Deepkill

by Michael Kilian

  Dropped off downtown on Broad Street, he found the side door of a big hotel and entered it, crossing the lobby to the pay phones.

  He’d memorized the Bethesda number. He’d been told to use it only once. If necessary, he’d be given another one.

  It was answered immediately. Turko realized it was probably manned full-time. Incoming calls would be patched to where they needed to be.

  Turko gave his name—another name. He was told to wait. He was made to wait for more than ten minutes. One of the hotel bellmen began to watch him.

  “Yes?” said a voice.

  “I have news.”

  When he was done, Turko hurried out of the lobby through the main entrance and got into a waiting cab, ordering the driver to go to the Philadelphia airport, where he proceeded to one of the parking garages.

  He searched the garage for a car with a parking stub on top of the dashboard. He found a fairly new Honda sedan, not a rental.

  Turko was eating a cheeseburger and drinking vodka in a new motel in Wilmington within the hour. He turned the television set to an all-news cable channel, learning nothing new. When it was dark, he headed out on foot for the waterfront. It was always a good place to acquire things.

  Bear Gergen was enjoying a beer in a Wilmington bar when he found himself joined by two African-American gentlemen from Philadelphia. The larger man, wearing sunglasses despite the night, a black shirt, and the shiniest gray suit Gergen had ever seen, took the empty stool to his left. The smaller one, wearing some sort of Afro shirt, took the right, after first suggesting to its occupant he might have business elsewhere.

  Gergen had only just ordered a pitcher. They must have followed him to the bar, preferring to confront him in a place like this rather than going after him in the street or aboard his tug, where he’d have more advantage.

  “Where’s the shit?” said the larger one.

  “Which particular shit is that?” Gergen took a cold gulp of his beer, keeping his eyes from either of them.

  “The particular shit you promised to sell to us. That Mr. Diller paid you the motherfucking money for.”

  “I sent my cousin Leonard to tell you that the deal’s off.”

  “He never showed. We ain’t heard nothin’.”

  “Let me bring you up to date,” said Bear. “Someone ripped off my stash and I’ve had a visit from Customs and the Coast Guard. So it works out like this. No deal. Not with you, not with anyone. I’ve nothing to deal. I’m probably being tailed. You’re pretty fucking stupid to be sittin’ here with me.”

  Stupid or no, they were sufficiently armed. The smaller gentleman put something large and heavy to Gergen’s side and pushed hard. Bear could tell the caliber with his rib.

  “You’re the fucking stupid one,” said the one with the gun.

  Gergen couldn’t argue with that. If he’d been smart, he wouldn’t have been sitting here with his back to the door when they came in. He would have been out the back the second he saw them.

  “Look,” he said. “I’m going to take out my wallet here and show you a card. It’s a snitch card. The Coast Guard gave it to me. Here. You see?”

  The larger one took it gingerly, studied it a moment, then quickly handed it back, as though it were toxic.

  “Let’s go outside,” the man said.

  “No,” said Bear.

  “You want us to go outside and wait for you? Follow you home? Blow up your boat? Blow your fuckin’ head off when you’re asleep?”

  “Finish my beer,” said Bear, reaching for the pitcher.

  The smaller one attempted more rib surgery with the barrel of his automatic. Gergen refilled his glass and drank anyway.

  “Okay,” he said when he was done.

  He led the way out to the street. There was a big black Lincoln Navigator SUV parked just up the block with another African leaning against the side. Bear’s pickup truck was parked around the corner. He might be able to put the two from the bar out of commission long enough to get away, but not the backup guy by the Navigator.

  So he stood there, arms folded, waiting.

  “It’s like this,” said the smaller one, trying hard to get his face intimidatingly close to Bear’s, but failing. “You lifted a big load off that boat. Not just marijuana, but big-time shit. We know that. Everybody knows that.”

  “Everybody ought to know that the Feds got that. All we took were some marijuana bags. The other stuff was underwater.”

