Snake Eye

by William C. Dietz

  Still, one member of the Seattle City Council, an individual with a longstanding dislike for the Seattle Police Department (SPD), had actually gone so far as to question the agent’s decision to fire on the second and third suspects, saying “Why shoot for the head? Couldn’t this Rossi person just kneecap them?”

  That in spite of the fact that Aspee’s female victim died of a heart attack shortly after he wrapped his arms around her, while he, ironically enough, managed to survive the flames and was on life support at Harborview hospital. There was a sudden flurry of activity out front as an unmarked Crown Victoria pulled up in front of the house. Its flashers came on and the media types converged on it.

  Rossi turned away from the window, grabbed her briefcase off a side table, and walked back through the bright yellow kitchen. The refrigerator was plastered with photos of Missy, the drying rack was full of dishes, and the phone rang in steady bursts. Rossi opened the back door, checked to ensure that the lock was set, and made use of her right foot to keep Snowball from slipping outside. The cat issued a plaintive meow as the door swung closed.

  Some of the video vampires had been camped in the alley, but the stir caused by the sedan had been sufficient to pull them around front, and none were in sight. Rossi crossed her tiny backyard, opened the gate, and realized that she had forgotten to put the garbage out the day before. The truck wouldn’t come for another week, which meant that she would have to live with the results of her own forgetfulness.

  The maroon sedan, the twin of the one out front except for the color, sped up the alley, paused just long enough for Rossi to jump in, and accelerated away. Supervisory Special Agent (SSA) John Theel glanced in his rearview mirror. He was a big man, about six foot three, with wide shoulders and a taste for well-cut suits. He had salt and pepper hair, mocha colored skin, and intelligent eyes. He grinned. “Pretty slick, huh?”

  “Very. Who played decoy?”

  “Kissler. Hold on while I turn him loose.”

  Theel activated the two-way radio feature on his Nextel cell phone, said, “We’re in the clear,” and received Kissler’s acknowledgment.

  “So,” Theel said, pointing to one of two paper cups resting in the center console. “One latte…extra hot. Did I get it right?”

  “Yes,” Rossi lied, “thank you. That was very thoughtful. So, what’s on the agenda?”

  “First we have a cup of coffee while I bring you up to date…then we head down town. The AS AC will do the best she can to deal with the brass from Washington D.C. while you meet with the inspectors.”

  Theel had turned onto Stoneway by then. He followed it south to Lake Union, pulled into a parking lot, and killed the engine. They could see the back end of a marina, rows of expensive yachts, and the gray wind-ruffled waters of the lake beyond. Further away, beyond the south shore, the Seattle skyline shot upwards, with the Space Needle off to the right. Most of the wet snow that had fallen the previous day had melted.

  Rossi took a sip of her drink. It warmed her hands but did nothing to counter the cold emptiness in the bottom of her stomach. She had nothing to hide, not in her opinion, but that didn’t make the process any less frightening. “Fair enough…. I’ll do my best. So, what’s the buzz? Was it a good shoot?”

  Theel stared out through the windshield. Rivulets of moisture zigzagged down across the safety glass. “The board will make that determination and they haven’t finished their investigation yet.”

  “Don’t bullshit me, John. I’m not asking what the board thinks—I’m asking what the folks in the office think.”

  Theel looked her way. The agent’s face was so pale that her lipstick looked unnaturally bright. Judging from the deep circles under her eyes she hadn’t slept very well and was struggling to look normal. He knew the question had many levels. Rossi wanted to know if she was in trouble, but more than that, she wanted to know how the rest of the team felt about Enger and Nealy. “They were grown ups, Christina, experienced agents who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Not only that but you arrived on the scene ten minutes early. The fact that you did saved at least two lives. Everybody knows that…and everybody supports you.”

  “Even Val?” Rossi asked bitterly, referring to Enger’s wife, “and Holly?”

  “Especially them,” Theel replied evenly. “They didn’t like the risks, but they knew about them and chose to marry the kind of men who were willing to take them. And, while it might not be politically correct, they’re grateful for what you did.

