Snake Eye (4 page)

“So, McDonnel was on a heavy-duty religious trip.”

“Maybe,” Theel replied cautiously, pulling up onto Aurora Way south, “but in spite of the religious overtones and the so-called experts the networks came up with, I don’t think so. No, I think the self-immolation thing was intended to generate some attention-grabbing video and dress the whole thing up to look like an act of self-sacrifice rather than the cold-blooded murder that it actually was.”

The rain was falling steadily by then and Rossi watched the wipers smear it back and forth. “What about the video? Who shot it? They had to know about the attack in advance.”

“Yes, they did,” Theel agreed grimly. “We’re looking at the footage shot by the local TV stations and the university’s surveillance cams. The lab has it along with the folks in Counter Terrorism.”

Rossi nodded. “Good. I want the bastard. Or bastards as the case may be.”

Theel glanced her way. “We’ll get them. How’s Missy?”

Rossi sighed. The ELA videographer was efficient if nothing else. All three of the local TV stations had copies of his raw footage within an hour of the murders—and all three broke into their regular programming to run it. While she was still at the university, working to secure the
crime scene and coordinate the initial response, Missy had been at her father’s place watching television. The special news bulletin popped up right in the middle of
A Charlie Brown Christmas
. Within a matter of seconds, the little girl was looking at pictures of a person on fire and a woman firing her pistol. Then, as the agent turned to scan the crowd for more perps, Missy saw a tight shot of her mother’s face.

Vanessa said Missy had been hysterical at first, certain that her mother had been hurt in some way and desperate to talk to her. Later, after the two of them spoke on the phone, the little girl finally started to calm down. She hadn’t been allowed to watch TV since. “It was hard,” Rossi replied bleakly. “Really, really, hard.”

Theel nodded, and conned the car through downtown traffic and into an underground parking garage. The building swallowed the sedan—and the Bureau swallowed Rossi.

Though nothing like the storm raging out in the Pacific, thirty-knot winds pushed six-foot waves east through the Strait of Juan de Fuca, which would have been a problem for a small boat but were barely noticeable on the bridge of the 53,000-ton ship
South Wind
. It was warm inside the tightly enclosed bridge,
too
warm by Captain Hans Kroger’s standards, but the rest of the multi-national crew liked it that way. The fact that the air was thick with stale cigarette smoke, the smell of strong tea, and the helmsman’s rank body odor made the situation that much worse. Vertical wipers thumped from side-to-side, banks of instruments glowed green, and the soft mutter of radio traffic could be heard in the background as the Coast Guard’s Puget Sound Vessel Traffic Service Center (VTS) kept in contact with two dozen ships. It had been six months since Kroger had been to Seattle and the merchant marine officer was looking forward to making port. There were bars to visit, plus a woman who had proven to be cooperative in the past, and what more could any sailor want?

A blast of cold air invaded the long, narrow space as the hatch that provided access to the starboard bridge extension slid open. First Officer Akio Suzuki closed the door, shook himself in the same way that a dog would, and sent rain water flying in every direction. The yellow storm suit was so bulky it caused him to waddle. The Japanese officer had a broad forehead, almond-shaped eyes, and was perpetually in need of a shave. “Captain.”

Kroger nodded gravely. “Number One.”

Neither one of the men spoke the other’s native language, which was why all of their conversations took place in English. “It’s time to cut our speed to five knots.”

It was an unusual request, since there was no ostensible reason to reduce the ship’s speed, but Kroger understood nonetheless. Though not especially fond of each other, the two men had one thing in common, and that was their mutual desire for large quantities of money—the kind of cash available to merchant officers who were willing to tolerate the presence of a few extra bodies on their ship and reduce revolutions at the proper moment. Kroger ran blunt fingertips through his short, bristly beard. It was heavily shot through with gray, a reminder of how many years had passed since his graduation from Breman’s Polytechnic University. “Is the pick-up crew ready?”

“Yes.”

“Then reduce speed we must,” the German said evenly. “The VTS people will notice the change and ask what we’re up to…. I will inform them that we’re running ahead of schedule—and need to slow down in order to meet the pilot on time. Let me know when the passengers clear the stern.”

Suzuki thought about the sick, frightened men huddled on the ship’s fantail and wondered if they qualified as passengers. They certainly had paid enough money to justify the title—or would once they completed up to ten years of indentured service. But that was in the future. At the moment they were cargo that the crew needed to jettison before the pilot came aboard off Ediz Hook. The Americans had become more security conscious since 9/11 and that made everything more difficult. The officer nodded. “I will notify you by radio.”

Suzuki was still making his way off the bridge when the communication came in over VHF FM Channel 5A. “Freighter
South Wind
, my radar shows you have slowed to five knots. Do you have a problem? Over.”

