The boat bucked and scraped bottom before finally breaking free of the land. Spray hit his back, and Dexter gave thanks for his parka as he braced his boots against Stanton’s seat and pulled harder. The artificial leg was working well, the beacon was visible over the ex-trucker’s left shoulder, and the moon was playing hide ‘n’ seek behind the quickly scudding clouds. The oarlocks made a regular clacking sound, but no one was present to hear them, and there wasn’t much he could do about the problem anyway.
Finally, when the beacon was little more than a pinpoint of light, and the ex-naval officer estimated that they were over the wreck, he began to ship his oars. But the waves started to push the boat around forcing Dexter to row in order to remain in position. “Okay,” the ex-SEAL announced, “let’s take a look around.”
Stanton, who was armed with a flashlight, switched it on. Then, mindful of how easy it would be to miss what they were looking for, the ex-trucker established what he hoped was an effective search pattern.
Dexter alternated pushing and pulling on his oars as a way to keep the bow into the wind-blown waves—and watched the beam of light sweep back and forth across the oily looking water. The whole thing was absurd. He realized that now and wondered how he could have been so stupid. Even if he was correct, and the people in the habitat below sent some sort of snorkel up to the surface, who was to say when that would occur? Perhaps the process took an hour, or even less, and occurred every forty-eight hours. It could take days if not weeks to catch the smugglers in the act. Stanton completed the search, turned the light off in order to conserve his batteries, and shook his head. “Sorry, Jack. I didn’t see a thing.”
“Me neither,” Dexter agreed soberly. “Are you okay? Should we go in?
“I’m fine,” the older man confirmed. “Here, see if you can rest those oars long enough to take a pull from this. And watch out—it’s hot.”
Dexter brought one oar inboard and made use of the other to keep the boat positioned. Then, having accepted the aluminum thermos bottle, he took a tentative sip. The coffee had been laced with whiskey and warmed his stomach. “Thanks,” Dexter said gratefully as he returned the flask to its owner. “That hit the spot.”
Stanton nodded, took a swig, and screwed the top back on as the ex-naval officer went back to rowing. A gentle but persistent current seemed determined to push the boat north relative to the shore beacon. Dexter was pulling against the flow when Stanton touched his leg. “Hold on, Jack. What the hell is that noise? Can you hear it?”
Dexter stopped pulling and turned an ear into the wind. That was when he heard something akin to a groan. It seemed to originate from the west, although it was hard to tell, given all the other noise. Dexter pulled on the starboard oar until the bow was lined up with the sound. Then, pulling with both oars, the ex-SEAL rowed out to sea. It didn’t feel right, not if the wreck was where he thought it was, but maybe he was wrong. “There!” Stanton said excitedly, as his flashlight pointed forward. “I see something in the water!”
Dexter turned to look back over his shoulder, but that made it difficult to row, and he was forced to watch Stanton as one of the larger waves momentarily lifted the boat up prior to letting it drop again. “We’re almost there!” the ex-trucker exclaimed, his face alight with excitement. “Go left a bit.”
The ex-naval officer could hear the sound more clearly by then—and realized it was more like a roar than a groan. And then they were right next to the brightly lit object. The “snorkel” looked like a big black inner tube, and Dexter would have been convinced that it was one, had it not been for the noise generated by sub-surface machinery and the fact that it was stationary. Some quick work with the oars was required to bring the float alongside where Stanton managed to get a grip on the structure. “It’s inflatable!” he exclaimed. “All they have to do is fill it with air and it will float to the surface.”
“Along with a flexible hose that leads down to the wreck,” the businessman added. “Hang onto that hummer while I snap some pictures.”
The ex-naval officer was equipped with two disposable cameras—both having been purchased in Coupeville. There was a sequence of bright flashes as Dexter shot the snorkel from a variety of angles, even going so far as to half-stand in order to hold the camera out over what he thought was the blow-hole, and click away. “Okay,” the ex-SEAL said, as he thumped back onto his seat and took hold of the oars. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Works for me,” Stanton agreed, and took a long satisfying pull from his thermos as Dexter pushed the boat stern-first toward the beach beacon. “So,” the older man continued conversationally. “What have you got planned for tomorrow?”
