Thorpe's Candle

PEGASUS

“Where are you hiding, Mr. Bormann?” Mickey Gates asked himself as he propped his feet up on the edge of the video control console. He leaned back and rubbed his tired eyes — the stiffness in his neck didn't go away when he tilted his head from side to side. He glanced over his shoulder. Through the porthole he saw the moon rising above the slate-flat ocean.

Taking a sip of Red Stripe, Gates turned back to the high-definition video monitor. Like a doctor examining an x-ray, he scrutinized the wireframe, 3D-image profile of the ocean bottom. Somewhere down there was U-396. It had caught fire and sank on its way to South America in May 1945. Newly uncovered Allied documents contained evidence that Martin Bormann, private secretary and chief adviser to Adolf Hitler, had been on board fleeing Germany with a fortune in Nazi gold. After weeks of scanning hundreds of square miles of ocean bottom, the computer had yet to make a match to the U-boat's distinctive profile.

Enough for one night, Gates thought. He pressed stop on the digital video recorder. With beer in hand, he left the Pegasus' Video Analysis Center and stepped out onto the deck. The converted Coast Guard cutter lay at anchor on a calm ocean 70 kilometers off the east coast of the Yucatan Peninsula. Crammed with electronic gear, it was owned by OceanQuest, the undersea exploration company specializing in military salvage.

Gates strolled along the deck watching a school of kings break the surface thirty yards away. He was slightly less than six feet and solid as a load of concrete, his muscles fought to escape his pullover and shorts. He had a crop of dark shaggy hair, a chiseled square jaw, and moved with the confidence of a man who once competed on the U.S. Olympic wrestling team. His diving credits ranged from the gold-bearing rivers of the western United States to expeditions under both polar ice sheets. Reaching the door to the bridge, he stuck his head in and spotted Peter Jorg, the tall blond captain of the Pegasus. Jorg leaned over a table as he studied charts and entered coordinates into a computer. In his early thirties, Jorg had joined the OceanQuest team after finishing five years as an officer in the Swedish Navy. He wore a T-shirt that said, “OceanQuest divers do it deeper”, a pair of denim cut-offs, and some well-worn boat shoes. “Mick,” he said. “Burning the midnight oil?”

“Just going through the videos one more time.” Gates walked over and looked at the computer screen. “Anything promising for tomorrow?”

“I wish I could say yes, but we've covered the same area so many times, I'm on a first name basis with most of the fish.”

Gates glanced up at the white board. The last known location of U-396—20 degrees north, 87 degrees west — was written in large red letters. The Allies decoded the final flash message from the German High Command but it was buried in the mountain of post war documents for over fifty years. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, old KGB files were released and the last know position of U-396 along with its infamous passenger was discovered.

“Not that it'll probably matter,” Gates said, “but just for grins, let's reverse the search pattern. Who knows, the scanning program might like looking at things from the opposite angle for a change.”

“You're the boss.” Jorg continued entering data. The phone on the bridge instrument panel chirped. Jorg walked over and answered. He looked up, smiled at Gates and held out the receiver. “It's Skyler.”

Gates took it. “Sky, how’s the margaritas?”

“They're fine, but nothing else is.”

Gates heard the edginess on his best friend's voice. He knew Matt Skyler better than anyone. Outwardly, the former U.S. Navy Commander was adventurous and easygoing, somewhat conservative and unassuming. But Gates also knew the inner Skyler. If someone was unlucky enough to confront this part of him, they usually came up short. Cool and meticulous, Skyler rarely miscalculated when he set his mind to a task. He could also be moody and sometimes would withdraw to a place where even Gates could not reach him.

The two met in high school while racing dune buggies across the Arizona desert. Later, they both attended the University of Southern California and vowed one day to be in business together. OceanQuest was the result — two state-of-the-art research and exploration vessels funded by government contracts and in constant use around the world.

“You guys okay?” Gates asked.

“Yeah. Listen, Mick. I need you to check on a few things for me. Got a pencil and pad?”

Gates grabbed what he needed. “Shoot.”

“Get into the COMNET database and see what you can find out about Aztec Cruise Lines. I want a full background check — who owns it, financial status, complete history of the company.”

“Got it. What else?”

“Call Dick Miller at the Pentagon. Remind him he owes me for saving his ass from being thrown in jail after that New Year’s party in Washington. Then tell him I need to know the status of all Yankee-class boomers.”

“I haven't seen one of those old tubs in quite a while.”

“Me neither, until last night.”

“It's late in Washington. Miller's probably gone home.”

