Killing Chase

by Ben Muse

  “I could come up with a reason to cancel this weekend’s trip if that would be helpful,” she suggested.

  “No, this weekend’s trip should go as scheduled. We don’t want to spook Mr. Durov,” Jenna said.

  “Bailey, what do you know about this new feature that Mr. Durov’s yacht is getting, that the Anchor Management already has?” I asked.” Believe it or not, I only know what you know, and I’m the one being tasked to run this damn company. Hank is keeping it secret because he’s worried about the idea leaking out to our competitors. We’re supposed to find out tomorrow evening.”

  “Right, the big reveal. This feature could be important in determining what Sergei is planning,” I said.

  “I still find it hard to believe Sergei Durov is capable of harming anyone. He’s always been so gracious to us,” she said.

  “Not everything is always as it seems, Bailey. You of all people know this.”

  Chapter 35

  Tuesday, March 27, 2012

  A cold, biting wind cut through the rows of stacked container boxes. Overhead, a cloudless black sky served as the canvas for a million shining stars, along with a waxing crescent moon that provided little light for the two Beaumont deckhands. They preferred it to be as dark as possible for this mission anyway. One acted as a lookout while the stronger of the two opened the dark-blue container and removed the octagon-shaped canister. After locking the container, the man lifted the heavy canister, carried it fifty feet to the starboard railing, and tossed it thirty feet below into the dark waters of the Atlantic Ocean.

  The larger man left immediately to continue with his shift work while the smaller man remained and smoked a cigarette before returning to his small, two-man stateroom. There, he booted up his Macbook Pro and sent a two-word email message to an address he’d committed to memory: Good morning.

  ***

  Two hours after its plunge, long after the Beaumont’s wake had cleared, the canister continued on its journey west, although at a much slower speed. Easterly winds on the ocean surface generated three-foot waves, and the canister rode their crests then slid gently down into their troughs, time after time. Around daybreak, as a pinkish-orange glow began to paint the eastern horizon, two dark, futuristic-looking metallic arms pierced the surface of the water near the bobbing canister, followed by a small waterproof tube. The arms moved carefully toward the canister until one was able to wrap its mechanical claw around one of the rubber handles and lift the canister just above the water. The other claw moved in, easily caught the other handle, and lifted the canister completely out of the water.

  Moments later a jet-black, six-person mini sub broke the surface. The robotic arm controller, a short man from Morocco named Karim, monitored the periscope camera and simultaneously maneuvered the arms to a position where the canister sat suspended one foot above the mini sub’s large, round entry hatch.

  “Package is ready for retrieval,” he said to the pilot, who immediately left the controls, turned, and took three small steps in a catcher’s crouch, before he stood in the tall, entry silo. Alain Moretz looked through two small portholes to verify that the mini sub was above the water line before he spun the hatch handle and opened it. Cool, salty air rushed over his face, and he welcomed it after being submerged for the past six hours. He inhaled deeply before continuing.

  In French, Alain said, “Lower the canister.” Once he had a good grip on the package, Karim nimbly removed the claws and arm, and placed them back in their regular position on either side of the sub. Slowly, Alain lowered the heavy item to the mini’s floor and secured it with industrial-strength cargo straps through two eyebolts anchored in the floor.

  “What the hell is it?” Karim asked Alain.

  “I have no idea, and it’s probably best that we not ask any questions,” he said as he closed the hatch. He then returned to his small seat in front of the illuminated console.

  “Prepare to dive. The quicker we get going, the quicker we find a warm bed, Karim.” The sub was ready to dive in less than a minute, but first Alain turned on the radio and sent a one-sentence message to the mother ship: Calypso has the package.

  He then began to fill the sub’s small ballast tanks and slowly Calypso slipped beneath the surface and turned southeast for the two-hour run to the mother ship, which was currently moving in their direction at a leisurely twelve knots.

