Killing Chase (14 page)

“Where are you?”
We need to find you in order to put a bullet in your worthless head.

“I’m disappearing. That’s all you need to know.” The call ended.

The person on the line mentally replayed the conversation.
The girl in the car just started blasting away.

The first thought that came to mind was that Chase Hampton was definitely working for the Feds. That was suspected, based on the events of Monday night. This just confirmed it. What was he doing for them? The girl’s apartment was under surveillance, and one way or another they would find out. No need to panic. The goal wasn’t to kill Chase Hampton, at least not yet. Things were still on schedule.

Thursday, March 22, 2012

My first day of employment
at Aquatic was winding down. Three and a half hours of orientation in the morning gave way to an afternoon tour of the shipyards. My father and I took a six-seat golf cart from the office complex for the quick trip down to the docks. From the access-controlled gate, I could see one massive building that stretched for two hundred yards. High on the centermost part of the building, Aquatic Expeditions was spelled out in large, blue block lettering, with a large metallic anchor centered in between. To the left was the Refit Department. It had three indoor dry/wet docks used solely for repair and retrofitting older yachts, whether that entailed adding new features, repairing structural or mechanical issues, or sometimes gutting a boat and replacing all the innards.

The center section is the warehouse and production offices. New Production takes up the right side and also has three indoor wet/dry docks.

It was an impressive setup. Each individual dock had its own watertight door. This allowed seawater to flood the dock when the door was opened, and massive pumps could empty each dock in approximately thirty minutes once the door was closed. I had to admit, seeing six mega yachts in different stages of repair and construction was an incredible experience, and the enormous responsibility of running an operation this size began to sink in.

“Just got an email. They’ve finished replacing your windshield at Bailey’s house. You need to file a police report with the cops,” my father said gravely.

“Bailey said the same thing, in much stronger terms, but let’s just let it go. No need poking the fire. This will die down soon. I should have suspected something like this might happen. It was probably Danny Sullivan. He dumped a pitcher of beer on my head Monday night after Bailey left.”

“And he’s still breathing?” Dad said.

“I’m not going back to jail for assaulting Danny Sullivan. Give me a little credit. He left after he did it. Probably didn’t want to push his luck.”

“Chase, I can get someone to watch your back. You’d never know they were there.”

“I appreciate the gesture, but I don’t need protection.”
If you only knew, Dad.
 

“All right son, it’s your call. Thoughts on your first day?”    

“I have a lot to learn.”

“I’m still learning as well. So we’ll continue tomorrow, bright and early. I’m leaving; my neck is stiffening up, and I need a muscle relaxer.”

“Do you want me to drive you home?”

“I’m staying on the boat for now. It’s just a golf cart ride away. That reminds me. A week from tomorrow, March thirtieth, you, Bailey, and I are taking another trip on the boat with Sergei.”

“What? Isn’t he still recovering from broken ribs and a dead wife?”

“He says he’ll be fine. We’ll make money on this trip. He’s paying us two hundred fifty thousand above normal operating expenses for a three-day trip to New York City. We’re training his crew on the special feature I recently had installed on the
Anchor Management.
He’s getting it on his new yacht.
”

“Special feature?”

“I planned on showing it to you on our trip to Nassau, but due to the circumstances, I never got around to it. I’ll demo it for you on Tuesday, but I’m not telling you what it is. I want it to be a surprise. Very few people know about it. Sergei and another customer are the only ones outside of the firm who know.”

“Why the need for secrecy?”

“Because we want to get it right and be the best at doing it before we tell everyone about it.

“Okay, I look forward to seeing it. Say dad, is it okay if I go down to production after hours and see what goes on down there? Get my hands a little
dirty
.”

“Sure, your ID card allows you full access. I’ll call Mack and let him know you would like to help out. Don’t wear yourself out though. We’ve got a busy Friday ahead.”

He left, and ten minutes later, I began my spy career by planting my first listening device on the backside of his credenza. I felt lower than a legless centipede but
que sera
. I would plant one in Bailey’s office tomorrow after work, and two in her house before I left to see Anna on Friday night. In for a penny, in for a pound.

***

Aquatic ran two production shifts, and they both overlapped between five thirty and six in the afternoon in order for the day shift to brief the night shift on what had been done. These briefings ensured continuity in the production process and occurred in numerous small huddles throughout the large building. My attention was focused on the Refit Department. Mack Gavins, the night-shift manager, left me upstairs in his office while he briefed a crew on an ongoing engine room problem in a one-hundred-fifty-foot yacht in Dock 3. I watched him from his second floor office through a large picture window that looked out over the three docks. When I determined he was fully engrossed with his team, I removed another tiny black transmitter and deftly attached it to the underside of his desk, up in the corner where the side and top came together.

Mack came back five minutes later, and we took a ginormous freight elevator down to the lowest level of the building. He affectionately called this the
seabed.
The elevator door opened into a wide, well-lit hallway that ran the entire length of the three refit docks. We walked out of the elevator and down the hall for a good seventy-five yards before stopping at a roll-up door labeled Dock Two.

