Mark of the Devil (7 page)

Wednesday, 17 October 2001
Jacksonville Beach, Florida

It was two days later when
Native Diver
made her way past the St. Johns River jetties, continuing due east for slightly over two miles. Cutting across the abrupt demarcation line of muddy discharge from the river into the clearer blue of the Atlantic, the dive boat turned to starboard and steadied on a southerly heading. With Steve Park at the topside controls, Matt worked below on the main deck, laying out two sets of dive equipment on top of the raised engine cover.

Taking inventory, Matt separated their equipment into two equal piles: facemasks with attached snorkels, fins, regulators, vest-like buoyancy control jackets commonly called BCs by the diving fraternity, dive knives, compasses, and two small shovels. Using a tape measure, he marked off a fifty-foot coil of safety line at ten-foot intervals and tied a white strip of cloth at each marked location. In case shifting sand were to cover the box-like object, they could work their way out from the barge’s bow to where the object was located.

Matt heard Park call down above the engine noise. “You didn’t forget the picture of that sub you downloaded off the Internet, did you?”

“No, I didn’t forget,” Matt shouted over the noise of the big Detroit diesel and the wind whipping around the corners of the boat’s enclosed cockpit. He immediately held high for Park to see a clear plastic Ziploc pouch with the picture of a World War II German U-XXI class submarine on one side. On the other was an enlarged view of the sub’s sail area showing the strangely shaped
Schnorchel
standing higher and slightly aft of the two accompanying periscopes atop the conning tower.

The next words Matt heard from topside were “Oh, shit!”

“Oh, shit, what?” he shouted in response.

“You’d better get up here.”

“Hey, man, I’m trying to get everything together,” Matt called back.

“Just get up here,” Park yelled down over his shoulder. “Looks like we’ve got company.”

“Whatta you mean?” Matt asked, climbing the ladder to the topside deck.

Park pointed dead ahead. “There.”

“I’ll be damned,” Matt uttered in amazement, immediately sinking onto the padded seat next to Park and grabbing a set of binoculars. Jamming them to his eyes and quickly adjusting the focus, he said, “That’s no pleasure craft. That’s a goddamn ship. The name
Sea Rover
on the bow. And if I didn’t know better, I’d say it’s an old Navy ASR. Might be painted white, but—”

“ASR?” Park asked.

“Auxiliary Submarine Rescue. One of the older class on a catamaran hull. Only a couple built back in the seventies before going strictly to the single hull configuration. I remember when they were decommissioned, lots of people wanted one. Jacques Cousteau, for one, to replace the old
Calypso.”

“How do you know that?”

“Once dived on a wreck with one of Cousteau’s team members. He told me.” Scanning the ship with the binoculars, Matt added, “Still got the helo deck on the stern and the original two-hundred-ton crane It would’ve been used to lower a Deep Submergence Rescue Vehicle into the water for personnel recovery from a sunken sub, but the DSRV’s gone and so are the emergency personnel transfer capsules. Question is, why are they out here?” Biting his lower lip in thought, Matt lowered the binoculars. “Could the Coast Guard have asked somebody else to check on the barge?”

“No. I talked with Commander Worley yesterday and told him we were coming out to make sure the buoy lines were still secure on the barge. He would’ve mentioned it if they had anybody else doing it. Fact, he said it’d be at least another two, three weeks before they could raise the barge and tow it out of here. Thanked me for coming out to check.”

As
Native Diver
drew closer, Matt said, “This is not some coincidence, Steve. And they’re not just stopping by for a quick look-see. Anchor balls, forward and aft. And that flag flying from the main mast…” He tried to focus his binoculars for a clearer view. “If the wind’ll stand it out a little more…uhh, A-F…AFI. Sonofabitch! Antiquity Finders, Inc. We’ve got a problem, but who could’ve told them?”

“Probably Bruder,” Park answered. “The archeology big shot from Tallahassee that came to see me when you were in Washington. Didn’t trust that guy the minute I saw him.”

“Brandy Mason seemed to think he’s pretty sharp.”

“Maybe that’s the problem. Too sharp. Sneaky, you ask me. The way I told him to wait out in the store, and suddenly there he was, standing in the doorway to the office when I was putting the magnetometer printout in the desk. If he didn’t see what I was doing, he’s blind, which I seriously doubt. And half a second later, he says he’s surprised we haven’t already used a magnetometer.”

