Circling around behind the van, he snapped open the passenger-side door, sticking the barrel of his pistol into Pec’s neck.
“Get out.”
Pec hesitated, then did as instructed. Turko slid open the rear door with his left hand, then used the gun to urge Pec into the rear seat, and then to the far side of it. Keeping the pistol aimed at the other’s chest, he climbed in afterward, pulling the door shut and locking it.
“They will be coming back,” Pec said.
“Yes. But not right away. When they discover my car is empty, they will take cover, not knowing where I am. Then they will go looking for me. It will be several minutes before they realize I’m not there.”
Pec glanced away, down the road. “What do you want?”
“Simply to talk to you—without being killed.”
“Be quick.”
“I have something very important to offer you.”
“And what can that be? You have managed to accomplish nothing important. Your photograph is being shown on television. The explosion on the bridge caused no real harm and the nuclear power plant attack was a failure. Things have gone very badly, and it is all your fault.”
“That doesn’t matter. What I have to offer would make even my success irrelevant.”
“Out with it. I don’t like being teased.”
“I have a nuclear bomb.”
Pec’s head snapped around. He studied Turko’s face as best he could in the darkness. “This is the first joke I have ever heard you make, Turko.”
“It is not a joke.” He related Gergen’s story and proposition.
“Do you believe this man?”
“Yes. He showed me a photograph of this bomb. It can be nothing else.”
“There are police—federal investigators—everywhere here. How could someone hide anything so big as that?”
“It will fit on a truck,” Turko said. “Or on a boat. What you want is what’s inside. The plutonium core. You possess that plutonium, and the uranium that’s also inside, and the world is yours. Our failures here—my failures—will be forgotten. They will honor you. Reward you.”
“He asks a price?”
“A million dollars.”
Pec swore in his native language. “You know that is impossible. It is crazy.”
“Yes, but …”
“How can you trust a man who is so foolish that he thinks we can produce one million dollars in American money by tomorrow noon?”
“I don’t trust him. But I believe his claim that he has this bomb. He pretends to be a simple salvage operator. He is a professional criminal. He would not dare lie or cheat about this. He knows it would mean his life.”
“I must see this bomb before we talk about money.”
“He wants it the other way around.”
“No. We do it my way. We will look at this bomb and then decide.”
They sat silently. Pec’s men were approaching the van. Another of them suddenly appeared at the window next to Turko, an automatic weapon pressed against the glass—aimed at the center of Turko’s head. Were he to fire, Turko would die instantly, but Pec might be killed as well. Turko pretended to ignore him.
“You don’t mean to pay him anything for this, do you?” Turko said.
“That I decide later,” Pec said. “I want to see this bomb.”
“We are to meet him tomorrow. At noon. He gave me an address. In Ocean City.”
“Ocean City? Can that be safe for us now?”
“It’s where the bomb is.”
Pec thought. “You have an address?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then. We go now.”
“Now?”
“Now. To Ocean City. Now.”
Leon Kelly responded to Westman’s request within fifteen minutes. “Got Gergen’s military 201 file,” the FBI agent said. “And the VICAP database has entries from Customs and you guys as well.”
“What connections does he have in Ocean City, Maryland?” Westman asked.
“Stand by,” Kelly said. “I’m on my laptop. We’ve got all his associates listed here.”
Westman waited. They were back at the motel. Burt had gone out, leaving no explanation. Cat was lying on the plastic-covered couch, gazing up at the ceiling.
“One of his crew is from there,” Kelly said. “Used to live there anyway. Wait a minute.” Westman could hear the clicking of keys. “Here’s another guy. Leonard Ruger. Cousin. Operates a boat rental—pontoon boats, runabouts, personal watercraft. Dope dealer on the side. Local narcs and the DEA have left him alone because Gergen is on so many snitch lists.”
“Can you give me the address of the boat rental?”
“You bet.” The FBI man consulted his computer again and then gave Westman a location at the southern end of Ocean City—where the Intracoastal channel ran close to the shore.
“Thank you, Leon,” Westman said. “It’s exactly what I was looking for.”
“You need an assist?”
“Is Payne about to help me?”
“If you got a line on the terrorists.”
“Got to be straight with you, Leon. This has to do with the missing hydrogen bomb.”
“I bring that up with Payne again and I’m going to be reassigned to our Des Moines office.”
“Thought as much. Maybe I can still get some help from my guys.”
“Find me a terrorist link. I’ll pass it on to headquarters and maybe we can work up another joint task force.”
“If there’s a terrorist link to this bomb, then we may be too late.”
“Call me back.” Kelly killed his phone.
Cat stretched out her legs and turned her head toward Westman. “Any luck?”
“Yes. An address. South end of Ocean City.”
She sat up, rubbing her left elbow. “You and me—we take this on all by ourselves?”
“I just want to determine that the bomb is there. Once we’ve identified it, maybe we’ll get reinforcements.”
“We should wait for Burt.”
“Why?”
“To bring the truck.”
“If we get help, we won’t need it.”
