Infernal rj-9

by F. Paul Wilson

  Tom leaned back. "I don't know. It might be possible. I'll hang around long enough to look into it."

  "Do that. And no funny stuff."

  Tom looked offended. "You think I'd gyp Kate's kids?"

  "After what you've told me? What do you think?"

  "I'd never—"

  "Good. Because if I ever find out you've shorted those kids, I'll hunt you down and chop off your right hand."

  Tom started to laugh but it died aborning as he looked in Jack's eyes.

  "You—you're kidding, right?"

  Their food arrived then. Jack sniffed his fish and chips—fresh from the fryer, all hot, crisp, and greasy.

  "Let's eat."

  6

  When the check arrived, Tom said, "You mind getting this? I mean, I could charge it, but I don't want to leave a trail to Bermuda and back."

  Jack reached for his wallet. "Good thinking."

  Jack didn't mind. John Tyleski didn't exist.

  "How much cash did you bring?"

  "I've got plastic."

  "You do? How?"

  Why was he acting so surprised? Tom knew he'd reserved that hotel room for him. Can't do that without a credit card.

  "There are ways."

  "You and I need to talk about rebirth real soon. But for now we have to find us a place to spend the night."

  "Why not the boat?"

  "Too far. Doesn't make sense to go all the way back to Somerset tonight, then come all the way back in the morning. Besides, lights and activity on the boat might draw attention. Better to stay here."

  He was probably right.

  "I saw a big pink hotel as we got off the ferry."

  Tom made a face. "The Princess? Uh-uh. No can do."

  "Why not?"

  "That's where I honeymooned with the first Skank from Hell. No thanks." He shook his head. "I stayed at Elbow Beach my last few times here." Another head shake. "We'll find some other place. You'll have to cover the rooms."

  "Figured that. And everything else, I guess."

  "Not at all. We'll settle up tomorrow as soon as I withdraw my money."

  "After which we head home, right? As in right away."

  Tom gave a thumbs-up. "You got it. I want to get that money back and stashed in the States ASAP. And then you can show me how to disappear."

  WEDNESDAY

  1

  Tom glanced at his watch as he paced the marble floor of the Bermuda Bank and Trust Limited, waiting for Hugh Dawkes. Nine thirty. He wanted to get back to the Sahbon.

  He wore a wrinkled shirt and slacks—the best clothes he'd brought along—and had his backpack slung over his shoulder. The backpack probably wasn't a good touch, but its contents were too precious to leave in the truck.

  The BB&T occupied a pink stucco building on the uphill side of Reid Street in Hamilton. The idea of a pink bank had put Tom off at first, but then this was Bermuda where it was no strange thing to see businessmen—bankers included—dressed for work in a jacket, tie, short pants, and knee socks.

  Dawkes appeared, a slim, silver-haired gent in dark blue jacket and matching Bermuda shorts and knee socks. Tom had made a point of dealing with the same man on every visit he'd made to BB&T. He'd also made a point of calling the Gosling Brothers' store on Front Street and having them send Dawkes a bottle of their 150-proof rum every Christmas. Never knew when you were going to need a favor.

  As they shook hands and exchanged greetings, he sensed tension in Dawkes. Maybe he was having a bad day.

  Tom didn't have much time so he got right to the point.

  "I'll be relocating to the West Coast soon, so I'm afraid I'll have to close out my account."

  Now Dawkes looked even more troubled. "I'm sorry to tell you this, sir, but at this time that will not be possible."

  Tom's stomach did a flip. "Why not?"

  "Your government has been in touch with the hank and… I…"

  With his knees going soft under him, Tom reached for a chair.

  "May I sit down?"

  "Of course, sir."

  "What do you mean 'my government'?"

  "I'm not sure, sir. Some agency approached the bank. The president, Mr. Hickson, dealt with them. He has not seen fit to inform me of the details."

  Dawkes pursed his lips and sniffed, obviously slighted.

  Tom didn't give a shit about this twit's wounded feelings. The feds! The feds had been here!

  "What's the bottom line here, Mr. Dawkes?"

