Deepkill

by Michael Kilian

  “We had a deal,” he said, punctuating the sentence with a belch.

  “Not exactly true,” Burt said. “You quoted me a price and I said it sounded okay. That was all. I didn’t sign anything.”

  “A man’s word. You were in the service. An officer and a gentleman, right? Just like me. You gave me your fucking word. The word was ‘okay.’ I turned down another job to take yours.”

  He looked around the deck of the Roberta June, as if to see if Burt had any weapons about. Amy was watching him like a cat.

  “I said the price was okay,” Burt said. “But now I don’t need you.”

  “You’re gonna do it yourself?”

  “I have friends.”

  Another look to Cat. “I see.”

  Burt drained his glass. “Look, pal. It’s nice of you to stop by, but I’ve got some stuff to do. So drink up, all right?”

  Gergen took another large swallow of the whiskey, but left some in the cup, and didn’t budge from the spot where he stood. “What is it you’re looking for down there again?”

  “I told you. Military relics.”

  “Yeah, but you never said just what they were. Just that they were big and heavy.”

  “Parts of an airplane I used to fly.”

  “You’d go through all this trouble to drag up some old airplane parts?”

  “Historic value.”

  “Yeah, right. Come on, what’s down there?”

  “It’s not a big deal, okay?”

  “If it isn’t a big deal, how come you talked to me about hiring my rig?”

  “It was a mistake. I’m sorry.”

  “I need the work, Mr. Schilling. I can find whatever you’re looking for. Find it fast. Give me a shot at it. You can take out a loan on your boat.”

  “No. I don’t want to do that. Forget it. Now finish your drink.”

  “Tell you what. I’ll do it contingent. For a cut of whatever you get. Your ‘military relics’ got to be worth some money, right? Or you wouldn’t be doing this. What is it? A whole airplane? Something you can sell to a museum? Maybe some rich collector?”

  Burt was feeling woozy again. He hoped he wasn’t showing that. He didn’t want to show this man any sense of weakness—or sign of age.

  “They’re bombs. They’re not worth anything. Nobody wants them but me. And the Air Force.”

  “Bombs?”

  “Very old bombs. Like fifty years old. I had to drop ’em in the water on a flight once when I was in the Air Force and now I want to get them out.”

  “What’s in them?”

  “High explosive,” Burt said. “That’s why I didn’t tell you before. I was afraid you wouldn’t take the job. But now there is no job. If I find them, I can get the Air Force to handle it.”

  Gergen stared at him, a measuring look in his eyes. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Okay, pal. Enough’s enough. Get off my boat now.”

  The bearded man’s face twitched. He went to the bottle, refilled his cup, then poured the contents down his gullet in a few quick swallows. He belched again, wiped his mouth, and set the cup down.

  “Thanks,” he said, advancing to the rail. He stopped. “Sorry I got you at a bad time. But I still think we can do some business.”

  Amy came to Burt’s side as he stood at the rail, watching the big man climb aboard his tug.

  “Burt,” she said. “I think you oughta call the cops.”

  “I don’t need any cops.”

  Gergen went directly to his wheelhouse, swearing quietly. When his crew had cast off the tie-up lines, he spun the wheel to port and pushed forward the throttle, trying to calculate how much fuel he’d wasted on this trip. He’d forgotten all about the alleged Skouras, who stepped into the wheelhouse beside him.

  “What did you want with those fishermen?”

  Bear was not about to broach the subject of bombs with this guy. “We talked about a salvage job.”

  “You seem angry.”

  “He decided not to hire me.”

  “I’ll hire you, if you’ll get me some C-4.”

  “No, thanks, Mr. Skouras. Just find a seat somewhere and relax. We’re going back to Wilmington.”

  Bear wondered if he should drop a dime on the man the way he had Diller’s mopes. Watching Skouras make his way aft, he decided not to. He obviously wasn’t attempting his Philadelphia “heist” alone. Bear doubted this guy had friends. But he undoubtedly had associates.

