by Scott Cook
“Yes…” Bausch mused, “Woefully inadequate charts. No bathymetric studies have been done, obviously. Typical American laziness. However, I believe this area will serve our plans, Einsvo.”
“And those are?” Yohan dared to ask. He was the executive officer, after all.
Bausch looked up at him with a wry smile touching his lips, “You haven’t guessed? I’m disappointed, Yohan.”
“What I do know,” Verschmidt replied, ignoring the sneer, “is that we’ll be in sixty meters or less of water with a submarine tracking us that can fire five torpedoes to our one, under present conditions.”
“Can he?” Bausch asked with that half-sneer still on his unattractive face. Yohan longed to wipe it off for him, “he fired at us already, Einsvo… with only two torpedoes. And missed. Doesn’t that suggest anything to you?”
As a matter of fact, it did. But Yohan was hesitant to say anything, although his face must have given him away. Bausch laughed unpleasantly.
“If he had a full spread loaded,” Bausch said, “The American would have fired all six of his forward tubes. He would’ve had to because we were already diving!”
Yohan resigned himself. Bausch may have been an arrogant prick, but he did know his job, “They either only had two fish loaded… or they only have six torpedoes left and didn’t want to waste them all.”
“Precisely,” Bausch said with evident self-satisfaction, “My guess is that he has no more than four torpedoes in his forward tubes… and possibly less. And remember, Einsvo, they do not home. Unlike our T5.”
“Kapitan!” A crewman reported from the batho thermograph, “We’re losing the salt layer. Water ahead all appears to be isothermal.”
Yohan frowned and looked back at Bausch. The self-appointed captain grinned wickedly, “Excellent. Then we’re guaranteed that he won’t lose us.”
“You don’t want to evade?” Yohan asked.
Bausch tapped the chart at the point where he made his mark, “You still don’t see my plan, Einsvo?”
Yohan was starting to hate that name. He gazed at the chart for a moment and then nodded, “An ambush. You’ll keep us at this depth until the bottom rise, then rise with it. When you find suitable topography, you’ll bottom us and wait for the American to lose us in the acoustic noise and pass overhead.”
“Right,” Bausch said, rubbing his hands together, “Then we rise up behind him and shoot. He’ll never even hear our fish coming.”
“Active pinging!” A sonar tech shouted.
Yohan went over and examined the sound gear and waterfall display, “The American is three thousand meters astern, possibly at same depth. Range is decreasing… looks like he’s increased to eight knots.”
“He thinks he’s got us,” Bausch said, “Let him get closer. When he’s within one thousand meters, increase speed to fifteen knots. That should get us to our waypoint in just over four hours.”
“But that’ll leave the American far behind,” Yohan said, “if your plan is to keep him coming…”
“Then he’ll have to surface,” Bausch said, “In order to keep up. That’ll make tracking us that much harder. If he stays surfaced, then when he loses us, our torpedoes will be able to find him that much more effectively. This fool is doing exactly what I want him too, Einsvo! Walking straight into our trap.”
Chapter 16
The staff at the Lee Vista Animal Hospital was nearly as shocked as I had been when I found Morgan. I carried him into the clinic, the whole way feeling like I was wading through mud, or in one of those dreams where you try and run but can’t move fast enough.
I explained what happened, handed over a large zip lock baggie with the hamburger and package remnants and asked them to find out what the cause was. I knew, of course, but wanted to be absolutely certain.
There really was only one possibility. Foster, Brody or both had probably sent one of their flunkies over to my house and threw a nice fresh 5 Guys bag over the fence after taunting my dog. Morgan, being the burger lover he is… was… couldn’t help himself and inspected the treat.
It was a message. I refused to help them and they were telling me that there were consequences. They were right… only they’d be the ones who suffered the consequences… and suffering was exactly what I had in mind.
I drove too fast back downtown and screeched to a stop in front of Foster’s building. I didn’t find a parking space. I didn’t care. I simply put the Jeep in park along the curb on Central and stalked into the lobby.