“Erik, we’re going to need everything we can lay our hands on—with or without your ‘reinforcements.’”
Westman’s cell phone began to ring.
Dewey went out on the bridge wing, holding his phone tightly close to his ear. They were moving at top speed down Delaware Bay’s main channel, between Joe Flogger and Miah Maull Shoals—forty feet of water beneath them but only thirteen feet to the port side and twenty-one feet to starboard.
“Erik,” he said. “We got a break. I’ve been authorized to run a patrol down the shore. They said to the Delaware state line, but I can extend the area if there’s anything suspicious.”
“Can you come down as far as the OC Inlet?”
Dewey considered this. “Did you find your bomb?”
“I think so, but I haven’t confirmed it. You willing to take a chance on me? With Admiral dePayse breathing so much fire, that could be taking quite a chance.”
“As a matter of fact, there’s a district-wide order for your apprehension and transport to headquarters in Washington,” Dewey said.
“That’s not where I want to be.”
“Who does?” Dewey looked to the water outside. “I’m not sure how much latitude I have. Can you rendezvous? Where?”
“If you could proceed to the inlet, I’ll call you with an exact location. Soon as I determine it.”
“All right. Will do. Good luck.”
“You too.” Westman clicked off. When they went out to the Wrangler, they found Burt waiting for them—sitting on the back of the flatbed truck and eating a cheeseburger.
“Where have you been?” Cat asked.
Gergen took care to keep to Delaware’s fifty-mile-an-hour speed limit, well aware of the penchant of the local police in the high tourist season for ticketing motorists driving one mile an hour above it.
Conversations with state troopers were not high on Gergen’s list of personal desires at the moment.
“You think Skouras is following us?” Creed asked.
“You tell me. I’m driving.”
Creed looked back through the rear window. Their other two crew members were lying down in the back of the truck. They had automatic weapons hidden beneath a tarpaulin between them.
“Can’t tell.”
“Doesn’t matter. I gave him Leonard’s address for the meet tomorrow,” Bear said.
“You must trust the son of a bitch pretty good.”
“Trust a river rat more. But with you three guys and Leonard, we should be able to handle him and his friends.”
“We don’t know how many friends he’s got.”
“I was in the SEALs, remember? Don’t sweat it.”
“You think the rag-heads can come up with the money this quick?”
“Probably not. But their appetite will be whetted. I think we’ll get a good chunk of change.”
“Wetted?”
“Never mind. We’ll be talking with these people. Right now, I want to get down to Leonard’s.”
Westman drove Cat’s Wrangler, letting Cat rest in the front passenger seat. Burt was following in the flatbed truck about a block behind.
Cat tilted her head back and looked out the side, where a few stars were visible above the horizon despite the haze and ground light.
“Did I ever tell you I was the best pilot in my squadron?” she said.
“I’ve no doubt.”
“I’m serious. Do you know about ‘greenie boards’?”
“Not in the Coast Guard lexicon.”
“Every trap—every landing—on a carrier is observed, evaluated, and graded, with the data fed permanently into a computer and the grades posted on a board they call the ‘greenie board.’ The best landings get a green. Average landings get a yellow. Below-average landings get a white. Bad traps can get you a ‘down’—and too many ‘downs’ can get you grounded. Two of my traps were yellows, but all the rest were greens. I was ahead of everybody. There were better pilots than I was—than I am—especially at combat tactics. But nobody could land a Tomcat as well as I could. Some jerk started a rumor that I had to be shacking up with the squadron commander or the air boss to get such good grades, but that was crap. I nailed the landings. Nearly every one.”
“Too many jerks get into the military. There are times when I wonder if they don’t go out and deliberately recruit them.”
She turned to look behind them. Reassured, though Westman could not tell why, she looked to the front again.
“I was just now thinking how far I’ve fallen since I was the best on the ‘greenie board,’” she continued. “I mean, look at me. But it’s all my own fault. When I was making that bad landing—when I made that sloppy turn onto final and caused that compressor stall trying to get back in the groove—all I could think of was what they’d put on the ‘greenie board.’ And when I lost it, when I was headed straight for a ramp strike, I just wouldn’t let go. I wouldn’t let myself punch out and put that big wonderful airplane into the water. It wasn’t just the ‘down.’ I knew they’d go after me then. They’d run me off the ship. So I just kept trying to reach the deck.”
He took her hand and held it tightly, letting go only to downshift as they came to a red light. “You have more courage than I could ever imagine finding in myself.”
“That’s nonsense, Erik. If you didn’t have guts, you wouldn’t be here. And if I thought you were a candy-ass, I wouldn’t be here.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
She reached into the gym bag on the floorboard in front of her, taking out one of the pistols and checking its load. “You ever kill anyone, Viking man?”
He thought of La Perla, of a night when he and Joan dePayse were firing handguns from behind great black chunks of rock, of the sparks their enemy’s bullets made as they struck around them, of the look of a human body as the blood drained out of it.
“Yes,” he said.
“I’m not sure I did. That Iraqi radar site. I still don’t know if I hit anyone.”
“That’s something you probably don’t want to know.”
