The Bone Hunters (24 page)

30 May

Dunmore Town

North Eleuthera

Bahamas

They had arrived at the deserted fish house an hour before dawn.

After escaping from Brugg's compound, McGandy had driven straight to his cottage. He helped Carlos and the others inside, and had then run the truck down to the far end of the island and parked it near the landfill. Using a moist towel, he had cleaned the door handles, steering wheel, and dashboard console and left it there with the body of the unknown man inside.

Chris Kimball had been waiting for the others in McGandy's living room when they arrived at the cottage. He had a splint on his left arm, and it was heavily wrapped in gauze bandages and tape. His face looked as if it had been exposed to a radiation blast and his eyebrows were singed off.

“Feels better than it looks,” said Kimball.

“We don't have to worry about the Kingfish picking up any local women,” said Macaulay, “unless they have a thing for Boris Karloff.”

“We need to get back to the
Trader's Bluff
as quickly
as possible,” said Barnaby to Kimball. “I have to reach Dusenberry using secure communications to request our extraction.”

“We can't go back to
Trader's Bluff
,” said Kimball. “The local police made it part of the crime scene. When I got out of the clinic, I tried to get back aboard and they ordered me off at the point of a gun. I'm sure they are still there.”

“Brugg is probably behind it,” said Mike McGandy, arriving back at the cottage after getting rid of the truck. “If any of us are picked up by the police at this point, we'll be turned over to him. They have also closed the airport. Supposedly, it's for the duration of the storm. In truth, it'll be until they find you.”

“How long for the storm?” asked Barnaby.

“It probably won't reach full strength until tomorrow afternoon,” said McGandy. “Right now the wind is only gusting at about thirty miles an hour. I saw boats going in and out of the harbor on my way back.”

Cora McGandy came down from the spare bedroom where Macaulay had carried Carlos and put him to bed. During the truck ride from the Brugg compound, Lexy had suggested taking him to Cora's medical clinic, but McGandy said it would be one of the first places they would search.

“He is lucky to be alive,” said Cora, putting down the tray containing her medical instruments. “I've dressed his wounds and given him a shot of morphine for the pain. His condition is stable, although he has several broken ribs and will need oral surgery. His feet should heal quickly once the infection from the glue is under control,
but I doubt he will ever walk comfortably again without prosthetics.”

“Should we try to contact Dusenberry at the White House by telephone?” asked Barnaby. “He might be able to send an extraction team in here before the storm reaches full strength.”

“You might as well be calling him on a party line,” said Macaulay. “It only increases the risk of our being caught in the meantime.”

“Then I guess we'll have to wait it out,” said Barnaby.

“Not here,” blurted Mike McGandy, looking at Cora. “Brugg's men will come here for sure at some point. People will have seen us together in the past few days. This is a small place and they'll check out every possibility. There shouldn't be any trace that you were here when they go through our home.”

“Where can we go?” asked Macaulay as the rain hammered down on the cottage's tin roof like a hundred bass drums. “We don't want to endanger you any longer than is necessary.”

“What about my father's fish house?” asked Cora.

“That could work,” agreed McGandy. “It's down at the commercial wharf. No one goes there at night. It'll be completely deserted right now. It'll also give you a good vantage point to see what's happening in the harbor area tomorrow morning.”

“Would your father have a problem with it?” asked Macaulay.

“We believe he is dead. He disappeared a year ago,” said Cora, “along with his charter boat and a party of Canadians he was taking on a weeklong cruise to the Abacos.”

Macaulay thought about the sunken pleasure boats and bodies he and Carlos had found on their first dive. He decided not to mention it to Cora McGandy as the others began their preparations to leave.

Thirty minutes later, they had arrived in McGandy's Land Rover at the commercial wharf. It was dark and deserted when they pulled up on a side street lined with bougainvillea and coconut palms. The lush vegetation almost masked the back wooden stairs that led up to the second story of the old clapboard structure.

