Mark of the Devil (14 page)

With notebook and pen out, ready to write, and eyebrows furrowed as though he already knew the answer, Hammersmith asked, “What’s your husband’s name?”

“Matt Berkeley, and my name is—”

“Berkeley. I knew it!” Hammersmith erupted. “The guy from Charleston, sticking his nose into whatever it is that’s sunk out there?” He nodded toward the ocean.

This time, Ashley couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s my man. Middle name’s William, but it oughta be Trouble. You know him?”

Snapping the notebook shut, he growled, “Lady, you don’t know the half of it. Patrolman, you get the details. I’m goin’ to the car. I’ve had about all of this Berkeley guy I can take.”

As Hammersmith plodded his way back to the police cruiser, Ashley asked Mizener, “Tell me, Officer, does he always have a burr up his you-know-what, or do my husband and I just rub him the wrong way?”

Mizener chuckled. “Ma’am, like the man said, you don’t know the half of it, and I promise, with him, you don’t wanna know.”

Monday, 22 October 2001

Matt had gotten little sleep on the night flight across the Atlantic. While everything else had been as much as, if not more than, expected in the first-class cabin, one thing Continental Airlines did not provide was a sleeping potion guaranteed to put him out for the eight-hour flight from Newark to Frankfurt. Of course, the moment he finally got to sleep, or so it seemed, there had been a tap on his shoulder and a flight attendant saying, “Mr. Berkeley, we’re just passing over Scotland and England with a little more than an hour to go. What would you like for breakfast?” That had been five hours ago.

Midday, and he was in the city of
Frankfurt am Main.
Finding the modest, four-door sedan he’d reserved no longer available, he reluctantly accepted a substitute. A silver Mercedes-Benz SL 600 Roadster, two-door convertible. He chuckled to himself.
If I’m flying first class, why not drive first class?
At least until he asked about insurance coverage and learned the value of the car in U. S. dollars was just under $130,000. “Guess we’d better put air bags around the damn thing,” he said. It was immediately evident the clerk didn’t appreciate American wisecracks about German automobiles.

Matt took the Autobahn A66 north past Wiesbaden. Hoping the rush of air would keep him awake, he drove with the top down. Wagner’s
Ride of the Valkyries
blared from the compact disc that had come with the car, loud enough to turn heads and draw frowns from those who passed. One lone driver of a black, four-door Volvo sedan, though, slowed as he passed, looked for a moment in Matt’s direction, and gave him a thumbs-up before pulling ahead and speeding off.

Even with the sun on his head, the late October chill in the wind numbed his nose and ears. Just north of Wiesbaden, he pulled into a narrow turnout to raise the convertible’s top. Stepping out of the car, he nodded to the man in the black Volvo who had also pulled in and was stretching his legs. Somehow, the man looked familiar. Had he been on the flight over? Matt shrugged his shoulders. That had to be it. Taking the opportunity to practice his German, Matt asked,
“Wie geht es Ihnen?”

The man, squarely built with a European look to his face, but dressed more like an American, seemed surprised at first, then smiled and answered, “A little tired. Overnight flight. And you?”

Matt was disappointed at hearing English, but continuing to work on the convertible top, he answered, “Same here. Where are you headed?”

But when Matt looked up for a response, the man was already in his car, the door slammed shut. As the Volvo pulled away and back onto the Autobahn, Matt finished securing the cloth roof and leveraged himself back into the convertible.

The last several nights with so little sleep had already taken their toll. No matter what he did, shifting his backside, tightening and loosening the muscles in his legs, stretching his arms, and rolling his head on his shoulders to get the kinks out of his neck, he couldn’t keep himself alert. His peripheral vision was lousy and each yawn was a little bit deeper, the duration between yawns shorter and shorter. He was shaking his head, trying to stay alert, when he saw the road sign in bold lettering:
B42, RÜDESHEIM AM RHEIN, 30 km.
Twenty miles or less, but that meant at least another 50 to 60 kilometers to Koblenz. Could he stay awake that long?

