The Gift of the Dragon

by Michael Murray

  “Get the Zittara!” Jacob shouted above the straining motor.

  “The Zittara? Of course—under the mattress!” Alice dove into the cabin and emerged with the short-barreled automatic weapon. They also had the handguns they had taken from Marsdale and Thorn at the house, each one with a full clip. They were not helpless. However, she saw one of the pursuers raising a rifle on the front of the onrushing boat.

  Jacob looked over at Alice, his eyes wild. He shouted over the straining motor and the slapping sound of the waves, “I’ve been running these waters since I was three feet tall!”

  “What?” Alice asked.

  Jacob pointed forward. “Over there are the Rattlesnake Humps.” He raised a hand from the steering wheel, making a fist. “Big coral heads—about a foot under water at this tide.”

  “Won’t we hit them?”

  “The motor might. We draw about a foot. That SeaCraft they are in is pretty loaded, fuel and equipment. They’ll be drawing at least two feet.”

  “You hope?”

  “Yeah.”

  Just then they heard shots from behind them, making them both duck.

  Alice turned back to see a man in the front of the Lost Sailor firing at them. Though it was still well behind them, its spotlight dazzled her, bouncing wildly as the boat slammed over the waves. There wasn’t much chance he would hit them. The man seemed to realize the same thing as he stopped firing. Intent on their pursuers, Alice almost fell as Jacob suddenly slowed the boat.

  “What are you doing!”

  “Sorry, the tide is a bit lower than I expected.”

  Just then, she heard a whine from the engine as Jacob raised it out of the water a bit farther than it was made to go. The boat slowed more as the propeller sucked in air. Jacob pointed down as he struggled with the controls.

  “My Humps!”

  “Wow!” Looking over the side, Alice saw they were passing over hunks of coral the size of small cars. Barely passing over!

  She looked back up in time to see the fast-moving Lost Sailor stop suddenly with a crack, its engines howling like wounded animals. Alice saw the man in the front thrown back into the boat and then bounced up to fly through the air, coming down with a heavy splash.

  Jacob slowed down more and weaved carefully around the humps, some of which, she could see now, were rising above the water and throwing up silver spray as the waves broke over them.

  “Should we go back?”

  “I don’t think that’s possible now. The tide’s still going out, and they wrecked in the shallows back there.” Jacob pointed toward the sky. “I think I know how they tracked us—they used a satellite. Or a drone.”

  “You said they were not the government.”

  “There are private companies with drones now, as good or better than the feds have for the right price. Heck, your father’s old company makes them for the government.” Jacob slammed his fist on the steering wheel. “I’m a flipping idiot!”

  “Why do they want me so much?”

  “You’ve been missing since your father’s death. The company has been divided up as if you didn’t exist. If you surface now, the lines will need to be redrawn. Laird Northwin, for example. He runs the Security Group at Apple Creek. Thorn, the leader of that pack of hyenas, is Northwin’s right-hand man. He would have access to the kind of technology that could have tracked us at night out of Miami. But only if they were already watching you.”

  “So maybe Guzman worked for this Northwin?”

  “That’s what Thorn said.”

  “Why would he tell you that, Jacob?”

  “Who knows? He planned to kill me. He was only looking for you. Maybe he thought telling me who he worked for would help get me to talk. An old interrogation trick.”

  Alice might have known about interrogation once. She couldn’t remember. “All I know about my father is what my friend back in Oregon told me. What she knew about him is what I told her before I got shot. She did say that I wasn’t interested in finding out what happened to him and that I didn’t want anything to do with Apple Creek. Why would they come after me now?”

  They sailed into a predawn mist rising off the warm water. Jacob slowed the boat, straining to see. “Maybe because you came out of hiding? Who knew you were in Oregon? I know the Bureau had no clue where you were. I assumed you were also murdered.”

  “Also?”

  “Yeah, Alice, your father’s death—it wasn’t natural.”

  A flock of squawking sea ducks flew low over their head as Jacob turned toward where the birds had been sleeping on the water.

