Brigands Key Page 24

  Grant winced. “You weren’t kidding,” he grunted.

  “Computer’s up and ready, Prof,” Charley said.

  Grant reached into his hip pocket and withdrew the tin cup and slammed it on the table. “Souvenir of U-498. Google it.”

  * * *

  Grant and Hammond crowded Charley, peering over his shoulder at the computer, making him nervous. He hated when people looked at his screen.

  Charley had found a website for submarine history buffs. A list of German U-boats filled the screen, bright red against a charcoal background, with sounds of wind and waves accompanying. “Wow, there were hundreds of them,” he said. “Over fifteen-hundred.”

  The ships were listed numerically. He scrolled quickly down the list. “Here we are. U-498.” He clicked open the tab and was rewarded with a page full of details.

  “Says here, constructed in a Hamburg shipyard, commissioned in 1941. Type IX-C. A long-range Atlantic boat, designed for extended stays at sea, 13,000-mile range. Over two hundred and fifty feet long. Armed to the teeth with fore and aft torpedo tubes, two deck guns, a 105-millimeter and a 37-millimeter; and a 20-millimeter anti-aircraft gun on the conning tower.”

  Charley clicked on a graphic link. Several photos of U-498, in happy times, crew smiling, waving. One taken in rough seas. A painting of a typical Type IX-C boat was included.

  “That’s what I saw down there, all right,” Grant said.

  “Damaged in 1942,” Charley continued. “Rehabbed, sent back out again. Took part in Operation Drumbeat, the first U-boat assault on shipping along the U.S. Atlantic coast. Says here, U-498 was credited with sinking thirty-seven ships. Quite a lethal boat.”

  “Look at this,” Hammond said, putting a finger to the screen. “It was attacked and sank off Cape Hatteras, North Carolina, May 1945. That’s not your boat, Carson.”

  Grant waved the tin cup. “I’ve got evidence to the contrary.”

  “Maybe that cup was just a supply picked up from another boat.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “But the record of the sinking...”

  “Charley, open this link, about U-boat activity in the Gulf of Mexico.”

  Charley opened it. “Very active German sub presence in the Gulf in 1942. Lots of commercial ships torpedoed. Says here only one U-boat was sunk in the Gulf, the U-166.”

  “Open the U-166 link.”

  Charley clicked on U-166. “It was sunk in 1942 south of Louisiana. The wreck was found in 2001 in five thousand feet of water.”

  “So history got it all wrong. More than one U-boat was sunk in the Gulf.”

  “Maybe U-498 was crippled in the Atlantic and presumed lost, but made its way into the Gulf before dying.”

  “Charley, what else you got?”

  “U-498 carried a crew of forty-eight on its last voyage. No survivors. The captain’s name was Kommandant Friedrich Remarque. Here’s his photo.” A young officer, with tousled yellow hair and piercing eyes, grinned broadly in the black and white photograph. Charley sat back for a second, puzzled. Something about that name…

  “What is it, Charley? No time to hold back.”

  “Remarque. I found a little note in Roscoe’s stuff. Simple substitution code. It said, ‘CF sacré bleu remark 43.’ It was in that book about Colonel Fawcett’s disappearance in the Amazon, but Roscoe was being his usual cryptic self. ‘CF’ was addressed to me, not to Colonel Fawcett. I pulled my hair out trying to figure out what ‘sacré bleu remark 43’ was. Roscoe was pointing to this guy, Remarque. And 43-something.”

  “Except Remarque went down with his ship. Any ideas about the ‘43’?”

  Charley shrugged. “None.”

  “And sacré bleu?”

  “Sacred blue. A curse, a bad omen, something like that.”

  “Remarque didn’t go down with his ship,” Hammond said softly.

  They turned to him.

  He tapped the photo on the screen. “Friedrich Remarque. Fred. Crazy Fred.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “This guy used to live here, on Brigands Key. Died when I was a little kid in the sixties, but I remember him. He was a lot older than this young guy in the picture. Crazy Fred Remarque. Quiet sort, kept to himself. Rumored to be keeping a huge secret.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Grant said. He looked at his watch, shook his head. One hour to go. “What time is Celeste supposed to make landfall?”