“Look up his private number in my database. Tell him it's important.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Club Med, Sonora Bay. It's about twenty miles south of San Carlos. I’m flying back to Key West tomorrow. Candice is heading to New York. When I get home, I'll check in at the office first then have one of the guys fly me down in the seaplane. Save everything until I get there.”

“You got it.”

“How are things going on your end?” Skyler asked.

“Nothing yet. If we stay here much longer, we're gonna have to start paying Cuban property taxes.”

“Well, don't give up, my friend. U-396's down there somewhere. She just knows how to hide better than most.”

“So what's this Yankee-class stuff about anyway? Those buckets should all be scrap metal by now.”

“I thought so, too, Mick.”

“Anything to worry about?”

“Not sure yet, but once we hear from Dick Miller, we may all have a great deal to worry about.”

“Now can we relax and have some fun?” Candice asked. The fashion photographer wrapped her arms around Skyler's waist and kissed his neck. “You've talked to Mickey Gates. He's hot on the case. You've reported everything to the police. They said they'd investigate. So there's nothing left to do but pamper and please me.”

They stood in the small garden of their cabana and stared up at the moon rising over the distant mountains. Skyler could feel the heat from the desert that stretched beyond the protected, palm-laden oasis of Club Med.

“I'm sorry, Candy. I guess I have been ignoring you. Spending the afternoon at the police station was certainly a total waste of time. How about dinner by candlelight, champagne and a scrumptious dessert.” He ran his fingers through her hair and brought her mouth to his. Her body pushed against him and caused an instant reaction — his cutoffs grew tight. As they kissed, she slid her hand into the front of his shorts quickly finding what made him so uncomfortable. He sighed as she wrapped her fingers around him.

“I want my dessert now,” she said, and gave him a push back into the room.

“And spoil your appetite?” His words came with a shortness of breath as he dropped onto the bed.

“I'll take my chances.”

Skyler lay on his back, arms outstretched. He felt a surge of passion as she unzipped his shorts, pealed his clothes away, and worked her tongue and lips over him. The warmth of her mouth drove him crazy, his breaths coming quicker. He closed his eyes and moaned as she took him in her mouth, knowing from experience just what pleased him.

Suddenly, Candice pulled away. Skyler opened his eyes and looked up. Two men stood at the foot of the bed. One had Candice by the hair yanking her head back. The other pointed an automatic pistol at Skyler, its barrel extended with a silencer.

“What the hell is this?” Skyler realized he was not only naked but also fully erect. He started to get up but the man aimed the gun at Skyler's groin.

“Don't try it or you've just had your last hard-on.”

Skyler recognized him as the steward from the ship, the one that had knocked him out. “Take your hands off her.” He leaned on his elbows, his erection fading fast.

Candice's eyes filled with fear as the other man pulled tighter on her hair. “You're in no position to give orders. Do what I say and your girlfriend might live long enough to give you another blow job.”

As the gunman pointed the pistol, Skyler kicked straight up hitting the man's forearm. There was a muffled pop and a slug slammed into the wall over the bed spraying chunks of plaster. Skyler dove at the gunman. The second man pushed Candice aside and brought his gun down across the back of Skyler's neck knocking him to his knees.

“You're a slow learner,” the gunman said, and tapped the back of Skyler's head with the silencer. “Now listen carefully.” He squatted to look into Skyler's face. “You've stuck your nose where it don’t belong. Be a real smart guy and forget everything. Don't bother going back to the police. If they ask you any more questions, you tell them you were drunk, fell and bumped your head.” He looked over at Candice. “It would be a real shame if something happened to her. A real shame.” He turned back to Skyler. “Understood?” He pushed against Skyler's nose with the end of the barrel.

Skyler said nothing. The second man brought the back of his hand across Candice's face. She fell against the wall with a yelp of pain — a trickle of blood appeared at the corner of her mouth.

“Understood,” Skyler said through clenched teeth. He wanted to teach these men a lesson but he would do nothing to risk his lover's safety.

The men walked over to the open patio doors. “Have a nice day,” said the steward from the ship. Then they turned and were gone.

“What's going on, Matt?” Candice asked, sobbing. “Who were they?”

“One was the guy that slugged me last night.” He helped her to the edge of the bed. “I don't know who they are but you can bet I'm going to find out. Let's have a look.” He examined her lip. “There's a small cut on the inside of your mouth.”

Skyler got a wet washcloth from the bathroom and wiped the blood away. Then he pulled on his pants and shoes. “Lock the doors behind me.”

“Shouldn't we call security?”