  ***

  Four hours later

  “What we sell are beautiful ships that do amazing things, but without a top-notch engine room, they are little more than a static home on the water,” my father said as he continued the afternoon lecture on All Things Engine and Power Plant. At that moment, his cell started ringing. He looked at the screen and said one word, “Sergei,” before he answered with the same word. He listened intently for what seemed like thirty seconds with a quizzical look on his face.

  “You want to leave tomorrow night instead of Friday night?”

  He listened to Sergei on the other end before he continued, “Yes, I don’t see why we can’t push the timetable ahead by a couple of days. Let me check with my team to ensure we have everything we need for the run to New York City. I assume your people are ready to go?” He nodded his head up and down, and I heard Sergei’s booming voice through the receiver.

  “Good, good. I’ll call you back if there are issues with the departure time, but if not we’ll pick you and your men up tomorrow afternoon and leave around six p.m.”

  “Oh, it’s no problem old friend. See you tomorrow.” He clicked off and looked at me with tired eyes.

  “Gotta adapt to the customer’s needs in this business, Chase,” he said, running his hands through his thick, salt-and-pepper hair before audibly exhaling. “Looks like we sail for New York City a couple of days early, which means I’ve got some calls to make.”

  Me too.

  “Are we still doing the demo this evening?” I asked. This produced another loud exhale. He winced and rubbed his slightly swollen neck as he leaned back in his chair.

  “Damn, I just don’t have time now. We’ll do it when we are training in the sound.” He sat back up and slowly a smile formed on his aged face.

  “Even better, we’ll reveal it to the world in New York Harbor. We’ll alert the press and show it off. Go big or go home, right?”

  The frazzled man from a few moments ago had been quickly replaced by an energized master salesman with a shit-eating grin.

  “Why didn’t I think of this before? What better place to show off our newest feature than New York City?” He picked up the phone and said, “Can you come over?” Thirty seconds later Bailey waltzed in, and Dad relayed the change in plans as well as his new advertising campaign. After he finished, I said to him, “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

  “Chase, I live for moments like this, and if I’m honest, I don’t have many more of those left in me.”

  I looked to Bailey for help, but there was none to be found.

  “Okay, dad. I just wanted to hear it from you.”

  To Bailey, he said, “Can you leave early with us or is that going to be a problem?”

  “You must be crazy if you think I’d miss a trip to New York. I can reschedule my end-of-the-week meetings.”

  Unless the Anchor Management sprung a leak and sank to the bottom of the harbor, we’d set sail tomorrow evening, with no clue as to what Sergei was planning. I left the office after the meeting broke up and sequestered myself in the last bathroom stall. I pulled out my phone and sent Jenna a text: Change of plans, leaving for NYC tomorrow evening. Sergei’s request.

  She responded back a minute later: So we heard. I know something you need to hear. Sergei is Anna’s father.

  Chapter 36

  “Are you sure that’s his voice?” I asked Jenna later that evening at the apartment. I had listened to the audio twice, and it sounded like him, but I couldn’t be sure.

  “Christian,” Jenna said, looking for help, and he turned from his usual spot at the counter.
<
br />   “I emailed a snippet of the conversation to our forensic voice analysts in DC. According to them, there is a ninety-percent probability that the voice on the tape is that of Sergei Durov. They have a sample of his voice on file that they matched it to,” he said.

  “Chase, it may be time to consider that Anna is playing you,” said Jenna.

  “No way, not knowingly. I think my bullshit meter would’ve spiked at some point if that were the case.”

  “Why wouldn’t she tell you Sergei was her father? Didn’t you say that she told you her parents moved from Russia to Wilmington? Are there any pictures of them in her home?” she asked. “Does she talk about them?”

  I ransacked my brain and tried to remember any conversations that involved her parents.

  “No, not that I remember,” I said, giving up. “But there could be any number of reasons she would want that kept secret or that Sergei would want it to remain a secret. You said it yourself, Jenna, Sergei probably deals with all manner of unsavory characters. Wouldn’t you shield your children from them if you were in Sergei’s shoes?”