  Westman called Special Agent Kelly three times during the day, each time having the same conversation. There were no new developments. They had picked up a photo of the suspect from the New Jersey motor vehicle department, but FBI headquarters in Washington was refusing to release it—supposedly on orders from Justice. Same thinking. It was feared he’d go to ground if they did.

  Erik was sure the man had already gone to ground, but said nothing further on the subject.

  He got the call he’d been expecting just as the Manteo was clearing the Cape May inlet and entering the harbor. It was the admiral’s secretary.

  “You’re to report here at Buzzard’s Point ASAP.”

  “No matter how late?”

  “Better not be late, Mr. Westman.”

  Chapter 19

  Cat had fallen asleep waiting for Westman to call. Awakening in the near dark, she listened as though she thought she heard the phone ringing, but it was her groggy imagination. She had an impulse to phone him, but she fought it.

  She’d thought long and hard about him. She’d had too many hasty relationships in the service, and here she was on the brink of another one, ignoring everything she supposedly had learned. Erik Westman was miles nicer than any of the macho carrier jocks she’d dated in the Navy, but she knew too little about him. Chiefest among his many mysteries was why a man with his background and education would have joined the Coast Guard as an enlisted man. Becoming a Naval officer like her father and uncle had meant everything to her.

  The light of the day was almost gone. Feeling painfully lonely now, and wanting to talk to Burt about what he intended to do the next day, she went next door, surprised to find his house dark. There was no response to her knock or her calling out his name.

  More than loneliness now, she felt a crushing sense of defeat. Westman, for whatever reason, had not called. Burt was probably off getting drunk somewhere, screwing up the end of his life much as he had the middle of it. Despite Westman’s intercession, she was likely to get keelhauled by the FAA for her aerial reenactment the other morning. In which case she could forget about the flying job in Iowa and any hopes of reinstatement in the Navy.

  It occurred to her that perhaps she should go back to the Caribbean, where she might be able to fly with a foreign certificate and get some kind of island-hopping job—maybe flying seaplanes. She might even like that.

  She looked to her house, and then to the sea across the dune. Finally, she decided on a visit to the Lighthouse bar.

  It was a pleasant walk, and a beautiful evening, but neither improved her mood. Two Johnnie Walker Reds were no help either. She nursed the last one, taking it out onto the deck by the river. Finishing the drink, she walked down the shore to the Roberta June’s mooring.

  There were no lights. The gangplank had been pulled aboard, but it was a short hop from the dock to the deck.

  She placed her hand on the boat’s rail, and leapt, landing with a too loud thud. But if he was here at this hour, Burt was more likely to be passed out than simply asleep, and doubtless hadn’t noticed.

  Cat moved forward. The door to the main cabin was open, not locked as it would have been were Burt off the boat. She stepped inside. His sleeping cabin was down below. It was very dark, so she moved slowly, descending one careful step after another.

  She heard the sound of snoring, and moved toward it. Pushing open the cabin door, she could see from the dim light through the porthole that the bunk was occupied.

  “Burt?” she said, loudly enough to satisfy her conscience.
She could tell herself she’d tried to wake him. “Burt, it’s Cat.”

  She saw a head come up. The silhouette was all wrong.

  “He’s asleep,” whispered a woman.

  The voice was Amy’s.

  Cat didn’t know what to say. She started to back away, but then there was another stirring, and Burt lifted his head.

  “Who’s there?” he asked.

  “It’s me, Burt. Cat. I was wondering if you were going out tomorrow. To take a closer look at that bomb.”

  This seemed to take him by surprise. “Sure. We need to get some scuba gear. The marine yard’s got some. Do you want to go?”

  Cat hesitated. “Yes.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. Sorry to have disturbed you.” Without another word, she clambered back up the stairs, paused a moment on the deck, then put hand to rail again and jumped back to shore.