  “One and a half hours,” Hammond said.

  “Some son of a bitch planned this to the minute, didn’t he? He’s letting the hurricane cover his tracks. Did you know Remarque was German?”

  “Sure. He couldn’t hide that, nor did he try. Said he came to America to get away from a wrecked continent and start a new life.”

  “A Nazi?” Charley asked.

  Hammond shrugged. “A German. Said he’d been in the army, the Wehrmacht. Obviously, a little lie there. He was navy, the Kriegsmarine.”

  “Looks like he had a little unfinished business,” Grant said. “He came back to salvage the treasure.”

  “Where did he live?”

  “235 Lee Street.”

  Charley’s eyes widened. “That’s Roscoe’s house!”

  Hammond nodded. “Pieces are beginning to fit.”

  “Did Roscoe know Remarque well?”

  “Nobody knew Remarque well. He was a recluse, the kind of guy kids throw rocks at. Hence the name ‘Crazy Fred.’”

  “But Roscoe bought the place from Remarque?”

  “No. After Remarque died, the place sat empty for years, getting more and more run down. It was vacant when Roscoe bought it.”

  “Well, Roscoe had to buy it from someone.”

  Hammond glanced at the ceiling, thinking. “The Property Appraiser’s website lists all current owners and who they purchased from.”

  “Charley?”

  Charley started typing at the keyboard. “I’m on the case.” A moment later he said, “Got the website.” A county map of towns and roads appeared on the screen. Charley windowed and zoomed in on Brigands Key, selecting the lot at the south end of Lee Street, the last house before the cleared field that was soon to be Bay View.

  Charley clicked again and a table of data appeared. “The previous ownership was corporate. Brigands Key Land Holdings. Rather innocuous.”

  “Heard of it, Jerry?”

  Hammond thought for a moment. “Sounds familiar. Where’ve I heard that name? I thought I knew everything about this island, certainly every business. This one is low-key.”

  “We need names, Charley.”

  “Right.” His fingers typed rapidly. “Here we go. Brigands Key Land Holdings, Incorporated. Uh-oh.”

  “What?”

  “It’s owned by Mayor Ralph Johnson.”

  “Wow,” Hammond said.

  “We need to have a little chat with the mayor,” Grant said.

  There was flash of light and a crack of thunder, so close it made them jump. The computer screen flickered and blinked off. The lights failed. The world went black.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Julie squeezed Sanborn’s forearm. “See that?”

  “See what?”

  “The island has lost power.”

  Sanborn gripped the structure of the old steel bridge and hoisted himself up level with the bridge deck and peered through the railing back toward Brigands Key. Sure enough, the entire island was dark. “Celeste has got us in her grip.” He turned back to the confrontation taking place just yards away.

  Crawford stood babbling, stuck between two armed forces, his hands raised high and gesturing.

  Sanborn hopped back down. “Crawford's a wreck. It's now or never, Julie. We’ve got to get everyone out of here.”

  Julie nodded. She took a deep breath and trudged out from beneath the bridge.

  Half a dozen soldiers aimed at her. She stopped and raised her hands. “Lieutenant Fisk,” she called.

  The Guardsman, still in
gas mask, turned to her. His arm was blood-soaked and a medic had peeled back his sleeve and was applying bandages. “Yeah?”

  “It’s time to end this.”

  “Can’t do that, ma’am. We’re under orders.”

  “You’re under multiple orders, conflicting orders. How do you know which ones are right?”

  “I don’t. So I’m sticking with the President’s orders.”

  “President Rawlings is not here, now is he? He’s safe in the Oval Office.”

  “Don’t matter. He’s Commander in Chief.”

  “Not for long. Sure you want your wagon hitched to that horse?”

  No answer.

  “He’s not even your commander. The states have dibs on National Guard units, with the governors each commanding their own. Rawlings has usurped that right. Ever heard of a constitutional crisis? This one’s going down in the history books, and your picture’s going to be plastered all over the losing side.”

