Deep Blue Page 12

  The guy in trouble was too busy to respond, or maybe didn’t hear the calls. No . . . his radio was screwed up. That was the problem. He could transmit but not receive, which is why, when he returned to the mic, he was frustrated. “If there’s anybody out there who gives a damn, there’s a twenty-foot great white shark circling us. Freakin’ wide as a bus, and close enough to the beach that someone should warn those dumbasses to get out of the water.”

  Ford came through the door in time to hear most of that. Mack shushed him and attempted to contact the vessel again. “We have you loud and clear at Dinkin’s Bay. What’s the status of your divers?”

  Ford’s forehead wrinkled. “Divers? Who is that?”

  Mack, using the microphone, repeated the question about divers several times. No response.

  “What’s his location?” Ford asked. “If he’s close enough to the beach to see swimmers, he can’t be in more than twenty feet of water.”

  Mack started to explain but was interrupted by the captain, who pressed the mic key while shouting to someone, “She’s coming back . . . see it? Jesus Christ, look at the size of that dorsal. Billy . . . Billy! Stop taking pictures and hang on to something, man. Bastard’s coming right at us.” Then remembered why he’d picked up the microphone and hollered, “If anybody can hear me, we need help . . . A shark, a great white, has to weigh two tons. We’re off Lighthouse Point about . . .” The man’s voice softened to a whisper. “No . . . it’s still coming . . . coming faster. Oh my god . . . we should’ve brought a bigger—”

  Slam a hammer into a wall, that’s the sound they heard next. Then silence, except for the sudden garble of many vessels transmitting at the same time. A lot of people had heard what just happened.

  Mack rushed to the phone.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “Nine-one-one. I’ll have them contact Coast Guard and scramble a chopper. Doc, we’ll take your boat. I’ll supply the fuel.”

  Ford, standing at the counter, covered the phone with his hand. “It’s a prank, I think.”

  Mack grabbed the phone anyway and dialed.

  “At the very least, say you’re not sure it’s an emergency,” Ford advised. “Just say what you heard. Think about it. That last line about needing a bigger boat. It’s right out of Jaws.”

  Ford listened to a one-sided conversation, Mack talking to the 911 operator, while the Cuban went out, followed by the dog, and returned with a bottle of orange pop.

  When Mack was finished, he asked Figuerito in English, “Did you hear the captain say he needed a bigger boat? I didn’t hear him say that, and anyone could tell he was scared shitless. Guys who take dive charters, they all have decent-sized boats.”

  In Spanish, Figuerito asked Ford, “Is there a problem with the radio? Tell him I don’t know anything about radios.”

  “Mack,” Ford said, “who takes clients a mile or two off the beach to dive? There’s nothing to see out there but sand. You told nine-one-one the guy didn’t identify himself, so how do you know he was a charter captain?”

  “His radio was screwed up. I know the difference between a guide and a bloody weekender by the way they bloody well talk. He had two divers in the water—I could hear his emergency horn in the background—but they didn’t come up.” The marina owner thought for a moment. “Damn, I left that part out about the horn. Maybe I should call them back.”

  “What channel are you on?” Ford leaned over the counter to look. “You’re on seventy-two. If it was an emergency, why didn’t he use channel sixteen? If I was going to try a stupid prank, I wouldn’t risk pissing off the feds by tying up an emergency channel. They could arrest him for that.”

  Mack’s mind had already skipped ahead. “I need to contact Fast Eddie. He’s out there with a party of four: three divers and one along for the ride. He said they’d do a checkout dive at Belton Reef, then head out to the Rock Pile, depending on the wind.”

  Ford was about to point out it was too windy to be offshore, that he and Tomlinson had postponed their dive. Eddie’s decision had nullified the argument, but he was still convinced what he’d heard was some drunk or smartass who was a pretty good actor.

  Sharks seldom attack boats. Even great whites. When they do, they chomp a propeller or some dangling appendage. Only in movies do they use their heads as battering rams.

  Mack switched to channel 68 and began hailing Fast Eddie but made time to say, “Maybe you’re right, Doc. But what if you’re wrong?”

