Snake Eye (23 page)

It was cold and foggy as Dexter pulled into the Mukilteo ferry dock, paid the fare, and followed the car in front of him into lane two. A ferry had arrived ten minutes earlier and steel
clanged as a stream of vehicles passed over the ramp. Most of the early morning traffic consisted of people commuting to jobs on the mainland. As for the folks headed in the opposite direction, that was a little more difficult to figure out. But, judging from the trucks that were lined up ahead of him, Dexter assumed they were transporting goods to small towns like Clinton, Langley, and Coupeville, which was where the ex-SEAL was headed.

It was a crazy idea, no a
stupid
idea, but one which would get him out of town and away from the press. Something he very much wanted to do, especially in the wake of the disastrous confrontation with Christina. It had been a mistake to wait for her and follow her into the restaurant. What he needed to do was accept the fact that the relationship with Rossi was over and put the whole thing behind him.

And he had, except that he hadn’t. Because truth be told, the entire trip up to Coupeville and Ebey’s Landing was part of a boyish fantasy in which he would locate the
Zhou Spring
, prove that the wreck had been equipped with an underwater habitat, and thereby secure Rossi’s forgiveness—all of which was not only patently absurd, but pathetic.

The sudden blare of a horn, plus the realization that the car in front of him was halfway to the ferry, caused Dexter to hurriedly start the Toyota’s engine and pull ahead. There was the usual bump, thump, and
clangs
the 4-Runner came down off the metal ramp, followed by a turn to the right as a uniformed crewman directed the businessman up onto a slightly elevated deck.

After the relatively short trip across the water, and a pleasant drive through partially wooded farmland, Dexter entered Coupeville, a small but picturesque town that attracted numerous tourists during the summer but was pleasantly empty during the winter months. From there it was a ten-minute drive to the western shore of Whidbey Island and the stretch of beach called Ebey’s Landing. There were only two vehicles in the parking lot at the foot of the bluff, a white Subaru with California plates and an old but well-maintained pick-up with a camper on the back.

Dexter pulled in about ten feet away from the truck, got out, and took a moment to enjoy the sharp tang of the sea. The SUV’s cargo compartment was full of diving gear. Some of it, like his mask, snorkel, and weight belt had been purchased while in college, but the rest of the equipment had been acquired shortly after he had been discharged from the Navy. The entire notion of proving himself had been important back then, but after some successful dives, he gradually lost interest in the sport as the apartment house claimed more and more of his time. Now, as the ex-SEAL began to organize his gear, he realized that more than a year had passed since he had last put it on. A terrier came racing in from the north, skidded to a stop, and barked. “He won’t bite,” Hank Stan ton said reassuringly, as he rounded the back end of his camper.

“Good,” Dexter replied, as he bent over to pat the dog on its head. “He looks pretty vicious.”

Stanton laughed and extended his hand. “I’m Hank Stanton.”

“Jack Dexter.”

“Pleased to meet you, Jack. It looks like you’re going SCUBA diving.”

“Yup,” the businessman replied agreeably. “We’ll have a slack tide in thirty minutes or so. I thought I’d go out and take a look around.”

“Sounds like fun,” the ex-trucker allowed solemnly. “But be careful out there.”

The words had a slightly ominous ring, which caused Dexter to examine his new acquaintance a little more carefully. He was dressed in a Mariners ball cap, a heavy-duty parka, and jeans. Judging from his face Stanton was in his late sixties or early seventies. His eyes were penetratingly blue, and based on the intelligence that the ex-naval officer saw there, he knew the other man was no fool. “It’s always a good idea to be careful when diving,” the ex-SEAL agreed mildly, “but did you have something special in mind?”

“Oh, nothing in particular,” the older man responded vaguely. “But you should keep an eye out for boats. There’s some pretty decent fishing out there, or that’s what they tell me, so it’s a rare day when you don’t see at least one boat off-shore. Here, take a look.” Stanton removed a small pair of binoculars from a pocket and handed them over.

Dexter brought the instrument to his eyes, panned the area directly offshore, and saw what he knew to be a C-Dory sixteen-foot fishing boat. It had a cabin forward, lots of open deck in the stern, and was equipped with a large outboard motor. Two fishing rods had been deployed but no people were visible. “It looks like they specialize in remote-control fishing,” the ex-SEAL observed dryly.