  Dawkes looked embarrassed. "Your account has been frozen, sir."

  Tom leaned back and closed his eyes. This was scary. No, it was beyond scary—this was fucking terrifying. How did they find out about it? How had they connected him to BB&T?

  Chiram… the Sahbons former owner, Chiram Abijah. Had to be him. Probably made a deal and gave up Tom.

  But an even more terrifying question roiled his gut: What else did they know?

  The savings account itself wasn't important. He'd deposited a thousand in it years ago simply to establish himself as a customer. He'd wanted to use a phony name, but the bank required a passport as ID for foreign depositors, and the only passport he'd had was the real thing.

  Although he needed every penny he could get his hands on, he could let the thousand go. His real stash was in the back.

  At least he hoped it was. Tom was almost afraid to ask. He put on a brave face, looked Dawkes in the eye, and…

  "This is most puzzling and disconcerting, Mr. Dawkes. I'll straighten it out immediately when I get home. But at this time I'd like to visit my safety-deposit box."

  Dawkes looked away and Tom's heart almost stopped.

  Oh, no. Oh, shit, don't tell me—

  "I'm afraid that's frozen too, sir."

  Jesus God. Half a million bucks! His fuck-you money. He had to get to it.

  He dug in his pants pocket and found the box key.

  "Just a quick visit? For old time's sake?"

  Dawkes gave a sad shake of his head. "I'm afraid I couldn't do that, sir."

  He held up the key. "Not even as a personal favor?"

  He glanced at Tom, then looked away again. "I'm sorry, sir."

  Tom wanted to throttle him. You ungrateful shit. After all that rum I sent you…

  "But there is something I can do for you, sir…"

  What? What?

  "… and that's to tell you to turn around and walk away from here and don't come back."

  Dawkes's furtive look and lowered voice cut off the stream of choice epithets that leaped to Tom's lips.

  "What are you telling me?"

  "Simply that Mr. Hickson has instructed us to report your presence to him immediately should you show up. I am the only one here at BB and T who knows you by sight, and I will, shall we say, neglect to mention your visit. But I suggest we cut this meeting short before anyone becomes curious as to your identity."

  Tom bolted from the chair and extended his hand. "Thank you, Dawkes. You're a prince."

  A quick shake and he was on his way.

  Shit, shit, SHIT! Now he was fucked—royally fucked. He saw no options. What could he do?

  And then he thought of something. A long shot. A very long shot.

  But he couldn't do it alone. He'd need Jack's help.

  2

  Shock blasted through Jack like an icy wave when Tom told him. Not from the news that his account was frozen, but…

  "The feds know you're here?"

  That meant the feds would also know that Jack was here. A crawly sensation settled on the back of his neck. They could be under surveillance right now.

  They stood on Reid Street, a pair of statues among bustling shoppers and workers. Fleets of motorbikes buzzed by on the street, their dinky engines sounding like a swarm of angry hornets.

  Tom shook his head. "No. The feds have no idea. Otherwise they'd have been waiting for me. Good thing we came in through the back door."

  But obviously they've learned about the account and think I might try to ge
t to it.

  "There's nothing you can do?"

  "No. And I'm lucky the guy in there didn't report me."

  "Yeah, but how do you know he won't change his mind?"

  "He won't. He'd wind up on the hot seat himself for not calling his boss when I showed up." Another head shake. "Shit!"

  "Well, Tom. I'm sorry about this." And he was. "But there's nothing to be done, so let's get the hell out of Dodge."

  "No, wait. There is something to be done. But not about my account."

  "Then what?"

  "The Sombra."

  "Oh no." Jack backed away. "No-no-no-no."

  "Jack, it's a chance—my only chance right now."

  "It's not a chance. It's a pipe dream. Look, I'll lend you money, help you get a new identity. I'll even—"

  "Help me a different way: Help me find the Sombra. Help me find the Lilitongue of Gefreda."

  This was crazy. What was he thinking?