  “What’s the plan, Jacob?”

  “If they were tracking us by drone, could be they still are. They’d be tracking at night by heat of the motors and during the day by the shape of the boat. This boat is unique enough to do that. Running on only one motor will change our heat signature, and they can’t see our shape from above until the sun is up. If we can get under cover before that, we may be able to evade them.”

  Alice saw the dark shape of an island emerge from the mist. Jacob pointed toward a faint break in the black wall in front of them. “Under those mangroves is Swash Key. There is a channel there that forms a tunnel in the mangroves. If we are lucky, we can hide until tomorrow night. I can mess with the motors—make them run cooler, so they won’t be able to track us in the dark.”

  As they passed under the first branches of the trees, Alice said, “Damn, Jacob, I’ve caused you so much trouble. Your sister, your niece—I’ve ruined your family. I should go. Just leave me here. I can walk to the road and find a ride back to Miami. How far is it?”

  Jacob looked at her. “You could do that. It would be tough going. The Overseas Highway is about two miles south of here, through that.”

  Alice’s eyes adjusted to the deeper dark of the mangrove tunnel, and she could make out the shapes of the trees they were sheltering under. Jacob pointed toward what looked like a wall of black branches and curved roots. “There are cottonmouths, scorpions, and ex-pet anacondas dumped by people. I’d say it’s better to stay here today while I work on the engines. We can drive down to the road tonight, and then you can get off or come with me. Your choice.”

  “Your family…”

  Jacob looked down and sighed. “Yeah. That’s my fault. I never should have brought you to Nanette’s. I made a stupid run without thinking hard about who might be after you and what they might be able to do. I thought I was the hero, saving you from Guzman, but Guzman was just a pawn in Northwin’s game.”

  Jacob planted his face in his palm for a moment and then looked up again. Alice saw his eyes were full of tears. “I killed them, Alice. We have the same enemy, the one who sent those men.”

  Alice put her hand on Jacob’s shoulder. He felt hot. “This Laird Northwin. He worked for my father?”

  “Yeah, Northwin has been running the security group at Apple Creek for years. They provide armed guards for Apple Creek and for others who need a private army.”

  Blood pounded in her ears. Clenching her fists, she asked, “Where do we find him?”

  Jacob looked up and to the right at a rasping call. “Night heron,” he said. Jacob cut the motors, and they slowly drifted to a stop. The sharp, clean smell of the open sea gave way to an earthier scent with hints of rotting leaves, bird droppings, and the leftovers of the feasts of crabs.

  “Laird Northwin lives on a large yacht, a converted ex–German navy ship, actually. Lets him move his headquarters around. He calls it The Endurance. It won’t be hard to find.”

  John

  “Simply put,” Secretary of the Interior Milton Lovett said as he ran his finger down the page of the report on the table, “via attrition, transfers, and retirements, almost a third of the leadership at the Bureau when you started as director has left.”

  “Yes. Replaced with my people. Our people.” John Stoddard leaned back in his chair at the Hay-Adams as the aroma of the excellent coffee, served by the pot, swirled around him.


  The Top of the Hay restaurant did not open for breakfast. However, very few places in Washington remained closed when Secretary Lovett asked for a seat. The corner table they were seated at looked down over the White House, with the spire of the Washington Monument directly behind it. The scene reminded John of the ornate hilt and blade of some great alabaster sword. He sometimes wondered if his unusual relationship with Lovett was maintained as much by the unique and special places Lovett chose for their monthly meetings as by the power and money that flowed to John when things Lovett wanted were done. Something about being the only people at this place at the start of the day made him feel as if anything were possible.

  “By this time next year, I expect all the executive assistant directors and half the special agents in charge will be men and women I’ve hired.”

  “Excellent!” Lovett rubbed his long, thin hands together. As usual, the energy Lovett commanded in his late sixties amazed John. He seemed much nearer to John’s own fifty years. “I love this President! His ‘hands off the staff’ philosophy lets us run our departments as they should be run!”

