by Ace Collins
“Sightseeing,” she replied with a grin. “If anyone asks, we’re sightseeing.”
“Sounds good,” Beals said, “but we don’t want anyone checking our identification. After all, I’m to McGee what Paul Drake is to Perry Mason. Everyone knows McGee and I work together. Having me caught with you two would drag you back into the media circus.”
As Beals changed into his gear, Lije looked over the side at the water, a brilliant aquamarine. He wondered about the ship on the bottom and what they might find.
“You ready?” Beals yelled from the back of the boat.
“Yeah.”
“Got the camera?”
Lije nodded.
“Let’s get wet.”
51
LIJE AND BEALS DOVE DOWN THROUGH THE WARM water. With the detective leading the way, his bright light shining down into the depths, they slowly worked toward their objective. Ten feet became twenty, then forty, eighty, and finally there was the ship at one hundred and fifty feet.
Six decades in the water had turned the vessel into a rusting hulk. The torn edges of metal looked as if the charge had been set in the lower middle section of the ship. That initial blast probably had led to others, creating the very real image of fire on the water. The cargo had been tossed out of the hold and was now spread across the sea floor like giant toys across a playroom at Christmas.
The ship had settled on its port side. They swam slowly while Lije shot a video of everything Beals’ light touched. Colorful species of marine life observed them, some coming close enough that Lije had to shoo them away. Most seemed interested in the bubbles coming from the regulators.
Swimming from stern to bow, they saw occasional curls of white paint stubbornly holding onto their aging iron canvas. About halfway along the football-field-length hull, Beals’ light caught what Hernandez had seen as a child. A huge red cross, probably twenty feet from top to bottom and side to side, each arm three feet wide. A close examination revealed the symbol had been applied with little care. It would have looked fine from a distance, but up close it was easy to spot the crooked edges and drips and runs of red paint.
The light picked out a tank inside the ship, a swastika on the side. The hatch was open. No longer a killing machine, the gray German Panzer was now a hiding place for fish.
In front of the tank were several earth-movers piled up like discarded toys in an area where the massive blast had ruptured the hull. One hung halfway out of a huge gash in the starboard bow. Beals swam closer to the vessel and, using his gloved right hand, rubbed dirt away from the ship’s name, Die Bundeslade.
Pointing toward the surface, Beals headed up. Lije shut off the camera, slipped it into his belt, and followed the detective. For a hundred feet it was a normal ascent, then, at the forty-foot depth, he realized something was amiss. Looking over his head, he saw nothing. And that was the problem—there was nothing there. The Donzi was gone!
Beals surfaced first. By the time Lije found the morning air, the detective’s mask was propped up on his forehead and he was treading water, turning a full three-sixty. “She’s gone! “
Curtis was gone, but they weren’t alone. Two sharks, one about eight feet long, the other at least ten, were circling some twenty feet away.
As he treaded water, Beals yanked a knife from his belt and cautiously watched the two uninvited guests. If they approached, he would make sure they paid for any meal.
“You ever been in this situation?” Lije whispered.
“Abandoned or shark bait?”
“Either.”
“I’ve been left twice, though not in the water, and never had to deal with sharks. Don’t guess you have a knife, do you?”
“Ah, no.”
“Don’t panic. Keep your eye on the fins. If they move in for an attack—”
“Yeah, I know,” Lije said. “Grab his gills, poke him in the eye. I’ll do whatever is open.”
“You’ve got the drill.”
As if on cue, the sharks began to cut the distance between them. What had been twenty feet became fifteen and then ten. It was now just a matter of time before the fish made their move. The small one reacted first, making a sudden left and taking direct aim at Beals. Holding his knife up over his head, the detective waited until the shark bumped his leg and then drove the weapon downward. It found its target in the tough hide right behind the creature’s head.
