The Obsidian Chamber

18

Captain Filipov stood at the chart table to the left of the helm, staring over Smith’s shoulder as the man worked his laptop computer. He was explaining his latest failed attempt to match the engraving on the mystery man’s ring with something on the Internet. “Whatever it is,” Smith was saying, “it’s not on the surface web, not on the dark net. I used the best image-matching software available. It ain’t fucking there.”

Filipov nodded, staring at the image on the screen: a photo they’d taken of the ring. The boat was lying off Bunker Cove, south of Great Spruce Island. It was a protected anchorage for a dirty night, the swell coming from the northeast, rain splattering the pilothouse windows.

“Want a beer?” Smith asked.

“Not right now.”

Smith scraped the chair back and went below; a moment later he returned, a beer in one hand. He took a long swig.

“Whoever this asshole is,” said Filipov, sitting down at the computer, “he wants to be anonymous. Why won’t he tell us his name?”

“Yeah. Exactly.”

He stared at the design. Weird cloud; lightning; cat’s eye; nine. And suddenly an idea came to him. He winced at the obviousness of it. “A cat has nine lives.”

“Yeah?”

“So this group, whatever it is, is all about survival. Nine lives.”

“Okay.” Smith took a pull from his beer.

“And this cloud. You ever see a cloud like that?”

“It’s strange. Sort of like a thunderhead.”

“Maybe it’s not a cloud at all.”

“So what is it, then?”

“A ghost.”

Smith peered at the image of the ring on the screen, squinting, and then grunted. “Maybe.”

Filipov took the real ring out of his pocket and looked at it, turning it in the dim light of the pilothouse. “Ghost. Star. Nine lives. Lightning. Okay. So the image isn’t on the web. But perhaps a description of it is.”

Filipov started Googling the words “ghost,” “star,” “nine lives,” “lightning.” And almost immediately he got a hit. It was a small article in an FBI newsletter, Hall of Honor, devoted to agents killed in the line of duty. It was dated three or four years back, and it described the funeral of a Special Agent Michael Decker, who had been killed “In the Line of Duty as the Result of an Adversarial Action.” The article described the funeral and noted some of the attendees. Filipov read through it, then stopped at one passage:

“Our mystery man below,” said Filipov, “was in the military. Special forces.”

Smith stared over his shoulder, breathing hard. “Fuck me,” he said, pointing. “Look at this!”

The article sported a small photograph of a group of agents at the graveside. And there, standing with his hands folded, was a tall, pale man in a black suit. While his face was blurry and indistinct, everything about the figure matched the man in the hold — the paleness, the blond hair, the pale eyes and lean physique.

The caption named him as Special Agent A. X. L. Pendergast.

“Christ,” Filipov breathed out. “He’s a fed.”

There was a silence, broken only by the pattering of rain on the windows.

“Well, that’s it,” said Smith. “We throw the motherfucker overboard.”

“You really want to kill him?” asked Filipov.

“We’re not killing him. We’re just putting him back where we found him. Nature will do the rest. Who’s gonna know? He’ll wash up somewhere weeks from now and nothing will connect him to us. We sure as hell can’t keep a fed on board.”

Still Filipov said nothing. He was sorely tempted. The prick had really gotten under his skin. He opened a small cupboard below the chart table, removed a bottle of scotch, unscrewed the cap, and took a pull. He felt the liquid make its fiery way down his throat. It felt good. He took another.

“I say we go back offshore of Crow Island,” Smith went on. “Dump him there. Not far from where he must’ve disappeared. No one’ll connect us to him.” He paused, then grasped the scotch bottle. “Mind?”

“That’s pretty strong stuff for a Mormon,” said Filipov.

“Lapsed,” said Smith with a grin, sucking down a mouthful. “We put the watch back on him. And the ring. No evidence left behind.”

As the scotch set his belly afire, Filipov could feel a remarkable clarity taking hold in his mind. He waited for Smith to talk himself out.

“Fuck the watch,” Smith went on. “We can’t take the risk. With Arsenault maybe about to talk, we can’t take any risks at all.”

“Arsenault,” said Filipov.

“Yeah, Arsenault. I mean, if he talks, they’re gonna be after us hammer and tongs. And if they find a kidnapped fed on board, the drug charges will be the least of our worries—”

“Arsenault,” Filipov repeated.

Smith finally stopped talking. “What about him?”

“The feds have him.”

“What I’m saying.”

“So… we’ve got ourselves a fed.”

Silence.

Filipov turned his gaze full on Smith. “We offer a trade. This man Pendergast for Arsenault.”

“You fucking crazy? You want to pull that shit on the feds? We’ll be dead so fast, you won’t have time to finish pissing off the stern.”

“Not if we go to ground. And I know just the place. Listen. The feds have no idea where he is. There’s been nothing in the papers about it. They don’t know he’s on a boat, and besides, that would be the last place they’d look. As proof we have him, we’ll send them the ring and amulet.”

“This is crazy.”

“If Arsenault cracks, it’s over. We spend the rest of our lives in prison.”

“You really think he’s gonna crack?”

“I think it’s possible. They’ve had him now… what? Almost a month?”

“But to kidnap a fed for an exchange…” Smith lapsed into silence.

“The beauty of it is that it’s simple. The work is half-done: we already have him and nobody knows where we are. We’ll drop one of the crew on shore with the ring and amulet. He’ll mail it to the feds from, say, New York City. Our demand is simple: release Arsenault and give him a one-way ticket to Venezuela. When we hear from him, we set this Pendergast free. If not, Pendergast dies.”

“Set him free? He’s seen our faces.”

“Good point. So when Arsenault’s freed, then we put the fed back in the water. Where we found him.” This idea gave Filipov a sense of satisfaction.

“Son of a bitch.” Smith furrowed his brow. “I don’t know. We kill a fed, they’ll hunt us to the ends of the earth. This guy’s elite. He’s got friends.”

“But we’ve got money. And a boat. It’ll take awhile for them to piece it all together — and by the time they do, if they do, we’ll be long gone. If Arsenault talks, we’re going down anyway.” He delivered the clincher. “It’s a miracle this guy just fell into our laps. We’d be crazy not to take advantage of it.”

Smith shook his head. “It just might work.”

“It will work. Roust up the crew. I’m calling a meeting.”