Randy White - Dead of Night

Dasha was right with him. Millions.

She let her hand slide over and touch the man’s thigh.

A little before midnight, Thursday, sitting at a computer inside Mr. Earl’s minimansion, Dasha did an Internet search and found two photos of Marion Ford, Ph. D. It took a while. There was very little information on the guy; no background data at all.

Weird.

Or not.

She’d tried to wade through a couple of his scientific papers, titles like “Difficulties Spawning Megalops atlanticus in Captivity,” before almost saying, screw it, the man was an egghead scientist who must have been whiskey-brave the night of the boat chase.

Then she got lucky. Went to the Web page of a weekly newspaper, the Sanibel Shoppers Guide, and there he was with a story about a place called “Dinkin’s Bay Marina.”

“Doc Ford and Tomlinson, Two Colorful Locals” was the cutline. A pair of photos, the first posed: Broad-shouldered man, hair wind mussed, eyes staring out through thick glasses, his expression neutral, standing beside a bony-faced hippie, Jesus hair, with a friendly grin, glazed eyes.

One man stoned. The other man stone.

Her first impression: Ford was a nerdy scientist, just as the articles he’d written suggested. Right at home with the other loser in the picture, two tropical bums who found opposite ways to underachieve.

But then she reminded herself that she was looking at a man who, on a black night, had launched a boat over a ski ramp while Aleski fired at him-and still had the balls and skill to time it so perfect he’d damn near crushed them.

The second photo was more suggestive. The photographer had caught Ford by surprise. Face was the same, but the eyes were very, very different. His head was turned toward the camera, expression intense.

Reassessment time.

Dasha was in no hurry, sitting there in the minimansion’s computer room and library. A good place to burn time while Mr. Earl snored a fifth of vodka away in the master bedroom upstairs.

A couple hours earlier, he’d said to her, “Your security system, those redundancy cells, I thought it was such a good idea. I finally realized, you can use it like a rope around my neck. You hired nothing but Russians. I can’t make a move without your permission.”

Dasha had anticipated this. She handed him an order she’d already signed. It excluded him from all security “impositions.”

She let him read the paper before handing him a second packet, then pointed to Mr. Earl’s name, and the line where he was supposed to sign. Watched him smile. The paper was already notarized.

“This judge in Nassau, did you bribe her with money? Or slip her some skin?” Watched the man tilt his head back, laughing. “You’ll never get Stokes to sign this. But me? Sure, I’ll sign-if you agree to a little celebration afterward. I don’t want any money. What you probably gave the judge, that would be cool.”

Disgusting old leech. A predator, really. The man screwed like he was double-parked, or might turn into a pumpkin. Probably thirty-five-years older than her-plus he was drunk. He had to use an index finger to stuff his pecker inside, like a magician hiding a scarf in a fist.

Next time, I’ll make the nasty thing disappear. My turn to fuck Mr. Earl.

Saying she had to do research was a good excuse to escape the stink of lavender and Mr. Earl’s dried-up fingertips. A relief… until she used the computer’s toolbar to have a closer look at this second photo of Ford.

Zoomed in on eyes looking out through wire glasses. Thick glasses. Eyes that seemed dark even though they reflected pale light, the man’s expression showing that he’d been startled by the photographer, the eyes chilly, expectant; expectant in the way of someone who sits back and accesses before making a move.

Surprise a carnivore in tall grass, you’d get the same reaction.

The eyes reminded her of something. The image of Solaris came into Dasha’s mind-Solaris and the newly hatched snake that killed him.

A death adder.

A reptile that, from birth, knew instinctively to wait, calculate, before striking.

Efficient. That was another way of saying it.

Ford’s eyes were similar. Vague and dusty. Something dark inside there coiled.

In Vegas, when Mr. Earl had interviewed her, there’d been all those Soldier of Fortune types strutting around. Fakes, skinheads, Hollywood dreamers. Out of all those pretenders, she’d seen two, maybe three people who’d earned the look. People who’d been places; done some jobs.

If you serve in the Russian military, the Chechen border, hustling both sides, you learned to recognize the real ones at a glance. Or died.

He used a ski ramp to attack. At night. While taking fire.

Marion D. Ford, Ph. D.

Looking at the man’s photo, Dasha felt a stimulating awareness, the preface to fury, but also the preface to arousal. In her, the two emotions were nearly the same.

Biologist, my ass.

The woman still had connections in Russia; former KGB people, black ops specialists. She looked at her watch-a little after 8:00 A.M. in Moscow. Just for the hell of it, she wrote an e-mail asking if anyone had additional information on Ford. She sent it to several addresses, not expecting much.

Surprise.

An hour later, after showering yet again, Dasha checked her e-mail before heading for bed in the guest room. She’d already received three responses.

Two wrote that there was no data available-“suggestive,” one noted, in a typically understated Russian way.

The third reply was written in Chechen. Excellent intel; better than she’d hoped.

… only match for Marion D. Ford is from compromised Mossad files, data not verifiable. Tropics; Biologist; Born South Florida-suspected nightshift operator, never confirmed. Assets: Unknown. Affiliated agency: Unknown; possibly illegal deep-cover black ops group. Designation: W.

MDF’s geo-transects are too numerous to be coincidental with the deaths or disappearances listed here in reverse order: Islamic cleric Hada Salharra, Detroit; Ricardo Palmera (aka Simon Trinidad), FARC leader, Colombia; Omar Muhammad, head of Abul Nidal…

Dasha was smiling, energized. The targets, the organizations-in the world of covert operations, this was big-time. It took the breath out of her. She had Ford’s photo enlarged on the screen as she skipped ahead; she wanted to see how the man got started.

… while in secondary school, MDF was suspect in the disappearance and presumed murder of a man rumored to have had an affair with subject’s mother just prior to her own death. According to sealed records, a juvenile court judge (and friend of subject’s Masonic uncle) strongly suggested MDF leave Florida and enlist in the military…

The final paragraph read:

… subject was employed by a CIA front corporation, Air America, during operations Phoenix and Blue Light. MDF is also suspected of infiltrating political activist organizations on U.S. college campuses, Colorado, Wisconsin, Berkeley, and Harvard, in operations called Purple Haze and Bad Moon Rising. Several deaths and disappearances associated with same…

“Nightshift.” KGB slang.

This man was a professional, like herself. An operator.

With someone like this, she’d have to be very, very careful.

The woman was imagining various scenarios. Letting it play out in her head.

Her guess was right: A killer.

A man like Ford she might be able to use…

The phone message Jason Reynolds left on my cell phone bothered me, set off warning gongs.

“Dr. Ford, it might be smart if you drive back to the canal, win yourself some points. The cops can’t find the damn phone for some reason, and they’re sorta freaked-out suspicious. Either way, give me a call from the hospital, and tell me how our friend’s doing.”