  "Look, Tom, even if I had time to help you—and I don't because I promised Gia I'd be back day after tomorrow—how can two men excavate a sunken ship?"

  "That's exactly how most of those three hundred fifty wrecks were uncovered: by two-man teams. We're not talking the Titanic here. The damn ship was only seventy-five feet long. And excavating is an amazingly simple process."

  "Shoveling sand? Underwater? Are you crazy?"

  Tom smiled. "Underwater, yes. But no shoveling. There's a much easier, better way. You just—"

  "News bulletin: I've never scuba dived. Not once."

  "You're kidding."

  "Never had a need to. Not a frequently called-upon skill in New York."

  "I'll teach you. Nothing to it. We'll only be down about forty feet, so you can learn all you need to know in twenty minutes, tops."

  "I can learn all I need to know in zero minutes because I'm not going."

  "Jack, I need your help on this. I can't do it alone. You promised you'd help."

  "And I will help. But not on a wild goose chase."

  "The ship's there, Jack. I know it. I knew it the first time I laid eyes on the map. And if it contains anything of value, it'll make up for my frozen account."

  "Let's be sensible here. This map's been around for four hundred years and no one decided to go looking for the ship before you?"

  "Well, it was hidden away most of those centuries. And the few who understood it probably figured it was fake."

  Smart folks, Jack thought.

  "Everyone except you."

  "Right. And Wenzel's research confirmed it. He had no interest in the ship; the map itself was his prize. He'd researched it thoroughly and believed whoever had made it was sincere."

  "Crazy people can be sincere. Some of the most sincere people I've ever met have had their receivers off the hook."

  "I won't argue that. But I've been to the spot on the map. Last time I was here I went out with a handheld GPS unit and found it. I dove it. It's a deep sand hole."

  Jack couldn't hide his surprise. "If you've been there already, what do you need me for?"

  "Because I couldn't find it."

  "And you think I will?"

  "We will. I'll bet my butt it broke apart on the reef and what's left of it is still in that hole, covered with sand. And you and I are going to excavate it."

  A perking suspicion bubbled to the surface.

  "Was this your plan all along, Tom?"

  He looked puzzled. "What?"

  "A bait and switch. Do you really have a secret account in there? Or did you make me think I was helping you run some money when all along you wanted to rope me into a sunken treasure dive?"

  Tom raised a hand. "Swear to God, Jack, I absolutely do have a frozen account in that bank."

  "Then why make such a big deal of the map on the trip out?"

  Tom reddened. "I did not make a big deal. I just thought it would interest you." He looked away. "Okay… I suppose I was hoping to pique your interest enough to get you to dive it with me as, you know, a lagniappe. We'd split whatever we found."

  Bullshit or not? Jack could no longer tell truth from fiction with this guy.

  Tom looked at him again. "But we're not talking bonus anymore. We're talking desperate necessity."

  "Tom… no."

  Tom's mouth twisted. "Fine. You want to head home, go to it. But you'll be going without me."

  "What?"

  "And if you leave me here, I'm stuck here. The only way I'll get back to the States will be in handcuffs. I'd hope you wouldn't do that to me."

  "Staying will be your choice."

  "And you—how far do you think you can take the Sahbon without me?"

  Good question. Jack didn't know if he could pilot the boat through the reefs, let alone all the way back to North Carolina. He'd learned enough on the trip out to hazard a try, but couldn't guarantee that the Sahbon wouldn't end up on Bermuda's shipwreck map.

  And if the Bermuda coast guard or whatever they were called had to pull him off the reef, they'd want some ID, they'd want to see his passport.

  Shit.

  Tom's tone shifted from challenging to pleading. "Two days, Jack… two freaking extra days. If we haven't found anything by sundown Friday, we head home. I swear—I swear on Mom's grave."

  Jack could feel himself being backed into a corner.

  An old saying came to mind: No good deed shall go unpunished. Right.

  Never should have come.

  "You've got to take my back on this, Jack. I hate to bring up Dad again—"

  "Then don't."

  "—but I have to. If he were here he'd say, What's two more days in the grand scheme of things if you can help your brother out of the worst jam of his life?"

