Conviction

22

Fisher cut Zahm’s feet free, then stood back as the man got up. Normally, Fisher would’ve felt confident keeping a couple of arms’ lengths from an adversary. Zahm rated three.

“What now?” Zahm asked.

“That depends. The safe?”

“Can’t help you, mate.”

“It looks like we’re going fishing.”

“Huh?”

Fisher jerked his head toward the door, then followed Zahm down the hall and out the sliding doors toward the terrace steps. Zahm started down. Fisher kept his eyes alternately fixed on the small of Zahm’s back and his shoulders; if the former SAS man tried to make a move, one or both of those spots would telegraph his intentions, giving Fisher the extra split second he needed.

The lack of any computers in Zahm’s home suggested that the man was technologically unsavvy, but Fisher didn’t believe this. Zahm led one of the most successful gangs of thieves in British history and hadn’t even come close to being caught. So the question was, why no computers? Fisher suspected Zahm simply didn’t trust digital storage. While he wasn’t certain he’d find what he was looking for in the safe — or that it even existed — it seemed the logical place to start.

His choice regarding Zahm’s interrogation, however, was based solely on instinct: The former SAS man wasn’t likely to crack under normal methods. What Fisher had planned was abnormal in the extreme.

When Zahm reached the pool deck, he stopped and stared at Fisher’s handiwork. “They dead?” he asked.

“No.”

“What did you do to them?”

“Stop talking. Keep walking.”

When they reached the beach, Fisher ordered Zahm to the jetty.

“Stop here,” Fisher ordered as Zahm drew even with a skiff. “Get in.”

Zahm turned and gave Fisher a smarmy smile. “Sure you don’t want to take the Dare? Great boat.”

“This’ll do. Get in.” Gun trained on Zahm, Fisher knelt down and steadied the boat’s gunwale as Zahm stepped aboard. “Sit in the bow, facing forward.”

Zahm complied. Fisher cast off the painter, then stepped down and took his seat at the motor. It was a low-powered trolling model with electronic ignition. At the touch of the button the motor gurgled to life and then settled into a soft idle. Fisher cast off the stern line, then twisted the throttle and pulled out, aiming the bow for open ocean.

When he was a mile offshore, he throttled down and let the boat coast to a stop. Almost immediately the boat began rocking in the wind. Water lapped at its sides. He shut off the engine.

“So, what now?” Zahm asked again. “We reenacting the Fredo scene from The Godfather? ’Cuz I—”

Fisher nudged the SC’s selector to DART and shot Zahm in the right bicep. It was a grazing shot so the drug took longer to do its job, but after ten seconds Zahm slumped forward. His head hit the gunwale with a dull thump.

Fisher holstered the SC, drew his knife, and went to work.

When Zahm awoke twenty minutes later he found himself hanging over the side of the rowboat, his flex-cuffed wrists secured to the cleat. “What the hell is this!”

“You’re in the water.”

“I can see that… ” Zahm struggled, trying to chin himself up, but gave up after ten seconds. “What the… What’s around my legs?”

“The anchor.”

Now Fisher saw the first signs of fear in Zahm. The man’s eyes flashed white in the darkness as he turned his head this way and that. “What the hell is this?” he shouted again.

“Psychologists call it a stress trigger,” Fisher replied. “I’ve got a theory about you, Zahm: First you volunteered for one of the toughest units in the British military. Probably saw your fair share of action, I’m assuming?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Then you leave the SAS and dive headfirst into writing novels; then you buy a seven-million-dollar yacht and spend most of your time at sea.”

“What’s your point?”

“My theory is this: When something scares you, you attack it. The more it scares you, the more of it you do.”

“Go to hell.”

“You’re afraid of the water, Chucky.”

“No chance, mate.”

“Drowning, sharks… Whatever it is, you hate the ocean.”

Zahm shook his head a little too quickly.

“Let’s put it to the test,” Fisher said, then scooted forward, drew his knife, and flicked the tip over Zahm’s forearm, opening a one-inch cut. Blood trickled down his skin and began plopping into the water.

Now Zahm’s eyes bulged. He thrashed in the water.

“Wouldn’t do that,” Fisher said. “Sharks love that. What kind do you have in these waters? Tiger? Bull? Great white?”

“Come on, mate. Get me out of here.”

“As soon as you tell me what I want to know.”

Zahm didn’t reply immediately. He craned his neck around, checking the water around him. “What… what did you say?”

“As soon as you tell me what I want to know I’ll bring you back aboard.

“Talk! Come on!

“You and your Little Red Robbers—

“Hey, that’s…”

Fisher stopped talking. He simply stared at Zahm until the man barked, “Okay, okay…”

Fisher continued. “You and your Little Red Robbers did some work for a man named Yannick Ernsdorff.” This was half a hunch, but with men like Zahm, bravado was currency. “I want you to tell me what you did for him. The what, the when, the where — everything.”

“And if I do?”

“Are you bargaining with me, Zahm?”

Zahm jerked around in the water. “Something bumped me! Something bumped my feet!”

“Didn’t take long, did it?” Fisher observed. “That bump is a test. It’s trying to figure out if you’re a threat. Next it’ll give you a test bite.”

“Oh, God…”

“You done bargaining?” Fisher asked.

“Yeah, sorry, sorry…”

“Here’s the upside for you: One, you stop being live bait. Two, we part company and never see each other again. And three, I’ll keep your sideline job a secret— providing you and your boys retire permanently. I assume you can afford to do that.”

“Yeah, we’re set.”

“Do we have a deal?”

Zahm nodded. “Now, for the love of bloody Christ, get me out of here!”

Fisher hauled him over the gunwale, leaving his feet jutting over the side and the anchor line trailing in the water. Fisher rolled Zahm onto his back and waited until he’d caught his breath. “Yannick Ernsdorff,” Fisher prompted.

“Yeah, he hired us about eight months ago. One job, six million dollars, U.S. Don’t know how he found us, but he had proof — enough to put us away for good. Knew every job we’d done. He never said the words, but I got the message: Do the job, take the money, and stay out of jail.”

“Where was the job?”

“China. Someplace in China, near the Russian border. I’ve got documents in my safe.”

Fisher smiled. “I thought you might. Insurance?”

“With a guy like Ernsdorff? Hell, yes, I got insurance.”

“You deal with anyone other than Ernsdorff?”

“Nobody by name.”

“Descriptions?”

“A Chinese bloke… lean, hair graying at the temples; a Russian… hoop earring and ponytail; an American… gray hair, crew cut.”

“Okay, go on.”

“So we spend three months prepping for the job. Turns out the place is a government-run research laboratory in the middle of nowhere. Disguised as a chicken farm. Good internal security but almost no external stuff. Tough nut, that place.”

“But you did the job?”

“Yeah, yeah. Ernsdorff didn’t tell us what we were after. Just told us where to go and what to look for. Just shipping crates — high-end Lexan stuff — with serial numbers on it. He told us not to look inside.”

“But you looked inside,” Fisher said. “You took pictures.”

“Damn straight we did. One of my guys is good with seals. We broke open the cases, took inventory, then sealed them up again, pretty as you like.”

“And? What was inside?”

“Weapons,” Zahm said.

“I assume we’re not talking about AK-47s.”

Zahm shook his head. “No, mate, we’re talking about World War III stuff.”