With the two orange warning buoys now in sight, Park eased back on the throttle and allowed the dive boat to slowly putter in toward the first buoy he knew was secured to the after section of the barge. “There’s a line on the bow,” Park said. “If you’ll get it and tie it off to the buoy line, we’ll find out if they’ve got divers down there.”

With the binoculars raised once again, Matt said, “Already know that. Over there.” He pointed toward a double mushroom of air bubbles breaking the surface. “Just forward of the buoy marking the front of the barge. Two divers at least.”

Swinging the binoculars up toward the ship’s pilothouse bridge, he said, “There’s a guy on the ship checking us out with binoculars…and now he’s on the phone. Two bits’ll get you a dollar, he’s letting his boss know
Native Diver
and its crew of two have arrived.”

Within moments, three other men stepped onto the bridge, two carrying what looked to Matt through the binoculars like rapid-fire machine pistols. The third man, much older, was nautically dressed as though spending a day at sea on his yacht. He held a megaphone, which he raised to his mouth. “You’re violating restricted water. Please leave immediately.”

Matt yelled back over the noise from
Native Diver’s
engine, “Who the hell…” To Park, “The engine—shut her down!” As soon as Park flipped the ignition switch to OFF, Matt shouted, “Whatta you mean, restricted water? By whose order?”

“State of Florida,” the man called back.

“That’s bullshit! We put these warning buoys out here the other day on a sunken barge at the request of the Coast Guard. They asked us to come back and check to make sure they’re still secure, and that’s what we’re gonna do.”

The man lowered the megaphone, turned to the open pilothouse doorway and spoke to someone inside. Immediately, a fourth man stepped out of the pilothouse and onto the bridge. Taking the megaphone, he said, “Mr. Berkeley? I am addressing Mr. Matthew Berkeley of the NAARPA organization, am I not?”

“You got it,” Matt called back.

“I’ll be damned,” Park said out of the corner of his mouth in Matt’s direction. “It’s Bruder, the guy from Tallahassee.”

“And you’re Dr. Mason’s man from Tallahassee,” Matt immediately responded toward the larger vessel.

“That’s correct, Mr. Berkeley. Eric Bruder.”

“So what the hell’s this restricted water thing? And what are you doing with those people? I sent you an application requesting exploration and excavation rights to this area almost a week ago.”

Bruder spoke hurriedly to the man in the yachting outfit, then called, “Afraid I never received your application, Mr. Berkeley. Appears Antiquity Finders also submitted an application which has been approved.”

Matt dropped back onto the cushioned seat, numbed by Bruder’s words. “Can’t be,” he said to Park. “No way those people could have known about this place, unless—”

Park cut him off. “Like I said, gotta be Bruder.”

Matt pushed to his feet and called, “I think there’s been a mistake, Bruder. A very serious mistake, and I plan to find out what happened. I suggest you be in your office tomorrow ‘cause I’ll be there with a copy of my application, and I want to see AFI’s application.”

“Afraid not, Mr. Berkeley. It contains privileged information that—”

“Don’t give me that crap, Bruder. State of Florida’s Sunshine Law says I can. That’s state land down there, and state land means it’s public land. Anything to do with public land must be available to the public, and that’s me.”

“It really won’t do you any good, Mr. Berkeley,” Bruder said through the megaphone, “but if you want to waste your time, be my guest. And, oh yes, Mr. Park, I promise AFI’s divers will check your hazard-to-navigation buoys each day to make certain they’re secured to the barge. Now please leave. AFI does not want any unpleasantness, but if you insist…”

Eyeing the machine pistols, which slowly rose in his direction, Matt cupped his hands over his mouth and directed his next words to the man wearing the yachting cap. “You’re Henry Shoemaker, aren’t you?”

The man nodded.

“You and AFI have pulled this shit with other people and other organizations before, but you’ve pulled it on the wrong person this time. One way or the other, I’m gonna find out what’s down there and make sure the right people get it.” Taking his seat and ignoring anything else that might be coming from the
Sea Rover,
Matt said to Park, “With those two pinheads pointing popguns at us, we’re not gonna accomplish anything by hanging around. Let’s go. I’ve gotta call Brandy Mason, and I don’t want to do it on a cell phone. Too many ears on the airwaves.”