Inside, it was warm and dry. One big low-ceilinged room faced the harbor. The two rooms in back had been used as an office and crew quarters. Macaulay laid the unconscious Carlos down on one of the beds as Chris Kimball walked down the narrow set of stairs that led to the first floor. It was a storage room for boating and fishing equipment with two big doors that led onto the wharf. They were chained tight. The wind-driven surf had coated the concrete floor with seawater. Upstairs, McGandy was ready to leave.

“I'll be back in a few hours with some food and whatever information I can learn,” he said.

Macaulay went downstairs to the storeroom and found some thick canvas boat curtains. He came back up to nail them over the upstairs windows. Going outside, he checked to make sure no lamplight leaked out.

Carlos suddenly began to moan loudly from the crew quarters. It drew Lexy to the side of his bed. Kneeling down, she slid her right arm under his neck and gently pulled him toward her until his face was resting between her chest and shoulder. His body began to shudder uncontrollably.

“It's going to be all right,” she said softly.

He seemed to relax as she stroked his ruined face.

“It's going to be all right,” she repeated, not entirely sure whether to believe it.

“Let's all try to get some sleep while we can,” said Macaulay.

Barnaby looked at the potential accommodations and grimaced. Between the barrels of gear, piles of canvas, and coils of rope, he finally found a place on the floor and stretched out on his back.

“I'm going to be seventy years old tomorrow,” he grumbled as Macaulay turned off the lights.

“Happy birthday,” said Macaulay. “I hope you get everything you wish for.”

“Right now it's my lair back at the Long Wharf,” said Barnaby. “And fuck you.”

Dawn brought gray and murky skies still teeming with rain. Macaulay got up and began making coffee in Cora's father's old blue enamel pot. Parting the canvas covering on the window, he watched big ocean breakers slam into the beach and roll heavily toward the line of palm trees in a mass of white foam.

•   •   •

Juwan sat in the aquarium room with the two Chinese and a contingent from his guard unit. His mother came in to join them with a platter of freshly baked apple croissants and two pounds of maple-cured bacon.

“How is Varna?” he whispered to her as he helped himself.

“In your bedroom,” she said quietly. “He has been sobbing most of the night.”

“Where is Colonel Bardot?” demanded Juwan for the fourth time. “I told you to bring him to me.”

Lieutenant Alvarez shrugged and said, “The guards at the gate said he left in the van with the body of the American millionaire and another man who they didn't recognize. They assumed—”

“They assumed?” shouted Juwan. “Bring those guards here now.”

Black Mamba sidled close to him.

“Do not show your emotion, my son, in front of these people,” she said. “Think of it as an important NBA game. . . . These Chinese are watching for any sign of weakness.”

Juwan hated to be reminded of what he had once been in the NBA. His mind was reeling with images from his last All-Star game when the two guards who had been posted at the gate came into the room. One of them was visibly trembling. Juwan asked him to describe what had happened when the truck had arrived at the front gate.

“It was Colonel Bardot,” he said. “He was in full uniform. He screamed at me in French as he often has done on the parade ground.”

The guard who had opened the rear door of the truck supported him.

“Colonel Bardot was driving the truck,” he said. “It had the body of the man we took at Michaud's in the back. Another man was lying next to him with his toes missing.”

“I believe that someone may have impersonated your Colonel Bardot,” said Zhou Shen Wui, sampling one of the croissants.

A guard in a soaked white uniform coat entered the room, went to Alvarez, and whispered in his ear.

“We have found the truck,” said Alvarez. “It was left at the landfill. Only one of the bodies was still inside.”

“Which one?” asked Black Mamba.

“The American millionaire.”

“My prisoner needed medical attention,” said Black Mamba. “Have you searched the medical clinics?”

“Yes,” said Alvarez, “and any other place he might have been taken for medical help.”

“Keep searching,” demanded Juwan Brugg. “They have to be here in town. Someone will have heard or seen something.”

