Deep Devil (The Deep Book 4)

by Nick Sullivan

  Boone took the phone. “This is Boone Fischer.”

  “Hello, Mr. Fischer. I have been looking at your website. You are the owner of Bubble Chasers Diving, yes?” The voice had a light accent that Boone was unable to place.

  “Umm… co-owner… you were just talking to my partner.”

  “Oh, well, since I have you… I was wondering if we might charter a dive with you tomorrow.”

  Boone looked up at Emily. “Tomorrow? It’s a bit short notice…”

  Emily shrugged, noisily sucking up the last of her mango margarita through a straw.

  The voice continued. “Of course, and please forgive my rudeness, calling so late and so last minute. We just arrived this afternoon and we’re only here for a few days. I’ve read your Tripadvisor reviews and you are highly recommended.”

  “Well, we aim to please, Miss…?”

  “My name is Lyra. Please, I simply must dive tomorrow. I can pay double your rate for the inconvenience.”

  Boone’s eyebrows shot up and Emily leaned in, her expression saying, “What?”

  Boone rubbed his fingers and thumb together, signaling money. “That’s very generous, thank you… and I believe we can accommodate you. How many are you?”

  “Just two. My sister and I.”

  “Only two? We usually charter for a minimum of four divers...”

  “Oh… well then, how about we pay as if we are twelve. Would that be acceptable?”

  Boone briefly thought of protesting that was too much, but he sensed this person would never miss it. “That’s very generous, thank you. I’m assuming you’ve dived before?”

  “Yes. We are ssi certified.”

  “Scuba Schools International, good. I’ll need you to bring your logbooks and certification cards. Do you need to rent any equipment?”

  “No thank you, we have everything we need.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  The voice on the phone hesitated. “We… we are staying near the southern cruise ship piers. But we can come to you. We have access to a car. Where is your boat?”

  “It’s actually in a marina just south of there. Marina Fonatur.” Boone spelled the name out for her. “There’s parking just beyond the traffic circle. We’re on Pier 4, down at the end. Boat’s name is the Lunasea.”

  Their new client laughed—a very appealing sound, almost melodious. “I like that name.”

  “We’re quite fond of it too. We like to leave early. Would you be able to get there at eight?”

  “Uhm… one moment.” Boone could hear her speaking to someone else, and a groan and a sigh were quite audible. Lyra came back on the line. “Yes, we will be there at eight,” she said with finality.

  “Great! We’ll see you then.”

  “You will be diving with us, yes? You’re not one of those owners who sits behind a desk?”

  Boone smiled. “Uh… no, I’m not much of a desk type. If the boat’s out, I’m on it. I don’t always dive every dive. We switch off—”

  “But you will dive the dives with us tomorrow.” It was said politely but it wasn’t a question.

  “Sure. You’re paying well. I’ll dive all the dives.”

  “Wonderful! Until tomorrow, Boone.”

  Emily had been watching him intently during the conversation and now she tilted her head to the side. “Well…?”

  Boone handed her the phone back. “I think tomorrow’s going to be an interesting day.”

  “I could get used to this,” Stallion sighed from the hot tub out on the balcony.

  Angler looked over at the man. Stallion was immersed nearly to his chin, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing on the surface of the water like a mooring ball. Angler chuckled inwardly. Nah, not a mooring ball… a golf ball. Looks like he swallowed one but wasn’t entirely successful. Still, Stallion was an expert marksman and Angler was glad to have him on the team. Maybe it’s those bug-eyes of his that makes him such a crack shot. If it weren’t for the man’s epilepsy, Stallion would likely have been a top sniper in any one of the armed services. That being said, Angler had kept a close eye on him when they rappelled down to the ship. That flashing ir strobe their contact had left to mark the entry point could have triggered an episode.

  “Bozhe moi, this vodka is to kill for,” Tolstoy said, smacking his lips. The Russian had made short work of the lock on the minibar and was currently testing a bottle of Chopin Potato Vodka.

