Again nothing.
Having no better idea, she commenced an aimless wandering of the area within the circle, discovering, of all things, another lawn chair.
Finally, she came back to the shoes. She began to cry, the salt from the tears irritating her eyes beneath her face mask. Unable to rub them clear, she began to curse.
Three tugs on the line was the signal for them to haul her back aboard. Cat moved closer to the boat to obtain sufficient slack. Her second step brought sharp pain. She looked down, turning both headlamp and handheld light on the cause.
There was a sizable length of old metal visible in the sand, clearly only a portion of a larger bulk that lay beneath. The metal was oddly corroded. Looking very close, she saw that it had grown a thin layer of metal fur. When she touched it, there was a stinging sensation. She yanked her hand back.
Cat had brought a long, plastic-handled fishing knife down with her. Taking it from its sheath, she knelt close to the strange, large metal object and began scraping sand away. She couldn’t tell which end of the thing she was moving toward, but she kept on. Within a few minutes, she’d exposed four or five feet more of metal, which she found smoother now. After another minute or so, the knife blade struck a sharp edge, perpendicular to the longer piece. Scraping at it, she exposed what appeared to be a flange. Cleaning off more, she realized she had come upon some sort of tail assembly.
Then she realized what it was. The most destructive weapon ever devised by man—contained in this simple metal tube.
She’d done her job. This was all she had needed to do. She could leave now. She wouldn’t ever have to go near this thing again. But there was one more task to deal with before she surfaced.
Scraping away more sand, she uncovered a bar that ran from one tail fin to another. Detaching the line from her belt, she tied one end tightly to the tail assembly. Pushing herself away, she removed her weight belt and let it fall to the sand. With a few kicks, she began to ascend. Cat was amazed how much light was gone from the sky when she reached the surface.
Joe Whalleys, with surprising strength, helped her up the ladder and onto the boat. Burt was watching her intently, a grin frozen on his face.
“Well?”
She grinned wearily. “It’s there.”
“You’re sure?”
“Damn sure. I touched it. I attached my lifeline to it.” She turned, looking to where the rope was tied to the aft winch. “Do you have a float of some kind?”
Amy stepped forward. “There’s an old mooring can below.”
“That’ll do splendidly.” Cat went aft and undid the knot, removing the line from the winch. She tied it strongly to the round metal float, which she then lowered over the side. It didn’t sink.
“Won’t that look suspicious?” Burt was observing from the rail.
“I doubt anyone’s going to notice it this far out. They won’t know what it’s for, even if they do. Anyway, the tide’s low. High tide, it’ll be below the surface.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“Damn straight I’m right.” Still in her gear, Cat sat down upon the deck, leaning wearily back against the rail. She felt now incapable of taking a single further step.
Burt’s grin broadened. “Less than a week.”
“What?”
“We’ve done it in less than a week. It’s a miracle.”
“You don’t think my superb piloting and navigation skills had anything to do with it?”
Burt went to the storage compartment and took out his pint bottle, this time with two plastic cups, which he set out on the control console and filled. Then he took out two bottles of Heineken from the cooler, giving Amy and Joe each one. When everyone had a drink in hand, he raised his cup to the sea.
Cat looked at him over the rim of her cup as she drank.
“It’s a miracle,” he said.
Chapter 22
They tied up in twilight. Lewes, strangely, was thronged now with summer tourists moving along the embankment, though Cat had no notion of where they might have come from. Perhaps they’d been reassured by the police reports claiming that nearly all the bombing suspects had been killed.
After turning off the Roberta June’s engine, she could hear the visitors’ laughter coming from the outdoor restaurants upriver. As they made fast the aft line, a couple of overweight men in T-shirts and baseball caps approached, asking if the boat would be taking out fishermen the next day.
“Sorry,” said Burt. “Not tomorrow. There are some good head boats up by the Savannah Street bridge, though.”
He shook his head after the two had gone. “Don’t know when I’m going fishing again.” He brightened. “You want to celebrate, Cat? A dinner at the Buttery?”
It was the finest restaurant in the town, comparable to what one might find in New York—with prices to match.
“All four of us?” asked Amy, stepping near Burt in assertive fashion.
“Hell, yes,” Burt said. “And it’s on me.”
“I need a long shower, after all that time in the wet suit,” Cat said. “I’ll meet you there—if you can get a table.”
“You all right, kid? You don’t look so happy.”
“I’m fine. Just a little beat. Let me freshen up and I’ll be Miss Congeniality again.”
She drove the Wrangler back to her house as fast as she dared, but for no good reason. There was no Grand Cherokee in her yard or on the street, and no note stuck in her door. Opening it, she looked through the mail that had been pushed through the slot, finding no note there either.
There was a letter, though, very official. Her heart leapt a little as she saw it was from the Navy. Her immediate fear was that the Federal Aviation Administration had tipped them to her misadventure involving theft of aircraft and multiple violations of flight regs. The admirals would be informing her that her request for a reinstatement hearing had been rejected out of hand.
She read the letter with great amazement. They were giving her a hearing.