Maybe all he needed was a guesthouse and a few hours of sleep to ease the jet lag. He wasn’t scheduled to meet Eddy Richter and his wife, Hannah, until dinner at seven, so he thought,
What the hell!

Decision made, Matt took the exit onto the two-lane B42, dropping down from the hills toward the Rhine Valley and the river that served as Central Europe’s main artery of waterborne commerce.

Literally fighting to keep his eyes open, he paid scant attention to the traffic behind him, especially the black Volvo that, moments later, pulled from behind the sign to Rüdesheim and onto the B42.

The village of
Rüdesheim was exactly what Matt expected: a
storybook castle, Hansel and Gretel storefronts, narrow streets and alleyways dotted with wine shops, bars, and restaurants. The hills beyond the town were steeply layered with grape vineyards, and dotted with stone towers deserted long ago. Keeping to
Rheinstrasse,
the main street along the riverfront, he stopped at two
Gasthofs,
or guesthouses, but no one wanted him for an hour or two, even though he offered to pay for a full night’s stay.

And then he saw it: an empty parking lot enclosed on three sides by high stone walls. On the fourth side, just inside the narrow parking lot entrance, stood a stone and brick castle-like structure and a sign that read
NIEDERBURG WEINMUSEUM.
Below the name of the wine museum were written the days and times the museum was open, ending with
MONTAGS GESCHLOSSEN,
meaning closed on Mondays.

“And today just happens to be Monday,” Matt said gratefully. Turning into the lot, he eased the convertible to the right, beneath the shade of the westernmost wall. To allow at least some fresh air into the car, he lowered the windows an inch or two, then switched off the ignition. After setting the alarm on his watch for two hours later, he pulled out the sleep mask he’d “accidentally” pocketed from his flight the night before, slipped it over his eyes, and thought of Ashley and how much he missed her. Within moments, he drifted into a deep sleep.

He never saw the man he’d spoken to at the turnout as his shadow moved partway past the stone wall at the entrance to the parking lot. Nor did he see the eyes that surveyed the car, nor the hand that wrote down the Mercedes’ license plate number. Nor did he hear Striker’s voice as he walked back to the black Volvo, saying, “Sleep well, Mr. Berkeley. You’ve a long night ahead, and who knows? It could be your last.”

Leaning inside the door to the dive shop’s claustrophobic little office, Steve Park’s face registered the same concern that was in his voice. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“What good would that have done?” Ashley answered. “Besides, my phone was broken.” Unconsciously rubbing the left elbow that had plowed into the ribs of her attacker the night before, she added, “Couple of weirdos sneaking around the neighborhood. I happened to come out of the house at the wrong time; that’s all.”

“With what’s been happening, you don’t know that. Could’ve been some of the AFI crowd.”

“All right, Steve, what if it was some AFI bad guys? If so, they were after Matt, not me. I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Anyway, the local gendarmes kept a good eye on the house all night long. Now, how about that cup of coffee, the use of your computer, and some plain white paper?”

Surrendering to Ashley’s nonchalance, Park moved to the “coffee locker” at the rear of the store, calling over his shoulder, “Coffee coming up. Computer and printer’s all yours. Paper’s in the left-hand desk drawer—but whatta you need with that stuff?”

“Résumé,” Ashley called back, seating herself in front of the computer as Park returned with the coffee.

“Sugar? Cream?” Park asked, an upturned eyebrow at the word
résumé.

“No thanks.”

Accepting the cup, Ashley eyed the various icons on the computer’s monitor as she sipped the coffee. “Good. You’ve got Microsoft Word.”

“I’m usually pretty swift on the uptake,” Park finally said, lowering his backside onto the edge of the desk, his eyes watching the monitor’s screen as Ashley opened Word and began setting margins and font style, “but why do you need a résumé? You’ve got your own private-eye business back in Charleston.”

As she began typing, Ashley said, “Thought I’d do something to keep busy for the next few days, like see if the Antiquity Finders people need a truly great secretary who’s hot on underwater archeology.”

