Dead of Night

28

Serpiente

An hour after she had pushed Dr. Frieda Matthews into the path of the SUV rental, Dasha padlocked the door of the storage garage, then removed the surgical gloves she was wearing.

Aleski’s cousin, Broz, had been waiting for them when they arrived. He’d raised his eyebrows when he saw the SUV’s bumper and windshield. Said in Russian, “What a fat cow you must have hit!”

A clever joke for that slow-witted fool.

Broz was driving one of the numbered Tropicane trucks, which infuriated Dasha, though she said nothing.

Sloppy. Unprofessional. He’s even stupider than Aleski!

Amazing that he’d learned to operate a plane.

The time would come, she suspected, when she would have to kill them both. With Broz, she would make it last. If he wasn’t so damn ugly, maybe even find a way to get some pleasure out of it.

Aleski, though, he’d die quickly, painlessly. The man was her partner, after all. A fellow professional. He deserved respect.

It would happen. Maybe sooner than later.

Dasha had reviewed her mental checklist: wiped the rental vehicle clean of prints, dumped a bottle of Clorox over the interior and exterior. Used Clorox-soaked towels to clog the garage’s vents and airspaces.

Vultures sitting outside a storage garage invite attention. The car would soon begin to stink.

Dasha had decided the woman’s body was too badly damaged to load into the back of the SUV. It would’ve been too time-consuming, searching through the weeds next to the canal, collecting all that needed to be collected. What a mess. A car, she decided, was an interesting way of killing, but not a good way, because it was impossible to manipulate the crime scene afterward.

Unprofessional, like Broz.

Should’ve used the hypodermic loaded with Versed. To hell with Aleski and his recreational games.

Still… Dasha had to admit to herself that her last moments with Frieda Matthews had been stimulating in an unexpected way. She replayed it in her mind, as she slid in behind the wheel of the Tropicane vehicle, started the engine, and accelerated away…

She could see herself helping the confused woman to her feet after she had tumbled at speed from the back of the SUV. Knew from an Army medic’s course that Matthews had compound fractures, right femur, right wrist, nearly one side of her body skinned raw, blouse torn off.

Sickening if you weren’t hardened to that sort of thing. In shock. A concussion, too.

“What’s happening? Help me. Will you help me?” Adults in shock sometimes revert to the speech patterns of childhood.

“Of course. Put your arm over my shoulder. We will take you to hospital.”

… Then the two of them, waiting in weeds at the side of the road where Aleski had dropped them-a straight-away where she could see vehicles approaching from a mile in either direction. Matthews babbling, and crying about some child she missed so badly, starting to feel pain for the first time, the adrenaline mask fading.

Supporting the woman’s body, Dasha had let her hands explore around. Done it unthinkingly, at first, then with specific interest, finding Matthews to be bustier than she looked, skin soft to the touch, her abdomen firm, silky. A woman who used clothes to cover herself, not reveal.

It was arousing, Dasha had to admit it. Standing, holding the warmth of damaged flesh, aware of another human’s absolute vulnerability, hands cupping a woman’s breasts for the first time in her life, Dasha watched the SUV bearing down on them, Aleski going way too fast because he was furious.

Frieda Matthews had nearly gouged out the man’s right eye; used her teeth to mangle his ear. Aleski was bleeding from the groin-he wouldn’t explain why.

Another middle-aged woman who refused to be humiliated by life, by a man, by anything.

In that instant, Dasha had felt something resembling fondness for Matthews. Pulled her closer, watching the SUV growing huge as it flew toward them, wanting to time it right and cause this strong woman the least amount of pain. Touched her lips tenderly to Frieda’s cheek… then pushed her away gently-a steering sort of push-and watched Matthews wobble groggily out onto the road.

The woman’s back was to the vehicle when it hit her. An explosion touched Dasha’s own cheek as a vaporous sprinkle. Warm, like soft rain.

The Russian dabbed at the moisture with fingertips. Red.

Yes, fondness. That’s what Dasha had felt. Arousal, too.

Both unexpected.

She wondered if she’d get the chance to experience those confusing feelings again one day.

Mr. Earl was waiting for them at the Tropicane Ranch. Sat on the porch of the plush, two-story minimansion that was reserved for major stockholders and dignitaries, but used almost exclusively by the tall Lincoln-looking man with the big white teeth.

Mr. Earl the Black Pearl was king shit around the Tropicane staff. Most didn’t know Mr. Sweet existed.