  Bear Gergen sat in his pickup truck, sipping from a can of beer and keeping observant. The lights on the head boat moored on the other side of the parking lot had gone out long before, but the old bastard who owned it hadn’t yet reappeared. Gergen’s intention was to follow the man home, and continue their earlier conversation. He didn’t want to go aboard the boat again. You were always at a disadvantage going onto another man’s vessel. This guy was former military and had been on the water a long time. Gergen hadn’t the slightest doubt he had a gun or two aboard the Roberta June. Schilling would know where they were, and Gergen wouldn’t.

  Schilling’s little female first mate, or whatever that small, dark-haired witch was, had been aboard all day and still hadn’t come off. Maybe she slept there now. But why? To guard something?

  Now things got even curiouser. The tall blond woman he’d seen on Schilling’s boat suddenly appeared from the shadows, stood by the boat’s rail a moment, then vaulted over it onto the deck. No light came on. Within five minutes, she reappeared, hopped the rail again, and started walking across the parking lot, coming obliquely toward Gergen’s truck.

  He leaned to the left as much as he could to reduce his silhouette. She passed by, absorbed by her own thoughts, and didn’t glance his way once. Reaching the street, she turned up it, on foot. A fine-looking woman. Much too classy to be hanging out with an old derelict like that.

  Schilling lived in that direction, over by the beach. Was she headed there? Did she know what was going on? It could be as interesting talking to her as talking to Schilling—and maybe more productive. She wouldn’t be packing a piece.

  She had left by way of the paved road that led to the bay. Gergen struck out in an obliquely different direction, cutting across a field of marshy grass. He reached Schilling’s house well ahead of her, and found himself a hiding place in the darkness between it and one adjoining.

  He’d wait until she was inside, depriving her of a means of retreat.

  It was fairly noisy on this street. There was a party going on in one of the houses up the block, and a television set was playing loudly in one nearer. Whoever it was had a Bruce Willis movie on.

  The television had distracted him—always a mistake. The blond had turned in one house short of Schilling’s and was already at the door. Gergen started to move toward her when he saw the bouncing light of headlights coming down the sandy street. It was a large car with a smooth engine, a Jeep Grand Cherokee.

  Pressing back into the bushes, Bear waited for it to pass, but it didn’t. Instead, it slowed and turned up onto the patchy lawn of the woman’s house. She stood at the door, taking a step forward as a man got out of the Cherokee. Gergen didn’t recognize him until he came up to her and the yellow glow of the porch light. It was the Coast Guard detective.

  They embraced, taking forever to go inside. When the door finally closed behind them, Bear took off running.

  “I can’t stay,” Westman said. “I have to go back to Washington.”

  “Orders?”

  “A request. They want me to report in person—on the bridge investigation.”

  “Sounds like an order to me.”

  “It didn’t come through my director.”

  She moved farther down the hall, turning on a light. “You have to make this report tonight?”

  “0700 hours. At Buzzard’s Point. The Homeland Security Secretary will be there. The top boss.”

  “Like me going before the Secretary of Defense.”

  “Not so scary as that.”

  She proceeded to the kitchen, turning on that light. “Would you like a drink?”

  “Shouldn’t.”

  “Are you on duty?”

  “No, but it’s a long drive.”

  “A glass of wine won’t hurt. I’d appreciate your company for a bit. I’m going down tomorrow.”

  “Down?”

  “We found what could be the bomb. I’m going to take a look at it in scuba gear.”

  “Why you?”

  “Burt certainly can’t do it. I’ve dived all over the Caribbean. Went to the brink of the Cayman Trench.”

  “How deep is this thing?”

  “Not so deep. Twenty or thirty feet. I used to do that in snorkel gear at Grand Cayman—a shipwreck there, right off Cactus Jack’s bar outside of Georgetown. What bothers me is what I’m going to find.”

  She took a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator, pouring two glasses.

  “You shouldn’t be doing this yourselves,” he said. “You should leave it to the military.”

  “We’ve got to make sure what we’ve got down there first. It won’t do the program much good if they dismiss Burt as a nutcase because all that comes to hand is an old ship container or something.”