Lije had no time to see if the strike discouraged the intruder. Just as Beals’ knife struck flesh, Big Daddy bore down on Lije. With no knife, he pulled down his mask, closed his fist, and slipped under the water. Sensing the move, the shark rolled toward his victim and, as he did, he exposed his snout to the man’s right flipper. A swift kick found its mark just above the creature’s tooth-lined mouth. Yanking himself to the left, Lije drove his fist into the shark’s head. Temporarily discouraged, the shark cut to the right, swimming directly through a cloud of blood that had oozed from his teammate. Round one to the humans, but there would be no break before round two.
Spinning, Lije spotted Beals about ten feet above him. The detective was doing his fighting at the surface. He landed another blow, but his wounded adversary was closing fast for another hit.
Lije had lost his shark, but Big Daddy had not lost Lije. With a blow that felt like a bulldozer, the shark plowed into his back, then swam off. Lije had no strength left. When the shark turned back, it was too close. There was no time to fight…
He heard the gunshot the same moment he felt a bump. But he felt no pain. The shark floated motionless beside him, a cloud of blood forming around its head.
Back-pedaling away from the creature, Lije heard another gunshot. He saw Beals and the other shark in another red cloud.
And then Lije saw the underside of the Donzi a dozen feet away. It appeared Diana’s aim had been right on both times.
Surfacing, he spit out his mouthpiece and sucked in a deep breath of fresh air. He worked his way over to the boat’s ladder, pulled himself up, and rolled over the side onto the vessel’s floor. Moments later the rock-solid detective landed beside him.
52
“YOU GUYS OKAY?”
“I think so,” Lije said.
Curtis took another look at the now bloody water, then moved over to the men. “Sorry I had to leave. There were some Mexican lawmen who seemed to be a bit too interested in what we were doing. I figured it’d be wise to take a short cruise until they cleared the area. I cut the buoy loose.”
“Getting back a bit sooner,” Beals gasped, “would’ve suited me a lot better. But I thank you for what we got. Especially your target practice.”
Lije rolled onto his knees and steadied himself, then tried to stand. He fought to find his sea legs. Not only were his legs weak, his back was screaming in pain.
“Look at your tank! “ Curtis yelled.
“That’s a big dent,” Beals said, struggling to his feet.
Lije unclipped his equipment and lowered the gear to the deck. They were right—his air tank did need some bodywork.
“So what did you find?” Curtis asked.
“The ship’s down there,” Beals replied, still trying to catch his breath. “It’s the one Hernandez described to you two last night. Still some white paint, and the red cross was visible.”
“So was some Nazi war machinery,” Lije added as he collapsed on a cushioned bench. “We even found the name, but it’s in German.”
“I know some German,” Curtis volunteered. “Do you remember how it was spelled?”
“Let me think. Die…”
“The first three letters in the second word were B-U-N,” Beals added.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Lije said. “Bun…D-E, I can almost see it. I have it on video, but let’s see if I can picture it. I remember thinking it reminded me of death…Yeah, S-L-A-D-Y-E-D.”
Curtis grabbed a marker and a writing board and scribbled what she had heard. She held it up for the men. “Is this it?”
Lije studied it for a
moment. “No, I remember now.” Grabbing the board and marker, he slashed through the second word and rewrote it. “It sounded like ‘slayed,’ but was spelled this way.”
“Die Bundeslade?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Beals agreed, “that’s it. Any idea what that means?”
“ ‘Ark of the Covenant,’ “ she replied, confusion reflected in both her face and her voice.
That made a weird sort of sense. The best way to hide an instrument of death would be to call it an instrument of life. With its name, its red cross, and its camouflage as a cargo ship turned relief vessel, Die Bundeslade would have been ignored in the days after World War II. Anyone who saw it would have automatically believed it was a hospital or relief ship. Those who saw it in the Gulf would’ve assumed it was on its way to Houston to get a load of food for starving refugees.
“Launched in the final days of the war,” Lije said, “it was the perfect cover for carrying deadly cargo to the United States. I’m guessing what we saw was the Ark of Death.”