Kroger keyed the mike. “Seattle Traffic, this is the
South Wind
. I am slowing my speed to
five knots to make my ETA for the Port Angeles pilot station. Over.”

There was a pause followed by a whisper of static. “Freighter
South Wind
—I have no reported opposing traffic. In the future adjust your speed to avoid loitering near the precautionary area. Over.”

Kroger smiled thinly. “Seattle Traffic, this is the
South Wind
. Roger…. I will increase speed within ten minutes.
South Wind
out.”

Meanwhile, back on the stern, ten men stood in a tight little group. They wore brightly colored Viking SOLAS PS5002 Immersion Suits, all of which had been purchased secondhand to save money, and were at least one size too large for the men from Fujian Province. Strobe lights, one per suit, flashed in quick succession.

But, surplus or not,
any
protection would be welcome, since every one of the illegal immigrants knew that he was about to jump into some very cold water. Still, Lok Lee was a strong swimmer, and if anyone could survive,
he
could. That’s what the young man was thinking when Suzuki appeared and Hector Battoon sent the first illegal out onto a specially rigged plank. He was Filipino and spoke halting Mandarin. “You must walk out to the very end before you jump off!” the crewman shouted. “Otherwise you could be sucked into the props! Move quickly so you land in the water together…. That will make it easier for the boat to pick you up.”

Then, conscious of the need to get them going before they had too much time to dwell on the danger, Lee and the rest were herded into place. Huang went first, quickly followed by Wong and Ma. Then it was Lee’s turn. A strange world of wind, waves, and lights swirled around the young man as he made his way out onto the plank, took a deep breath, and fell into the void.

It was a long drop and the youngster felt the impact as his feet hit the surface quickly followed by a cold slap as the water made contact with his face. He sank, but not for long, as both the air in his lungs and the suit acted to lift him up. Lee broke the surface as a small boat roared past. The freighter was smaller by then and receding fast. “Hey!” he shouted, “I’m over
here
!”

But the man in charge of the fourteen-foot Zodiac Futura Mark 3 and his assistant couldn’t hear anything over the roar of their engine as they reduced speed in order to pull other illegals into the open boat. That was when Lee noticed that his strobe light had stopped functioning and yelled even louder. But no one heard. The currents pulled him away and the cold began to invade his rail-thin body. Lee remembered his sweetheart, the one he had promised to send for, and called her name. But she was back in Fujian Province, on her way to the local village, to buy medicine for her mother.

Mi Sung felt a sudden chill as the sun slipped behind a cloud. She pulled the shawl that Lee had given her up around her shoulders and wondered what he was doing.

Huang had entered the water first, bobbed to the surface, and been rescued in a matter of seconds. It took two attempts to pull himself up into the Zodiac, but once onboard, Huang discovered that he enjoyed the exhilarating ride. Ten minutes later all but one of the illegal’s companions had been brought aboard to huddle around him. Huang told the snakeheads that Lee was missing, and they spent ten minutes looking for him, but saw no sign of his strobe light. Finally, convinced that the missing illegal had drowned, they accelerated away.

The young men held on for dear life as the boat turned toward the east and powered through the waves. The ensuing trip lasted for the better part of twenty minutes and ended when the semi-rigid boat coasted into the lee of the sixty-foot
Zhou Wind
. Once the Zodiac appeared on the scene, a series of terse orders was given, and a team of SCUBA-equipped divers splashed into
the water alongside.

Huang saw the fishing boat loom up ahead and felt the wind virtually disappear as the driver steered the Zodiac into position next to it. “Grab a weight belt,” the assistant snakehead shouted as he pointed towards the bottom of the boat. “And put it on.”

Once the passengers were ready, the second order came. “You must jump!” the helmsman instructed. “Divers are waiting in the water.”

And divers
were
waiting in the water, although Huang couldn’t imagine why as both he and Ma tumbled into the sea just a few feet away from a group of bobbing head lamps. All sorts of things began to happen then as dry-suited divers closed with the illegals—and demonstrated how to breathe via the second-stage regulators connected to their tanks. Then, having barely had time to become accustomed to the breathing devices, the first two men were escorted down through the murky water to the fantastic world below. Lights glowed, but there was barely enough time to catch a glimpse of the sunken ship’s superstructure before Huang and Ma were pushed into a dimly lit lock. Once inside, the out door was sealed, water was pumped out, and it wasn’t long before they could breathe without benefit of the SCUBA equipment.

