The Bishop's Pawn (Cotton Malone #13)(9)

“It’s got to be remote as hell out there,” I said to Jansen.

“It ain’t the Four Seasons. But there’ll be few people to get in our way.”

“You said the guy who brought the boat was on Garden Cay. Where is he now?”

“In custody. Good for us it’s illegal for someone from Cuba to be here.”

Yeah, good for us. “Am I going down to the wreck in this storm?”

“We have no choice. The boat’s owner is on the way, and we have to get that waterproof case before he does.”

“Where’s he coming from?”

“Cuba. Where else?”

Of course. How silly of me to ask.

A wave pounded the port side and the boat reeled. I compensated and brought the bow back on its previous heading. I then caught Jansen’s eyes with my own. His were deep-socketed, with a nervous blink, and I wondered what this man knew that I didn’t.

A blast of air slapped more rain against the windscreen.

“This is nuts,” I said.

“It’s the smart play. Nobody will be out in this mess. Especially the park rangers. We should have an open-field run.”

A mass of black clouds, loaded with thunder and lightning, swirled overhead. The entire ocean seemed to be boiling.

“If you were there when it sank, why didn’t you make the dive?”

“Do I look like Lloyd Bridges? It’s not in my skill set. So Stephanie went out and got herself a young buck.”

“You don’t approve?”

“Not my call. I’m just a volunteer.”

“How much do you know about her?” I tried again.

“I guess you deserve a little info.”

That was the way I viewed it, too.

“She was State Department, then moved over to Justice. I remember that she worked close with the FBI when I was with the bureau. Still does, I’m told. A lawyer, but government through and through.”

I heard his unspoken praise.

A prosecutor. Good people. On the right team.

As long as the man was talking, I tried, “She told me about the 1933 Double Eagle. Seems like one special coin.”

“It could be the last of a species.”

Valuable enough that we were out in the middle of a storm trying to retrieve it. But nothing about any of this rang right. A coin that shouldn’t exist. A boat from Cuba suddenly sinking. The owner, from Cuba, too, on his way. The Justice Department allowing all of that to happen. And all for a waterproof case that had to be retrieved intact.

Unopened.

I’d tried enough court-martials at JAG to be able to read juries and witnesses, and though I might be the designated young buck I was no fool.

Something stunk.

Bad.





Chapter Five


I spotted Fort Jefferson through the rain.

The trip from Key West had taken nearly three hours, the going slow thanks to the storm. Jansen was back at the helm, navigating us beyond Garden Cay and the fort, heading toward Loggerhead, the largest of the seven islands, which accommodated a lighthouse whose piercing beam could be seen through the storm.

“The boat broke anchor just over there, then drifted off the south point of Loggerhead,” Jansen said. “That’s where the reefs on the other side got it.”

The squall had eased, but the rain continued. A couple of catamarans, sailboats, and a few power cruisers sat at anchor five hundred yards to our left. We passed the south tip of Loggerhead and I spotted something bobbing in the water. A plastic milk jug with a piece of yellow rope attached to its neck.

“I tied it off to a coral head below,” Jansen said. “The reef is shallow here so I could snorkel. The wreck is fifty yards west of the marker, in a little deeper water.”

“Isn’t this a national park? How’d you manage to tag the wreck?”

“With all the bad weather, that jug hasn’t been noticed. But another day and it would have been.”

He eased back the throttle and held the boat steady. “I’ll keep above you with the engines. Careful with the props. Go ahead and gear up. Everything you need is down on the deck.”

It had been a while since I last dove. The Navy taught me. Pam learned in Cozumel a few years ago. But she’d only made two dives. On the second, an encounter with a nurse shark proved that being underwater was not her thing. So she’d spent the next three days on the boat, waiting for me, which seemed the story of our life.

I climbed from the bridge and found the gear. Standard issue. Nothing fancy. I screwed the regulator onto the tank and tested the pressure with a hiss. Then I adjusted the shoulder and waist straps and buckled on a weight belt. Overhead, lightning flickered and I flinched against another jagged stab that seemed like it was meant for me. The tumult of thunder and the beat of the rain remained steady. How many safety rules was I about to violate? Like never, ever go into the water with lightning. Or alone. In restricted waters. The deck tossed in violent, unpredictable lists and I decided this was no place to don heavy equipment. So I slipped on my mask and fins, tossed the tank over the side, and rolled off the gunnels into the water.

I dropped beneath the turbulence and found the sinking tank. Leaning forward, I inserted both arms through the shoulder straps inside out, then hoisted the weightless mass, bringing it up, over my head, and down on my back, keeping my arms out straight until the straps rested comfortably on my shoulders.