Park jerked forward, pushed himself off the edge of the desk, and stammered, “You…you’re…you’re kidding. AFI? Jesus Christ, Ashley, they find out who you are, they’ll kill you. Matt finds out what you’re doing, he’ll damn near have a stroke.”

Ashley took her hands from the keyboard and turned the swivel chair in Park’s direction. “And how else do you think I’m going to learn anything about Henry Shoemaker? You and Matt keep telling me nobody’s going to say a damn thing against him or about him. Unless I can get on the inside, you can forget about finding the kind of evidence needed to go after Shoemaker or AFI.”

“And if you’re dead? Jesus, Ashley…” Shaking his head in frustration, Park looked at his watch. “Quarter ‘til ten. I’m going over to Monkey’s Uncle and grab some doughnuts for Steve Jr. and me. Want me to bring you something before you go out and commit unjustifiable suicide?”

“No, thanks,” Ashley answered, a staccato laugh peppering her words. “Coffee’s all I need.” Ashley glanced at the time on the lower right-hand side of the computer screen. “Didn’t realize it was that late. With six hours’ difference…” She did a quick calculation. “Almost three o’clock in Koblenz. Matt oughta be there by now or close to it. For what he’s taking out of the family treasury for this little fact-finding jaunt, I sure hope he gets what he’s looking for.”

The two hours of undisturbed sleep, hidden behind the parking lot walls of the
Niederburg
Wine Museum, had made all the difference in the world for Matt. He even enjoyed the drive north along the Rhine. Just outside Rüdesheim, high on the hills to his right, stood the
Niederwald
Monument, its gigantic bronze figure of
Germania
holding high the imperial crown of the German Empire. And below, captive to
Germania’s
silent gaze, grape vineyards formed a quilt of green across the slopes so steep in places that Matt wondered how the vines were tended and grapes harvested. Then, he saw the ladder-like structures stretching up the sides of the hills, and beside them small tracks with wheeled carts for lowering the grapes to more level ground.

To Matt’s left flowed the Rhine, alive with merchant ships, tugs and barges, and a steady stream of white, red-striped, triple-decker cruise ships. As the sun slipped behind ancient castles and fortresses dotting the western hills on the far side of the river, he could see cruise ship passengers crowding the decks to snap photographs of the Lorelei, that towering cliff of rhyme and legend. He wondered if they could hear the song of the river nymph who, according to legend, lured so many boatmen to their death on rocks beneath the Lorelei. He slowed and let down the windows, but if there was a siren’s song, it was little more than the wind and swirl of the river’s water as it swept through the narrow gorge.

Finally he entered Koblenz and, of course, rush-hour traffic as he maneuvered his way off the B42 onto the
Pfaffendorfer Bridge,
just south of where the Mosel and Rhine Rivers merge, and crossed into the heart of the city. Held tightly by his thumbs, and covering half the steering wheel, was the city map he’d purchased from the Europcar rental agency in Frankfurt. It showed the yellow-highlighted route he was supposed to take. Matt’s eyes moved from map to traffic to street signs and back again as he visually plotted his way from one turn to the next.

Taking a left onto
Konrad Adenauer Ufer,
he drove parallel with the Rhine and away from the main traffic arteries. He continued slowly along the river until he saw the street sign,
RHEINZOLLSTRASSE,
followed immediately by another sign reading
“HAUS MORJAN HOTEL.”

“Thank God,” he whispered

At the same time, six hours earlier according to her watch across the Atlantic, Ashley found herself in a completely different environment. The downtown Jacksonville suite of offices for Antiquity Finders, Inc. in the twenty-six-story Alliance Industries Building was as sumptuously and meticulously appointed as any Ashley had ever seen. And she’d been in some of the best that Charleston, South Carolina, had to offer.

In those offices, however, she’d been there to investigate someone’s business partner believed to be cooking the books and swindling the company out of thousands or millions; or, often as not, to conduct surveillance on someone’s husband or wife thought to be having too many late-night work sessions with parties unknown. In this case, she was on the prowl for a bigger cause than just fraud or a little extracurricular sex. This was all about murder, a mysterious World War II German submarine, and what—God only knew—was on that boat.