“This is how we access the floor of the basin when the basin is dry. We can bring in any heavy equipment we may need. That’s why the elevator and hallway are so big.”

He pushed a button and up came the door, only to be replaced by another door, this one part of the wall. He entered a code on the wall to the left of the door, 7721, and the watertight door hissed from the pressure release and opened inward on two large hinges. A two-hundred-foot Meridian sat on curved metal scaffolding while two crews of two welded aft sections of the black hull. I watched Mack enter the same code on a numeric panel next to the door on the inside of the basin.

“When this fills with water this hard plastic cover here comes down over the keypad, locks in place and keeps out the water. You do not want to be down here when the big doors open. In three minutes, it’s slap full of seawater.”

“What happens if this door is open when the exterior door is open?” I asked Mack.

“Water . . . and lots of it. We damn near flooded this hallway a couple of years ago when that very scenario occurred. We’ve since had the doors reprogrammed to ensure that will not happen again.”

We walked to the portable stairs that would take us up to the main deck of the ship. I noticed something odd about the hull of the Meridian. Through a gap in the scaffolding, I saw what looked like a large funnel attached to the hull.

“Mack, what’s that?” I said, pointing through the gap to the funnel-like object.

“I’m sorry Chase, that’s hush-hush. I can’t even tell you.”

“My dad told me you guys were working on something amazing,” I said, hoping Mack would open up.

“It’s a game changer, that’s for sure. We’re pretty proud of it. As far as we know, no other yacht besides
Anchor
is outfitted with one . . . except this Meridian,” he said, without elaborating further.

“He’s demoing it for me sometime next week,” I said in a last grasp attempt to get something, anything, out of him.

“Well, let me know what you think after you see it.” Mack wasn’t divulging anything, and I pictured him tied up and beaten, all the while saying, “I gave my word to Hank Hampton. I’ll never tell you what you want to know,” as blood ran down his nose and his head hung weary from the torture.

We climbed, and I was still thinking these unpleasant thoughts as he introduced me to a crew of three men who were replacing teak flooring on an outdoor section of deck. Mack didn’t tell them who I was, just that I would be working with them for a couple of hours and for them to show me how to lay the new flooring. Mack departed, and Garth, Mike, and Dieter gave me a quick tutorial on deck laying. I picked up the tongue-and-groove installation process quickly.

“So, you guys should be able to finish this section of decking tonight?” I asked.

“Yeah, it goes pretty quick,” said Garth. “Went a lot quicker when Kenny was working with us. That boy was a whiz when it came to layin’ this stuff.”

“Did they pull him off to work on something else?”

The three men each looked at the other conspiratorially before Garth spoke up.

“Kenny was killed about a month ago. Someone broke in his home and tore it up. Put two bullets in his head. Kid was just twenty-four.”

“God, that’s horrible. What do the police think?”

“They think the intruder was looking for drugs. Police found some bags of pills hidden under his mattress.”

“So he was dealing?”

“No way. Kid was as straitlaced as they come. He was a hard worker and always on time,” said Garth.

Garth walked me back to the watertight door at seven fifteen, and I watched him enter the same code Mack had entered. I thanked him for his help and walked down the empty stairway hall as this new information sank in and unnerved me.

I called Jenna from the
golf cart as I was heading back to the office, and as luck would have it, she was already waiting for me in the parking lot. She looked so youthful with her hair in a ponytail that I almost forgot she was an FBI agent. I surprised her and kissed her on the cheek when I got in her car, and to her credit, she didn’t recoil in horror.

“Why did you do that?”

“Actors on a stage, Jenna. Never know who’s watching,” I said, reminding her of what she’d said to me when we were running at the park.  

“So you’ll be happy to know that both transmitters are active,” she said, eyes on the road as she maneuvered the car out of the parking lot.

“Great. My obligation is fulfilled. I guess this means goodbye.” I reached out to shake her hand. “I’ve enjoyed our time together, Special Agent Brighton. Be sure to tell Schmidt thank you for all he’s done for me.”

She looked at me and laughed.
I tried
.

“Thanks, I needed that. Let’s get your car at Bailey’s. I’ll drive it back, and you follow in the Civic. I was touched that she’d put herself in harm’s way for me, but I’m sure it was only because Schmidt told her to. Where are all the chivalrous women these days?

“Any word on who tried to kill us yesterday?”
And Kenny, your spy before me.

“Nothing yet. They’re looking for the truck, but so far, nothing.”

“You know, Jenna. I can’t help but think back to my first meeting with Agent Schmidt. My getting shot at was somehow left out of the conversation.”

“Would you rather go back to prison?” she said in a tone that bordered on scolding.

“If it means not getting shot at . . . no, you’ve got me there; I’m not going back. I bet Kenny never thought he’d be killed either, huh?”

