bulletproof wet suit? Very light, very flexible.”

I shook my head. “Not this time, colonel. Thanks, but no thanks.”

“I hope you are not setting yourself up for sacrifice, captain.”

“No. No, I'm not. I have too much work ahead of me.”

“I see.”

Obviously, he didn't want to hear the specifics. He went to one of the weapon cabinets, unlocked it, and removed a weapon with which I was very familiar. The Cobra military crossbow.

“I too am an admirer of this weapon,” the colonel said. “So ancient in concept, so quiet and deadly in design. It links the warriors of all time. Quite romantic, when you think about it. You know, of course, the specifics: arrow velocity of about three hundred feet per second, range of more than three hundred yards. Self-cocking mechanism. Would you like a scope?”

“No. I won't need it.”

The colonel nodded. “I remember. Your work with the crossbow became almost legendary in Vietnam, did it not? What did the Marines call you? SEAL of Sherwood—”

“It doesn't matter.”

“Of course. A long time ago, and a nasty little war. Some great individual bravery, but no overall bravery. None. Nothing noble about it. Not like my war. . . . Do you still have that fine Randall knife of yours?”

“Yes.”

But just barely. It had taken me nearly twenty minutes of steady diving to find it after Ellsworth had been carted off by the Coast Guard. Mr. Johnson was anything but pleased at the delay. He thought it quite cruel of me. And he was probably right, but I wasn't about to lose that knife. We had been through too much together. It was my good-luck charm, and I happen to believe in good-luck charms.

D. Harold Westervelt walked me to the door. “When does the assault take place, captain? Not where, not how—but when?”

“Very early tomorrow morning. One of them.”

“Hmmm. . . . I think, captain, you should take a little bus trip tonight. Spend tomorrow in Miami, say. I have a lady friend there.”

“What! I can't . . . ”

He rummaged around in a nearby closet and produced a short blond toupee. “The shoulders might be a problem. Especially in warm weather. But I've encountered tougher problems of disguise—I should be able to pass for you. Elevator shoes, dark glasses, the right pads—yes, I'll have no trouble. Just let me have a quick look at your signature. Oh yes, that will be very easy. Right-handed, blocky script—the very easiest. What about a credit card? Good, I think you will sign for dinner tonight at the Fontainbleau, and be seen walking off some insomnia at . . . what time?”

“Between two and three a.m.”

“Fine.” There was an odd look on his face: a moistening of icy eyes, a flush of cheek. “Did you know that my late wife and I had a son, captain?”

“No,” I lied. I knew, but I had never mentioned it.

“He lives in New York City, someplace. A park bench, I suppose. He left Key West when I recognized the needle tracks on his arm. I was so slow to see, but from a boy that bright, I never expected . . . Anyway, good luck on your mission, captain. I don't envy your adversaries. I don't envy them a bit.”

So I lay and waited off Middle Sambo Reef, lay and waited in the slow roll of midnight sea over the reef, watching the dim white shape of the cocaine boat half a mile out.

I wanted no wet suit, needed no tanks. I wore my old black Navy watch sweater, dark-blue British commando pants, black watch cap. I checked my gear. It was all at ready; all in the waterproof knapsack I would carry on my back. The Randall knife was strapped to my calf, over my pants, and Colonel Westervelt's ingenious jaws were clipped to my belt. I had the good Navy-issue mask, new Dacor TX-1000 Competition Class fins, curved open-water snorkel, and a camouflaged BC inflatable vest. Back on the little Boston Whaler was the AK-47, fully loaded this time. I hoped I wouldn't need it.

In final preparation, I painted my face and hands with black grease from the olive-drab tube, and then set out on my swim. Good tropical night for a long swim. Soft, warm wind up out of Cuba, pale moon drifting among a billion icy stars. Orion the Hunter, Taurus the Bull. Starry entertainment for a thousand generations of humanity.

A good night for swimming.

A good tropical night; the kind for romance and loving.

A fine night for killing.

I could probably have rowed the Whaler to within a quarter mile of them without much chance of being seen. But tonight I was leaving nothing to chance. Nothing. I had notified the few live-aboards at the dock that I would be away for the night. Taking a little trip, I had said. Need to get away. Going to Miami, so keep an eye on the
Sniper
for me.

They were agreeable, sympathetic.

Little did they know.

I took it slow and easy. The green glow of the Rolex watch told me that I had plenty of time. A cormorant took flight before me, paddling and splashing, struggling to be airborne. Something swirled and splashed a hundred feet or so to my right. Something big leaving a big wake.

Christ, that was all I needed—another shark.

But then I heard the familiar
poof;
the nasal exhalation of the bottle-nosed dolphin.

A good friend, the dolphin.

A good sign.

It took me just over half an hour to get to the cocaine boat. An easy, slow swim, and I arrived not even out of breath. I swam around to the bow of the boat and hung on the thick anchor line which angled off into eighty feet of onyx sea. The boat was about fifty-five feet in length; common shrimp-trawler design. It smelled of diesel fuel and the sharp iodine odor of old shrimp. Name in black-flecked paint on the bow:
Darlin' Denise
.