  Ford couldn’t disagree with that. “We’ll take my boat, but see what Eddie has to say first.”

  He waited at the door. Outside, near the fuel pumps, the owners of Tiger Lilly, Rhonda and JoAnn, were in animated conversation with a couple of others who lived on A dock. Observing from the flybridge of his yacht was Vargas Diemer, pressed and pleated in gray slacks and a collared shirt. The Brazilian appeared interested, which was unusual for a man who wore aloofness like a mask.

  Mack noticed the ladies and covered the mic while he explained, “Rhonda’s computer crashed.”

  “Just now?” Ford asked.

  “JoAnn’s computer, too, or they both got a virus, something that makes them think the world is about to end. Rhonda texted me not twenty minutes ago.”

  Ford was thinking, Julian? but said, “It’s probably a coincidence.”

  Mack, with an I guess so shrug, continued hailing Jersey Girl, which was Fast Eddie’s boat.

  • • •

  Vargas waved Ford aboard and met him aft, where the railings were stained mahogany red and brightwork glistened. There were no corny nautical icons on this vessel. It was 55 feet of oceangoing craftsmanship that meshed with what Ford knew about the Brazilian. It wasn’t much, but a lot more than anyone else outside a few embassies and enclaves of power around the world.

  That’s why Vargas didn’t bother with a phony accent when they were alone.

  “They think the Internet is down, but that’s not the problem,” Vargas said. He glanced at Rhonda and the others. “My system’s designed to go off-line if it senses certain probes. That’s how I know. No point telling them, but we’ve been attacked. At least six computers here at the marina.”

  Ford thought, Shit—this is because of me. “Are you sure? Could have been a power surge or—”

  “The way my system works, there’s a visual alarm; nothing audible. I wasn’t at the computer when it happened, but the alarm’s been tripped. Definitely a hacker tried but couldn’t break through.”

  “If you’re right,” Ford said, “I did something so stupid that . . . Anyway, my hard drive was compromised before whoever it was went after the marina. At least, I think so. That bothers me. Why would anybody go after the marina?”

  Vargas touched the back of a chair, meaning Take a seat. “I’ll save the obvious question. This early in the day, I know it’s bottled water for you.” He crossed into the main salon with a leading man fluidity that Ford ignored but, in truth, envied.

  The obvious question Vargas would ask was Who was the attacker?

  Should he confide? He’d already admitted the truth about the fallen drone. Part of the truth anyway. Ford debated the pros and cons while he waited. When one is pursued by a powerful enemy, a savvy ally is an asset, and the Brazilian was an unusually savvy man.

  If asked, the Brazilian would say he was a commercial pilot for Swissair. Or he’d offer a business card that said he was CEO of an import-export company that had offices in Rio, Luxembourg, and Dubai. Solid stories that impressed the ladies, but misleading. Swissair had changed its name to Lufthansa several years back, which is probably when Vargas had gone to work for himself. His import-export business existed, but its office was a P.O. box in Lauderdale.

  Even a third-level background check had required some guesswork.

  Ford’s summary: Vargas was a big-time freelancer and very good at what he did
. He could be trusted—if the fee was right—and had contacts that opened doors to money. He specialized in “threat management,” which meant recovering items that owners could not report as stolen—letters to a mistress, photos of a secret lover, videos or text messages that compromised men and women too powerful to tolerate blackmail.

  Contract murder was the more lucrative next step.

  Ford knew it was true.

  “The outside probes started thirty-two minutes ago,” the Brazilian said when he returned. He put a bottle of water on a table of oiled teak and sat with a glass of wine. “Who was it, sport?”

  Ford opened the bottle. “This is where I’m supposed to play dumb or turn it around and ask you.” He drank, then shrugged. “Okay. You ever hear of a guy named Winslow Shepherd? A mathematics professor. An Aussie. He goes under the banner of ‘activist,’ but he’s more of a third-rate revolutionary. He got off for bombing a post office years ago because he’s better connected than most. Three high school kids were killed.”