  “The phrase is ‘to die for,’ Russkie,” Potluck said from the open door to the balcony. “Oh, jeez, how long do we have to stay cooped up here, eh? I wish we could go out and get some great Mexican food. Bet they do great tacos.” Potluck’s rural Wisconsin accent turned the word into “tack-os.”

  Angler shifted in his seat in the common area. “Our credentials will hold up to a cursory examination, but we have to keep a low profile until we sail again. Our employer was clear about that.”

  “That’s not for three days!”

  “What, you don’t like the service of room?” Tolstoy teased. “You could have made me fool… you order half of menu already.”

  “I’m not the one with the belly, Boris. I exercise.” Potluck turned and flexed. Her tank top did nothing to hide the impressive musculature that leaped to the fore. “Boss, why did we bring this commie?”

  Angler shrugged. “Because he’s good.” And the ex-merc from the Russian military contractor, the Wagner Group, was extremely skilled at hacking and lockpicking—what he jokingly called “digital lockpicking and analog hacking.” A clever turn of phrase, considering how atrocious the man was at English idioms.

  “Nyet, I am not good, I am best. If you need break in to ship systems… or the cabinet of liquor,” he added, waggling the bottle of vodka, “I am the king of the pile.”

  “Yeah, you Russkies are good at hacking,” Stallion said. “Too bad you ain’t as good at fighting.”

  “Pfeh… ask Germans at Stalingrad if we no good at fighting.”

  “Oh, sure, maybe then… but weren’t you in that Russian mercenary group in Syria? Kinda like our Blackwater or kbr… the one our boys blew the crap out of when you came at us? What was it…?”

  “Wag-nur,” Potluck supplied.

  “Vahg-nur,” Tolstoy corrected. “Like German opera composer.”

  “Why is a Russian company named after a German?” Potluck mused.

  “Is long story, not important. But yes, I was there at battle of Kasham.” Tolstoy topped off his shot glass. “We support Syrian Army Unit going after isil fighters but we get too close to United States Special Forces. They call in artillery and airstrikes. But there not be so many casualties as corrupt American media say. And if two minutes more, I be able take control of American Predator drone. Then things be very different.”

  “What happened?” Stallion asked from the hot tub, blinking his bulbous eyes with what appeared to be genuine interest.

  “My transmitter truck destroyed. I am told American ac-130 gunship was vectored onto my signal. I survive, but my leader not want to take blame, so he throw me under the train. Tell superiors we lose because of me.” Tolstoy stared into the shot glass. “Fuck it. My skills wasted in Syria.” He drained the glass. “This job… much better. After this, I will retire.”

  “Same here,” Stallion said. “Hey boss, any idea yet who exactly is paying for this?”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t need to know,” Angler said. “The digital currency is real enough and I was able to access the down payment portion of it with no difficulty. Already shifted it to my Swiss account.”

  “Da, I as well,” Tolstoy said with a yawn. “And I did a little snooping in the code…”

  Angler shot up from the plush chair. “Don’t! He made it very clear that—”

  “Keep your clothing on,” Tolstoy said, raising a calming hand. “I was very careful
, and I was only making sure remainder of currency was legitimate. It is.”

  Angler ground his teeth. “Our employer said that any attempt to discover his identity would make the contract null and void. And there was certainly an implication that further bad things would happen.”

  “I know, I know… I did not dig further. The encryption was top notch, anyway.”

  “Goddammit, Tolstoy, don’t screw this up!” Potluck shouted. “I’m planning to retire after this, too!”

  “Take a pill to chill! Is okay. I cover digital footsteps.”

  “But this room is probably bugged!”

  “Oh, it is.” Tolstoy rose to his feet and walked over to a lamp. “Here…” He moved over to a table. “…and under here. And one in bathroom and one in each bedroom. I redirected their signal to a looping file of room tone. It will sound like we don’t enjoy talk much.”

  Stallion cleared his throat, his Adam’s apple snapping up and back. “Won’t messing with those bugs piss off our employer?”