Jenna looked as if she’d been sucker punched.

“Who is Kenny?” she said unconvincingly as she kept her eyes on the road. “What are you talking about?”

“Please don’t do this. We were just beginning to trust each other. You had someone in here before me, and he was murdered, so I became Plan B. Isn’t that right?”

We sat there in the car and Jenna sighed audibly. I was done talking.

“He’d been working for us for about three weeks. He was a local and had been at Aquatic for three years. We aren’t sure what happened.”

“Sounds like someone in my father’s firm is working for Durov . . . or you have a leak on your team.”

“I trust my team; you should too.”

“I’m sure Kenny trusted your team as well.” I regretted that as soon as it slipped off my tongue. Jenna stared straight ahead as we pulled into her complex. After we parked, she looked at me before we exited the Civic.

“I’m sorry Schmidt wasn’t fully forthright in the beginning, but we are way past woulda coulda shoulda. You still want to do this or do you want the alternative?”

“I told you; I’m not going back to prison. And I’m sorry about the cheap shot, but this isn’t gonna work unless honesty flows both ways.”

***

“I’m sleeping at my place tonight. Your couch is officially worse than my prison mattress,” I informed her as we sat at the kitchen counter eating leftover spaghetti.

“I’m coming with you; you know that, right?” she advised.

“You’ll have to sleep in the same room as me, because it would look weird, you and I shacking up, and one of us sleeping in the living room on a couch.”

“Are you prepared to be a gentleman?”

Not entirely.
“Are you prepared to wear oversized sweat pants and a muumuu? Seriously, stay here. I’ll be fine.”

 “Chase, you’d be hamburger if it weren’t for me yesterday. Remember? Besides, Schmidt’s orders.”

“What happens tomorrow night when I have my date with Anna? What if she wants me to stay the night? Can’t have you cozying up with us on the couch.”

“My, aren’t we confident? We’ll have someone follow you and maintain surveillance on the house. Who knows about your date, lover boy?”

“Anna, you, my father, Bailey. And anyone you and they may have told.”

“We’ll get someone in place early at her home, and we’ll of course need you to put some ears in there.”

I nodded. Not the way I wanted to begin my time with Ms. Petrov.

“All right, debrief time,” she said as she rinsed the plates off and placed them in the dishwasher.

“Jenna,” I began, “are we safe here? What if yesterday wasn’t some local looking for revenge? What if
they
know who
you
are and the reason why you are here?”

“We’re as safe here as anywhere,” she said with a slight hesitation in her voice, giving me the impression that doubt had crept into her confidence level.

She came out of the kitchen and adjusted the camera before she sat on the couch and faced me. She punched a few keystrokes on her laptop, and we began another round of mental waterboarding. When the conversation turned to my after-hours production docks visit, I had an idea.

“How would my new girlfriend like a tour of the Refit Department late tonight? Specifically, Dock Two? I think the key may be this new feature I glimpsed. There’s an odd, funnel-like structure hanging from the hull of this yacht, but it’s all hush-hush so I couldn’t get close enough for a look without pissing the shift manager off.

“You can get in there after hours?”

“My ID card is supposedly full access, so we’ll see.”

Jenna called Schmidt to get permission. She hung up after a minute.

“It’s a go. He wants pictures.”

***

Forty-two hundred miles away, the
Beaumont,
a massive Consco-owned cargo ship, sailed in a southwesterly direction at eighteen knots, one hundred miles south of the Spanish resort island of Ibiza. The
Beaumont
, several hours out of the port of Genoa, would continue on its present course for the next six hours. It would pass south of the Spanish coastal towns of Cartagena and Almeria before it turned west, traversed the Strait of Gibraltar, and headed out into the open Atlantic, on a west-southwesterly course that would take it to Savannah, Georgia, in about six days.

Unbeknownst to anyone on the
Beaumont
, another vessel sat fully fueled and loaded, twenty-five miles east of Tangier, Morocco, in Slip 21, at the bustling port of Tanger-Med. This ship’s captain, a burly Frenchman with yellowed teeth and a weathered face, lit yet another Gauloise and sat tracking the
Beaumont
’s position on his laptop on the bridge of the new two-hundred-fifty-foot exploration ship,
Poseidon
. In about ten hours, they would depart and fall in fifty miles behind the
Beaumont.
Speed was not an issue as she could do twenty-five knots comfortably, even with all the extra people and equipment on board.

Nestled snugly on the
Beaumont,
in the front of a deck-level, dark-blue container box, was an innocuous-looking, octagon-shaped metallic canister, the size of two bass drums stacked on top of each other. Two black, rubberized handles were attached to the canister and music-related bumper stickers covered the entire exterior. The canister was labeled as music equipment and should anyone check it against the ship’s manifest, they would see that it contained heavy-duty concert speakers. But no one would check it, and if all went according to plan, in three days it would be tossed overboard, where soon it would make its own music in one of America’s most important cities.