Spyder Web (14 page)

A hissing sound began to emanate from the BCD, slowly at first; then bladders of the floatation vest began to fill with air. As the BCD inflated, the body slowly lifted off the reef. When the weight of Cole’s body no longer pressed against the inflation control, the hissing stopped. Now buoyant in the seawater, Cole’s body began to drift with the current.

‘ Cerveza, senor?’ Ponce Sebastian asked, offering a cold beverage to the heavyset man in the fighting chair.

‘Sure, Ponce,’ the man replied, trading an empty bottle for a full one.

Ponce Sebastian was a short, wiry man and the captain of his own fishing boat. This boat, the Alazna, was also his home. Ponce chartered his boat out for day trips to tourists. Today, this overweight American from Alabama wanted to fish for sea bass. It was only nine in the morning and the man was already on his third beer. Ponce didn’t mind; the man had paid in advance.

The reel on the man’s rod jerked and began to spin. Then it stopped. The tourist wiped the sheen of perspiration off his brow and looked at the reel. As the boat bobbed with the next wave, it spun again, then stopped.

‘Hey, Ponce, I think we got something on the line.’

Ponce walked over just as the reel began to spin. It turned slowly, nothing like a large fish fighting for its life. Again, it stopped.

‘That’s the third time it’s done that.’

‘If that’s a fish, senor, it’s got no cojones. We must have snagged something. Let’s reel it in.’

The tourist put one hand on the rod while the other turned the reel. Judging by the way he tested the line as he drew it in, Ponce knew the man had some experience fishing. The man also wasn’t afraid to work. Some of the tourists he had carried barely lifted a finger while at sea, leaving him to land the fish and take their picture with it.

‘You’re right, Ponce. Whatever it is, it sure ain’t swimming.’

The tourist wiped his brow and resumed his task of reeling in the line. Ponce watched the thin wake that broke where the heavy nylon line sliced the water’s surface. Gradually, a dark form began to rise from the depths. The line started to slacken and the tourist was turning the reel as fast as he could. The black form emerged from the sea twenty feet behind the fishing boat. Both men stared, trying to divine what they’d brought up from the sea.

‘Ponce, I think it’s a body.’

‘I think you’re right. Help me pull it in.’

The tourist continued to work the reel, slowly now to ease the black form closer to the aft of the boat. Using a pole that resembled a long shepherd’s crook, Ponce hooked the body and pulled it against the hull.

‘Let me handle that hook, Ponce. You pull him up on the jump deck.’

Ponce opened the aft gate and stepped onto the jump deck while the tourist strained to keep the body in place.

‘On three, senor,’ Ponce instructed.

On the third count, both men heaved and the full weight of what they had caught became apparent. With a single burst of strength, they struggled the lifeless form through the gate and onto the deck.

‘Senor, I don’t think you should look. This person may have been in the water awhile.’

‘Don’t worry about me, Ponce, I’ve been to war. There’s not a lot I haven’t seen.’

Ponce carefully rolled the body onto its side. The body was rigid, like a mannequin. Both men looked at the diver’s face, which, though ashen, was still intact.

‘I don’t think this guy’s been dead too long, Ponce.’

‘Senor, I apologize, but we have to return to port. If you like, I will refund your money.’

‘No way, Ponce. You promised me a fishing trip I’d never forget and you delivered. Hell, no one back home is going to believe this.’

January 1

The unassuming working-class bar known simply as Mike’s was closed on the busiest drinking night of the year, as it was every New Year’s Eve. Closed to the public, that is. Inside, the bar that was best described as ‘a dive’ was standing room only with members of the nation’s elite Special Warfare fraternity. Mike was one of the first SEALs, having signed on after President Kennedy authorized the formation of the teams in 1962. Before that, he’d been a frogman with the navy’s Underwater Demolition Teams.

Mike’s bar was a reflection of his personality; at first glance, it was gruff, surly, and intimidating, but to those who got to know it, like those here tonight, it was an old friend. The beer was cold and the drinks straightforward and unpretentious. The jukebox by the back wall blared out a new song that combined hyperactive guitars with an amped-up drumbeat in a mixture that the music magazines described as ‘industrial jungle.’ This selection was made by one of the younger revelers in attendance.