  “No, they blame the ASAC. They know you warned Haxton and that she refused to request more resources, so they figure the ambush was her fault. The only problem is that they’re wrong. Even if the ASAC had alerted the entire planet, odds are that Enger and Nealy would still be dead. They knew the kind of people they were after, or should have, and chose to sit on their weapons. It sounds harsh, hell, it is harsh, but they could have been more vigilant. Anyway, no matter how you cut it, there’s nothing more you could have done.”

  There was silence as Rossi took it in. “Thanks, boss. That helps.”

  “No problem,” Theel said, glancing at his watch. “I hate to do this, but there’s a couple things we need to talk about before they run you through the red, white, and blue wringer.”

  Rossi nodded. “Shoot.”

  “You prepared a signed statement?”

  “Yeah, the chief inspector has it. You’ll find a copy in your email.”

  “Good. Everybody’s seen the tape about a million times and we have statements from at least a dozen witnesses, not to mention one very grateful campus cop, but it’s important to make sure that your account squares with theirs. Speaking of which, did you hire a lawyer?”

  Rossi frowned. “Why? Do I need one?”

  Theel sighed. “Don’t get defensive, Christina. It’s SOP. You know that.”

  “Sorry, I’m feeling a bit paranoid right now. Yeah, I talked to the counsel for the Agents Association, and she hooked me up with an attorney here in Seattle. Some guy named Paul Gregory. He reviewed my statement and said it was fine. He’s supposed to meet me at the office.”

  Theel started the car, looked back over his shoulder, and backed out of the spot. “Excellent. Gregory has a good rep. He was a cop once…and he bleeds blue.”

  “So, fill me in,” Rossi demanded. “What have we got on these people?”

  “You’re on administrative leave.”

  “Oh, yeah? Then why I am in this car? On my way to the office? On a Saturday?”

  Theel laughed. “Okay, but you didn’t hear it from me. You knew about McDonnel, hell, you predicted that the psycho bitch was up to something. And, having sifted through the stuff in her apartment, it looks like she became interested in Buddhism, did a whole lot of reading, and stumbled across some material on self-immolation.

  “It turns out that until recently all Sinitic monks and nuns were burned as part of their ordination ceremonies, and some of them, like the monks who lit themselves on fire to protest the Vietnam War, practiced ‘shao shen,’ a term that originally referred to cremation but was subsequently extended to include the willing incineration of living flesh as part of a sacrifice or protest.”

  “So, McDonnel was on a heavy-duty religious trip.”

  “Maybe,” Theel replied cautiously, pulling up onto Aurora Way south, “but in spite of the religious overtones and the so-called experts the networks came up with, I don’t think so. No, I think the self-immolation thing was intended to generate some attention-grabbing video and dress the whole thing up to look like an act of self-sacrifice rather than the cold-blooded murder that it actually was.”

  The rain was falling steadily by then and Rossi watched the wipers smear it back and forth. “What about the video? Who shot it? They had to know about the attack in advance.”

  “Yes, they did,” Theel agreed grimly. “We’re looking at the footage shot by the local TV stations and the university’s surveillance cams. The lab has it along with the folks in Counter Te
rrorism.”

  Rossi nodded. “Good. I want the bastard. Or bastards as the case may be.”

  Theel glanced her way. “We’ll get them. How’s Missy?”

  Rossi sighed. The ELA videographer was efficient if nothing else. All three of the local TV stations had copies of his raw footage within an hour of the murders—and all three broke into their regular programming to run it. While she was still at the university, working to secure the crime scene and coordinate the initial response, Missy had been at her father’s place watching television. The special news bulletin popped up right in the middle of A Charlie Brown Christmas. Within a matter of seconds, the little girl was looking at pictures of a person on fire and a woman firing her pistol. Then, as the agent turned to scan the crowd for more perps, Missy saw a tight shot of her mother’s face.