  “People think you got it,” the other man said. “They gonna come for you and maybe kill your ass, man. Mr. Diller’s offerin’ you your last chance to get rid of what you got—and more’n you’re gonna get anywhere else.”

  It really would have been easy to smash their two heads together right then. But there was a smarter way. There was always a smarter way.

  Gergen pushed his own face closer.

  “It’s not like that—‘man,’” he said cheerily. “It’s like this. I took a few bags of marijuana off that boat. Whatever else was aboard was underwater in the bilges where I couldn’t get to it. The Customs guys have it now. I fucking well don’t. The marijuana I stuck in an old half-sunk barge downriver from here and somebody ripped me off. So you and I got no business at any price. And it’s no bullshit, man. I’ve probably got Feds watchin’ everything I do—including standin’ here talkin’ to you.”

  The big pistol vanished. A finger jabbed toward Gergen’s eye, but for emphasis, not in attack. “We ain’t done, man.”

  “You’re right,” Gergen said. “I need to score a little.”

  “Say what?”

  “A little something for the nose.”

  The two looked at each other.

  “Whatever you can spare,” Gergen said. “I got a hundred bucks.”

  Another look between them, and then glances to the shadows up and down the street, where half the DEA might well be lurking. A car was coming along rapidly, its headlight bouncing with the ruts and bumps and potholes.

  They began walking away hurriedly. The man by the big SUV had the rear door open. Someone else had the motor running. It occurred to Gergen that their plans might now be to put a bullet in his brain in farewell.

  But they seemed to have lost all interest in this place—and for the time being, in him. Gergen watched them drive off, then returned to the bar. He ordered another pitcher, went to the john, then stopped at the pay phone, pulling the Coast Guard snitch card from his pocket.

  Agent Westman wasn’t there, but someone else answered. Gergen left a brief message about the gentlemen from Philadelphia, their vehicle and its license plate, what they might be carrying, and the direction in which they were headed. There was the chance this crew could be traveling clean, but Gergen didn’t think so. In any event, he’d warned them.

  Whatever happened, maybe now they’d stay away.

  He hung up the phone and turned to return to the bar. A man with a deep tan was standing in his way.

  “Evenin’,” said Bear, trying to step around him.

  The man didn’t budge. “Are you Gergen the tugboat captain?”

  Bear just stood there, trying to decide if he was in trouble again.

  “I want to talk to you,” Turko said.

  Chapter 18

  It was late at night when Westman turned into Cat McGrath’s sandy little street. He had no wish to disturb her, but took the chance that she might be awake. The gamble was with happy result. Her living room windows were aglow with light.

  He turned off his lights and killed the Cherokee’s engine. As he approached the house, he could hear the television set. He listened carefully. A strong male voice spoke urgently, then a woman began crying.

  Erik knocked, but there was no answer. He tried again, with no response. It was contrary to his sense of good manners, but he pushed open the door and stepped inside, drawn by the sounds of weeping.

  She was seated on the floor, cross-legged, staring raptly at her television screen. On it was a black-and-white videotape of an
aircraft carrier deck. A helicopter was hovering over the water just beyond.

  The screen went dark.

  “Is that the Kara Hultgreen mishap tape?” he asked.

  She said nothing, ignoring his presence, taking a drink of what looked to be whiskey, as the scene was repeated—an F-14 on the base leg of approach, then turning on final, coming head-on toward the carrier deck and the camera. A single trail of thin smoke came from the rear of the aircraft. The big jet was crabbed, canting over toward its port side. The strong male voice of the air controller spoke again: “Wave off! Wave off!” The plane kept coming. “Pow-er. Pow-er! POWER!”

  The aircraft veered left, away from the deck, and then began a slow roll over the sea. Just as it was turning belly-up, there were two nearly simultaneous flashes from the cockpit. Then the big jet plunged into the water, throwing up a huge curtain of spray.