I had the good sense not to carry a gun with me. I was more than a little convinced that if I had my Colt 1911 in reach, I might use it. I could do plenty of damage with my fists.
I entered the reception area of the Foster agency and made a bee line for his office. The receptionist from earlier looked up and opened her mouth to say something but stopped when she saw whatever was written across my face.
“Mr.… Jarvis…” She stammered as I blew past her, “Mr. Foster isn’t quite…”
I ignored her and grabbed the inner office door knob. It was locked. I laughed a low and humorless laugh. I stepped back and sent the heel of my shoe smashing into the knob. The force of my kick snapped the hasp and sent the door flying inward so hard it slammed up against something behind it and I heard glass shatter.
“Jarvis…!” Foster croaked as he rocked back in his chair holding his office phone.
“Yeah Jarvis,” I said, advancing on him, “Where’s Brody.”
“What the hell—“
I snatched the phone’s base unit off the desk and yanked the cord out and flung it across the room. The base and handset, which had been jerked from Foster’s hand, slammed into a framed photo. The glass shattered and then picture, frame and what was left of the phone dropped to the thick carpeting.
I barreled around the desk, grabbed Foster by his expensive suit jacket lapels and hoisted him out of his chair, swung him around and slammed him into the wall behind the desk. Four or five more framed photos fell to the lushly carpeted floor.
“Where… is Brody!” I roared.
I could see his shock was fading and it looked like anger was about to replace it. Foster was no softy, as I’d noted the day before. He was a military hardened man who probably wouldn’t fold easy.
So much the better.
“You better explain yourself,” Foster said, his face starting to redden. I could feel his muscles bunching beneath my fists.
“This morning,” I barely managed not to growl, “Henry Lambert was attacked by four gunmen. They shot up his house and dammed near got him, his assistant and me. Then I go home… I go home… and somebody poisoned and murdered my dog… you hear me ! Little message from the other team, huh? Is this that regret you talked about earlier, fuck face!?”
I was leaning in hard, pushing him against the wall and making it clear I wouldn’t tolerate any bullshit. Like him defending himself. His eyes went wide and his mouth opened.
“Oh, you don’t know anything about it, right?” I growled, “Its news to you, right? Just so happens you’ve been spying on me and Audrey Lambert and her grandfather for days now. It just so happens I took out a goddamned drone over my house this morning, right? You ask me to join your little team and I refuse and suddenly the shit hits the fan, right?”
“Jarvis, you’ve got this all wrong—“
“Really?” I hollered at him. My anger, which had dulled somewhat thanks to the driving and the sadness, was now beginning to bloom like a red mist before my eyes. I was finding that it was taking a real effort not to start swinging, “Both you and Brody threatened me. He did it in my office and you made that crack this morning. So if you’re gonna stand there and lie to me, don’t waste your breath. Now where is the son of a bitch!”
“Stand down, sir!” Came a gruff voice from behind me.
I didn’t know who it was, but I knew they had the drop on me. I didn’t care. I simply leaned in close to Foster and glared.
“Move away from Mr. Fost
er, sir!” Came the demanding voice again.
I heard something, wasn’t sure what it was. It wasn’t a semi-automatic slide being racked, but it was something hand held. I realized too late what was probably being pointed at me. I lunged sideways, spinning to face the door.
Two men stood in it, both dressed in suits and ties. Each man held something squarish in their hands that puffed as they shot electrically charged darts in my direction.
One of the hooked projectiles punched through my shirt and snagged on the skin of my abdomen as quite a sizable electric charge sizzled through my body. My muscles seized and I toppled backward into the wall, knocking more of Foster’s memorabilia to the carpeting. As I spasmed and twitched helplessly, the only consolation I had was the sight of Greg Foster writhing on the floor beside me, having been hit by friendly fire.
“Is he conscious?”
“I don’t think so. The Taser and the drug should keep him unconscious for several hours yet.”