“No, not yet.”

“Where are you going?”

“They paid us a visit, now I'm going to return the favor.”

“Are you crazy? They'll kill you.”

“Candy, they can't afford to kill me. I filed a police report. If something happens to me, it would confirm my story and bring the police down on top of the cruise line. No, they just want to scare the stupid American tourist so I'll go home and forget everything.” He dug into the bottom of his travel carryall and removed a 9mm Beretta.

“I thought you left that at home,” she said as she looked in the mirror and examined her face for any signs of a bruise. “Matt, don't go crazy. Those men weren't joking around.”

“Neither am I.” He checked the fifteen-round clip and stuck the gun in the waistband at the small of his back letting his shirttail conceal it. “Just lock the doors and don't let anyone in.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek and walked out into the hot desert night.

“There were two men,” Skyler said, standing at the entrance to the main Club Med building. “One medium height with dark hair, the other short and heavy,”

“Si, Señor,” the young valet said after he brought Skyler's Jeep around. “They left just a few moments ago and headed toward San Carlos.”

“What kind of car?”

“A Ford, Señor, a blue Ford sedan.”

“Gracias.” Skyler shoved a hundred-peso bill into the boy's shirt pocket. He hopped into the Jeep and headed north on the highway to San Carlos. The two-lane road wound along the edge of the desert toward the coast. Traffic was light and it took only a few minutes for him to catch up to the blue Ford. He followed at a respectable distance along the winding desert road. They passed an old Spanish mission and entered the outskirts of the small seacoast village. Most of the stores and houses were dark, the town already asleep.

The Ford pulled into the dusty parking lot of a cantina called El Toro, one of the few along the highway that was still open. Skyler slowed and steered the Jeep to the edge of the road. He watched the two men get out and go in the bar. Then he parked on the other side of the lot and turned off the engine. After a few minutes he walked over to the Ford and tried the door. It was unlocked and he reached in and pulled the hood release. Opening it, he felt around until he found the ignition wires. He gave them a yank and then let the hood drop down quietly. Then he walked back to the Jeep and waited.

An hour later, Skyler saw the two men come out of the cantina joking and laughing, their words slurred, probably from a great deal of beer and tequila. When the Ford didn't start, the man on the passenger's side got out and lifted the hood. He leaned over and checked the battery connections. Then his fingers touched the dangling ends of the spark plug wires. He started to say something to the driver when the hood slammed down on his head. The other man looked up into the barrel of the Beretta.

“Get out slowly,” Skyler said.

With a stunned expression, the driver opened the door and stood with his hands in the air. “You're making the mistake of your life,” he said in a menacing tone.

Skyler walked over and searched under the man's coat. He found a gun and wallet.

“You got a lot of balls,” the driver said. “You're gonna regret this.”

Skyler shoved the Beretta into the man’s stomach hard. He doubled over and dropped to his knees. Then Skyler heard a moan and raised the hood. Groggy, the second man tried to stand but quickly fell in the dirt holding his head. Skyler searched and found his gun and wallet too, and then he switched on the headlights. Returning to the front of the car, he flipped through the wallets. Each contained Colombian driver's licenses and a small amount of cash. Both had Bogota business cards.

“Okay Señor Llanos of the Colombian Tourist Council, want to tell me what was in the suitcases being off-loaded to the submarine?”

Llanos looked up still holding his head. “Go to hell.”

Skyler leaned over. “Yesterday you were a steward on a cruise ship and today you're a Colombian government official. Looks like you can't hold a job, pal. Now I asked you a question and I want an answer.”

“You'll be sorry for this.”

“I'm already sorry I ever laid eyes on you two.”

“You're not going to kill us,” the other man said, finally able to breathe again.

“You're right,” Skyler said, looking at the second card, “Señor Mendoza. I'm not going to kill you tonight. But if anything ever happens to Candice Stevens, if you ever get within a mile of her again, I'll blow your fucking brains out. Any questions?”

“No,” Llanos muttered.

“Now hook the spark plug wires back up and get the hell out of here.”

“What about our wallets?” Llanos said.

“Go back and tell whoever sent you to buy you new ones.”

Mendoza fumbled around until he had the wires going to the right connectors. Skyler stood back while they got into the blue Ford. Llanos gunned the engine spinning the tires and spraying dirt as the car shot out of the parking lot. Once their lights faded in the distance, Skyler tossed their guns in a trash container. Then he went to the Jeep and headed back to Club Med. The hot desert air blew through his hair as he tapped Llanos' business card on his chin.