  She rubbed at her right eye, then took another drink. “It’s mine. The official Navy videotape used by the board of inquiry and the evaluation board. But it could have been Kara’s. It could have. They’re almost exactly the same.”

  He didn’t understand. All that was clear to him was that she was crying. He put his hand on her shoulder. The muscles there tensed, but she put her own hand over his, her eyes still fixed on the television screen, where the tape repeated the sequence once again.

  At last the screen went blank. She leaned forward and turned off the set, then finished her drink and shakily got to her feet.

  “If it upsets you so much,” he said, “you shouldn’t watch it.”

  She wiped at her eyes again. “I’ve watched it a thousand times, only now, for the first time, I see it. The same thing happened to her that happened to me. I see that now.”

  “What was that?”

  “An engine stall induced by the aircraft’s altitude. The angle of the aircraft in that crab—it shut off the air from the port engine. I caused that stall, like they said. I caused the accident.” She took a deep breath. “I killed my weapons officer—my friend. I screwed up. Like Kara, I kept on flying. I wasn’t going to let them beat me. Wasn’t going to let anything beat me. I should have punched us out the instant I got a wave-off, but I kept on going. It was the wrong decision—the wrongest decision I could have made.”

  Westman could think of nothing to say—or do. Then she took a step forward and came into his arms and he held her close, her head against his shoulder, her blond hair soft against his cheek.

  “Even if what you say is true, it wouldn’t have happened if you’d had decent engines,” he said. “You can’t be blamed for a Pentagon foul-up.”

  “That doesn’t matter.” Her tears were wet against his neck.

  “You shouldn’t keep looking at that tape,” he said.

  “On that flight I took Burt on, we were replicating what happened to Burt when his engines went out—both on one side. The same thing as me, only he brought his plane back. He knew what he was doing. He knew what to do. I just kept flying. They were telling me, ‘Call the ball. Call the ball.’ But I was too far out of alignment to do that. Stupid. Stupid.”

  She was shivering. He held her closer still, and she began to cry in earnest, sobbing uncontrollably. Finally, the sound subsided.

  Cat lifted her eyes to his. “Can you stay a while?”

  “Yes. A while.”

  She turned away from him, going to the kitchen. She was wearing shorts and a T-shirt and her feet were bare. Her long blond hair was loose, falling to beneath her shoulders. “I’ll get you some wine.”

  He seated himself on her couch uneasily. He’d picked a very bad time for this intrusion.

  Cat returned with a glass of wine for him and another whiskey for herself. Sitting next to him, she handed him his glass.

  “I have to tell you something.” She looked down at her feet. They were uncommonly narrow and uncommonly pretty. “I had a bad time of it, in the Navy, at the end. There was a guy. He was on my boat. A flier. My flight commander. I liked him. He took my side in the mishap investigation. But …”

  Cat wiped her eye. He put his arm around her gently.

  “He figured there was something in it for him. He figured that was me.” She took a deep breath. “When I disagreed, he insisted. He was a big guy. It was horrible. The most horrible thing in my life, except for my losing that Tomcat.”

  Westman pulled her a little closer. She did not resist, but there was a stiffness to her.

  “I hit him with something. A book. The sharp corner of the cover. He was a lieutenant commander. I filed charges against him and I was charged with striking a superior officer. It was my word against his word. And so I got bounced from the service. And that’s why I’m here. I’m seeking a new hearing, and reinstatement, but it won’t be easy.”

  “They don’t like to admit mistakes.”

  She kept her eyes from him. “Erik. I can’t sleep with you. Not with any man. Not yet.”

  He stroked her cheek. There was nothing he needed to say.

  She moved closer. “But I think I’m getting a little fond of you. Don’t go away. Not just yet.”

  Seagulls awakened him. He had stayed the night, at her request, but spent it on her couch. Out the front window, there was the first light of morning.

  He washed up in her bathroom, careful to make little noise. He was about to slip out her front door when he heard her enter the living room behind him.

  “You weren’t going to say good-bye?”