  Neither FBI agent countered so I pressed my point. “Besides, on the tape he clearly tells her to remain in Wilmington this weekend. That in itself doesn’t give me a good feeling about the trip.”

  “Maybe you’re thinking too much with your dick instead of your brain,” Christian said.

  I may have mentioned that I hated him.

  “No, just because I’ve been using mine, unlike you, doesn’t mean I’m not thinking clearly, asshole. Anna’s not involved in whatever Sergei is planning. I’m willing to bet my life on it,” I said.

  He smirked, but stayed quiet. Jenna stifled a laugh.

  “Speaking of your life, and the attempts on it, we’ve been thinking about both of them,” Jenna said. “It’s possible that instead of trying to kill you, they were just trying to scare you off. Think about it, you die and this trip isn’t happening anytime soon, at least on Sergei’s timetable, and your father’s illness has the potential to really throw things out of whack for him. ”

  “Okay, that makes sense, so I’m probably in the clear for the time being. Is that what you are saying?”

  “Until you board that boat. Then all bets are off,” Jenna said. “Same goes for Bailey and your father, assuming he isn’t in on it.”

  I shook my head. “My father’s not in on it. Let’s just shut this trip down right now. We’ll go to him and explain everything.”

  “Sorry, we can’t do that. We have to nail them in the act,” she said. “I’m sorry, but this is going down one way or the other.”

  “I assume you’ve checked out the men he’s bringing with him,” I said.

  “He’s bringing three people. Dmitri and two other men who work on his exploration ships. Neither of the men have criminal records, according to INTERPOL. It’s likely he doesn’t try anything until you get to New York City, but we want you to update us as often as possible. Come back tonight, and I’ll have you a satellite phone. We’ll already be tracking the ship via the AIS transponder, but real-time information is crucial.”

  She continued, “We’ll have a strike force on a Coast Guard cutter nearby if things go south, and we’re working on getting drone coverage, but it hasn’t been approved yet. The Justice Department gets squeamish when private US citizens are involved, even if the ship is in international waters.”

  I nodded. “I need to go home and pack. What time do you want me back over?”

  “Around nine will be fine,” she said quietly. Something was off with her. I nodded at Christian and looked at Jenna one last time before leaving. Something unspoken passed between us in that moment, and I got the feeling she felt as if she were looking at a dead man.

  On the way to Bailey’s, police lights again lit me up, for what reason I wasn’t sure. My speed was below the limit, and I had been maintaining my lane. I rolled the window down as the officer approached and resigned myself to another night spent on a hard floor. Except it wasn’t a regular patrolman.

  “We need to talk,” said Detective Reigart, as he leaned down to look at me. “I know you’re working for the Feds.”

  I sat there on the side of the road as he waited for my response. Decision time, Hampton.

  I turned my head to him and said, “Pull me out and put me in cuffs. Then call and have my car towed to the station.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if they’re still following me, they would expect you to do that. I can spare you an hour. You have somewhere we can talk, I assume?”

  After my faux arrest, Detective Reigart drove us out to Pampas Park. The parking lot was empty, and it was dark. We walked over to a trio of picnic tables and sat across from each other, as a steady stream of white and red lights crossed the Cape Fear Bridge in the distance.

  “How’d you know I was working for the Feds?” I began.

  “I didn’t; it was a bluff,” he said.

  Shit. I couldn’t see his face clearly in the darkness, but I imagined he was grinning.

  “Remind me never to play poker with you. Okay, why the interest in me?”

  “Does the name Kenny Jackson mean anything to you?”

  “I think he’s the reason I was released, unfortunately for him. A man named Sergei Durov more than likely had him killed,” I said. “I’m his replacement.”

  “How do you know he had Kenny killed?”

  “It’s just a working theory. You’ve seen what happened to my car. Spying for the FBI can be a deadly game. We think someone on the inside of Aquatic is working with Durov or tipping him off at the least. Durov has deep pockets.”