Henry Shoemaker watched from
Sea Rover’s
bridge as
Native Diver
backed away from the buoy, pivoted, and pointed its bow to the north. Turning to Bruder, he said, “Mr. Berkeley needs to be taught some manners. Just enough to warn him off. Tomorrow in Tallahassee, I think. What do you think, Eric?”

Bruder nodded. “Tomorrow in Tallahassee.”

“And Striker. Where is he?”

“Arrives in Washington this afternoon,” Bruder answered.

“Excellent,” Shoemaker said, retreating into the pilothouse out of the sun. Once inside, he added, “Unfortunate for Mr. Berkeley but, as my loving wife insists, it appears it’s time we removed the opposition from the playing field. And by the way, from now on the game you play is Starla’s responsibility and yours. Don’t embarrass me, Eric. I’m not one who likes to be embarrassed.”

Chantilly, Virginia

There was still enough daylight for Striker to glance at the street map one last time before tossing it onto the passenger seat. He followed the short line of cars as they split in different directions at the intersection of Middle Ridge and Melville Lane, then followed the car in front of him as it turned left.

It had been years since Striker had been to northern Virginia, a lifetime ago it seemed. So much had changed. He frowned at the thought. Outside Washington’s Capitol Beltway and past the suburbs where open farmland had been now stood shopping malls, sprawling subdivisions, four-lane highways, and—worst of all—people. Hundreds of thousands of people. For all he knew, probably some of them were ones who had taunted him in his early years. Progress—it stretched almost to the Shenandoah Foothills, their rounded tops silhouetted in the afterglow of the sunset now visible in his rearview mirror as the car neared the top of the hill. It was, however, the memory of those foothills and their people that still made him angry.

Communist-controlled Poland. After the death of his father at the hands of the government, Karol Strzelecki and his mother were smuggled out of the country by members of an underground worker’s group with the help of a sympathetic couple visiting from East Germany. First, they stopped in a small town just over the East German border, then in Berlin, and finally, hidden beneath the false floorboard of a truck, they passed the “Wall” and entered the city’s American sector.

Who had helped them get to the United States? He had been too young to remember, but he did remember the farm just outside Middleburg, Virginia: its rolling hills, the small cottage near the main house, and his mother cooking meals and cleaning for the family. He could smell the stables he’d mucked; the horses, his only friends.

Those were the good memories, but the teasing he’d borne during his school years because of his accent and poor English still rankled. The fights and early losses later became victories as he grew older and stronger. But it was the school principal who had become the focus of his hatred; the man who, in the privacy of his office, called him a stupid Polack Jew; the man who crushed those victories, always blaming and punishing him. He’d never been accepted and, filled with the venom of forced loneliness and bitter frustration, he’d hated them all.

But finally, he had found his niche in life. The Army’s Special Forces taught him what he was capable of achieving: how to survive, but more importantly, how to kill He could strike without warning and without mercy. They called him the Striker, a name much easier on the tongue than Strzelecki and a name he took for his own. With those rolling hills still reflected in the rearview mirror, the sound of bitter laughter rose in Carl Striker’s throat as he muttered, “To hell with all of you.” He was back, but this time doing what he was trained to do. Doing what he did best.

As he reached the top of the hill, Striker turned the leased Chevy Monte Carlo onto Moylan Lane, immediately slowing to see the house numbers. And there it was: 4410, first house on the left. The two-story Cape Cod was tucked in behind a cluster of red maple and ash trees, their leaves deep with autumn red and gold. He turned into the drive, backed out, and parked the car against the curb fronting the house within a few feet of the intersection.

Striker sat for a moment, shifting one way then another to take in his surroundings. If he cut across the front yard beneath the trees, it would be almost impossible for anyone in the neighboring homes to see him, certainly too difficult to describe him in the future. He lifted the armrest, slid across the passenger seat, opened the door, and got out into the chill of early evening. Moving as quickly as he could without drawing attention, he hurried beneath the trees and to the front door.

He pushed the tiny, lighted button for the doorbell, but there was no response. Again he tried, but this time he held his finger to the button and listened to the faint musical
bong, bong, bong
coming from inside the house. He wondered if the man had stopped on the way home from work and how long it would be before…His thoughts were interrupted by footsteps on a tile floor and the muffled words “I’m coming.” The door opened, leaving only a half-glass, half-screen separation between Striker and the man inside.