  “I thought I’d let you sleep.”

  Cat seemed not quite awake. She gave him a fuzzy little smile. “Now I’m not so sad. I may even be happy.”

  “Then so am I.”

  “Coffee?”

  “I should go.”

  “Duty.”

  “My job.”

  “I have to ask you something.” She took a step closer. “This is embarrassing, but I feel I should know.”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you married?”

  Now he smiled. “No. Almost was, a couple of times.”

  “I won’t ask you what happened.”

  “The first time, I think I was too much in love with the sea and not enough with the idea of home and hearth.”

  “And the second?”

  “Simple enough. I was enlisted. She was an officer—with an excellent career track.”

  She had no answer to that. “I’m going to make you coffee.”

  He joined her in the kitchen, sitting at her table as he watched her at the stove.

  “Is that a German name, Westman?” she asked.

  “Icelandic.”

  “Icelandic?”

  “On my father’s side. My grandfather was from Iceland’s Westman Islands. They were created by volcanoes.”

  “The McGraths are from all over. Navy. I was born up the bay in Wilmington, where my mother was from.”

  “So you’ve come home.”

  “My home’s the Navy.” She set down two steaming cups.

  He sipped his. “Your bombs. They made me think of Palomares.”

  “Burt told me about that.”

  “It was a horrible mess.”

  “How did they find the bomb?”

  “The admiral in charge said it was like using a flashlight to look for a bullet in a Grand Canyon filled with mud and water. It took forever, but the submersible they used—a strange craft called ‘Alvin’—finally discovered the track the damned thing had made sliding down the slope to the sea bottom. They followed that to the bomb. It broke loose on them when they were bringing it up. But they found it again and got it up on a ship. I think the job took seventy-five days from start to finish.”

  “You seem to know a lot about it.”

  “I’m an admirer of Bob Ballard.”

  “The seagoing archeologist? Burt talks about him.”

  “The man who found the Titanic—and all sorts of other famous wrecks. I went to hear him speak once.”

  “Too bad we can’t hire him to find our bombs.”


  “It might interest him.”

  “No, it won’t. Not any of them. Not anyone.”

  “It interests me.” His cell phone rang. “Westman,” he said.

  “This is Bilecki at headquarters.”

  Westman looked at his watch. “Something up?”

  “You got a call from one of your snitches last night. He was tipping you to some Philadelphia drug dealers who he says may be connected to some drugs aboard a sailing yacht. This make sense to you?”

  “Yes. The snitch is a salvage-tug captain in Wilmington. He brought in the yacht.”

  “He gave us a description of these guys, make of car, license. Said they had gone to Philadelphia. I called the DEA.”

  “Good. I can’t do anything with it. I’m working the bridge bombing.”

  “They’re putting us all on that.”

  “Are you coming out here?”

  “No, we’re working the west side of the bay.”

  “Good luck—and thanks.” Westman clicked off the phone, then finished his coffee. “I should go now.”

  They both rose. She kissed him. “At least you’re not deploying to the Med.”

  “Just up and down the shore.”

  “I may see you out there.”

  “I’ll wave.”

  “Do more than that.”

  As he went down Cat’s front steps, Westman heard coughing from the house next door. Starting his engine, he heard it again as he drove away.

  Bear Gergen sat in the wheelhouse of his tug, waiting for his crew and hoping no one else would show up. He knew very well that Enrique Diller would not be as easily intimidated as the mopes the drug dealer had sent down to threaten him—especially since Diller was more interested in Bear’s imagined big marijuana haul than the trifling five thousand he was owed. Bear had spent the night aboard his vessel, sleeping with a .45 automatic at his side in the event Diller attempted further fellowship.

  Bear also had little desire for a reunion with his other visitor the previous night—a Greek guy who gave his name as Nick Skouros. He’d been polite, and very respectful, but he gave Bear the creeps. There was something about him that set off every wary instinct Bear possessed. The fact that he had come to see Bear about buying a gun didn’t help.