  “No one gets off the island, ma’am. We ain’t letting the plague hit the mainland.”

  “There is no plague, Lieutenant. This is a poisoning. An intentional poisoning. Murder.”

  “How do I know that? I’m no doctor.”

  “Neither am I. That’s what the only two doctors who’ve seen it up close agree on, though.”

  “That’s not the report I got.”

  “Fisk, listen to me. You’ve killed four people already today. More are dying because of poisoning. All of us will die if we don’t get off this island in the next half-hour. You’re the only person on the planet that can prevent a thousand more deaths.”

  No answer.

  “It’s all on you now, Fisk. Governor Crawford is right there in front of you, ordering you to stand down. He wins this in court, you get court-martialed.”

  Crawford nodded vigorously.

  “Why does CDC think it’s contagious?” Fisk asked.

  “Because they won’t listen to their expert on the ground. Because egos have piled on top of egos. Because the President has never been wrong in his life and he’s not about to start now. Pick one.”

  Fisk looked about, confused.

  “Heard the latest weather forecast?” Julie continued. “Celeste is packing a hundred and fifty with a hundred percent chance of making landfall on Brigands Key. It’s going to shove a storm surge twenty feet high in front of it. With ten-foot waves on top of that. Where you’re standing is seven feet above sea level. Do you think you’re going to float?”

  After a pause, Fisk said, “I’m listening.”

  “I’m coming over, Lieutenant,” Julie said. “Gun me down if you must. I can get you out of this mess.” She strode forward. Sanborn followed, both hands raised and empty.

  The soldiers tensed, weapons on her.

  Julie and Sanborn approached Governor Crawford and faced him. His eyes were wide and darting. Panicky.

  Julie waved Fisk over. He peeled off his mask and tossed it aside. He had a boyish, serious face.

  “Leap of faith, Lieutenant?”

  Fisk straightened with obvious, unconvincing effort. “Gonna die someday anyway.”

  “Not if I can help it. Fisk, you’re cut off from your command post.”

  “No. We’ve got contact.”

  “You don’t understand. You’re cut off. The storm has caused you to lose contact. You tried your best to get through, but just couldn’t. Damned leftover communications gear they expect you to use.”

  “Ah. Now that you mention it.”

  “That leaves you to make the call for your side.”

  Fisk nodded. “Guess it does.”

  “Yet you have sworn to uphold the quarantine. Governor Crawford, you put yourself in mortal danger to save an island. You face the unthinkable, watching your people drown. You have the Florida State Penitentiary in Raiford, two hours away. Maximum security, solid as a rock. Hell, if these folks are sick, the only people that can catch it there are inmates. Zero political risk. Safe from the storm of the century. Like King Solomon, you solve the quandary. You and Lieutenant Fisk hammer out a deal. You escort the entire population of Brigands Key under armed guard to Raiford. The population is safe; the population is quarantined. You are the man of the hour. The nation will hang on your every word after this.”

  Crawford’s eyes slowly brightened. “It could work. Yeah. Fisk? You on board?”

  Fisk studied the Governor for a moment. “Deal.”

  Julie took a step back. “It’s your show now, Governor.”

  Crawford seemed to swell in size. He swung to his men. “Lower your weapons. We’re evacuating the island.”

  Fisk slung his rifle over his shoulder and strode toward his own men. “Saddle up!” he shouted. “We got a town to save. Ferguson, I understand the radio ain’t working.”

  * * *

  Hammond’s car slid through a dark turn. Grant, in the passenger’s seat, peered through the rain-spattered windshield and spotted the line of vehicles rolling off the bridge onto the island. The convoy loomed suddenly and unexpectedly before them. Hammond slammed on the brakes and the car skidded to a stop a few feet from one of the Humvees.

  “Looks like Julie worked a miracle,” Hammond said.

  “Fall in behind them,” Grant said.

  A sudden gust caught the car and threatened to push it off the road. “Getting bad out,” Hammond said.

  They tailed the convoy to the high school. The vehicles circled the campus and pulled up in front of the gymnasium.