Mr. Earl was showing his teeth now, a huge smile. He was dressed very stylishly in a white linen suit, with a white cane and panama strawhat within easy reach, as Dasha approached carrying the laptop computer in both hands, like an offering.

“Is it Applebee’s?”

Ten feet away, Dasha could smell the lavender lotion he used. Saw that his red bow tie was crooked-which might mean Mr. Earl was already a little drunk. He drank mojitos in public, vodka in private.

“This is his computer. But you told me not to open it, that you wanted to get the first look. So I can’t confirm it.”

Mr. Earl stood, took the computer as he fitted spectacles on his nose-the lenses were dime-sized.

“Go! Get food, drink, go for a swim, whatever you want.” The man was excited. He might have been accepting gold, not a laptop. “I’ll meet you here later for cocktails. Eightish is cool.”

Dasha had hoped to fly back to the island that night with Aleski and Broz, but she answered, “As you wish.”

At her staff apartment, Dasha shaved her legs. Chose white satin slacks, no underwear, a gauzy blue blouse, no bra, just in case the tall man wanted something special in trade for closing the deal. Her read, though she had nothing to prove it: Mr. Earl dressed like a homosexual but wasn’t. Not full-time, anyway.

Disgusting, if he insisted, but necessary.

That was Dasha’s impression. The two of them were about to agree on a way of leveraging Mr. Sweet. Wealthy people sometimes have accidents; disappear-there’s nothing suspicious about that if their assets are undisturbed. Creating an independent cash flow after a wealthy person vanishes, though, required unusual opportunity, plus planning.

She had her theory about how Stokes hoped to profit from introducing exotic parasites into Florida. Mr. Earl maybe knew. Or had a theory of his own.

An important meeting. It required giving thought to appropriate dress.

When Dasha returned to the little mansion, minus Aleski and his idiot cousin, she got a surprise. Mr. Earl was no longer smiling. He was on the porch, pacing beneath the yellow light, smoking a cigarette in an ivory holder.

Mr. Sweet didn’t allow tobacco on his islands. Smoking was a Florida indulgence.

“The good news?” Mr. Earl told her before she got seated, even before asking her if she wanted a drink. “You got the right computer. There’s no doubt about who the software’s licensed to. I also checked the applications system, and you told me the truth. You didn’t take a secret little peek at his files. Like I would have bet you would.”

Dasha stood comfortably, pleased with her own professionalism, but curious about where he was going with this. She hadn’t opened the computer because she’d guessed the man had a way to check. He was shrewd, always a step ahead of everyone. The first time she’d realized for certain how smart Mr. Earl was was the first time Dasha suspected she might have an ally. Someone to help her displace Mr. Sweet.

“The bad news?” Mr. Earl’s tone was a mix of irritation and amusement. “The bad news is, that lil’ fool who went and hung himself, wasn’t a retard like our boss man claims. Applebee was a damn genius, far as I can tell. Let’s go sit inside, have a look at the computer. I’ll show you what I’m saying.”

There was only one folder on the computer’s desktop. Labeled EPOC/TROPICANE.

Mr. Earl said, “Watch this.” He opened the folder. One by one, he opened the files within.

“Numbers,” he said. “The little man didn’t write with letters. He wrote with numbers. Jesus Christ, it had to take him forever to learn how to write this way. His own language.”

During intelligence training evolutions in the Russian Army, Dasha had gone through a three-week school on encryption and secret writing. It had mostly dealt with computers, how to hide and recover data.

A portion of the evolution had been called “Forensic Computer Analysis.”

“Is that code? Or cipher?” She was looking over Mr. Earl’s shoulder at columns of numbers, seeing his face in the screen’s reflection, her eyes two dark spaces next to his left ear. She didn’t think he’d have a clue.

He pushed himself away from the desk. “You tell me. You’re head of security.” The man leaned, lighted a cigarette, smiling-playing a game with her, giving a test. Blew a cloud of smoke into her hair; touched his fingernail to her back and traced a horizontal line typically covered by her bra strap.

That was something else unexpected. More than two years they’d worked together, and this was the first indication the man was interested in having fun.

Dasha sat, rebooted the computer with system extensions off. She checked the software’s kernel version, the boot volume, and the amount of memory available.

They all told her something. There was a lot more data stored on this computer than was visible on the desktop, or hard drive.

She restarted the computer, then went to system preferences and opened security options, feeling Mr. Earl out there next to the porch window, watching her, smoking, expecting her to fail.