Her surroundings, however, were what convinced her that she was in a totally different world from what she was used to. Nonprofit corporation though it might be, somewhere somehow huge sums of money had found their way into AFI’s coffers. Of that she was certain. The very finest quality commercial grade carpeting and furnishings in soft earth tones complemented the vast array of exquisitely preserved artifacts on display. From reception room to hallway to several of the offices, their doors open as she passed, mementoes of the past had been cleaned and preserved for what she assumed were both beauty and historical significance.

Mounted on walls or freestanding were massive ships’ wheels of mahogany; engine order telegraphs; binnacles, their magnetic compasses mounted inside each highly polished, copper-colored hood, their black quadrantal spheres positioned on each side like flexed bicep muscles. Glass-enclosed cases held bells of shining brass or gleaming silver, a ship’s name engraved around the cup of each bell; ships’ nameplates with dates and location of construction; gold and silver coin displays from salvaged shipwrecks, set among ornate place settings and eating utensils.

In addition to nautical items, there were the remains of Aztec, Mayan, and American Indian cultures—grinning skulls, shrunken heads, stone and obsidian implements for work and killing.

“Ms. Shoemaker, Ashley Peake,” the receptionist announced as she ushered Ashley into an office with a wide view of the St. Johns River and several of its bridges, yet absent, interestingly enough, of all the trappings of antiquity. Though shocked at the youthful look and beauty of the woman who stepped from behind the desk to greet her, Ashley thought she’d managed to hide her surprise, until the woman said, “Ms. Peake, I’m Starla Shoemaker.” Pausing briefly to hold out her hand, Starla added, “Is something wrong?”

Ashley blushed, quickly releasing Starla’s hand. Early to mid-fifties is what she’d determined from several articles found in the
Florida Times-Union
newspaper morgue.
But my God!
Ashley thought.
I’m in my mid-thirties, and this woman doesn’t look any older than I do.
Not a wrinkle. Golden strands of shoulder-length hair framed a face that belonged on the cover of
Vogue
magazine. Her blouse and skirt were molded to perfection against a body that any woman would envy—a body several inches taller than Ashley’s, with sun-bronzed skin, eyes deep enough to drown in, and perfectly shaped lips that spread in a smile so sensuous it made the blush on Ashley’s cheeks even deeper. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Shoemaker. I envisioned someone much older.”

Starla laughed and moved to one of two burgundy, velvet upholstered armchairs facing the desk. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Definitely meant that way.”

“Thank you. Please,” Starla said, motioning to the other armchair on the opposite side of a marble-topped coffee table. “Coffee? Tea?”

“No, thank you,” Ashley answered, “but I do appreciate you seeing me so quickly.”

Reaching for a sheet of paper lying on the table, Starla studied its contents for a moment before looking up and saying, “My pleasure. It just so happens, I could use an administrative assistant with your qualifications and, yes, I like your looks. While much of our work concerns the absolute Dark Ages, I like to present an appearance of youthfulness and vigor about the office. In fact, about the entire organization, and especially those working close to me. Unlike my husband and so many of his management types, no old fuddy-duddies in my office. That’s why you are absolutely perfect, my dear.” The tip of Starla’s tongue slipped from one side of her lips to the other before she added, “In fact, better than I had hoped for.”

Trying to conceal the hotness that suddenly crept up the back of her neck and enveloped her face and head, Ashley managed, “I wasn’t aware of that aspect, but I am familiar with much of AFI’s work, especially its undersea research and recovery efforts.”

“Yes, I see from your résumé you’re a qualified open-water diver and have participated in archeological explorations with several universities.”

“Yes, ma’am, I—”

Starla waved her off. “None of this ‘yes, ma’am’ business. It’s Starla and Ashley from now on. Understand?”