“Well,” Dexter replied, “I need to get this film developed and deliver it to the right people.”
“And?”
The businessman frowned. “’And’ what?”
“Tomorrow is Christmas,” Stanton said patiently.
“I’m Jewish,” Dexter replied. “We don’t do Christmas.”
“You’re full of shit,” the ex-trucker replied. “My daughter lives in Renton. She makes one helluva Christmas dinner and you’re coming.”
“I think you should check with her before you invite additional guests,” Dexter suggested. “Besides, I’ve had some legal problems of late, and all things considered, I’m not the sort of guy you should bring home to your daughter.”
“You mean that voyeur stuff?”
“You knew about that?”
“Yeah, but what the hell. I had a subscription to Playboy back in the seventies.”
“So you understand why the Christmas thing is a bad idea.”
“I spoke with Linda earlier today,” Stanton replied stubbornly. “She said any friend of mine is a friend of hers! Oh, and she wants you to bring a bottle of white wine.”
Metal grated on gravel as the stern hit the bottom. The boat shuddered as a wave split itself against the bow and the mission was complete. Both men got out and waded ashore. Dexter checked his watch. It read 12:17. “Merry Christmas, Hank.”
Stanton smiled. “Merry Christmas, Jack.”
It took the better part of an hour to get the boat back on its trailer, reorganize the gear in the back of his SUV, and crawl into his sleeping bag. It took a while to fall asleep, but once he did, Dexter began to dream. They were bad dreams, but none of them were new, and that was all he could hope for.
In marked contrast to the long string of rainy holidays that Rossi considered to be typical, December 25 dawned bright, clear, and cold. It would have been nice to sleep in but that was impossible since she had a lot of presents to wrap before going to her ex-husband’s home later that day. Still, it was pleasant to light a fire, listen to Christmas music, and sip hot chocolate while wrestling with paper, scotch tape, and stick-on bows, a process that Snowball found to be a lot more interesting than she did. The FBI agent noticed that while the first presents came out looking pretty good, the quality of her efforts began to deteriorate after a while, which meant that the last objects wrapped looked like hell, something that would become even more obvious once they were viewed side-by-side with those that Vanessa had been working on since September.
But there was no way to compete with perfection, and no reason to, since Vanessa had already taken possession of that dubious prize. Or was that sour grapes as Ed was everything that a lot of women wanted. Hell, he was what she wanted until he said goodbye and the custody battle began.
Later, once the presents had been loaded into shopping bags, Rossi ate some rewarmed pizza, half an apple, and one of the Christmas cookies that she had purchased for Missy. And, as with most days since the shoot-out in her home, there was a miserable moment when she was reminded of Dexter, the rotten bastard who had parachuted into her life, made it momentarily worth living, and trashed it on the way out.
As she prepared to leave Rossi wondered what he was doing for Christmas, came to the conclusion that it didn’t matter, and opened a can of stinky food for S
nowball. “At least I can count on you,” the FBI agent said, and could do little more than hope that the feeling was reciprocal as the cat went nose-down in her bowl.
Though somewhat lighter than normal there was still plenty of traffic as Rossi followed 45th east toward Laurelhurst. And, because FedEx trucks are so ubiquitous, the FBI agent didn’t notice the one that followed behind her.
The house, which had originally been a rather undistinguished rambler on a larger-than-average lot, had painstakingly been transformed into something twice as big. It managed to be sleek and modern without seeming stark, still another example of Vanessa’s endless talents. As for Ed, his taste had blossomed under his new wife’s tutelage, miraculously transforming himself from a man who knew nothing about interior design into an expert on Charles and Ray Eames, Mies van der Rohe, and Frank Alvah Parsons, a transformation that Rossi found to be both amusing and absurd.
The heavily loaded FBI agent was only halfway up the stairs that led to the front door when it swung open and Missy burst out. “Mom! What took you so long?” the ten-year-old demanded excitedly, and rushed down the steps. She was dressed in a bright green dress and was clearly delighted to see her mother, a fact that countered at least some of the misgivings that Rossi had regarding the rest of the afternoon and evening.