Ha! I could hear this conversation, although it did sound like it was coming from behind a closed door at the end of a hallway. A very long hallway… however, if whoever it was thought I was still out of it, maybe I’d learn something…
Of course, I had no idea where I was, or even that I was. I couldn’t feel anything. The only sense I had was that I could hear this seemingly distant and disjointed conversation. Also that I recognized at least one of the voices.
“Let’s bring him around,” Said the first voice I’d heard. I was almost certain that this was Jack Brody.
“It is risky,” Said the other person, a woman this time. Her voice was low, but distinctly feminine. Her words sounded almost musical in her strong Middle Eastern accent, “He was given a larger than recommended dose.”
A chuckle, “Why? He wasn’t going anywhere.”
A corresponding chuckle, “A man with such a physique tends to recover quickly.”
“Good, then he’ll be okay with the counter agent,” Brody said, “Wake him.”
“Yes, Imani, I agree. Please administer the antidote.”
This last voice was another man. This one spoke in a deep gruff baritone enriched with a heavy Arabic accent as well. This voice had a note of power and authority in it.
There was a pause and suddenly reality seemed to reassert itself. I felt the pull of gravity and the feeling of a soft bed beneath me. I smelled fresh carpeting and paint mixed with the artificial sterility of recycled air. On top of this was the feeling of a soft cool hand on my cheek and forehead.
“Are you with us, Mr. Jarvis?” the very pleasant female voice asked from close to my ear. A hint of some exotic perfume tickled my nose, “Can you open your eyes?”
I groaned, “I… do I want to? What will I see?”
“The world and all its beauty,” The woman said with a light chuckle.
I had to rally my strength but managed to open the lids, heavy though they seemed. At first, I could see nothing specific, just something white above me. The lighting in the room was low, though, because as I slowly turned my head, I could see details cast in soothing light and deep shadow.
The most prominent detail was that of a strikingly lovely face close to mine. The woman’s heart shaped face was framed in silky raven hair that glistened with the reflection of what must be the only light in the room. Her finely arched brows curved elegantly over a pair of hazel eyes that seemed to shimmer with golden light. Her cheekbones were high and her lips full.
“You’re right,” I managed to croak, “Beauty indeed.”
The lips smiled and the eyes flicked away from mine for a second to peer at someone to my right. The eyes met mine again, “How do you feel?”
“I’m not quite sure,” I said, smiling, “why don’t you feel me and let us both know.”
The smile again and it met her eyes, “Mr. Al-Rajid, I think he’s with us.”
I heard Brody scoff, “If I woke up to see you gazing down at me, Imani, I think I’d be alert as well.”
“Thank you, Ms. Tarifa,” Mr. Al-Rajid replied more formally, “Please leave us now.”
The lovely face vanished from my point of view. However, the soft but strong female hands moved behind my head, placing a pillow beneath me so that I was more upright. I could better see my surroundings then.
Imani Tarifa stood next to me wearing a simple semi-conservative dress. Although not intended to be revealing, the dress revealed a dancer’s figure. Slim, taught muscled with small but perky breasts. She wore a diamond pendant on a gold choker around her long and sleek neck.
I could also see that I was in a small bedroom. On either side of the full sized bed were night tables with small lamps. Directly ahead of me was a dresser and a large flat panel TV mounted to the wall above. Next to this was what looked like a small closet. On the wall to my left was a tinted oval window. To my right was a door on the opposite wall.
Standing next to the door was Jack Brody, dressed in jeans and a hoody sweatshirt. Next to him, sitting in a folding chair was a middle-aged Middle Eastern man dressed in a navy blue track suit that looked expensive.
The Arabic man had curly black hair shot through with silver as did his beard and mustache.
“Shouldn’t you like me to monitor him?” Imani asked.
“That won’t be necessary,” Al-Rajid said, “You may return to your laboratory. I’ll call you if we need you. Thank you.”
The lithe woman, who was perhaps in her mid-thirties, nodded at me and made her way past Brody into a corridor beyond.
A large boat or a ship. That must be where I was.
“I’m sure you have many questions, Mr. Jarvis,” The Arab stated.