  “I asked him to do it,” Angler said. “Nothing in our agreement said anything about bugs. We need some control here. Once we put to sea again, we set things in motion and there’ll be no going back. If things go south and the mission’s looking like a soup sandwich, I wanna be able to talk freely about what we’re gonna do about it.”

  Stallion relaxed. “All right. I trust you, boss.” He settled back into the hot, jetting water. “Hey, can we order massages? I think I may have turned my ankle a bit during the insertion.”

  Angler snorted. “Nice try. You’ve been walking fine.”

  “Seems kinda stupid we came in that way. Couldn’t we have just posed as passengers or crew?”

  “Do you have any idea the level of security even a run-of-the-mill cruise ship has? And this one, with its uber-rich clientele… even more so. But now that we’re aboard, Palantir can provide us ids that can piggyback onto existing crew and passengers, once he’s established their routines and patterns. Until then… we stay put.”

  “You get the Mexican Coke?” Emily called out to Boone from aboard the Lunasea.

  Ricardo gave a laugh from the stern. “You know… here, it’s just Coke.”

  “You know what I meant. The one in the glass bottle, with sugar instead of corn syrup.”

  “Well, whatever you call it, I got it,” Boone said as he carried the cooler along the pier to their berth. “I also got that apple soda you like, Ricardo. Plus a few other extras. Figure they’re paying us a pretty penny, might as well have something beyond oranges and soda.”

  “Nothing wrong with a sugary soda and some fruit after a long dive!” Emily remarked.

  “True.” Boone stepped across from the pier, carrying the heavy cooler with ease.

  “What sort of nosh ya get?” Em asked, opening up the cooler to see for herself.

  “Usual apples and oranges, but also some sandwiches, couple salads…”

  “Oh my… Pineapple empanadas for afters! And what’s this, San Pellegrino? You went all out.”

  “For the amount they’re paying, we can splurge. Whatever’s left, Ricardo can give to Lupe.”

  “What an excellent plan,” Ricardo offered. “I approve.”

  Emily went up to the flybridge to check the gauges while Boone remained below to run through their checklist. He started up the ladder, popping his head above the top rung. “Hey Em, do we have any—?”

  “Oh, you have got to be kidding,” she interrupted.

  “What?”

  Em looked down at him, her face a mix of amusement and bewilderment. “Our charter guests have arrived.”

  Boone came up the rest of the way and joined her at the wheel. Strolling down the pier were two figures that were immediately familiar to him. One was tall, dressed in a flowing beach kimono decorated in cherry blossoms, her jet-black hair stark against the sheer, white silk. She walked with grace, despite the sizeable gear bag slung over one shoulder. A coral-colored bikini and lightly tanned flesh made occasional forays into the sunlight as she walked. Beside her, in a simple beach tunic and floppy hat, was the other woman from yesterday’s sighting aboard the Apollo. She carried a gear bag as well, and walked with a plodding determination. She was shorter than the other woman, though nowhere near as altitude-challenged as Emily.

  “Well, Booney, you were right.” Em looked up at him with a smirk tickling the corners of her mouth, dimpling one cheek. “This will be an interesting day.” One eyebrow rose above her big green sunglasses.

  Boone looked down at her. “Uh…” Nothing else came out. The sounds of the marina filled the silence: the creaking of lines, the jingling of fasteners, and the thumps of fenders and hulls near constant in the morning air.

  Em laughed. “Better let me do the dive orientation, if that’s the maximum level of conversation you’re able to muster.”

  Boone recovered and stepped to the portside rail of the flybridge, overlooking the pier.

  The raven-haired woman spotted him and her face lit up. She waved with her free hand. “Ahoy, the boat!” she called out, a delicate accent rising on the sea breezes.

  “Ahoy, the shore!” Boone called back. “You’ve got some nautical lingo, I see!”

  “I should hope so—our family is in the maritime business.” She reached the Lunasea and set down her bag. “Mr. Fischer… I hope it is all right that we are a little ahead of schedule. You said you liked to leave early, and my sister managed to arise on time, for once.”