“Makes sense to me,” Curtis said. “Still, I’m confused. We know it went down in February of 1946. So why keep pushing the mission? The war had been over for six months.”
Beals was pulling off his swim fins. “For some people the war is never over. They continue to follow orders long after their leaders are dead. That’s how strongly they buy into ideas and how hard it is to give up on those same ideas.”
“Two Japanese soldiers,” Lije said, “remained in hiding in the Philippines until 1974. When told that Japan had lost, they refused to believe it. They had remained ready for battle for decades. Who knows how many other loyal troops died over the years in the jungle while following orders to never surrender?”
After unzipping and peeling off his suit, Lije sat back down and studied the calm Gulf waters. “There were probably men just as loyal to the Nazi cause. Even after the war ended, true extremists would still try to follow Hitler’s order. Especially if that plan meant causing great harm to the nation that defeated Germany. There were Nazis who hid out in South America for years planning for ways to regain power in Germany.”
“Arif,” Beals noted, “probably believes that whatever super weapon was carried by that ship was flown toward America in those five planes the Mexican boy saw.”
“What do you believe?” Curtis asked.
Beals’ expression was grim. “We know the weapon you learned about in Germany was never used. We know people have been killed over it. Hope I’m wrong, but I think it’s still out there and Arif has been assigned to find it for Al-Qaeda.”
In spite of the balmy weather, Lije felt a chill. What they were looking for had kept the men on that ship fighting for an already defeated cause. What if Arif now knew what it was and where it was?
“Drop me off at the beach,” Beals said as Curtis fired up the motor. “We don’t need to be seen together. I want to check a couple of things before I go back to the States.”
53
JANIE DAVIES HAD RISEN EARLY, FINISHED HER workout, eaten her breakfast, and gotten ready for work before she noticed it. What she discovered brought her to her knees. Her guide dog was sick. As she was snapping Harlow’s harness into place, the dog had staggered and fallen. Now the animal couldn’t get up. Panic seized her. No! Not Harlow!
“Don’t worry, baby,” she whispered as she stroked the smooth-coat collie’s head. “I’ll call Dr. Young.”
She grabbed her purse, fished for her cell, and called the vet. Frantically, she explained that Harlow had fallen and was now having problems breathing. She was told to continue to hold her dog and keep talking.
The five minutes it took for Dr. Young’s assistant to get to Janie’s door seemed like years. Beth Meyer quickly scooped the distressed animal into her arms and raced out to the car. Janie grabbed her purse and followed as quickly as she could.
In the small clinic’s examining room, the vet and two assistants flew through the initial exam. Janie gently petted Harlow as they worked. Her hands told her that Harlow was growing weaker. Had she gotten her here in time? Janie prayed that she had. She begged God to give her another chance.
“Janie,” Dr. Young asked, “has Harlow been outside today?”
“Just in the backyard for a few minutes when I worked out.”
“She’s gotten into something,” he explained. “We’ll probably know what in a few minutes. We’ll pump her stomach and see what we find. Beth will take you back to the waiting room. I’ll be out as soon as I know something.”
The bond between a guide dog and master is strong. Harlow was Janie’s right arm, her eyes, and more. The collie gave her a degree of independence she wouldn’t otherwise have. Without the dog, she couldn’t freely walk around town, do her shopping, or even get to work without help. In Janie’s solitary world, Harlow was her companion.
The next thirty minutes seemed endless. Tears filled Janie’s eyes and spilled down her cheeks. It had been years since she had felt this alone. Bombarded by thoughts of life without Harlow, Janie felt her dark world become much darker. Yes, she could get another dog, and someday she knew she would have to, but she couldn’t face that now. Not now.
God, please don’t let this happen. Please don’t let me lose my eyes again. I need Harlow. I’ll do anything you ask; just give her back to me.
What had she failed to do? Was it something she could’ve prevented? Why had this happened when everyone she worked with was gone?