  “Why are the Feds interested in Durov?”

  “They believe he wants to harm America, but they’re not sure what he is up to. The Bear has an ax to grind against his old enemy the Eagle. Durov and his people are flying in tomorrow and we’re taking them on a training trip up the East Coast to New York City,” I explained.

  “So, where does this leave you, Mr. Hampton?” he said.

  “As of tomorrow, I’ll be maneuvering up shit creek, paddle-less. I’m the tip of the spear in this quiet conflict against Sergei Durov.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” he said, which started the wheels turning in my head.

  I asked him another question. He answered, and my night got a little longer.

  ***

  Eight hundred miles to the east-northeast of Foggy Harbor, Poseidon continued west at a slower clip. The canister had been stored in the corner of the large engine room, near a wide circular hatch, safe from the prying eyes of the thirty or so people on board. In fact, only six people on the entire ship even knew about the existence of Calypso. But it was there, secured tightly underneath the hull of the large exploration vessel.

  ***

  The entire orchestrated episode took about ninety minutes from the time Detective Reigart pulled me over. I’d called Jenna after the detective and I completed our conversation, and told her I’d been pulled over again. After a call to the Foggy Harbor Police Department, I was released, having spent the last thirty minutes of my “incarceration” seated in Reigart’s office, looking at pictures of the deceased Kenny Jackson. Crunch time approached, and Schmidt had replaced finesse with strong-arm tactics to secure my release, according to Detective Reigart.

  I drove straight to Jenna’s, feigned disgust at the corrupt Foggy Harbor Police Department, and claimed Reigart had it out for me. To her credit, she didn’t ask me about being pulled over, and I didn’t offer anything.

  Jenna was alone and still in her funk. She had a hard time maintaining eye contact. She’d already lost one man, and I imagined that weighed heavy on her. She walked to her room and returned with a small, black duffel that contained a fully charged Iridium satellite phone, a small canister of pepper spray, two small knives, and a GPS unit called an Aquatracker. She wanted me to install it on the Anchor Management in order to track the ship should Sergei disable the transponder. It would
need to be mounted as high as possible, with a clear line of sight to the heavens above.

  I asked for a gun and her answer was an unequivocal no. I could see the headlines: Ex-con Kills with FBI-Provided Handgun, and I understood her reasoning. Besides, I could do a lot with two small knives and canister of pepper spray. Not really, but I felt better telling myself that.

  After she finished explaining how to use the satellite phone, she produced a manila folder with a document signed by Franklin Calhoun, the esteemed senior US district judge for Eastern North Carolina. The document gave me immunity from any attempt to place me back in prison because of a perceived parole violation, unless the violation was a felony. It was as close to a Get Out of Jail Free card as I’d ever get.

  “You need to put this somewhere safe until you get back,” she advised. “Maybe make yourself a million or so copies.”

  “Nothing like waiting until the last minute to get it to me,” I said, as I scanned the document a second time. I handed it back to her along with a small backpack I’d kept hidden in the Mustang’s trunk.

  “Jenna, we’ve been through a lot during our brief time together. I trust you to safeguard this document for me as well as the contents of this backpack. If I don’t make it back, I want you to keep what’s in it. No questions, just do what you will with it.”

  “What’s in it?” she asked.

  “You’re already breaking the rules. No questions. If I do get out of this alive, I’m sure you’ll find a way to get it back to me.”

  “Okay,” she said quietly. “You should go home and pack.”

  “Already trying to get rid of me,” I joked, but she wasn’t smiling. She oozed sadness as she stared at the bare apartment wall. I reached down, cradled her chin in my hands and turned her head in my direction.

  “You look like someone stole your pony, Jenna.”

  She gave me an unexpected hug and then retreated. “I’m sorry. My time here is almost over, and you’ve grown on me. Promise me you’ll be careful,” she said.