“It’s following us up on the stand!” Nick yelled. He pushed the transom door so hard the lock flew across the cockpit floor. Both men stood in the cockpit, the boat rocking in the swells, the sound of water dripping from dive suits, breathing heavy.
“That’s it!” Nick yelled. “That place is cursed! I tried to tell you that. We came within an inch of being chum meat.”
“Thought you said you didn’t miss with the spear when they were close.”
“That devil shark came up straight from hell. I had one second to shoot.”
“It bought us time to get to the boat.” O’Brien leaned down and picked the brass bolt lock off the floor. “But did you have to kick the transom door in?”
“Rather kick it in then have a pissed-off bull shark with a scratch across its back come and take me off the dive stand like I was a piece of fish on a plate.”
“Let me see your shoulder.” Nick turned around and O’Brien examined the wound. “Nasty cut. How’d that happen?”
“Something in that freaking sub stuck me. After I stepped on what felt like a human skull, BAM! Right across my spine. Maybe Nazi ghost sailors stabbed me.”
“It might need stitches.”
“Sean, you gotta listen to me. There’s real evil down there. I feel it! We weren’t supposed to find that thing. When we go back down there it’s like daring the devil to step across a line. Devil’s cursed that place.”
O’Brien was silent, his eyes looking across at the horizon.
“We need to get outta here,” Nick said.
“Let’s pull up the canisters and move. We have to work in the moonlight. We need the winch.”
Nick grunted. “If that shark cuts this rope with his teeth, that shit can stay down there.”
Soon the canisters were to the surface. O’Brien said, “Let’s be very careful. Swing them over the platform, and we’ll secure them in the bilge.”
“Dave said this stuff had to have some kinda super electrical spark to blow up.”
“Let’s hope Dave’s right. Get some blankets. We’ll wrap each cylinder separately, store them in different sides of the bilge and move on before first light.”
Nick looked toward the east. It was still more than two hours before sunrise. The moon was straight overhead. Lightning popped far out at sea. Then Nick saw another light. This one was a boat, coming from the southeast. A tiny wink in the distance. “We got company,” Nick said. “Somebody’s out in the stream.”
O’Brien looked up. “They’re a long way off. Maybe they’re fishing.”
Nick studied the light for a second. “No, they’re not fishing. They’re moving too fast. Let’s get the shit outta here, Sean. Could be the Coast Guard again. They might be the ones tracking us with that damn bug you found.”
“Or it could be somebody else. We can’t stick around to find out.”
They quickly wrapped the canisters and stowed them. O’Brien cranked the diesels and got the boat on a fast plane, both three hundred horsepower engines at full bore. He glanced down at the old holster he’d set on the bridge floor. He picked it up, turned a small bridge light on and tried to unsnap the metal button. The top flap of the holster fell apart like wet cardboard. He reached in and pulled out a German Luger. The pistol was in good condition despite the fact it had been sitting on the bottom of the ocean for sixty-seven years. The magazine was too corroded to remove.
He knew the clip held eight bullets. If four were missing, he would contact Abby and Glenda Lawson. Maybe the German sailor who owned this had put a bullet through the head of his comrade and three into the body of Billy Lawson.
O’Brien wondered what the autopsy performed on Billy Lawson would show, if they even did an autopsy. Would bullets removed from the body have been stored?
Nick climbed the steps, holding two bottles of Corona in one hand. He gave one to O’Brien and toasted. “Sean O’Brien, ever since you pulled into the marina a couple years ago, I’ve never been bored.” Nick took a long pull off the bottle and flopped down on the bench seat, his wet hair in dark curls. “You are only at the marina a couple weeks a month. If I had your old river house, I’d be up there, too. But when you do come in, don’t take this wrong, Sean. Shit happens. That time that crazy cop was tryin’ to frame you. Put that dead girl’s hair in your bed. It’s never boring, my brother.”
O’Brien sipped his beer. “Glad you like excitement because the people in that boat you spotted definitely aren’t fishing. I’m hoping your boat has bigger engines, because it looks like we’re being followed.”
Nick whirled around. He saw the running lights in the distance. “Oh shit! Did you hide those rifles in the closet behind the head?”
“Yes, and it might be smart to go below and get them.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Dave Collins poured his first glass of scotch at 4:02 a.m. He walked from Gibraltar’s galley to the salon where Max slept on the couch. She opened her eyes. Dave sat next to her and caressed her back. “They’ll be back soon, girl. Go to sleep.”
Dave sipped the scotch and thought about his thirty-year career with the CIA. He thought about the costs, the gains and the compromises, the slow disintegration of his marriage. The inability to tell his wife anything about what he did, what he had to do, or where he was. The world in which he had to exist was a world of no illusions and yet so artificial. It was so deceptive that the reality of exposure was more frightening than the plausible denial of who he was and for what he stood.
Sometimes, alone late at night, surrounded by shadows and deception, far away from his wife and sleeping children, he had to remind himself of exactly what he did stand for and why his personal sacrifices were less important than a successful mission.
He sipped the scotch, his mind drifting to the last phone call he’d received from Hamilton Van Arsdale, his former director at the Agency. Van Arsdale had another two years until retirement, and he planned to go out with the arrival of the new administration. Van Arsdale agreed that the HEU should be locked in Collins’ storage unit until it could be secured and removed.
He looked at his watch: 4:20. Where were they? They should have checked in by now. Were they okay?
The marine radio above his desk crackled to life. The sound of static caused Dave to sit up straight. O’Brien said, “ETA … seventy minutes tops.”
Max lifted her head, a slight whine from her throat.
Dave picked up the microphone and keyed the button. “How’s fishing?”
“We got a couple of grouper.”
Dave half smiled, fatigue knotting the muscles in his shoulders. “That’s good. We’ll keep the light on for you.”
“We have a light about two miles to our east. Seems to be gaining. Don’t know if they’re following us or just heading into the pass.”
“I’ll make a call.”
“I don’t know if that’d be good or bad. Could be the Coast Guard. Stay tuned.”
Andrei Keltzin looked at his watch as he walked through Miami’s international airport. He traveled with no luggage. Everything he needed would be purchased in Miami. He stepped outside, the warm breeze full of humidity and scents of flowers. He liked Florida. He liked coming to Miami. Women. Weapons. Both so easy to find and buy. But he knew on this trip he’d have limited time. Yuri Volkow had sounded more urgent that usual. Whatever it was, the job would require his immediate attention. Keltzin new something would happen within hours. He could smell the odor of a hunt in the warm Florida air. These things a man comes to know, like a change in weather before it happens. Only Yuri, a man who saw more abuse than he had under the old regime, understood the consequences of action and inaction. None moved faster than Yuri to seize opportunity.
His cell rang. “Where are you?” asked Yuri Volkow.
“Airport. Outside. Near the taxi stand.”