Security vault activated. Master password required.

One after another, Dasha typed in default passwords. She’d memorized several during training. All declined.

Yebat!

She looked at the laptop’s cover as if to remind herself. This was a Mac, a system she’d never used. Russian Intelligence-its three-week encryption school had dealt only with PCs. All IBM clones that used Windows. Never a word about Macs.

Typical. Myopic bureaucrats still ran the government. Mother Russia. A gigantic country inhabited by small losers.

Outside, Mr. Earl lit another cigarette. She could hear his throaty chuckle.

Dasha called, “We need an expert to look at this.”

Mr. Earl opened the door. “You want a third person involved?” His tone asked if she wanted a third person to share the score.

No doubt now. The man was on the make. Maybe he knew about Applebee’s guinea worm study, or had a theory similar to her own-lots of money at stake.

“How else are we going to find out what’s on the computer?”

Mr. Earl held up a skinny index finger, then leaned over the computer’s keyboard, the odor of lavender and tobacco potent. He typed for several seconds, then said, “Look.”

On the screen appeared rows of blue folders, each labeled with words, not numbers. Many dozens of folders, some with interesting tags. Several had to do with Autism: Autism/mercury. doc; Autism/panic.

Some strange, angry ones that referenced Disney World: Dis/conspiracy. doc; Satanicmouse.

There was a long list of topics that indicated the quiet little man had had a busy, busy world going on inside his head.

Another folder was labeled: DR.D. STOKES/PRIVATE FILES. DOC.

Interesting.

Dasha hesitated, not sure she should risk it, before saying, “There they are, Stokes’s private files. Applebee copied them-I had my doubts. What do you think’s in there?”

Mr. Earl looked at her frankly. “I just finished going through it. It’s written in plain English, not numbers. You’re in there, I’ll tell you that much. All that the cops need to put you away for murder. Or me-for something I did a long time ago.”

Dasha widened her eyes, telling him she’d like to know more. For personal reasons.

Big grin. “Years back, I was what they called a ‘political subversive.’ What I was into, though, was drugs. Money. Dropped acid, screwed teenyboppers, hung out with LSD freaks. They made crazy predictions that, at the time, got a lot of press. They’re still getting press, thanks to yours truly and Dr. Stokes. Makin’ us even more money. Understand? Which is very, very cool.”

Dasha knew he’d been busted for more than that, because he added, “The Bahamian police, the FBI, Interpol. If any of them get a copy of this file, we’re both gone. When the time’s right, maybe I’ll let you have a look.”

She was impressed that Mr. Earl had beaten the computer’s security system so quickly but was also suspicious. Why was the man sharing the information with her?

Mr. Earl let her think about that for a moment before he said, “May I tell you something in confidence? Between us. Only us.”

“Of course. You trust me; I’ll trust you. Partnerships sometimes start in strange ways.”

His mean, judgmental eyes stared at her from above a broadening smile. “I have special software. It’s illegal for anyone not in law enforcement. It recovers keystrokes made prior to installation. Anything typed on the keyboard during the hard drive’s history, I can recover. It downloads automatically on any computer that signs on from the island. That’s how I got Applebee’s passwords.”

His confession was also an implied warning: The man had her private files, and files from every other computer on the island.

The Russian waited, not expecting him to offer anything else, but he did.

“Six-six-four. Cardinal numbers, spelled out. That’s one of Applebee’s passwords. The man’s little joke.”

“What do you mean?”

“What’s the number mean? No idea. But the joke I can show you.” Mr. Earl moved the cursor to a file labeled: Dracunculus Eminences. “Do what know what this is?”

“I wouldn’t want to try to pronounce it. Something to do with Dracula?” Dasha thought for a moment. “I’ve seen it written someplace before.”

“It’s the Latin name for the guinea worm parasite.” The man clicked on the file and several more file icons appeared. One was labeled: Eradicating Dracunculus Infestation.

He opened it, and six icons remained, all studies related to guinea worm parasites. Dasha was getting excited.

According to the dates, the three most recently created files were labeled: Raising Copepod/Hybrids, Eradication-Plan /Florida, Post-Dracunculus Africa.

“I’ll be damned, the man did it. Applebee discovered a cure.” The woman pointed at the screen. “Africa after the parasite’s all gone. What else could it mean?”