She sighed. “And now there’s tonight.”
Gergen went two blocks past the street leading to Leonard’s dock, made a left, headed north again, then headed for the boat-rental facility from the east.
He slammed on his brakes just shy of the place.
Creed’s head hit the sun visor. “What the fuck’s wrong?”
“Another one of those big black Lincoln Navigators. Diller must buy them by the fleet.”
Creed squinted. “You think they’re a reception committee?”
“If they were making a hit, they wouldn’t be parked out in the open like that. You can’t be that stupid and run a drug ring.”
“So what are they doin’ there?”
“Maybe just looking around.” Bear shoved the truck into gear and made a U-turn, retreating up the street and parking in the shadows. “We’ll just wait.”
They did so, for more than ten minutes.
“They’re sure taking a long time lookin’ around,” Creed said.
“No, they’re moving out now. Get down.”
There was a flare of headlights. Three headlights. Pressing back against the door, Gergen watched through the rear window as a motorcycle, followed by the black SUV, turned from the side street onto Philadelphia Avenue, heading south.
“They’re going to Leonard’s house,” he said.
“How can you tell?”
“That was Leonard on that Harley.”
“Expensive-lookin’ machine.”
“Top of the line, Roy. Cousin Leonard must have won the lottery.”
After proceeding down the length of the Delaware shore to Ocean City at flank speed, Dewey ordered the Manteo slowed as the town’s amusement pier came into view. Just beyond it was the tower that marked the southern end of the peninsula.
Despite the late hour and lack of tourists, there was abundant traffic and lights shining from buildings. It was the most improbable hiding place for a two-thousand-pound nuclear weapon Dewey could imagine.
He called Westman on his cell phone—the third time he had done so in the last fifteen minutes. This time, there was an answer.
“Westman.” The CGIS man’s voice was almost a whisper.
“Did you find it?” Dewey asked.
“Pretty sure. I think it may be stored on a pontoon boat over on the bay side.”
“What is your location?”
“The municipal parking lot next to the tower.”
“How many subjects are we dealing with?”
“Unknown.”
“And how many are you?”
“Three.”
“You mean the blond and the old man?”
“Both ex-military.”
“I read you. Have you tried the Ocean City Coast Guard station? They’re by the Highway 50 bridge.”
“I tried them by phone. They have orders to apprehend me. All the stations do.”
“Me too,” said Dewey.
“You do what you think best, Tim.”
“I’ve got to follow orders—even if this is only dePayse taking things out on you. But maybe there’s a way. I’m going to heave to off the mouth of the inlet and come in by inflatable. I have an M-60 on the gun mount and we’ll bring the .50-caliber rifle. This needn’t have anything to do with you.”
“This could be tricky.”
“We’ve got to deal with it.”
“If you don’t take me in, you could lose yourself a command. Maybe more.”
“I’ll see if I can work something out.”
“How many will you be?”
Dewey looked about the bridge. “Four.”
“We’ll be waiting for you.”
“Do my best.” Dewey clicked off, turning toward DeGroot. “You want to join me in a shore party?”
“
You’re asking for volunteers?”
“I’m not sure this little operation is authorized.”
“I’m with you.”
“Pick two good men.”
“Dourai and Lamia.”
Machinist Mate Aboud Dourai was a Lebanese-American and an Arabic speaker, a skill that might prove useful. Petty Officer Third Valerie Lamia was only in her third year with the Coast Guard, but, like Dourai, one of the best aboard the Manteo.
“Okay. Get some side arms from the arms locker and join me on the foredeck. We’re taking the fast inflatable.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.” DeGroot’s formality was intended as a compliment.
Dewey picked up the cutter’s intercom mike. “Lieutenant Kelleter, lay to on the quarter deck.”
A moment later, the other officer burst onto the bridge. “Tim?”
“I’m taking a party ashore. I want you to take command of the Manteo until we get back. Stay on station here at the entrance to the inlet. Prepare to come to our assistance if called. I’m taking one of the handheld radios. We’ll be in constant communication.”
“Yes, sir. How long will you be ashore?”
“I wish I knew.”
Chapter 32
Westman parked the Wrangler in a largely deserted lot three blocks from the address Leon Kelly had given him. Schilling pulled the flatbed up beside him.
“This is it?” Schilling asked.
Westman shook his head. “It’s on the bay. We should walk there.” Schilling looked somewhat wobbly. “Can you manage?”
The old pilot took a swig from his pint bottle of whiskey. “I’ll keep up.”
Westman led them across to the bay shore, then along the docks and the forest of masts and bridge canopies.
The boat rental was where Kelly had said—among several others along this stretch of shoreline at a dock Westman and Cat had passed by in the morning. A half-dozen personal watercraft were tied up in the shallow water, and there were two pontoon boats at the end of the short dock. The one farthest out was riding low in the water.
“Burt,” Westman said. “You stay here as lookout.”
Schilling nodded.
Cat had brought her pistol. “Will you back me up?” Westman asked.
“That’s why I’m here.”
Deepkill Page 32