  After a slow shake of the head, Vargas said, “I know the type. What did you do to piss him off? Write a paper endorsing whale hunting or killing seals, or something like that? That might attract a group with enough money and know-how to help him.”

  “What about the name Julian Solo?”

  Vargas, a man not easily impressed, dropped the shields for an instant. “I hope you’re guessing.”

  “I’m not.”

  “In that case, the Pacific coast of Panama is nice this time of year. That would be my choice—as long as you go the opposite direction. But the shotgun approach—taking the whole marina off-grid—it makes no sense for a man with his resources. What’s the connection?”

  “Shepherd is Julian’s father. He and I had a . . . falling-out recently.”

  The Brazilian didn’t miss much. “On your lecture tour, I assume. Your choice of words—to a commercial pilot anyway—tells me the math professor is no longer a problem. Now the son wants to even the score.”

  “Not exactly,” Ford said. Mack was standing in the office door, ready to search for a boat that probably didn’t exist. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Or stop by the lab tonight—if you’re interested.”

  “A falling-out with the father of a cyberbillionaire,” Vargas mused. He sipped his wine. “Guess that explains the drones.”

  Drones—plural. It stopped Ford in his tracks. “How many have you seen?”

  The Brazilian proved his interest by replying, “Counting the two last night?”

  • • •

  When they rounded Lighthouse Point into the Gulf, which was choppy but not too bad, Ford didn’t need to check the radar before saying, “There must be forty boats out there. They don’t need us. Besides”—he indicated the water, which was marl green—“no one in their right mind would dive this close to shore. Offshore, the viz might be so-so, but not here.”

  Mack was somewhere inside his head but snapped out of it when he saw the flotilla, plus a Coast Guard chopper approaching from the north. “They don’t think it was a prank. My god, word spreads fast. Don’t get me wrong—I hope nobody was hurt—but it’s not a bad thing for business, if you know what I mean.”

  Ford was more concerned about the pair of UAVs he’d hidden in the mangroves under a pile of tin sheet roofing. He was eager to turn around, but it wasn’t his call. “What do you want to do?”

  Mack’s response: Huh? then shook his head, still not entirely there but enough to hold a conversation. “What I think is, we ought to come back with a barrel of chum and catch that sonuvabitch. To hell with people and their sharks were here before we were bullshit. Kill it or drive it off, I don’t care. Or, if you’re right, if it was some bastard playing a joke, well . . .”

  He left that to Ford’s imagination. The older man’s attention shifted to the beach, where hotels, none over two stories, were lined up beyond a fringe of sea oats and palms. “The place I’m buying is just a couple miles up. I haven’t seen it from the water. How about we take a look? By then, if we haven’t heard something different on the VHF, we’ll turn around.”

  They ran along the beach past Sanibel Moorings, a bunch of other places, then turned in not far beyond Casa Ybel, where umbrellas bunched like wildflowers. Ford’s impatience was mollified by women in two-piece suits, sunning themselves. Mack rambled on about the Grin N Bare It cottages, which they couldn’t see from the water, but the narrow access path was there, lined with coconuts.

  Mack talked about it being a good investment; a communal lifeboat for themselves and people they trusted. On and on like that. Easy enough to tune out until the man was several sentences into a different subject, the last fragment startling: “. . . a couple of surfers washed ashore. One, just his torso, the other missing a leg.”

  Ford was suddenly interested. “Where was this?”

  “I just told you, when I was a kid.”

  “From a shark attack, you mean.”

  “I was there—my folks ran a little beach takeaway. A carryout, you’d call it. Burgers and snacks and chips—French fries. You know the sort of place. A woman started screaming. By the time I got there, I had to jockey my way through a crowd. I’ll never forget it. Some bloke’s innards hanging out. At first, I thought it was a pig with a bunch of jellyfish floating around the rib cage. A white pointer had gotten them both. Great whites, you call them.”

  Ford said, “You’re from western New Zealand. I forget the name of the town. Hard to pronounce anyway.”