“Many of them are close-lipped,” said Black Mamba.

“Post a reward,” said Juwan.

“I have also made sure that all flights are canceled at the airport,” said Alvarez.

Black Mamba's eyes were drawn to something at the base of the aquarium. Somehow it didn't seem to belong there. The object was long and pointed and sticking out of the sand. As she got closer, she saw that it was a shoe, a black-and-white two-toned shoe. Attached to it was a shred of white sock. There was something inside the sock that was drawing the attention of the tiny feeder fish.

“I believe it is time we became partners,” said Zhou as he watched the big black woman staring at the hideous sea creatures.

He was certain the time was right to make a deal. Zhou never relied on a hunch or superstition. His actions were always planned and determined in advance, but never rigid in design. Flexibility was one of his brilliant
hallmarks, the ability to make needed adjustments in any plan as it unfolded in real time. The huge black man was clearly out of his element, but necessary to fulfilling his mission.

“Complete honesty is the basis for any genuine partnership, Mr. Brugg,” said Zhou. “This is your country. We are your humble guests. In that spirit, I will tell you exactly what we are seeking and why it is important us.”

Juwan smiled and nodded as he finished the platter of bacon. Now they were finally getting down to it.

“We are attempting to recover fossils, ancient bones, that were excavated nearly a hundred years ago in China,” said Zhou. “They are of the
Homo erectus
, the Peking Man. These bones do not have intrinsic value like gold or diamonds, but they are invaluable.”

He paused for a few seconds to let the importance sink in.

“Homo erectus,”
repeated Juwan.

What did the Chinaman take him for to diss him this way, he wondered, with such an obvious lie?

“His bones are actually priceless and even worshipped by certain people in my country,” said Zhou. “He is the first of his kind, the first man to stand erect and use tools. I am prepared to pay you five million dollars, if you will assist us in recovering the Peking Man.”

“What if we don't find the homo?” asked Juwan, barely containing his derision.

“As a demonstration of good faith, we will pay you two million on top of your finder's fee regardless of whether we find him or not. You will benefit either way. My son and I have a recovery vessel arriving here in an hour. It will be sufficient to meet our needs as soon as you
locate the position of the wreck. We shall dive on it as soon as we know its location and my son's team can ensure that we have the proper security for our endeavors.”

The first homo with an erection, thought Juwan, maintaining his composure in the face of the man's monumental bullshit, maintaining eye contact while nodding occasionally as the old Chinaman lied through his little rat's teeth. What could the treasure really be? he wondered. The old man had said it wasn't gold or diamonds, which probably meant it was. Whatever the treasure might be, Juwan and his own men would be there when they found it.

“Who are the others looking for homo man?” asked Juwan.

“A team of American archaeologists,” said Zhou, deciding not to divulge the fact that the American government was behind their efforts. “Do we have an agreement?”

Juwan nodded and extended his hand. Zhou took it in his own, watching his fingers disappear, waiting to see if the giant would try to crush them. There was only ordinary pressure. He was not trying to prove anything.

“I am reminded of the ancient Chinese proverb,” said Zhou. “
Ya ba chi jiao zi, xin li you shù.
In English, it means when a mute person eats dumplings, he knows how many he has eaten, even though he cannot speak.”

Juwan was trying to maintain eye contact with the old Chinese, at the same time trying to figure out what the fuck he had said. Zhou was smiling at Juwan as if the two had become blood brothers, clearly waiting for him to respond. Juwan remembered the rap slang used by a number of his former teammates in the NBA.

“All balls don't bounce,” said Juwan. “Some balls hang. Ball don't lie.”

30 May

Casa Grande Brugg

Dunmore Town

North Eleuthera

Bahamas

Li Shen Wui stood atop the wall facing the sea from the Brugg compound and watched as a violent wave of green water smashed into the beach with a savage boom. It almost matched the rage that was consuming him inside.