“A cure?” Mr. Earl sounded surprised, or maybe tried to sound it. “Oh-I see what you’re saying. Yes, I think he did. Solved a problem no one bothered to mess with. But here’s the joke I mentioned.”

He opened one of the files. Numbers again.

“Passwords and labels, he used letters. Funny. Ha-ha! Teasing anyone who tried to break into his system. Everything else Applebee wrote is in code.”

Dasha felt his frustration now. “There’s got to be a key. It’s probably hidden somewhere in the hard drive.”

“If it is, it’s all numbers.”

“Then we’ll figure it out ourselves.”

“That’s where we’re screwed. Unless you’ve got some special training in the area, we’re not going to have time to crack this before Stokes expects us back on the island.”

Dasha hoped she hadn’t misinterpreted his meaning. She had to be very careful here. “Why’s it so important that we translate it before we give the computer to Dr. Stokes?”

Mr. Earl was on the keyboard again, typing. “I didn’t say we had to translate it. I said we have to find the key before he finds it. Here-read this.”

An e-mail appeared on the screen. It was addressed to someone named Doc at Sanibel Biological Supply, sent from F. matthews.

Frieda Matthews.

Hey, Doc, you’re the only guy I know with the background to understand Jobe’s files, attached here. Remember me telling you my brother used numbers as words…?

Mr. Earl said, “I did an Internet search. Sanibel Biological is owned by a biologist named Marion Ford. Dr. Ford. Doc. Does the name sound familiar?”

Dasha thought, Jesus Christ, the crazy idiot who almost killed me with his boat.

One of Stokes’s stooges had gotten the name, had told them that the same guy, Ford, had been with Frieda when she’d toured her brother’s house. A close friend of the family.

Detective Jimmy Heller, the stooge.

Heller had also said Applebee’s body was infested with the worms. The dates that the last computer files were created-“Dracunculus Solved”-told Dasha that he’d discovered the solution too late.

Mr. Earl said, “We find Ford, maybe we find the key. Getting information out of people who don’t want to cooperate-your specialty.”

That’s why he needs me.

Still playing it safe, Dasha said, “Then we give the information to Dr. Stokes?”

The dried-up man, all bones and face, was shaking his head, looking at her with his mean dark eyes. “No, we go ahead and spread the parasites in Florida. Stick with the plan, woman. The only difference is, we got Applebee’s formula. Stokes don’t. Buy the land cheap, then sell to all those developers waiting in line. Millions.”

Dasha was right with him. Millions.

She let her hand slide over and touch the man’s thigh.

A little before midnight, Thursday, sitting at a computer inside Mr. Earl’s minimansion, Dasha did an Internet search and found two photos of Marion Ford, Ph. D. It took a while. There was very little information on the guy; no background data at all.

Weird.

Or not.

She’d tried to wade through a couple of his scientific papers, titles like “Difficulties Spawning Megalops atlanticus in Captivity,” before almost saying, screw it, the man was an egghead scientist who must have been whiskey-brave the night of the boat chase.

Then she got lucky. Went to the Web page of a weekly newspaper, the Sanibel Shoppers Guide, and there he was with a story about a place called “Dinkin’s Bay Marina.”

“Doc Ford and Tomlinson, Two Colorful Locals” was the cutline. A pair of photos, the first posed: Broad-shouldered man, hair wind mussed, eyes staring out through thick glasses, his expression neutral, standing beside a bony-faced hippie, Jesus hair, with a friendly grin, glazed eyes.

One man stoned. The other man stone.

Her first impression: Ford was a nerdy scientist, just as the articles he’d written suggested. Right at home with the other loser in the picture, two tropical bums who found opposite ways to underachieve.

But then she reminded herself that she was looking at a man who, on a black night, had launched a boat over a ski ramp while Aleski fired at him-and still had the balls and skill to time it so perfect he’d damn near crushed them.

The second photo was more suggestive. The photographer had caught Ford by surprise. Face was the same, but the eyes were very, very different. His head was turned toward the camera, expression intense.

Reassessment time.

Dasha was in no hurry, sitting there in the minimansion’s computer room and library. A good place to burn time while Mr. Earl snored a fifth of vodka away in the master bedroom upstairs.

A couple hours earlier, he’d said to her, “Your security system, those redundancy cells, I thought it was such a good idea. I finally realized, you can use it like a rope around my neck. You hired nothing but Russians. I can’t make a move without your permission.”

Dasha had anticipated this. She handed him an order she’d already signed. It excluded him from all security “impositions.”