“Mr. Gravely? Mr. Samuel Gravely?”

Gravely nodded, taking a quick sip of the drink he held in his hand.

“And you are?”

“Name’s Striker. Consultant to Matt Berkeley and the NAARPA people down in Charleston. He got tied up and asked me to stop by and pick up some documents he left with you the other day.”

Gravely’s eyebrows furrowed as he studied the man who called himself Striker. “With NAARPA, huh? Strange I never heard of you.”

“Not with NAARPA. Consultant for NAARPA. In Washington for a one-day conference at the Transportation Department. Catching a flight out…” Striker glanced at his watch as though to remind himself, “…an eight-thirty flight back to Charleston. Not sure what it’s all about, but he said to tell you everything’s worked out so you don’t need to hold onto the papers any longer. If I could come in…”

“Sorry, long day and my manners possibly aren’t what they should be,” Gravely muttered as he pressed down on the button at the top of the door’s handle and pushed open the door. “Come in, and I’ll get the envelope. If you’ll wait here in the foyer…” Gravely turned and started through the living room, voicing over his shoulder, “I’ve been so busy since Matt was here, I haven’t had a chance to get a copy to the Library of Congress, but did mail a copy to Fitzwellen at the Smithsonian. Old friend of mine. Sent it to his home so he’d be sure to get it. With mail delivery in the District and northern Virginia as bad as it is after nine-eleven, probably didn’t get there until today.”

It wasn’t until Gravely passed through the kitchen and into the den that he realized Striker was behind him. “Thought I asked you to wait in the foyer?”

“Sorry,” Striker answered, hands hidden in his jacket pockets. “Guess I didn’t hear you. Just want to pick up the papers, catch my flight, and I’ll be outta your hair.”

Gravely sighed his impatience with the man as he placed his glass on the top of the desk and opened the middle drawer. “Here it is.” He pulled out a manila envelope with the NAARPA logo in the top, left-hand corner. “Everything here except, as I said, the copy I sent to Fitzwellen at the Smithsonian.”

Striker took the envelope, opened the unfastened flap, counted two inner envelopes, then fastened the flap. “Wish I’d known about the Smithsonian copy, but that’ll have to wait for another time. Appreciate your help, Mr. Gravely. Too bad Berkeley got you mixed up in this.”

Gravely took a step back. “What do you mean ‘mixed up in this’?”

From his jacket pocket, Striker pulled a semiautomatic pistol, its blue/black-finished barrel fitted with a round cylinder-like device. “Like I said, too bad.” The weapon coughed, once, twice, rapidly followed by a third and fourth. Bullets splintered through bone, creating an imperfect rectangle of dark spots, one each over the left and right lungs, the third over the lower left lobe of Gravely’s liver, and the fourth over the stomach, causing Gravely to involuntarily flex forward. His head rammed into the pointed top corner of the desk, creating a bloody, wedge-shaped V in the middle of his forehead before he tumbled to the floor.

“Thank you, Mr. Gravely,” Striker said, sliding the manila envelope under one arm and unscrewing the silencer from the pistol’s barrel. Returning the silencer and pistol into his jacket pocket, Striker turned and moved to the desk. Using the eraser end of a pencil from the desk, he flipped through Samuel Gravely’s card index to the F’s, stopping at the name Fitzwellen. “Senior Archivist,” he read aloud, “home address six eighty-seven Fairway Drive Northeast, Vienna, Virginia.” He flipped the top of the card index closed with the pencil eraser, pocketed the pencil and the Fitzwellen card, and walked back through the house, out the front door, and to the leased Chevy Monte Carlo.

Once inside, he switched on the ignition and retracing his route, eased the car around the corner onto Melville Lane, finally arriving at the Texaco station on the southwest corner of Middle Ridge and U. S. Route 50. Pulling into the station and parking on the side away from the pumps and customers meandering in and out of the station, he took the map from the passenger seat and opened it to the section showing Vienna. With a small penlight, he directed the beam down the list of streets until he found Fairway Drive Northeast, then over the map until he located the matching grid coordinates.

“There you are,” Striker said to himself. “Across from the Westwood Country Club. A golf course view, no doubt.” Chuckling, he added, “Give me about thirty minutes, Mr. Fitzwellen, and scheduling tee times will be a thing of the past.”