  Jack knew full well the guilt trip Tom was laying on him, but that didn't make it any easier to shake off.

  Yeah, Dad probably would have wanted him to help Tom get another chance.

  Jack held up his hands in a surrender gesture. He knew he was going to regret this.

  "Okay, okay. If Gia's cool with me gone a couple of extra days, I'll stay. But only till Friday. Not a moment longer."

  Tom sagged against the bank's pink stucco wall. "Thanks, Jack. You don't know what this means to me. I'll owe you the rest of my life."

  Jack didn't want Tom to owe him anything.

  3

  By midday they were ready to get to work.

  Gia hadn't minded his being away two extra days, but she had minded the scuba part. He'd promised he'd be careful.

  After that the rest of the morning had been frenzied activity, starting with hiring one of the local minivan taxis to take them to St. George's Parish. Tom had called around and found a place there that had what they needed.

  The cab dropped them at a salvage company were they picked up a small pickup loaded with a diesel pump and coiled lengths of ribbed plastic hose. The rental charge went on Jack's card.

  A block away they rented two scuba setups: wet suits, vests, weights, air tanks, masks, snorkels, flippers, and regulators. That charge too went on Jack's card.

  Good thing he had a high limit.

  The credit card company regularly offered John Tyleski a higher credit limit. And John, good consumer that he was, kept accepting.

  Then came the harrowing trip in the truck from St. George's at the base of the shaft all the way around to Somerset Parish near the barb on the hook where they'd left the boat.

  The accent wasn't the only thing British about Bermuda. Here too they drove on the wrong side of the road.

  Tom did okay navigating the narrow, two-lane roads in the left lane, saying you adapt pretty quickly. The only time he seemed to have a problem was at the roundabouts. He started to turn right at the first. He was looking left when he should have been looking right. Jack's last-minute warning yell saved them from a head-on with a taxi.

  And Gia had been worried about scuba. The reefs would be a picnic compared to the roads. It might have been off season, but they were busy. No speeding and few passin
g opportunities on these tight strips of asphalt, and no shortcuts—at least none known to nonnatives—on this narrow string of islands.

  The ten-mile trip took almost an hour, but they'd made it.

  Jack immediately started his scuba lessons off the Beresfords' dock.

  Tom had told him it was easy, that they'd be down in that sand hole by midday. Piece of cake.

  Sure. Piece of cake.

  But he had to admit his brother was a good teacher. And Tom had been right about it not being rocket science: Breathe through the mouthpiece, inflate your vest when you want to rise, deflate it when you want to descend. Know how to clear your mask and equalize your ear pressure every three feet or so as you descend.

  In less than an hour he was reasonably functional with the gear and fairly comfortable in the water.

  Jack wondered why no one had ever told him about the wonders of scuba diving. Of course, not many of his acquaintances were the scuba type, and Manhattan wasn't exactly a dive mecca. Still…

  No number of Jacques Cousteau specials or repeat viewings of The Deep could convey the magic of becoming part of the sea habitat, of hanging out with the fish and the mollusks and crustaceans and all the graceful, undulating plants in their own world.

  But it was more than hanging out. It was becoming one with them. To sink beneath the surface and be able to stay there, to float weightless, still, silent, watching. The peace, the serenity, the solitude… like nothing he'd ever experienced.

  He loved it.

  Then they'd boarded the Sahbon and Tom steered them out of the sound and toward the reefs, using his GPS doodad to guide them to the spot that supposedly contained the remains of the Sombra. They'd anchored over a sand hole and suited up.

  "Ready?" Tom said.

  With his skinny arms and legs arrayed around a big gut stretching the neoprene of his hooded wet suit to its tensile limits, he looked ridiculous. All he needed were a couple of Ping-Pong eyeballs and he'd be ready to play one of the aliens in Killers from Space.

  "What if I said no?"

  Sinking beneath the surface off the dock and jumping off a boat eight miles from shore were not quite the same. Not even close. He looked back at the roofs on the islands gleaming in the midday sun.