Then it hit her. Without Harlow, when she was alone, she was vulnerable.
The darkness that had been her world for twenty years now smothered her. It was as if her usually sharp senses had been switched off. Pulling her knees up with her arms, she began to rock, unaware of her surroundings.
“Janie,” Dr. Young’s voice startled her. Why hadn’t she heard him walk up?
“Yes. Is she…?”
“She’ll be fine,” the doctor said, his voice as soothing as a cup of cocoa on a cold night. “She was poisoned, but you caught it in time. She’ll have no lasting problems. But I want to keep her a day or two, just until I’m sure she’s okay.”
Poisoned? Who would do something like that? Everyone loved Harlow. Could this have something to do with the Omar Jones case? “You said she was poisoned?”
“Rat poison,” the vet explained. “My guess is that someone must’ve accidentally dropped it from a truck going down the alley and it got washed into your yard during that heavy rain we had early this morning. Beth’s going over to your house to make sure that none of it’s left. Don’t worry, we’ll take care of that so it can’t happen again.”
Wiping her eyes with a tissue, Janie nodded. “Can I see her?”
“Sure, let me guide you. Then Beth can take you back home.”
“No,” Janie said, “she needs to take me to work. Everyone’s out of town, and I’m holding down the office today.”
The dog was already feeling better. As Janie stroked her fur, Harlow licked her face. It was reassurance Janie needed. She left the clinic feeling far less helpless than she had a few moments before.
Still, the rest of the morning held a sense of solitude that all but choked her.
At work, with no one to talk to, Janie turned the radio on and prayed the phones would ring, but they didn’t. After lunch at Fannie’s Cafe, she continued the research McGee needed on Omar Jones’ previous lawyers. It wasn’t easy. She had to make call after call to run down judges and other officers of the court who could provide her with honest evaluations of the trio of court-appointed lawyers. Yet the tedious busywork actually thrilled her. As she built her profiles, conducting one interview after another, the time passed quickly.
She had just put the office phone down after speaking with a district judge in Texas when it rang.
“Evans and Jameson,” she announced.
“Janie, it’s Dr. Young.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Better than we expected. Harlow’s up and around and crying for yo
u.”
A smile crossed her face. “Should I come down? I can close up now.”
“No,” Dr. Young assured her, “she needs to keep food down to satisfy me she’s ready. I could bring her to the house around seven-thirty tonight.”
“That’d be super,” she gushed, “but could you bring her to the office? I’ll be working late on a project.”
“No problem,” Dr. Young replied.
“Thanks, doc.”
54
HARLOW WAS COMING HOME! ALL WAS RIGHT WITH THE world. The black cloud had lifted, and Janie again felt she could do anything. There were no barriers.
At seven, information in hand, she called Kent McGee’s private line. He answered after the first ring. “What did you find out?”
“I’m fine,” she countered. “Thanks for asking.”
“I’m sorry,” McGee said.
She laughed. Satisfied she had fully regained her assertive nature, Janie let her fingers fly over the notes that had spit from her Braille printer. “Jordan, the first attorney, has barely hung on for years. He’s lost a lot more cases than he’s won. He just slips by on wills and divorces and doesn’t do a very good job on those either. He’s been married three times and all of his ex-wives hate him. I couldn’t find one person who had a single good thing to say about his work.”
“Well, that figures,” McGee replied.
“McClowsky, lawyer number two, was young, green, and eager. His heart was in the right place, but he was in way over his head. He believed Jones’ story at first, but the prosecution whipped that out of him over time. When his mother developed cancer, he used that as an excuse to bolt.”
“Again,” McGee noted, “that’s about the type of representation I’d expect to be provided for a man like Jones. What about the last guy?”
“Richter was once a solid defense attorney, but that was three decades ago. He had a son killed in the Gulf War and, when that happened, he fell into a bottle. He took a nightly bar exam that had nothing to do with the courts. He’s been swimming in booze for almost two decades.”