A few minutes earlier, he had watched from the terrace as a small caravan of Humvees formed up in the turning circle by the main entrance. His father and Brugg had gotten into the second Humvee and the caravan left the compound. They were on their way to meet the two-hundred-foot recovery vessel that had just arrived with Li's paramilitary team aboard. It was an outrage. They were Li's men, not his father's. He does not blink.

The rain had stopped for the first time since he and his father arrived. Li had overheard one of Brugg's house staff say it was only the calm before the real storm. The low, brassy sky looked as if it was ready to unleash another torrent at any moment.

Two armed guards were standing by the iron-mesh gate cut into the base of the wall that separated the compound from the beach. When Li told them in English
that he was going swimming, the first one looked at him as if he was crazy. The second one swung the gate open and allowed him to pass through.

On the beach, he quickly stripped off his clothes. As the wind-driven sand peppered his naked body, he watched as another huge roller came crashing into shore. Timing it perfectly, he dove into the receding wave and began to swim.

His body cut swiftly through the whitecaps that crowned the green slashing waves. Once again, his father had diminished him, this time in front of the gigantic simpleton. He was treating Brugg with a respect he never displayed toward his own son.

As always, Li found his release in the water. With an almost effortless crawl, he drove through the roiling sea, his mouth barely opening against his left shoulder with exquisite precision to take in air with a minimum of wasted effort.

Wo hèn ta . . . I hate him,
he silently screamed with each stroke.
Wo hèn ta, Wo hèn ta, Wo hèn ta.

When he stopped to look around, he saw that he was several hundred meters off the beach in front of the compound. It began raining again as he turned and began the journey back. Nearing the shoreline, he raised his head from the water and saw someone standing at the edge of the beach frantically waving his hands. When Li was close enough to body-surf the next wave into the shoreline, he saw it was the Panamanian Varna.

“I saw you from the window,” said Varna. “I could not believe you were going to do it . . . I thought you were going to drown.”

Over the Panamanian's shoulder, Li could see the two
guards at the sea wall gate staring at them. Li put his clothes back on. Together, they walked to the mansion house. Inside, Li asked Varna if there was an exercise facility in the house.

“Of course,” said the Panamanian. “I designed it myself.”

“I would like to work out with you,” said Li.

Varna's face lit up with pleasure. “I would be honored to join you.”

Varna's training facility was located on the fourth floor near the bedroom he shared with Juwan. It was state-of-the-art, with Cybex treadmills, elliptical trainers, recumbent bikes, Stairmasters, rowing machines, and a Rogue Power Rack.

Varna was contentedly bench-pressing three hundred pounds to demonstrate his own fitness standard when he saw Li begin to take his clothes off again. Naked, the Chinese came over to the Power Rack and stared down at Varna as the Panamanian replaced the weight bar. Li was already aroused.

“I will take you back to China with me,” he said, gazing into the Panamanian's brown foxlike eyes. “You will be safe and respected.”

“No, I can't go with you,” said Varna. “I love Juwan.”

“You can't love him. The man is a monster,” said Li.

“I am Juwan's,” said Varna.

“Then what were you doing on the beach?” demanded Li.

“I was only worried that you would do harm to yourself,” said Varna. “You are our guests.”

“I'm more than a guest,” said Li, forcing the
Panamanian to his knees. “I think you're a despicable cock tease. I have had many.”

When Varna continued to resist, Li slapped him hard in the face. He put all his hate into the blow. Varna seemed to shrink in front of his eyes. Li ordered him to take off his workout pants. He never heard the door to the workout facility swing open behind them.

“Varna,” came the low voice of Black Mamba. “You bitch.”

Mamba reached the Rogue Power Rack in two bearlike bounds. Varna was already scuttling backward when she clubbed the side of Li's head with her right fist. It felt like a sledgehammer blow and his head was already ringing as she grasped Li's left shoulder in a viselike grip.