“Yeah,” Stanton agreed. “Maybe that’s why they never catch anything.”

Once again the other man’s words had an edge to them, or so it seemed to Dexter, but it was difficult to be sure. Stanton and his dog departed soon after that, leaving Dexter to don his custom-made DUI drysuit, tank mount, and emergency life vest. His mask, snorkel, and flippers completed the load. Thanks to the drysuit, he could wear his regular prosthesis and that made everything easier.

Once the ex-SEAL had geared up and locked the rest of his possessions into the truck he had to make his way through a maze of driftwood and across a rocky beach before arriving at the water’s edge. Then, having paused for a moment, he waded out into the cold water. The tide was slack, and there was a minimal amount of wind, which meant that the incoming waves could easily be dealt with. Dexter turned his back to them, gave thanks for the relative warmth of the drysuit, and ran his final checklist.

Then, having found everything to his liking, the ex-SEAL unlocked the Activankle that joined the upper part of his prosthesis to his foot. That made it possible for him to swivel his foot into a hyperextended “point” position and lock it in place. With that accomplished it was a simple matter to pull both fins into place and turn to face the waves. The plan called for him to snorkel out to the point where the
Zhou Spring
had gone down before using any tank air. Though slower than he had been back in his Navy days, the ex-SEAL made good progress and found that he enjoyed the exercise.

Dexter could see the bottom at first, but it wasn’t long before the starfish-covered rocks were lost in the encroaching gloom, and he was left to stare down into the gray-green depths. There were occasional fish, cruising the edge of the darkness, but nothing of any size. It was tempting to aim his lamp downwards, but the ex-naval officer knew he would need the device if he found the wreck, which meant it was important to conserve power. By monitoring his dive console, which consisted of two gauges and a compass, the businessman could navigate without having to raise his head. The occasional peek made sense however, especially since he was diving without benefit of a support craft, and it would be difficult for boaters to see him. A quick check revealed that the C-Dory he’d seen earlier was no longer in the area—and that was a relief.

Ten minutes later the ex-naval officer was in position. It would have been difficult to tread water without the extra buoyancy of the drysuit. But, with that to rely upon, Dexter was able to recheck his gear prior to biting down on the salty mouthpiece and pulling tank air into his lungs.

The act of sliding down into the mysterious liquid atmosphere never failed to thrill the ex-SEAL. It was like entering another universe. The added pressure pushed the drysuit in against the polypropylene long Johns he wore, thereby making him aware of all the laces where the fabric had gathered, was wrinkled, or seamed. But the sensation wasn’t unpleasant and he quickly became used to it.

And it was then, right at the point when he was about fifteen feet below the surface, that
Dexter heard the unmistakable roar of a marine engine. He was already deep enough to escape small craft but instinct drove him deeper as the outboard crossed above his head. The C-Dory? Yes, he thought it was, and wondered if the person at the wheel knew that a diver was in the water.

At twenty-five feet Dexter had just paused to look upwards when the boat returned. He could see the bottom of its hull and the turbulence produced by the big prop as the sixteen-foot fishing boat skidded into a tight turn. It was almost as if the boater or boaters knew he was there and were intent on throwing a scare into him. Of course that was preposterous, unless the
Zhou Spring was
being used as an underwater waystation for illegals—in which case it made perfect sense. The last thing the Chows would want was to have a diver poking around their carefully positioned wreck.

The easiest way to test his theory was to swim laterally and see what happened. Dexter did so—and it wasn’t long before the C-Dory made the necessary adjustment. Whoever was at the controls was definitely aware of his presence and intent on chasing him off. But how? That was when the ex-SEAL remembered the fish finders that many fishermen mount on their boats—and felt sure that they were tracking his movements electronically.

