“Are you ready?” the Irishman asked.
“You’re going to have to show her to me before I put to shore anywhere.”
“Turn south, again.”
“I’m burning fuel fast. I don’t have much more range.”
“It was Belfast in ‘85 when the lad carrying the ransom ran out of petrol and got his man killed, the stupid arsehole.”
The line went dead, and the next call didn’t come until after dark. Marquez was south of Fort Bragg about twenty miles, run-ning with lights and GPS, but it would be much harder after dark to put in anywhere, dangerous with the rocks. The Irishman had him continue south another hour, then reverse and turn north. By then the sea had calmed and he rode half a mile offshore in a light wind. Douglas checked in.
“There’s a boat three miles off your port side we’re looking at. Nothing else close to you.” Static and a bad connection, then, “We’ve got agents all along the highway.” The SOU was there too, but Kline would know that the shore was lined with police. “They may run you all the way back north.”
“Are you just chatting me up?”
“How are you doing?”
“I’m ready to get it done.”
Near the coast at Van Damme State Park he got the call to turn shoreward and run hard toward the surf.
“You want me to run aground with the money and lose it in the ocean?”
“No, you arsehole, I’ll bring you home.” The Irishman barked at him about some kidnapping that had gone bad along the border in Peru, then cut back in, “North again, you fuckin’ copper.”
So he has me in sight, Marquez thought. Reading a heat signal if nothing else. Close in as he was the Sony Palm IR would work at this range. He was close to the surf, too close to rocks. He flicked on the boat lights and the Irishman said nothing. “You’ll see a flash of blue light.”
Several minutes passed, the Irishman still on the phone. “I see it,” Marquez said, and turned toward the caves of Van Damme. “We’re going to run you through the caves and she’ll be waiting for you. You don’t want to fuck up now and lose one of your own. She’ll be wearing a hood and two men will be with her. You’ll take a boat ride together.”
Marquez saw the blue light flash again and moved closer, glad that he knew these caves, maneuvering the boat constantly to stay off the rocks. Hit the rocks and it’s over. He eased inside the cave, the Zodiac engine an amplified roar. He swept his light along the rock and in a cleft saw what looked like a woman sitting with a hood over her head. A man yelled for him to bring it in close, yelling “faster, faster, come on, you fuckhead, in here and kill the engines,” and now Marquez saw light in the water below, a diver surfacing near him, the man onshore still yelling instructions, holding an assault rifle on him as the diver boarded and Marquez fought the impulse to go for his gun.
“Don’t move,” the order came again, and then to the hooded woman sitting on rocks, “Raise your arm. Let him know you’re okay,” and when the arm came up he wasn’t sure if it was Petersen’s, but a second diver had the bow rope and was towing him over to the rock, the Zodiac rising with every swell, the sound drowning the man’s voice.
Now it was the diver behind him speaking, telling him to put his hands out, patting him down as the other diver boarded. “Where’s the money, lad?” And before he could answer a knife cut into one of the cabled bags and the diver yelled to the Irishman.
“It’s here.”
“Let’s see her face,” Marquez demanded. He didn’t see the blow coming, but it was the diver behind him and he tried to rake an arm back to defend himself as his knees buckled. His hand caught teeth and he snapped a head back before sinking down. He didn’t feel the second blow but felt his arms pulled back, hand-cuffs clicked on his wrists, then his ankles, and he heard faraway laughter as he rolled into the cold water and felt himself pulled forward, dragged along the sand, then a knife cutting off his shirt, and he was shoved and propped against a rock. The Irishman squatted near him on the sand, his voice low, a light on Marquez’s face, the breath of the man on him.
“The tide’s out, lad, enjoy the beach.”
Marquez saw the woman pull the hood off. She wasn’t Petersen.
“Where is she?”
“I hear she’s the crew’s favorite on a boat somewhere, but you can ask him yourself. He’s coming to visit you here. If I was you, I’d be giving myself up to God.”
“Where is she?”
“You’re a fuckin’ fool, lad.”
Marquez watched the Zodiac motor slowly out of the cave with a single man guiding it. The rest had gone, however they’d gotten here. He knew it would take time, maybe too long, to sort out that the man at the helm wasn’t him, and Kline had to be counting on that. The Zodiac turned out of the cave, the light vanished, and there was only the roar of the waves.
35
An hour or more had gone by and he needed to get out of the water, had to get above the incoming tide. They’d stripped his clothes down to his shorts, had taken a knife, a second gun, the telelocator off him. How long would it take Douglas to figure out that someone else was running the Zodiac? He’d get sus-picious when the calls didn’t go through, but when would they start searching the caves? Get up, he thought, get off the sand and on the rock as high as you can. He lifted his head, staring into the darkness, head throbbing and not thinking clearly, his body trem-bling with cold. He could make out the cave entrance but there was little light. Pushed off with his heels, dug them into the sand, used the rocks to help pull himself up and then fell again. Fought his way back up as a wave ran as high as his knees.
There’d been a rock ledge near here when he’d swept his light across. If he could find it, maybe there was a way to get onto it. Four feet higher would buy a lot of time and sooner or later they’d come here. He got to his feet, his back resting against the rock, breath coming in gasps. Had to get out of here, had to get high enough to last through the changing tide. Where was Douglas? What was taking so long? He pressed against wet rock, leaned into it, hopped sideways, working his way along.
She’s on a boat, the crew’s favorite, the Irishman said. Then she’s alive. She’s alive and can be found. He felt the gap in the stone now, leaned his head into the hollow. How deep was the ledge? No way to tell, and he tried jumping up and sliding onto the rock. Got partway onto the shelf and slid out, fell on his back on the sand, his shoulder striking a rock. He lay there, numbed. A wave touched his legs and he rolled to his side, got on his knees again, to his feet, tried again, fell again. On the fourth try he finally got enough of his weight onto the ledge. He rested and inched forward, praying there was enough room, that his shoulder wouldn’t brush rock too soon.
But there was plenty of room. The shelf was deep and worn smooth by the ocean. Marquez slid toward the back and lay on his side, watching for light, moving his legs and feet to fight the cold, trying to keep his fingers from going numb as another half hour or more passed. Waves finished against the rock now, spray reached him, and where was the Zodiac now? Why was it taking Douglas so long to backtrack?
Then he saw light but not from a boat, something surfacing in the cave, another diver, he thought, and slid against the back wall. The light came closer, moved toward him, and he heard rubber, the snap of a mask, a man’s hard exhale lost as a wave came in. The light had vanished and Marquez strained to hear, knew the diver was on the small beach where the Irishman had left him. Now he heard the tanks clank against rock, saw a beam of light working low along the water to his left and then quickly turned off.