  “And I’ve had my coffee and a bowel movement, too,” the sister said, deadpan. “I’m batting a thousand.” The woman didn’t have the lilting accent of her taller sister—in fact, she sounded a bit like a petulant American teen, although her age was difficult to determine.

  Em pushed in alongside Boone. “Hi, I’m Emily Durand, co-owner of Bubble Chasers.”

  “Hello, Emily. My name is Lyra Othonos, and this is Calypso.”

  “Callie’s fine,” the sister mumbled.

  “One sec,” Boone said, scrambling down the ladder before crossing to the gunwale. “Can I take your gear?” he asked, stepping across to the pier.

  “No, not yet,” Lyra said rather abruptly. She looked back up the pier. “Where is he?” she muttered.

  Callie half-turned, her quiet voice now ramping up to a bellow. “Nicholas!”

  Just ashore from the pier, a young man in slacks and a powder blue shirt looked up from a cell phone. Boone had just assumed he was a boat owner. The man raised a finger, continuing his call.

  Callie turned all the way around to face shore. “Whoever that is can wait. Get your butt over here if you want to interrogate our charter! We’re not going to wait all day!”

  “I apologize for this,” Lyra said. “Our brother is rather protective, and he wanted to meet you before we boarded.”

  “Oh, that’s all tickety-boo,” Em said from the portside rail of the flybridge. “I’m all in favor of protective siblings.”

  Callie gave her a look, but went back to gesturing at Nicholas, who had finally stowed his phone and now headed toward them.

  Boone thought there was something odd about the man’s gait. “Your brother not interested in diving?” he asked.

  “Oh, he enjoys diving and I’m sure he would like to,” Lyra said, “but he said his leg was bothering him today. He had an accident, I’m afraid.”

  It’s a prosthesis, Boone thought. Still, Nicholas seemed to be walking with confidence, and soon reached them.

  “I’m sorry, business call. Dealing with an issue at the pier.” He held out his hand and Boone took it. “I’m Nicholas Othonos. You’re Mr. Fischer?”

  “Yes. Boone. How d’ya do?”

  “Fine, thank you. Sorry for the formality, but it’s something I need to do.”

  Callie snorted a disgusted laugh. “My brother lives for this sort of thing.�
�

  “Callie…” Lyra warned. “He’s just being careful.”

  Nicholas seemed unfazed by the exchange. “It’s required for insurance purposes and board oversight, as my sisters and I are all chief operating officers of Olympus Cruises. I researched your operation, and it appears you are quite popular. No record of any accidents.” He fished his phone back out of his pocket and tapped the screen. “Just a few quick questions…”

  He proceeded to run down a list, asking about medical training, oxygen on board, their radio, and access to hyperbaric chambers. Boone answered each in turn. Nicholas seemed satisfied and replaced the phone. “Our vessel has a helicopter, in the event there is an accident. Lyra and Callie both know how to call for it…”

  “What if we both drown?” Callie said, smiling at Nicholas.

  Nicholas sighed, looking away from her. “May I meet the rest of your crew?”

  Boone gestured to Ricardo, who stepped across to the pier to shake hands with Nicholas. “This is Ricardo Pérez, dive instructor and co-owner of Bubble Chasers. He’s been diving in Cozumel since he was a teen. And Emily is…” He turned back to the boat. “She was right here. Em?”

  Emily came into view, coming up from the head. “Sorry, was in the loo.” She hopped across and stuck out her hand, a shining smile on her face.

  Nicholas seemed momentarily thrown. Boone recognized the look—he’d seen it on plenty of men when they got a glimpse of Emily Durand. It was probably plastered on his own face, two or three times a day. Probably this morning back at the condo, come to think of it… when Emily had stepped out of the bathroom sporting a new green-and-white striped tank top and white shorts, her hair done up in side braids that merged at the back.

  Emily continued to smile at Nicholas and reoffered her hand. “I did wash it,” she teased.

  He blinked, interrupting the stare that was threatening to take over, and reached to take her hand. “Forgive me. Nicholas Othonos.”