Dropping the letter on the hall table, she went into her kitchen, dug out the home telephone number of her lawyer from a drawer full of various notes and scraps of paper, and hastily called him—overjoyed to find him home.
“I got a copy,” he said. “It looks good.”
“How’s that?” Cat asked. She was feeling a little dizzy.
“Your flight commander attacked another female Naval officer.”
“Anyone I know? A pilot?”
“No. She was a ship’s officer. It was a case of date rape, much like yours, only this time there were witnesses. He tried for an Article 15, but he’s going to get a court-martial. You may even be called as a witness.”
“Roger that.”
“We need to get together on your hearing. As soon as you can.”
Cat stared blankly through the window at the small pine tree in the backyard. A small bird burst from it, flying high.
“I need a couple of days.”
“Catherine. We need to call some witnesses ourselves. That woman who joined your squadron the same time you did. She’s a lieutenant commander now.”
“I’ll get you some names. But I’ve got to stay out here at least another day.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m helping a friend of my father’s with something. It’s important.”
“Okay. I guess. Catherine?”
“Yes?”
“You’ve not gotten into any trouble since your discharge?”
She decided on an oblique defense. “No one’s informed me of any officially.”
He paused. “Let’s keep it that way. And until this is over, no dates with Naval officers.”
“How about Coast Guard?”
“What?”
“A joke.”
“Not a laughing matter, Catherine.”
“One more thing. If we win, will I get to fly again?”
The lawyer hesitated. “That’s not the issue.”
“It is with me.”
/>
“This hearing is about your reinstatement in the Navy.”
“I think my flight commander’s the one who had me grounded for that mishap.”
“That mishap has been investigated and findings made. It’s not the issue here, Catherine.”
“Do you mean they won’t let me fly?”
“Let’s wait until we get you reinstated before we start worrying about that.”
“Okay.”
“If you can be in my office the day after tomorrow, that would be good.”
“Okay.”
After hanging up, she stood in the middle of the room for a long while, overwhelmed by her uncertainty. To her surprise, tears came into her eyes. She wiped them away and went upstairs, turning the shower as hot as she could stand it.
Utterly clean, she pulled on a pale-blue blouse and khaki skirt, slipped back into her Top-siders, and drove back to the river, stopping first at the Lighthouse Restaurant.
It was quite full, but there was no tanned, gray-haired Coast Guardsman to be seen. She stopped the cocktail waitress and asked after Erik, but he apparently had not been in.
Thanking the woman, Cat went back outside, crossing over the drawbridge and heading for the cheerful Victorian house that housed the Buttery Restaurant.
Westman was a complete stranger to the Wilmington police force, but they welcomed him to their headquarters as just another cop “on the job” when he showed them his ID. The lieutenant serving as watch commander this time was particularly friendly after Westman explained he was working on the bridge-bombing case. He was a dark-haired Irishman named Connelly, who said he’d been a military policeman in the Army. Always glad to help out the Coast Guard, he said.
Erik showed him the computer-generated image of Bertolucci. “This is our only suspect.”
Connelly examined the image carefully. “How come the FBI hasn’t put this out?”
“Wrong-headedness. They’re afraid the guy will flee the country if his picture was out.”
“May I make a copy?”
“You bet.”
Connelly gave it to a sergeant to take to the copier. “Mind if we scan it into the computer system?”
Westman thought on that. The immediate result would be the FBI’s learning that the picture had been disseminated—without authorization. The police lieutenant would have no choice but to tell the Bureau where he got it. Westman would be in big trouble.
He didn’t work for the Justice Department. He could probably count on Joan dePayse to run interference for him. As should please her, this had nothing to do with hydrogen bombs.
“Go ahead,” Westman said. “What’s worrisome is that the perp doesn’t seem to have left the area. The Bureau got his prints off a rental car he abandoned down in Ocean City, and a hour or so ago I was told that they made a match with some prints taken off a stolen car they recovered a few days ago in Philadelphia.”
He showed the lieutenant his computer printout on area auto thefts and the accompanying map.
“I think there’s a pattern here,” Westman said. “If this is the same guy, he’s been busy. He’s hasn’t fled the area and he hasn’t gone deep underground. My fear is that he’s up to something, and that he may not be alone.”
Connelly was scanning the list. “A couple of Wilmington cars in here.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
The lieutenant looked up. “Have a seat. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
Gergen had been expecting the late-night visit. He wasn’t certain if Enrique Diller himself was among the visitors, but he hoped so.
You could drive up to the section of dock where Gergen moored his tug, but you couldn’t drive by. Not close up, at any rate, because the parallel street was way back from the water. An intruder had to turn into a large yard, proceed down a lane invariably bordered by ship’s containers, conduct his business, and then make a sharp U-turn to effect his escape.
If Diller’s people had been smart, they would have sought a different time and place for an attack—say, when Bear was in a bar or down at the marine dock refueling his boat. They would have used sharpshooters’ rifles to make certain of a hit.
But these clowns were not smart. Like so many in the drug trade, they relied simply on firepower, indulging themselves with a big show. Gergen had done ambushes all over the world. These guys would be easy meat.