“Yes, ma’am…uh, Starla,” Ashley said, noticing Starla’s eyes as they explored not only her face but her body, focusing first on her breasts, then her waistline and the curve of her hips, then registering the swing of Ashley’s leg as she self-consciously crossed right over left. Trying to direct Starla’s attention away from her physical attributes and back to her dive experience on the résumé—a certified diver, yes, but specifics were “borrowed” primarily from Matt’s years with NAARPA. Ashley explained, “I’ve mostly worked on shipwrecks around Bermuda, Puerto Rico, and Jamaica, including a sunken town near Kingston. Though I wasn’t directly involved, I was fortunate enough to dive on a site off Alexandria, Egypt, and observe some of their procedures and findings.”

“Yes, I remember reading about the Alexandria project. Was sorry we weren’t involved, but you’re new to the area, aren’t you?”

Ashley nodded. “Just came down a few weeks ago.” Ashley laughed softly. “Wasn’t here more than two days when I had to evacuate for Hurricane Grace. Right now, I’m staying with an old friend in Jacksonville Beach.”

“And your last employment?”

Ashley hesitated for a moment before saying, “Columbia, South Carolina, police department. Computer analyst, mostly with the various national systems for detection of those hacking illegally into both corporate and state government computer systems.”

“I see,” Starla mused, her eyes devouring Ashley’s as though trying to taste the flavor of something other than what Ashley was dishing out. “Interesting work?”

“At first, but it was awfully limiting. That’s why I left. Hoping to find something that offered a more varied menu. Like AFI. From what I’ve read, you’re involved in so many things.”

Starla laughed. “Yes, many things, and I’m determined we will be the best and most successful at what we do.” Starla’s face took on a hardness that surprised Ashley. A hardness that almost scared her.

“Although we’re the smallest of the Alliance Industry subsidiaries,” Starla went on, “I have plans…such plans. Total independence from Alliance, from my—” Starla cut herself short and took a deep breath as the tension in her face softened into a smile. Reaching across the table and patting Ashley’s arm, she said, “We can discuss that later. For now, I suppose the receptionist gave you the information sheet showing the starting salary and step raises if you take the job?”

“Yes, ma—” Ashley again caught herself. “Yes, she did.”

“Satisfactory?”

“We’d always like more, wouldn’t we? But living at my friend’s house, at least temporarily, is a godsend, money-wise, so, yes, satisfactory.”

“Good. The job is yours. When can you start?”

“Tomorrow, if that’s okay with you.”

“Wonderful, but before you go, I’d like to introduce you to someone who, though not directly employed by AFI, has been of tremendous help.” Starla stretched back toward the desk, pressed one of several buttons on the intercom near the front of the desk, and said, “Eric, dear, would you pop over for a moment? Someone to meet.”

Eric? The same Eric Steve Park described?
Ashley wondered.

Almost immediately, the door opened and a youngish-looking man stepped in as Starla stood and moved next to Ashley. Standing and turning toward the newcomer, Ashley felt Starla’s arm and hand around the small of her back, gently edging her forward, but it was the man that made her take a deep breath. He was tall and deeply tanned with sandy white hair severely combed back over his head and ending in a tight little ponytail. The color tone of his skin and hair perfectly complemented the light blue silk shirt he wore. Just as Park had told her, the man’s face belonged more in Hollywood than in Jacksonville; but his eyes, glacier blue and just as cold, made her shiver.

Eric moved smoothly across the carpet until he was close enough to kiss Starla’s cheek. “Morning, Sis. My, but you look especially radiant today. Just seeing you makes my trips from Tallahassee worthwhile. And who is this enchanting lady?”

Ashley felt Starla’s hand slip below her waist to the mold of her left hip, slowly straying down her outer thigh, softly caressing as it went.

“Ashley Peake, meet Eric, my sometimes—shall we say—impetuous little brother who shares my penchant for independence.”

The description immediately reminded Ashley of Matt, and she forced a smile. “Yes, I have a good friend exactly like that.”

“If things happen as I expect, you’ll be working closely with his office,” Starla went on.

Ashley stepped forward, leaving Starla’s wandering hand, and extended her own hand to Eric. “And what office is that, Mr…. uh…”

Eric took her hand. “Bruder,” he said. “No mister. Just Eric. Eric Bruder, Chief Underwater Archaeologist for the Florida Bureau of Archaeological Research in Tallahassee. Welcome to AFI.”