Randy White - Dead of Night

He replied, “Sorry, can’t answer. Your friends have rebuked me, Marion. On the flight over, Hal told me I wasn’t allowed to talk until we got back to Florida.” Laughing, we pounded each other on the back, then I listened to a rushed explanation: The note I’d left at hospital reception said to call Harrington if I didn’t return. Jason Reynolds, the Tropicane biologist, had escaped his kidnapper, telephoned Tomlinson, and provided key information-a hero. The fish died…

“And so did you, Doc. Your heart stopped. Dead for ten or twenty minutes. Ask that pretty Indian doctor! I had to take a brief leave of absence myself. Did a deep-space intercept-which is a damn dangerous thing to do when you’re all screwed up on sevoflurane. Morphine, on the other hand, is the drug of choice under those circumstances. I’m perfectly capable of operating at full capacity with a snoot full of morphine-”

“Enough! Not another word!” The helicopter’s shocks adjusted to Harrington’s weight as he slid into the copilot’s seat, then closed the door. “Ford, I am holding you personally responsible. I just did you a favor, damn it. Now it’s your turn.”

He glanced over his shoulder to make certain he had my attention. “You hired this man, I’ll pay him. I’ll even read his product, if you think it’s good. But, commander, if he begins another talking jag about soul travel, or the earth as a single-celled organism, or a catfish he says swam up his penis, I swear to Christ I will open the door, jump out of this helicopter, and take that irritating son of a bitch with me.”

I’d never heard Harrington so flummoxed.

“The only time he wouldn’t talk is when he refused to tell me your location. Not unless he could tag along. So that’s why he’s here. But never again, Ford. Never again.”

Harrington fixed me with a fierce look.

“Don’t think this changes anything.”

I didn’t.

The helicopter lifted skyward, rotated, then banked. Tomlinson looked at me, grinning. Closed his lips tight, locked them with an imaginary key, and threw the key away. He didn’t realize it, but he had no reason to be happy.

I’d accepted a truce that was only temporary. Maybe I could leverage it into something. A bargain with Harrington down the road. Maybe…

I looked through the window. Below, the Russian woman grew smaller, as her islands filled the glass, green mountain peaks anchored in deep ocean.

I expected her to wave farewell. Told myself I would ignore her if she did.

She didn’t.

On a balmy, tropic-scented January evening, fifty miles off the coast of Cuba, aboard the Queen Mary 2-the world’s fastest, most luxurious ocean liner, according to its own literature-I hugged the woman as she entered our state-room, and kissed her cocoa brown cheek.

I said to her, “You gave him the message?” I was wearing a white tuxedo; had been fitted that morning by the ship’s tailor. It was the first tux I’d ever owned. Maybe the first tux I’d ever worn. I wondered about that as I used a full-length mirror to straighten my red bow tie.

She laced her arm through mine affectionately. “He’s below on second deck, gambling. Playing blackjack at the hundred-dollar-minimum table. A big crowd.”

“He’s winning tonight?”

She answered, “Yeah. But he hasn’t met you yet.”

I smiled.

“Does he cheat?”

The woman had told me she knew what to watch for.

“At cards, probably-if security wasn’t so good. Does he cheat on his mistress? Definitely. He said he’d meet me on the promenade deck. Forward, where the ship’s superstructure will provide some cover. At the outboard railing.”

Just as I’d instructed.

The woman was dressed in gold: a glittering, full-length gown that clung to incremental curves, long legs, narrow waist, breasts. The gown accented her height, and her beauty. Added a regal countenance.

The QM2 does that. Its own regal history elevates passengers through association.

Prior to the voyage, I’d only seen the woman in the common informal dress of the tropics. I realized that she was stunning.

I said, “My guess is, he’ll show.”

She began unbuttoning her gown. I turned my back as a courtesy, even though she’d already told me it wasn’t necessary. Ten days spent island-hopping, Lauderdale to Panama, is a long time to preserve modesty, even if we were sharing a plush suite. “That man’s the touchy-feely type. Fingers on my butt, feeling for my bra strap, letting me know he knows where things are. Sweet talker. He told me every woman in the islands should look like me. He’ll be there. Midnight sharp.”

I checked my watch: 11:25 P.M.

I nodded, looking into her unusual eyes. “Things seem to be going as planned. Thanks to you.”

She stepped closer, and rested both hands on my shoulders. “Be careful; come back quick. I know you’re good at what you do, but he’s big. Got that nasty ‘screw you’ look about him.” Something was hidden in her hand, and she pressed it into mine.

A gold coin.

I looked at it. Looked at her, amused by her craftiness.

“For luck,” the woman said.

I went out the door.

I felt nervous. I’d done this sort of thing once before, but never aboard a ship as well appointed as the Queen Mary 2. She is the length of three football fields, as tall as a Lauderdale condo, and packed with every high-tech amenity-including electronic surveillance on each deck.

If that wasn’t sufficiently daunting, I’d learned at the Captain’s Ball (by personal invitation only) that ship’s security was maintained by the Queen’s own Gurkhas-Nepalese mercenaries who are among the most feared commandos on Earth.

It was not an exaggeration, as I knew. I’d worked with them long ago in Southeast Asia, Hong Kong, and Belize. Small, dark men who never unsheathe their oddly shaped knives-kukris-without drawing blood. If Great Britain ever withdraws the Gurkhas from Belize, Guatemala will take control of that marijuana-dazed country within a week.

Yes, daunting. Which is why I’d spent the previous three days doing reconnaissance of my own, scouting for the right spot, calculating the right time.

I was now as ready as I would ever be. Thanks to the woman. But also nervous.

I had half an hour to burn. I considered going below to watch the man gamble, but decided it was unnecessarily risky to let security video capture me in the same room with him so close to midnight.

Instead, I jogged up a carpeted staircase a few decks to the ship’s library. I walked among burled maple stacks, an articulate place for books, into a room appointed with brass and polished mahogany. I sat at a computer, signed onto the Internet.

Among the many e-mails was one from my son. The subject heading was: “You should have told me.”

For the first time in days, I wasn’t fixated on this midnight rendezvous.

I opened Lake’s letter. Leaned and scanned it for what I’d been waiting to receive: the results of the paternity test he’d ordered. I read the letter again, then a third time much more slowly. It touched on two important topics, including the test results.

The first few graphs explained a document that was attached. My son had cracked Jobe Applebee’s code. It wasn’t difficult, he said, once he deciphered the pattern Applebee used to avoid repetition.

“Number 4 is the key,” Lake wrote. “His documents were a confusing pain in the butt until I remembered Dr. Matthews’s e-mail. She said Dr. Applebee considered 4 to be the only true number because it has four letters. That was a start. I tried shifting the numbers 1 through 26 four letters to the right of the alphabet. 1 was D, 2 became E. It worked! But only for the first paragraph-and every fourth paragraph after that.”