  “And if it’s more than that?”

  “Then Burt can go to the Air Force.”

  “I’d be happy to talk to someone about it while I’m in Washington. It’s our jurisdiction, after all.”

  She sipped her wine, then shook her head. “It’s Burt’s show.” She sighed. “I’m just helping him.”

  “Don’t get yourself in any more trouble.”

  She smiled. “And don’t you get yourself in trouble on my account.”

  Westman stayed only a few minutes more, but left her in a much-improved mood.

  Turko had too little time now to be particular—which was to say, to be overly cautious—about his source of explosive. If they’d been allowed to bring their own in, everything would have been much easier. Certainly the Canadian border was no great problem.

  But that would have violated Pec’s very firm rule. All the weapons to be used against the United States had to come from inside the United States. Knife, gun, or bomb. And Pec would be wanting to know about his preparations very soon. He likely had someone watching Turko’s every move.

  Homer had only three customers in his filthy, waterfront bar—a drunk who lay snoring over a tabletop and an elderly couple nearly as inebriated but still wakeful, seated on stools pulled close together as they made amorous noises.

  Turko moved down to the other end of the bar, ordering a vodka on ice.

  “How’d you make out?” said Homer as he set down the drink.

  “Not so good.”

  “Didn’t have a piece? He’s got a trunk full.”

  “I need more than that.”

  “More guns?”

  “Yes. Automatic weapons. And explosive. C-4. Got to have that. You know someone else?”

  Homer paused. Turko took a hundred-dollar bill and put it atop the bar.

  “How many automatic weapons?”

  “Four.”

  “How much C-4?”

  Turko thought on this. “Two pounds.”

  “Okay. I know someone.”

  “I need it tomorrow,” Turko said.

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “You got a lot of money?”

  “Enough.”

  Homer pursed his blotchy, slightly mangled lips—souvenirs from dock fights in his previous life as a longshoreman, then nodded, waddling down the
bar and going over to a pay phone in the corner. A rat that had apparently been loitering there darted across the room.

  Turko was amused. He had read in the American papers how the Justice Department and the FBI were turning away from dealing with ordinary crime to undertake their important new antiterrorism mission. Here he was using a very ordinary criminal.

  The bartender returned at the same slow speed. “Twenty grand.”

  “Grand?”

  “Thousand.”

  “Very well.”

  “You don’t want to haggle?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. I’ll call them back and set it up.”

  Turko took a large swallow of his vodka. He wanted to get out of the place. “Where shall I go?”

  “Come back here. Maybe a little before noon.”

  “And the material?”

  “I’ll have it out back.”

  Turko drove down Highway 1 all the way to Dover before pulling off into a gas station to make his call. The phone was answered by someone with a strange Middle Eastern accent.

  Turko identified himself, then said, “I’m ready. Meet me tomorrow at the Dover Slots. Next to the racetrack. At Dover. Tomorrow. Two o’clock. Just inside the entrance.”

  “How will you know us?”

  “I’ll know you.”

  He hung up, then made another call—to the special number.

  Chapter 20

  Because of delays getting back across the Bay Bridge, Westman did not reach his Old Town Alexandria town house until well after midnight, and managed less than six hours’ sleep before rising to prepare for his ordeal with officialdom.

  To be summoned before a cabinet secretary to report on a criminal investigation was extraordinary. Admiral dePayse was the highest rank he’d ever had to deal with so directly, and that was a hell of a different circumstance.

  He’d been asked to wear his dress uniform. It was still in the plastic bag from the cleaners, having not been worn for more than a year. He could not recall what that occasion had been.

  Upon arriving, Westman was relieved to discover he would not be the star of this little show. Waiting outside the Buzzard’s Point conference room were two officials from Coast Guard intelligence, a man from Customs, another from Immigration, and two investigators from the Transportation Security Agency, though to Westman’s knowledge, no public conveyance had been involved in the bridge incident.