  “It is good to see you so fired up, Milt.”

  “Well, it’s partly the coffee and partly the Atkins diet. I tell you, cutting out the carbs does wonders. I feel ten years younger, and I have to say my girlfriend is calling it twenty!”

  John laughed at that. Since his own divorce, there had been a few flings but nothing like the string of young mistresses his mentor boasted of. It seemed as though he found a new one every week.

  Lovett went on to extol the virtues of meat and fat as he finished off his breakfast steak, a thick filet with a side of bacon.

  John felt a bit guilty enjoying his buttermilk pancakes with pecans, the meal that reminded him of being home in Maine, and they made it very well at the Hay-Adams. As they started the second pot of coffee, John noticed that Lovett’s talk of the benefits of the caveman’s natural diet coincided with John leaving half his pancakes on his plate and wishing he had ordered a side of bacon. Lovett left nothing but some small pools of blood and fat.

  John looked down at the crowds of people moving through Lafayette Square along the red, white, and gold of the flower gardens, stopping to take pictures of the executive mansion. He thought back on the past two years he had spent at the top of the FBI’s org chart. After a series of highly critical books with titles like Blind Spies and The Opposite of Intelligence had come out in the decade after 2001, a wave of reforms had left an FBI run by data-obsessed technocrats. With a culture of apolitical expertise, they had transformed the Bureau into a place where technology ruled and results were valued above all. That had been an exciting time for some, with many crimes, old and new, solved and major criminal organizations uncovered and brought down.

  That time had been exciting in a different way for certain powerful people with skeletons best left where they were, and when the populist President got replaced by the wealthy pragmatist, it ushered in a new decade with new priorities. Like a patient surfer holding out for the right wave, Lovett had said he had been waiting for that change, and he had given John a great push into the right place at the right time.

  John gazed out the window and thought of power.

  “What about the problem child?” Lovett asked.

  The wave suddenly gone, John came crashing back to reality.

  “Which one? Doesn’t matter, actually. We’ll have them both soon. My old dog, who is so desperate to come in from the cold, will be bringing them with him.”

  “So the plans are in place?”

  “Yes. Our informants confirm that Northwin has set a trap for Callan Grant and Alice Sangerman. They say Northwin will send most of his guards away so he can interrogate them in person. At the right time, when they are all together, my team will get a call. We’ll come in and catch them in the act. We’ll turn Callan. He won’t go down to protect Northwin. My dog will get what he thinks he needs, and we’ll get our outstanding warrants served and a major bust of a prominent man for ordering assassinations. That will show the public that my FBI has not gone soft on corporate crime!”

  “Northwin won’t take it lying down—we have sufficient assets in place?”

  “Yeah. We’re borrowing an armed Response Boat from the Coast Guard. Even with most of his people gone, Northwin’s yacht is a hard target, but his crew won’t go up against M240B machine guns.”

  “Good. Those will be good cases to close. It will make people forget that your predecessor brought in Mogilevich, Godwin, and Bulger. And our friend will be very happy. What about your ‘dog’? You don’t feel loyalty to him, do you, Stoddard? He is a contractor. A merc.”

  Noting the use of the last name, John replied, “You mistake me, Milt. I’m worried that he has 'need to know' information. And he won’t need to know anymore.”

  “Right. Good thought. Well, he is your old dog, John. When this work is done, it may be his day.”

  Callan

  Callan watched Faith Parcy lounging. Her dark hair with its golden highlights shimmered in the bright sunlight. Her smooth skin shone like carved marble. Her lips were full. The lower one stuck out more than the top. Almost as if she were pouting. He wanted to kiss it. She looked so much like Sara. Above her dark eyes, manicured brows arched as if in disdain of daydreams. She lay on her side. Her breasts pressed together, forming a line he wanted to trace.

