Night Moves (11 page)

“I’ll be damned,” my visitor whispered.

I shushed him and continued to film.

A week earlier, in my trawl boat, this ray had tumbled from the net along with a flopping heap of pinfish, grunts, grasses, hydroids, puffer fish, plus several sea horses that I needed for a recent order. Stingrays are common on the Gulf Coast and considered a dangerous nuisance by some. At the base of the tail is a venom gland and a modified denticle—a long, serrated barb that’s sharp as an Amazon spear and sheathed with a slime of nerve toxin. Seldom fatal, unless the barb pierces the heart, but the sting is excruciating.

Little is known about stingrays because they live in the scientific shadow of their close relative, the shark. So I was interested. The absence of claspers told me this ray was a female. Her size told me she was sexually mature (males are dwarfs by comparison). Her belly appeared engorged, so I’d taken a chance and brought the ray back to the lab, handling her as carefully as the delicate sea horses. Here, beside the dock, where stingrays came to feed nightly, I’d created a temporary pen that was roomy enough to forage and shallow enough for observation.

Now, one day before the full moon, my interest was being rewarded.

The man knelt beside me. “In the car, I’ve got a waterproof Sony. Slip it inside the netting on a desk tripod and use the remote. You’ll get the underwater angle.”

“Quiet,” I told him. “You’ll spook her.”

Not true. The stingray was lost in the birth process, but I didn’t want his voice cluttering the video I was shooting. Inside the ray’s uterine brood chamber, eggs were now hatching, and the first pup had appeared. I braced the camera against a railing, lifted my head and watched.

Soon, from the uterine vent, something that resembled a roll of pie dough jettisoned free . . . floated downward . . . then, before touching bottom, blossomed into a pair of elegant wings. The wings were a parachute. Beneath them, saltwater was weightless, buoyant. Chemistry sparked some ancient knowledge, and the wings stroked in unison. Then stroked again. Several strokes later, a miniature stingray, no wider than my hand, swam free.

“When I was a kid,” the man told me, “I stepped on one of those and my whole left side went numb. One of the most painful damn things I’ve ever experienced. What about you?”

I have a low tolerance for the pushy types. In a different mood, I might have told him to get the hell off my property, but I was elated by the video of the live birth, so I replied, “When I was wade-fishing once. The woman with me asked why I was crying. I wasn’t, but damn close. Hot water is the only thing that helps—meat tenderizer is useless, even though the poison’s protein-based. Longest stingray barb I ever collected was eight inches.”

“Really,”
he said, interested. “They sell them in shell shops, places like that, but nothing that big.”

“Quiet,” I replied. “Here comes another one.”

The visitor stood, olive brown eyes hopeful as he threw back his golden ponytail. “Like I said, my camera gear’s in the car—I’m a filmmaker. Do we have time?”

“I
don’t have time,” I snapped.

The man was unfazed, which was irritating or to be admired, I hadn’t yet decided. When it was over, five stingray pups were winging the water near an indifferent mother. After confirming I’d gotten footage, I got to my feet, saying, “If you have a business card, maybe tomorrow. I’m busy all day. Sorry.”

It was true. In half an hour, Tomlinson and I were meeting Dan Futch at Punta Rassa on the other side of the causeway. There’s a shallow flat there near the boat ramp, a good spot for a seaplane. Tomlinson’s idea. I had a guess about motives, but he hadn’t explained.

The card my visitor presented said he was
Luke Smith, President
of something called
Adventure World Productions, Tampa, Santa Monica, New York
.

“We do reality adventure,” Smith explained, following me across the deck. “Our Atlantis piece, maybe you saw it? Or the thing we did on hyenas in South Africa? I just spent three weeks in Key West filming the offshore boat races. It’ll be a series on Guys’ Network. Flight 19, though—”

The man tapped my shoulder to ensure my attention, so I stopped and turned.

“—Flight 19 is a project I’ve wanted to do for years. I’m no bullshit amateur looking for a free ride, Dr. Ford. My company’s willing to front expense money. Start with ten grand, say?”

I retrieved his card from my pocket for review, straightened my glasses, then looked north beyond the bay where a miniature plane topped the mangrove rim. A Cessna, so it wasn’t Dan Futch.