Ever since phoning in his tip on the goodwill ambassadors Diller had sent to join him in that bar, Bear had kept a lookout by the street at all times and, at night, stationed a second man among the containers near his tug. Everybody had a cell phone and an automatic pistol.
He could have used a couple more troops—including especially his cousin. Leonard had declined to help out that night, using the entirely plausible excuse that he was too stoned to walk straight, let alone drive his motorcycle all the way up from Ocean City.
Gergen’s cell phone rang at 9:47 P.M. He looked at his watch as he reached to answer it.
“It’s Roy,” said Creed, who was in the pickup truck. “Got a big black SUV comin’ your way fast. No lights.”
Bear grabbed his Glock and a boat whistle, which he blew on three times in quick succession. Then, still in his skivvies, he clambered topside and flung himself on the dock, taking cover behind some large coils of hawser line.
The vehicle made the turn too fast, skidding a little as it bumped onto the rougher pavement of the cargo yard. Straightening, it headed straight for the tug, its engine noise reverberating off the metal sides of the containers.
Gergen had instructed his men well. The first thing was to take out the driver. What followed could be considered mopping up.
Mickey Ambrose, the man he’d stationed by the containers, caught the driver with a head shot just as he was slowing to make his U-turn by the edge of the dock. One of the gunmen on the right side of the SUV was leaning out the window, preparing to rake the tug with automatic fire. Bear popped him with two body shots.
The big vehicle swerved, and for a moment Bear feared it was going to do a roll right off the dock and onto his boat, which hadn’t been part of his plan. Instead, it careened around in a circle and piled head-on into the container opposite. One of the Diller guys in the backseat was thrown forward. His head hit something and he snapped back, then stopped moving. The fourth and last clown made a break for it, pausing to fire off a quick burst in an aimless way at the tug, breaking some glass. Then he ran. Roy Creed picked him off from the truck.
Bear hurried to the SUV—a big Lincoln Navigator like the last one. The guy in the back was still alive. Gergen put a round in him and then he wasn’t.
“What do you want to do, Bear?” asked Ambrose.
Gergen thought, quickly, as he waited for Creed to come up.
“That last one dead?” Bear asked.
“Real dead.”
“We’ve got to get them out of here. Port security’s going to be here in a minute and the cops won’t be long after.”
Bear looked to the side of the man he had just shot. There was what looked to be a Mac-10 or an Uzi on the seat and two more and some extra clips on the floor. The man next to the driver had one of the weapons as well.
He turned to Ambrose. “Get all these weapons and get them aboard the tug. You know those body bags I stole from the Navy?”
These had come in handy. Some of the wrecks Gergen had salvaged had had corpses aboard.
“Yeah. They’re in the forward bin with the foul-weather gear.”
“Put the guns in one of ’em. Get a line around it. Tie it to the aft ladder and drop it overboard. Fast!”
He moved to follow orders without another word. Bear turned to Creed. “Put that stiff in here with the others and drive them the hell out of here. Fast. You know that abandoned wharf downriver? Past the refinery?”
“Sure.”
“How deep’s the water off that thing?”
“Fifteen feet at least.”
“I want this SUV on the bottom. Leave t
he windows open so it’ll sink fast and the fishes get a chance for some dinner.” He turned to his remaining crewman, Benny Adamouskas. “You follow him in the pickup truck. Don’t come back here until morning. Now move!”
Connelly had Westman sit next to him as he made a computer check for auto thefts in the Philadelphia-Wilmington-Camden area for that day. There were several, but nothing that fit Westman’s profile. Making statewide checks, he found something of interest in the New Jersey report and pointed to an entry on the screen.
“This might be something.”
Westman leaned close. “A Mitsubishi was recovered in Atlantic City.”
“Stolen from the Amtrak parking lot a day ago. But look at this.”
Two brand-new entries, both from Atlantic City. “They recovered two other stolen vehicles there?”
“No, sir,” said the lieutenant. “Two vehicles were stolen from there. Just an hour ago. Not long after they found that Mitsubishi.”
Westman squinted at the screen. Auto thefts were not his forte.
“A Dodge minivan and a Subaru Forester—taken within fifteen minutes of each other.”
“How far from the Mitsubishi?”
“Can’t be more’n a few blocks. AC isn’t that big.”
“If it is him, he’s moved to New Jersey.”
“And he has friends now. At least one. Can’t drive both cars at once.”
Westman leaned back. “What’s in South Jersey? Aside from the other end of the Delaware Memorial Bridge.”
“A lot of chemical plants. A couple of nuclear power plants. And Atlantic City.”
“Those casinos are more secure than the White House.”
“Maybe the Boardwalk.” Connelly shrugged. “Maybe these auto heists have nothing to do with your Mr. Bertolucci.”
A uniformed officer stuck his head through the doorway. “Excuse me, Lieutenant. We got a report of shots fired down at the wharf.”
Connelly grinned. “Second time this week.”
“Not just a couple, Lieutenant. Many shots.”
“Are you okay, Cat? You having problems from the water pressure?”
Deepkill Page 22