  Vanessa said Missy had been hysterical at first, certain that her mother had been hurt in some way and desperate to talk to her. Later, after the two of them spoke on the phone, the little girl finally started to calm down. She hadn’t been allowed to watch TV since. “It was hard,” Rossi replied bleakly. “Really, really, hard.”

  Theel nodded, and conned the car through downtown traffic and into an underground parking garage. The building swallowed the sedan—and the Bureau swallowed Rossi.

  Chapter Two

  Though nothing like the storm raging out in the Pacific, thirty-knot winds pushed six-foot waves east through the Strait of Juan de Fuca, which would have been a problem for a small boat but were barely noticeable on the bridge of the 53,000-ton ship South Wind. It was warm inside the tightly enclosed bridge, too warm by Captain Hans Kroger’s standards, but the rest of the multi-national crew liked it that way. The fact that the air was thick with stale cigarette smoke, the smell of strong tea, and the helmsman’s rank body odor made the situation that much worse. Vertical wipers thumped from side-to-side, banks of instruments glowed green, and the soft mutter of radio traffic could be heard in the background as the Coast Guard’s Puget Sound Vessel Traffic Service Center (VTS) kept in contact with two dozen ships. It had been six months since Kroger had been to Seattle and the merchant marine officer was looking forward to making port. There were bars to visit, plus a woman who had proven to be cooperative in the past, and what more could any sailor want?

  A blast of cold air invaded the long, narrow space as the hatch that provided access to the starboard bridge extension slid open. First Officer Akio Suzuki closed the door, shook himself in the same way that a dog would, and sent rain water flying in every direction. The yellow storm suit was so bulky it caused him to waddle. The Japanese officer had a broad forehead, almond-shaped eyes, and was perpetually in need of a shave. “Captain.”

  Kroger nodded gravely. “Number One.”

  Neither one of the men spoke the other’s native language, which was why all of their conversations took place in English. “It’s time to cut our speed to five knots.”

  It was an unusual request, since there was no ostensible reason to reduce the ship’s speed, but Kroger understood nonetheless. Though not especially fond of each other, the two men had one thing in common, and that was their mutual desire for large quantities of money—the kind of cash available to merchant officers who were willing to tolerate the presence of a few extra bodies on their ship and reduce revolutions at the proper moment. Kroger ran blunt fingertips through his short, bristly beard. It was heavily shot through with gray, a reminder of how many years had passed since his graduation from Breman’s Polytechnic University. “Is the pick-up crew ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then reduce speed we must,” the German said evenly. “The VTS people will notice the change and ask what we’re up to…. I will inform them that we’re running ahead of schedule—and need to slow down in order to meet the pilot on time. Let me know when the passengers clear the stern.”

  Suzuki thought about the sick, frightened men huddled on the ship’s fantail and wondered if they qualified as passengers. They certainly had paid enough money to justify the title—or would once they completed up to ten years of indentured service. But that was in the future. At the moment they were cargo that the crew needed to jettison before the pilot came aboard off Ediz Hook. The Americans had become more security conscious since 9/11 and that made everything more difficult. The officer nodded. “I will notify you by radio.”

  Suzuki was still making his way off the bridge when the communication came in over VHF FM Channel 5A. “Freighter South Wind, my radar shows you have slowed to five knots. Do you have a problem? Over.”

  Kroger keyed the mike. “Seattle Traffic, this is the South Wind. I am slowing my speed to five knots to make my ETA for the Port Angeles pilot station. Over.”

  There was a pause followed by a whisper of static. “Freighter South Wind—I have no reported opposing traffic. In the future adjust your speed to avoid loitering near the precautionary area. Over.”

  Kroger smiled thinly. “Seattle Traffic, this is the South Wind. Roger…. I will increase speed within ten minutes. South Wind out.”

  Meanwhile, back on the stern, ten men stood in a tight little group. They wore brightly colored Viking SOLAS PS5002 Immersion Suits, all of which had been purchased secondhand to save money, and were at least one size too large for the men from Fujian Province. Strobe lights, one per suit, flashed in quick succession.