“Interesting,” I said, “but I’m already late, Mr. Smith—”

“
Luke.
And your friends call you Doc.” The genial smile reappeared as he offered a hand. “I do my research, Dr. Ford.” The man was fit, confident, and didn’t attempt to crush my fingers when we shook—an asinine gambit that signals a garden variety of male assholishness.

“I’d shoot all the early stuff personally and oversee the whole project once my partner gets involved. But
only
if you’re really onto something. Convince me, and we’d have a hell of a good time, I think. Make a fair chunk of money, too, doing what we love—isn’t that what life’s all about?”

I returned the business card to my billfold, asking, “Who said we found wreckage?”

The genial smile broadened. “Like Jimmy Buffett says, ‘The Coconut Telegraph.’”

“It’s not true.”

“Oh? Well, you can’t blame me for trying. You’re not the first group I’ve approached that’s on the trail of those Avengers. I’m at a local bar in Florida, talking to fishermen? I always bring up the subject.” Smith shrugged in a way that added
So here I am
. “Mostly they’re screwballs—UFO hunters who’ve been probed by aliens, psychics, weirdos. You know the type.”

That caused me to look at
No Más
in time to see Tomlinson appear on deck, soon followed by a man in a Rastafarian hair net with the body of a miniature sumo wrestler.

“Yes, I do,” I said with feeling.

Smith took that as encouragement. “That’s exactly why I’ve got a good vibe about this project—trust me, I’ve been on both ends of a camera. I don’t care what you’re shooting, you have to start with quality talent to end up with quality product in the can.”

Movie jargon, I guessed. Now in the rubber dinghy, Tomlinson and his friend were laughing, but possibly sober, while sumo-man bounced as if testing a trampoline—the Haitian drug dealer, perhaps. Kondo-something, I couldn’t remember—a “witch doctor.” I kept an eye on the two as I continued to listen.

“You’re respected in your field—I’ve even read some of your papers. And your friend Tomlinson’s book. And there’s not a marina in Florida that doesn’t know the name Dan Futch.”

I expected Smith to stress the point one more time and he did, adding, “But it all depends if you’ve actually found those missing planes.”

“We haven’t,” I replied, which only convinced the man we had. He raised his eyebrows and gave a knowing grin.

“Trust me, I understand you’ve got to be careful. But why not let me tag along in the early stages of the hunt? Start getting it in the can while we hammer out details.” He motioned toward the parking lot. “I never go anywhere without my gear.” When I failed to respond, the man added, “I’m willing to risk my time and money. What do you have to lose?”

I had been cheery, relaxed, and preoccupied, which is probably why I hadn’t noticed the alarm bells until they suddenly hit max volume. Luke Smith—if that was his name—knew our plans for the day. Had somehow found out that we were flying to the Everglades and possibly also knew we were to dive a remote creek where the Avenger throttle assembly had been found.

There is a creaky old maxim often repeated but seldom applicable, even more rarely workable:
Keep friends close, enemies closer.

The maxim applied now.

“Are you staying on the island?” I asked.

“I can.”

I shook my head. “No need. This afternoon we’re just reconfirming landmarks. I’ll talk to my partners and see what they think. Can I call tonight?”

“Landmarks,” Smith echoed, fascinated. “Sure. My cell number’s on the card.”

“Just to be safe,” I smiled, “why not dial me now? That way, if your card gets soaked, I’ll have it in my contacts.”

Soaked.
I watched the word register. My visitor translated the implication, then covered his tracks, saying, “Sure. Can’t tell you how many times my billfold’s gone through the washing machine.” But then hesitated, hand on a pocket that contained his mobile phone. I could see the outline.

“How ’bout I call from the car,” he suggested. “What’s your number?”

It was a long shot, but I’d guessed right—Smith had two phones. He didn’t want me to know his personal number. Enough Third World countries have cell towers that, in recent years, I had employed the same cloaking strategy while traveling on assignment.

My stilthouse has a tin roof. I gestured and used the roof as leverage. “Reception sucks in there.” Then pointed at his pocket to block any more excuses. “So why not call now?”

—

W
HEN
HE
HAD
GONE,
I finally did what I should have done two days ago.