The front half of the bar held small circular tables and chairs; four battered pool tables filled the back. At the end of the bar, Jack Dawson and Max Gates sat with Nolan Kilkenny.

‘Another round?’ Dawson asked rhetorically as he held up his empty beer bottle and three fingers for the bartender to see.

A moment later, three icy longnecks replaced the empties.

‘Thanks, Mike,’ Dawson said.

Mike nodded and returned to his post behind the bar, where he was holding court for some of the younger men who eagerly listened to his stories from the old days. Mike Roark was an old navy-enlisted man who topped out at five feet eleven and was shaped like an anvil. He was thickset, and the ten years since his retirement from the navy hadn’t softened his physique by much. Mike had never married, and the men in his bar tonight were his sons and brothers-in-arms.

‘I spoke with Hopwood’s widow a couple days ago, about the time when you guys got back. She got discreet word via the admiral-wives’ grapevine, that the score regarding her husband’s death has been settled. She sends her thanks.’

‘To the admiral,’ Kilkenny offered.

‘Here, here,’ Gates seconded before draining another inch from the longneck bottle.

‘So, Nolan,’Dawson asked,’did the Bureau of Personnel get all your paperwork taken care of?’

‘Yeah, and at midnight I became something I haven’t been since I was eighteen years old.’

‘What, a virgin?’ Gates asked jokingly, elbowing Kilkenny in the ribs.

‘No, scarier than that. A civilian.’

Dawson scratched at the paper label on his bottle. ‘Nolan, do you know what made you a good SEAL? It was your mind. You were able to cut through the bullshit and the chaos of battle and reach your objective. It was your mind that kept you alive. It’s also the one thing that will keep you from being a great SEAL.’

‘What do you mean, Cap’n?’ Gates said defensively. ‘Nolan’s a hell of a SEAL.’

‘Stand down, Master Chief. It’s not an insult, just a fact.’

Kilkenny spoke up. ‘Max, what the captain means is, my heart’s not in it.’

‘You can only go so far on brainpower in this profession. Max, for guys like us, this is more than our job; it’s our way of life.’Dawson threw an arm around Kilkenny’s shoulder. ‘Nolan’s heart is elsewhere, and it’s time for him to get out. For him to stay would be a waste of talent, like using a Porsche to haul trash.’

‘Well, it’s true that this life ain’t for everybody, but you made a hell of a go at it while you were here.’ Gates took a long draw from his bottle. ‘Shit, heart or no heart, I just hope the next officer I’m paired with is half as good as you.’

‘Last call!’ Mike bellowed out from behind the bar. It was going on three in the morning and was well past the bar’s normal closing time.

‘Drink up, Nolan, and let’s get the hell out of here,’ Dawson ordered. ‘I need my beauty rest, and you’ve got a long trip ahead of you. I just hope my wife hasn’t locked me out of the house.’

January 5

Jackson Barnett finished glancing over the report prepared for him regarding the death of Michael Cole. He had been away on Christmas holiday in South Carolina when he was notified of the murder. The deputy director of Central Intelligence had briefed him on the situation and Agency people were already in the Dominican Republic investigating with the local authorities. The distillation of those efforts was the ten-page report that now sat on his desk.

Barnett was thinking about what he’d read and watching the snow fall outside his window when his speaker phone buzzed. ‘Yes, Sally?’

‘Everyone has arrived for your ten o’clock meeting.’

‘I’m on my way.’

Barnett gathered his file and entered the conference room adjacent to his office. He immediately recognized two of the men seated at the table: Frank Villano from the CIA’s Information Technology Group and Cal Mosley, the CIA’s in-house investigator. Mosley was forty-eight and about Barnett’s height, but he carried ten inches more around his waist. The combination of a balding pate, a pair of unkempt eyebrows, and a bushy mustache that threatened to cover his entire mouth gave the CIA investigator the appearance of a walrus.

The third man, Dan Harmon of the FBI, was pouring himself a cup of coffee. Barely thirty, Harmon looked every bit like the handsome dark-haired quarterback he’d once been in college. Harmon was a seven-year veteran of the FBI’s Counterintelligence and Surveillance Division and came with his director’s highest recommendation.

‘Mr Harmon,’ Barnett said as he extended his hand, ‘a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard good things about you.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Barnett took his place at the head of the table and pulled the Cole report from his file. ‘Gentlemen, thank you for coming today. We’re here to discuss the unusual circumstances surrounding the death of one of our computer specialists, Michael Cole. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover, so I’d like to start with you, Cal.’