  In some ways, she seemed much stronger than Sara. Under the soft skin of her arms were hard muscles. The calluses on her hands and feet and the confident way she moved spoke to him of countless hours of practice. Practice for violence—she is a professional. However, she had facets of innocence and audacity that she could switch between with dizzying speed.

  He shook his head. He needed to maintain his precision. He felt he would need all his focus to survive the next few days. He had to find out who sent her and why. He had to do that, no matter what it cost her. What it cost him. More proof that the universe is cruel, taunting him by showing him another woman so like Sara. Like the last one, she can’t stay.

  He listened to the waves hitting the side of the boat, gently rocking it. He remembered his training, first in the service of his country, and later in the service of Laird Northwin. The former seemed so long ago. “Go for broke” had been his motto once. It had been a time of madness. Under his breath, he repeated his new motto, “Keep control.” Control of the cause enabled him to control the effect. If you lose power over yourself, others will have power over you.

  Callan felt loss of control now. Someone had sent Faith. Her resemblance to Sara must be meant as a message. They had known he would take the bait and might even now think they had him on their line. He fingered the small GPS unit he had retrieved from the bilge where Faith had dropped it. Callan had an advanced GPS signal–blocking device. It also alerted him when a tracking unit went active close by. He knew his boat well. He had quickly found where Faith had hidden the device after she had activated it.

  Callan looked over at the beach. They were anchored off Cat Island, an uninhabited T-shaped speck of sand about fifteen miles off the coast of Mississippi. Its odd name came from the early Spanish explorers who had seen raccoons there and thought they had seen cats. During the last world war, Cat Island was the place where dogs were trained to sniff out Japanese infiltrators. Callan wondered if there were any dogs left on the island, if they would smell his Japanese half and give halfhearted barks. Smirking at his own joke, he sprayed some water from his ice-cold Evian bottle onto Faith. She shrieked, awaking.

  “What the hell!”

  “Are you ready to go ashore?” Callan laughed. “The tide’s low. It’s a good time to look for the shells you were talking about.”

  He anchored the boat in about three feet of water in Smugglers Cove, at the southern end of the island. One other boat floated at anchor about half a mile away. Otherwise, they had the beautiful beach to themselves. He changed from his white linen pants and shirt to long, blue surfer shorts that well acc
ented his lean, brown body. “Wow,” Faith said. Callan guessed she had just noticed the tattoo on his back. It depicted a wild-eyed dragon, mouth open and one claw clutching a sphere. The design was faded, the ink not having been renewed in many years.

  Callan laughed. “Yeah, I got that when I was younger and dumber. Years ago.”

  “It looks almost like Yakuza work? I saw a documentary about them.”

  “I really don't think of it. I suppose someday it will fade away completely.” Callan jumped into the water and then turned and splashed up at Faith.

  “Come on, enough talk. Let’s hit the beach.”

  Faith leaped into the water beside him, coming down hard enough to raise a splash of her own.

  “Ha!” She shrieked. “I hope there isn’t anything in your pack that can’t get wet?”

  “Nothing important. Tequila, limes, salt, and some towels. The towels will dry soon enough when we spread them out in this sun.”

  They waded through the surf as the waves tugged at their feet and swirled around them. The bright sun made the sea foam sparkle and sent rainbows up from the breaking waves. The shorebirds running along the beach sang a soft peeping song, one or two peeling out of formation to grab tiny crabs and other delicacies in the surf line. Seagulls flew overhead, swooping and dipping and adding their keening calls to the soundscape. As they drew nearer to the beach, they saw that one of the gulls had met his end recently, leaving a pile of bone and feathers among the shells and driftwood.

  “Ah, poor bird,” Faith said.

  “Not so poor. The gulls have a good life. They fly, they eat, they live, they fuck, they die. Simple and free. This is just the end of that one good and true line from egg to beach.”

  “Why, Callan, you’re a philosopher.”

  “Well, the end to a caterpillar is the beginning for a butterfly. Ha! I guess I do get philosophical on a beautiful day like this, on a beach with a beautiful woman like you!”