“That will definitely make you an accessory.”
“And then we’ll make copies of the notes and drawings. I’ll put the originals in the vault.”
“That’s a good idea,” he said, wondering why he hadn’t considered the precaution.
“Of course it is. Now, show me the rest of it.”
He stood and led her to the helm. Powering up the instrument panel, he demonstrated some of what he had learned from reading the operations manuals. He explained the navigation system and the computer. Showed her the normal, the night-vision, and the infrared modes on the bow and stern cameras.
“They’re telescopic, too.” McCory punched a code into the keyboard, and the main screen immediately zoomed in on the dock head. Wood splinters became steeples. In the upper right corner of the CRT, a green “10” appeared.
“That’s a magnification of ten,” he told her.
At the radar console, after powering up, he went active for one sweep. The ground clutter return along the shore almost whited out the screen, but dozens of blurry blips indicated ships and boats moving on the waterway or sitting at docks in Edgewater and New Smyrna Beach. Vehicles on coastal streets also returned an echo.
He showed her the communications console.
“What are these?” she asked, tapping the black boxes that were almost devoid of controls.
“Those are a problem.”
“In what way?”
“I’ve experimented with most of the radio sets, and I’m pretty sure those three are encryption and scrambling devices. They’ll have top secret classifications, and there aren’t any manuals aboard for them. I expect the Navy would like to have them back.”
“As if they don’t want the whole damn boat back?”
“I’m going to negotiate that.”
“Uh-huh. What else?”
“Well, there are the missiles.”
“Missiles! Shit.”
He took her back and showed her the cargo bay.
“Now, for the first time, I think you’re in real trouble,” Ginger said. She moved around the bay, caressing the missile cases with persimmon-tipped fingers.
“Think so?”
She spun toward him and smiled.
“What now?” he asked.
“Let’s go shoot one.”
Chambers checked into the Holiday Inn, then moved his rented Ford to the parking place in front of room 118. He got out of the car, stretched his back muscles by rolling his shoulders, then reached back inside for his portfolio and carry-on bag.
There was a stiff breeze coming in off the Gulf. Down on the beach, the palm trees swayed. It was a warm wind, and it only served to drive the mosquitoes inland.
He locked the car, unlocked the room, entered, and tossed the bag on the bed. Slapping a mosquito attacking his neck, he closed the door and turned on the lights.
Standard room, hot.
He found the air conditioning controls and reset the thermostat. The blower came on and drowned out the sound of traffic on Highway 41.
Slipping out of the silver-gray suit jacket, Chambers hung it on a hanger. It looked as if he had slept in it for two days. He shrugged out of the shoulder holster harness, wrapped the straps around the holster clamping the nine millimeter Beretta, and put it in the drawer of the nightstand. Then he unpacked the bag, hanging up his spare suit and shirts, taking the Dopp kit into the bath, and finally reaching one of his two bottles of Jack Daniels.
Carrying the plastic bucket, he went back outside and found the ice machine. Only after he had his drink in hand — two cubes of ice, long slug of whiskey, dash of water — did he pick up the phone and dial the number in Glen Burnie. While the phone clicked at him, he took a long swig from the plastic glass, then sat on the edge of the bed.
“Justin Malgard.”
“Chambers.”
“What did you find, Rick?”
“I haven’t found a damn thing yet, Justin. Not much, anyway.”
Malgard preferred to be called Mr. Malgard, but after his first mission for AMDI, Chambers started calling him by his first name. It irritated the man, but he didn’t make an issue of it. Chambers had had enough of rank distinctions in the damned peacetime army.
“Tell me about it.”
Chambers drank from his glass. “First of all, there ain’t a Marina Kathleen in Fort Walton Beach. I found the address, all right, but the name’s been changed, and there’s an old couple runnin’ the place, managin’ it for some conglomerate. The corporation bought the marina from an insurance company, they said, and the managers didn’t know anythin’ about Devlin or Kevin McCory.”
“Bought it from the insurance company, huh?”
“Yeah. I nosed around the whole damned bay, talkin’ to a lot of people. After the old man died, I guess there was a hell of a fight between the insurance outfit and the kid. Nobody seemed to know for sure, but it could still be in the courts. The kid, Kevin, just walked. Or sailed, I guess. He took some boat, and one guy said the ownership of the boat is still in dispute.
“Disappeared?”
“Not entirely, Justin. I got a lead to Port St. Joe and drove down there, found out he’d worked in a marine shop for a couple months, then took off again. Shit, I’ve been back to Panama City, then down to Cedar Key, Tarpon Springs, and St. Petersburg. The son of a bitch keeps on movin’.”
“Where are you now, Rick?”
“Sarasota. I’ve got to check the marinas in the morning. What I’m thinkin’, though, is that we ought to find out whatever insurance company was involved. If they’re still debatin’ it, the company might have an address on him.”
“No.”
“No?”
“We’re not involving anyone else, Rick. It’s just you and me, like it always has been.”
“That’s really dumb, Justin. We could be savin’ a lot of time.”
“Hey, Rick. I pay you fifty grand a year to do what you’re told to do.”
“Plus bonuses,” Chambers got in. He didn’t want Malgard forgetting the bonuses.
“Plus bonuses. For fifty thousand, you get to sit on your ass all year. For the bonus, you do what I want you to do. Got that?”
“I got it.” Hell, the guy was right, after all, Chambers admitted to himself.
“So you keep following the trail. And you call me a little more often.”
“I got that, too.”
“Ted, this is Kevin.”
“I recognize the voice,” Daimler said dryly. “You know it’s almost midnight here?”
“Almost midnight here, too. I had a thought.”
“That’s troublesome.”
“From the papers, the Navy’s out there looking for terrorists with two boats.”
“That is true, my friend.”
“When, in actuality, the terrorists have only one boat.”
“The Navy’s still looking for two.”
“Well, their search strategy might change if they knew they were only looking for one.”
Daimler thought about that. He did not know what the Pentagon was doing, of course, but McCory might have a point. Astoundingly, he sometimes did. Hell, Kevin had kept him from dropping out of undergraduate school at one time, had hauled him on his back for six miles after Daimler broke an ankle during night jump. The points added up.
“I was thinking,” McCory said, “of placing an anonymous call to the Navy.”
“They’re never anonymous for long.”
“Maybe just let Norfolk know they were only looking for one SeaGhost.”
“Incorrect, Mac. They’re looking for two, though I admit they’re probably expected to find them in the same place. You’d just confuse them.”
“Well, hell. I want to do something to help.”
“This is a hell of a time for you to get all patriotic again,” Daimler said. “The two of us have already done our time. Keep in mind that you’re a thief, please.”