  But, surplus or not, any protection would be welcome, since every one of the illegal immigrants knew that he was about to jump into some very cold water. Still, Lok Lee was a strong swimmer, and if anyone could survive, he could. That’s what the young man was thinking when Suzuki appeared and Hector Battoon sent the first illegal out onto a specially rigged plank. He was Filipino and spoke halting Mandarin. “You must walk out to the very end before you jump off!” the crewman shouted. “Otherwise you could be sucked into the props! Move quickly so you land in the water together…. That will make it easier for the boat to pick you up.”

  Then, conscious of the need to get them going before they had too much time to dwell on the danger, Lee and the rest were herded into place. Huang went first, quickly followed by Wong and Ma. Then it was Lee’s turn. A strange world of wind, waves, and lights swirled around the young man as he made his way out onto the plank, took a deep breath, and fell into the void.

  It was a long drop and the youngster felt the impact as his feet hit the surface quickly followed by a cold slap as the water made contact with his face. He sank, but not for long, as both the air in his lungs and the suit acted to lift him up. Lee broke the surface as a small boat roared past. The freighter was smaller by then and receding fast. “Hey!” he shouted, “I’m over here!”

  But the man in charge of the fourteen-foot Zodiac Futura Mark 3 and his assistant couldn’t hear anything over the roar of their engine as they reduced speed in order to pull other illegals into the open boat. That was when Lee noticed that his strobe light had stopped functioning and yelled even louder. But no one heard. The currents pulled him away and the cold began to invade his rail-thin body. Lee remembered his sweetheart, the one he had promised to send for, and called her name. But she was back in Fujian Province, on her way to the local village, to buy medicine for her mother.

  Mi Sung felt a sudden chill as the sun slipped behind a cloud. She pulled the shawl that Lee had given her up around her shoulders and wondered what he was doing.

  Huang had entered the water first, bobbed to the surface, and been rescued in a matter of seconds. It took two attempts to pull himself up into the Zodiac, but once onboard, Huang discovered that he enjoyed the exhilarating ride. Ten minutes later all but one of the illegal’s companions had been brought aboard to huddle around him. Huang told the snakeheads that Lee was missing, and they spent ten minutes looking for him, but saw no sign of his strobe light. Finally, convinced that the missing illegal had drowned, they accelerated away.

  The young men held on for dear life as the boat turned toward the east and powered through the waves. The ensuin
g trip lasted for the better part of twenty minutes and ended when the semi-rigid boat coasted into the lee of the sixty-foot Zhou Wind. Once the Zodiac appeared on the scene, a series of terse orders was given, and a team of SCUBA-equipped divers splashed into the water alongside.

  Huang saw the fishing boat loom up ahead and felt the wind virtually disappear as the driver steered the Zodiac into position next to it. “Grab a weight belt,” the assistant snakehead shouted as he pointed towards the bottom of the boat. “And put it on.”

  Once the passengers were ready, the second order came. “You must jump!” the helmsman instructed. “Divers are waiting in the water.”

  And divers were waiting in the water, although Huang couldn’t imagine why as both he and Ma tumbled into the sea just a few feet away from a group of bobbing head lamps. All sorts of things began to happen then as dry-suited divers closed with the illegals—and demonstrated how to breathe via the second-stage regulators connected to their tanks. Then, having barely had time to become accustomed to the breathing devices, the first two men were escorted down through the murky water to the fantastic world below. Lights glowed, but there was barely enough time to catch a glimpse of the sunken ship’s superstructure before Huang and Ma were pushed into a dimly lit lock. Once inside, the out door was sealed, water was pumped out, and it wasn’t long before they could breathe without benefit of the SCUBA equipment.

  Once the water fell below the level of the coaming a hatch opened. A Maori was there to meet them. He had frightening Moko tattoos on his face, a wicked-looking taser, and a no-nonsense attitude. He ordered the men out of their survival suits, then marched them through hot showers and out into a bare-bones locker room. Piles of clothing and other items waited on wooden benches. “Grab a set of overalls and a shaving kit,” the snakehead said brusquely. “Hot food is waiting.”