Meanwhile, Vanessa, who looked serenely elegant, emerged to watch the first scene in what promised to be a well-choreographed play. She was pleased to see that Rossi had not only taken the time and effort required to dress for the occasion, but had found time to wrap her gifts. A Christmas miracle if there ever was one. None of them noticed the FedEx truck as it passed by.
Once inside the house Rossi realized that it was a red year. She knew from previous experience that Vanessa owned two sets of Christmas decorations. And, since the green and gold decorations had been on display the previous year, it was time for the red and silver. All of the home’s furnishings had been placed with care, went with each other, and combined to create a sense of well-integrated comfort. Ed rose from his highly prized Eames chair to greet Rossi and came forward to plant a formal kiss on her cheek. It was hard to believe that this slightly balding, somewhat fussy male was the same man who once made love to her in the bed of an old pick-up truck.
Rossi returned the kiss, put the rest of her gifts under the tree, and surrendered herself to the carefully scripted afternoon and evening that Vanessa had planned for them. There were drinks to accompany the carefully managed conversation, genuine laughter as Ed lost at Monopoly, and some delicious moments with Missy.
Later, over dinner, the FBI agent found herself surreptitiously eyeing her hostess. Vanessa had perfect skin, green eyes, and full lips. A carefully coiffed fall of strawberry blonde hair served to frame her face and emphasize her beauty. And it was then, as Ed told one of his long, boring stories and Missy experimented with her new MP3 player, that their eyes met and Vanessa winked. It was a small thing, but a precious thing, because it spoke to everything they had in common: Ed, Missy, and a female perspective. The gesture brought a smile to Rossi’s lips and warmed her heart at the same time. Somehow, without really deserving to do so, Ed had spun life’s roulette wheel and won. An hour and a half later, Rossi left with a shopping bag full of things that Vanessa thought that she should have. A man on a motorcycle followed her home.
The first hint that something unusual was about to happen took place when a HH-65A Dolphin helicopter with Coast Guard markings circled the sleepy little town of Coupeville, hovered over the field above the Ebey’s Landing, and sent fifteen seagulls flapping into the air as it touched down. Lt. Tom Olman was aboard the chopper, as was Hawkins, Rossi, and Inez. The SNAKE EYE team members were barely on the ground, and still making their way over to the bluff when the Coast Guard cutter Cuttyhunk emerged from the off-shore mist and took up station a half mile out. And she wasn’t alone. White water broke around their blunt bows as two black-over-orange Foyle Class rigid inflatables roared in from the west. Both carried light machine guns and boarding crews.
The occupants of the C-Dory that had harassed Dexter on Christmas Eve took one look at the incoming boats and tried to flee. But the Coasties were ready for that and moved to cut the snakeheads off. After warnings from the radio and bullhorn were ignored, a single burst of machine gun fire across the bow brought the suspicious boat to a stop. Two men were taken into custody. Once the area was secured a tubby forty-one-foot utility boat chugged in and positioned herself over the wreck. She was carrying a force of SCUBA divers who would be central to the raid.
It all made for quite a display—but the invasion had only begun. Even as the SNAKE EYE team followed a narrow track along the edge of the bluff a procession of police vehicles came down Ebey Road from Coupeville. There were ten sedans and SUVs and their lights were flashing as they appeared at the top of the hill. Those in the lead belonged to the Island County sheriffs department. They were followed by a parade of marked and unmarked Crown Victorias loaded with State Troopers and more representatives from the FBI, ICE, and the DEA—the latter being latecomers who had joined the task force subsequent to the Mo Pong ambush. A bus-sized mobile command post brought up the rear.
The SNAKE EYE team paused at the top of the trail that led down to the beach. “Damn,” Rossi said. “Look at all those people. Don’t they have anything else to do?”