  Mack only nodded. “My point is, folks there didn’t sit around wringing their hands about what to do. Over the next few days, fishermen brought in three of those bastards. Strung ’em up like the killers they are and took pictures. After that, no more dead surfers and no more nervous tourists. Selling burgers and snass got back to normal.”

  “You’ve never told that story before,” Ford said, “or someone would’ve passed it on. How old were you?”

  Mack was a large man with a gravelly laugh. “There’re a lot of stories I haven’t told folks around here.”

  Something about the way he said it put Ford on alert. “Are you from near Auckland or the South Island?”

  “It was a different lifetime,” Mack replied, either evading or he didn’t hear. He checked on the distant flotilla, which had moved a mile or two closer to Fort Myers Beach. “Hope they find the poor bastards . . . or I hope you’re right. Guess we ought to be getting back, Doc. You ready?”

  Tomlinson’s shower was a bag suspended from the mast of his sailboat, No Más, a 38-foot Morgan bleached to bone by the tropics. Not just any bag, a catheter bag he associated with a painful incident that involved a urinary blockage and a parasitic fish.

  “Would you believe a fish once swam up my dick?”

  This was an opening line he could not use with just any woman, but, with the right one, it was guaranteed fun. His explanation, which made the impossible plausible, usually sealed the deal. A candiru, a South American catfish only a few millimeters long, sought refuge in the urinary tracts of certain animals, including men, if one was dumb enough to piss while up to his belly in a candiru habitat.

  Painful. But wasn’t pain the keystone of enlightenment?

  He put on shorts, no underwear, a long-sleeved pullover, tied his hair back with a red wind scarf, and rowed ashore rather than use the engine. Didn’t want to drown out the silence of stars and water on this perfect winter’s eve.

  Ahead was the marina: palm trees draped in Christmas lights, boats decorated, the docks weighted with shadow people carrying drinks amid snippets of laughter. Yeah . . . a whiff of good ganja, too. This was a promising step into the marina’s Twenty-six Days of Christmas.

  Tonight was Day 14, a Monday. Secret Santa names would be picked from a hat. For snacks: smoked mullet, mango chutney; fried gator tail for hors d’oeuvres.

  Water amplified sound. H
e rowed and eavesdropped between each stroke. His ears were calibrated by experience to filter out men’s voices because he preferred what women had to say. True, it was a method of gauging age and availability, but his affection for women transcended base need despite the fact his base needs were legendary. He liked women as people. Really, he did. Eons of subjugation and general male assholishness had made females more sensitive and perceptive. They possessed heightened paranormal powers, if they chose to tap into them.

  The female mind was fascinating. And if a woman’s mind was also in a lusty mood, then her breasts and warm thighs were a welcome bonus—all shapes, all sizes, it didn’t matter as long as their hearts were in the right place.

  Tomlinson loved women. Well . . . except for the Chinese dragon lady he’d married and that had lasted only long enough to conceive a daughter. Which is why, by choice, he lived alone on a boat with a forward V-berth big enough for three, even though it had slept as many as five.

  Last night, with the veterinarian, one woman had been more than enough.

  Gonna get chilly tonight, he thought. Sure hope Ava doesn’t start beating herself over the head with guilt. What’ll I do if she cancels?

  He cupped a hand to test a whiff of his own breath. He tugged his hair straight and straightened the red bandana he often wore pirate-style. A man never wanted to count on good fortune, but to dismiss hope invited negative karma and only twice in his life had negative karma gotten him laid, so the less said or thought about that, the better.

  I bet I look pretty good, he thought. Next trip to town, I’ll buy a couple more bandanas, different colors.

  Women’s laughter, a youthful bell chime amid a familiar chorus, demanded his attention. Tomlinson spun around so fast, he dropped an oar. Moored along A dock, between the Brazilian’s yacht and a houseboat patched with duct tape, was a stodgy old Chris-Craft brightened by Japanese lanterns and several busty silhouettes. Tiger Lilly was painted on the stern. The owners, Rhonda and JoAnn, were aboard with guests—all female, thus far, and at least two of them new to the marina.