Alone in my lab, I went to a steel cabinet, dialed the padlock combination, and opened the door. Inside were the few Schedule III drugs used in my work, a couple of notebooks, and also a military SATCOM phone. It was a much smaller version of the iridium transceiver it had replaced.

I entered a security code, touched my thumb to the screen to verify user access, then told the thing, “Call Donald Cheng.” My vocal signature matched the voiceprint, so the connection was made.

Cheng works for an intelligence agency that operates worldwide, but is based in our nation’s largest unnamed city. I greeted my old friend. “It’s in the low eighties here. You still got snow in Maryland?”

Our conversation lasted all of two minutes while I provided the details necessary to preface the question I posed to Cheng: Was somebody gunning for me? Had a foreign agency or a terrorist cell issued orders to kill me?

As I signed off, the dog appeared at the screen door, his wolfish eyes mildly interested. Let him in, fine, or he could watch fish from the deck, no big deal. A dozen times already the dog had leaped over the railing in pursuit of a passing dolphin or a school of mullet. He was dry for the first time in an hour, so I let him in, and he tagged along while I packed a few things and made a second call:

“Dial Bernie Yeager,” I told the transceiver.

Bernie, among other things, is an expert on Internet systems and computer warfare and a legend among the elite few who do similar work. As a young man, he became a secret star by unscrambling the Soviet nuclear sub code progression. It was Yeager who discovered that the Mossad had the cipher key to transmissions between the U.S. and Panama, compliments of a Mossad agent named Michael Herrera. Incredibly, Herrera was put in charge of the Panamanian air force by dictator Manuel Noriega. Find a photograph of the former dictator in uniform. Note the inverted paratrooper wings of the Israeli army—an honor bestowed on Noriega by a grateful nation.

All true.

We are old friends, Bernie and I, and the man was eager to help even though he is semiretired and living in Scottsdale. As always, though, he was also eager to talk.

“Another time, Bernie,” I told him. “I’ve got a plane to catch,” then repeated the same question I had posed to Cheng.

“Such a pal, always too busy!” Yeager chided. “So what president’s wife are you sleeping with now? Just name the country, and I’ll put two and two together. Sovereign nations don’t terminate fishmongers without a reason. That is my personal experience.”

“Bernie,” I said patiently, “there’s some other information I could use. Nothing to do with the intelligence community, so it’s a little out of your line. There’s a guy who calls himself Luke Smith, says he’s a filmmaker. If you can find something on him, great.”

“
If
I can find it, he says! In my heart, such a stabbing pain I felt just now, you wouldn’t believe.” I heard a sound that might have been Yeager tapping his phone against a desk before he returned, saying, “Hello . . . hello? Operator, I think we have a bad connection. I was talking with a friend who only calls to ask favors, then insults me!”

I laughed, but was also aware that Bernie sounded more frail than the last time we had spoken. The man was right. It had been too long since I had called simply to trade stories and catch up. There are certain people in our lives who are so powerfully linked by events, or chemistry, that we are lulled into believing contact is unimportant. These rare few, it seems, are always there, close at hand, their presence unaffected by distance or the passage of time.

By the age of forty, most of us have learned that this is not true.

So I told Bernie Yeager to block out an hour, if he was willing, and I would call about ten-ish, Arizona time. “I’ve got at least one joke guaranteed you’ve never heard. And a story about an ambassador in a certain South American country you won’t believe, but you’ll love it. Oh, and there’s something else”—I was seated, the retriever beside me—“I’ve got another mystery going. But this one’s fun.”

Bernie was delighted. And also touched, I could tell. But he couldn’t let me off the phone without offering his usual advice. “Move here, get out of that terrible business now! Are you listening to me? Make friends with the cactus and the old women with their shopping carts. Pushy old broads, but at least they’ve stopped getting their periods! And sidewalks so hot, my god, why bother? But Marion, I tell you this—Scottsdale is better than a bullet in the head from some putz in a turban.”

Through the south windows, beyond the mangroves, I could see Tomlinson and his sumo-shaped friend talking with Mack. I had questions for Mack, too, questions about the Stiletto—go-fast boats, they are often called—but they would have to wait.