  Hammond parked near the entrance and Grant swung open the door and ran toward the lead Humvees. Soldiers spilled out of them, along with Principal Chancy, Sanborn, Julie, and Crawford.

  A squall line blew in, driving rain sideways.

  Mayor Ralph J. Johnson lowered his great bulk from a Humvee and lumbered toward the gym.

  Hammond placed a hand on Grant’s arm and restrained him. “Easy now.”

  Grant tore free of his grip and ran toward Johnson, his nausea and punctured leg fighting him every step. He grabbed the mayor by the jacket and shoved him against the vehicle. “Where is she?” he shouted.

  Johnson’s eyes widened. “What—”

  Grant shoved him again. Sanborn rushed in and clapped both hands onto Grant’s shoulders and jerked him backward. “Back off, Grant!”

  A soldier positioned himself between Grant and Johnson and raised his rifle.

  Grant stabbed a finger at Johnson. “He’s kidnapped Dr. Nakamura. I don’t have time to play nice.”

  “Simmer down or the cuffs come out.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Johnson yelled.

  “Neither do I,” Sanborn said. “Grant, we have an island to clear out. Make it quick.” He turned to Chase Crawford, who had eased closer. “Governor, this is a local matter. Go inside the gym and roust everybody out into the trucks. If they’ve got cars here, they can use them. If not, they’ve got ten minutes to get home and get their cars to the foot of the bridge. No one leaves the island until we’re all set. In eleven minutes we start across the bridge.”

  Crawford nodded eagerly, turned and hurried to the open gym door. His star was on the rise.

  “Julie, Mr. Chancy, get inside and make sure he doesn’t screw this up, too.”

  Julie and Chancy ran to the gym, splashing through the water piling up on the street. Sanborn turned back to Grant. Hammond and Charley had joined him. “What’s this about a kidnapping?”

  “This son of a bitch has been working us good,” Grant said.

  Hammond shook his head. “I’ll handle it from here, Grant.” He described Kyoko’s disappearance, the call from the kidnapper. Hammond’s commandeering and destruction of Ellie June, the wreck of the U-498. Crazy Fred. He ended with the revelation that Remarque and Roscoe had two things in common: the house, and real estate transactions with a corporate go-between owned by Mayor Ralph J. Johnson.

  “He showed up late to the rally tonight,” Grant said. “Right after Kyoko disappeared. Pret
ty odd timing for the town’s most important official.”

  Sanborn turned to Johnson. “Well?”

  “I was readying things at my place. And yeah, it’s true. I owned that property. I came into it legitimately. But I don’t know about a damned treasure. And I don’t have no idea where Roscoe or Nakamura went.”

  “It’s a whopping big coincidence, Mayor.”

  “Careful, Randy. I’m still your boss.”

  “Well, Boss, you’re an eyelash from arrest. You’ve got ten seconds.”

  “I tell you I got nothing to do with their disappearances. And I didn’t know anything about Crazy Fred. That was just an investment property to me.”

  “Got an alibi for the night Susan Walsh died?”

  “You know I don’t. I’m a homebody, and there’s nobody there with me to verify that since Billie died.”

  “No alibi the night Roscoe disappeared either, I’ll bet.”

  “No.”

  “Seems everyone with an interest in Roscoe’s property ends up missing or dead. Everyone but you. Roscoe led a double life, Ralph. A friend of his, from his other life down in Tampa, said you were pressuring him on the Bay View vote.”

  Johnson snorted. “You think you’re the only person in town that knows about Roscoe’s secret life? You’re not. I knew that stuff years before you caught a whiff of it. Yeah, he had boyfriends in Tampa. Well, here’s something you didn’t know. You didn’t know who Roscoe’s lover here on the island was.”

  “He didn’t have one here,” Sanborn said. “He kept that life out of town and out of sight.”

  “Ha! He was discreet all right, but I didn’t get to be mayor by being blind. Roscoe was on City Council. Has been for quite a long time. I make it my business to know all about the council members. Especially when they’re involved with my business partner. Then private lives affect my well-being.”