Once the water fell below the level of the coaming a hatch opened. A Maori was there to meet them. He had frightening
Moko
tattoos on his face, a wicked-looking taser, and a no-nonsense attitude. He ordered the men out of their survival suits, then marched them through hot showers and out into a bare-bones locker room. Piles of clothing and other items waited on wooden benches. “Grab a
set
of overalls and a shaving kit,” the snakehead said brusquely. “Hot food is waiting.”

“Oh, and one other thing,” the Maori said, as he paused in front of a hatch. “Welcome to America.”

Dexter stepped into the walk-in closet, flipped a switch, and waited for the can-style recessed lights to come on. His neatly hung clothes made a subtle swishing sound as he pushed them out of the way. The door, which consisted of half-inch maple veneer plywood, whispered as it slid to one side. A sudden rush of cool air invaded the closet. It smelled of plasterboard, carpet, and sealant.

He felt a momentary sense of pride as he stepped into the hidden room and paused to admire his handiwork. When sober, and in the mood to work, Dexter’s father had been good with his hands. And Dexter had not only learned at the old man’s side, but inherited all of his tools, which he kept in the shop just off the parking garage. But some, those that Dexter required to finish the job, lay waiting at his feet.

The viewing room, as the businessman liked to think of it, was six feet long and three feet deep. A large portion of the wall opposite the secret door resembled a window, but actually consisted of a see-through mirror, similar to those used in police stations. It looked out into 6A’s master bedroom—a significant modification that had never been discussed with Dexter’s architect, the general contractor, or the city’s building inspectors, all of whom had plans that showed 6A’s bedroom as being three feet deeper than it actually was. It was sick, Dexter knew, but harmless. After all, the businessman told himself,
what they don’t know won’t hurt them
.

The room was something of a gamble of course, since there was no way to be sure that the people who rented the apartment would be
worth
watching, but that was part of the fun. If not the first renters, then the second, or the third. Eventually, if he waited long enough, Dexter knew his investment would pay off.

But first there was work to do. Rather than mess around with complicated electronics, Dexter
had rigged the overhead ducts to conduct sound, but the system worked in reverse, too. That meant he would need to be quiet when he used the viewing room or his neighbors would hear him. And that was why it was so important to finish the space
before
someone took the apartment. All Dexter had to do was install the trim around the window, paint the walls, and lay some leftover carpet. He’d be done within two hours, knock off, and head for the gym. The businessman whistled while he worked.

In spite of the fact that Greg Aspee was alive, he very much wished that he wasn’t—first because of the pain caused by the second-and third-degree burns that covered nearly seventy percent of his body, second because he felt guilty about what he and the others had done, and third because Marci had abandoned him.

That’s the way it felt anyway, even though the would-be terrorist knew she was dead, just like
he
was supposed to be dead, except that he wasn’t. Because unlike Larry, who always knew what to do, he was what his father always referred to as “…a worthless piece of shit.” Now, laying on his back in Harborview’s Burn Unit, Aspee had been reduced to little more than a carefully tended
thing
, a project people were forced to work on, but didn’t really want to, having seen the
thing
kill an innocent woman on TV.

Further distancing the
thing
from the people around him was the fact that everyone who entered Aspee’s room was required to wear a cap, mask, and surgical gown in order to reduce the possibility of infection and thereby keep the
thing
alive long enough to kill it, because Washington State had the death penalty and there were plenty of people who believed that it should be a prime candidate. Or maybe the Feds would get to try it first. It hardly mattered to Aspee.

Some of the people came to renew the
thing’s
IV, or to apply dressings, or to dispense medications. Other people came to ask the
thing
questions. They wanted to know why the triad lived together, why they wanted to die, and what they hoped to accomplish by murdering innocent people. Some of the visitors threatened the
thing
with the death penalty, or tried to organize the
thing’s
defense, or claimed that the
thing
could go to heaven if only it would repent.

Still other people were noticeable by their absence. His father, who had told one of the television reporters that his son was “one sick puppy,” his mother, who couldn’t afford the trip up from Florida, and Marci, who had gone to Paradise without him. The only friends the
thing
could rely on were the medications that lessened his pain—plus the occasional release granted it by sleep.

The
thing’s
left foot started to itch. A hand started to reach, metal rattled, and the chain brought the motion to a sudden halt. The
thing
swore and wished it were dead.

The elevator stopped at the garage level, produced a loud bong, and prepared to rise. The doors slid open. Kissler gestured for Rossi to precede him and waited for her to do so. Both said “Hello” to one of the Bureau’s support personnel before passing between a pair of parked cars and out into a pull-through. It was raining outside and wet tire tracks led toward the rear of the garage. Kissler found himself lagging behind and hurried to catch up. The female agent’s heels made a soft clacking sound as they hit the concrete. “Hey, Rossi, hold on…. My car’s over there.”