Ducking downward, Li pivoted and grabbed her massive left wrist, using all his strength to force her fingers back from the palm. Although she clouted him in the head again with her right fist, he felt the familiar mist thickening in his eyes as he bore down on her fingers with relentless pressure. He heard the four bones break with a crunching sound followed by her loud grunt of pain.

Mamba's face was twisted into a frightening mask of agony as he put his right shoulder into her massive belly and drove her onto her back. When she opened her mouth to scream for help, he raised his leg and stomped her, driving the heel of his foot into her throat.

She let out a bleating whimper and then two loud snorts as she desperately tried to breathe through her crushed larynx. Li continued to stand on her throat until she issued a last keening wail and her breathing stopped. Li stepped down from her body. He felt the mist in his
eyes fade away as he looked into the stunned face of Varna.

“You will help me dispose of her or I will tell your giant imbecile you killed her after she found us together.”

•   •   •

Macaulay's smartphone kept ringing until it finally switched over to his recorded answer.

“It's Tommy Somervell again,” said Macaulay. “He wouldn't be calling if it wasn't something really important.”

“Is your phone encrypted?” asked Barnaby.

“As well as one can be these days,” said Macaulay.

“Take it,” said Barnaby when the phone began ringing again a minute later.

Macaulay put it on the speaker attachment.

“I'll be brief, dear boy,” said Tommy Somervell. “June Corcoran is dead, but she hopefully put us on the right trail. I have no idea how this fits into what you have already learned, but here it is. The butcher who commanded the U-113 that sank the
Prins Willem
was searching the floating wreckage after torpedoing the ship when there was a secondary explosion that rocked the U-boat. One of the lookouts was lost overboard, but no one noticed it until they were ready to dive. By then, he couldn't be found.”

“Could von Bulow have picked up the crates?” asked Macaulay.

“There is nothing in his personal log,” said Tommy, “but I have a few more details about the lookout. He was only fifteen years old and was apparently a beloved mascot among the crew . . . an apprentice seaman named Dieter Jensen.”

“Repeat that,” said Macaulay.

“Dieter Jensen,” said Somervell, his voice echoing across the room of the fish shack.

Mike McGandy grinned and nodded at Macaulay.

“Thanks, Tommy. I'm sorry about June,” said Macaulay before ending the connection.

“Dieter Jensen is the old hermit you met out there,” said McGandy. “That's why they call it Dieter's Island.”

“If he's the same man, how could he have gotten there?” asked Macaulay. “It must be five miles or more from where the
Prins Willem
went down.”

“Who knows?” said Barnaby. “As Conan Doyle wrote, if you eliminate all the other possibilities, it has to be the answer.”

“He must have been the one who saved Morrissey's life,” said Lexy. “You remember that Morrissey said he heard a strange voice while he was floating in the sea.”

“And what were they floating on?” said Barnaby.

“A thousand-to-one shot,” said Macaulay.

“Ten thousand,” said Barnaby, “but we have to find out.”

Turning to Mike McGandy, Macaulay said, “When did you say the storm was going to peak?”

“Sometime this afternoon,” he said.

Macaulay checked his watch. “That gives us at least
three hours to get out there and back. Is your dive boat seaworthy?”

McGandy nodded and said, “But you're going to get mighty wet.”

“How long will it take to get out there?”

“The seas are running four to six feet right now with long, deep swells. I can probably make fifteen knots, so figure about thirty minutes each way.”

Using his good hand, Chris Kimball punched their GPS coordinates into his cell phone and checked the latest forecast.

“Winds are now predicted to hit a hundred miles an hour by this afternoon,” he said, “along with eighteen-foot seas.”

“We'll be back well before then,” said McGandy. “At least we'd better be. When Hurricane Andrew came through, Dieter's Island was underwater.”

“When do we leave?” asked Kimball.

“You're not going with that shoulder,” said Macaulay. Turning to Barnaby, he said, “And you're not either, old man.”

“Try to stop me, General,” said Barnaby. “I'm in charge of this party. If you don't like it, call the president.”