She let him read the paper before handing him a second packet, then pointed to Mr. Earl’s name, and the line where he was supposed to sign. Watched him smile. The paper was already notarized.

“This judge in Nassau, did you bribe her with money? Or slip her some skin?” Watched the man tilt his head back, laughing. “You’ll never get Stokes to sign this. But me? Sure, I’ll sign-if you agree to a little celebration afterward. I don’t want any money. What you probably gave the judge, that would be cool.”

Disgusting old leech. A predator, really. The man screwed like he was double-parked, or might turn into a pumpkin. Probably thirty-five-years older than her-plus he was drunk. He had to use an index finger to stuff his pecker inside, like a magician hiding a scarf in a fist.

Next time, I’ll make the nasty thing disappear. My turn to fuck Mr. Earl.

Saying she had to do research was a good excuse to escape the stink of lavender and Mr. Earl’s dried-up fingertips. A relief… until she used the computer’s toolbar to have a closer look at this second photo of Ford.

Zoomed in on eyes looking out through wire glasses. Thick glasses. Eyes that seemed dark even though they reflected pale light, the man’s expression showing that he’d been startled by the photographer, the eyes chilly, expectant; expectant in the way of someone who sits back and accesses before making a move.

Surprise a carnivore in tall grass, you’d get the same reaction.

The eyes reminded her of something. The image of Solaris came into Dasha’s mind-Solaris and the newly hatched snake that killed him.

A death adder.

A reptile that, from birth, knew instinctively to wait, calculate, before striking.

Efficient. That was another way of saying it.

Ford’s eyes were similar. Vague and dusty. Something dark inside there coiled.

In Vegas, when Mr. Earl had interviewed her, there’d been all those Soldier of Fortune types strutting around. Fakes, skinheads, Hollywood dreamers. Out of all those pretenders, she’d seen two, maybe three people who’d earned the look. People who’d been places; done some jobs.

If you serve in the Russian military, the Chechen border, hustling both sides, you learned to recognize the real ones at a glance. Or died.

He used a ski ramp to attack. At night. While taking fire.

Marion D. Ford, Ph. D.

Looking at the man’s photo, Dasha felt a stimulating awareness, the preface to fury, but also the preface to arousal. In her, the two emotions were nearly the same.

Biologist, my ass.

The woman still had connections in Russia; former KGB people, black ops specialists. She looked at her watch-a little after 8:00 A.M. in Moscow. Just for the hell of it, she wrote an e-mail asking if anyone had additional information on Ford. She sent it to several addresses, not expecting much.

Surprise.

An hour later, after showering yet again, Dasha checked her e-mail before heading for bed in the guest room. She’d already received three responses.

Two wrote that there was no data available-“suggestive,” one noted, in a typically understated Russian way.

The third reply was written in Chechen. Excellent intel; better than she’d hoped.

… only match for Marion D. Ford is from compromised Mossad files, data not verifiable. Tropics; Biologist; Born South Florida-suspected nightshift operator, never confirmed. Assets: Unknown. Affiliated agency: Unknown; possibly illegal deep-cover black ops group. Designation: W.

MDF’s geo-transects are too numerous to be coincidental with the deaths or disappearances listed here in reverse order: Islamic cleric Hada Salharra, Detroit; Ricardo Palmera (aka Simon Trinidad), FARC leader, Colombia; Omar Muhammad, head of Abul Nidal…

Dasha was smiling, energized. The targets, the organizations-in the world of covert operations, this was big-time. It took the breath out of her. She had Ford’s photo enlarged on the screen as she skipped ahead; she wanted to see how the man got started.

… while in secondary school, MDF was suspect in the disappearance and presumed murder of a man rumored to have had an affair with subject’s mother just prior to her own death. According to sealed records, a juvenile court judge (and friend of subject’s Masonic uncle) strongly suggested MDF leave Florida and enlist in the military…

The final paragraph read:

… subject was employed by a CIA front corporation, Air America, during operations Phoenix and Blue Light. MDF is also suspected of infiltrating political activist organizations on U.S. college campuses, Colorado, Wisconsin, Berkeley, and Harvard, in operations called Purple Haze and Bad Moon Rising. Several deaths and disappearances associated with same…

“Nightshift.” KGB slang.

This man was a professional, like herself. An operator.

With someone like this, she’d have to be very, very careful.

The woman was imagining various scenarios. Letting it play out in her head.

Her guess was right: A killer.

A man like Ford she might be able to use…