‘Thank you, sir. On December fifteenth, Michael Cole left Washington on an extended Caribbean vacation. On the twenty-fourth, he arrived in Santo Domingo for a scheduled five-day stay. On the twenty-seventh, a tourist dive ship reported Cole as missing and presumed drowned. As yet, the body has not officially been found. On the morning of the twenty-seventh, approximately three hours before Cole allegedly disappeared from the dive ship, a deep-sea fishing boat recovered the body of a scuba diver. The body has been identified as that of Michael Cole. It’s definitely a cover-up, but we don’t know the motive behind it yet.’

‘Mr Harmon,’ Barnett said, turning to the young FBI agent, ‘what is the status of the FBI’s medical investigation?’

‘Since we received the body, our forensics team has gone over every inch of it with a microscope.’ Harmon inched forward, sitting on the edge of his seat as he explained. ‘We have a theory about how Cole was murdered. Based upon the analysis of blood gasses and other fluids, they believe that Cole had been diving just prior to his death. Samples of tissue from his bronchia and lungs showed a massive short-term buildup of carbon and other byproducts of combustion. Analysis of this material and the remaining air in his scuba tanks revealed the chemical signature of diesel exhaust.’

Barnett jotted down a few notes on a legal pad as Harmon spoke. ‘Was Cole killed by the contaminated air in his tanks?’

‘While it’s possible for a person to become ill, or even die, from a scuba tank tainted with carbon monoxide, that’s not what happened here. Not only were his lungs coated with traces of exhaust but so was his wet suit. The salt water washed off exhaust residue from his exposed skin, but not from inside his wet suit. Without going into detail, the forensics lab found minute traces of diesel exhaust all over the body.’

‘What is the FBI’s theory on how the exhaust got there?’ Barnett asked.

‘The short version: Cole went scuba diving. After his dive, somebody put him in a sealed space and smoked him. Once he was dead, they dumped him back in the water. Neat and clean. Other than a small bump on the back of his head, there were no unusual marks on the body, but the forensics people believe that the wet suit would mask any sign of restraint. Traces of an adhesive were found around the ankles and wrists of the wet suit-the same kind of adhesive found on duct tape.’

‘Cal, could the ship that reported Cole missing be involved with the murder?’

‘Not likely, sir. The boat that reported Cole’s disapperance is a large commercial trimaran. We have solid reports that on the night Cole was killed, this boat was chartered for a party.’Mosley doodled a sportfishing boat in the margin of his report; he had been on several during his initial investigation of Cole’s death in the Dominican Republic. ‘That island is a tropical paradise with a lot of boats, and we haven’t been able to place Cole on any of them.’

Barnett added another note to his list.’Unfortunately, none of what we have, thus far, gives us a clue as to who murdered Cole, or why. That’s why I’ve asked you to be here, Frank. What was Cole working on prior to his vacation?’

Villano cleared his throat. ‘Just one project, sir. It’s classified.’

Barnett cocked his head and glared at Villano. ‘Frank, both Cal and Mr Harmon are cleared for any material deemed crucial to this investigation. They have to know what Cole was working on, since it might have some bearing as to why he was killed.’

‘Sorry, sir,’ Villano apologized, ‘but I’m used to being very quiet about projects like this.’

‘No explanation necessary, Frank,’ Mosley reassured him.

Villano relaxed a little and flicked back an errant strand of black hair. ‘For the past year, Cole acted as the CIA’s technical liaison with the Moy Electronics Corporation on the Spyder project.’

‘Spyder?’ Mosley asked.

‘In layman’s terms,’ Barnett instructed, clarifying the request before Villano could respond.

‘Basically, it’s a programmable device that can capture and transmit information from inside a computer network.’ Villano could see that his description didn’t help Mosley or Harmon. ‘Say you wanted to know how the North Koreans are doing in their nuclear weapons program. You know the North Koreans are hot for faster computers, so you let one accidentally fall into their hands. The trick is, you’ve planted a Spyder inside that computer. Once they get their stolen machine up and running, your Spyder is going to ferret out every little secret they put into it. As long as the Spyder can find a phone line, you’ll get every piece of information that it comes into contact with.’