“Many,” I said. I noticed that I was lying on top of the comforter and was not in any way restrained, which I found interesting, “I like your doctor. Although I’m surprised you allow her to show herself so freely.”
Rajid chuckled, “old ways, Mr. Jarvis. Imani and I are from Dubai. She’s a free woman and a valued colleague. I don’t practice those ancient customs.”
I nodded, “You’re… consort? Girlfriend?”
“My assistant,” Al-Rajid replied, “One of several. A marine biologist and oceanographer. Invaluable to Mr. Brody and myself.”
“Uh-huh,” I replied wittily. Well, under the circumstances, I had to start some place.
Brody laughed sardonically, “Planning on making a pass, Jarvis?”
I shrugged, “Could you blame me if I were?”
Al-Rajid threw back his head and roared with laughter, “I could not! And as much as it might surprise you, Mr. Jarvis, she’s not my woman. She’s what do you say… a… free agent. Yes, that’s very good.”
I eyed Brody, “Not yours, either, huh? Interesting.”
“That’s what you want to know?” Brody asked.
“No,” I said, “I’d like to know where the Christ… or should I say where in the name of Allah… am I? What do you want and what do you want with me?”
“Understandable questions,” Al-Rajid said, “Let us begin by foregoing the formality. Please call me Jibreel. What we want is your help, Scott… may I call you Scott?”
“My help!?” I exclaimed, sitting more upright and feeling a slight wave of vertigo, “Are you shitting me? After what happened this morning… this morning? Is it still today? How long have I been out?”
“It’s nearly seven in the evening,” Jibreel Al-Rajid said, “You’ve been with us only a few hours.”
“From what I heard,” Brody added, “You were about to rip Greg Foster in half when they put the plugs in ya’. So what do you mean, ‘after this morning?’”
“You’re kidding, right?” I asked, my anger from earlier, which had been forgotten… or more accurately probably dulled by whatever drug they’d used to keep me out, came flooding back. Images of hustling Hank Lambert away from his dock as rifle shots boomed all around and that one horrible image of my beautiful black Doberman lying inert in my yard sent a flush of heat into my face, “You�
�re gonna stand there, Brody, and claim you don’t know anything about the attack on Lambert this morning? Or about… about my dog?”
Brody and Al-Rajid looked at each other and then back at me. Brody wore a crooked smile and Al-Rajid a frown.
“We heard about the attack at Lambert’s place,” Brody said, “It was all over the news.”
“We know nothing of your dog,” Al-Rajid said in what sounded like genuine confusion. I wasn’t convinced, of course, “What are you talking about? You blame us for these things?”
“Somebody poisoned my dog,” I said angrily, “No doubt the same person who had a spy drone over my house and who has been keeping careful tabs on Audrey Lambert and myself. Yes, Mr. Al-Rajid, I blame you, Brody and Foster. Where is the prick, anyway?”
“Brody actually laughed, “You think we did all that shit? Why, because you didn’t agree to work for me? What kind of assholes do you take us for, Jarvis?”
“The kind that will go to great lengths to protect their interests,” Al-Rajid said thoughtfully, “And who would do exactly what Mr. Jarvis is suggesting in order to stay ahead in this race in which we find ourselves… or at least that’s how it would appear.”
Brody rubbed his chin thoughtfully, “Hmm… good point. Who else would attack Lambert and go after Jarvis’ dog… who else but us. A setup.”
I rubbed at my temples to try and clear the vestiges of the drug-induced cobwebs, “So you deny any involvement. You’re not the ones who set up that hit on Lambert or who poisoned my dog?”
“No,” Al-Rajid said flatly.
I scoffed, “Which is exactly what I’d expect you to say, of course. So who did? Did Audrey Lambert try and kill her grandfather and poison my pup? Or maybe Lambert’s Cuban house boy?”
“This we do not know,” Al-Rajid admitted, “But I swear on Allah that it was not anyone associated with us. I do suspect, however, that other parties may now be aware of what both we and Lambert are after. I would not at all be surprised if Mossad agents were behind these disreputable acts.”