The cowboy hat made Hawkins look a little out of place. He smiled philosophically. “Every single agency represented here today will claim credit for busting the snakeheads and request a larger budget. And that includes mine. I sure hope Mr. Dexter is correct about that underwater habitat, however—because we’re going to look real stupid if the float he ran into was attached to a crab pot. Come on, let’s get down to the beach.”
As Rossi followed Hawkins down the muddy trail she felt a variety of emotions. Anger about the way in which Dexter had betrayed the man he could have been, guilt about her handling of the confrontation in the restaurant, and a touch of wonder as well. Because loony though it was—the FBI agent knew he was doing it for her.
Even so, Rossi wasn’t ready for the fact that Dexter was already on the beach when she arrived, having been brought in by one of the sedans that were parked up on the road. Uniformed personnel were all over the place, and the ex-naval officer had just finished describing what he and Hank Stanton had seen on the evening of December 24 to a state trooper when he spotted the FBI agent. Their eyes met, and even though Rossi was determined not to, she felt the now-familiar flutter in the pit of her stomach. Dexter’s expression was bleak. “Hello, Christina.”
“Hello, Dex.”
“How was Christmas?”
“Pretty good, all things considered. And yours?”
Dexter shrugged. “I spent most of it with Agent Hawkins over there—followed by dinner with friends.” There might have been more had it not been for the deputy who arrived to take Dexter down to the water where some Coasties were waiting to speak with him. After the initial flurry of activity, everything slowed to a crawl. More than an hour passed before a team of armed divers went down to place lights, and cameras, and survey the wreck. Mission completed, they returned to the surface where they briefed a second set of divers.
Then, just as the second team of divers was about to enter the water, a lawyer representing the insurance company that owned the wreck demanded to see a search warrant. He was in New Jersey, which made communication all the more difficult, and the better part of two additional hours passed while the government’s attorneys consulted with each other. Unable to find any case law to support the insurance company’s request, they gave the task force permission to proceed.
It was raining by that time, which forced groups of officials and reporters to huddle together under a few multicolored umbrellas as the SCUBA divers splashed into the cold gray water. Thanks to the cameras placed earlier that day, officials were able to watch as the divers entered the lock and vanished from sight.
A full forty-five minutes elapsed
before the first of what turned out to be a total of two SCUBA-equipped illegals were escorted to the surface. Then, even as they were being taken ashore, two snakeheads were brought to the surface as well. Neither one of them was Joe Chow, or would even admit to knowing him, although that was likely to change once the plea-bargaining process began.
Still, the raid had been a tremendous success, and Demont was in an expansive mood when he ducked under Rossi’s umbrella. “You see?” the SAC demanded rhetorically. “The transfer from ECODOOM to SNAKE EYE was good for both you and the Bureau. You’ve had your critics but there’s nothing like success to put the weasels in their place.”
If not a weasel himself, Demont was certainly related to the slippery breed, and if anyone deserved credit for locating the habitat, it was Dexter. Rossi was about to say as much when Haxton intervened. “All’s well that ends well,” the ASAC said sweetly, as she pulled the agent away. “Come on, Christina. There’s coffee at the command post. Let’s get some while we can.”
The two women were only halfway to the command post when what sounded like a distant swarm of angry bees was heard. One of the approaching choppers belonged to the federal government—but the rest were loaded with reporters. Someone must have been in charge because the helicopters dropped onto the field above one at a time. Rossi frowned. “Who invited the press?”
“Demont did,” Haxton answered, as she shaded her eyes. “This raid is going to play pretty well back in DC.”
Everyone was looking up into the rain. Rossi scanned the crowd, but the face she was searching for was nowhere to be seen. The raid was a success and Rossi knew she should be happy, but something was missing, something important, and there was no way to get it back.
Night had fallen and it was cold on the streets of what had once been called Chinatown. Traffic lights, neon lights, and Christmas lights glowed everywhere that Lena Ling looked but none offered the possibility of sanctuary. Not only was she an illegal, but a person of interest in a high-profile murder case, and even more sought after as a result. And that wasn’t the worst of it, because Ling was being pursued by something far worse than the police. She was on the run from Joe Chow.
Snake Eye Page 21