That left Dexter with two choices: Press ahead, which was to say
down
, or return to shore. Could the people on the C-Dory communicate with personnel aboard the now-submerged
Zhou Spring
? It seemed unlikely, given all of the technical problems involved, but there was no way to be absolutely sure. If they
could
communicate, a group of well-armed divers would be waiting for the ex-naval officer once he arrived over the wreck. And Dexter was under no illusions about who would win the subsequent battle. He could imagine the subhead in the
PI
: “Controversial businessman Jack Dexter drowns during solo-SCUBA dive off Whidbey Island.” The police would figure they had one less pervert to cope with, fellow divers would wonder how an ex-SEAL could be so stupid, and the smuggling operation would continue.

Convinced that discretion was the better part of valor, Dexter turned toward the east, and the return trip began. He hadn’t traveled more than fifty feet before the C-Dory broke the circle, cut power by half, and cruised toward the west. A clear signal if there ever was one.

Hank Stanton watched from the beach as Dexter paused to remove his fins, unlock his ankle, and return his foot to its normal position. Once he was back on his feet, the ex-SEAL made his way back up onto the beach. Petey dashed back and forth barking excitedly. “So son,” the old man said, “did you have a nice swim?”

There was something about the way he said it, and the glint in the old man’s eye, that suggested Stanton knew about the C-Dory. “Here,” Dexter said, as he paused to release the tank harness. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to carry that for me. Thank you, Mr. Stanton. I appreciate it.”

“Friends call me, Hank.”

“Thanks, Hank. No offense, but if I didn’t know better, I’d think you had been watching me. More than that, I might even come to the conclusion that you know something about that C-Dory and the folks who own it. So, supposing that I’m right, what would it take to get a download?”

The gravel made a crunching sound and gear clinked as the two men continued to make their way up the gently sloping beach. “That depends,” Stanton countered cautiously. “Are you a cop?”

“Nope,” the businessman answered simply.

“But you came looking for some sort of underwater installation?”

Dexter nodded. “Yes, I did. And assuming that you have some actionable intelligence, I can
put it into the right hands.”

“Good,” Stanton replied. “In that case the price of a complete download consists of a steak dinner and a cold beer.”

“You’re on,” Dexter replied, as he took another hop forward. “And let’s make that
two
beers.”

Rossi pushed the unmarked Crown Vic up to fifty-miles per hour. Not all that fast for the freeway—but the equivalent of light speed on old Highway 99. Even though it was just past one in the morning there was still plenty of traffic on the road and it had to be dealt with. The flashing blue light on the dashboard certainly helped, as did the occasional burp of sound from the car’s siren, but some of the drivers were slow to pull over. That forced the FBI agent to weave her way between them. She kept both hands on the wheel and was ready to brake.

Seedy car lots, second-class strip malls, and fast food joints blipped past, their lights smearing into a continuous blur as Rossi left them behind. Although the press was still tracking the case, the Pasco murder had slipped down to page six in the
PI
, and rarely came in for mention by the local TV stations. That had enabled Rossi to reoccupy her previously besieged home, which was where the agent had been when the phone rang, and she’d been forced to roll out of bed. Hawkins had gone to D.C. to attend a meeting of the Undercover Review Committee, and since Rossi was the principal relief supervisor, that put her in the proverbial hot seat.

According to what she’d been told, Joe Chow had been stupid enough to go on-line via a dial-up connection. The call had been traced to a motel called the Prospector’s Palace. So, assuming the snakehead was still there, it was a wonderful opportunity to put the cuffs on him. There were two cars in front of Rossi, both traveling side-by-side while communicating window-to-window. Neither one seemed to be aware of the Crown Vic or the blue beacon. The FBI agent swore, tapped on the brakes, and goosed the siren. She was gratified to see the vehicle in front of her pull away, then surprised to see it accelerate, and swerve into the right-hand lane. The driver was trying to escape! A stolen car? Probably, or a fugitive who was on the run from something.

But the FBI agent didn’t have time to follow as tires squealed and the badly spooked driver made a poorly executed right-hand turn. She continued north instead, killed the siren two blocks prior to arriving at her destination, and pulled over behind a pair of marked SPD patrol cars. Detective George Tolley was waiting for Rossi as she got out of her car. The federal agent wore an FBI ball cap, a raid jacket over a bulletproof vest, and a pair of blue jeans. Her Glock, plus two extra magazines, rode high on her hip. “Welcome to the party,” Tolley said. “We have the entire dump sealed off.”